Exotic Violence
(Trigger Warning: Domestic Violence)
Moving to a foreign country is slicing one’s self open, in one long, quick draw, and allowing demons to approach. The myth is that one can board a plane with a one-way ticket and depart from the past, break free from trauma and insecurities, and forget the people we’ve hurt, but nothing stays pinned to the ground and these board behind us. I write this because it’s important to me that my readers don’t get thrown into another travel cog that spits out fantasy—the outer layer of destination. What is happening to travel writers when the pen is down? When the camera is gone? They’re likely working through reality and there is nothing more exotic than that.
It had been my dream to live on Ibiza, my Mediterranean Mecca, for almost ten years when I finally got the chance to. What I didn’t show online was that I was trapped in an abusive relationship and that he had followed me to the island. I never imagined my audition to sing at a beach club in Sant Antoni would come with a monster treading water close to shore, staring at me, even though I’d asked him not to come. I became awkward, dancing constrained, my voice kicked in and wavering. I didn’t receive a callback. After three months, he picked me up by my neck and shook me, almost killing me, so I had to flee on the next boat to the mainland and stay with a friend until I found a new flat a week later. These are just two moments out of hundreds. Three out of my four years in Spain and Argentina, I lived with my abuser, but I didn’t reveal this because I was ashamed that my overseas aspirations had been reduced to this. Social media for me was an artistic platform and bruise pictures weren’t considered professional, let alone glamorous. There’s a dishonest motto in U.S. culture: feign success to become successful. Essentially, hide. People are paying hundreds of dollars to have their pictures taken on a jet that will never leave the ground, presenting themselves as taking off to wherever they wish they were. When will it be okay to be wherever we are?
I wish I’d lived a full life in Spain longer than the one year I was free, my last year, but I can’t regret moving there. I did the thing so many of us put off until later becomes never: I tried what I wanted to try even though it terrified me. I can’t regret that I still managed to change for the better. I woke up to the global north and south, learned first-hand about racism in Spain, faced the mirror of the U.S.’s exploitation of Argentina, and in Peru, I was overcome with vivid, beautiful understanding that every human, no matter how far one travels, wants the same things: loved ones, security, and peace. This evolved into compassion and is now turning into altruism. I will never believe that abuse is worth wisdom, but I can still search the rubble for signs of life. I will continue to encourage people to leave the comforts of known and set out for self-realization, because it will turn into understanding others and there is nothing more important than that. I will carry on sharing my travel stories but they will be true in the fullest sense. I petition that when you see a photo of a friend’s feet tucked in warm sand under translucent water, reach out to them and make sure they’re not getting torn apart by a hurricane. Be well, and be honest. As Brené Brown has found in her thorough studies: the only way to true connection is through vulnerability.