Get My Mojo Going

For too long now, my trauma has been horrific.

It is body memories, it is apathy, it is exhaustion, it is feeling dead to emotions, it is wanting to cry or scream, it all that and more that I have no human words for.

I need to move it, I need to get my mojo working.

I do this best by confronting where the pain comes, confronting my truths that I am afraid to know.

I do this best by confronting the hate-speech of pro-sex trade lobby that is pouring trauma into my essence, and blocking my future.

I get my mojo back with courage, with allowing in my vulnerability, with a fierce warrior soul.

I write as one way to get my mojo going.

Where do I begin, when trauma is all round me and suffocating me.

I can write, and hope my choking keeps it distance.

I will write even as sitting on my anus as it screams into memories.

I will write, and try to ignore my exhaustion that is just a blocking mechanism.

Writing is my road to freedom, writing is my way to speak to the truth.

But where do I start?

I suppose I could start with the words of hate that the sex trade lobby send my way all the time, or send to all other exited women who speak out.

It is easier to start with outside forces, and more into my essence.

Words are -

Sex work, underaged-sex worker, choice, forced prostitution, trafficking vs prostitution, clients, businessmen, harm reduction, made safer, indoors prostitution vs outdoors, underground – and such like “friendly” words.

These words are used to make the sex trade appear welcoming, clean and safe – words that implies all so-called bad aspects of the sex trade can and will be dealt with in-house.

These words are used to push prostitution indoors, and less likely to have outside interference or any consideration of the welfare of the prostituted.

Words like harm reduction and made safer are used to say – yeah sure, there is violence in all aspects of the sex trade, but let’s make it the fault of the individual prostitute, say she is weak or incapable to care her own safety.

Just don’t mention that it may be the punter who is the cause and reason that there is violence against the prostituted.

Just don’t mention that the major profit in the sex trade is when punters are allowed to be as violent as they can imagine – those punters spend more and more likely to return.

Just ignore that it is impossible to know when a punter may be a sadist – just ignore that paying for sex is an act of violence in and of itself.

But what is this harm reduction – is it not a method to patch up the prostituted with condoms, a short talk, and some coffee – then send her back into the line of danger.

Harm reduction is about the endless flow of the prostituted, with a small rest to pretend to care.

I do not want the harm to be reduced, I do not want the prostituted to comforted and then throw back into the fire – that is just a slow death – and it is cowardly and irresponsible of those who use harm reduction as a route to keep the sex trade going.

I wish to speak to my trauma, to my pain, to my grief.

I want to dig deep, if I can without my normal blocking.

I feel my PTSD has been bad off and on since January.

This has meant writing has been very hard.

Yes, I have run away into sports on TV, but it does not make my trauma disappear, just numbs it for short periods.

Now, I am using this post as a start to confront why this trauma is so awful.

I am knowing the pain, the sense of despair, the terror that was being prostituted.

I am coming to terms, beginning to come to terms, with the facts that I was tortured when I was prostituted.

I am coming some kind of terms of how many lies keep me in prostitution, how I was brainwashed to think I was worthless.

I am accepting that I was raped in the thousands, that I was raped by punters of all classes/ethnicities/beliefs.

That is some of the source of my trauma.

To be prostituted is to have no hold on how often you were abused, to have no hold on memory as it fractures with too much torture and hate.

I believe the prostituted need only remember enough to know that the torture really happened, and to believe in their heart and soul that they were never to blame.

It is impossible to remember with full knowledge when raped in the thousands.

It is impossible to have a sense of linear time when so much of the violence is repeated over and over and over inside your body.

It is impossible to know the faces of the punters as they merge into one long horror.

It is normal to have fractured memory after prostitution.

Instead of interrogating those of us who have been lucky enough to exit – with questions like -

Where did it happen? How many men exactly? What age were you? Why did you not just walk out? Why did you take the money if it was so bad?

Forget those blaming questions, and think deeper and with real compassion.

Like the exited explore their past at their own pace, learn to accept the holes and silences in their memory, listen without speaking over.

 

 

No Football Today

I have been watching all the World Cup, as a reward to myself.

In this post, I am writing a record of where I am, and where I come from.

The only solid things in my life have been my love of music, my love of Hollywood era films, and my love of football.

Everything that happens to me, good or bad, were surrounded by those loves.

There were terrible times, when I only survived by attempting to block out those loves, but they were only hidden for later use.

I have no idea how I survived my teens and early 20′s – all I think was how random death was when I was prostituted.

I was nearly killed the minimum of three times, I attempted suicide several time – twice losing several days – and my body collapse on at least a couple of times.

I had no fear of, all I feared was yet more pain and that it would not be quick.

I was already dead each time a punter brought me; already dead as I travel blindly into prostitution; already dead from incest from a young child.

Now, I am coming into life as I listen to party music on Spotify, and wait to watch cricket and Orphan Black.

Now, I let music, sports, films and dramas belong to my growing into life.

Now, I learning to not even imagine waiting to die – heck I always want to watch Arsenal, always some classic film I have seen or want watch again, always another dark drama to enjoy, and always fun on Spotify.

I do not want or need an exciting life – been there and got the t-shirt.

No, I love an uninteresting life.

A life without always having on alert for danger.

A life where I can learn it is ok to trust, whilst still testing to see it is really safe.

A life where I grow into real friendships.

A life where I am stable enough to have a cat.

A life where I may learn to be inside my own skin.

I want a life where violence is just the past.

I want a life where I can think and say this is me – take it or leave it.

Heck, I love having a boring life – the alternative was hell.

Train Spotting

I sometimes wake into a nightmares with trains rattling past my window.

Trains came through my life when I was a prostituted.

I travelled on trains from one town to a city.

Train were outside my flat as punter sexually tortured me..

Trains was the background noise of my private hell.

But somehow, without reason, I always kept my love of trains.

I thought of trains taking me to Cornwall, into Scotland, or even to some airport.

I listen to Blues, country and rock songs of endless trains, taking the A-train into jazz.

I wanted electric train-sets, which were always the Royal Scot or the Orient Express.

I read of engineers and builders of railways.

I wanted trains to take me away into safety.

Only now I can face the nightmare of trains that still invade me.

How do I describe the travelling on trains down to yet another punter.

There are few words that reach into creeping deadness, that deep sense of self-hate and blame.

As I sat in the train, I would close down all emotions, I would train my body to be a block of ice.

I made myself not care.

Not care that I was going badly hurt.

Not care that I could be killed.

Not care about the scenery.

Not care about the small part of my mind telling me to get off the train.

I became bravado, devil-may-care, don’t mess with me.

I was falling into the role of the whore who was worth nothing.

In a journey often of just 40 minutes, I had lost all that mattered to being fully human.

I still get nightmares of slow death as I sat on trains.

I still find I cannot make a particular journey, without thoughts of suicide.

The worse memory of trains was the flat I had backed up to a train station.

Most of the time, I would find the noise of trains relaxing and one way to escape reality.

I, like the Railway Children, would dream where the passengers were going or why they stop in my town.

But my flat was just the space I existed in, it was also a place where too many punters came and polluted the air.

I would focus hard on the noises of trains to block out as much as I could.

I would pretend I was travelling to anywhere as far as possible – as the punters penetrated me, made my body into their personal sadist porn playground, and be careless whether I live or died.

I would try to remember as many songs about trains as possible, try to name each station I could remember, list famous trains – anything to not be in the moment.

For those moments with those punters seemed to have no end or beginning, just a constant middle.

A middle of hell, as every cell is pushed beyond pain, as the small part of my mind is screaming just stop now and pleading for real help.

That middle when the light at the end of the tunnel was always a fast train.

I know I was somehow alive if I could still hear the trains.

I have rebuilt my life, and now travel a lot by train.

Now I am pretty chilled on train.

But I honoured the bravery of the other part of me that clings to trains in order to know I am alive.

Long Road

Being an abolitionist is never easy.

Being an abolitionist and an exited woman is terrifying.

But it is a long hard road where freedom could some reward.

I am writing in sound-bite coz my trauma is so bad that I have re-learn how to write, re-learn to connect my typing to my heart.

I am in pain from old body memories, I having my sleep pattern is all over the place, and I feel like a zombie.

But I try to write in and through trauma – find a place where my words can have some meaning.

Trauma is huge push to being an abolitionist – trauma goes to heart of the unspoken, unknowable hell that is the everyday of prostitution.

Recently, there have brief reports of prostitutes being murdered.

These reports only appear if the media have a way to be sensational – it is reported if there racist or anti-Muslim angle, it is reported if the murdered prostitute is famous or not the type of girl who do such a thing, it is reported if it may be a serial killer.

But the ordinary common mass murders of the prostituted go unreported.

It is too normal that prostitute is murdered, so there is no news in that.

It is through the lens of extreme trauma, I remember and see the truth of the constant murdering of the prostituted.

Trauma remembers that murder was always round the corner in all aspects of prostitution.

Trauma knows that any punter of any belief system, any class, any ethnicity, any culture can at any time and in any place make the choice to just kill the prostitute.

He may kill because he “accidentally” forget about checking if the prostitute is still breathing.

He may kill the prostitute to “release” his guilt, or tell himself he is killing the evil.

He may kill coz he just love the ultimate power of snuffing out life.

He may kill to get rid of the dirt on him.

Or he may just kill in order not to pay and throw the goods that are used.

All I know that the prostituted more often murdered in domestic violence or men in wars.

There is a genocide of the prostituted – and it is allowed to go unnoticed as the vast majority of murders of the prostituted are made invisible and not even made into statistics.

No, we have allowed the sex trade profiteers and punters to make the prostituted just disappear, without any record of their lives or even their names.

There must be trauma for those lucky enough to exit the sex trade – for we all have the empty spaces of the nameless, of those we wanted to love but were too damaged to be fully there.

Each and every person I know who has exited the sex trade, knew that murder was random.

If a prostitute disappear, each and every other prostitute would close down knowing if it is murder, it was never personal, just ridding the world of a whore or throwing away used goods.

I know I was almost murdered three times, and those are just the event that I can remember – but each punter was not murdering me as a human, just killing some random whore.

How do you feel about murder being just throwing out the trash – does it not remind you of any other genocide?

I have learned to forgive myself for the coldness I had when the prostituted disappeared round – I had to be hard for it was just random, and death hang over me every moment I was inside the sex trade.

Trauma is that grief I had to destroy.

It is a grief, that cannot see an end without full justice – a justice that makes each and every murder or disappearance of the prostituted a matter of deep importance.

It is a crisis what is done to the prostituted – but we are told it can wait, it is a small matter for it is decided that the prostituted must have chosen their lifestyle, so should just deal with the consequences.

That is said as the bodies of the prostituted pile high in all cities of the world.

We refuse to see these murders, for we refuse to see how ordinary the murderers are.

We want to believe the murders of the prostituted is done by lunatics or fanatics.

Some may be, but the majority of murders are done by ordinary men who hold down a job, have friends, have a relationship – just a man who think of buying the prostitute in the same as buying a burger.

The punters and sex trade profiteers who were violent to me were from England, Europe, America, Middle East and Africa.

They were white, Asian, Black,

They were atheist, Christians, Muslim, Buddhist.

They were rich and they were poor.

They were just everyman.

The only thing they had in common was that they never saw the prostitute as human.

All I remember there no class of a punter that I would trust, for at any moment he could and would become a sadist, and leave me just remembering to breathe.

I was never safe even though I was always indoors, in the so-called safe aspects of prostitution.

Trauma is natural after that – but it is a long bloody hard road.

The Body Remembers, By Hell It Does

I am in extreme pain, as my body remembers what my mind does not want to know.

I believe that this pain is a reminder that it was never small what is done to my body, to the bodies of the prostituted alive or dead.

The mind cannot handle knowing every detail, every torture, every humiliation, every moment when death was so welcoming.

The body holds, contains and only open up to pain when in a place of safety and long-term security.

Heck, the reason I in total agony is coz I rebuilt my whole life away from prostitution.

Yesterday, the doctor deleted from my records that I had gone back into prostitution.

I think I have gone into shock at the very thought I could ever re-enter that so-called life which is death.

Of course, like most survivors of the sex trade I could easily all back into that lie.

Just enough self-hate, more and more bills, more wanting to deaden emotions and access to pain – all that makes is seems an answer.

But I cannot remember what the question was.

Except maybe how do you kill yourself without actually physically dying?

I would never go back into that world again – the world of lies, the world where women just disappear, a world rape is just the norm of the “job”.

I have been in shock and deep agony just at the idea that I could be a prostitute again.

My anus is killing me – but it also giving the strength to know why I would always be an abolitionist no matter what.

Listening to Al Green

Music brings life into to me. I know it does for everyone else, but music for me is proof that I must be alive.

I am now listening to Al Green, as I try to soothe my sense of nothingness.

This soulful bring me back to the time when I was on the edge of choosing life or death.

I played punk to try to force anger into my body, but there was nothing.

I played Mozart to find a sense of beauty, there was nothing.

I played Louis Armstrong seeking some joy, there was nothing.

I played Madness to know I was in a certain time and place, there was nothing.

Prostitution had made empty, made suicide seemed logical.

I wanted to stop.

Stop the pain. Stop the hate. Stop every hole in my body from being filled.

I wanted an end.

End to stupid hoping. End of men lying to me. End of me not knowing how to end it.

I was nothing so I wanted nothing.

Nothing comes of nothing.

Then for some reason, I put on the greatest hits of Al Green.

And before I could understand, his voice reach into my soul, and soothe it.

I was crying. It was painful, but I was crying.

I was silently singing along, and tapping my hand on the table.

I was becoming alive.

I was becoming someone not nothing.

His soulful songs of love meant nothing to me, except feeding me with hope, joy and a reaching for life.

I could not do human love, I had no idea what spiritual love was, I was struggling to even like myself – but Al Green spoke to the part that never stopped reaching for any form of love.

Al Green said, you never really lost hope, you always were someone who should be loved, sing with me and maybe we find a way out.

Hope usually is poison when you are prostituted, especially hope sent by do-gooders who are there as long it not too difficult or become too long-term.

To survive prostitution is can be vital to forget about hope.

But Al Green and other soulful soul music give me a safe pathway to start to understand hope.

I listen to Aretha Franklin, Marvin Gaye, The Impressions, Northern Soul, Martha Reeves, Dusty Springfield, Percy Sledge, Otis Redding and so many others – and slowly learnt I was fully alive.

But Al Green was the way in, so I will always be deeply attached to his music.

I was learning the way to hope was to know and trust that it would never be an easy or quick journey.

Hope comes with many depressions, many blockings of the way forward, with moments where hope feels like a curse.

Hope is no quick fix – it is a layering of safety, a layering of happiness, a laying of a sense of self.

It is a discovering of what may be called your inner core or soul.

This inner core may have been hiding away as prostitution rips away all contact with safety, rips away a senses of self,  and makes any happiness a fake emotion that may keep you alive.

It was hiding, but it never ever disappeared.

I found I had a soul when I found I was crying listening to Al Green.

My tears were not for show, they were not fake – my tears were private and my tears were life.

My tears were the way to hope and love.

War Makes No Difference

At the moment, there is a meeting in London to discuss rapes in war-zones.

This is wonderful, but always when that subject is raise, it seen as an atrocity that is done to civilians, but not all civilians, never the prostituted class.

Wars are no different for the prostituted class than peace-times.

All the time, the prostituted are raped.

All the time, the prostituted are sexually tortured.

All the time, the prostituted are mentally abused until they are made into nothing.

All the time, death is hanging over the prostituted.

There are some differences in war-zones, but only in matter of scale, only in how it is framed.

Inside any long-term war, it is expected that armed forces have their own brothels.

Brothels in peace-times are hell.

Brothels are not a places of empowered “whores” who can choose their clients.

Brothels are not the House of the Rising Sun with happy hookers lounging around waiting for gentlemen to visit.

Brothels are not places to make easy money quickly.

No, even without brothels are built around the degradation of the prostituted.

Brothels are designed to make the prostituted sub-human, into sexual goods that are lined up for punters to pick and choose.

Punters in brothels are not gentlemen, they are not men that even notice the human inside the prostitute.

Most punters are drunk in brothels, even when sober most punters have their minds full of violent porn that they force into the prostitute’s body.

Whether it is peace-time or not, the purpose of any brothel is to let punters create war on the bodies and minds of the prostituted with no intervention or sense that it is a crime.

The major difference of brothels inside war-zones is the scale.

When brothels cater for armed forces mainly, it is anything goes for sexual, mental and physical done to the prostituted.

It is the place where the armed forces can wind down.

Instead of dealing in a serious manner with the trauma inside many of the armed forces, rather than letting the armed stop enough to see the human in every prostitute – brothels are used as an ineffective shot-term solution to burn out in order to get the armed forces to keep fighting without question.

That is why it is labelled as rest and recreation, an euphemism for rape, sexual torture and murder of the prostituted class.

These brothels keep the prostituted locked away from non-sex trade world.

These brothels allow armed forces to gang-rape, to sexually torture and to murder without restriction.

It is a world that rip up human rights, ignore laws – it is it own country, where the prostituted are sacrificed.

In all war-zones, prostitution goes on as it does in peace-time.

There is still access to street prostitutes, still access to escorts on the net, still sex club.

A country may bombed to hell, may have streams of refugees trying to get out, may be driven back to the stone age – but punters whether armed forces or civilians still must have total access to all aspects of the sex trade.

Sickening, it is not rare that sex trade profiteers gravitate to war-zones, for the demand increases.

But is there any mention of this in London – I doubt it very much.