Yesterday, I melted down.
I felt dizzy when I woke up. As this has happened all my life, I ignored it.
All my life, I have ignored warning signs in my body. I know they are telling me to listen. But, too often I don’t want to hear.
I know to hear is to to know.
I went and read emails, listen to the radio. I carry on carrying on.
Then my landline got disconnected.
It was like the thin thread I clinging onto collapse in my hand.
My mind melted.
I did not from where or how. I was crying. No, I was sobbing.
I thought I was crying coz my cat was ill. But she is doing well now.
I thought I was crying because there many health problems in my family. But, I knew that wasn’t true.
I knew why I was crying. But, I could let myself know.
I know that if I wrote in an honest and direct about my teenage and young adult years – I would cry.
I lived in those years as tough and hard. I buried all vulnerability into a deep grave.
I survive by giving out nothing. Men could hurt me, they could torture me. But, they could never know me.
As, I was crying, I felt my heart coming into life.
My teenager and young adult are beginning to trust me.
In the past, when I try to speak her truth, it was never heard. She know that and felt betrayed.
The first time, I try to speak, I was told I had made it up. I was attention seeking. So, I shut up.
Only I shut for many years, and the violence continue.
When I try a second time to tell”feminists”, I did not fit their stereotype of a prostituted woman. They did listen about my stepdad, but gloss over the violence I was living with.
This made me hate myself for thinking I could trust anyone. I also hated my child who got pity and understanding.
It made me go harder, and put myself in more danger.
For, I came to I point in my life where I trust no-one.
I had to make my own rules. At that time in my life, my only rule was “pretend that nothing matters”.
Now, I am crying. I see that time. I see and want to make it better. All I know is didn’t last forever.
I write this not for pity. I write for there are many prostituted girls and women who look hard. Many who appear not to care about nothing.
They are that because they have cared too much. They have had their trust destoyed. Everything that make them unique has been ground into the dirt.
Prostituted women and girls are not stereotypes. Each one has a story worth hearing. To listen means not putting your words on top.
Now, I write my truth, I believe it can heard. Now, I know I can be direct as my teenager has always wanted.
When men do sadistic sex acts on prostituted women and girls – they assume it will become unsayable.
Well, that is why I say it.
It is not comfortable. It is not the polite language I should speak.
No, I speak the words of my teenager. I speak her rage.
Rage that it was thought ok to be hurt over and over like she was just a doll. Rage that the men could think it was nothing. Rage that it has made her ill for always.
I speak her confusion
Confusion that no-one care. That if she thought that someone could care, it too often throw in her face. Confusion that she thought she was addicted to the violence. Confusion that she did know how to make it stop.
Finally, I speak her grief.
Yes, grief. Now she can grieve.
Grieve that she was so desperate for any human contact, that she went with violent men. Grieve that she felt her only real friend was death. Grieve that all she know was sexual violence.
I feel my teenager is getting some kind of peace. She can rest a little.
It is a good beginning.
My mind melts with love for her.