As I see my past, I try to feel anger but fear gets in the way. My fear is not just a fear of what I know and have experienced.
It is a fear of going forward. It is a fear of suceeding. And a fear of knowing that I say my truth in an unique way.
I was taught to fail. I was taught to believe that everything I did well would be invisible. I learnt not to acknowledge when I thought I was not the person I had been taught to be.
I could feel anger at the lies I was taught. I want anger when too often all I get an emptiness.
Anger can send me into silence.
I was angry as a child.
I had anger at my stepdad. I was angry that when I try to behave in a way to stop him hurting me – he would change the rules.
I was angry at my mother that she would not see me.
I was angry that I could stop the world and find another family.
My anger went into directions that I could not understand.
I would destroy my stuffed toys. I would rip up books. I would play with matches, melting plastic soldiers.
As I was angry, the emptiness was growing inside of me. I was seeing myself being angry and I found it fascinating.
I found I was getting so controlled.
My anger became a private world. I attempted not to show it to my mother or stepdad.
But I failed. I became know as the “uncontrollable” daughter or –
“She’s got a temper, that one”.
I learnt that no-one ask me why I angry. I learnt I was laugh at.
I learnt to hide myself more. As I turn to cutting myself, I thought this is mine – this is mine.
The first time I harm myself I was nine. I was so young, thinking I was so old.
By nine, I had come to realise that I was trapped. By nine, I know that life could only get worse.
I see that time I see a child that is terrified. A child who had no understanding what was happening and wanting to know why she was hated.
How can that child get to anger, when all hope is vanished.
I write now, for as I write I am giving the child justice. I cannot change what happened, but I can say the effects and the damage.
As I write, I feel a slow anger face the fear. An anger that is not afraid to cry. An anger that knows there is no cure, but there could some peace.
It is my years of being raped by men whether paid or by “friends”, where I want to have fury. I want to lose my fear of going dead inside.
I started this blog as a way to confront my teenage and early twenties. I need that time of life to be part of me. Not some alien being that I can’t look at.
As I read or speak out about prostitution, I have come to believe that to “heal” from years of being dehumanised by so many rapes and tortures that are common in the world of prostitution – is to feel and see the reality.
Prostitution survive by knowing that many of the women and girls that are in that world will build a fantasy world around the reality of their lives.
The men that run prostitution, whether pimps, managers or businessmen will want the prostituted women and girls to remain deluded.
Many prostituted women and girls were as I was, coming from a background where they had lost the idea of hope.
Many girls who “fall into” prostitution will believe they have chosen that world. Many choose that life believing that is all they deserve.
I at 14 would of fiercely defended that I was getting money for sex. I know I had chosen what I was doing, I know this clearly till I was 17. It was my choose to enter. I know that I could leave at any time.
I see that naiveity, and I want to rescue that 14-year-old. I want to stop that moment before I enter the club, I want for none of that time to have happened.
But it did. and it did not end until I was 27.
The fear of that time is finally able to reach out into the world.
I do not have to close down and wonder each morning why I am alive.
As the fear come though, I feel an anger arrive. This anger is not fierce or out of control. This anger of the wronged striving towards some kind of justice.
I could not feel anything as a prostituted girl or woman.
I could not feel anger as I had to act happy as men tortured me. I learnt to paint a smile on my face. I would hear myself say how good they were.
I could not say my fear as they abuse every part of my body. I was attacked in places I had forgotten I had. No, I learnt to ignore the pain. I became detached if I got sick.
I did not know I could be angry as I was throw away. I was throw away with words of hate. I would just stand up, and walk away like nothing had happened.
I never shown my fear as “games” were played with whether I lived or died. As I strangled or suffocated, I just imagine I was somewhere else.
I look back at that time, and how I had learnt I should hide the reality.
I know to say my truth it would appear unbelievable. How can I say I was torture – is that not just an overstatment? If it was so bad, why didn’t I just leave? And I didn’t die, so shouldn’t I just be grateful?
Now, I said all that to myself. Now, I am hearing those words and my anger is floating to the surface.
Yes, I can call it torture and a complete denial of my human rights. After all, I had no rights to say “no” to any sexual act that men decided to do to me. I had no right to care about my safety and welfare. Hell, it would of been no big deal to murder me.
As for leaving, that assume that I know there was a world outside of male violence and hate. Remember, it was all I had known since I was six. I thought that all there was violence. I thought I was made to be abused, it was my role.
I could not imagine a world where people could have respect. It was a dream that others could be trusted, without there being an exchange.
Prostitution is a world that makes sure the “real world” is unknown or too hard to get to. This keeps prostituted women and girls in their place.
To see hope plants the seed to leave.
And I am not “grateful” that I am alive. I should of never of been nearly died so many times. I know it is just luck that I did not kill myself or get murdered.
That I should grateful that violent men on a whim decided whether or not to kill me. I had no choice whether I lived or died. Now that makes me angry.
I know the prostituted women and girls that kill themselves or are murdered are no weaker or stronger than I was. No, as I said earlier it was just luck that I still alive.
Also how can be grateful, when for those years I longed for death.
I wish to write for it is my reality.
I know writing can reach out in a way I cannot put into the spoken word.