“Just get over it”, this is the refrain that many survivors of male violence hear all the time. Just forget the past.
Forget the past when it is in every cell of your body. Forget the past when it want desperately to be heard and seen.
No, I say it is not about forgeting the past. When that only serve to make male violence invisible.
Once the male violence is made invisible, it does not make the world safe.
It most certainly does not make the survivor happy.
I thought I would write of my reality. I show it to say if I forget, then I will lose who I was.
I am now trying to see with a clear eye my years of sex with strangers whether paid or unpaid.
I saw my stepdad with a clear eye, and it made his violence smaller. It still matters, but it is now in a place where I can control how I view his abuse.
He is nothing to me. Nothing than a person I used to show the damage of sexual and emotional violence.
He is afraid of my writing and so he should be.
This is my long-term purpose of writing about my years of prostitution and sex with sadistic strangers. I want to show their hate and violence up for what it. I need to have a clear eye.
When I view the beginning, I know I entered the world of the sex trade already knowing I was worthless.
I could not know I was worth more than pain and being a f-k object for any man. I entered the the world of prostitution, knowing I was a “whore”.
But I did not know the cold hate that men had for prostituted women and girls.
The violence I was on the receiving end was cold, slow and silent. It ended with losing any hope that I had imagine that I could reach.
It was in flats. Always I saw little, only a bed. From my stepdad I know to undress without speaking. I know to lie on the bed and wait.
Then I enter a world I did not know.
I remember seeing men standing round my bed staring at me. I felt fear, but know not to move. They seemed just to stare for hours, I could not understand.
I felt every centimetre of me was being analysed. As I felt their eyes boring into me, I felt a terror that I could not name. I was frozen.
Then when the first had sex with me, it was a relief. This I know. Only I didn’t.
It was not just sex, it was strangling, it was bashing me in the head and stomach. I was screwed in vagina, that I know. But all my other holes were stuffed with penises.
It all so unclear as my mind doesn’t want to know the reality. It want to shut down, But I won’t let it.
I was f-k by one man with the others watching. I was gang-raped till I didn’t know how to breathe.
All I know everything they did I had seen in hard-core porn. I know it was a planned rape.
I survived by shutting down. I made it into nothing.
I had injuries on my body, but I was so disconnected I could not remember where they came from.
That was my introduction to the sex trade.
I see it now it was a test to see if I was suitable fodder for being prostituted.
Well, I was as I let my self-hatred tell that all I deserved was the hate that men put into me. I was just a “slag” after all.
I try to not hate myself, but I had been poisoned by too many years of male violence. I believe I “chose” to have sadistic sex, I “chose” to let myself be tortured.
I had fallen into a world where I had no sense of personal safety. I was suicidal, so I wanted men to kill me.
And they were careless whether I lived or died. They played “killing the whore” games. Sometimes the pain was so sudden and vicious, that it slams stright into my heart, making me almost have a heart attack.
One man who raped me for six hours, it made me stopped breathing.
He was angry that I would dare to die on him. He was not a murderer, he was not a criminal after all.
He force me back to life, only to continue his violence.
I cannot forget as the pain they force into me is coming out through body memories.
I cannot forget the forcible anal sex as I find hard to lie on my back, as I can still feel fear on the toilet.
I cannot forget being strangled, as I can feel anger if someone touches my throat.
I cannot forget being manipulated into place, as when I try to have loving sex I always think I have to perform. I have to forget myself and try and just the other person’s fantasy.
I cannot forget until I have the few occasions I can just lie in bed with someone and relax. Not perform, but sleep.
For now, I am not wanting that form of connect coz I cannot trust myself to not go dead inside.
I write because the way I was used is not unusual, there are many worse tales of prostituted women and girls.
I write for the male violence I lived with has left me with trauma.
I try very hard to advance to a future, but truama does hold me back.
I feel I have no choice but to remember, for my past is forcing itself to the surface. My mind is now able to see and hear.
I can now accept that I was tortured on a regular basis.
I was not a willing partcipant in S/M. It was not rough sex gone wrong.
It was rape.
It was torture pure and simple.
I see now why I had to blame myself. For see the reality that men that were torturing me did it as a game. To see all I was to them I just was holes to be filled. I was nothing but a body to manipulated into their image of the perfect f-k object.
This I could not see. So I turn to self-hate instead.
I will remember then as it was. Not how I would of liked it to have been. Not by shutting out the reality.
I will remember for I know there are women and girls now being tortured as I was.
As I remember with fear, sickness and come to a fury. I know as I can see me, it make me want to build another future.
A future where men cannot not just buy girls and women to be real-life porn objects. A future that girls and women are given space to say their self-hatred, then maybe not go towards male violence.
This piece is much rawer than I normally write. But I would say it the spirit of that time shouting out.
Yes it is very ugly, but to make real change, it is sometimes important to look at that past with it’s pain and degradation straight in the eye.
Then we can say there must be a change for the better.