These words by Dylan Thomas make some meaning of my life.
I feel one way I have survived my life is by having a rage that was always there. It was quiet, it sat inside me, but it did not abandon me.
As a young child, I raged as my mother neglected me. I needed her love, but did not get any. So I raged as I destroyed my toys, as I answered back. I became a rude child.
As I meet my stepdad, as I knew that he was staying, I raged. I took an instant dislike to him. I was unreasonable. I refused to talk to him.
I knew I did not trust him.
I was making family life difficult.
When he raped me I was stunned.
But the rage was still there. There as I smashed up my bedroom. There as I pulled off all my bedding, and pushed it under my bed.
It was there as I ripped out the eyes in my stuffed toys, for watching my fear.
I said nothing, hoping beyond hope, it was a one-off.
My rage was almost suffocated me when he shown me hard-core porn. I could not be angry as I was drowning in terror.
Only at night, I shut my eyes and saw eyes dead from pain and fear coming at me over and over. I saw the porn images until I forced my mind to see nothing.
I lost my visual imagination.
The rage creep back in when I read describations in books, and saw nothing. When I try to remember Cornish holidays I can’t see the cliffs or the beach. When I shut my eyes I see a void. I raged that porn killed that part of my mind.
When I viewed my experiences of the sex trade, the rage overwhelms me.
I think I had numbed rage at that time, now I will give it life.
I raged and it makes me sick, when I know I will never know how many men used me.
I say a number – say 30 or 70, say more – I say a number, and my mind shut down.
I raged that one was enough. My stepdad raping me was enough to change who I was to become. His abuse left scars enough for a lifetime.
Then these faceless rapists come to place worse scars and wounds on top.
I raged that I lived with their violence merging into each other. I cannot hate the individual man who raped me, they are just one mass of fear and pain.
I want to have faces and names to place my anger into. I want to hate the person who rape and torture me, not for him to vanish into just another punter.
I want justice and punshment.
I raged that the rapes, the S/M copies on my body, the stranguling, the beatings, the suffocating, the general treating my body as a dustbin all merged.
I lose track of my age, where I was, how many men in the room, how long it lasts. It is all one long time of being numbed to survive.
I raged that my body was forced to be separated from my mind. It kept me alive, but it had terrible long-term effects.
My body could not feel pain when I was being tortured, now all the pain returns. And the tortures were so cruel, that the body now screams with rage and grief that any person could be treated as I was.
My rage then went out mostly into self-harm. Sometimes I smashed up bikes (I did live in Cambridge). I threw bricks through windows. But mainly I just harmed myself.
I cut myself. I took overdoses. I would drink to drown or to ignore any physical pain that got past my numbness. I eat little, only pizzas. I try not to sleep.
And when I wanted to kill myself, I went to violent, For that was a world I knew. I knew that world would hate me even more than I hated myself.
Often the shock of their violence forced my rage back. The rage reminded me that I wanted to live.
Now, I do not live with male violence.
Now I have a place where the rage can be seen and heard.
I raged that every moment somewhere a man is feeling he is entitled to use a woman’s or girl’s as a dustbin for his porn fantasy. This happens to many women and girls.
But, prostituted women and girls are expected to accept this “as their job”.
I raged as I see how much danger I lived with. I raged that I do not know why I am alive.
I should of been murdered, as the men played “kill the whore” games. They chose not to murder me. It was just like tossing a coin.
I don’t undertand when so many prostituted women and girls are murdered, some that I know.
I raged that those men allow me to live, and the others were murdered.
I do not know how I did not kill myself. I live a life that was chasing death. I did not care one bit if I died. I wanted everything to stop.
At the time, I raged every time I saw the sun rise. Another day of hell, what is the f-ing point.
I do not know why I am still here, but part of it is my rage.
My rage made me a writer.
I felt if I did live and I live without violence in my life, that one day I would write down who those men were.
It would my revenge. It was to become my strength.
When it is said –
“the pen is mightier than the sword”
That is no lie.
I did not know how much my mind had stored it rage until I chose to write my life.
The rage made me write in a calm forsenic way of all the moments I had to closed away.
My mind wanted to show exactly how I was treated, to show and say –
This is wrong. Don’t turn away, show the reality. Maybe then this won’t happen any more.
I rage when I write.
My rage need to say it truth in a clear manner. It need to show the callous hate of the men, never to make excuses for them.
My rage need to show the confusion of living inside multiple male violence.
I write and hope my rage slowly get some peace.