Breaking A Dam

This is triggering.

I want to write as clearly and in as much detail as my mind will let in about the years between 12 to 27.

I feel this need because it come from the screaming in my stomach, saying-

See what you can. See that time as clear as you saw your stepdad. See. Speak, and maybe then rest.

My self-hate begun before I was 12, but by the time I was 12 I had given in to it.

I begin at 12 because it was then I feel I lost myself.

It was then I was made into a sex toy for my stepdad. Then I became used to truancy. Then I chose not to care whether my mother loved me or not.

I was growing into a teenager who would be ideal for the sex trade. Ideal for “relationships” with men who would treat me like shit.

When I was 14, when I first was in the sex trade, I was more dead than alive.

All I had was an anger.

An anger that made me go to a club that had a reputation for hating women. I knew that, and still I went.

What can said to or for a teenager who is that lost. I did throw myself into the lion’s den, and then I could not and would not care.

I can feel sorrow for her.

I could scream at her, don’t go into that club.

But what’s the point when I know you can never rewrite history.

I did enter the club, and I did become part of a world that haunts me still.  

I would write of some of things done to me. I want and need to see some details. I know this may triggers others. I am sorry about that.

But I need to express my truth with some graphic language. This is the scream of my prostituted self. I cannot censor what the men did, for then they still have power over me.

When I remember their violence, I remember that every cell in my body was polluted by their hate and acts of torture. I want my mind to see what my body feels.

I have said I was gang-raped. But like all rapes, gang-rapes need to have words.

Usually, when I see the gang-rapes I closed down, I see the before, and see the after – but never the actual events.

But now it suffering to the surface, screaming and whispering to be heard.

I was gang-raped an initation to prostitution. I am sure this is common, but it hidden or becomes unspeakable.

That is why I must speak it.

It is hard to say, for I survive by being completely detached. I survived by not allowing my mind to compute what happening to me.

But these are the things I remember.

I remember that I sometimes rape by one man as other men stood round watching. Sometimes in silence, sometimes encouraging.

I hated the silence more, it was like they were watching and analysing how best to damage a whore.

I hated the silence, for I felt I could not exist.

I sometimes tied up. Not as a joke, but with force that made lose the idea that I could hope.

Sometimes several men would rape at once. This I blank as much as I can.

But it happened, as my body screams in memory.

I would have my anus filled, my mouth filled, my cunt filled. I was fucked in my ears.

I had spunk rubbed into all my skin and hair. I had it rubbed into my eyes.

I was bitten. I had men ripping at my cunt and clit with their teeth.

I had “death games” played on me. This included being strangled. Having forced oral sex, whilst being fisted. Having pillow put on my head.   

I was anally raped with my legs together forced into a wall.

I was raped by my stepdad the same day I had an abortion.

My body carries all this shit.

Now is the time for the mind to carry some of that burden.

I write these graphic words, for they have been silenced too long.

I have censor myself too long, it is slowly killing me.

I want to breathe now.

I want to hold that part of me and weep.

She may of thought she was hard, that it was her own fault to be in that world.

I think she had to think that to survive.

I then was living in a world that made no sense to me as an individual. My world had narrowed down to staying alive.

I was trapped.

One thing I did hate was touching moments of joy then.

So my world narrowed.

I did not listen to music, it may allow emotions.

Now, I have a soft spot for music of the late 70’s and 80’s for I never heard it at the time. Fortually, the 80’s is fashionable now.

Music was dangerous for at that time. It made me remember I could still think. That I wanted to smash things up.

I avoided music.

I stop watching TV, in case I saw I could not concentrate.

For me TV had always been as always been a friend.

But in the world of violent sex, even TV could not comfort me.

I stopped reading, coz I could not see the words on the page. 

I was losing my privacy.

I lived in a small town. I had a reputation,

Reputation that I was a whore. Reputation that I would have any sort of sadistic sex done to me. Reputation that I would not matter coz I was mentally ill.

I even had spread around that my stepdad stop me from being a virgin.

One man even struck up posters about me. This had a photo of me, my phone number, where I lived, and how I would have violent sex done to me.

I was living in hell.

I could not go to pubs without men wanting to use me. I could fight, but it was so exhausting.

Sometimes I was too tired to fight or I wanted the money. So they would fuck me hard and fast in the rubbish behind some pub.

It was so cliche, but it was so real.

My self it was lost.

I write this now.

How can you ever repair that past. There was too much damage.

All I can hope it that by saying my truths, it can get some rest.

This post is a dam breaking.

Please anyone who does care, please hold me in your thoughts in this time of discovery.

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12 responses to “Breaking A Dam

  1. thinking of you. you can speak much better than i do. i can’t speak or not yet or maybe never can. hope you can get some rest or whatever helps you. some of what you wrote reminded me of those words by Andrea Dworkin (from Mercy):

    “What do you think about that, assholes? We all of us got the consolation that nobody remembers the worst things. They’re gone, brain just burns them away. And there’s no words for the worst things so ain’t no one going to tell you the worst things; they can’t. You can pick any book and know for sure the worst things ain’t in it. It’s almost funny reading Holocaust literature. The person’s trying hard to be calm and rational, controlled, clear, not to exaggerate, never to exaggerate, to remember ordinary details so that the story will have a narrative line that will make sense to you; you – whoever the fuck you are. The person’s trying hard to create a twenty-four-hour day. The person picks words carefully, sculpts them into paragraphs, selects details, the victim’s selection, selects details and tries to make them credible – selects from what can be remembered, because no one remembers the worst. They don’t dare scream at you. They are so polite, so quiet, so civil, to make it a story you can read. I am telling you, you have never read the worst. It has never been uttered by anyone ever. Not the Russians, not the Jews; never, not ever. You get numb, you forget, you don’t believe it even when it’s happening to you, your mind caves in, just collapses, for a minute or a day or a week or a year until the worst is over, the center caves in, whoever you were leaves, just leaves; if you try to force your mind to remember it leaves, just fucking empties out of you, it might as well be a puddle on the ground. Anything I can say isn’t the worst; I don’t remember the worst. It’s the only thing God did right in everything I seen on earth: made the mind like scorched earth. The mind shows you mercy. Freud didn’t understand mercy. The mind gets blank and bare. There is nothing there. You got what you remember and what you don’t and the very great thing is that you can’t remember almost anything compared to what happened day in and day out. You can count on how many days there were, but it is a long stretch of nothing in your mind; there is nothing; there are blazing episodes of horror in a great stretch of nothing. You thank God for the nothing. You get on your fucking knees.”

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  2. I am thinking of you Rebecca. The courage required to face the evil that these men did to you must be immense. When they attacked you, you were on your own – they made sure of that, I hope that you feel less alone now you are speaking to the world about it.

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  3. Oh Rebecca, I want to hold that part of you and weep too! I can’t hold you through the internet but I can weep! I read this also thinking to that young girl, please don’t go into that club, all the time knowing that she did. I am glad that you wrote this out and took the risk of facing the same attitudes as you did in Cambridge ( I never want to go there!) I don’t know why nobody saw your pain, I don’t know why someone didn’t try to help you. Aren’t they supposed to be an educated lot? There’s so much I don’t understand about this world. I have felt kind of numb for a long time now, but this post actually made me cry and I felt human again, which was good to know. I hope that writing it relieved your pain a bit too. love to you always xx

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  4. Thanks all, I do feel you are holding me.
    Thanks so much Delphyne, Debs, Sparkle and Laura. Your support is very important to me.
    Jo, you are so brave, I really wish could hug as you go through this scary and draining journey. I am very honoured that my words help bring back life for you. That is so moving, and it makes my writing find it true purpose. I always hold you in my heart.
    Antoniale, thank-you so much for the quote from “Mercy”. It saids so much how I feel about my past. I think not remembering the worst help me alive and kept me sane. But, having gaps in memory is very hard, for I forgotten the good things along with the bad. But I do feel –

    “The mind shows you mercy”

    By closing out the worse violence.
    I think the quote –

    “make it a story you can read”

    is important to me. I find the more I write, the more I think I am crafting the chaos of that time, and making it into a neat story. As Andrea Dworkin, how to say the day-to-day violence and degradation. How do say when it all merges into one.

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  5. I love and believe you Rebecca. I think you own these words and you weild them to fit your experience. As has already been said, your voice is so similar to Dworkin’s. More hugs coming your way sister.

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  6. Gosh, it must be so awfully hard for you to remember all those things! Oh, how cruel those men were to you! It’s absolutely dreadful. 😦

    I agree with Delphyne: “The courage required to face the evil that these men did to you must be immense.”

    *Big hugs to you Rebecca*

    Sorry I’m sometimes busy but I’m still here to hear you, don’t worry. I read your blog often and I do hope you’re recovering well. Take care!

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  7. Pingback: Fourth Carnival Against Pornography and Prostitution « The Burning Times

  8. I’m weeping for you, Rebecca. I can’t fathom what you’ve gone through, and it breaks my heart.

    Kudos for writing this down. I wish you all strength for working your way through the healing process.

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