I have never known how to fit.
I felt I was born wrong
I could feel without words, I was not wanted. As I looked for a mother, I found a lack of interest.
I tried to as good as I could. I tried not crying. I tried to be a joy to my mother.
Only I could not fit her image of a child.
Not fitting, I held my thoughts inside myself.
Meeting my stepdad, I thought he won’t fit in my family.
He was wrong. He gave me a sense of fear. He looked at me with eyes that burnt into my soul.
I thought he would go. Only he fitted in neatly with my mother.
I know I could not fit in that family unit.
I put my fear on one side.
When I laid in bed after my stepdad had finger-fucked me. When I laid in the wet. When I had forgotten how to move. When I imagined it had not happened.
Then I knew I would never fit in.
I knew without being told I would say nothing. I knew to ignore the pain I was in. I knew I would not cry.
I knew to clear away the mess. To hide the red and yellow stains on my sheets. I could only think to hide under my bed in a tangled heap.
After all, I was a child. I was only six. Being tidy seemed not important.
As I cleared away any evidence. I thought if I pretended nothing had happened, then maybe I would fit in.
Only the abuse went on till I got away from my stepdad when I was 19.
The more I try to fit in and attempt to work the rules so I won’t be abused, the more the rules changed.
I thought by being good, I would not be “punished” by abuse.
Only then my stepdad said how much he “love me”, that I was good company.
Words before he again and again put his hands and mouth in me.
I tried to be bad, thinking I may disgust him.
My stepdad just found me funny. I was kept on a short leash.
As he screwed me, he joked I was his “little whore”.
I wanted have some sense. I thought that if I understood why I was being abused, I could stop it. I had no idea that I had no power.
I try dreaming of magic spells that would make him stop.
I tried praying to god, to Zeus, to Arthur. Only I was speaking to empty air.
I thought if I sent thoughts to my Dad and grandparents, they would stop him.
I could not fit in when I carried around all the time that I must be a “whore”. Even before I understood that word, I knew that was all I was.
On top of that abuse, I was shown images from porn. I was shown and heard photos and tapes from sexual crimes.
I viewed “Hustler”. I heard the tape from the Moors Murders. I saw police photos from the Manson murders. I was read parts of de Sade.
I had no hope. My stomach was so sickened that it gave up feeling. My eyes and ears would not stop remembering.
It was the knowledge that children were being tortured that destroyed me.
I knew that was my future.
I did not want to fit in with those images.
I wanted to scream – leave me alone. No sound came.
This was before prostitution. This was the teaching and learning of how to be a prostitute.
I learnt to be dead before I became part of the sex trade. Being dead made me fit in easier.
I had learnt to think pain was normal with sex. I fitted in the sex trade.
I had learnt to be silent. Not to questioned, not to show fear and certainly not disgust at what the men wanted. I fitted in.
I was the role of the whore. But I still could not fit.
For my heart and mind resisted.
My heart was screaming, was crying – don’t do this, please, stop it now.
My mind resisted by reading novels, going to high-brow movies.
I resisted, but it would not stop.
It did not stop when I saw cut and bruises all over my body.
It did not stop when I throw into shock that men could imagine such sadism.
It did not stop when women and girls disappeared from the club I worked in.
It did not stop when my best friend killed herself.
No, it would not stop as long as my self-hate was so deep in me.
I could never fit if I hated myself.
The reason it stopped was because my body completely collapsed. Then I knew I would die if I continue the way I was living.
I wanted to die, but I choose to live.
But living after child abuse and prostitution is bloody hard.
Now, I really don’t know how to fit in.
Sexuality is a major problem for me. It is so interconnected with self-hate.
I have only had one relationship in my life. That was with a woman for eight years. Otherwise any non-abusive relationships I have had were very short-term.
I could not trust myself to have a relationship.
I try to a lesbian, but I do understand the rules.
I tried the scene, but it was too much like thrown back into my memories of the sex trade. There can be porn pictures on the walls. There is an encouragement of anonymous sex. Sex without affection or care of each other. Sex that is target driven.
It triggers me too much to see beyond the porn.
I like the idea that lesbians can be more than sex-oriented. That they may be interested that I have a mind. They see me with my past, and allow to fit in their world.
But it is hard to find that world.
I am scared to be a lesbian, for when I get depressed, I still fall back to wanting or having anonymous sex with men.
This I am fighting on a daily level,for it is my most self-destructive behavior.
I have decided for my peace of mind to be celibate. When I don’t who I am as a sexual being, I need time to think a little.
Also, I have had enough sex for two or three lifetimes.
My feminism comes from a belief that all men that choose to use violence against women and children should be held accountable.
But, I also believe that if women choose to use extreme violence they should held accountable.
This comes from believing that many men and a tiny amount of women will plan, gain power and continue to use extreme violence. They will not stop willingly, so must be punished.
I believe that feminism is about putting the women and children who have had to lived inside that abuse first.
Personally, I don’t give a damned about abusers. I want them to rot in prison. I am not interested in their constant excuses.
I do have a little bit of spirituality. I am attracted to Quakers and Unitarian Church. For I do not reject Christianity, especially the free churches and left-wing views they contain.
I find that type spirituality allow my mind to question the words said, allow my opinions to have an importance. I do not feel I am told what I should believe, or told to hold onto symbols.
With Quakers and the Unitarians, I have discover that I can explore. That I do always have to have solid answers. But the journey of the questioning has given lots of inner strength.
I know this means I may not fit in with feminists or many Christians, but I would labeled myself as both.
I have written for far too long. You, my caring reader, must think I been very self-indulgence.
I hope not. But thank-you for your patience.