Vanishings

I have this blog for around five months now. I have notice a constant refrain of my experiences is how things were made to vanish from me.

I write now to try to regain some of them back.

Joy vanish.

Hope vanish.

Pride vanish.

Wanting to be alive vanish.

I will never forget. Have no need to forgive.

But I have a great need to understand what I can. Need to know as much I can take.

For in knowing, I will get my life back.

Things started to vanish when I knew my mother did not care about my existence.

In those moments of silence and rejection, I knew to give up on hope.

I long to be loved. I wanted to be protected.

But I fall into silence. It was easier.

I made myself vanish.

When I meet my stepdad I had hate. I did not want him in my life.

Only I shallow down deep that hate. I try to make it vanish.

It came out as I lost my temper as friends and relatives. It came out as I cut my arms.

I could not lose my hate.

But it did me no good.

It did not stop the abuse.

It did not stop him brushes his hands over me. It did not stop his tongue choking me.

It did not stop as the abuse increased by stages.

In the bath, testing how far he could go without me protesting.

I vanish into the water. I dream I was a mermaid. I dream I was safe underwater.

Only to come back in filthy lukewarm bath water. Feeling the shock of his finger going in me.

I wanted to scream, but my voice had vanished.

As he shown me porn, the vanishing was almost completed.

How can I exist as I stared at images that eat into my heart.

I wanted to look away. I wanted to be sick. I wanted to protest. I wanted not to know such images existed.

I was frozen.

I stare and saw those images.

My soul could not cope with amount of hate. My soul went into a small ball, and took all my tears.

So it it seemed my tears had vanish.

As I saw porn, hope vanish.

How could I hope when each image said my future.

Each time I saw the bodies laying tortured but smiling, I saw my future. Each time I saw the look of triumph as my stepdad shown me each image, I knew my future.

My future was to grow the dead eyes I saw in those images.

Porn stole my soul. Porn give dreams of death in it place.

Death became my best friend. I vanish into a world where I would feel pain. A world where grief did not exist. A world where nothing was all that matters.

I was vanishing.

This was the young person I was when I enter the sex trade.

I had lost myself.

Being lost, I was made for the sex trade to manipulate.

I could used as I denied I felt pain. As I denied anything could be wrong.

I could know what was happening, it may stir my soul back to life. Stirring up tears. Letting pain be felt.

No, I could not allow in reality. It could kill me.

Looking back is the only way I can see that time. I was so detached then, that it seemed alien to me now.

But I know it must of been so painful. I know it was degrading. I know I am damned lucky to be alive.

How could I not feel then, unless I had be made to vanish.

I survive because my soul refused to let the reality in .

The reality that I was being tortured.

Tortured in the body as the men rammed every hole they could find. As force my body into porn poses. As they rape me in beds, behind pubs, in graveyards, in a subway, up against the wall. As they ripped into my cunt with teeth and hands.

Tortured in the the mind as they use words to destroy any hope that cling on. As some men found out about my stepdad, and ask how he had sex with me. As I was stalked. As there was posters put up about me liking “rough sex”.

My soul took the torture, keep it deep in me. It vanish, so I could survive.

Now, my soul is speaking. Speaking about that I thought had vanish.

Now, I speak about the hate and tortures I had to live with.

I don’t speak because I want pity. I don’t want that, for no-one can rewrite the past.

No, I say the reality of the violence I lived because my experiences are very common. Around you now, are so many women and girls who live in the same hell. I wrote for them.

I write that if you choose to believe my story, that it may make you angry enough to make small or large changes to improve the lives of those women and girls.

I write for I hope I can some connections with women who survive similar experiences to me. I cannot make it better, but I can help show ways of surviving enough to bring back happiness.

But mostly I write to get back my hope, my self-respect, sense of joy and that I want to live.

I write to be what I always should of been.

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