Discovering Feelings

I am discovering that I am person who has lots of confused feelings.

I thought I was dead. I thought feelings was something I would read about. Something I watch films to discover.

Feelings have always been alien to me.

But as I unpeeled my life, feelings crash into me.

I suppose there was a time before abuse, a time when feelings were part of me.

But that was so long ago, I want to remember and I can’t.

I think I was a child who could laugh. A child who played without fear.

I was a child who was not playing the role of a child.

But abuse made me lose that. Abuse made me into what I thought was a child.

I had to fit in with a world where I could never understand.

This destroyed my ability to feel. I was too busy trying to stay safe to feel.

Looking back, I see the first time I was neglected by my mother. The first time my stepdad felt me up. The first time I was made to look at porn. The first time I was in my stepdad’s bed. The first time I run away. The first time I got money for sex. The first time I cut myself.

All these firsts murdered my feelings.

But it was the way it was constant. 

Constant being ignored by my mother. Constant being a sex object for my stepdad to grope. Constant images of porn if I closed my eyes. Constant turning into to a robot as I was fucked in my stepdad’s bed. Constant running away until I had no idea where I was. Constant raping as I took money. Constant trying to die only to stay alive.

Hell what was I meant to feel. How could I have space for feeling.

I was living in a world where feelings were a luxury.

I could not of survived my life in prostitution if I had felt what was happening.

By not feeling the men using me like a rag-doll, I survived. By not feeling the pain as places were raped where I should of been screaming, I survived. By not allowing the sadness that had hidden in my body, I survived. By smiling and being friendly to the punters, I survived.

I survived by attempting to murder my soul.

I write this because I think it helps to see why I became hard. See why I do not remember much pain when I lived through extreme rapes and torture.

I could not feel. To live I had to become a robot.

The pain of survival is intense, for all the “lost” feelings are safe enough to find their rightful place.

Now, I feel pain as my body remembers. Remembers being raped in the vagina. Remembers being raped in the anus. Remembers being forced into walls and raped. Remembers gang-rapes. Remember men pauses before they rape me. Remember penises shove down my throat.

Christ, my body remembers.

It remembers and weeps.

As feelings come I see my own degradation. I see as my stepdad shows me porn, making me think that was all I was. Feelings the eyes of all my rapists looking through me, seeing only places where they could fuck me. Feeling the humiliation as sexual acts are done that revolts me.

Christ, I sure can remember.

Now it comes out as I am sick.

I know my experiences are not special, far too many women and girls are having to murdered all feelings to survive living inside male violence.

Do not believe their “hardness”.

There is fear underneath. There is pain buried deep. There is self-respect waiting to be released.

But to survived in the sex trade, it is usually important to be a robot.

Feelings are too dangerous.

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