Every time I think I have recover, that I may get some peace – I am tripped up by the pain and grief of what I have survived.
I feel like I am drowning. My brain is screaming with all that I know. My body is slowly collapsing.
I hate feeling the truth.
I can write, I do art, I can talk, I can read – but the pain and grief does not go away.
Part of the reason I begun this blog, was to write down the reality of my experiences of PTSD. Now I have come to the ugly truth, the truth I am scared to write.
The truth for me is I have no idea what the point of having a life where the good times just return to this shit of pain and grief.
I have no intention of dying. I do not even want to self-harm.
But when my brain is dead I get a tiny place of peace.
Living with PTSD, is living with the ghosts that wanted to destroy me.
I live with my stepdad and his cold hate that I could reach any joy.
I live with the child that he made me. A child who forgot how to cry. A child who did not know she could sleep in bed without his hands in her.
I was made silent. I was made to not show emotions.
PTSD shows me what was stolen.
The freedom to make mistakes was taken. The freedom to trust was taken. The freedom to be free was taken.
I was not a child. I was a doll for my stepdad.
It hurts so damned much.
I wish I could scream and scream.
PTSD show me how damaged I was by hard-core porn. PTSD laughs in the face of those who dare to say porn is harmless.
Porn destroy any remaining hope I had. Porn made me sick in every cell of my body.
I saw pain placed as a joke. I saw and learnt to go dead inside. I learnt to paint a smile on my face.
In porn I learnt how to be a “whore”.
And I learnt what men wanted from my whore-role.
I know to lose myself was the only way I would stay alive.
It bloody hurts to remember. I want to forget, but it refuses to vanish.
PTSD has show me what I thought I had blanked out. I see myself prostituted.
It has taken me a lifetime to say that word – “prostituted” and to allow it to fit me.
I have always run away from the years I was 14 to 27. I thought if I ignore that time, it would not exist.
For most of my life, I have surrounded by people who would not see I may be suffering. Rather I was seen as mad or sex-crazed.
If others could ignore my pain, than I would as well.
Only nothing ever made me happy. Nothing seems to fit.
I knew I was having sex with many men. I knew most of them I had no name or any idea what they looked like.
I knew that was different from one-nights stands. For I was not chatted up. I was not made to feel even slightly special.
But I had no language for it.
Even when money was exchanged, I could not say the word “prostitute”.
I did not really what a prostitute was at that time.
I had vague images of working the streets. I had seen Latrec’s paintings. I had some imaginings that it meant being locked up.
I could fit myself into any of that.
I was in a club. I imagined I could come and go as I liked.
I thought I was having a lot of sex that I hated. Sex that made me terrified. Sex that I knew may kill me.
But I had been taught by my stepdad and porn that I deserved to be in pain. That I was nothing but a sex object.
I had been taught to despise myself.
I had come to believe I was not human, but a toy for any man to fuck over.
How could I named it prostitution, when I could not see myself as a victim.
PTSD has allowed to named it prostitution. PTSD can receive my terrible grief that I had to tell myself lies to stay alive.
To see the truth would of killed me.
To see the hate and pure callousness of the men who used me, would of made me lose all hope.
I dream of dying a lot, but always pretended things will get better.
I had to imagine I was a slut, not see that men were fucking me without seeing if I was human.
I could not see all the many ways the men degraded and damaged my body. I could let in the pain.
I could not let myself have pride, for they would just laugh at that and do more violence.
I had to close down all the tortures and rapes. Act like they had never happened.
I had to survive by any means I could.
PTSD is showing what I survived.
By seeing, I am slowly melting my self-hate. By seeing, I am amazes at the pure and steadfast courage it took to survive.
I am growing into pride.
Proud that I kept my mind and soul hidden from all the hate and violence.
Proud that I did not forget, but have recorded much so I can say my truth and maybe help to prevent another girl going through what I did.
PTSD is damned painful, it is exhausting.
But it a truth-sayer.
That in the end will save my life.