I am going through a very hard time, which is making me very scared.
On top of my continual PTSD, I have menopause coursing through my body. All this make the tortures I had to survived very real.
It like I am drowning in it.
As you all know, I am a fighter. I am very determined.
But, but this is so exhausting, so scary. All I want and need is peace.
At the moment writing is very hard, but it is harder when I don’t write.
When I don’t my depression grabs me by the throat. I feel I am better off dead.
When I don’t in my pain, I believed that I am a liar. I believed I am attention-seeking by writing.
I believed I am pitiful.
When I don’t I can’t believe that I can be alive if all that I write is true.
I don’t know how I stay alive after the shock of the first rape. What made me think life was worth keeping.
I don’t how I had the will to live when hard-core porn burnt into my soul.
Why did I bother to live when I knew my stepdad would use me on a regular basis.
And how did I lived through prostitution.
How was I not murdered when women or girls doing the same as me died.
What keep me alive when men torture me onto the edge of death.
Why did I not just kill myself and end the pain.
All this hell embraces me when I don’t write.
It rots in my stomach.
I write coz I want to live so much. To live I look at my life, I will stare it down.
I see my first rape. I will see it clear.
I see a child who just wanted to be happy. A child who needed to please the new man in her life.
Hell, she did not know sex, had no words for abuse.
How could I named it rape, when those words were unknown.
My body carries the grief and shock of that first rape.
That first rape changed me. I lost hope. I grown up.
But it also planted a fire in my body. A fire that forced me to live, and never to give up.
I would say that first rape planted the seed that made me hate all sexual violence.
I lost confusion, when in my heart I know I was just being used.
I knew one day I would get revenge – it here in my writing.
I did not die when I saw hard-core porn.
No, I saw it and remembered. It is in my body now.
Now as the pain of PTSD, as the sickness of menopause, my body knows that porn harms.
I know I saw my stepdad studying porn, and how he saw me. I know he saw only the parts he would screw.
I was not human to him.
I know as punters torture and fuck me their minds were filled with porn.
I was not human, I might as well of been a blow-up doll for all my rapists cared.
Porn made me live, for it put a huge fury in me.
I was determined to live if only to prove that I was human, I was not just three holes and two hands.
I would live in order to prove this hate would not make me self-harm till death.
Porn made it clear to me I could not stop the violence, but I would keep my sanity.
I would get revenge for seeing that shit – and it is here in my writing.
As my stepdad used over, over, over and over, I learnt to hate him with a passion.
That hate give me life.
The more he used me, the further away I was from him.
He could finger-fuck me. He could eat me. He could “wash” me in the bath. He could stick his tongue down my throat. And on an on.
But I was never there. I never belonged to him.
I survived by dreaming of murdering him, as he imagined he was “pleasuring” me.
I hated that he would force orgasms into me, often not leaving me alone if I didn’t get wet.
I hated that he said that he love me. That he lied that he would not hurt me.
I would be passive, but my rage was overwhelming.
He taught me how to fake emotion. I learnt to be an actress.
Hell I have get my revenge every time I write of him.
Finally, I kept my fire of life even during the hell of prostitution. I fought to live then so hard.
I see that time with great pride. I don’t know if I will ever know how I survive that world. All I know is I did.
I was not murdered. Men brought close to death, then laugh in my face, saying it was a game.
This will never make up for the women I know that died. They were murdered or could not live because of the type of men that played with my life.
I lived coz of the fury that men could be so casual with my life. Choosing to let me live, felt like they had tossed a coin, and heads was my life.
I lived coz I could never forgive them for thinking I was nothing, that my friends were nothing. Who were they to say whether we could live or die.
I lived coz I hated those men.
I wanted to live coz I wanted to remember who those men were.
I wanted to remember that they were ordinary. Then alone with a prostituted woman, they let out their hate and allow themselves to be sadistic.
I remember the fear as the door shut, and I had no idea if they would choose to violent or gentle.
I remember knowing I lost all control, that I had just had to perform as well as I could, hoping that may lessen their violence or at least make go on for a shorter time.
I knew to be a damned good performer, and that could keep me relatively safe.
But, I remember if the men choose to be sadistic, I just had to hold onto remembering to listen to my breath to know I must be alive.
I had to disappeared then, I would not allow to know the pain. I could not let in the fear.
Every time I was tortured for their orgasms, I thought I had reach my personal bottom. I thought my life was over.
But then there would be more and worst tortures.
I don’t know how I survive, just that I did.
I think my rage and hate fuel my survival.
I felt the men were wrecking my body, but I was never with them.
I know the person I really was, these men could never see or know.
My will to live was to my real life, and throw these men away.
This I do now.
My revenge is in my writing.
I show them for the scum that they are.
As I write this, my body is exhausted and in pain.
My body knows all the hate put into it. My body remembers without words how it was tortured.
My body needs to grieve.
My body has a rage that helps it to choose life.
But mostly my body need to remember, so it does not have to live with emptiness.