Yesterday, I was told by my acupuncturist that most of my pain and illness is stored up anger, that I am scared to express.
That makes utter sense.
It exploded in my body over the weekend.
Hearing, reading and seeing too many excuses for male violence too often. Having a lifetime of that violence being made invisible.
Having been made into a victim, so I can be blamed, and make sure that I am silenced.
Over the weekend I was sick over, over and over.
My rage has lost it’s patience.
RAGE OF A CHILD
As my mother ignores my tears, I taught myself not cry. I learnt before words how to be silent.
In that silence, I carried a rage.
As I grow to know, my mother would not protect me, would not hold me – I grow to imagined I must a changeling.
As I grow, I believe nothing than I must be an evil spirit, why else would my mother hate me.
It made no sense.
Now, that’s the point. The point where anger enter my soul –
It made no sense.
In a clear eye, I see I was just normal. I wanted love from my mother, that’s no big deal.
I wanted some protection from my mother, some safety. Hell, she choose not to abort me, it is part of her job to care a little about my welfare.
I am angry with and at my mother.
She did willfully neglect me. She put me in the way of danger, it was no carelessness, it was her selfishness.
As a child, how I express that anger when she was my hope.
NEW MAN IN MY LIFE
When my stepdad enter my life, my instinct was to hate him.
An instinct that came with a pure and straightforward anger.
But as he married my mother and was there to stay, I choose to suppress my hatred. It never went away, it went into illness.
From him entering my life, I got headaches, I had stomach aches, I begun to wet my bed again.
My anger had nowhere to run to, it rotted in my body.
When he choose to abuse me, doing what he considered harmless. Saying there couldn’t of been any pain.
When his finger went into me, sending silence throughout every cell.
When it hurt, as I bled. As my bed went wet.
When he was stroking my hair, saying sorry, I didn’t mean it.
When I laid so still, scared to know I had pain.
Then my anger buried itself away.
Only to throw out onto all my sheets thrown under my bed, trying to make it all disappear.
As I ripped at the sheets, I would not face my rage.
MURDERED BY PORN
Any natural rage was shocked into silence, by seeing and made to view porn.
What is the point of anger, when all hope is stolen.
As I stared into those images, I felt I had became a nothing.
How could I care about little things like my personal safety and mental welfare, when all I saw in these images was that had no relevant.
I saw that to be part of those images, you had to murder all hope.
I saw my future in their look of death.
Now, I have huge anger at porn.
I hate the fear it placed into me. Fear that made me motionless.
I hate the makers of those images, who claimed it was art, was just a joke, was harmless fun.
I hate that men get their rocks off by seeing women and girls degraded and tortured.
But then, I had nowhere to place my anger.
All my crying, my anger and my fear disappeared into silence.
ON AND ON
All this was my stepdad’s build-up to be to abuse on a regular basis. He was wearing me down, making into his sex toy.
He abused slowly, carefully – always making I was to blame.
I had nowhere to be angry. I had forgotten I had a will, that I had any purpose when he made his sex object.
Anger was too scared to exist.
Now, I see how I was mentally destroyed. I see how my stepdad with calculation built up the violence and pain.
How each time it hurt, he said it must of been me.
It hurt because I moved.
It hurt because I wasn’t getting into the rhythm.
It hurt coz I was dry.
It hurt because I wasn’t concentrating.
It hurt because I made him go too far.
I heard all, I couldn’t know how to be.
Somewhere, so deep there was a screaming –
He wants to hurt you. He won’t stop.
Anger was there hiding. As I was frozen on his bed, being felt everywhere.
I had lost.
Lost all privacy, as every cell in my body was his to have.
Lost memory of hope, as every time he had me, I had not run away, I had not yell no, I had not bash him.
I could not be angry, that was becoming a lost memory.
TRY TO TELL
Somewhere there were flashes of anger. In those flashes, I wanted my mother to get rid of my stepdad.
I try to say the truth to her. It was thrown into my face.
I said I was scared of him – only to hear –
“Just make sure you don’t get pregnant”
I was 14, I know she know.
Know her husband was raping her daughter.
Know it had been going on some time.
Know I was not happy.
She knew, and didn’t give a damned.
Only that we were not a public spectacle.
Now, this made my rage blow up.
Only it could only go towards the negative.
ENTERING SEX TRADE
It was this rage, I stood in the queue waiting to enter the club that my entrance to sex trade.
In a rage, I decided I would give a fuck if I became a whore.
Hell, at that time I knew all those words, but I had no idea of their meaning.
I lined up with other underaged girls, lining up we had all forgotten hope.
Most of them were like me. Middle-class girls who should be in bed dreaming of boys or girls their age. Waking up to go to school, knowing it will lead to university.
Girls who know nothing of prostitution. Girls where education comes first.
That is what we should of been, that is what my class expects.
Not standing in line to become a prostitute who will accept any sadistic rapings as all she is worth.
We had all been destroyed long before we enter the club.
One look in our dead eyes, and see all the anger has gone.
REMEMBER TO BREATHE
My involvement in the sex trade was the time when the only thing that matters was to stay alive.
I had no control, I had no power – all I had was a life-force that refused to abandoned me.
I see now that part of that life-force was my anger.
From the first gang-rape to the end where I was paralysed by the anal rapes my body could not take – my anger force me to live.
Men did everything they could to make my body want to die. They give my body no peace.
My body was a war-zone.
Only the violence done to most prostitute’s bodies is of no importance.
The only way it can remembers as violence done from hate, is through the memories of prostituted women and girls.
THERE IS NO GLAMOUR
Where is the glamour in my life, when I was gang-raped, not by as a one-off, but it became my role.
Where is the glamour when I was bitten, ripped at, beaten up, strangled and tied up – all before I was raped.
Where is the glamour when wanting “normal” rape, that is penetration, becomes one way to feel safer. Not objects forced in me. Not forcing their penis in all holes but my vagina.
Where is the glamour is having sperm spread all over my body, into my eyes.
Where is the glamour when chocking as I was deep-throated.
If others can find glamour in that, god help them.
LOOK AT WHAT YOU SAY
I will write now, now I am safe, now I can reach into my anger.
I will write and say that after surviving my life, I have to survive the words that others used to say my life.
I am angry, I am angry that I have been too calm and reasonable.
Many speak of prostitution, and completely ignored that men who organise and use the sex trade want the women and girls to be degraded and violently treated.
It is not bad luck to be raped as a prostitute, it is just part of the job.
It is no accident, that much of the sex trade sell women and girls are “enjoying” rough sex, sells what your girlfriend won’t do. For extra money, the sex trade will provide anything the man wants, however sadistic.
When I heard some women say they are the “happy hooker”, I believe them, but I know they are a very tiny minority.
It is fine to say that, if you do not implied that the majority of prostituted women and girls are just weak, mentally unstable or stupid to “allow” men to rape and torture on a regular basis.
Remember who is in the majority, and care about their safety and dignity.
Saying you were prostituted, and that it did leave huge mental and physical scars, has become unacceptable in many quarters.
The sex trade is so busy saying it just fun, that exited prostituted women who speak against it are very inconvenient.
Do not call it “rape”, when how can it be when you willingly took the money.
Don’t mention that it was violence that may of killed me. Just re-invent it as rough/kinky sex, and then it is just fun.
Don’t say that the punters raped, bashed and torture me because they hated women. Say anything but that strange feminist talk.
Don’t suggest that all the violence was pre-planned. Say it was an one-off, say the man lost control, that he was sorry for his actions.
Please don’t say that prostituted women and girls are constantly murdered. Just push that away as an inconvenient truth.
And don’t say you are angry – say you are sad, say you will always be a victim, say there is nothing can make it better.
Don’t say anger.
That might force others to think the sex trade is wrong.
It might lead to the sex trade being criticised.
It may give the idea that the sex trade is built on violence and the bodies of women and girls.
That maybe the world would better if the sex trade was abolished.