(This is dedicated my close American friend who let me let go last night).
I have going through a very hard time, seeing and knowing what it was to be prostituted. It has been terrifying but I feel it building another change in me.
I am able to connect, I am finding the missing pieces.
I feel I am with care, with rage, with a force pushing me forward I am finding old words that connect feelings with logic. Words that make of my sense of isolation with far too many girls and women.
I called what happened to me torture.
I cannot fit into rape. I cannot fit into being bashed up.
I say torture, and I feel my mind can rest a little.
When I say rape, I feel like I have itchy clothes on. It is not right.
I feel bad saying this, but my uncomfortableness will not leave me.
It is hard to know and named it as rape when you remember going in the room knowing most men would do sadistic sex.
It is hard to know and named as rape when you are undressed and laying on the bed without them saying any words.
That was not what I thought was rape.
It is damned hard to know and name it as rape when I went back to that world whenever I hated myself.
But when I hear the word torture, it makes more sense, never full sense – but enough sense for some inner peace.
I know torture comes after brainwashing.
Brainwashing that teaches you only deserve pain and humiliation. That is who you are. Every cell in your body will be punish for that.
In that state of mind that many prostituted women and girls turn away from knowing rape, and can only believe that they wanted it.
Torture will make you believe night is day, that a cat is a dog.
Torture enough and you don’t feel no pain, don’t remember how you got your injuries.
Only way to cope with torture is not to know it.
I run into alcohol, into fucking violent men, into eating trash food, into cutting and overdosing, into smashing windows and bikes, into refuses to sleep.
To not know I had to be dead.
All prostituted women and girls need a slice of that deadness to survive, some need it more than others, but that deadness can be a life-saver.
To survive that I was living in torture, I had to cut any emotion. I especially cut out any closeness to joy, it was too hard to touch it and then be throw back into torture.
I stopped listening to music, I stopped walking in nature, I would let myself love women, I avoided the good parts of my family.
To survive torture, you have to closed down.
You cannot have dreams of a future, you must forget you had a past.
To survive is all that matter.
Survival by any means necessary.
Survive by remembering to keep breathing. Survive by robbing the men, just so you feel you have one over them whether they know or not.
Survive by refusing say any personal, even if that will lead to vicious beatings and sexual acts. Survive by never looking them in the eye.
Survive by forgetting, and trying to live a “normal” life when not with the men. Survive by not saying that you are a prostitute, and hide in other roles.
Surviving the torture that is called prostitution is the hardest work I have ever done in my life.
But I did by the skin of my teeth, and somehow I manage not to lose my mind.
So I called it torture, for that it a word that is powerful enough to say my truth into.
It is a word that can connect with so many, far too many prostituted women and girls who are being viciously tortured as you read this.
Please make your focus to be changing their futures.