Coming Out

I have coming out all my life. Some of it has been easy, but mostly coming out is just hitting your head into a brick wall.

As a child, I chose to disappear. But I would go into other worlds.

I “came out” to books. By that, I mean I give my real self to a book as I read on and on. I came out to the TV and to films.

In those worlds, I found worlds where I could belong. Worlds where women and girls would fight, would speak as equals. 

I found worlds with happy endings. Worlds where evil is conquer.

I found worlds where children could live without adults. Where adults are punished even die when they create the bad.

In those worlds, I could see myself standing strong. I saw myself inside endless picnics under shaded trees.

But it was not true.

As I rose from the books, from the TV and the cinema, I crash-landed into my life.

And it felt like I had been run over by a juggernaut.

I went back to abuse where I could not imagined an end. So I chose to close down my imagination.

Coming out about child abuse was hard and strangely easy looking back.

It all depends who is listening, and what their agenda is.

Child abuse is pitied, but often there is a refusal to see the strength of finding ways to live with it.

Child abuse is believed, but only when it not too near to home.

My family may think child abuse is horrific, but say I am a liar or mentally ill. Or if it is true, not as bad as I say.

This is proved by my lack of memory.

Child abuse is good to study, as long as the humans who have survived are keep at a distance.

Often studying child abuse is a damned good career move.

I came out as an incest survivor, just coz not speaking was killing me.

I came out to end the war in my mind saying it was all lies and saying you are right to hate your stepdad.

Coming out about child abuse was not a choice, so I do not need to put a box of just the incest survivor.

That is me, but there is so much more.

My stepdad should not have so much power.

I came out as a lesbian.

Though I am not really sure if I came out, or in the chaos of my life occasionally have sex with women.

I had no name for what I was. I saw no place for what I was.

Not whilst I still being fucked by countless men, and found myself lusting after women.

I may of been a lesbian, but if coming out is about pride, that was miles away from me.

All I knew then was that sex was about being an object. Sex was nothing to do with love, or even pleasure.

Sometimes, when having sex with women I felt beyond my deadness.

Sometimes, I was amazed to find I could have pleasure. And more that I could give pleasure.

But I could not stay with it, the pain of pleasure was too much.

Too much when most of my life, I was in a world where sex was hate, where sex was pain, where sex was as close to suicide as I would go.

To find a world where sex come done with respect, where sex was done with care, where sex was forcing life into me – it was too much.

I could not cope.

So I murdered my lesbianism.

Now, I say I am a lesbian, but in my heart I don’t know.

Now, I am celibate. Now, I still have shards of self-hate where my mind go back to having sex with violent or disrespectful men.

I hold up being a lesbian as a goal, but then I still dream I can sex where I am seen.

Coming out as having done prostitution that is the hardest coming out of all.

Once said out loud, it will alters how you see yourself, and how others see you.

Once said out loud, it is the elephant in the room, everything else is unimportant, or just seen as the reason you became a whore.

Once said out loud, you can forget about being an individual, and just become whatever role the listener thinks you are.

Coming out as a prostitute is amazing silencing, for your voice is drown by others saying who you are, why you are who you are and how you should save yourself.

God, it hard to hold on when anger is choking me.

I have found that coming out as having been in the sex trade, I am still having to learn the roles to be acceptable.

I am still in roles, without knowing my true self, still to please others. 

That is how I survived prostitution, by learning how to be whatever role would mean I would survive.

Now, I am the role of the “token” ex-prostitute who speaks against the sex trade.

I cannot speak of the confusion, the times when I place myself into danger.

I cannot say and be heard how I built some joy even then, how I was able to live many lives at one time.

I will speak out, but I am not the only voice.

I want voices of women either in the sex trade or exited to be heard, not just the few that fit an agenda.

There are voices who are confused, who don’t know how or why they are in the sex trade.

There are voices that may say it is fine in public, but in silence or brief moments with trusted friends say about the pain and grief.

There are voices that are so living with terror that they never speak.

Yes, there are strong voices that speak out. They are few, but they speak for many.

Coming out to myself about my years in prostitution has been terrifying.

Coming out I have come into that I was tortured.

I come into the pain that I closed down. Pain that goes into every cell of my body.

It makes me sick, not as a metaphor, but in the bathroom, as I walked down the street, as I try to relax.

Often I sit on the toilet and want to faint after knowing the years of anal rape.

Coming out means forcing myself to know that the torturing was pre-planned and done with slowness to make it last for a long time.

For example, I was rarely fucked in the vagina, coz then the men may get tired or make me pregnant (like they give a damn). Instead I fucked so it go on and on and on.

I was fucked into maximum pain. I was fucked in every hole except my vagina, including ears and eyes.

I was fucked into being dead.

That is what I coming out into.

I come out, I speak out, but I also I am living inside the reality of my hell.

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