What It Was Like

Since October, I have been going through the worse PTSD I have ever known. This has been terrible, but also in a weird way a good thing.

It is good because I have known what being prostituted was for me.

I have step away from being a statistic. I have step away from making it less than it was.

No, as trauma grabs my heart. As trauma suffocates my mind. As trauma come into every cell of my body, I have been forced to take myself seriously.

I cannot fall back into detachment. I have no choice but to know what it was to be prostituted for me.

I spent my life blaming myself for being in that life. I refuse to know and see how trapped I was. I refuse to see and know that others got a lot out me being prostituted.

And I refuse to know and see that I so young, so full of trust, even after years of rapes from my stepdad.

I needed to believe that people were good. I needed to think men sleep with me coz I was attractive to them. I needed to find that there could be affection without violence.

I will quote from a comment made by another Survivor.

“It’s inconceivable in a child’s mind that an adult can be wrong, even through at the same time you can know that in your gut. I even think it’s some kind of warped innocence that lead people into the sex trade coz nobody who knew anything would walk through that door.”

PTSD bring forth that I was innocent.

It is the fear of that innocence, and how it was there even as men trashed it.

In some way that innocence made me survive, for it was that innocence that refused to believe that men could have such pure hate. Refuse to believe that anyone could enjoy sexually torturing me and any other prostituted woman or girl.

I had to not know my reality to survive.

In many ways, I live on automatic, in a living dream-state.

Like a child putting hands over her eyes, if I told myself it was not real, than none of it would really matter.

Only I didn’t know I would lose myself. I did not know if I was alive or dead.

All I knew was I would perform when I was in a room with men.

I would perform and disappear.

Now, with PTSD I am knowing where I went when I disappear. I know why I had to leave all hope, leave my body and leave imagining I had the luxury of caring about.

Elsewhere in this blog, I have said the beginning, I have spoken many times of after-prostitution. But it the middle that is the hardest to find expression.

The place where hope is just an illusion. The place where violence is so regular that I can never remember feeling anything but I should be in agony. The place where I perform sex as I was committing suicide.

Being prostituted was for me was living in a hell. 

I lived in a world where sadistic sex was brought and sold. I lived in a world where damaged under-aged prostitutes were gang-raped.

I lived in a world where men paid for a “girlfriend” to have at social events, ending the night battering and raping that she was just a whore.

I lived in a world where men brought me in order to torture me for hours, always giving lots of money.  I lived in a world where I grow used to injuries so often and so bad – I just ignore that I could be in pain.

I lived in a world where having straight penetrative rape was a relief, compare to the usual sexual torture. Hell, often with penetration is last for a shorter time and faking an orgasm is easier.

I lived in a world where many johns enjoy the slow torture of copying hard-core porn onto my body. I lived in a world where the unreal world of porn push my body beyond it’s limits.

I lived in a world where my “boss” heard and known I was being tortured and raped, as he was outside the door. But what mattered was the money he was being paid.

I lived in a world where prostituted women and girls were full of injuries, where all were deadened, where some were killed.

If that was not hell, hell has no meaning.

Now, with PTSD I know my life.

Now I grieve so hard, so deeply. I grieve with a rage.

I rage that I had to go through all that shit.

But more important, I grieve and rage that my life was not unique, my experiences are very normal in the sex trade – and I know I very lucky in many ways.

I was lucky when I knew girls and women that were killed by johns. I survived johns playing with whether I lived or died.

I was lucky that I kept most of myself private, that may of keep me sane.

And I was lucky enough to be able to exit, to leave that world.

I will always have the memories of that time polluting me. But, even in my lowest ebb, I will never be prostituted again.

But I will weep for my past.

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