More on My Computer

Last night I broke down, it had been coming for weeks and weeks, but my computer acting the fool was the straw that pushed well over my edge.

I have been hanging on to memories that are unbearable. Memories that sicken every cell in my body. Memories that I want to believe are not true. Memories that feel like they are killing me.

Last night, it exploded. (If the friend that let me explode on the phone last night is reading – thanks so much, there no words for how much your listening reminded me it did matter, it mattered too much).

I yell last night –

I hate the sex trade. I hate all the men that tortured me to get an orgasm. I hate that many made a profit out my raping. I hate all the excuses made for the sex trade.

I am sickened by being nice, by trying to find the “good side” of the sex trade. That makes me ill.

Anger and rage burns me up, makes me exhausted – but it makes believe in a future.

Last night, grief slammed into my heart. I felt what I was when I prostituted.

I felt how being dead keep me alive. I felt the powerlessness. I felt what was to be injured, raped and tortured, and walk round like nothing important had happened.

I felt who I was and what I was made into. How torture was so regular, that I could not feel the pain. I felt the drip effect that brainwashing had on my self-esteem.

I cried so much for the lost of my essence than.

I screamed that the sex trade is and was evil.

That is not a word I would ever take lightly.

But what is it when the sex trade is built on rapes, sexual torture, eradication of essences of the women and girls that “work” for their profit. What is it when the sex trade needs to brainwash to keep women and girls in line.

What is it when the sex trade regularly “punishes” its goods by sadistic sex, or moving them around to disorientate. What is that the sex trade needs close out the real world, in case hope creeps in.

I call that evil.

And I say evil because the sex trade try to murder me, or made suicide an obvious way out. The sex trade could care less how many rapes I went through, did care how viciously I was beaten, ignore that I was sexually tortured.

They did more than not caring. They stood outside the door so I could not escape. They filmed or took photos as I was raped over and over. They made a profit out of my terror.

I call that evil.

I am finding it hard to breathe with my knowing of that time. But, I know I have a future.

P.S. My computer is kind of working, but I cannot receive or send emails at the moment. I will repair when I have the finances.

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