This week, I have hanging on in there by a thread.
This week my grief has grabbed me by my throat. Shaking me to to the roots of what it was to be nothing.
Nothing but what other lied that I was. Nothing that knows pain. Nothing that could that is utterly and fundamentally wrong.
No, I lived in a world if nothing was said, nothing was seen, nothing was heard – then it was clear nothing was happening.
Only somewhere in a small of my mind was a screaming. Something I saw me curled up in a ball, not fighting, not being ordinary – just giving up and giving in.
How do acknowledge child abuse, make part of yourself – when all those close to you say nothing happened.
Say how no-one saw any abuse. Say there many people in the house, no-one know, no-one notice.
Only the pain in my body knows. Only the screaming in my head knows.
Knows his hands down touching round cunt under the table as we eat supper. Knows his cock in my mouth, fingering my cunt, as the bathroom door was shut. Knows in the dark, silent and quick, him wanting me wet in bed.
It was silent. It could be quick, or so slow I know I would die. It could with others in the room not knowing anything was happening. It could be alone trapped without an end.
But nothing happened. I have no proof.
Only the utter pain I know.
I could not of been prostituted. Girls from my background don’t belong in the sex trade.
It could not of happened, so it did not happen.
I could of got out at night, coz I stay in my room all the time.
Only my head split with a headache that sicken me to the core.
I know the night. I know going out coz my self-hate was driving me back to what I knew I was.
Back to being a fuck-object. Back to silence of not being known. Back to violence that was all I was.
I had no name for what I was.
I was not rebelling, for I had no passion. I was not a girlfriend, coz I had no idea of their names or what they looked like. I was not a victim, coz I had queue up for this violence.
How could I know what I was, when all language was stolen from me.
To say I was a prostitute had no meaning for me then.
But now, it is the only label that can fit some of who I was then.
It fit the pain that is in the knowing of what happened to me.
It fits the girl/woman who know just to do whatever the men told or show her. I know that then no was a word that had no meaning.
It fits closing down that everything is so humiliating. That each sexual act, each words of hate reminded me of my place, each knowledge that it was watched even recorded, each wounding of my body – all that and more made to be nothing. Nothing so I could keep breathing.
It fits having no words that I could understand. How could I say sexual slavery, torture, hate, murder, rape, no-one gives a damn, sadist, being brought and sold, object, STDs, pregnancy, whore, victim and male entitlement.
That was no language I know. That was the language of the safe, the privileged.
What language is there for me when I waited in the night for men to decide when they would have me.
The language of that waiting time, when I don’t run away. The waiting time as my mind is vanished from me. The waiting time when my body closes down, knowing it is it’s only protection.
Tell me words that fit that.
How do I have words to fit what really happened. Words that reach and drag any emotions I should of felt. Words that lay bare the agony that I refused to know.
Words that say the hate in the men’s eyes as I became less than an object. The hate as the force of their penises, tongues, hands, hitting and kicking – show me my worth. The hate as they didn’t speak much. The hate as they fucked me into hell, then said it my fault.
Give me a language for that.
Speak to me a language that shows why after I acted like nothing had happened. Nothing that mattered anyhow.
How I got used to not caring as I know I could not tell when those nights would end. I know that men queued to rape me, so I did not look to see how many.
Only it always ended, it always ended and I was never dead.
I always walked away, not allowing the night to be known.
I refused to remember that I had been fucked to the point of death. I refused to know I was in agony. I refused to appear as if I give a damn.
Only in the cutting of my arms, the overdosing, the being drunk as much as I could – I suppose I did give a damn.
Give me words for me then. Not superficial words that it will get better.
No reach back to the words where hope is a word that has no meaning. Find words to fit me as I dumped into a world where I know I could be fucked into nothingness.
Words that fit the screaming I never said, fit the crawling away I never shown, fit the hitting out I could never did, fit the parts that wanted so much and got nothing in return.
Stop the safe, calm and too often detached language round prostitution.
Speak the language of the screaming.
Maybe it will stop the violence being made invisible.