This is Dedicated to Andrea Dworkin

Sometimes I think I write from my brain, leaving my guts behind.

Yes, I say and write some of the horror. But in the words that place far away from you I was, what I made.

I have been re-reading Andrea Dworkin, finding a way back to the places my mind doesn’t want to know, want to run away from.

I need to know then, not for myself – I can never mend that time. I need to know why my voice is so clear that it wants abolition. So clear in knowing what torture is.

I need to see and feel what it really was to be prostituted. What it was to live inside child abuse. What it to know you are alone.

What it was to know every light in the distance was just an oncoming train.

Yes, this may triggers some of you. But, I need to write the bones, guts and blood of what I made.

MEMORY NUMBER ONE

I have always been afraid of the dark. I have always pretended I had no fear.

I learnt before I could speak not to complain.

I learnt to be a quiet baby, a good baby. An invisible baby.

I am scared of the dark. For when I cried, before I give up crying – I was always sent into the dark. The light off, the door shut.

I was a still baby, not moving in my wet. I was a baby who could be a baby.

I saw in mum’s eyes nothing but a nothingness. No love. No comfort. No hope.

I just know I was her’s, there was no escaping that.

Sometimes, I know she was right – I was born evil.

MEMORY NUMBER TWO

He is my new husband.

He is staying. OK, how did I feel then. Did I start closing down hope then, or was hope stolen slowly behind he was a presence.

I suppose I choose to think he was passing through, boyfriends come and go, go and come.

Boyfriends are nothing, we are a family of women. Not close, not able to speak much of anything to each other, but we don’t need men.

But he was here to stay.

He who look up and down my body all the time. He whose hands lands on my body by accident. He who said he loves me so much, but always my headache increases.

He is staying. Not going nowhere.

And I am dying now.  

MEMORY NUMBER THREE

So, I was shown porn. Let me say what that means, what that is.

I could say with my mind’s eye that I was scared, that I was numbed, that I became what I saw. Yes, I could say all that and more. 

But, lets speaks from the guts. Speak from the place where I remember porn and I am sick over and over. Sick without an end.

Nothing is new in porn. Nothing has not been done and won’t be done on and on.

See men fucking. See men fucking through the anus. Make it bleed. Make her lose consciousness. Make her say she wants more. Make her smile. Make her want to die, don’t kill her.

See men fucking. See penises force deep into her throat. Make her swallow. Make her drown. Make her sick. Make her lose consciousness. Make her say more. Make her want to die, don’t kill her.

See men fucking. Fucking kids. Fucking women dressed as kids. Fucking sticking lollipops into their mouths. Placing teddies round the photo-shot. Make them bleed. Make them cry. Make their eyes stare out in fear. Make them want to die, but don’t kill them.

This is a small part of what I saw.

I was young.

I could not let myself feel the fear. I could not let in images that shown me what I was.

I wanted to die, but I know that was not allowed.

MEMORY NUMBER FOUR

My stepdad made me his property.

At what I did not know was the final degradation, I belong to his mind and body. I was nothing, when I knew he would fuck me.

I had disappeared, I would not know how to find myself then.

Let me speak of the ritual. The ritual he made me become. The ritual in which he pretended nothing importance had happened.

Let me speak of disappearing.

Yes, I went from Cambridge to London. He would call and I turned into a robot.

I would sit on the train to London, each stop between, I could of got off. Mauldreth, Stevenage, each village and some dull small towns. I should get off, be fined, go home. I could run away.

I should of come to my senses.

But my senses were dying as each movement of the train made me dead.

I was his, even before I saw him.

It was a ritual.

I went to his work, waited till he was free.

Stare at, I waited. He would joke how sexy I was, wasn’t he lucky to have a stepdaughter like me. Say he love to fuck me.

No-one could say anything, so they laughed.

Say it out loud and then it cannot be true.

Say he will really fuck me, you know – that will never be believed.

Later, at Italian restaurants, he doesn’t drink, but buys me wine as much as I need.

It is never enough. I drink, but I know I can’t close down.

He tells waiters I am his young mistress, isn’t he lucky.

I drink, drown out that I can’t run away. Drown his hand under my knickers. I drink, and plant that smile I remember from porn.

The ritual come to bathing me. Washing every inch of me. Clean so my filth won’t infect him. Washing letting hands linger on my tits, circling them. Cleaning inside my cunt, till I want to scream in pain.

The ritual put naked in his bed, facing the TV. Lights off, all is silence now, except the TV goes on.

It is a ritual. He touches so slowly, no part of me is private. No part is left alone. No part has the right to say no. No part can belong to me.

I am his property.

My skin is possessed as he rub it as if I was some precious stature. I would move, I try not to breathe.

He said – if you move, it will hurt.

His hands possess my cunt. He said he give pleasure, sending pain into my clitoris. His fingers, and fists inside me.

I had lost how to scream. I had know there was pain, but it was a million miles away.

I try watching TV and it went into blindness and deafness.  

I thought I was going mad.

Then he throw me off out the bed, screaming at me – whore, look what you made me do.

I slept on the floor, with porn thrown at me.

MEMORY NUMBER FIVE

Being made into a whore was logical.

It was what I was, wasn’t it.

No-one lets their stepdad fuck them without being a whore. So my mum thought. So I saw myself. So I knew it was why I said nothing to no-one.

So, when I was being fucked by men without names, men who had no interest in my mind, no interest whether I felt pain or not, no interest if I was real.

I know it could not matter. It was all that I was.

Even as I was gang-raped, even as I anally raped up against walls, even as as did blow-jobs behind pubs, even as the deep-throating went on, even as every porn image I had seen and imagined was forced into my body – I could not care.

How on earth was I meant to care.

When all my life  was the manufacture of the whore who can take pain, take degradation, take hate, take torture, take sadism.

I had been made. Yes, I had fully disappeared.

I could not allow fear, not allow weeping, not allow that it was agony. Hell, I could not allow I was alive.

Now I was a real whore. Now I was what my mum always knew I was. Now my stepdad could say I was his, coz no man would love me. Now, I was the filth I had always thought I was.

MEMORY NUMBER SIX

But, somewhere, somewhere so deep, hidden from me – there was a fireball of resistence.

A place where my hate live.

Hate to my stepdad as his hands were conquering. Hate that wanted him to die so slowly, with me standing over laughing. Let him beg for mercy, let him wet himself in terror, let think there is hope – as I smashed it over his head.

Hate as I see money getting exchanged over my bleeding, raped and battered body. Money which is poison to me.

Hate as each and every man that torture, raped and mentally abuse went on like nothing of importance had happened.

I want each and every one to feel and know what it is to degraded, what it is to be fucked into nothing, what it to cling hold to life coz no-one will give you the freedom to die.

I want all those to suffer, and to know they were criminals.

I want the impossible.

CONCLUSION

I wrote this post because I breaking away from detachment. Detachment is important, it made me stay alive. But, now I need to go beyond just surviving.

If I am know my past, know how my past infects my present, then I have to move past detachment.

I write now from the places I could not know.

The places of terror so overwhelming it usually cannot be known. Places where terror makes language seems so useless. Places of terror that grabs the throat, terror sends sickness from the stomach and never ends. Terror that is solid, not some academic theory. 

The places where all agony disappeared into. Pain is real now, I cannot close it out. Now I write, pain takes my words.

I write from the grief. Grief was not allowed in my life, grief was for others. How could grieve was I know it all my fault.

Now, I grieve and in grieving I can sorry to my prostituted self.

Finally, I write from the places where fury lives.

I don’t need to read Andrea Dworkin to know that rage. Only I read Andrea Dworkin to craft a language round that rage.

Not to contain it, but to give my rage permission to exist.

A rage that I was made to lose all hope, made into a fuck-object, made to be living porn, made to know, see and feel the unacceptable. Yes my rage is a fury.

I am damn if I will let anyone justify the sex trade amymore.

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6 responses to “This is Dedicated to Andrea Dworkin

  1. I find your posts very difficult to read and I am very glad that you are writing the truth about prostitution. Many people seem unwilling to face it. Your writing scares me, as it should. I hope those assholes will eventually get at least a glimpse of what it is like to be treated like that.

    Would you mind if I added your blog to my blogroll?

    Like

  2. What – if you are genuine in saying your comment, I suppose thanks. But if you just being sarcastic, then it is your choice to not read my words as my reality – calling them a drama is like saying I am lying.
    That is your choice to say that, but it is nothing to do with my blog.

    Like

  3. Ew, forget that guy.

    Overly privileged people think that retellings of how bad life can suck sometimes are entertaining stories; they can’t relate to some forms of abuse as reality because it’s not reality for them. Then they treat you like you’re some sort of storyteller and try to compliment you on your fucking writing style or some shit. Grrr.

    Like

  4. I was linked to this blog by a feminist friend of mine.

    To read your blog was very hard and made me weep from the very depths of my soul. I cried and cried and felt rage. I felt anger and sadness for you. I felt very sorry (completely inadequate word but I couldn’t think of one to replace it) that you had to live through this.

    You are on a very long and arduous path towards reintegrating yourself, and I admire your ability to commit to that journey. To write something unbelievably difficult, something more painful and awful than I can ever possibly imagine.

    Please know that I am thinking of you and wishing you so much luck and happiness for the future. I hope that some day you can achieve some sense of peace, I really wish that from the bottom of my heart.

    It will take me a long time to come to terms with what I have read here, with the disgust and sadness that rose in my throat from my stomach and filled me with sadness. I know that his is about one millionth of how you feel.

    You are brave and your writing is wonderful and brave. You are an amazing woman.

    Like

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