Exploring How to Write

 SAY WHAT I CAN’T SAY

I am writing of my personal hell.

The time I don’t want to know.

The time I choose to blank out.

Can you tell me how I tell that time.

Say it without my stomach falling out.

Say it without a coughing fit.

Say it without the constant pain in my anus.

Can you tell me how to say that time without all that.

But, I will write of my past. I will know my past.

Isn’t my past me. A me I should and will owned.

I should not be ashamed. I will give up blaming myself.

I say that and the screaming begins.

It was dirt, you were dirt. What else can it be named.

Tell me how to see, to know, how to be inside of my skin.

When all I want to do is to scape off my skin.

Oh, hindsight is safe. Hindsight is all about coming out from under.

Hindsight is happy endings. Hindsight forgets there was a middle.

Hindsight will not know the visceral reality of terror. After all I got to the other side, didn’t I.

But the middle must be known.

The middle made me who I am. The middle forced me into being brave.

The middle show me empathy.

The middle must be known. Even when I want to run away.

I will face the middle head-on.

I will see, hear, smell, touch and taste the middle.

It cannot not be as bad as my blankness makes it.

After all, I did survive.

Maybe by the skin of my teeth.

But I did survive.

To know my past, I have to dig into what I made into.

How did I survived in a world that had no meaning. All I know was that I was a fuck-machine.

That was my purpose.

I will know my middle.

Know what I had to be when living under the label of being a prostitute.

I did not owned that label – it just possessed me.

I owned it now.

Prostitution is an ugly word. A word without meaning, a word with the power to hurt, a word where all power is taken, a word of detachment, a word of pain and degradation.

Prostitution – what on earth does it mean.

All I know is that it means more than the obvious.

Back to the middle.

There, I am naked on a bed. Laying arms above my head, legs apart. I lay on my back, with my eyes open.

There I wait.

I was a perfect fuck-toy for johns.

I had no voice, no expression, no showing there was pain, no questioning whether there was a condom or not, no complaining.

He could turn me over. He could fuck me up the anus. He could hit me into walls. He could forced his dick down my throat.

I never said no. I did not even protest.

I was a perfect fuck-toy.

OK, tell me you are reading this and knowing what I am writing of.

Say you can stand in my shoes. Say that you know who I am. And I will say I am just one of millions.

That is why I have to write. It is not personal, this is political.

I write because I know as you read my words – that prostituted women and girls are being raped in their anuses, raped by deep-throating, being bashed into walls, getting STDs and pregnant coz johns can’t be bother to use a condom.

I was just one of many.

That was my hell – there is no other word for it. Hell.

What else can it be when pain is no longer felt coz pain is everywhere.

I nearly died from a burst appendix coz I ignored the pain. I walked through it. I had sadistic sex through it. I drunk spirits through it.

It was only dealt with, coz I screamed when a john touch my stomach. He made me go to hospital.

Pain surrounds that time. Pain was my life.

Pain has no reason. Pain only ends when you ignore it.

I was damned good at ignoring my body.

I would not know what johns did.

I would not know that I was sold in that men could have sadistic sex on me.

I would not know what I had made into.

But remember being fucked as a whore. Remember the many, many signs, messages and blatant teachings that made what I was to become.

It has been said – incest is the boot camp for prostitution.

That is obvious, too obvious – but porn was my intense training.

Being raped is not enough. Being taught to smile, to please, to not show pain, to want degradation is needed.

Being raped is never enough. There must be a deadness, that comes from knowing all hope is pointless.

Back to the middle. I am proned on the bed, waiting for whatever any john will do to me. I have learnt my porn lesson.

I have become a doll.

I terrified to write more.

It was my moment of death. I did not run away. How do I say I would go back for more. Say I became what I was told that I was.

I was just a fuck-toy.

Back to the middle. Back to the time that no prostituted woman wants to know.

Know that I had no soul. Know that I had forgotten that there could be resistance. Know I could never care, for caring got me nowhere.

You may not want to read that. That I choose to write my life without hindsight.

All I know is I survived by not knowing my reality.

I must go back.

I do not want to go back, but I must.

To that bed, that room.

I enter there, I am entering me.

I find that she is not dead.

Only closing down terror, closing down pain, closing out humiliation.

I am not dead.

Let’s be honest, I was barely alive.

So she lays there waiting. She is paralysed.

Somewhere inside an empty stomach, she needs to weep.

She never cries.

It was never safe to show emotions. Never show reality.

I had to be nothing – I needed to live.

Nothing is what I became.

There is a saying of what prostitutes are –

All you are is two hands and three holes.

Hell, those are the only parts of the body that the human brain can compute.

Johns fucked me everywhere, anywhere.

I didn’t know I was so full of holes.

People say prostitution is bad. But often said comparing to other stuff or spoken with detachment.

It is bad, but it will not fit into your neat image.

Call it sexual torture, and you may be near.

Call it slavery, and you may have an inkling.

Call it brainwashing, and you may be warm.

But don’t just call it rape, don’t just call it unwanted sex, don’t just say it was a battering, don’t just focus on the murders.

Go further and the dead brain.

Go further into the repetition.

Go further, deep into that bed, that room, that queue of men, that exchange of money, that efficiency, that it is only business – then you may understand a little.

Know the deadness that made me a prostitute.

A deadness that comes when violent sex is repeated over and over and over and over.

Enter that, and you may know.

Know what it is to be fucked so often – that knowing whether it is rape or not is of little relevance.

Know battering is re-named rough sex.

Know being penetrated in the vagina is a relief, is made normal even as it hurts.

Know penetration is usually in the throat, ear, anus and mouth – rarely the vagina.

Know that being fucked is less painful than the hate in the john’s eyes.

Know you can never show fear.

Prostitution should be framed as torture and the hideous abuse of human rights.

That would a good start.

Back to the middle, back to where I was fucked over and over and over and over.

Know that. Know what it is to never know what will happen next. Know what it is to go in and out of consciousness.

Know what it to be bleeding from places you refuse to know. Know you must smile. Know to speak smooth talk to ease the john. Know how to please.

Know I had hate in my heart.

Know I imagined putting pillows on their heads. Know I dreamt of shooting the bastards.

Know I wanted to rape them into hell.

Know none of this ever came out, even to myself.

My anger was buried too deep.

It was that anger that made what I am now. Give me the detachment and fury that made me into a writer.

A writer with a forensic eye to view her past. I can lay it down.

Then I had to be whatever kept me alive.

I was told by my mum that I was a whore.

So I would be one. Maybe then she would see me and care about me.

With detachment, I could say I was made into a whore. I could say it was ineventual.

Say I was taught by incest, taught by hard-core porn, taught by self-harm. I could say prostitution was the logical route.

I had just followed the signs to what I was to become – nothing but a whore.

I could not pity myself. Even when full of bruises and bleeding, even when gang-raped, even when anal rapes give me small heart attacks, even as I sew up in hospital, even as I had an abortion. I could never pity myself.

I was a whore after all – I deserved it all.

I was dirt. I provoked men into violence. I was a thing to be poked.

I know you say don’t think or write that.

With hindsight, I can say I was never to blame. With hindsight, I know I never deserve the violence.

But hindsight is so neat and tidy – it has nothing to do with the reality of prostitution.

A reality where the only thing that makes sense is to blame yourself, to have self-hate.

And that can be re-framed as choosing to be prostituted.

Imagine being fucked so often, battered so often, made to smile so often, made to forget your name so often, made to a part of some exchange so often. Imagine that.

Then you know a life full of self-hate. Know that is the only thing left that makes sense. Then choice will become your new language.

To say it is chosen makes sense of the senseless.

So I have no problem with prostituted women who say that they are happy. I just do not have to take them on face value.

I was happy.

I thought I had some control. I thought I could choose which men I would fuck, and which I didn’t. Only I was fucked so often, I was too exhausted to care.

I thought that I enjoyed the pain, for that was my sickness. I thought pain was all I was.

I thought it was not degrading. For I thought it was my choice.

I thought all that. I could see the reality it would of killed me.

Rape. Rape, I was raped on a scale that turned my vagina and anus into a slaughter-house.

Battered. I was battered so much that I could no longer feel any pain.

Name-calling. I was called every name that destroys women, every swear-word that made me into a fuck-object. I stopped hearing.

That is what prostitution is – plain and simple.

I will end here.

But it is just the beginning.  

 

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10 responses to “Exploring How to Write

  1. ”To say it is chosen makes sense of the senseless.”

    That is a great line A girl who had, after years of fighting, begun to accept her child abuse, once said a similar thing to me.
    Women can not see the system arrayed against them. So they personalize their experience, and to make sense of it call it choice.

    Hugs to you, you are a courageous human being. None of those men who tortured you can claim the same.

    Like

  2. Thanks everyone.
    I was very terrified to post, but I am too proud of it not to.
    Sparkle, I hope it is a piece of art, but expressing a truth that is almost voiceless.
    Helzeph – thanks so much. I hope that I show that “choice” is very complex.
    Laurelin – thanks so much, and I am thrilled you recommend that people read it on your blog.

    Like

  3. Rebecca, you are very brave. I can’t even begin to imagine the hell that you’ve been through, but you are still here, fighting, and it takes a lot of courage to do that. {{hugs}}

    Like

  4. I have deep admiration for your ability to write this. It is painful and beautiful to read. Thank you.

    Like

  5. Wow. Rebecca, that was so powerful. I have nothing good to say but that you write from the heart and drive the point home. And yet still I only understand that I cannot fathom. Thanks for putting your poem on here.

    Like

  6. Wow. So well written. And so true.
    I don’t really know what else to say, except more hugs.

    Like

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