All my life I have felt I had to be roles.
I forgot what my essence as I fitted in. Fitted in to be safe. Fitted in to some sense of my environment. Fitted in to fit in.
I lost my soul.
Now I write, I speak and I listen to get as much of my soul back.
It is the less I do to reward that I survived.
I was born the year the Beatles were first a hit in Britain. As I born there were changes all around.
I was born to make my parents better.
My first role before I could speak. A role I was guarantee to fail.
In that failure, I felt the seeds of detachment from my mother.
I try the clothes of being a daughter, but they would never fit.
I try being good, but being a child I would slip into naughtiness.
I was never quite right, but I keep practicing.
But when my stepdad enter my life, I had to learn the rules of being his sex toy damned quick.
I became that role. I swallow down my sickness. I learnt to push the sex away when it was not happening.
I learnt without lessons how to silent as he eat me out, silent as I had his penis in my hands.
I learnt without lessons to lay like a stature as he slowly rub in all.
I learnt without lessons to have expression as pain went through me as finger or hands were too deep in me.
I was the role of his sex toy, and toys make no sound and know no pain.
I became the role of the child who look straight into hard-porn and did nothing.
I did not flinch. I was not sick. I had no tears. I could not scream out my lungs.
I was the role of the dead as I know hard-core porn was my end.
So the role of the prostitute was the end of the training from the coldness of my mother, the rapes of my stepdad and the deadness of hard-core porn.
I had been trained to not complain. Trained to blank out pain. Trained to pleased men who went out of their way to torture me. Trained to forget I had an existence outside of sex.
I say all this coz, I so sick of all the excuses made for prostitution – mainly that it is a free choice.
I would in the role of the prostitute – it my choice to be there.
That is the words of my role.
I speak the words johns want to hear. I speak the words that managers have drip-feed into my brain.
But more I have say the words that fit the role I had become.
How could I be the role of the raped by so many men I don’t know how to count them.
How could I be the role of the battered, that goes so much I have no idea where the bleeding come from or why I am bruised.
How can I be the role of the woman who take morning-after pills like aspirin.
How can I be the role of the alcoholic who drink to not know there could be pain.
So I become the role of woman who just like violent anonymous sex.
I become the role of the rebel who does not need food or sleep.
I become the role of the bad that is why I am hurt so often.
I become the role of saying I must be happy because I have forgotten that I can say anything else.
Now, the pain of PTSD is breaking the roles I thought I was – and slowly and with a great deal of grief and pain finding my true essence.
Finding my self, is knowing I was made by others in order they could control me. Control me in order to make me a pliant sex toy.
A toy that was raped, mentally abused, brought close to death and made to believe it was all I deserved.
I see that now, and the clash of the old roles with my finding my essence make me sick to my core.
But it is so worth, for the role of my true self is where I go towards.
To find that, I have to know what I had to hide behind artificial roles. That is the only way forward.