I would never give up, or even give in – but this year is driving me to a very edge of my limit.
I suppose I thought I could live without too many emotions, hell I am so used to that.
But grief wipes aways that robot, replacing it with horrific physical and mental pain.
It more that screaming, more than weeping, more than fury – it more than I have real words for.
It my inner warrior saying – Why the fuck do I have keep on keeping on.
I hear her screaming. Screaming loud enough to sink Europe into the sea.
Only her screaming is silent to everyone else.
She is screaming – Fuck your “facts” and statistics about prostitution. Listen to scars inside me.
Listen to moments I was raped. Listen to the “truth” when I thought it my fault I was there.
Don’t tell me my reality, not if all is your cardboard cutout of what an exited prostituted woman should be.
Hell, hear about being gang-raped so often that it can no longer matter. Know it is nothing like in films – where so often it is one man after another, taking turns. Where it is mostly the vagina being fucked.
Christ, I could only dream of “normal” rape, and the “manners” of gang-raping in turns.
I was screwed in every hole in my body, all at the same time.
Bloody think on that. I was drowning in gang-rapes. Breathing was happening, but god knows how.
Gang-rape in prostitution is being murdered, then brought back to life – only to be murdered again, and brought back to life. Over and over and over and over.
How can you care about that. How you not go dead to that.
My inner warrior remembered and is screaming now.
Now she is screaming at the what seemed endless anal rapes. Not “normal” anal raping, but done with as much sadism as possible.
No warning, no liquid used, no caring that there was terror in the room.
No I was anally raped with legs against each other, face up against a wall, or suffocating in a pillow. I was anally raped with a hand round my throat. I was anally raped in gang- rapes with a penis in my throat.
Hell, as I had always knew all violent porn fantasy is old hat, and just close off from public view coz it “only” done to prostituted women and girls.
Anal raping is just porn made real.
My body screams knowing that.
My inner warrior is weeping. She weeps but everyone just says – wow you are so brave.
She weeps that words of academia is taken above and beyond the visceral truths of prostituted women and girls.
Oh, she knows , with a bitter heart, it much easier to read books with footnotes, and statistics and quotes from more academics and a few carefully prostituted women.
But the words of prostituted women must fit the thesis that the academic has thought before she started her work. Mostly keeping prostituted women in two roles – the “victim” who lived in non-stop horror and has PTSD affecting her every moment if she exits. Or the noble survivor, who may become outspoken, who fights against the sex trade and has no life outside that role.
My warriors is weeping tears that burn into her skin – how the hell am I alive now, if I am just those stereotypes.
Yes, prostitution must be destroyed – my warrior is on the war-path in words and non-violent actions to make that a reality. But to live from 14 to 27 inside prostitution, meant that it was many things to me.
If it was horror 24-7, do you really think I would be able to write this blog.
No, the terrifying thing about prostitution is the mental abuse done the moments of “niceness” from johns. The times that managers/pimps make you feel you are “special”, that they “respect” you.
Those are the moment that are poisonous and can made me paralysed.
Those moments trapped you into prostitution.
Hear and know those moments if you truly want to rid the world of prostitution.
For without hearing that, you will alienate many prostituted women who are confused that they “enjoy” some of what they have to do.
My inner warrior is weeping so much that my Dad is dead.
He was a man that I not only loved, but give a solid base when everything else was floating.
My warrior is full of fury. It is her fuel.
She is furious that the clearer that she speak, the more others translates her words to fit some stereotype of their own.
Yes, she is proud to speak out against the sex trade, but the more she speaks out and writes out her pain and grief, the more she knows it is complex.
To say it is just incest lead to prostitution lead to PTSD – that is too simple, too neat to be a complete truth.
When I know it never felt that way. Yes it makes sense in a book, but I write the pain and confusion of real life.
There are too many gaps and silences in those simple linear way of viewing prostitution.
Where are the words for the fury that drives a damaged teenager into danger and pain. Where are the words that explain the defiance that helps you survive prostitution.
Those words matter.
My warrior is furious for she believes that many exited prostituted women are the greatest feminists ever – but they hate that label, coz feminists too often let them down by only seeing them as stereotypes.
My warrior now is exhausted.
So that’s all folks.