I am in a state of deep grief. This has made everything hard, everything slow.
I have never grieve much or maybe although in my life. Now it hitting me for six – (sorry, I am surviving by watching loads of cricket).
I did not know how important my stepmum was to me until she died.
Since her death, the centre of my stomach cannot get stop being freezing. Whatever I do I cannot get warm. But then when I am overwhelmed the head, my arms and my legs are boiling.
It is partly menopause, it is tons of body of my years inside sexual torture – but it also grief from the moment my stepdad enter my life to now.
I write now because, I want say one of the most severe damage done by child sexual abuse and prostitution was that it destroy my ability to have grief.
The dead cannot grieve.
I think I stop crying when I knew it made no difference, I may of been six or seven.
I was too young to know that emotions served no purpose.
I taught myself to be dead. It was never easy, but being alive was harder.
Being alive hearing my mum hated me. Being alive meant knowing my stepdad was going nowhere.
And being alive meant as his hands went in me, pain hit my heart. Being alive meant as his tongue reached down my throat, I felt sickness raise up in me.
Being alive I could not forget his eyes measuring me up.
So I taught myself to be dead.
I shut down that I was grieving.
Grieving I could not just be a child. Grieving I could not trust anyone any more.
Grieving that I knew what I guess others did not know, for nothing was said. Grieving as I taught myself to shut down pain.
I was grieving each time I knew I was still alive.
I shut down that grief.
Grief was truly murdered by viewing hard-porn. That left with nothing, I had to make myself a shell to somehow keep breathing.
Now, as grief enters my essence, I know hard-porn for what it is. I say for me it was a murderer of everything that was left of being a child. It murdered that I would ever know a sexuality that was not tainted with performing.
Hard-core porn is not harm-free.
If all it does is deaden the emotions of the viewer, then that is a harm that is very hard to repair.
And is not a big leap to say that if a male viewer becomes deaden to the reality that hard-core porn is all about pain and degradation, he may not recognise that he is abusing women in his life.
My stepdad will never think he abuse me, for he all he did was finger-fucking, oral sex and rubbing me all over.
He is not a rapist – only perverts rape.
Many men who choose to get addicted to hard-core porn will make women and girls in their lives do sexual acts that disgust or are against their wills. But these men see it as just sex – and would highly shocked to know that they are rapists.
For hard-core porn teaches that if rape does exist – it is only done by monsters who are easy to spot.
And men who use hard-core porn always have the knowledge that they always do anonymous sex with prostituted women. These women will not say no, will do everything porn has said he can do.
He may have brief glimpses of her pain, that her eyes are dead, that some of what he is doing her would disgust most people.
But he can shake off those images, and replace them with the images that porn has shown him.
Images that taught that good sex has to have pain, that pain is him dominating her completely.
Images that say who cares if her eyes are dead, she still has holes to be filled.
Images that say it is not disgusting, if you are happy, that it all that matters. How can be disgusting, when that prostituted woman or girl is a living sewer for you wank into.
Porn is a mass murderer of everything that makes women and men into full humans with compassion, empathy, recognition that pain is a warning that something is wrong, communication and just the ability not to be dead.
I will never stop having grief that porn exists, and often seems in controls of how we communicate with each other.
My grief over my years in prostitution is embedded in my body.
A body that was tortured until it could not have hope.
Hope was a luxury.
My body now screams in agony. An agony without word, only a visceral knowledge.
It is the knowledge of how deep the degradation was. Being made into nothing but a fuck-object has no dignity.
How can I not grieve that.
I grieve all the walls I was fucked against. I grieve all the bed that became coffins to me. I grieve that so places became nothing but places to wonder whether I seen or not, as men fucked me throwing away any dignity I had left.
I grieve that my body was nothing but what men made it into. All biology seemed to be invented so I could be fucked up. I only had holes in me so johns has access to them. My hands were nothing but wank-tools. My mouth and throats was designed for their cocks.
I was not a real woman, I had no existence outside when they owned me.
The sickness of that time, was everything outside prostitution was surreal. I could not know that most of life was about not being owned, not about sexual violence, not about being dead.
I could not know life, so I choose death.
How the hell can I not grieve that.
Now, my Dad and stepmum are dead. Now, the reality that my true parents are dead, now my dam has at last burst.
I am angry that all my years of sexual violence, has got in the way of my deep grief for Dad and Judy. But that is my reality.
I loved them so much, it seemed awful that my grief cannot be placed only on having them in my heart.
But, in the heart of me, I feel some of my Dad helping me survive grief of my whole life.
I feel he is proud of me, and that is something.