I am writing listening to my personal favourite Blues/rock ‘n’ roll singer.
Etta eases my heart and allows to reach into spaces I usually ignore.
She makes me cry – god bless her.
I am very worried that blog is off-putting to my loyal readers.
In my decision to confront my past with the words used here, my decision to not sugar-coated my lived reality – am I going too far.
Let me say, this may be my PTSD talking.
At least, the part of PTSD that tells me there is no proof for anything that happened to me. The PTSD that reminds me that if it did happen – I must of wanted it.
For isn’t my trauma coming from the mental violence of being made into dirt. Isn’t my trauma coming from forgetting I was human, and knowing I was an object to be poked.
I could not imagine it all.
Not when friends from my background and upbringing are so ignorant of prostitution and it true impact. Not when my body is continually destroyed by the agony of knowing.
What my mind dismisses, my body screams out.
What I need, wants but by christ I need, is to know my words are having some kind of impact.
Please comment, it a small rest for my PTSD.