I do not want to die – I want to live more than anything in the world.
But living inside PTSD is too often like living in hell.
When I prostituted, I survived by not knowing my own reality, not feeling the agony, not allowing to know how much I had been turned into dirt.
PTSD has given me back my truth, and it is a slow death.
I can never be whole again, I have had to face that head-on.
I can never be the person who was not molded into nothing but a sex object.
Each man who use me did leave a piece of his hate under my skin.
I cannot leave behind the fear of not knowing whether men were going to stroke me or smash me – whether they just do straight sex or use sex to torture me.
I still find it hard to want to alone with any man except my relatives. I still can read body language even when I know I safe.
I still try to be two steps ahead of people I meet. I cannot trust until I have tested that they will not manipulate or betray me.
I have been put off sex, sex it not a natural act for me.
Sex is a role I only get if see what the other person wants.
I hardly ever have sex for me, I don’t care to let go that much.
I may let go – and the screaming, the sobbing, the rage, the hate, the complete it is not fair will come out, as I should so happy.
I am scared to orgasm, I have far too much baggage – so I steer clear of sex with meaning. I cannot be that vulnerable.
PTSD give me back so much of the agony of what it was to made into living porn.
I cannot be on the toilet if my anus is hurting, I cannot remember that anal raping was my life.
Sometimes I am crying on the toilet, sometimes my anus bleeds coz I live with pain too long.
I live with sickness in my stomach. Sickness of a grief that cannot be repaired, only cared for. My stomach knows my reality, and wants to reject it.
I get headaches that won’t go when I sleep, when I do relaxation, when I walked it out, when I take painkillers – my headache only goes when my rage has left me. I do not see that happening soon.
And my mouth and throat knows my truth, that was rammed so often and with such hate and rage, that I can do was somehow remember to breathe.
I find hard to swallow, hard to breathe deeply, hard to relax to sleep – that is PTSD.
How can I be whole when my essence was stolen by johns, by managers, by people who turned a blind eye, by being raped till I no longer cared, by sadism being my norm, by never having justice.
I cannot be whole – just I will always go forward inside a gaping wound that must refuse to see.