Well, it exactly a week away from Feminists in London, and I must write on how much I been triggered.
I try to pretend that I am sick because I am nervous, knowing that is not true.
I try to say I am sick because I am scared, that is only partly true. I am scared, but not of performing – I am scared because my words trigger why I had to write them, why I have to speak them.
Then on top of memories of prostitution, the Polanski business has triggered the language and attitude of living with my stepdad and mum.
And on top of that I really, really miss my Dad.
So to say I am nervous, that is to avoid the reality. Nerves would be a luxury.
I will try to explain some of what is triggering me, it may be confusing, as my head is just screaming it is everything and it is nothing. I will write what I can.
To start, I need to explain the things that are all to familiar to me about the excuses made for Polanski – and how it sends me back into child abuse I knew.
It is the language – the language of I did nothing wrong, the language of she must have been a slut, the language of it was just sex, the language of course she like it, the language of society just doesn’t understand, the language you all are just prudes, the language she looked/acted older – it is the language of entitlement.
I lived inside that language.
Every time, I thought it was wrong, each time I said that it hurt, it was explained to me why it was ok.
I was told it was ok for adults to have sex with children. How else was I meant to learn to be sexual. It was only seen as wrong because of silly tradition.
It was love after all. I was told it was the pure type of love, though to be honest I didn’t understand what that meant.
I was told that I really wanted, didn’t I come when he fingered me or eat me out. That he would have stopped, but I being a slut keep forcing myself on him.
I was told it only sex, sex is natural, sex sometimes hurts, sex may be confusing – but it just sex, it won’t kill you.
I was told that I just pretended I didn’t like it out of guilt and or shame.
I was told not to tell others, coz too many just would not understand the wonder of it. That I would be condemned for being such a slut, or I would break up the family, or I would seen as mad.
I was told that the sex was precious gift he was giving me, and not to tell others for their prudish attitudes would make it dirty.
And I was told I was so like an adult, I was so sexy, so interesting, so beautiful – that he must make love to me. He forgets my age as he fucked me – even though he lived with me.
I lived inside that language, I lived in a surreal world.
It is the same language that is used to excuse Polanski, so I am triggered.
I am triggered by giving my speech, triggered that words I say are true and have great power. Triggered that prostitution is still hell for the vast majority of women and girls inside it.
I am triggered that I had been tortured.
I was not just raped everywhere, I was tortured.
I was not just beaten up on a regular basis, I was tortured.
I was just deaden to verbal abuse, I was tortured.
I was tortured in that I had no idea there could any concept of an end.
I was tortured until I believed that all I was was a thing for men to poke and make their porn toy.
I was tortured so I forgot the world outside had any importance.
That is the places I am triggered into.
Places where hope is an illusion, places where hate is a command, places where pain is made dead for survival, places where some sex acts can still not compute in my mind, places where I want to be rescued but nothing happens.
I am triggered, triggered down to a sickness that is my life demanding change.
So, it is though this sickness I am determined to make my speech bloody good.
For I am not speaking for myself, that cannot be mended – I speaking for many women and girls.
I am speaking for the women and girls who are not here. The ones the prostitution have murdered or driven to suicide. The ones who minds cannot cope with their own realities. They are in me when I write or speak.
I am speaking for the many amazing women who have exited prostitution, but do not or cannot speak or write of their pasts.
I am speaking for the millions of women and girls who are living in the hell that is named prostitution.
I am so afraid of letting these women and girls down.
I need my word to provoke action, not just to be praised.
I need women and men to challenge friends if they say ignorant stuff about prostitution.
I need women and men to write letters to the papers when they romanticise prostitution.
I need women and men to support groups that campaign to end prostitution or get real exiting schemes for prostitution.
I need feminists to listen and hear the voices of exited prostituted women.
I need women and men to see and know that prostitution is a form of torture.
I need women and men to see that prostitution destroys the human rights of prostituted woman or girl.
I need women and men to know it is nothing to do with sex, it is rape.
That is some of the demands I think of as I write or speak.
I may be a dreamer – but hell, I will not be the alternative.