I wrote loads over the Christmas period – then England was overwhelmed by snow, and something happened to me.
I cannot stop wanting to cry. I feel vulnerable.
I feel isolated,
My sadness comes from the depths of my soul.
Usually, I coping by being busy. Busy doing nothing, but heck I keep myself busy.
I can write this blog, coz I go out a lot. This snow has stopped that.
It is not snow that’s the problem, it that it is all ice for at a five streets circular round my flat.
I am too much of a coward to go out, when basically I just going out for the sake of being out.
I miss my escapes into coffee shops, reading the whole of some paper – but only really caring about sports and arts pages, oh I do like obituaries.
I miss going out to lunch on my own, miss that time to people watch.
I miss walking round my city.
I miss the peace I get when I am busy doing nothing. The peace that give me space to know how to do this blog. The peace to not know my fear and that I can be vulnerable.
Being vulnerable is what is making me unable to just be.
I feel empty.
Empty reminds of what I was made when I was prostituted.
To be prostituted, being an empty shell is an advantage, it keeps you alive.
Be empty, then maybe any pain will be unimportant. How can it hurt if it is just a hole being fucked, a hole being yelled at, a hole being told do this do that.
Be empty and then you never in that room, against some wall, in those beds, in that club, sitting with those men. Be empty, imagine nothing really happened.
Be empty, and nothing much will matter. Not matter being filmed, not matter the multiple ways men use your body/your shell, not matter you now are nothing but a whore.
Christ, words/language cannot reach into that empty shell.
I can spread it out again and again on this blog, I can speak out, I can help bring about change, I can be so brilliant in my future.
But I cannot stop what made me so empty.
I cannot silenced her screaming, I cannot give her back the tears that were stolen from her.
I cannot un-whore her.
It is impossible to just be after my body and mind has been used and used and used.
Every time I was fucked, I was raped, I had parts of my essence stolen from me.
Every time I was passed round men, I lost hope, I lost the ability to dream.
Every time I did it for a bed, for illusion of friendship – I lost trust, I became a robot.
I had no fun as a prostitute, but I was damned good at appearing happy.
Now, as snow traps me with these thoughts, my eyes are burning with wanting to sob – but I never have any tears.
Maybe I am too empty for that small comfort.