Dedicated to Sam, thanks so much.
This week I have been in shock and grief about how the neglect and emotional abuse by my Mum, and left me with so damage.
Then I saw this amazing article by Rakhi Kumar – her post is called “13 Should Be Celebrated Not Sold” on her blog Intent. Which made me want to write about being 13.
The time I know love was gone. The time I should of being growing into my essence, but all I did was to attempt to murder my soul.
Without love, I had no foundations, no concept of hope, and a self-hate that grow every day.
13 should of been a time to be selfish in a healthy way.
Be selfish as you discover who you are, what you could be.
Be selfish as you find friendships that are away from your family, interests that are private, discover small moments of lust inside your control.
Be selfish as you let angst in.
But without love and security, being 13 is a time of grave danger.
I started to run away from when I was round 7, by the time I was 13 it was a habit that I could not break.
I had drunk alcohol in and out from aged 9, by 13 I could get into pubs, could buy alcohol and drink to drown.
I first smoked when I was too young, by 13 it was my hidden pleasure.
I had been fucked by my stepdad since I was 6, by 13 I had learnt not to care, and to imagine that any man should have me.
By 13 I was ready to be whored out.
Sometimes I dream that at 13 I had the safety to be outwardly vulnerable, not made into a robot who could not and would not care.
But to the predators of the sex trade, my seeming hardness was something that made me easy prey.
I try so hard to not care, that I would refuse to feel pain as I was placed with men pushed me way beyond my limits.
When you don’t care, when love has been taken from you – then you become perfect material for the sex trade.
Men can and will hurt you as much as they can, they will ignore that you are under-aged.
Profiteers will sell you as fresh meat, knowing you were damaged long beyond they got their claws into you.
Hell the sex trade loves “virgins”, they are great earners.
At 13, I did not know that I had any rights.
I had no rights to speech. To say I was being hurt to my core – words that would name it as torture. Speech that know the word No. Speech that could cry.
I had no rights to know my own body. My body was plundered, raped, brought to the edge of death and made into a sex toy. I had no body, just a husk that was made of holes for men to fuck.
I had no rights to safety. Safety I could not even dream about, I was just amazed that I continue to breathe.
I had no rights to freedom of thought. No, I had learnt by 13 to close my mind down, I empty out any thoughts. Thinking was dangerous is show me glimpses of hope, said this is wrong, said you could die soon. How could I think when pimps, managers and johns told how and what to think.
At 13, I had become nothing.
Sometimes, I think if my Mum had stopped the world for me, if she had said she was sorry that I was hurting so, if she had left my stepdad, if he had gone to jail, if I had some love at home – I dream of that, only to wake into sickness.
At 13, I learnt to stop dreaming and to accept I lived in hell.
So I learnt not to care.