Rage Blocks Me

The more I come to terms with my past, the more rage blocks my writing.

I cannot find the words for what I and millions of other prostituted women and girls were made into.

I could say we were made into whores.

I could say we were enslaved.

I could say we were made sub-humans.

That is what I could say – but it all so rational, so ordered, so god-damned calm.

It is always hindsight speaking.

Not the lump of flesh struck on any bed anywhere, never knowing her age.

She has forgotten why she is there.

Hell, she has forgotten that she is alive.

Maybe I was 14, maybe 17, maybe in my twenties.

With hindsight, I made myself know I became a whore when I was 14, and with hindsight I have forced to see I left I about 27.

Hindsight is great as it attempts put order into chaos, pretend my life follows some kind of linear lifestyle – that all I was doing was aiming towards the happy ending.

Hindsight hates a mess – to be honest hindsight hates my whore years.

I feel I am in the box of hindsight – but always my rage is ripping at all my walls.

To find some peace, I must look straight at the chaos of my life as a whore.

I fall into being a whore, it was never a simple A to B.

I fall into a rage that lead to not caring how much my body was destroyed.

I knew I was already sick so why would I care what happened to my mind.

My stepdad had already made me damaged goods, so what more could hurt me.

I entered the world of the whore, and I was already dead.

Now, I know that is normal for the vast majority of girls that think they chosen to be a whore.

We were all girls who no real love in our lives, no person who looked for just us.

We were girls who for multiple and varied reasons, thought our only worth was to make ourselves a fuck-hole for any man at any time.

We were who refused to know we were young.

Christ, we were girls the sex trade had spent centuries learning how manipulate and control.

The moment we enter the mind-set where we accepted we were nothing but whores, we were in a life or death trap.

From that moment, to survive our memories must be destroyed.

So with the mind of hindsight, I know it was 13 years or so I was a whore. I know there were times, long or short, where I pretended I was not a whore.

Times where I was people who I could have loved, could have trusted.

Times where I traveled, where I did real work, where I went to the cinema, where I could walk by myself.

But all this real life meant nothing to me.

I was always followed doggedly by self-hate, and my ideal self-harming method – that being screwed close to death by men who hated every aspect of my being.

I did see real life as the gaps in-between being whored out over and over and over and over.

I never mixed the two lives.

I had no words of the rapes, the beating ups, the strangulation, the choking on penises, the holes in my body I never knew could fit a penis or several, the filming, the money, the wanting bed so much I forgot to care, the dead eyes as they destroy me over and over and over, the laughing at my bleeding, pissing, screaming, crying and fainting, the pain in anus and cunt that never goes, the manager outside the door doing nothing, maybe saying sorry only to be with yet more violence later, the drinking imaging nothing will matter.

I had no words for that as I entered the real world – I just blocked it out so hard, I thought it was just some horror film I had seen.

No, let’s be more truthful I know it was real.

I thought the so-called real world was the illusion, or I had no place in it.

How could I carrying pain inside parts of the body that were unmentionable. When I knew sexual acts that I knew, no-one would believe humans could do to each other.

I knew I had touched death over and over and over, until I only was scared of the pain never that I would die. What words fit that.

And how do you say knowing the depths of hate that those men had for women.

As men fuck whores, they are simple in their hate, contempt and rage – for that reason they framed it as complicated.

It is simple if you choose to own another human to fuck, to control, to framed as your porn-dream – than that is an act of hate and degradation.

I treated as shit whatever aspect of whoring I was doing.

I was owned by all the men who saw me as a whore, they did not even imagine that I had rights, that I had a life before or after them.

Hell, many of those bastards were surprised if I needed to take a piss or sneezed.

How dare I remind them that I was a human, not their fuck-toy.

Now, I may be simplistic, but I kind of think being owned and controled like that is sexual slavery – especially when you have no control of staying alive, of stopping all physical damage done to your mind and body, cannot say no to any sexual act however terrifying, painful or degrading.

That is sexual slavery – I don’t care if you label it as escorting, street prostitution, club work, sauna or massage, strippers doing extras – or whatever label that makes the violence and hate invisible.

Some the worse treatment I had to endure was by men who saw me as an escort, as girlfriend material, as their special prize.

Those men knew they owned until they were bored and throw back onto the trash-heap.

The more money men throw at me, the more they felt entitled to torture me for as long as they wanted – may be an hour or over several months.

I just had to survive, not to think, try not to remember, learn to ignore so much pain in so many parts of my body.

That was the world I was in – that was the chaos I knew.

I have written a lot – but as usual, when I write of that time, there is so much left out.

But I will stop here.

I am proud this post is not full of order – that is some kind of a start.

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One response to “Rage Blocks Me

  1. and i hope that you are proud of all that you are doing. you are helping to bring about a new consciousness in the people who are open to hearing your message. and that brings about more people fighting for change.

    Like

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