I have had PTSD for quite some now, and today the dam broke.
I could not find ID, and mess my living room looking for what I know wasn’t there. Now I have to pay twice to Devon twice, and spend hours on a coach.
Today I realise that I am very stressed about why I will in Cornwall.
For my Dad’s and stepmum’s memorial service. It pushing into grief, into emotions that scare me.
But more into PTSD.
PTSD where I re-live the unspeakable emotions of prostitution.
PTSD where body memories give me no rest, only go on and on and on until the truth cannot be ignored
PTSD is with me, and this post is an incoherent way of trying give it a voice.
A voice that no john can silence, a voice that will scared the sex trade.
The voice that said look, know, hear these are the harms. These harms are usually suppressed, but they are always in me.
Harms that know I was just raped.
I was tortured, I made nothing, I was made porn, into the filthiness of whores.
I was not an individual, I was beaten, raped, tortured, left close to death, as whores had been before me and after I am dead.
None of the johns or profiteers give me the right to be raped and battered as a human woman – no, I was just the sex object they sometimes noticed was still breathing.
Hell, is any surprise I get severe PTSD.
Is it a surprise a way of coping with being made sub-human is to fall back into self-hate.
All week I have fighting damaging myself, I have done nothing to harm myself cept drink, stop eating, walk like a zombie, go to meetings when I cannot take it in, and smoke.
But I am fighting cutting myself, fighting taking an OD – don’t I won’t do it – but it is a war.
How can I not hate myself – when my mind and body was used as a war-zone when I was prostituted.
Let’s map it out the places they conquer, from feet to head.
I something think my legs were safe – but hell no.
I have terrible pain in my legs. Pain that I never fight back, never kick the bastards in the balls, never run away
I learnt to hate my legs.
What whore doesn’t hate her cunt and anus.
They became the waste-ground for john’s hate and contempt. They were the property of the profiteers, nothing else had their value.
They were in pain all the time, interfering with attempts to lead a normal life. When not in pain, they were numb and dead.
Trying to have sex with people I loved, I often felt nothing, only I was wet, I seemed to have an orgasm. But my cunt was never there.
My anus refuses to forget the torture it knew – as PTSD comes in me, my anus is screaming.
My stomach is sick with knowing, it sprew up, but nothing gets rid of the poison. It will not stop knowing.
My chest is heart-sick.
What else can it be when I know the primitive hate of johns, know the dead eyes of those who made money out of me, know the passing-by of those who choose not to believe there is any harms.
Christ, the worm is gnarling at my sick heart.
My arms mean nothing to me – maybe they had some innocence.
Only they are attached to my hands. Hands that wanked endless johns off. Hands that got tied up. Hands that held the money.
Hands that always betrayed me.
My throat and mouth may never truly recover.
I chock almost every day, so often I have learnt to take it for granted.
My throat when PTSD come blocks up on instinct, sometimes I don’t even noticed.
I rarely breathe deeply, I hate swallowing, my throat and mouth have often become an alien to me.
My head scares me – I do not allow headaches for they make want to kill myself.
That a map of PTSD – the body remembers the unspeakable all the time.
Maybe I will relax a tiny bit now.