It is so hard surviving prostitution. It is so hard showing the reality of the grief, that is a shadow that follows me everywhere.
It not that I not capable of great happiness, that I don’t have great times.
That is not the point.
It is not that I don’t campaign bloody hard, that I am not proud of how I can used words to transform others.
That is not the point.
The point is too much of the time I make my grief invisible, hoping that then I will be accepted.
Grief is messy, grief in inappropriate – grief makes others turn away.
But by christ, women and girls from the sex trade have an ocean to grieve about.
We are allowed a degree of sorrow, but it should be dignified.
Not the howling rage, not the endless confusion of who and what we are, not grief without tears, coz we lost how to do emotions too long ago.
But, I bloody sick of being so damned dignified.
I have come from a world where all dignity was ripped from the guts of me. Dignity was a luxury I could not even imagine.
Now, if I am to let out the raw energy of my grief, I must lose some of the protection of being dignified.
I want to roar, I want to scream, I want to cry until I drown, I want my body to sweat and shake until life re-enters it.
I just don’t know how.
I want to grieve without wanting to self-harm, I want to grieve without memories of sexual torture getting in the way – hell, I want some kind of clean grief.
I want to stop feeling I cannot rid myself of the pollution of johns and managers – their pollution of hate, their pre-planned violence, their utter contempt. It was all poured into my body and refuses to leave me.
I want to grieve with a fierce rawness that the language of rape, language of battering and the language of being a bad event makes no sense to my prostituted self.
I know with logic, I was raped. But my grief screams it was just routine, hell you did little or nothing to defend yourself, little or nothing to even complain.
I just learnt to accept the unacceptable – accept until all I was a fuck-object – rape had lost all meaning.
Bloody cry for that.
I was battered – no, that word is too soft and easy – I was tortured, I had my body doing things that even I find hard to imagine, even though I know it was true.
The language of battering is not even close to what the average prostitute knows – her body is made in malleable porn, does what only cartoons should do. Her body is destroys thousands of times, and she must stay alive for more men to wreck her.
Johns and managers have the power of knowing that most outsiders will never believe in such torture, know there will be no language for what is done to women and girls in the sex trade.
Instead, they invent a language to hide the torture.
Say she choose it, she has low pain threshold. Say she is a sexual adventurer, she loves experimenting, say she is just pushing away stupid sexual taboos.
Hell, call it sex, not abuse, not torture, not slavery.
I bloody grieve that far too many people buys these lies.
I howl and howl – it is torture, it is slavery, it an abandonment of her human rights – it is a destroying everything that give her an essence.
My grief is like smashing my head into a tree – please help me, help get a world that gives women and girls, in or exited from the sex trade, a place where they can grieve without fear.
Is that too much to ask for.