Listening to Mozart

I have been, well I am in a very bad state.

I want and need to find peace – only it is damned hard with body memories.

I want and need to know my past with a clarity – only so much is gaps and silences for me.

I cannot find that solid centre that can say – you are ok, it was never your fault, it will get better.

I am losing my sense of who the hell I am, and what I could become.

I put on Mozart, in the hope and desperation that his beauty will give me back my self to me.

Give me back my power.

I need friends at the moment.

Now, that is never a thing I say lightly.

Having survived child abuse and prostitution, I always feel and think I have done it on my own.

I do not ask for help – for I always assumed no one would give a damn.

Prostitution teaches you to believe you cannot worthy of help, or even support.

You are dirt, you have done unspeakable acts that would disgust others, you have known real hate and contempt that should stay hidden, you never resisted so let your sisters down, you must have enjoy it really coz otherwise it would impossible to comprehend.

So I, like many exited women, have learnt to tailor how I speak or write about my reality.

I want and need to stop censoring.

I just don’t how – I don’t want to lose the friends I have finally found.

It is not about being graphic about the events – I have done that enough.

Being graphic in that way is yet another way to hide my emotions.

It is my emotions I need and want to express.

I just don’t know how.

How do you express the horror of being a prostitute – without going back into deep shock, without wanting to close down, without a sickness that brings the want to self-harm.

How do you express the confusion of having so gaps and silences in your memory. How can express anger at the johns and managers, when you cannot remember their faces, how many there was, when it was, where it happen.

When all you know was lumping together of rapes, lumping together of sexual tortures, lumping together of being moved to different places, lumping together of even what age you were.

There is a rage, but it cannot find words or meaning for what always seems to be a middle, no beginning or end.

Friends need to help me frame some meaning to all that.

I cannot do that alone.

And friends can help make some purpose to the hell that I had to live through – by fighting for real justice for all women and girls in the sex trade.

You can never repair or even give me back my stolen past – but to know my speaking out is not wasted is vital to me.

Justice is always speaking of the trade sex as an industry that tortures, that brainwashes, and throws away women and girls.

Always frame it as a human right issue – never as work, never as leisure, and shut up about choice.

Justice is allowing the words and forming language of exited women to lead how you frame your discussions and campaigns against the sex trade.

We have ways of seeing and knowing that can help you understand male violence, understand what is to survive torture and keep part of yourself, understand that there may be no happy ending of leaving the past completely.

But we are strong, especially as we shadowed by grief, terror and confusion.

Justice is to fight for a world where no woman or girl is brought and sold for the ridiculous reason of fulfilling a man’s porn dream.

Named that as slavery – stop soft-pedaling on language.

Justice is allowing exited women to say in their words what was done to them.

Do not frame it in the language of rape – not when they have been brainwashed to believe it was just sex, was their job nothing more nothing less.

The language of rape has little or no meaning to many who have survived the sex trade.

Not when they have forced to believe rape only happens to good women and girls – not to whores.

Let exited women discover their own language.

Hear words like routine, all that I was.

Hear words like torture, unspeakable, I cannot remember any more.

There so few words for the daily grinding down of living inside the sex trade – hear it normal for them.

Now, hearing it could be called rape would send many exited women in constant shock.

Justice is allowing exited women not to be strong, not to care, to have interests you don’t like, to be chaotic.

Justice is allowing exited women just to be full humans.

That is real justice.

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5 responses to “Listening to Mozart

  1. Rebecca, I read every post of yours and think about them even if I don’t always comment. I hear the deep agonising anguished truth you are telling here.

    “How do you express the horror of being a prostitute – without going back into deep shock, without wanting to close down, without a sickness that brings the want to self-harm.”

    I know you are in a catch 22 here, that not to speak out causes a great deal of pain but to speak out does the same. I don’t know how you bear witness without being hurt more, particularly in a world that won’t hear the pain of prostituted women, that thinks nothing of the torture and the anguish they endured and still endure and that basically offers no comfort or healing.

    I don’t think your speaking out is wasted. I think you are starting the ripples that will turn into the wave, that will in the end wash this whole women-destroying, women-annihilating institution of prostitution away. I think your words are heard or echoed in places that we probably can’t even imagine.

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  2. Hi Rebecca,

    Just dropping by as I do from time to time… much of this post, beautifully said, hits close to home.
    I had the awkwardness of e-mailing a friend to tell him he couldn’t help me, and must let certain subjects lie. It is that same catch-22 Delphyne mentions – how can one speak without the words to, or the surety of safety?

    I hope Mozart helped. There are others I loved -Schubert, Gershwin. These days, it’s my farm photos I’ve found relaxing, the landscapes run as a slideshow so that I can take time to focus on the beauty. Painting itself much over-rated as a technique for expression/relaxation I think – maybe it works for some – but looking at the end product does the trick.
    Take care.

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  3. Thanks Delphyne and Sophie so much. Your support means tons to me.

    Delphyne – it is a deep and continuing agonising pain surviving prostitution, it does go away but you learn to live with it.
    The Catch-22 you speak just adds to the trauma. When I find it too hard to speak out, because of trauma and attacks from those who would protect the sex trade – then I get very sick with body memories or go back to deadness. When I speak out it brings up huge trauma and a rage – but because I considered strong and therefore don’t need help or support. It is considered that I don’t need or deserve comfort, I should just get on with it.
    How the hell can I fully heal, when I meant to do in isolation.

    I know this blog does reach out to many places that work hard to make real change. That strengthen my heart.

    Sophie – I am so honoured to have your support, and only read this blog when it is the right time for you.

    I wish I know what to do about the Catch-22 situation of surviving the hell we have known. There is so few words that fit that world.
    You are deep in my heart.

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  4. I am reading my way through your posts, your eloquent, thunderous testimony, your courage and suffering. You are so right that it is not just yours, but a massive historical legacy that has swallowed up countless women. And yet the elephant in the room, whose tramplings go unremarked day by day.

    Your bearing witness is precious truth-speaking, not for anyone’s agenda, but to the reality, the colossal monolith of pain inflicted, absorbed, staining, blocking blocking deadened. The reality of hundreds of millions of women.

    What you are doing is of immense importance, but not more than who you are and the healing you need, deserve, must have. Take care of yourself in every way you can. I wish i had a salve to pour over you, that would give relief and wash away the abuse and the invasive memories, that would free you.

    But at least know that your efforts are not going to waste. They are blows against a wall that must fall, and we are going to take it down.

    Like

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