A long time ago, I wrote about why I thought I choose to be a writer – why I consider myself to be a witness writer.
Now, I want to write the same, but seeing from a different perspective.
Now, I speak through grief, I speak as witness who knows trauma as my reality, not distancing myself away from it.
I have emotions now, that is strange to me.
Sometimes as I write, I feel like a scientist discovering emotions, only with shock to know they were there all the time.
I try to go back my old deadness, saying to myself that is to be strong, be detached and “logical” about my past.
That is no longer going to happen.
Not now – not now I have discover my inner screaming, my inner rage, my inner ocean of grief.
Writing this blog has open up my Pandora’s box – only the myth had it so wrong, for I have not lost hope, I have at last found it.
I write to see with a clear eye what the johns, what the profiteers did to me.
Seeing in that clear eye the pre-planning, their hate, their making me into nothing – I see them.
It is not just seeing, I write to show I remember all they wanted me to forget.
I remember the sexual tortures, they thought I would block out for the rest of my life. The tortures they forced me to believe had never happened – could not of happened for humans could not and would not do such terrible acts.
If those acts had really happened, I would be dead or too mentally ill to remember.
They did more and more extreme violence – knowing it would never be known or believed.
I write and many do believe, and know that worse has been done to other prostituted women and girls – and is being done to many as you read me.
That is part of vengeance to those who wanted to destroy me – I will use my skill as a writer to say I not only got away, but I also can remember.
I know that scares the sex trade, for I get attacks for not forgetting.
I write for I am no longer afraid to show the damage that their hate and violence put in me.
I am not afraid to say that I know trauma will shadowed much of my life.
It is there, and for most of the time is quite unimportant to my present life.
But just because you don’t see a shadow doesn’t mean it has gone.
I suppose I got used to avoiding the sun, afraid of that shadow. I got used to half a life, staying safe in my gloom.
My writing is the sun forcing out my trauma.
The more I write the longer the shadow gets – but also the less scary it becomes.
Now I know trauma is part of me, not a monster sent to destroy me.
I write to understand my trauma, and to see with a clear eye it connected to millions of prostituted women and girls.
I am not alone with my trauma.
The vast majority of prostituted women and girls are raped into deadness.
The vast majority of prostituted women and girls has to get used to sexual acts that terrify them, that disgust them, that send them into pain.
The vast majority of prostituted women and girls have to be living porn just to survive.
I thought I was alone and crazy – now I get the strength to fight knowing I was just goods that could be replaced.
I write to show that however they try to make into nothing – my essence always fought back.
I fought back by never allowing myself to know or care for any john – however much he try to force me to be his friend, his therapist, his mother, his god-damned priest – I never give anything away of who I really was or to saw them as people.
I made the decision they would do what like to my body – god, I know to stay alive, I must not care – but I would damned if they would know me.
I learnt to lie as I spoke of myself, I learnt to read what they wanted me to be, and however sickening I became their fuck-dream.
I write to break those lies, and very slowly try to remember who I really am.
I may never know, but writing can only help.
Writing is a power that no john, no sex trade profiteer, no defender of the sex trade can ever control.
They hate exited prostituted women who become writers.
They want us to be silenced and living inside terror – the exited woman who writes is tearing down their walls.
She does this in agony, with fear following her and feeling very isolated – but as true warrior the exited woman who writes will become unstoppable, until her enemy is destroyed.
That is why I write – this is a stream of consciousness, written from a poet’s heart – I hope it makes some sense.