My warrior spirit has protected me from knowing the worst, but sometimes the weeping comes, and the worse is known.
I want to these memories hide from myself, I want to sick it out, I would like never to know what can only be true.
The way I managed to survived, and somehow build a life for myself, was by blocking the hate that was the backbone of being prostituted.
What is the hardest to know and to accept is the mental torture that I was put through.
I can feel and know the physical and sexual tortures my body has known. They are solid, they are real – I hate them, but I believe them.
But the mental violence is so hard to kept hold of.
It is the mental abuse of the managers/pimps/profiteers who with their words formed me into their whore or their porn-toy to be brought.
The words that make out it was some accident that I was sexually tortured. Words making it clear I would get used to it.
Words saying only good women are raped, not bad girls like I was.
Words saying it just fun, haven’t you got a sense of adventure.
Words telling me I be paid extra, or they will just do to another whore – it why I there wasn’t it.
These words are all the sickness I can never sprew up. I rid myself of some of it – but the words are there haunting me.
Their words that made into nothing.
Words as they close the door, leaving in the room with men with hate in their eyes.
Words saying we are only outside, we come if it is too much.
I soon learnt not to complain when they never came, I learnt not to scream to emptiness.
I learnt that if I fainted, it I went out with cuts and bruises, if I was bleeding from my anus and cunt – I learnt no help ever came.
But the part of me that always cling tight onto hope, and that I was still someone – imagine one day, some day someone would care enough to at least give me a bandage.
I get nightmares still of having that hope smashed over and over and over.
It the words of the johns that sends me back to hell. Words I fight to forget, but whenever murders of prostituted women and girls hits the news, lands deep into my stomach.
My hell was johns enjoying telling me slowly and in graphic detail, how they would and could murder me. It would not matter a death of a whore – who would care about that.
These were men who heads were full of porn images, often hard-core porn.
Speaking of murdering me was just another porn scenario.
These were men who I believed – for these were men who had raped me, had gang-raped me, had sexually tortured me, had choked me, had made me lose consciousness as they anally abused me.
These men had brought to the edge of death – only to laugh at me.
So, why would I doubt that they would murder me.
As they spoke of smashing my head, of cutting me up, of fucking me to death. As they spoke of throwing away my body in a bin, leaving it in the room to rot, of burying me.
Those words were spoken as they sexually tortured me. Those words were spoken as they made me listen by not letting me out the room. Those words were spoken as I try to switch off.
Those words have left me with a terror that is speechless, it cannot speak, thinking it will never be believed.
Those words have left me with huge survivor guilt.
Every time I know of yet another murder of a prostituted woman and girl, I feel a terrible guilt that I am still alive.
I knew women so strong, so full of life, so much to give to their futures – so much more than the man-made role of the whore. They vanish – and may have been murdered.
I have no proof – only that prostituted women and girls are murdered all the time, and it is viewed as unimportant.
I feel so guilty that those men did not kill me – I was no different or better than any other prostitute that was murdered.
I am left with nightmares, with guilt, with terrors turning into sickness, with knowing how ordinary men can speak such evil and say it is just a joke.
Well, this whore has no sense of humour.
The physical and sexual violence that all prostitutes have to endured is horrific – but the mental violence is the destruction of everything that keeps them as full humans.
It destroys the ability to dream, it destroys access to hope, it destroys remembering that you more than a porn-toy, it destroys knowing there is a world outside – and it destroys the memory of being an individual with rights to safety and dignity.
As you fight the sex trade – also remember the real hard work is repairing the women who manage to exit.
That could some of hardest work you have ever known.