My Tether is Wearing Thin

I have always cope, always put one foot in front of the other.

Now I am slammed into the middle of grief, I am close to the end of my tether.

I have always not knew how to cry.

Not cried when I broke my arm, not cried as cut my knee with poison making it go green.

Big girls don’t cry – only whining babies do that.

I stopped my tears as soon as I knew no help was coming.

I stopped as I cried as a baby, crying to the dark, crying to doors shutting – I soon stopped as my mother vanish.

Crying got me nowhere. It just showed I was alone.

I learnt to cope.

I never cry, however much I wanted to – when my stepdad forced his fingers in me.

I didn’t cry, I was stock still.

I didn’t cry, I just got used to it and more.

Used to his tongue in my mouth suffocating me, used his eyes watching me wherever I was.

I got used to not who I was when I was not in his vision. What was I, but his private toy.

I just learnt to cope.

I could never cry when I had to saw hard-core porn.

How do you cry at seeing death, seeing pain with a fixed smile. Seeing it and knowing it could be you.

How do you cry when you are told it just fun, just pictures – it not real, silly.

I didn’t cry, but I made myself smile.

I eat bile, and smiled.

I had learnt how to cope.

Learnt enough to fix into the world of indoors prostitution.

I had the lesson of how to be in that world, and to act like nothing mattered.

I had learnt to ignore all pain, to not see injuries – not let in the fear.

The fear that some man some time would hurt me too bad – it could never be better.

The fear of knowing that outside the door, others hear my terror and find it funny.

Or worse were making money out of it.

I learnt the lesson never to show pain, never show fear, never show even doubt.

I knew how to cope.

I had learnt the lesson that I was alone, that there was no hope.

No hope of some rescue, no hope that men would not torture, no hope that I would not be moved around many men, no hope of being believed – no hope but vague dreams of killing myself.

I was told through words and action that no-one give a shit.

I was told over and over it was who I was – so get used to get.

I just had to cope.

I had learnt the awful lesson that only way to cope with sexual and physical violence was to go still, and take it until they had finished.

Resistance just made them more violent. Resistance was part of their porn scenario.

The one telling how whores love rough sex, how whores manipulate men into rape, how whores need and want to be treated like dirt.

To stay alive – I learnt to be whatever porn-dream they had.

I had to cope somehow.

I had to put up with sexual acts that even after seeing hard-core porn I could not imagine.

My body is sick with grief, terror and utter confusion at what it was put through.

I have a grief for my body that can never be completely repaired. My body will go forward, but it knows what was done to it, and want that to be impossible.

Indoors prostitution makes that violence invisible. Put behind closed doors, used the media to say it safer for the “girls” – and all torture is unimportant.

Men paid to know it was private, and in privacy all ideas of the safety of the whore are thrown out the window.

All that matters is his choice of how he will use her, and how much money he has.

Her safety depends on his whim.

As I was sexually tortured or not, I learnt the lesson that I had no rights or say in what happened to me.

I was just a fuck-toy, after all.

I had to just cope.

I learnt the lesson to smile whatever happened.

To smile as pain made forget if I still breathing or not.

To smile as men spoke of how to murder whores, how they could slowly kill me.

To smile as I was gang-raped and it was being filmed.

To smile as managers put me in with men with hate in their eyes.

To smile as I had to act the girlfriend, knowing I was nothing to them.

To smile as I fucked so often and with so much contempt.

I would smile like a robot.

I had to cope.

I had to learn I was never real, I was never given permission to a human.

I was just a fantasy.

Men could fuck me, could beat me up, could strangle me, could gang-rape me, could deep-throat me, could anally rape me – hell and so much more.

It did not matter, for I would not bleed, I would not lose consciousness, I had no pain, I had no terror, I could not get pregnant, I did not get STDs, I would never die.

For it just fantasy, just a leisure event for men. It is not real, so it cannot matter.

I would cope somehow.

Well now, I am in deep grief.

Grief saying I am bloody sick of coping.

Coping got me nowhere, except maybe kept me alive through all that shit.

But now is the time for crying, I not sure how – but I will cry.

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3 responses to “My Tether is Wearing Thin

  1. I hope the tears can flow, safely, and that there is cleansing of what they did, cleansing of their ugliness, their inhumanity, which resides permanently in them; the abusers; and not in you. In you is something else. In you is a soul that speaks truth to power that survived in spite of all they did to silence you. I hear you clearly speaking of the crimes against you/against your humanity/against humanity. Naming the crimes of the abusers/those men/men will not admit to doing. And I believe patriarchal power is always weakened by the survivor’s truths.

    I choose to believe the corrupt concrete foundation of patriarchy rattles and cracks with every word you utter.

    I hope you know how powerful you and your words are, Rebecca. I hope you speak your way to a you that knows greater ease in the world, and less suffering. That’s what I want for you. And some laughter after the periods where tears release the grief and terror. I don’t have much access to my tears. I see your movement towards and into them as a sign of strength.

    I surely hope you know the incredible spiritual value of your being–not in any terms that the abusers misuse the term “value”. Rather, primarily, a spiritual value to yourself/your humanity/humanity. But in a sense which *they* cannot understand, and never will, including when they rot in hell.

    Like

  2. I completely agree with what Julian said. I have no words, other than I believe in your power, and hear you in my bones, too.

    Like

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