One of the worst about surviving prostitution is having a fractured memory.
It is not losing hours, a few days or a few months – I for one, have lost my teens and twenties.
Writing that is so hard, the part of me that was then is crying. But without the clearness of memory, I cannot have something solid to cry about.
Only tears of frustration, tears of reaching into pain and grief so huge it has lost its shape.
That is memory and prostitution.
I know inside the logical part of my brain, that memory is destroyed when the torture is repetitive, and appears to have no end.
To survive prostitution, it is important to not know the endless penis in vagina rapes – they become nothing.
Knowing that penis in vagina is, and always was rape, for the vast majority of my prostitution years sent me into shock when I exited.
I could only remember it as rape, well as being tortured, when it was so bad it jarred the repetition.
I remember my vagina being raped as more one penis attacked it, as objects were forced into it and when the penis left me bleeding for days.
But ordinary rape was nothing, nothing I would know.
It was all I was, so why would I remember it.
But penis in vagina was not my norm, my norm was any and as much sexual torture as my body could take.
Here memory protects me, and gives me a degree of sanity.
Memory shows some of the worst, show me the repetition, shows me how pre-planned it all was, shows me it was not my fault as I had no real exit, shows me blocking out help to keep me alive.
Memory shows enough until I believe, and feel clear that I was living inside hell. Seeing that, I do not need to know all, just know it was real.
But I will never have solid memory, only memory of the worst and some of the everyday evil.
For prostitution has an evil inside it, an evil which is at root.
This is that it give men permission to repeat over and over and over sexual torture on women and girls named whores – and it made into nothing.
I know that my sexual torturing goes back to the first caveman who found he could exchange goods and treat women as dirt – and no-one cared.
Prostitution is only survivable if you narrow your world down to one john after another, one place after another, one profiteer after another, one injury after another.
It is so easier to survive if the mind forgets.
For who want to remember being turned into dirt, being formed into a fuck-doll.
A fuck-doll with open mouth, open legs and openings for torture – but no mind worth saving.
Blank that out, and stay alive.
The worse part of PTSD is how slowly parts of memory come back – sending extreme shock to the mind and body.
The only way I know to handle is to confront each memory, remember until I can accept it was a part of me.
I choose to campaign for I can never make my prostituted self did not have those tortures – but I will fight to the death to end that the sex trade thinks it has the right to act as if it was nothing.
Just because we exited prostituted women forget the majority of our hell – does not mean we do not know the evil we had to live through.