I wrote last April 2009 “A Map of My Body”, and I feel to write another map to trace how trauma is part of me.
Also, I feel more now – more grief, more outrage, more calm anger, more knowing I survived by the skin of my teeth.
I feel clearer at being honest that it was chaos then, clearer at knowing I will never remember everything or even most of the violence – just enough to know it was wrong.
I map the trauma in my body, for I am surrounded by others telling how harm-free prostitution and porn is.
My body is a witness and evidence to the harm.
My brain disappeared as much as it could during prostitution, when it was made to view hard-core porn, when I was being filmed, when I was doing girlfriend experience.
My brain run films for me, my brain try to remember books, my brain listed Arsenal players, my brain watch the spider in the corner of the room.
My brain would not know.
Would not know the object fuck against the wall, the object waiting naked on the bed, the object mouth open, the object on all fours.
My brain shut that all out, told me it was not me, made a film scenario of it.
Made it unreal, then everything was ok then.
My brain hated my body.
I stopped looking in mirrors, I learn to not care what I looked like.
After all as a fuck-object, my face was of little importance.
I had my face hit and slapped, but I got used to that.
I never got used to men sticking their dicks into my ear.
That was their sense of humour, finding another hole to fuck.
The pain can still be with me, the shock is there – and when stressed, I can’t hear in my left ear.
Sure the penis did little – but the fear was real.
The fear makes me cry now.
MOUTH AND THROAT
Oral sex was endless in prostitution, oral sex was demanded in every porn fantasy.
Deep-throating was common, strangulation was regular – often at the same time.
My mouth and throat may never fully recovered from those years.
I do not breathe deeply, I often found swallowing painful and hard, I choke an awful lot.
I feel my throat often wants to block out being alive.
My throat carries huge grief.
I do not have feelings for my arms.
Only they exist.
My hands were polluted by having to perform to please men who could have killed me.
My hands rubbed their dicks, my hands help them undress, my hands guided their dicks into my holes – my hands feel like traitors.
I want to love my hands, but all I feel is a detachment at best, at worst a hate.
Hands reminds how I boosted the egos of men who hated me.
That is so hard to know.
My chest is full bursting with the sickness of grief and outrage of what I had to be to survive.
My chest was lean into, was smashed about – but always my chest held inside something no bastard could touch.
It fenced away my essence – the part of me that would remember and recorded the way I was treated.
The part that may of waited many years – but it got revenge by recording every torture, every degradation, every time I was made sub-human.
I survived by becoming a witness to my own hell.
I have an endless sickness in my stomach.
Nothing get rid of it, only it fades as my truths is heard and believed.
The sickness of being made into nothing but holes and hands to be fucked till worn out.
The sickness of knowing there no exit but being unconscious or killing yourself.
The sickness of being exited, but my stomach is full of memories of hate, terror and no hope.
My stomach has no words for the sickness – only it screams to be heard.
It very hard to own my cunt after prostitution.
It was owned by hundreds of men who wanted to hurt it, to pour terror into it, to say all that pain was only a joke.
My cunt was something I wanted to cut out of me.
It was just a hole which fists, dicks, mouths, objects, fingers went into. It was alien from me.
I hated that when pain was everything, when my cunt was full to breaking point – I had orgasms.
Sure, I know it out of my control – but it give those bastards too much.
I do not know how to love my cunt.
I do not how many times I was anally raped – I know I became numb to it.
I am terrified of how much pain is inside my anus.
I work round it, as I write the pain is there as I sit on a hard chair – I teach myself to work through it.
I do not like laying on my back, I hate if I get pain in my anus going to the toilet.
I have fainted going to the toilet.
I was tortured in my anus, I nearly died several times – so it carries terror at it most raw.
It is a gaping scream.
My legs are restless and exhausted at the same time.
They remember a time when there was no escape.
They remember wanting to fight back but never moving.
My legs carry the lack of hope and confusion.
My legs have despair – but so want freedom.
I am attempting to get to that place.
I do not understand what it is to be grounded.
My feet to me are there to walk away, to walk and walk until I feel nothing again.
Feet touch the ground, but have no interest in where they are – only to keep moving is reminder I must be alive.
I have walked all my life – usually to numb myself and turn myself into a robot.
Now, I am learning to walk with awareness – it means I am truly alive.