Grief Makes Me Sick

The farther I get away from my personal experience the more I feel grief.

You have to be alive to feel grief – not just an object who is the living dead.

Prostituted women and girls survive by doing as much as they can to feel nothing – especially not grief.

Please think, how dangerous it would be to feel grief when trapped in the middle of being the whore-class.

Grief makes you vulnerable, grief makes you too open, grief brings out rage, grief can make you confused, grief makes you want your own space – grief is alien to the sex trade.

Grief is beaten out of the prostitute, grief is raped out of the prostitute, grief is made to disappear by the brainwashing.

But, grief never truly vanishes – it just is buried so deep that most prostituted women and girls don’t know it is there.

But it is there all the time.

Grief is there in the spaces when prostitutes are waiting for the next john to use them.

Grief is there when a prostitute see herself in a mirror and has no idea who that person is.

Grief is there as johns seemed to see her as human, only to fuck and or beat her anyhow.

Grief is there when she is with people outside the sex trade, and she speaks nothing of any hell she has known.

Grief is there every-time she hears or see herself saying whoring is great, she is so happy.

Grief is inside every rape, even when she cannot named it as rape or even know it is abuse.

Grief is knowing without words that she is trapped.

Grief is her knowing she is being fucked, being treated as living hard-core porn, being degraded to the point death is preferable –  all that and more is just the role that is her life now.

No wonder, prostituted women and girls have to buried that grief. It is to too huge to carry, without support and having others believing it is real.

Inside the sex trade, the prostitute does have the luxury of that – rather she will be surrounded by brainwashing.

Brainwashed to believe she should be happy – if not she is just weak, maybe from previous abuse doesn’t know good sex when she gets it, she must be mentally ill, or taken too many drugs.

Brainwashed to think each piece of violence and degradation done to her is a one-off and that those “bad” men will be dealt with.

Brainwashed that working indoors is so much safer than those victim-type whores on the streets. Hell, inside some flat or hotel room you can be fucked by men with class.

Brainwashed that, of course, you can leave any-time – only, just do one more time, one more week, where else would get this much money.

In that environment, there is no room left in the prostitute’s mind for grief. All is left is a dead numbness as she turns herself in to a sex robot.

But, the grief never leave, it just hides itself.

Take me as an example of far too many prostituted women and girls. I had buried grief the whole time I was prostituted.

Grief was the silent screaming trying to remind me I was still human.

As I enter prostitution, a child convincing herself she was understood. Convincing herself she was an adult now, as she slip into alcohol and refusing to sleep.

Grief was there, standing shaking with horror – as I, the child, was gang-raped into knowing she now was a whore, nothing else was her life.

Grief was there, as I, a child, a teenager, a young adult – was raped and tortured, thinking beyond hope someone would stop it sometime. Maybe the bodyguard or pimp sitting outside the room would rescue me, throw some men out. Maybe a police raid would not just be about looking for drugs and getting money from pimps – but to getting me and the other prostitutes out of there. That I was inside bloody “Pretty Woman” – not just the hell I was in.

Grief saw all, and could do nothing.  Grief grows into trauma.

Trauma for me and so many others is years of that impacted grief.

Grief that I was raped beyond any number that my mind can handle.

Grief that penetrative rape became a relief, for it was far less violent and shorter than most of the sex tortures johns did.

Grief that sexual torture became so much my norm, that I can only remember the extreme stuff – for so much of my torturing was so repetitive and routine that it all became one.

Grief that I became so used to being treated like a piece of shit, that I would be naked in the bed without any words – I learnt it may avoid some of the violence.

Grief that I perform all hard-core porn fantasy for those bastard johns – taught myself to ignore the pain, ignore any injuries, and most important to never see myself in any mirrors.

Grief that I was so dead inside that profiteers could move around to any sadistic john who were cash cows.

Grief that I never lost the hope that johns would love me and or see me.

Grief could do nothing, but prayer that I would exit.

Only, it the time of not being a prostitute, that grief makes you sick.

It is a healthy sickness – for it the freedom to be ill without punishment or being you just deluded that you are sick.

It is named impacted trauma – and for me, it is a natural reaction to many years of torture, to have grief smashing it way out.

I now am in deep grief – and by heck, it making me so sick.

I am delighted to be sick for it life forcing itself into my body.

As my cunt and anus grieves each and every torture done to them – I so sick, it drains the whole of my body.

But, I am no husk, I am full with anger and deep sadness – but most, a steel determination that I survive for a reason.

Grief is the part that was the witness inside of me.

The part that saw every torture, every lie I was told and taught, every person who turn away from helping or seeing me, every justification made for making the prostituted sub-human, every missing prostituted woman or girl, every man who thinks ok to treat whores as a piece of shit but would never hurt real women and every else I remember.

Grief made me a writer to make those memories and truths go beyond my personal history – and to make a political statement, and to force real change.

Grief demands abolition not a tinkering of the destruction of human rights for the prostituted women and girls.

So, grief is my leader with this blog.

I am no longer too trapped to grieve.

That is real freedom.

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