One of the gift I give myself for surviving into adulthood, was to give myself back Christmas.
Now, I love Christmas – but for a large part of my life, I refuse to know Christmas. So now, I make up for lost time by loving the music, watching loads of films and Christmas series, watching Christmas sports, eating and drinking, chocolate of course, and giving myself presents for being alive and strong.
I spend Christmas on my own, but I am happy.
I phone and write to family and friends – but I love over-indulging with the radio and TV coz I can.
I can be happy now – for it comes from knowing the opposite.
It comes from having terror at Christmas, being dead inside for Christmas, being someone’s porn toy for Christmas, attempting suicide at Christmas and many Christmases that I have blanked out.
Now, I go all soppy about films about Father Christmas, I watch “Miracle on 34th Street” with the eyes of the child I never was.
I had Father Christmas ripped away from me.
One Christmas Eve, when in between waking sleep, I thought I saw Father Christmas. I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep.
Only as his hands went into my bed, and felt me up, as his beard hit my face and his tongue was struck in my mouth – I saw it was my stepdad.
At that moment, I murdered Father Christmas, I refused to be happy at Christmas. It was all a lie.
I just went through the motions at Christmas with my Mum and stepdad – as each year I thought of killing myself.
Now, I refuse to know those Christmases, and instead bring my Dad’s family into my heart.
There Christmas was real, and had unforced joy.
Dad loved to see Christmas in the eyes of a child, whatever age the guests were.
We all got stockings whether 2 or 82 – the only difference was adults got books and alcohol.
I will always know joy of Christmas, for Dad taught me to let it into my heart.
Christmas melted the parts of me I thought were dead.
But, I have known the deadness of Christmas that the sex trade forced into me.
When I was prostituted, Christmas had no relevant to me, only that I may left alone for a bit.
But not always, for some men love their Christmas treat, finding some whore who is so damaged or desperate that he can fuck her at Christmas.
These men were often the most violent, may be the men who want to buy a “girlfriend” they can owned, these johns see fucking a whore at Christmas is their ultimate secret.
Many will go home and be a loving father and husband, bringing home the Christmas spirit.
I remember some men fucking me at Christmas, then showing photos of their kids, telling me of what presents they have brought their family, asking me what I was doing wasting Christmas working.
I would smile and nod as the plastic dog in the back of the car.
I eat back my hate and deep grief.
Grief that Christmas was dead to me. Grief that I was so damaged, that I was accepting being sexually tortured was so normal that there was no Christmas for me.
That getting fucked, being named whore, bitch or slag, getting hit, being tortured, being made into porn was my existence – so why happen at Christmas as well.
Profiteers of the sex trade know Christmas means the johns will pay extra, and with the extra money will be provided sadistic sex and whores who do anything the johns want.
Remember the women “working” at Christmas tend to be the most desperate and or damaged. The women who are often trapped and or deeply embedded in the sex trade.
Often at Christmas there is an increase in child prostitution, for they are too trapped to say no.
I hated the johns for reminding me of the joys of Christmas.
Reminded me how excluded I was. Remind me, that I had forgotten what happiness was – what it was to have enough innocent to enjoy Christmas.
I hated the johns for going home, and acting the good family man after they had been a torturer.
Mostly, I hated the johns for never killing me.
I will remember that time with sickness always – but it makes my determination to give myself Christmas back.
I will not let the sex trade destroy it for me.