I have been followed by pain for most of my life.
I am so used to pain, that mostly I ignored it, often placing myself in danger or making myself ill by not acknowledging it.
Pain begun when my stepdad first abused when I was 6 or 7.
I choose to ignore that pain as soon as it came into my body, I tried to tidied it away.
Though I was bleeding, though my cunt was screaming, through I wanted to cry – I just thrown the sheets on the floor.
In my child’s mind, that meant it had never happened.
As my stepdad’s mental and sexual abuse increased and became my norm – pain was my companion.
I dreamt of cutting out my cunt, I grow used to not breathing deep or swallowing too much.
But what frightened me the most was my headaches.
I thought I was dying for I had headaches for weeks on end.
Even now if I get a bad headache, I always think of death.
But the shadow of pain is so many memories of being prostituted.
It is the pain of what they forced into me – but more it is the pain of not being able to escape or even protest.
I get huge pains in my legs – the pain of never being able to run away, never being able to kick them in their balls without knowing there would be severe consequences for me.
My cunt live with agony, most of the time I can ignore it – but my cunt was invaded, was fire-bombed by constant raping and sexual torture. My cunt cannot remember a time it was free enough to be safe.
I try not to think of the pain in my anus – try not to know how it was tortured, it was the playground for those who brought or sold me. My anus was never given a full life, it was just used for porn fantasies. The pain is horrific, but I grow used to it.
Those who believe that prostitution is harm-free – should spend five minutes inside my body, live with my pain, then try to promote the sex trade.
Grief has become my companion.
Only I find almost impossible to express it outwardly. I cannot cry, when sad I often fall in sarcasm, I will laugh and act that I am fine, or if I feel trapped be nasty to someone who is my friend.
Grief terrified me – for I do not know what you do with it, I do not know if it going to destroy me, or lose me all my friends I fought so hard to get.
I know grief is a natural reaction to enduring the hell I have known.
But I also know that prostitution taught me to hide and destroy all emotions – they made me vulnerable, and just made the profiteers and johns think I was easy prey.
I also know, I learnt early age with my stepdad never to cry when he hurt me bad, for I saw the triumph in his eyes if I had even a small amount of distress.
But to show distress is prostitution was highly dangerous. It lead to beatings, it encouraged more sexual torturing – and the worse it was re-branded as orgasms.
To survive prostitution, I made myself dead, a sexual robot that was switched on and off.
This meant I close out as much as was possible. Including my deep sorrow.
Anger was always with me, mainly hidden deep inside me – but I know that anger was one of the reason I somehow survived.
I never lose that I hated each and every man who fuck me. No matter if they thought they were gentle, or pretended they cared about me, no matter if they give lots of gifts, no matter if they made the choice not to treat me as scum. I hated them.
For I know in my heart, they never saw me as a human worthy of rights. All these men, however much they pretended to be decent – saw me as their fuck-toy, that they would use as they wish.
I know as their decency left – if I was too slow, or show through body language I was not wanting it, or thought I could even say no, or if my mind appear not completely focused on them. Then would fuck me with violence – these decent normal men.
It hard as a prostitute not to hate the men – after all prostitution was invented in order that men have a class to pour all their hatred of women into – and prostitutes are to just put up with it.
There is a huge anger that to be a real prostitute, you have to learn to boost the egos of men that will and do torture you, you must be able to fake/perform sexual pleasure at a drop of a hat – do that as you terrified you may be killed, do that as your cunt, mouth, anus is being tortured, do that as men called every disgusting insults that porn has taught them. To be a real prostitute, the men must believe you are happy.
God, that makes me so furious.
I am furious at how profiteers get away with throwing away so many women and girls – seeing as goods not humans.
I am furious that society allows profiteers to re-brand sexual torture as just extras in prostitution – thus it seen as fairly harmless and more than likely a free choice of the prostitute to be there.
I don’t want to live in a world where if it inside the sex trade, all violence and degradation is made almost invisible.
Of course, I am furious.
Fury is the foundation for a struggle for justice – especially when that fury is fuelled by pain and grief.
So my three shadows are looking into a future – and praying for real justice.