Uncomfortable in My Own Skin

Today, I am very uncomfortable in my own skin.

That is trauma is taking me over, making me ache and scream in every cell in my body.

As I write, I think god for the spell-check – for I cannot type without tons of mistakes.

I want to write about what trauma is to me. What it is to survive prostitution – and maybe then I can get through it.

Trauma is like having rats inside your brain eating any hope, ability to believe in progress.

Trauma is an anger that can make you lose that hope. Anger that with the logical part of your mind you knows there is progress, often huge progress – that it all seems so pointless.

Anger that trauma throws me back to the time where hope had to be smashed to survive.

Trauma is like having red ants stamping into every corner of my skin.

They cannot be slapped down, they cannot be scratched out, and they will die till I face it head-on the pain.

It is a remainder that all my skin was conquered by the violence and hate of the sex trade. Nowhere was safe for me, nowhere in my skin and inside my body.

I want to forget, I want to make it smaller, I desperately want to just get on with my life – but when I ignore the trauma, my body memories crash in.

Trauma has a message that must be heard – silenced and it will slowly kills you.

As my body reminds me that it was tortured.

I need this reminder to push my fight to say it is a human rights issue – when all round me the propaganda said it is just sex, only entertainment, that women freely choose it, it is no-one business just a private affair, and on an on an on.

My body screams with grief, rage and pain at these lies.

My body is a remainder as more lies surrounds me – how maybe coz of prior abuse I did not have the mental strength to be a whore, that I could not have fun like I should have.

My body yells out stop blaming me – blame those who sold and brought me.

But who wants to really know what is really done to whores’ bodies – want to know the centuries of violence, want to know the endless disposing of whores when used out, want to know that whores were always used for punters and profiteers to constantly sexually torture.

Who wants to know that – in an uncensored way, in the voice of a traumatised exited woman. Tell me you could hear that.

Torture can only got rid of if it is known and named – the power of the sex trade is that it can torture for at least 3000 years, and has made it invisible by naming as sexual entertainment – so harmless fun.

But hidden are the bodies of millions of women and girls tortured into silence.

The sex trade hides mass rapes – the sex trade makes rape into just sex, just the role you are, just sex work, just fun – rape does not exist in the sex trade.

Only the bodies of women lucky enough to survive, know that hell  through the trauma of rapes in their millions.

We were raped by hundreds and sometimes thousands of men – of course, we survived by not knowing it was rape.

We could not have shock, we could not imagine being believed, we knew to believe the lie that no-one gave a damned about any whore’s pain.

We are raped and learn to smile, and to act the happy hooker.

Trauma reminds us that we were tortured – and part of that torture was to be brainwashed.

Trauma is the breaking down of that brainwashing – in many ways it is the hardest part of surviving the sex trade, de-coding the lies forced into your mind and body.

We were brainwashed to think we are nothing but a sex object or sexual goods – so why not learn to enjoy it, why not imagine you have power over the men, why not think anyone who criticises your work is just a prude, hell why not just lay back and think of the money and stop thinking.

We are brainwashed to speak the lies of the sex trade – say whoring is a feminist act, it is empowering and liberating, say whores just are freer about sex less hang-ups, say it could be a good career or short-term money-spinner. And say loudly, it is only dangerous coz some whores are weak, stupid or mentally ill – so they let in dangerous punters.

God, god, god – those words and worse spill out of me as I was in the middle of hell – I was making out it was heaven.

Trauma is confronting those lies – seeing with clarity why they had to be believed them.

Trauma is the slow cracking of ice as I learn slowly to forgive myself that I spoke such terrible lies. Knowing believing those lies meant I survived – to know the reality would have kill me.

Trauma is the gift to say you are alive – and somehow you did not die.

Trauma is life coming back.

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