Average Day

This week I was asked a question that I could not answer – not answer without hitting a wall of silence, a wall of pain, a wall of terror – the wall that is named PTSD.

“What was your average day in the middle of being prostituted?”

My first reaction to that question is to blocked it away, to act as if it no big deal.

Inside, my stomach has terror beyond words. Inside, my heart was beating so hard, I just hoped it would kill me.

Outside I was speaking words, not understanding them – just knowing I have let myself give up some of the control that had kept me alive, and in words from a place of hell, some of my truths are being spoken and believed.

This time I chose to face what “average day” meant to me, to face without detachment some of that chaos.

I do not know what average day was – all I know is many days folded into each other, all I know was some of the hate and violence stood out, all I know was day was night and night was day.

How can I know an average day when I refused sleep – making my whole existence surreal. I was moving in space, I was getting continually tortured, I was being raped out of existence – but with so little sleep, I could refuse to feel or know my own reality.

How can I know an average day, when I drink spirits and lager to end all memory – drink made nothing matter, drink made that I never mattered, drink made me act the good whore who praised men who hurt me, drink made me see I was being damaged and decided not to care.

Now, I want to know some of my average days – I need to know for they were part of my survival. Knowing an average day is one key to finding how I did not get destroyed.

I know there was a middle, a middle where my whole essence wanted to go dead.

There was a point where I had no safety in the small town I was living. A time when my reputation went before me – when just walking down the street, men would come to me offering money for sadistic sex, when entering any pub men follow me to the toilet or took me in the backyard to screw me.

There was the middle where I had lost all sense of Self, I had no Self to have self-esteem or self-respect – all I had was a shell covering a nothingness.

In that middle, I became like Pavlov’s dog – any man could offer money, a bed, even a pint, and get fucked as his porn-dreams wanted by me. I had lost everything that mattered to me, and went with him.

I survived by blaming myself, by placing all my hate and rage onto myself. I survived by being alive, but killing myself every day.

I survived by not knowing the bigger picture.

I would not compute that it was more than some coincidence that so many strange men would know I did sadistic sex. I would not compute that they did not hardly see or know me, that they give no names.

I refuse to know how many men would fuck me and throw me away – often with gifts or money, but no care of my injuries or mental welfare.

Now, I know it was organised whether through word of mouth, or from shadowy profiteers giving out the whereabouts of girls or women like me.

It was organised, but made to look all the fault of the prostituted.

That makes so furious for it such a brilliant way to keep punters and profiteers invisible.

I write to my trauma – but also for and with huge respect to all those living inside prostitution, or having exited prostitution, where it never named as prostitution.

Be that escorting or being girlfriend experience, with punters who appear decent until the woman or girl  move outside the role of the whore – than beatings and rapes are there to remind then, they are nothing but sexual goods.

Be that inside a sauna, when it is impossible not to do “extras” even when scared or disgusted.

Be that inside a club, where dancing is not enough, it is expected to please certain clients or friends of the manager to keep your job.

All this is named any and everything but prostitution – for if it  is called prostitution, the individual woman or girl is made to know she is nothing but goods to be trashed.

Named it sex work, called it sexual entertainment, say it her sexual choices – just never call it prostitution.

Never let the truth in, just in case it gives the woman and girl enough pieces of self-esteem to begin to exit.

Sorry, I am rambling – but anger crashes into me.

I will finish now.

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