I have a major block to writing, so I will write anyhow.
I am blocked by grief.
Grief how I was made sub-human.
Made sub-human by the way my stepdad built his sexual and mental abuse of me – until he reach the pinnacle that he could feel me up everywhere, put his hands and mouth into any hole in my body – could do all this without allowing me to move, without allowing me to speak or make a noise.
He made me the living dead.
He made me the perfect whore.
I grieve that.
I grieve that I know hard-core both from the inside and as an outsider.
I know hard-core porn as a young girl forced to view it. Force to know real terror, force to know the agony was never acting, force to look into their dead eyes.
As a child, I knew these images were my future – and I grieve so deeply that that became true.
I knew hard-core as I laid dead on the bed, as inside prostitution, my sexual tortures were filmed.
I live with the knowledge that I have no power or rights to destroy images of my sexual torturing, images of a prostitute will no access to consent to be inside porn – I live with the terror and deep sorrow that those images could anywhere in the world – with men wanking over it, and others making a profit out of it.
I have no rights over my own image – it is a stealing of my soul.
That is a grief that can never be mended without access to justice – that justice is a million miles away.
This gives me writer’s block – but I write anyhow.