Mental Block Again

I have been having terrible body memories, and knowing what it is to inside the sex trade.

I call this a mental block – but really it is knowing what every cell of my mind and body does not want to know.

Knowing the unknowable, knowing what I find almost unspeakable. Damn it, I know my centre of being inside the sex trade.

This is what I call a mental block, coz I am losing grounds on how to explain what it is.

Yes, I try in simple and straight-forward language to say what was done to me.

Yes, I make connections between porn to prostitution, and vice versa. I make connections of child sex abuse to being embedded inside the sex trade.

Yes, I see the erosion of any choices I had as I was turned sub-human.

Yes, I know that only the men buying me had real choices, that those who profiteer from my torturing had real choices.

Yes, I am proud to be a strong part of the struggle for abolition of the sex trade.

That is all true – and is very important, but – but there is a background noise of trauma that want to say and for you to know there is more.

Trauma knows what it really was and is to be made sub-human. It knows in uncomfortable and hard to find words for ways.

But trauma is a force that wants to force the world to hear – to force me to believe myself who I was.

I have written often and have spoken often about surviving by making myself dead inside.

Trauma is a force that shows what lays inside and surrounds that deadness.

The further I get from the hell that was the being inside the sex trade – the more I know that deadness was a cover for intense anger, huge grief, and living in a world that had no exit that I could reach.

Those emotions would have killed me if I had allowed them to be seen or known, even by me.

I had an anger that had nowhere to go.

My anger came out in flashes – times when I dance to music in order to kill myself; times I was smashing my head or fists into walls; times I put pillows on punters’ heads; times I did ods; times I cut into my arms, legs and my cunt; and times I got drunk to make an excuse to be angry.

It was a rage that had no healthy target – only always leading to more pain and dreams of death.

Trauma is good – for finally that anger has a focus and a cause.

Now that anger knows how trapped I was, and how much all choices were stolen from me.

I see now I was into a porn-toy – now that makes me bloody furious. My anger feels and know that I had to be dead to survive the agony of the poking, the hate, the eating out, the smashing down, and the mental manipulation that formed that porn-toy.

That I have a fury about that means I am getting truly free.

I was dead for I could not bear the endless grief inside of me. Grief was a pointless emotion when embedded inside the sex trade – that emotion would have made me too vulnerable in a deeply life-threatening environment.

But every rape; every time I was smashed into a wall; every anal rape; every forced deep-throating; every soul-destroying swear words; every time I move round different aspects of the sex trade; every time I fake an orgasm or made out it was wonderful; every time I was strangled; every gang-rape; every time I was filmed; and so much more torturing – all this stole parts of my life that I can never get back.

That is the fabric of my deep grief. That is what I could not express.

Trauma gives grief a painful and very confusing expression. I only slowly learning to live with that parts of trauma – but it is so darned hard.

The worse part of trauma is knowing I had survived living in a world where I had no exit, where all my options were stolen from me.

To survive that world – I had to become the empowered whore to said many times that I choose my life.

Trauma is hearing my past – getting past my self-hate that tells that I was traitor to say the sex trade was good – and to know with a terrible grief, that to say it was ok was a survival mechanism.

I could not know I was controlled and owned by profiteers and punters, even by the consumers who watch me inside hard-core porn. Know I had no labour rights – christ, I had no human rights to safety, dignity or freedom.

I had to live – so I had to believe it was all my own fault – for knowing the lack of hope, and know the premeditated hate and violence that is the sex trade, that would have killed me.

Trauma is becoming free enough to know the sex trade never saw me as human – just disposable goods.

All that gives me a mental block.

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