This post is written again to my lost youth. It is a song of sorrow.
I am listening to Blue Note as one way to reach some kind of depth beyond the rational mind that closes out all that is too painful, too full of grief – I want to enter a space of who I was before I understood there was an exit.
When you see an exit, there can be a start towards hope. See a glimpse of an exit, and dignity and slow route to being human is entering your heart.
I want to write to the time when hope, dignity, and a claim to be human had to shut firmly away.
A time when to live I had to be dead.
A time that is hard to know, hard to enter – and very hard to want to believe.
I write not to repair that time, I do not know or trust that can be done.
I do not write to make myself whole – that is an illusion that others need to believe – I will strive and always go forward, but at the same I cannot experienced the extreme violence of my past without gaps, silences, and holes in me.
I write of my past, for it is the present for millions of prostituted women and girls – I write to show an example of the norm in prostitution in order to bring about real change.
I look with eyes that must directed into the void of that time – I try to as unflinching as I can, not to see into what was done to me – unflinching at knowing how my natural emotions were ripped from me.
What was done to me was the normal sexual, mental and physical torture that the vast majority of prostituted women and girls go through almost every moment of every day.
Violence to the prostituted class is so normal, so regular, and so accepted that it is mostly invisible.
The prostituted class are not abused, they are not raped, they are not beaten – no, the prostituted class are brutally tortured, are made sub-human, are ripped of all their rights.
We must not speak in the language of rape, language of individual violence – it must be the language of human rights, language of systematic dehumanising, and always the language of torture and genocide.
What is done to the prostituted class is genocide – only the genocide is made invisible by replacing the goods.
I have written that many times – my heart breaks each time I write or say it. For as the message has to be repeated over and over and over and over, yet more prostituted women and girls are being destroyed – and no-one seems to care.
So I will enter some of my middle.
There so much where my mind wants to say, but cannot – hell I was not killed was I, I was not pregnant too much was I, I got very few STDs, my injuries were able to be hidden most of the time, the internal injuries could be ignored most of the time – I survived, didn’t I.
Now – look at that, and tell in any other part of life would living like that be acceptable.
It makes me grimly laugh when prostitution is re-branded as sex work.
What other type of work do you think – well at least I am not being murdered, at least I not being raped and made pregnant, at least I don’t run the risk of getting diseases as the course of my job, I don’t have to hide my injuries, I don’t have to put up with severe internal injuries – how many even crappy jobs have those conditions as their norm.
It was not a job – it was the conditions of slavery where the illusion of freedom and being constantly told it was your own choice to be there – so any harm done to the prostitute must be her own fault for not adapting well enough.
That is the middle of prostitution – that is the hell I had to adjust to.
I learnt soon the only way to adjust and to somehow survive was by being the living dead.
If you ever look deeply into eyes of woman or girl embedded in the sex trade – whatever aspect she is in – you will see they are dead.
It is a hundred miles stare, the eyes that see everything but wants to take in nothing – they are the eyes of having hope thrown into the trash-can too many times.
It is the look that has to kill her own past, has to refuse to believe in a future – the only way to survive or at least handle prostitution is to be dead, but appears in the moment enough, not to be on the receiving end of yet more hate and violence from punters and sex trade profiteers.
There is a kind of skill to being with punters when dead.
It is the skill of always having to boost his ego enough that he may be less violent, may get what he wants quicker and leave.
The skill to making just the right sex noises that the punter thinks he has made you have cum – that he has conquered the whore. Enough noise at the right time may stop a little bit of the violence.
Yes, prostitutes have skills – but they are mostly a complete and utter waste of time – for when and if a punter wants to be sadistic, no noise and no boosting his ego will stop him.
I have often been told or asked – why didn’t you fight back or at least learn self-defence.
That is surreal in the world of prostitution.
I did on occasions fight back or try to drive back some semblance of self-respect.
All I can say is I am damned lucky to come out alive from defending myself.
Remember that the prostitute is not viewed as human by the buyer or seller – she is goods, and being goods she must be obedient, must accept whatever violence that happens to her – she must remember she is a slave.
When a prostitute fights back or show a sense of self-respect, she places herself in a position of grave danger – for she has done the worse thing ever – she has reminded the punter or profiteer that she is still a human not goods.
This will lead to extreme violence, can get her murdered. This will get her into more isolation and without access to help.
A prostitute learn to survive to obey and not to appear to think.
My hearts breaks knowing that terrible reality.
I want your hearts to break enough to move you to fight even harder for abolition.
Fight to put life back into the eyes of all of the prostituted everywhere.