I have been so ill – ill with knowing what was blocked so firmly away, ill with knowing what it is and was to be sub-human.
My sickness is breaking me in many pieces.
I am starting to cry as I never have before. But crying doesn’t take the sickness away, just comes out and then the fear, grief and pain just fade – and comes back later.
I write, and speak to that pain, grief and fear – I write with so much order, so concern that it makes sense, write to please my readers.
I cannot write of the chaos, of the blinding terror, the sickness that no words or listening can cure.
I have great need to write, to express a small part of my reality.
I write to show my hell was the norm for thousands of the prostituted – it was not rare, it was not just bad luck, instead it was the norm for so many prostituted women and girls.
I write in a political heart – trying hard not to know my own emotions or my deadness of emotions, trying hard not to know without detachment the violence pour into my mind and body – I write to campaign for change, but I need more.
I need to feel into the sickness, feel into the terror, feel into the rage, feel why I must block out so much, feel that is no linear track to find my truths – I must feel in order to live with some kind of a future.
It is so hard to just pick up the pieces when for years you lived inside all forms of torture – hard to be fully whole and mended when torture steal memory, steal sense of self-hood, steal how to trust.
It is hard to find a future without knowing so much of the past – having silences and gaps that haunt the present, comes through in flashes of nightmares that are forgotten or remembered in a disjointed way.
I feel like I am building on sand as the sea destroys all I work for.
This is not true – but it so hard not to have despair – as pain, sickness, confusion and terror grabs my heart – that where I am now.