I have been taking time away from writing for I find it hard to focus, hard not to be too angry, hard not to despair – had to stay away from myself.
This blog reaches into a part of me that is afraid of being public – the part that is hidden below the surface.
I try to have an image of being strong, able to reach places other view as deep – but always knowing there are so many levels of pain, grief and reaching into my forgotten power that are never shown here.
I do not know if I can find words that fit what is not inside this blog – I only know this post is a start to expressing who I was when I was embedded inside indoors prostitution.
Know the only way I can express parts of that time is to confront the stereotypes of indoors prostitution, and to confront the language surrounding indoors prostitution. In doing that, I may have insight of who I had to be then.
I have dig deeper – I have to dig deeper without running away, I have to dig deeper even as sickness makes my heart cry, I have to dig deeper to drag my past self into life and give her the respect she deserves.
One constant that is said about being prostituted – is how we survived by making ourselves dead.
This is said by me often – so often it has been said without thinking too deep, without listening to my own essence and ignoring the images I have of own Self struck in the middle of yet another room with yet another punter.
I have come to believe I was not dead inside – for if I had the luxury of making myself dead, then the violent, hate and humiliation would have be easier to get over – it would all mean almost nothing, if I had be able to make myself dead.
No, the hell of prostitution is not being able to be dead emotionally, not being able to totally cut from the repetitive violence and degradation – the hell is not being able to make it all not matter.
I think now it is more about making yourself a role to be the whore, the escort, the woman who does not know pain, the woman who ignore fear, being a slave who always smiles.
Yes, I could cut myself off, but there was always an impact that was slowly poisoning me.
I could make it all untrue, by imagining it was a film, making it that I just loved sadistic sex – I could do that, but I could not stop the pain coming through, I could not stop the mind saying this should not be happening, this should not be happening, this should not be happening.
At the time, I was cut off – but now, through deep trauma all that refuse to be dead is screaming out.
I was the whore who knew how to smile, I was the whore who knew safety by pleasing sadistic men, I was the whore who was defiant that it my choice and fuck you if you judge me.
I was that happy hooker – and now through trauma I am learning to forgive myself for being a spokeswoman for the sex trade.
It is a very hard journey from then to now – a journey where there is deep fear of saying the ways I survive by pleasing punters and profiteers.
All I know, is that survival for far too many of women and girls inside all aspects of the sex trade is to learn to copy the language and ways of their oppressors, to parrot it is part of staying alive.
It can never save any of the prostituted – for the prostituted have no control over when, how and why punters and profiteers will kill, rape or torture them.
I, like so many of the prostituted, learnt to survive the unsurvivable by acting the role of not caring.
I was became a chameleon who could be whatever the punter demanded – I made myself their sex toy, and in doing that I lost how to remember what being human was.
I was human – but in that room, performing those acts of sexual torture, with endless faceless punters – I had to be nothing but goods, for to remember being human was too unbearable.
I have no choice but to be sub-human – for the whole purpose of the sex trade was to make all the prostituted interchangeable, into goods who have no voice and no rights – to remember being human in that environment can be the route to more violence or death.
As I said this post is just a start, and is very hard to write.
I want some change in language – towards a language that will fit the many gaps and silences that the prostituted live. A language that does not follow a linear line, or seek simple answers to impossible questions.
The language of facts is only the beginning of understanding what it is to be prostituted – it would lovely to fit it into neat boxes that can open and closed at will – but it never can be that easy for exited women.
We cannot speak in the simple journey of one individual – it was never personal or individual why we were brought and sold, we know our experiences are copied over many centuries and in every continent.
It was never personal – never personal – you can never truly understand what it was to be prostituted if you keep it in the language of the individual.
When I write or speak out – I know my words are not just mine.
I have in me the silenced voices of the prostituted from many centuries who’s voices were stolen by punters and profiteers.
I have in me the silenced voices of the women and girls I knew or heard who could not exit the sex trade – whether through giving up any hope to hold on, whether through suicide, or whether they “disappeared” or were murdered.
And I always have in me the silenced voices of the prostituted who are used every day everywhere.
I cannot and will not speak just for my past – I cannot change that – but the risen multiple voices of exited women can make real change for the future.