Despair Hits My Heart

I have been coming back into life – I know this is good. But this post is about my confusion, my grief and my despair that I still do not understand what it is to be alive – beyond being a role.

I will write in the back parts of my mind, I will try to drag out the stuff that scares me, that blocks me, that still make wonder if I am still nothing but an object finding how to please others.

I don’t know how to be human, that it not some philosophical statement, not said for pity or sympathy – it is said because the sex trade made me into a sub-human, into nothing but consumable goods.

I can copy humans and find how to fit in with humans – but underneath, hidden from view, is a deep emptiness.

I am like a machine waiting for instructions, I am off when alone – when not working or talking.

I need an audience to end my deadness.

I am learning I do not have to please.

Have to please to still safe.

Have to please to avoid danger.

Have to please to be seen.

Have to please to stay invisible.

Have to please by speaking to their language.

Have to please by inventing truths about myself.

The role of the prostitute is to please without thought, to please without emotions, to please without knowing a past, to please without having pain.

The prostitute is never real as a human, she can never have the right to feel, to have dreams, to know a past or have a future.

The things that make a human a human are stolen from the prostituted.

How do I survive without a despair that seems to never end?

How can you remain human when you are sexually tortured so many times it is your routine?

How do you remain human when every women-hating word, concepts and ideals are placed under your skin until you lose what or who you are?

I was whore, I was slut, I was cunt, I was manipulator of men, I was happy hooker, I was pretend girlfriend, I was escort, I was bitch, I was preventing real rapes to real women, I was lover of degradation, I was made with no pain threshold, I had a heart of gold, I do anything for money, I could be killed coz I was nothing alive.

I was made all that and more – but I was never allowed to be human.

I cry beyond despair as the language about the prostituted in nearly every contexts keeps the prostituted as sub-humans.

But to become truly human, I know many exited have to face and know the depths of what they were made – more than what was done to them – what they made by society and the sex trade taking away their access to their own humanity.

Of course, we were made dead by the thousands of rapes, batterings, sexual torturing and closeness of a violent death.

But what made us dead, was the constant remainders it was more than the sex trade destroying us – it was being surrounded by too much of society not caring what happens to the prostituted.

It must know and face that we live with the knowledge to be prostituted is to be nothing in life, and thrown away in death.

We live in a world that would avoid prostitution unless it thrown into their faces –  and then make excuses for its existence.

Excuses excuses.

It is the oldest profession, it always been with us, it just part of male nature, it is too big to confront.

Excuses excuses.

No woman would do it unless she enjoys, it pays better than McDonald’s, it a nasty job but someone has to do it.

Excuses excuses.

I wouldn’t judge someone’s choices, some women have high libidos, it can be safe enough, it is ok if kept firmly closed behind doors.

Society refuses to know what it is to be prostituted.

As they refuse to know, to see, to hear, and to feel the realities of the prostituted – we are being routinely raped, battered, sexually tortured and murdered.

The prostituted are in conditions of slavery, and are being wiped from this planet.

We live in a world that call it adult entertainment or a business exchange.

How can I not despair?

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5 responses to “Despair Hits My Heart

  1. Thank you so much for writing this! I can definitely relate to the feelings of needing to please others. For me, it comes from avoiding death or violence during my experiences. Anyway, keep writing!

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  2. Rebecca, thank you! Your writing helps me connect the ravages of fragmented scattered pieces lining the walls of memory. “I need an audience to end the deadness.” That is both terrifying and needed. So true in that it hovers around isolation and insulation. Your heart, your words, your gut honesty help me. Thank you for your brutal bluntness. Thank you for your heart, your words, for sharing your pain. You are a blessing.

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