I wish to try to write into the middle of my trauma, I do not know if I do it, but this post will try to flow into that space.
The centre of my trauma is a void.
The void of not remembering, not knowing my years of prostitution, not remembering feelings, not seeing faces or places, not recording how my body was tortured.
The void is like a rat in my brain wanting and needing to remembering – but knowing to remember each and punter who torture me, to remember each and every part of my body and mind that was polluted with their hate and violence, to remember each and every place I was made into trash – to remember my full past would kill me.
Trauma is that fight – the fight for truth, the fight for justice, the fight to fill in gaps, the fight to know I can be human.
Of course, there is loads more to trauma for all exited women – but for me, that terrible void is the gnawing that will never go away.
I can see my stepdad and in my head I can hate him for sexually and mentally me.
I can see all the men who said they were my friend, then rape me.
I see those men, seeing them I can imagine justice, seeing them I can punish them in my mind.
I know them – I know their names, I see their betrayal, I know how they pre-planned breaking me down.
Knowing them I have permission to hate them.
Hate each and every words they spoke to make me trust them, hate each and every way they abuse my mind and body, hate each and every they said to justify their actions.
These men are solid.
There is no such solidness when remembering prostitution.
It is a haze, it is remembered in gaps and silences, most will never be remembered.
But not remembering means there can never be true justice for the prostituted – for most punters and profiteers are made into a haze or just a general violent man.
My trauma goes directly into that void – all that is left is my silent screaming.
I have no idea how many punters brought me, no idea how often I was raped, no idea how often the sexual torturing made me lose consciousness, no idea how often they force me to say I enjoy whilst I knew I was dying, no idea often how I was thrown away like trash.
I have no idea how many the places this all happened, no idea how often I knew no-one cared as I tortured in a hotels, no idea how often people turned a blind eye as I was raped behind pubs or inside their toilets, no idea how often I acted normal as in flats I was gang-raped or many hours.
I have no idea how many profiteers were making me their goods, no idea how often I exchanged from place to place, no idea how often I was sold to sadistic punters for greater profit, no idea how often what for appeared to be chaos was highly organised.
That is the void I live with.
I believe that void make trauma seemed endless – it fades, I have learnt many ways to deal with it – but the void destroys access to full justice, and without justice how can trauma disappear.
I know in my heart of heart, that I have remember enough to believe myself, to believe it was torture, to know it was multiple rapes, to know I was made sub-human – that to know that is enough, but still the gnawing continues.
I have no answers here, only say as it is – and to thanks all that stand by and exited women as we are.