It will soon be another year, another time to reflect whilst looking to the future.
A time to stand inside the present and see if anything has changed.
In this post, I will not make the old New Year’s resolutions, which are either forgotten or just broken carelessly.
I do not feel much about New Year, except in England it an excuse to watch great music on the Jools Holland’s Show.
No, I celebrate every day that I still go on – that I was never destroyed and made to disappear by the sex trade.
I celebrate that I am free enough to grieve all that was stolen from me.
I celebrate each time I feel tears on down my face, that I made to be human enough to cry.
I celebrate that my body feel the pain of remembering what it was to be tortured – that I no longer a husk without feelings.
I celebrate as my fury conquers my heart.
As fury burns through all who speaks for the sex trade.
A fury that reject the language of sex work, the language of female empowerment, the language of legalisation, the language of forced prostitution.
A fury rejects all language that keeps the prostituted enslaved and made into goods
But my fury is not just focus on the sex trade supporters – it is a fire that is ready to burn down all ignorance and patronising attitudes to exited women.
It is a fire that burn away all the covering that makes the torturing of the prostituted invisible.
It a fire that know that even allies can keep the prostituted as sub-human. So it burns in every directions, but always with a clear clean purpose.
It is a fire that join in with my deep-seated grief as statistics of women killed by male violence – and always the prostituted are made invisible, only rarely known in their deaths.
My fury knows and screams we have allowed the sex trade profiteers and punters make the murders of the prostituted vanish.
Know most deaths in the sex trade, whether suicide, ill-health or murder are dealt with in-house.
Hidden in plain view – all my grief and fury knows so many of the prostituted vanish each day in every country, it is so countless – only a sea of tears can do them justice.
But each time you see or hear of murders by male violence – than know maybe twice or five times the amount of prostituted women or girls are killed.
That is more than likely a major underestimate – my mind cannot hold all the prostituted Sisters who lives were thrown away.
All I have is a rage built with grief and pain – but I go on, I go forward with knowledge of a hell others refuse to know or even try to understand.
It comes out each time horrors of sexual become the news – it only is news when it affects women who are not inside the sex trade, women that are framed as good enough to feel damage when male violence enters their bodies.
Gang-raping is a tiny example of how the prostituted are made invisible.
I, like many exited women, was gang-raped many times – but it was never seen as an outrage.
We were gang-raped into unconsciousness; we were gang-raped with fists, with teeth, with many penises, with tongues; we were gang-raped in every holes punters could find.
Gang-rapes were our punishment; gang-rapes were reserved for special punters; gang-rapes meant getting more money – gang-rapes was part of our norm whatever aspect of prostitution we were doing.
But there is no outrage when the prostituted are gang-raped – even when she is gang-raped to death, for then her body is tossed away.
Us, the exited women who somehow survived serial gang-rapes – have an underlying rage and sorrow that are no protests, no demand for serious punishment for punters and sex trade profiteers who supply and demand gang-rapes of the prostituted; no government inquiries.
We have learnt that our tortures and deaths are of no importance.
It makes the rage – it makes me fight even harder.
It makes me go on.