This is one of my stream of consciousness posts. It a post looking at small meaningful moments of my life.
Each moment changed me, each moment was part of losing hope but staying, each moment poured deadness into my heart.
This post is a brief of one of the many ways you can kill the soul of a female until she becomes the role of the Whore.
I write this on Easter Sunday, for those I am an atheist – the story of deep pain and grief having hope and real change is meaningful to me.
I see inside each and every exited woman in every country that resurrection.
In the post, I write to what made me into the Whore – in this post I write to show how I fought to stay alive enough to exit.
I suppose the first moments of any consequence were the moments of my mother’s neglect made it clear I could not be loved.
Moments when I cry out for her love – only for to send me into silence, to turn out all lights and shout at me to shut up.
I do not know when I learnt there was no point in crying – only that I was too young to know that knowledge.
There was the moment, when I was four or five, and a stone went into my knee.
I did not cry, I acted like nothing had happened.
I said nothing as the pain grow, I said as the wound went green – I said nothing as I wanted to faint.
So small, I had learnt the bitter lesson never to show pain in case it made you too vulnerable, I had learnt never to cry it give too much away.
I was in training to be a Whore.
A very important moment in this training was how I reacted, or learnt not to react to being shown hard-core porn by my stepdad and mum.
I was shown Hustler, shown Penthouse, shown images from rape/murder police photos, shown porn named as art – when I was so young.
I think I was six or seven.
Young enough to have nowhere in my mind to compute what I was seeing, no words to describe my sickness or disgust.
I was just frozen staring into hell – staring down my future.
What language can fit that memory? Only I seek words for it all the time.
I know as a child I saw into those images that looking for hope was pointless, that I had no protest left.
How can you hope when staring into the eyes of the living dead?
How do you protest when your voice is stolen?
In that porn I saw my future.
I saw to survive by having no pain, by learning to smile all the time, by being silent, by being whatever men wanted me to be.
I the child learnt to have a Whore’s heart, thinking that may keep me safe or at least alive.
If you have pity for that child, put it away – pity helps no-one.
Have anger, cry out for justice, join collective action to stop any child seeing or knowing what she know.
Do action – but never waste energy on pity.
It is Easter, and Easter is always about rabbits.
As a child, I grow to hate rabbits.
I hated that they were so passive – that when you pointed a gun at them they froze and stared into the barrel.
I saw my vulnerability, my lack of any escape, my own terror in those rabbits – so I hated them with a passion.
I placed all my fear, my hate to my stepdad, my self-hate into killing rabbits.
I still don’t like rabbits, but now I have learnt to make it into a joke – never to say the terror inside my child’s heart.
There are moments of my teenage years with my stepdad building up sexual abuse – training my mind and body to accept the unacceptable, training me into the deadness that made me a perfect Whore.
From 12 to 19, my stepdad would abuse me often, his abuse was slow and patient, but always building up how much he invaded me.
By the time I was 17, he had reach his goal – every part of my skin belonged to him.
There were moments where he would lay me into his bed, and with unbearable slowness touch me all over.
He would force me to feel, force me to cum, force me to betray myself.
I wanted to be dead, I wanted that I give him nothing, I wanted just a small piece of pride.
That was torture, that was throwing into thinking I was nothing but a whore.
I hate my stepdad for training me up for prostitution.
He may of well been my pimp.
I write these small moments as examples of how to make a Whore.
There is nothing unique about what I went through, maybe bits and pieces may be.
But neglect, self-hate, knowing porn too young, incest are common with far too may women and girls inside the sex trade.
I am exhausted, and need chocolate.