It has been almost impossible for me to write.
I have too much grief – I have too much confusion – I have too much wanting to run away and scream.
I will write, but the fear that I say it all wrong, or just repeat myself endlessly.
I feel a sadness that drags me into silence – a silence that yells hate and fear at me.
It like sitting on a bolting horse with no boundaries to stop it.
To say I am scared is a cliché that cannot fit; to say I am confused is too ordinary to fit this trauma.
I know I look back at my past, and want so much to say it all not true, even that only parts of it ain’t true.
Only each time I make the choice to not believe, to close down my past – the pain and hate re-enters my body – leaving me drowning inside sand.
I cannot think straight, I can only think in metaphors that soften my reality.
I think if I can write as a poet, than everything can be controlled and made smaller.
I try that for years, try most of my life to use writing to distance myself from all the male violence poured into me.
Now – I need to stop and let myself know it was real.
I need to say in a clear unrefined voice – I was a prostitute, I was an under-aged prostitute, I was gang-raped, I was abused by my step-dad, I was inside sadist violence.
I need to be clear that I had to live a double life to survive.
I like the majority of the prostituted was able to hide the hate and violence that surrounded me.
I need to be very clear and say with a broken heart – that all those who loved me or cared about had no idea that I was prostitute.
I want to explore how normal it is to be hidden as a prostitute, especially as a teenage prostitute.
The folks that love me believe that I could have never been a prostitute – for I was looked after 24-7.
No-one can know what anyone is doing 24-7, even with deep love and care, if a troubled girl/woman is leading a double life, she will hide herself from that love.
I have told that I am living on a lie, that I must have fantasy that I was prostituted, that I do it for sympathy or to have some kind of a role in life.
God, I wish that was true – even if that means I am so mentally ill that maybe I should be locked up.
But – let me ask what do I gain by taking the role of the prostitute, especially the prostitute who only knew sadist men.
Why would I be so sick as to gain by saying I was raped beyond counting – what is to gain from saying gang-rapes were often, saying that torture was in my mind and body.
Tell how that get me friends, give me respect or even help me to sleep at night?
Maybe I have lied so much that now I cannot know the truth.
But so much that I say, I only say coz my body memories forced it into the light.
The problem is like the vast majority of exited women, I survive by refusing to know my own reality.
I was not in denial – I was just able to close down all the hate and violence until it did not exist.
I was able to live by not knowing, that was my double life.
But that blocking is deeply unhealthy, and can place you in deep danger.
To block out so much means making yourself dead to all emotions, dead to wanting a future, dead to having a past, dead to knowing pain and humiliation.
To block out so much is to live as a ghost.
The power of remembering the truth is holding and knowing that pain and humiliation, knowing the terror and that you were lost.
I remember now enough to know I was prostituted – to know I hide that from my own essence, so how could my loved ones of known.