Ok this title is coz I am listening to Northern Soul, and Martha and the Vandellas is playing.
But this song’s title suits my mood – nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide.
That is what living with being a prostitute is – sometime the bitter expression –
Once a prostitute, always a prostitute –
Grabs me by the throat and makes believe in optimism very hard.
At heart, I tend to a fighter – a fighter that believes there will and can be real change for all the prostituted.
But there are times when my warrior spirit see only deadness, sees that light I thought was hope is just an oncoming train.
Hope is so fragile, and when you have lived without hope or knowing a future – it can be too easy to lose access to hope.
I have not writing for a while, for I have a fear to write when I feel no hope, when I reach into that place where I see only despair.
I cannot write for I want this blog to give hope and some way to freedom.
But to truly see the light, we must know the darkness we must leave.
We cannot hide from that darkness – if we try to run away it will suffocate our access to freedom and a future.
So in this post, I will try to face the demons of my past, try to expose them to the light. It may make little difference – but may give greater understanding of what being prostituted is.
I have been exited for many years – and the further I get from the sex trade, the more I am able to know that I was tortured, and the more I get horrific body memories.
My body memories tell it was real, that I was inside a machine that made me into goods, that I was unable to cause or stop all that was happening to my body and mind.
To know you had no control, no access to consent, no human rights – hell no right to be fully human – that is unbearable to know.
Yes, I can often write that the prostituted are made into goods and considered to be sub-human – but to know in body and mind, that it was my reality, that is unbearable.
To know that my body was not just rape and battered, but was living in an environment where any form of torture was my norm, that is unbearable.
To know in every cell of my body, that rape for me was so normal and constant, that my mind cannot and will not know how many men rape me or how many times I was raped.
I cannot remember for the rapes were so repetitive, I can just remember some particular sadistic acts or vile punters – but I was raped so much it all merges and has no end or beginning.
All I know that as my mind try to know what prostituted was to me – my whole body feel polluted and invaded.
That is when hope runs away and hides.
I cannot cry, for tears were stolen as I try to show punters no emotions.
I want to reach into grief, but cannot let go enough to feel that vulnerability or release.
I grieve because I cannot grieve.
I will more soon, but it so darn hard now.