It is Hard

It is hard writing, but I must do it anyway.

I feel I have reach a place of staring into my past, knowing it must be true, and wanting not to know that reality.

I have found words connected into a language that makes me want to run away, or to dig myself a deep hole and bury myself.

I have come to face the unbearable, the sick-making, the unspeakable – and come to know I can no longer detach myself from that past.

I suppose to truly go forward I must know my own reality – but how do you truly know torture? How do you truly know being raped beyond the brain want to count?

How do you truly know and place inside your essence, that you have made into a sub-human, made into goods with no human rights?

How do you truly know that all that hell was never personal, you were never seen or known, just another interchangeable whore to be used and thrown away?

I must know all that to go forward – I armed with knowing all that as I fight for abolition.

For as an exited woman, abolition is no abstract idea, it cannot be allowed to just be a dream – no, it must be a solid reality for all the prostituted, no half measures.

I fight for the future, but always carrying my prostituted past as a wound and reminder of why I fight so hard and relentlessly.

I see my individual past and know it just part of millions of prostituted lives in every country and throughout recorded human history.

I was never an individual story, not unique, never worse or better than any other prostituted woman or girl – I was just an example of the ordinary torturing of any prostitute in any culture, in any era and under any political system.

To be tortured as a prostitute is to know inside every cell of your body what it is to be made nothing – less than the dog shit you step in.

Being nothing, having no access to human rights – it is normal to torture the prostitute in any way the human brain can imagine – be it physical, sexual or mental torturing, usually all mixed together.

But the hell of being a prostitute is that it not a few men who torture – it can hundreds or even thousands of men, it can be countless.

Each punter imagine he is unique in his torturing or raping of the prostitute – some imagined they are the only punter who went “out of control” or enjoy being violent.

Many punters imagine it not real violence, for if a woman is a prostitute she must enjoy pushing the boundaries, and anyhow she not human enough to feel pain.

More punters than outsiders want to imagine know it is rape, know they committing acts the prostitute is being damaged by – and they do not care, or think it proves they are a real man.

Punters do not accidentally harm the prostitute – that is a highly dangerous myth.

But most punters are experts at lying, experts at making themselves into the victim, experts at making it looked as if they were manipulated by the prostitute.

They are never rapists, never do violence unless the prostitute ask for it, never rude to the prostitute – heck if you believed punters they are all gentlemen, or just a consumer buying goods.

Always it is easier to follow the lies of punters – and blame the prostituted for “allowing in” all that violence.

So I allowed myself to be gang-raped, allowed myself to be deep-throated till I was sick or fainted, allowed anal rape to nearly kill me, allow my head to put into water as I was being rape.

I suppose I was just adventurous.

Why, if was my choice or way of life – why was I nearly murdered at least three or four times, why did I keep trying to commit suicide and why did I get pregnant, sexual diseases and trauma?

Why did i seem to miss out on the fun side of being prostituted?

And why did every prostitute I have ever know or heard also miss out on the jolly japes of prostitution?

All I know that every exited woman seemed to think the Happy Hooker is a unicorn – and we cannot understand why it is believed that any woman or girl has full choice inside the sex trade.

This is hard to write, to even think – so I will rest now.

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One response to “It is Hard

  1. You are an exxtremely brave woman. What you are doing requires strength; real inner strength and a strong will to live. I know what it’s like. I kept diaries through my “escorting” days and cannot bear to read them…I was intensely angry, drug and alcohol addicted, afraid, guilty and greedy all rolled into one. I had a huge drug habit which I supported with no problem. I used to go shopping like an addict to hide my pain and buy “things” to help me feel better about myself. Never worked. In the end I was just stuck with drug addicted/psychotic/resentful at the world me. You are doing a huge service to humanity for writing this blog. I’ll keep reading it and sharing my story as much as I can. I feel a weight falling off my back already…thank you.

    Like

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