I am screaming in every cell of my body – but no sound comes out, only a stony silence.
I have no language, but I attempt to write, to express anyhow.
This post goes to that place of silent screaming, the place that my prostituted essence buried in fear.
I do not know how to write to that place, only that to be whole, to know what freedom can be, that I must.
I know to write will give me more grief, pain and sense that I should disappear – but to not write would be worse.
I have somehow got away from hell – so all I write or say now is just fragmented memory – I not there now.
So I write to know, I write to remember, I write to connect, I write to force back that I am human.
Writing is not fun, it is no hobby – writing from my place of shattered silence is agony and a deep struggle.
It is only worth it if changes minds and hearts towards giving the prostituted class true free freedom and humanity.
My screaming starts in the place/places where I was made into a prostitute.
The places I see only in flashes, the places that rise up in waking dreams or nightmares, that places that pollute my mind and body.
I do not know how many rooms it was – after time all rooms became so few when so many.
I know the rooms were in flats, were in hotels, were in houses, were behind clubs – rooms never matter much when you are blocking out your existence.
There was other places, places where I was made into trash – be it behind a pub with the bins, be it some graveyard, be against any old wall, be it in a subway, be it in a car.
Anywhere is accessible to rape and throw away a whore – the only difference between indoors and outside is the amount of money the punter have.
My screaming is knowing money or the word prostitution makes all male violence invisible – or if seen of little importance.
Incest and child rape matters if it not inside the sex trade; trafficking is made real if not done to the prostituted class; rape is made impossible if a man hands over money or named the woman as his prostitute.
To be prostituted, is to know every form of male violence, and be told over and over it just your choice and lifestyle.
The prostitute has no words for her rapes, her tortures, and her knowledge that she will more than likely be murdered.
Any words she may express are dismissed, are gaslight out of her, are made to appear just a sign that she is too damaged to know her own reality.
All her truths and words are buried and she tries to kill them in birth.
They never die, only become a silent screaming – screaming to somehow keep she is still human even when all is saying she is nothing.
It is that silent screaming that somehow gives a prostitute a small will to live – and to remember.
It is that silent screaming that is the leading force that drives exited women who become abolitionists – for that silent screaming make sure we never forget where we came from.
That silent screaming gives us pride that we can have feelings when the sex trade so hard to murder them.
That silent screaming gives us pride to know we can be connected to all the prostituted class, and stand up for and with them.
That silent screaming shows us it was pre-planned torture, that it was on the scale of a genocide, that our horror was never seen or heard for it was so huge it became invisible.
That silent screaming is outraged and full of fury when it is denied by comparisons; by saying it just all women are abused, it just like marriage.
That silent screaming remember we could not named our rapes, as we were raped so often that our rapes were made nothing.
That silent screaming speaks in the voices that is connected to genocide survivors, that know what extreme torture is, speaks the language of shell-shock and the language of concentration camps, we speak towards full human rights.
That silent screaming is PTSD so extreme and complex that most decides it cannot exists, or get angry that we don’t just get over it.
That silent screaming will never go until all the prostituted are free, have full and long-term justice, are viewed as some of the bravest of the brave.
That silent screaming is an inconvenient reminder that all the prostituted class have had their humanity stolen.