Coldness is My Heart

When you have somehow exited prostitution – the biggest unanswerable question is How come I not dead?

There is no answer, only more questions, only a background of survivor guilt, only a hole that never be filled.

One reason I may have survived, one reason many exited women may have survived is that we built a heart of ice.

You may call that detachment, you may say it was protection from madness of self-destruction – all I know is now I am safe and stable, the ice is still there on too many occasions.

I can find I view the world with a wall of ice between me and feelings, ice between me and knowing too much reality.

Like the Ice Queen, I hug ice to my heart refusing to know my own pain, refusing to cry, refusing to know deep inside my soul that prostitution is inside my skin.

I can write and speak out about prostitution, I can speak to close friends of some of the horrors – but I cannot let too much inside me.

What terrified is how I speak/write out, but as soon as I am alone I can make into nothing, make out it cannot truly hurt or formed me.

I place the world of my prostitution into an ice chamber, hoping it will die from neglect –  only to find my mind “forgets” but my body is sick with deep memories demanding attention.

I want to be the Ice Queen and never feel again, I want sometimes to return the world of losing my humanity and ability to know my own hell.

I want to live numb to all my past, numb to knowing torture is still inside my body, numb to knowing that all that happen to me is now happening to millions of the prostituted.

I want to an Ice Queen and forget how to care – for caring is too painful, caring bring a huge grief to the surface, caring make living whilst dreaming of dying.

But I know I am no Ice Queen, I know my heart is not frozen – I know my fear of being alive is a natural reaction to never being allowed to know what being alive is.

I know as I defrost that pain is re-birth or just a simple learning that I breathe without punishment or hate stopping me.

I was never the Ice Queen, I was Kaye the child trapped by the Ice Queen, who having no escape lost hope and adapted, adapted so well he claim he was happy.

I adapted to prostitution, I adapted to being used for “amateur” porn – I adapted and painted on the smile of the deaden Whore.

I adapted by losing all connections to feelings, all connections to hope, all connections to a world that may care – I adapted to the ice palace I was living in.

For much of my years of prostitution, the shell I was living inside appear comfortable and even relatively high-class.

I was always indoors, I had a bed or beds, I was only by up to 10 or 12 men at the most in one night, I was safer than the streets or some kind illegal brothel.

I was lucky, that was what I told myself.

I made myself lucky by locking away how often I was tortured, how common gang rape was, how often I thought I was going to be murdered – that was shut down in my ice chamber.

I made myself the Happy Hooker, smiling and laughing as each day I was amazed I was still existing.

Now my question to you – is how to live with that much ice in your heart, how in living can the prostituted learn to connect to the world beyond prostitution?

I have no answers, only the hope that as exited women bring their truths to the surface there is some true connection.

I know there will be, just is a long and hard road.

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2 responses to “Coldness is My Heart

  1. “Now my question to you – is how to live with that much ice in your heart, how in living can the prostituted learn to connect to the world beyond prostitution?”

    By practice? Seems to me that it is harmful attachment (through relationship) that is the core wound from prostitution (well, other than the violence that creates it!) — it is through repetitive violent and disrespectful relationships that trauma in the sex trade is created, so its opposite — repetitive safe, non-violent, respectful relationships — is the antidote. All of which takes much time and patience, because the trauma did not develop overnight.

    Just my 2 cents.

    Like

  2. I’m also an exited woman. Almost 15 years ago I worked as a “call girl” for about six months.

    And it was my death.

    I simply dissociated from that time in my life. There are many things I don’t remember. I never dealt with it and just acted as though it wasn’t that big of a deal. Because it could had always been worse, right? And me and my friends, and other women tried to make it as fabulous as possible with shopping, drugs, alcohol.

    In fact, I completely “forgotten” about that time in my life until a month ago.

    I can relate to the coldness. I don’t have any answers. I just know this thing stains the soul no matter how long ago it was or how little one was involved. Even if you try to block it out, it’s still there…needing to be faced.

    Like

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