I have built myself a life where I have learnt to love Christmas.
But always I carry the knowledge that there is no Christmas for the prostituted class – unless it dressed-up Christmas porn or Christmas extras in indoors prostitution.
I used to be dead at Christmas – so now I let it in.
I let in joy.
I let in tears.
I let in my loved ones.
I let Christmas telly.
I let in eating and drinking.
I let my prostituted soul know that Christmas can be her’s.
It is my present to her for somehow staying alive.
Present to her or somehow keeping her sanity.
And my present to her for gradually learning she is safe, and be part of me.
I think Christmas has always been loved by me – even as punters did their damn-est to rip it away from me.
I always have had the child’s wonder at the simple beauty of the concept of Christmas.
I knew as I turning into ice – that there was hope.
I had no idea how to reach.
I came to assume I was too “bad”, too sub-human and too damaged to reach that hope – but Christmas each year planted a seed that maybe hope would find me.
I have never believe in god – always knew that the spirit that may called hope is inside each of us.
Only every rape, every words of hate, every beating up, every attempt to murder me, and every act of torture was making hope get more and more lost.
I could let in Christmas when I was in that world, Christmas meant too much to me for me to open up to it.
Though I did become a Quaker – I did cry at King’s College Choir – I did go on occasion find myself at Midnight Mass.
I never lost my need and want that I could belong inside Christmas.
I wanted the innocent that would love Christmas lights, innocent that is excited on December 24th, innocent that will watch same films again with tears in my eyes.
I wanted so semen on and in me, no money being used to make rape into consent, no being locked in room/s as a man/men sexually me, no being told it is a gift from Santa as pain and blood flows from me.
I wanted that sense of joy of presents given or received, sense of joy that I watch Dr Who again, sense of joy as I speak with loved relatives on the phone.
Not the grief of waking in a room with my aching and screaming with the same-old sadist violence, not the grief of knowing what it is to be brought and sold.
There was and is no day/night off for the prostituted class.
Rape carries on as normal, male violence is extreme as normal – only difference is it meant to be “special treat” for the punters.
So the prostitute must smile even harder, must boost the punter’s ego for longer, must ignore the pain or near-death experience – for Christmas she must provide him with his extra-special present.
No matter she is sick to her stomach, no that she may not be able to breathe, no matter if she is bleeding, no matter that she is made to hate herself.
If the punter is happy, he may over-pay her, and then the sex trade profiteer will be happy.
So Christmas is spread out as she is dying.
Somehow, for unknown reason – I still wanted to believe in Christmas.
Now, as I have learnt to re-build my own Christmas, I am learning I was right to never lose my simple wanting to have such innocence, such joy and such belief in hope.
I can now can eat and drink knowing it will be used to manipulate me.
I can now watch Christmas TV with no punter determining my attention, and punishing me if I dare not make the centre of universe.
I can now eat chocs without pimps or punters saying I am fat too gross to be fucked.
I can now look at Christmas lights without the dread of what the night will be, or the male whispers asking me how much.
Now I am alive enough to love Christmas.
Christmas is now inside my heart.