Dreams Cannot Stop It

I was a dreamer much of my life, but I learnt to hide that aspect of myself as much as possible.

Dreaming did not stop my pain. Dreaming did not make men respect me. Dreamers are trashed by the sex trade.

But now with safety, ability to trust and stability – I am learning to dream again.

I know there was a time, time of a child when dreams were encouraged, when dreams were entertaining.

I know I had that time, only it was smashed away.

Dreams can and do kill the prostituted.

To be seen as a dreamer, is to be as a manipulated object – all the joys of being a dreamer is forced out of you.

To be a dreamer is hated by the sex trade, for it is proof that a prostituted woman or girl can and does have some private space no man can invade.

I was punished for reading, I was punished for showing a real interest in TV, I was punished for saying I had a life outside of being fucked and made into trash.

I was hated for having an imagination – as punters and sex trade profiteers force me into roles from their many porn dreams.

How do you keep dreaming, when all you thoughts are made into rape, made into torture?

I did not allow my brain to imagine, I train not to sleep enough to dream.

I was more calm about having nightmares – then having dreams of hope or a life beyond pain.

Nightmares made sense, dreams made me want to die.

If you want to truly get under the skin of the prostituted, then imagine wanting nightmares and hating dreams – then you may have some glimpse of our reality.

I learnt to not have visual memory – for all I saw was the endless replaying of punters raping/torturing me, all I saw was lack of care when anyone know I had been paid for it, all I saw was pimps saying I was trash and getting what I deserved.

I would shut my eyes and hope all I saw was nothing, or just watch the red balls falling across my eyes.

I would shut my eyes and hope they would never open again.

But always I open my eyes and found the pain, the hate and the confusion was still there.

I stop thinking beyond one moment at a time – then like a goldfish I would pretend to forget the moment before or want to know the moment after.

That is the essence of the hell of prostitution – that it so non-stop and without hope, that most of the prostituted only survive by not allowing in the reality of their lives.

To dream in that environment is to have a death-wish. To dream is to hope, to hope inside the sex trade is to be smashed into the ground.

That is why the majority of the prostituted have dead eyes – hope cannot be seen.

If the eyes are truly the essence of a person – then what does it say that the prostituted murder that essence in order just to live?

I want to weep for those dead eyes, I want to rage for those dead eyes, and I want to fight for those dead eyes.

I can have the privilege and safety to dream now – but I will never forget when I had to murder my dreams.

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3 responses to “Dreams Cannot Stop It

  1. Dreams. Nightmares.

    You say: “If you want to truly get under the skin of the prostituted, then imagine wanting nightmares and hating dreams – then you may have some glimpse of our reality.”

    When everyone I knew, 20 years ago, was trying to lure me into a leisure and therapy swinging sex world at a time when I really, really wanted that, I wanted a wild sex life – I was 47 – but somehow I felt I was also always being pressured into accepting stuff I found unacceptable – or just did not want – I felt I was being driven half mad with the conflicting pressures that came from every direction in my life.

    That year I Iistened over and over again in my car as I drove from pleasurable date to date, from pleasurable assignation to assignation, to the Graceland (Paul Simon) LP. “I know what I know. I know who I am” or something like that.

    As the pressure grew, I often told myself over and over again, “There is a place in the centre of my head that is me, I know what I know, I am who I am”. I believed (but only just) that no-one could get to me there.

    You give some insight into what it is like to be inside your head.

    In an earlier response I spoke of the things that drove me mad. I did not list everything. Like people constantly joking at barbecues knowingly about pig (the police) roasts, about eating pork (police), about police and other whistleblowers being blackmailed, that their children would get it. (I am not directly connected to the police etc altho they are in my family background and at the time I thought a friend of mine had been in the police, had been under cover)..

    Like

  2. I nearly cried when reading your story and this article.

    I am a guy and though I realize the extent of suffering and pain that you underwent cannot be undone, I have hope that your strength will help you overcome and endure the effects of it all.

    I am really really SORRY that you had to suffer so and your story made me start of thinking of ways of helping girls in prostitution indirectly or directly so that they get a chance at a real life.

    Sorry again and I wish you well.

    Like

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