I sometimes wake into a nightmares with trains rattling past my window.
Trains came through my life when I was a prostituted.
I travelled on trains from one town to a city.
Train were outside my flat as punter sexually tortured me..
Trains was the background noise of my private hell.
But somehow, without reason, I always kept my love of trains.
I thought of trains taking me to Cornwall, into Scotland, or even to some airport.
I listen to Blues, country and rock songs of endless trains, taking the A-train into jazz.
I wanted electric train-sets, which were always the Royal Scot or the Orient Express.
I read of engineers and builders of railways.
I wanted trains to take me away into safety.
Only now I can face the nightmare of trains that still invade me.
How do I describe the travelling on trains down to yet another punter.
There are few words that reach into creeping deadness, that deep sense of self-hate and blame.
As I sat in the train, I would close down all emotions, I would train my body to be a block of ice.
I made myself not care.
Not care that I was going badly hurt.
Not care that I could be killed.
Not care about the scenery.
Not care about the small part of my mind telling me to get off the train.
I became bravado, devil-may-care, don’t mess with me.
I was falling into the role of the whore who was worth nothing.
In a journey often of just 40 minutes, I had lost all that mattered to being fully human.
I still get nightmares of slow death as I sat on trains.
I still find I cannot make a particular journey, without thoughts of suicide.
The worse memory of trains was the flat I had backed up to a train station.
Most of the time, I would find the noise of trains relaxing and one way to escape reality.
I, like the Railway Children, would dream where the passengers were going or why they stop in my town.
But my flat was just the space I existed in, it was also a place where too many punters came and polluted the air.
I would focus hard on the noises of trains to block out as much as I could.
I would pretend I was travelling to anywhere as far as possible – as the punters penetrated me, made my body into their personal sadist porn playground, and be careless whether I live or died.
I would try to remember as many songs about trains as possible, try to name each station I could remember, list famous trains – anything to not be in the moment.
For those moments with those punters seemed to have no end or beginning, just a constant middle.
A middle of hell, as every cell is pushed beyond pain, as the small part of my mind is screaming just stop now and pleading for real help.
That middle when the light at the end of the tunnel was always a fast train.
I know I was somehow alive if I could still hear the trains.
I have rebuilt my life, and now travel a lot by train.
Now I am pretty chilled on train.
But I honoured the bravery of the other part of me that clings to trains in order to know I am alive.