Sickness Eats My Soul

I have very ill for many reasons, and have unable to write.

Now with great force, I will try to get to the centre of what is blocking me, what is sending sickness into my soul.

My soul is being slowly eaten alive.

It is mainly coming at me from two place.

The careless and callous use of language when so-called supporters speak about the sex trade.

And the lack of understanding of the depth and commonness of internal trafficking.

Both these are hurting me beyond pain, making me speechless, making me wanting to scream, making me apathetic as too much triggers me, making me thinking of ripping heads off of the so-called supporters.

My soul is a howling wolf, my soul is a silent stone statue of an unknown warrior, my soul is the wind in the moors, my soul is that pain which has forgotten where is came from and that it can be named.

How can we speak to the reality of prostitution, speak to the centre of being prostituted – if we turn away from language that is clear and stares deep into the darkness that is the sex trade.

Instead we have the language of detachment, the language of not connecting prostitution with human rights – the language without pain, horror or the visceral reality of what is to be prostituted.

A clean safe language that pushes away the multiple voices of those who have survived the sex trade.

A language given to the Left and even some feminists to hide blood, dead bodies and tears away.

If I hear sex worker again, I may buy an AKA, and kill some so-called supporters.

Your safe clean language is the language that colluded with the sex trade profiteers in the endless genocide of the prostituted.

Called our tortures, multiple rapes and deaths sex work – and you are an onlooker who will refuse any sense of guilt or responsibility for genocide of the prostituted class.

Prostitution cannot be made clean and safe – no matter how much you use the language of the Left, the language of labour, the language of freedom of choice.

Your words do nothing to stop the buying and selling of the prostituted, does nothing to stop all punters feeling entitle to own and torture the prostituted, does nothing for the safety of any prostitute alone with any punter or profiteer.

All your words do is make detached, make you turn away, make speak over the prostituted or those who have exited.

Your words make you imagine you understand the world of prostitution – when all you truly understand is the language of sex trade profiteers.

I have very triggered by the news in England about Rotherham, where at least 14,000 mainly girls have been internally trafficked into prostitution.

Internal trafficking is rarely reported – even though it is one of the most common ways that girls and women are drawn into prostitution.

It is only noticed if we can make the traffickers into the Other, only noticed if we can detached ourselves away from those who are being trafficked.

No-one can be detached from internal trafficking.

Traffickers, who are mostly men – come from all ethnic backgrounds, all cultural backgrounds, all ages, all classes.

Those who are trafficked are mostly females – come from all ethnic backgrounds, all cultural backgrounds, all ages, all classes.

Once you think there only a certain type of trafficker, or a certain type of female who is trafficked – then the sex trade profiteers are laughing at you.

The true terror that is internal trafficking is that it very ordinary men trafficking very ordinary girls in your home area.

I was internally trafficked – and it was made invisible.

That is normal – the sex trade is full of girls and women who were internally and no-one cared or even noticed.

The reason it is kept invisible – is because you do not want to lose your access to a wide range in prostitution.

You by ignoring internal trafficking are colluding with the sex trade profiteers.

Internal and external trafficking go hand-in-hand in providing the variety that punters demand in prostitution – providing prostitutes of many ethnicity, prostitutes who are very young, prostitutes who have no access to safety or being able to know consent.

Rotherham is just one example of the norm of the sex trade.

I think I can breathe a bit now – and hopefully sleep more than five hours.

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9 responses to “Sickness Eats My Soul

  1. I’ve always wondered why it’s called the sex trade and not the rape trade. I mean calling it the sex trade makes it seem kind of consensual, or at least it doesn’t highlight the lack of consent.

    It is true what you say about the unawareness of internal trafficking in prostitution. I think hardly anybody that isn’t directly involved in the world of prostitution imagines that victims of prostitution aren’t just the girls and women that come from very poor countries, but also our neighbors and friends of friends.

    Thank you for writing!

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  2. You write of your illness arising from ” the careless and callous use of language” and “lack of the depth and commonness of internal trafficking”.

    Language. Pimps. Ponces.

    How do I say that John and others in my family/acquaintances have been and continue to be pimps. They are pimping themselves. They are pimping others including me in my name but without my agreement. I have felt helpless to stop it ever since I became aware of it, but with no proof (when I was 50 years old).

    What is the difference between a pimp and a ponce?

    In your next posting you refer to academics who believe in Happy Hookers. That was my introduction to your world. I can tell of names, events, but they are clever, I have no proof. But I would tell if it seemed like I could stop their exploitation of the vulnerable. I would even tell on John if the occasion arose. I have always said that.

    Just a vague memory that came to me a few days ago.

    At a couple of sex parties I went to around 1991 – 3, Mike Doyle from Cardiff and Neath, one of the guys who was keen to get me involved more and more in swinging, seemed to get very excited by one or more pretty young girls who he said was from Brazil, not speaking English, and Portuguese was a very difficult language to understand (I did not agree since it is very like Spanish, which is easy to learn). I felt there was something not right about this but nothing I could put my finger on.

    Another memory that came back to me today. I don’t want to write about this. It is so far back in my life but has never been resolved altho I tried. I don’t expect you to concern yourself about this but as I write I am gaining strength to have another attempt to do something.

    It is about a lovely, bright and well-spoken young schoolgirl, well turned out by her mother, aged about 8 or 9 the daughter (Utte or Jutte) of my German landlady (Utte or Jutte) McDonald – I think it was McDonald – who had married a Scot but the marriage had ended) in Reading. I was 18. It was 1963 – around the time Kennedy was shot.

    I was in a bed sit with the family. I had failed to get a university place but my mum said she expected me to leave home anyway. So I went to Reading, where my sister was at Uni and I worked in M and S for 3 mths before getting a job in London, and a bed sit on a short hand typist’s wage.

    Well the little girl was lovely, the mother had a West Indian boyfriend (married) and one night in front of me stuck his tongue down the throat of the little girl with a slobbery kiss. The girl was very upset, so was I, I confronted the mother and she was in complete denial. Soon after it was Xmas, time for me to move on, they wanted me to stay in touch and I would have loved it because I liked them but I couldn’t handle this.

    I told my sister and my boyfriend, I wanted to stop this, but they were no help.

    Move on 40 years or so when I found out that my sister, Mary Jean Bowles, a psychiatric social worker at Maudsley Hospital, who, she said worked with sexually abused children”, said, when I confronted her about sexual abuse following hints hints and hints from other people, that yes, she had been sexually abused but she had dealt with it.

    It seemed to me then that she had been working on her own sexual abuse at the time that I had told her about the little girl, but she had said nothing, then or since.

    So, well, I wanted to make amends with the little girl for doing nothing. I felt a unable to do it on my own so I phoned the police and said I wanted to report a case of historic sexual abuse. A female police officer talked me out of doing anything.

    Maybe I will have another go,

    Jackie

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  3. Thank you so much for making this, my posting, available online. I found it as I am now searching for the little girl, who will be about 60 years old now. I want to be so so discreet about this search because I do not want to upset her. I hope she has a happy and stable life and does not need any intervention from me.

    So is my search selfish? Is it just for me to get peace of mind while the last thing she may want is me entering her life in 2014?

    (It was 1963, the event, and I heard the news of the Kennedy assassination 22 November 1963.)

    I am treading the stepping stones across all the rivers and streams and brooks and burns of life. I do not want to fall in. I do not want her to fall in. Peace to us all I hope.

    But if she is out there and is listening, I just remember, being around 19 years old myself and I hadf left home after caring for my baby brother, how lovely she was and how I wanted to care for her also, and failed. I left her. Sweet girl, I am so sorry, I tried to get help and support and found none, and was not strong enough to do anything more. How that still hurts. J.

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  4. A further note – that is relevant to my previous post and references to Babes from Brazil/Latin America, I recall that when I was at those sex parties (back in the early 1990s) and introduced to one or more beautiful young women from Brazil and was told that they spoke Portuguese and it was impossible to understand it, I challenged this and tried to check out their speech, having some Spanish, and some understanding of how European languages worked.

    Well, maybe I was wrong, but I thought at the time that they were speaking gobbledegook. I thought that they were not Brazilian beauties, but they were maybe UK lovely young (under age?) girls being encouraged to take on an alternative persona, that of lovely young beauties from South America.

    What rubbish. What crap. I felt that subterfuge, disguised identities, and mis-represented identities were being put in front of me. I was not strong enough to challenge what I thought was at best a load of crap involving (underage?) uk young women being groomed and at worst practices linked to false identities and illegal sex trafficking stuff. Was I deluded, paranoid or was I right?

    BTW I am very careful about what I post online. About 15 years ago, When I was searching online night after night for around 3 years every night, to get some kind of support for where I was struggling at, trying to deal with what seemed to me to be stalking and identity fraud for myself, I had a brilliant response from the Bully Online website, and was advised to “from now on, act as a lawyer” and never send an email that you were not prepared to be presented as evidence before or against you in Court.

    At the time I was a legal secretary (with a PhD) and understood what that implied. I have acted accordingly ever since and continue to do so. (But heck, I’m not a straightlaced person, I could tell you a thing or two about well, whatever.)

    With shedloads shedloads of love to anyone who wants to fight this stuff and stop this crap (or am I deluded?),

    Jackie

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