Fractured Memory

I have many gaps in my memory.

This hurts and wounds me in many ways – I feel I am missing too much of my life. I have lost the years between 6 to 27.

It is not fully lost, just in so many fragments I cannot find how to fit them together.

I am a neglected jigsaw with pieces gone.

I want to cry, but I have forgotten how.

I want to scream – but that voice is lost in a past that is shattered.

I want to know my truths – but only touch small edges.

I understand with logic, why my memory is so damaged.

I understand the mind can only take in so much reality of torture, then it cannot hold any more.

I understand that most of prostitution is repeated violence – repeated ways of raping, repeated ways of mentally/physically/sexually torturing, repeated ways of breaking down the prostitute.

I understand that repetition cannot be remembered fully – only remembered until it is discovered that all the prostituted are not to blame, and the violence done to them was pre-planned.

I understand that to survive the hell that is prostitution, it is vital to close it down or to replace the violence with inventions of empowerment and having a good time.

All this and more, I understand with a clear logical mind – but it does nothing to end the grief of lost memory.

In this post, I will try an explore memory – maybe speaking to moments/hours/weeks/years.

May I say that I was prostituted between 14 to 27, and previously sexually and mentally abused at home from aged 6.

Those years are just moments to me – for my fractured memory has made the good times disappear as well as the abuse and violence.

I remember standout moments – but with the years of prostitution I cannot see my age, cannot see the exact location, and usually cannot fully the men abusing me.

I remember through pain throughout my body, I remember through sudden terror, I remember and try not to doubt myself.

I remember as I choking without cause, I remember as I try to sleep but feel bodies raping me again, I remember when I try to love my partner and my mind wants violence.

I know memory is trapped inside my body, it trying with desperation to connect to the mind.

My instinct is to disconnect from my body as much as possible – I fall into music, reading, eating, TV and so forth to be away from my body.

Heck, now I have Twitter and Facebook, I can run away even more.

But my body pushing memory into me, even as I choose to run away.

The more I run, the worse the pain and grief gets – so I know I must turn round and confront a past that refuses to be silent.

It is a past made up of rooms.

Rooms in hotels, rooms in flats, rooms above clubs, rooms behind pubs.

Rooms where all I remember seemed the same, though it was different times and many locations.

Rooms where all I saw was the bed, maybe a place for money, maybe see a way to a bathroom.

I cannot remember how many rooms, only know I was a robot just seeing any bed – I knew what I was, and could not imagine a world where I was not a whore.

It was a past made up of punters.

A past where I did not know sex could be done with care, done with love, done without pain.

A past where men enter every part of my body – wearing down all memory that I had ever been human.

A past where consent meant nothing – as I was brought and sold, where could my no have any meaning.

A past where one could keep me as his sexual slave for weeks, a past where gang-rape was normal, a past where torture was rehearsed on my body.

For torture is always rehearsed on the prostituted – we are just living porn to punters.

So it is impossible to fully remember the past.

But I remember enough to know I did nothing to be in the line of such hate and violence.

I remember enough to know all punters will torture the prostituted – even if just mentally or by refusing to see the prostituted as fully human.

I remember enough to know violence is the norm of all aspects of the sex trade.

I remember to know I am only alive by luck.

I remember to be an abolitionist.

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4 responses to “Fractured Memory

  1. When I read your words I know why I am 110% an RF
    abolitionist. There are many womon and girls whose
    experiences of sexual abuse and violent exploitation I carry with me including my own
    and that of my mother. ((((()))))

    Like

  2. Pingback: Fragmenterade minnen | Den Djupgröna Bloggen

  3. Even though the abuse was nowhere near so extreme, my years in the sex industry are also fragmented. I know I spent years stripping, being a Dom, an occasionaly a prostitute, but that 7 years? Gone. Even the parts before the eventual heroin addiction (which made life less horrible, in short bursts). I vividly remember a few things- one particularly egregious rape, and the sensation of non stop groping- but otherwise it’s all bits and pieces.
    Thanks for sharing.

    Like

  4. The entirety of my time in he sex industry is fragmented like this, even though the abuse was in no way as extreme. I recall pieces, but it’s like 7 year are gone. And what a waste. To think I made the choice to strip (my intro to that sick world) in the first place, bolstered by fake feminism and sex pozzers, is rage making. Not one of those liberal sex pozis ever mentioned the destruction, degradation, and shame that comes with these “jobs”. Forget about being told about the always present rape, having society loathe you, getting economically trapped, addicted to drugs, and damaged mentally/physically.
    And as far as the sex industry goes, my exposure was millions of times better than most. And it was terrible. I am lucky to have gotten out alive.

    Like

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