I have come back from my birth-town, the town of years between 12-27.
A place that should belong to me, but is only a place full of ghosts and body memories.
I went as a changed woman, but only to be haunted over and over by sense of being drag back to my private hell.
I went back to Cambridge, and I spoke out.
Spoke out to a very close friend, spoke out to the buildings haunting me, spoke to the parks where I wanted death so, spoke out to a meeting.
My voice was cracking, my voice was waiting everything to go wrong.
But I spoke out about Cambridge in Cambridge.
And my prostituted soul felt a freedom it could not dare know existed.
When I arrived in Cambridge, I was mentally exhausted, but unable to rest without shaking or crying.
So, I went for a walk by myself. Thinking if I struck to the tourist parts of Cambridge, I would be fine.
I was wrong, coz there is no part of Cambridge that is not poisoned by my past.
My home-town is beautiful, is full of so many things I loved – but I knew its underbelly, and my trauma can never forget, only fight to make it smaller.
I was prostituted in a town that was in deep denial.
The image of Cambridge of beauty, intellect, and peace is kept, no nastiness is allowed to see, hear or talk about.
There could no prostitution in Cambridge – that belonged to real cities like London.
Only any man who wanted to buy sex in Cambridge had a variety of choices in just the small city centre.
Prostitution was hidden in plain sight – as the police ignored it, as the university ignored it, as the councilors ignore it, as Social Services ignores – all punters saw this availability.
This is what some would say is underground prostitution – only it is legal and vastly available.
This is the world I knew, the world that made my nightmares, made a life-time of body memories, made extreme trauma.
Hidden in plain view, I like far too many prostituted women and girls – was being mentally abused, tortured, put on the edge of death, rape beyond what the mind can handled.
This blood and sweat was pouring into the bricks of Cambridge, the silent screams of the prostituted were part of the haze round Cambridge.
Cambridge bears the hidden horrors of prostitution, and makes the terrible demand that it never to be spoken of or even acknowledged.
I was silent for many years, and it nearly killed me.
So, I am speaking out.
For Cambridge is typical of any tourist city that refuses to allow that it has a dark side.
I do not believe there is anything unique about my hell in Cambridge, and I break some of my silence to help other trapped in cities/towns/villages that refuse to believe that prostitution is part of them.
Living where the whole city deny your reality, that is a poison that can only lead to self-destruction.
I know this as I see the streets of Cambridge – see streets I lost any sense that I could be fully human.
It was on these streets I attempted suicide, these streets I got so drunk I thought I would forget.
It was on these streets, I was raped so often I could allow myself to care.
It was on these streets, I walked and walked and walked – hoping that walking would turn into a robot.
In my walk last week, I walked past many places and buildings that made me sick.
I had to walked through the subway where I was raped, to get back to my hotel.
I walked through town, past streets where I pushed friends to their limit.
Past that college where I was brought, and used like a rag-doll, as I to focus on the beauty of the architecture.
Into the market, where I hung out refusing to feel or know I was still alive. Hanging like a normal teenager, but knowing too much and having too many reasons to want to die.
Onto King’s College, where my mind was too dark to know the beauty.
Into more colleges where I was brought, and thrown away.
Down past a pub where in the back-room, old men brought young prostituted girls to have a torture-toy.
Into the parks, where I walked and walked and walked till I could switch some of my mind.
That is my Cambridge, I am so angry and saddened by that.