Catching Up With Myself

This post is very personal, and I hope that personal bleeds into the political.

I want to what made who I had to be, what made me who I fight to return to.

I am sure I was born as a blank canvass, sure my personality and reason to know that I am human grow with experience – good or bad.

I was not born to be brought and sold, I was not born so men could make into a sexual doll.

I was not born to know and understand what torture is.

I was not born to want to die for too many years of my life.

I was born, like all babies – with wonder, with simple needs and rights, with the search for love.

I was born to reach what was my purpose – not to have my way blocked by male violence and hate.

But even as a baby, I was being taught not to hope, not to expect love.

Even as a baby, I was being taught to be lonely, taught to accept pain, taught to be silent when crying out for human touch.

I learnt too early not to cry.

Crying got me nowhere – only to the door being shut and all lights being turn off.

I still have a terror of fully shut doors at night, and I never sleep in complete darkness.

As a baby, I found crying was empty. I shut down my wants and needs, hoping my silence would get me love.

But like most people I remember little of my early years – only a sense of not belonging, a sense that I was in the way, a growing sense I would better off dead.

That sense of no worth, of not belonging is one of the backbone to how and why I became prostituted.

I could have an understanding of my own worth, when I knew I was unlovable.

Much of my years in the sex trade, was surrounded with that self-hate whilst desperate for some human love.

I want to look into the eyes of the prostituted, and see beyond the toughness, beyond the need to be dead, beyond the I don’t give a shit look – and look deep for the hurt, the vulnerability, the terror and that deep need to be loved.

Look deep into the eyes of the prostituted and you will find all the prostituted have to carry years of damage before entering the sex trade.

See those eyes with an open heart – then you know prostitution is never a choice.

No baby is born as a whore – only other humans force too many into that role.

I look back at my 14-year-old Self, seeing her entrance into the world of prostitution – and I now know she was typical of so many broken girls who make foundations of the sex trade.

I, like so many others, was sexually abused from a young age.

Incest or childhood exploitation is the supply for so many prostitutes.

My sexual abuse taught me to accept pain, to associate pain with sex.

My sexual abuse taught me to please men who could or would kill me, torture me.

Incest taught me to smile as I was screaming inside, to have orgasms when I thought my body was dead, to go to sleep next to a man I wanted to murder.

I was learning the skills of the prostitute.

The skill to never show or let terror in.

The skill to smile when pain is controlling your brain.

The skill to be friendly with men who will torture, rape and maybe kill you.

The skill to fake orgasms, or to have real one when all you want is to be anywhere but where you are.

And the skill to never allow punters to know who and what you are.

All these skills come with a terrible price – the price of compounding self-hate, the price of accepting that you have no human rights, the price of being made into a rape doll.

To live in that world, to live enough to be still breathing – it is vital to be the living dead.

To be prostituted is being raped and raped and raped – until the rapes are your norm.

To be rape so often, that simple penetration become nothing and almost a relief from all the normal horrors that punters do to the prostituted.

I never know what was violent, what was rape – what was unacceptable – until I enter trauma after exiting.

I had learnt to accept the unacceptable, learnt to not know it was torture and slowly killing me – in order to keep breathing enough to be called being alive.

Again, look deeply into the eyes of the prostituted – and see how they live with unacceptable as their norm.

Be in the skin of the prostituted.

Be there as their friends or colleagues go missing – maybe murder, maybe sent to a more sadist aspect of the sex trade. See how they go dead with each missing prostitute, and to act as if it is nothing.

Be there, when alone in a hotel room or flat with a punter. Alone with a man who has brought the entitlement to torture, rape – or act the good guy – his choice.

Be there, in that room knowing as a prostitute you have no right to safety, no protection from his violence.

Be there, as the punter you into a consumable object – into his fuck toy.

Be there, as punters can buy a prostitute off the street and make her throwaway.

Just be inside the skin of any prostitute and see the despair, feel their pain and know it can never be call empowering or a choice.

I am rambling, for the pain is unsettling me.

That is a tiny part of my exploring who and what I am

I just know no-one deserve the hell of prostitution.

No baby was born for that.

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3 responses to “Catching Up With Myself

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