Here I Am – Did You Miss Me

Post-Christmas is a tough time for me, so I have been unable or unwilling to write on my blog.

I live with trauma as a shadow, but in the last few weeks, a deep sadness has almost paralysed me.

I know working is some cure, but I also this blog scares my soul.

So I choose to have a hiatus.

In that space, I let myself touch places I have little expression for.

I find Winter a time of stillness, time of deep memories and a time where I can be safe enough to be vulnerable.

To truly recover or at the least being able to live after prostitution – Wintertime is needed.

It is my oasis for my wounded warrior soul.

Now, I will go back to writing, to attempting to speak to the unspeakable, to write what I am scare to even know.

I will start by explaining why I do not use trigger warnings for my work, but I will write as frankly and clearly as I can.

I will not use trigger warning because I believe the truth of what it is and was to live inside oppression must never be censor or made safe for the reader.

This is doubly true when the writer is a survivor of oppression – then the words must be written without interference, without an environment of feeling our words must be tidy up in order not cause offense or hurt the feelings of our readers.

I believe the reader of this blog must be adult enough to control their own emotions or sense of what they think is right.

If my words hurt, offend or make you uncomfortable – you can always make the choice to not read it.

But you do have the right to say I must place trigger warnings on my truths and opinions. That is very controlling.

In this post, I have decided to go in many directions. It may be rather confusing – but rest assured, it all connected to surviving prostitution and all that entails.

One thing I need to write about is Germany and the sexual violence over New Year.

I have some on Facebook about this, but here I wish to explore deeper the connections of this sexual violence and legalised prostitution, and speak to hypocrisy that holds.

Germany has made the choice to become the Brothel of Europe, making prostitution a tourist attraction and huge cash-cow for the economy.

In this environment, extreme sexual violence to the prostituted is the norm.

Torture is commonplace, the prostituted disappear on a regular basis, and the murder rate of the prostituted is outrageously high.

All this male violence is made acceptable, for it done to the prostituted class – so is done to throwaway women.

So, I was very surprised at the shock and horror that men in Germany used New Year celebrations as excuse to sexually abused women.

But then, it was perceived to be done to non-prostituted women – so then it could class as a crime, as real violence and a threat to German society.

But still nothing is being done to end the torturing and murdering of the prostituted – no, the sex trade business in Germany is running same as before.

For the prostituted women are not worthy of being class as good German women – they are foreign, they must be sex-crazed, they are greedy, they are too broken to bother with.

No, for Germany to still rich and imaging it is a moral country – it must have a constant supply of the prostituted – even I only so we can know what a good woman is in contrast.

I do write this post to make sense, but to allow my mind catch up with grief and anger. That is why it a stream of consciousness.

I cannot write to what prostitution was to me in January – only that some of my worse and most soul-destroying events happened at this time of year.

I touch suicide often in January. I tried and fail to die for many Januaries.

Now, as memory kicks in I feel the pills, the cuttings and dreams of death by my side.

Death made more sense than life when I was prostituted.

But then how do you make sense of being inside prostitution?

January was a time when punters enjoy being sadists, when rich punters wanted to destroy the body and mind of the prostituted.

My nightmare scenario was being brought by a punter rich enough to keep me for days or weeks.

Then I had no free will, no access to safety, no right to dignity and no memory of self-respect.

Instead, I became a robot, only waiting for commands to know how to pretend to be alive.

In that environment, any form of torture was done to my body and mind.

I had no human rights – for once I had been brought I was no longer allow to be human.

I will write to a few of the tortures that circle my mind as memories. None are remembered clearly, all viewed through a fog of wanting to not know what is true.

To be the perfect whore, I taught myself to block out as much as possible, and to shut as much pain as possible.

But some get through.

It gets through being forced head-first into water and anally raped.

It gets through being beaten and raped for falling asleep from exhaustion.

It gets through being suffocated with a pillow as rape continues on and on.

It gets through being forced to read Lolita and de Sade.

It gets through hearing the pain and fear of other prostituted women, as I wait for my turn.

It gets through wanting to not know that prostituted women just disappear from my life – not allowing thoughts of murder or torture in, but pretending they have somehow exited.

That is a tiny part of my memories – so much more I could scream out to you.

I will end here, coz this just a hello again – a getting back onto the horse.

 

 

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