I am more than exhausted – every cell in my body is aching with memory and pain.
To be in the world, I name this as exhaustion, but as I allow Spotify to ease my grief and knowledge of what should never exist.
I go through the radio section of the Spotify – 80’s, 70’s, 60’s, 50’s, soul, punk, jazz, funk, country and blues – until I have finished my work.
I cannot read my own words, there is too much confusion, self-hate and deep sorrow that is behind this blog.
I need noise to surround me, music that has always be in me so I can work without truly listening or reading my work.
Silence is the wrong place for – for silence is smashed into by self-hate, silence is a reminder of being forced into silence.
Noise is my comfort and my planting into the present.
So I will try to write to the deep places that forms the agony in my every cell. Write to the place that I named as my Prostituted Self.
I cannot allow in pain without full control, and that comes with detachment and speaking as if that time can placed into a box.
It is never in a box – for it spills out into my present all the time, and trips me up at the most unexpected moments.
But for my work, I try to force trauma into a box, and attempt to shut it away.
I hope by never giving up, I will make my own trauma even more controllable.
I want to imagine what my extreme complex trauma is like, I want to imagine what it is to go about daily life with the Prostituted Self demanding attention and love.
Exiting from prostitution is just a beginning – for the vast majority of exited folks there is no long-term help, counselling, ways back to paid work, a safe place to live – only if lucky short-term drug care and non-specialist counselling.
The vast majority of us who have exited did it by sheer will power, the desire to stay alive, the determination never to made sub-human ever again.
We had no help with trauma, or with other mental affects of being made into sex goods.
Exited folks had to learn how to navigate their way through extreme complex trauma – learn how and why the Prostituted Self is so damaged and hurting.
I am proud to be in a time where exited folks are re-inventing the language of how we speak to that trauma, and forming ways to educate how and why the trauma is so intense.
We speak to the connections with other forms of violence to females.
We speak to the language of torture and basic rights.
We speak to the language of being made sub-human and the language of genocide.
We speak as testimonies, we speak in poetical-prose, we use the languages of the arts, we speak in-between gaps and silences.
We use all and any means to communicate what it was and is to be prostituted.
Our language is not just from our minds and the logical part of language – we speak through our guts, we speak as we see dead friends, we speak demanding freedom for our futures.
Our language and our work is there as every cell in our body aches for justice, true freedom and the simple right to be fully human.
Trauma can never be vanished without these basic truths and rights.