I will try to write to survivor tactics. In this post, I will write as my inner spirits.
My spirits are not religious, but aspects of my personality that carry my past, my pain, my grief and hold my terror.
I am an athiest, but know there is aspects of us that is unspoken, is hidden from memory – that I name as spirits.
It is not supernatural, not religious, not an outside force – it is part of being human, and vital for survival and to hold memory.
I have chosen to divide my aspects of personality into nine spirits, and in this post, I will write in their voices. Remember there is no real division, just different ways of holding my past.
I remember through my dragon-spirit as I reach into my deep grief.
A dragon knows loneliness, a dragon has been ripped from its history and culture.
All the prostituted their past stolen, their access to friends/family and a loved culture ripped from them – all the prostituted live inside deep grief.
My dragon-spirit holds this pit of grief, and in silence crys, weeps and on occasions howls.
Always knowing, no-one want to know that grief, my dragon-spirit hides in a cave away from public gaze.
The grief of the prostituted is silent and kept hidden, afraid of the empty space it leaves.
The silent grief is huge – it the grief of never receiving full justice, it is the the grief of being made so sub-human that you become invisible, the grief of having outward injuries and wounds but being told you enjoy being a whore.
My dragon-spirit hold my grief without judgement, only weeps for that past.
I have a baby-spirit, a sense that I had a time of innocence, a time of wonder, a time of safety.
I am scared to know my baby-spirit, for I am scared to see how vulnerable I was, how much I longed to be loved, how naive I could be.
My baby-spirit wants fun, wants to be loved, wants to love others – and wants a mother.
But there always a hole in my baby-spirit, there is and was no mother-love.
My baby-spirit is not held by her mother, she is ignored by the mother when she is hurt or crying.
The mother has stopped speaking to my baby-spirit, turns out all lights even when knowing the baby-spirit hate the dark.
The mother slowly teaches the baby-spirit to hate herself, to know she must be bad, that it is of no matter if the baby-spirit is in pain.
The baby-spirit learns to smile through pain, learns to stop crying for help or love, learns to be a doll instead of a human.
My snake-spirit is the holder of wisdom.
The snake-spirit knows to change and disguise its purpose in order to survive a world out to destroy it.
The snake-spirit will be ruthless when needed, will be invisible when needed, will be still when needed.
I know my snake-spirit was vital to my surviving the violence of punters – for my snake-spirit held my memory, my pain and my fight till I was in a safe place to know those emotions.
As I became detached from the reality of be raped, tortured and the edge of death – the snake-spirit was storing it all for a time where I see my past without self-hate or blame.
My teenager-spirit is hard to know, but I have learnt to love her and to see she was blameless.
My teenager-spirit is full of unexpressed rage, full of suicidal feelings, she believes any light at the end of a tunnel is an oncoming train.
My teenager-spirit is lost in a world where she can trust no-one, where to being tortured/raped/murdered are her surroundings and norms.
My teenager-spirit acts tough when she is terrified, paints on a smile as punters pour their hate into her body.
My teenager-spirit would be labelled the Happy Hooker by those who refuse to see or listen.
I can now grieve for how lost I was as a teenager.
I can now grieve all the injuries, hate and death-threats force in my teenager-spirit.
I can now love, forgive and hold tight my teenager-spirit.
My little girl-spirit is when I knew I was losing hope or that I could loved.
I find it hard knowing this part of myself – knowing I was a child without safety, a child with no love to hold her, a child who became feral.
I am finding to hard to write to that part of me, as I am blinded by tears.
To understand my little girl-spirit it is important to meet the mermaid-spirit who is her secret friend.
As the abuse became my norm, I fall into books to find escape.
I read “Water Babies”, and thought I had found a way out.
I wanted to die, and vanished into the world underwater.
A world without adults, a world without pain, a world where children had justice.
I imagined that world as I became a sex-doll for my stepdad, I imagined that world as my mother reminded me how much she hated me.
I survived by vanishing into a world where nothing matters, only endless playing.
In this world, I became a mermaid-spirit – the child who wants to not know their reality, a child who has fun as inside she imaging how to kill herself.
It was part of surviving to be detached.
My eagle-spirit is one of forensic memory and desire for full justice.
My eagle-spirit sees with a clear one who is to be blamed for all the pain, hate and terror poured into me – see it is punters who did all the torturing of my body and mind.
Like an eagle can see it’s prey, however smal or hidden, from great distance – I see the male hate and greed that is the foundation stones of all the violence done to the prostituted.
It is a cold eye, a sight that see only the guilty and discards all red herrings.
My eagle-spirit is ruthless, is freedom loving, is cruel for a purpose – but mostly it far- and clear-seeing.
My tiger-spirit is a cub seeking it’s mother, but in the meantime it has a sense of play and desire to protect even when the abusers are too strong.
My tiger-spirit is my sense of being an orphan, even those I had a mother.
I could understand why I felt so isolated and that maybe I was a changing.
My tiger-spirit held in that sense of unbelonging, keep it in silence – occasionally coming as I drawn or read ghost or fairy tales.
My tiger- spirit was the part of me that always wanted protection or to fight back – but only found abusers too strong or they would just laugh at me.
I had to learn the hard way I could never stop the male violence – I had to learn to survive by giving in.
To show self-pride, or any signs of being human when prostituted is too dangerous – especially when most punters are turn on by our fear or pain.
To end, my horse-spirit is one of my sense of independence, freedom and never to be told how be labelled.
My horse-spirit will never allow itself to be trapped, order around or made into sexual goods again.
My horse-spirit is my fight for liberation from everything that the sex trade did to me.
I will never be tied down.