I had no connection to internet for two months, so was unable to do my work.
Was I missed? Or did anyone noticed I had disappeared.
Is my blog worth anything?
I do wonder this for I feel empty and see abolition still so far away.
I would cry, I would scream, I would reasoned- if I thought that would free and grant dignity to all the prostituted.
Only all my fight and endless protesting seemed to land on a dried up river.
My absence has made it clear to me how the multiple voices of exited women are forcibly silenced.
How are witnessing is erase by ridicule, by refusal to even think that the prostituted can get human rights.
Our silencely is a constant reminder that we can never be considered fully human.
To be human is to form words that fit your reality.
The prostituted and exited women have no access to words that fully embrace what it being prostituted really means.
Our realities are placed firmly in the language of those outside what it is to be sold for rape and torture.
It is placed in the language of men who would be our rapists, our torturers, and our destroyers.
It is placed into the language of rescuers who only see the victim, the mute female who should be grateful to be saved.
It placed into the language of glamour and wishful thinking used by the arts and so much of the liberal media.
Our realities are stolen everyday – used to shock, used to say where the harm, used to justify male violence, used to keep the prostituted apart from decent women.
How can we be fully human if we have no language?
We cannot be human, when we have no access to life and safety.
To be prostituted is to live with the reality of early death as your norm.
Those of us who had the luck to live beyond 27 are the minority – and most of have survived several near death experiences.
Our reality is that all forms of male violence is our norm, including torturing that steal our ways to speak out.
We live with the knowledge that all that violence is made invisible, as our the men who destroy us walk away unscathed.
We are deny access to justice, to sympathy, to a short pause without male violence – then you are surprised and angered that we become hard, detached and uncaring.
We are not allowed to grieve, we cannot speak to the agony we endure, we are not give the simple right to complain.
Instead you make us into the Happy Hooker, the half-dead victim, the stripper who making her way through college- and our endless stereotypes that steal our access to words.
I have been away, so writing is hard.
I open this is ok.