Friday on my Mind

I have been away from this blog coz my trauma has been extremely bad.

My mind and body is dragging out years of torture, years of isolation, years of punters thinking I was nothing.

I am still sick and pretty exhausted in mind, body and spirit. But I want to get back on the bike.

Today is Good Friday, though I am a strong atheist, this day has many connections to me.

I have respect for a belief that can face suffering, grief, confusion and lack of justice in the eye.

That is all in the tradition of Good Friday.

To face those aspects of humans, and what human are capable of doing, what humans are able to survive and build a route to hope and full justice.

I see no god or goddesses in this view, only human corrupting routes to freedom and joy, and other humans fighting for liberation from violence and hate.

So Good Friday is deeply meaningful to my prostituted Self.

The Self that was abandoned.

The Self that thought torture was endless.

The Self that was made into a porn doll.

The Self that scream – Why have been forsaken, god, why do you abandon me.

Also Friday is meaningful to me, for it was the night when I a teenage prostitute that I was my busiest.

Friday nights for too much of my live were times I closed my consciousness.

Those were the nights that punters, ten, twenty or thirty years older would screw me to near death.

Those were the nights that punters would lined up to fuck away my memory, my ability to know pain, my right to know the first time, my route back to being allowed to be young.

Those were the nights gang-rapes became my norm.

Those were the nights I became pregnant with no right to grieve the abortion or to think of any future as a mother.

On this Good Friday, I see my teenage Self laying in blood, sperm and sweat – I see he and hold into my future, saying I will never forsake you.

Then there were the Fridays of my twenties, the Fridays leading to weekends of imprisonment with punters wanting Girlfriend Experience or wanting an escort that they refuse to name as a prostitute.

Those Fridays were my education that Hell is man-made, and nothing to do with religion or the supernatural.

In my twenties, I was taught inside my the multiple ways punters can torture the prostituted.

This I blocked out, this I refuse to allow to be true.

This now returns in my sickness, returns in my sleep pattern, returns in my refusal to know I have a body or a sexuality.

Now, finally I see and feel the edges of what that torture meant to me.

To understand what it is to survive years of sexual, physical and mental torture – you must know it destroys parts of the brain especially the memory and access to emotions.

I find it hard to emote my past, I have a slice of ice in my heart when I see, when I write or when I speak to that past.

But the worse aftermath of years of torture is that I have fragmented memory.

I have most of the years between 6 to 27 that I cannot see except in bits and pieces.

This makes me doubt myself, makes me feel everything I reach into some of my truths it just slips away.

Now, I slowly learnt to trust my body, even as my mind refuses to know – my memories are in my sickness, my memories are in my refusal to know my own body, my memories are in the pain that shadow me.

Now, I see and speak the moments that crash though showing that it was prostitution, that it was torture.

I see a punter who refuse to allow me any sleep even as he keep me in his flat for a week.

I did sleep when he was out or not looking, but if he caught me not making the centre of the world, he anally raped me back.

I see a so-called male friend finding out that I was a whore, and raping me for six hours.

Hell, calling it rape is kind. He tortured me.

He destroyed all holes in my body, even my ears. He spread sperm all over my skin.

He nearly killed me, well I stopped breathing enough for him to to give me the kiss of life only to carry on torturing me.

I see endless punters fucking me in pub toilets, in graveyards, in subways, and behind  bins.

I see hotel rooms, flats and rooms above clubs where punters have time and space to torture me as much their porn brains can.

I see cameras filming my moments of Hell.

On this Good Friday, I hold my adult prostituted Self and tell over and over – I love you and will never forsake you.

This my message for Good Friday.

 

 

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