I have been unable or unwilling to write for some time.
I will try to explore why, try to fight the trauma, try and see through fragmented memory.
To see into my prostitution years is so full of emptiness.
An emptiness of not knowing the structure of linear time, the emptiness of death surrounding all memory.
I have to live with that space where time is squeeze out, and all I have is some kind of emptiness.
A space where death appears to be a friend.
That is why is why I come to see my prostitution years as killing time.
With and through trauma, I am learning how to see and feel that time.
I do not yet know the language that speaks to that space.
The space inside my Self as a prostitute – what I was, how I had to lost thought, where did I place my feelings, and how I allow myself to lose time.
To be prostituted is to live in emptiness with death of feelings, death of hope, and death of time.
I need to force life back into that time.
Memory is my life-saver – even as it full of gaps and silences.
To see the hate and oppression that fuels all prostitution is vital – for it slows down self-hate and dissolves self-blame.
To connects with other exited is vital – for it stops the isolation and give some language to grief, pain and confusion.
This is the start of finding a language that fits that time.
Though words can never fully encase a time so full of holes.
Words do no justice to the depths of that grief.
Words cannot hold the amount of torture, amount of constant rapes, amount of men who choose to be punters.
All words can do is try to communicate a space that seems to say the horror, but does always feel that it just a surface.
I speak or write words, but always have a pit of rage, fear, and grief that so big it becomes an empty space.
I cope by killing feelings, killing memory, killing wanting too much.
I kill time to just live day to day.
That is some of what it is to live inside complex trauma.
Do say if makes any sense.