To be prostituted is to have no sense of linear time.
Every moment is the present with no past or future.
Every moment is dragged out or just disappears in nothingness.
How can I remember when time is full of gaps.
Into that silence, my blog is attempting to find words that hold that time.
I see, I know the brief facts that I was in and out, out and in prostitution from aged 14 to 27.
I see, I know the brief facts that I did indoors prostitution – I was brought from pub, taken to flats or hotels, made to dance at club.
But this all in small memories, memories in my body forcing back the fear, grief and confusion.
I cannot place an age on these events.
I cannot see individual rooms, pubs or hotels.
I cannot see faces of punters.
All that is lost in time.
To be prostituted, is to know hell, but then each day the evidence is stripped from you.
It see the more you are raped, the more you endured torture, the more you live on the edge of death – the less memory can hold.
So don’t ask an exited woman for evidence.
Don’t ask how many punters?
How often were you raped?
What age were you?
Where did it take place?
Just don’t ask, for that is just another silencing tactic.
Let us speaking our own pace and in our own words.
Allow there to be many gaps and silences – that is normal when the torturing is so commonplace is becomes part of your skin.