How Do You Think It Feels.

This post is dedicated to all survivors of the sex trade who lost for words when saying their truths.

 

To be an exited prostituted woman is live in fog of memory.

Trauma steals our memories, steals our emotions, steal our ways to speak our experiences.

Some part of brains are destroyed by the constant male violence, by the endless lack of real hope.

There is a hole in our minds that cannot be filled.

Ask us – How did it feel to be prostituted – and words cannot express our grief, pain or despair.

Too often all that left to say is the abstract, the general, or just old theories.

Words cannot hold what it is to prostituted – maybe it comes out in expression arts, maybe through our nightmares, maybe it plant itself far back in our subconscious.

I just know the linear, logical conscious mind spills out words that feel inadequate and leaves me empty.

The language of the conscious mind leaves wondering if I will ever make it to being fully human – or did the sex trade destroys that for me and my exited family.

For, the truth is we have lived through the unspeakable – we have known Hell, and words can never express that reality.

But, it is my mission to try to fit words to that reality – to try and communicate in simple language how surreal and life-draining it is to be prostituted.

The most important thing is draws all language from ideas of sex or sexuality, and speak to the language of human rights, power imbalance and torture.

We must avoid the language of work – speak to slavery, speak to trafficking, speak sexual expliotation

Therefore all the words of sex work or workers is lies and propagana – and is slowly destroying the prostitution by encouraging punters and sex trade profiteers to be unseen and blameless.

My route to understanding what it was to be prostituted was through the words of humans rights, the words of indigenous peoples, the words of classic horror, the words of poetry, the words of shell-shocked soldiers, the words of those who survived concentration camps, the words of the tortured, and the words of silence of lost hope.

All these words frame my way into my Hell, but still I am lost for adequate words.

To be raped by so many punters that they lose faces, lose the how there was tearing at my mind and body – where are the words that fit that.

To know such constant raping, that the body refuses to compute pain or terror, and sends signals that it is of no importance – where are the words for that.

To be tortured in the mind, tortured in every cell of the body – tortured by sleep deprivation, tortured by punters killing you and bringing back to life, tortured by threats and lies, tortured by any means that porn has invented – where are the words for that.

That is the surface of prostitution – that is the day in, night out reality of prostitution, which is happening to millions of the prostituted as you read this.

Our silence is not complicence or sign that it did not not matter.

Our silence is a trauma so deep that animal screams would be inadequate to say our truths.

All that I say is our pain, our grief and our Hells are so embedded in us that we seeks words but find only each word appears a drop of water in our ocean of trauma.

Prostitution is, was and always has been torture, dehumanising and a form of slavery.

Prostitution is never liberating, never empowering and never a route to feminism.

Prostitution is the oldest opppression, the oldest violation of basic human rights.

We must find a language that fits that.

 

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