I have in a dry place with my writing, my heart is deadened to my past and how to write.
Since I moved to Devon, and the suicide of my brother-in-law, writing words has felt inadequate.
Instead, I have run away to sports, and walking.
The World Cup is my medicine.
But, I turn on 60’s and 70’s soul music, and will try a stream of consciousness post.
I have found some kind of peace and stillness by moving to Devon.
I may be happy – whisper that, in case it hides away.
But in recovery, I have lots of physical illness especially linked to sickness.
I am changing, growing into my own skin – and it hurts and bring grief to the surface.
It not just my personal grief, in many ways my personal history is just a small part of the long sufferings of the prostituted.
I am lucky in many ways.
I am lucky that I live in a time where the multiple voices of the exited prostituted women is slowly, and with power, being listened to.
I am lucky that I completely got away from the punters that consume me.
I am lucky that I do know any sex trade profiteers who sold me any more.
I am lucky that I very few STDs.
I am lucky that the physical damage done to me was relatively superficial.
God, I am lucky I am alive, and not another statistic of a dead whore.
But, in reality, I made my own luck without help or interest in my welfare.
I will always have scars and memories from that time.
I have pains and illnesses linked to the torturing that punters felt entitled to do.
My memory is broken by the constant repetition of that torturing, and the constant lack of hope and sense of personhood.
I know I am strong, but I am also fragmented.
Please read, and write what you think.