What Has Been Stolen

Often when I view my life, I feel great anger and sorrow at all the natural emotions that were stolen from me.

I feel I was for so much of my life like with an empty void where I should be feeling

That is the true crime of child sexual abuse, and using porn to control and becoming prostituted. The physicial can slowly recover, but so much of the mental abuse has destroy all links to a past that cannot be recover.

I think I have the right to hate the men that try to steal my soul. It was torture over many years.

I believe to regain my essence, hate is a tool to see them clear. And to place them on the page.

I cannot change my past, but I believe by showing the depths of the sources of my grief, I may give myself a future where I find my heart.

I think I had a time when I could be a natural child. I could play. I could laugh. I trusted adults.

This was stolen by my stepdad.

Raping a child murders their soul. Raping a child throws away her hope. Teaching her to grow up in a few moments.

When I was raped at round six, I forgot how to be child.

I throw away my stuffed toys, for they did nothing to protect me. I stopped laughing.

I knew not to tell, I knew it would not be believe.

I knew I just had deal with by myself. Dealing meant refusing to acknowledge that I had been hurt.

I did what many girls do, I carried on carrying on.

As the abuse increased, my childhood went down the drain.

I hate my stepdad so much. He stole so much, and then acted as nothing had happened.

Each time I ventured to believe in hope, or to strive to have a private world, he would destroy my dreams.

I love reading and having writing projects. I would research First World War. He would rip up my work.

I would have friends, he would scare them off by touching them up.

When I was nine, I was playing with best friend in a bed. It was a natural happy play.

I had few moments of happiness – so I remember my love of that moment.

I had a deep child’s love for my friend.

It was nice to love without sex entering my mind. It was nice to remember that I was a child. I could touch innocence.

But my stepdad stole that.

He caught us in bed, accuse us of being dirty lesbians. He scared my friend away. He then wrote to her parents that he caught me trying to rape her.

He silenced me, and stole my first real love.

But the concept of me being a lesbian just feed my stepdad’s porn fantasies.

He was pouring my head full of porn in images, in his words and in the way he looked at me.

I would consider myself to be a lesbian, but for many years that stolen from me.

When I hit my teens, my stepdad would show hard-core of “lesbians”.  Many of those images I choose to not to remember.

I want my lesbianism to free from that pollution. I don’t to have my head filled with violence and hate in those images. I want to forget the look of pain, fear or the worse the look of deadness.

I want to be a lesbian who can be free. A lesbian who can choose to be firm and gentle.

I want sex to spontaneous. I want have sex without going dead inside. Without the fear I may get violent.

I can’t so I choose celibacy.

My stepdad started that fear of my own sexuality, but porn and prostitution embedded it.

Prostitution really made me terrified of being vulnerable in sex. I back away from closeness.

Prostitution made my mind connect violence with sex, I had no place for gentleness.

It made me believe I would be violent if I got close to a woman, so I didn’t take the chance.

I loved women, I fancied women – I had normal teenage yearnings for women. But those natural feelings were stolen from me.

Instead, I run away from that happiness into violent men.

One the worse things is that I thought I chose to be a “slut”, because I was so terrified of being a lesbian.

For I had been told by my stepdad that if I slept with women, that would be great. For then I would belong to him, for he would be my man.

I now am slowly reclaiming my lesbianism, but not enough to have sex.

Prostitution stole so much, sometimes it makes me wonder who I am and will I ever know who I could be if I not been in the sex trade.

As I said prostitution has stolen my ability to be a natural sexual being.

I perform sex. I hate that, coz I feel nothing or very little, but appears to be having a wonderful time. That was normal in prostitution, but what grieve me is that is so deep ii is there even when I truly love a woman, I am still dead inside.

I still perform.

Prostitution is still in my head, it comes out in depression. It enters my head when my money is running out.

I can kill my stepdad in my head. But porn and prostitution pollute my daily life. They create my PTSD.

It effects me when my body will be arouse by porn that disgusts me.

It effects me when I go for a quiet drink in the gay community and have to overhear men talking about rent boys.

It effects me when listening to the radio, there are yet more liberal justifications for the sex trade.

It effects me when walking round five, I see under aged prostituted girls waiting for offices to close.

I can close down my stepdad, but I can’t down the sex trade.

It steal my freedom every day – I just learn to adjust.

2 responses to “What Has Been Stolen

  1. I relate to so much of what you express here. Thank you for writing this. I am having that dead feeling inside today, started last night, brought on in part by simply smelling a type of flower outside yesterday that had the same scent as the house I lived in when one particular person assaulted and terrorized me. It’s like a hangover today.

    But I feel suspended in ambivalence about whether I want to escape the deadened feelings. It’s doesn’t feel pleasurable, but it feels like a lot less effort involved than what it’s like to be anything besides numb, if that makes sense.

    Your writings, though, have a profound effect on me when I read them. Something about your insistence on being alive propels me forward.


  2. What to say? How horrified I am and how terribly angry I am FOR you? I can’t pretend to understand your experience and wouldn’t for a second pretend I could; all I can say is that I live with man who experienced similar abuse as a child and living with the repercussions and lingering resonations of that horror has been brutually difficult as well. There are times when my rage at those what created the damage is so overwhelming I want to go back in time and destory them.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s