A Map of My Body

Edited to include anus.


I am writing this post as my map to PTSD. I find I know my reality through my body, so a tracing of a map will show the impact of male violence on me.


I will start with the top, start with my head.

My head was cut off from the reality. My head fall into books, sports, architecture, birds, arts, films – any and everything not to know my reality.

My head vanished from rooms where men were fucking me over and over. Rooms where I went unconscious – that was my head gone.

My head left when it felt my stepdad’s hand going into my cunt. It did not want to know.

If my head was not there, then nothing much mattered. It was just some sick dream.

It could not be real, my head would not allow it to be real.

But I always had headaches. Pain that split me in half, pain that made want to die. The headaches went on and on.

I must have a brain tumor, that the answer – it can’t be what I don’t want to think it is.

Somehow I have to connect my head with rest of my body, but that is terrifying.


I knew I had the face of someone who was to be fucked. Why else does it keep going on and on.

My face is tattooed with “Whore” on it. Why resist when I am marked.

That is how I thought until I was about 30.

How could I not when everywhere I went male violence follow me. Why I not believe it was my face.

How could I know none of men give a damn what my face looked like.


My throat is always trying to block itself up. It does not want to breath, it does not want to know, it cannot see the point in life.

My throat was used as porn since I can remember.

When my stepdad had his penis in my mouth accidentally when kissing me goodnight. When he said sorry, my throat burnt with hate.

When later my stepdad washed in the bath, making me suck his dick, sending it back to meet my tonsils. My throat tried to closed down, resist – but resistance is bloody futile.

And as a prostitute, being made into Deep-Throat porn was the fashion.

Even as my throat was sick, even as it went unconscious, even as it was drowning – nothing would matter, coz porn feels nothing, it all just an act.

My throat cannot cope with the torture it has known.

If I get a sore throat, I want to die. I chocked on a regular basis.

My throat has so much grief, so much fury, so much pain, so many memories. My throat carries too much.


I felt that arms let me down, they never fought back.

I thought I should do judo, be a boxer, learn to strangle.

Bring silent death onto my rapists.

But no my arms went above my head, in a whore-pose. My arms held down their heads as they eat me out. My arms took the money. My arms acted nice.

My arms were traitors.


My hands were made to perform.

Learnt to rub my stepdad’s penis without thinking. Learnt to hold hands with rapists who wanted the boyfriend experience. Learnt to take money.

My hands were alien to me.

Now my hands are writing. My hands are making a path to finding my own reality.

My hands are making a revolution.


My chest is filled of grief. It sends chocking into my throat, it cannot cry, so it chocks.

Somewhere in my chest my heart is holding my truth. It knows and it had held memory until I had safety in my life.

Heart knows to hold memory in, not to allow reality to be known when it is happening – knows that would of killed me. I was protected.

My chest wakes me at night in terror.

Again I know the landing of men squashing in my chest as they fuck on and on and on. The chest can’t survive when no room to breathe as one man or gang-rape seems never to end.

I can’t stand any man on top of me any more.

I have to know that I can breathe.


I am sick so often, my stomach cannot get rid of the poison that male violence put in me.

I cannot puke out all the rapes, all the hate, all the being told it did not matter, all the torturing, all the being living porn, all the aren’t you over it yet, all the you were just unlucky, all the contempt, all my reality being made invisible and all the knowing that what happen to me is happening to women and girls all the time everywhere.

I am sick over and over, but the truth won’t be puke away.

The sickness make physically weak – but it makes me fight more to express my reality.


My cunt was made into war-zone, it was damned closed to being nuked.

My cunt could not feel, numbed as a Tommie after the Somme, it did not feel – it just knew.

My cunt was not just penetrated, that would of been too easy.

All so-called new porn is old porn.

My cunt was penetrated by several penises, my cunt was penetrated by objects which I would look at.

My cunt was eaten with teeth. My cunt was pulled at, hands dragging inside my cunt. My cunt was hit. My cunt was sworn at. My cunt was filmed.

My cunt went wet when agony was all it could know.

Then men felt triumph.

My cunt could not feel, it had to close down.

All my cunt could do was to perform, and hope it would come out alive.

Now, I slowly want to have my cunt back, not numbed with terror, but back in safety and with knowing some kind of love.

I want my cunt back.


When I first wrote this post, I found I miss out the anus.

I left it out because so much of my fear and so much of my violence went into my anus.

I do not know how many times I was anally raped. I do not know how I survive the pain. I do not know how I made the degradation normal.

I do not know because I am terrified to remember.

But christ, I do remember.

I remember as I live with a low aching pain in my anus is there in the background all the time, increasing and decreasing as my stress, PTSD and exhaustion goes in and out.

I drag my anus around with me.

Anal rape is unspeakable – that is the way rapists want to be.

Rape without a face, rape where pain is a guarantee, rape that make degradation a god, rape that is nothing but rape.

Anal sex is what is done to whores. It is what what whores were made for.

What did I expect, I was a whore after all.

And as my anus was rip apart during gang-rapes. I shut that out. And my face rammed into a wall, legs together, hand to throat, I am anally raped with no warning. I shut that out.

I do not scream, that was lost so long ago. I cannot cry, that was lost so long ago.

I just know that I am afraid of the constant pain in my anus.

I know I am afraid of the toilet. I have been known to faint on the toilet when pain grabs my heart.

Anal rape give me small heart attacks.


All my life I tried to run away, only to land back into male violence.

My legs could never carry me far enough away.

I felt a failure.

Legs would walk on and on. I would always walk after nights of prostitution, walk away the rapes, walk away thoughts that of the violence, walk away that I may of been killed, walk away until I was numb again.

I was known as a walker.

There was no joy in walking, no seeing where I was, no sense of exercise – just walking back to my deadness.

I would known that I was walking because I was living in terror.


I was never grounded.

How could I be. You be grounded when sexual torture is your norm. You be grounded when all your reality is made invisible.

Maybe my feet touch the ground, but that had no relevance to me.

My feet were ignored.


That is a map of my body, I am sure much is missing. I am sure each time I write of my body, I will see it different. But always I will see my truth.

5 responses to “A Map of My Body

  1. Incredible writing, Rebecca. Thank you so much for giving us these insights into how all the trauma that was inflicted upon you affects you and your body today. It is very difficult for women like myself, who has never been exposed to such intimate torture and hatred, as men have inflicted on you, to imagine what it must be like to be a survivor of the violence that you describe so achingly well here. But this piece of writing has really opened my eyes to what you mean when you say that you are sick from the trauma. Big hugs, Rebecca. I will send you an email soon.


  2. I can only repeat what Allecto has just said, this really brings us closer to understanding what this must have been like. This is an amazing piece of writing, and I don’t understand how anyone could read this and NOT want to destroy the rape industry and everything that supports it.

    Much love to you, as always.


  3. I don’t really know what to say Rebecca, but thank you for writing this, if thanks is the right thing to say.


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