In a Bad Place

I am doing very badly.

It could be the heat. Humidity does my head in. I love dry heat – but sweating all the time is not my idea of fun.

Talking of sweat, my menopause has gone crazy.

Yesterday I try to write, but just moving made me want to faint.

Also my brain as full of cotton wool, I think then don’t think.

All I could do was to sit melting, and slowly memories creep in.

This year has so difficult.

I really miss my Dad. I still do and see things, and I want to phone him. I want to share my joys with him. I want speak of something I saw on TV with him – especially the Ashes. I go to exhibitions and bookshops and think of him.

He was my close friend, he show to see further and deeper. He taught not to take people on face value, but to listen and hear who they are. I learnt not to judged, only to dismiss those who prove through their actions that their aims are to create damage.

I am still learning, but I feel his presence guiding me.

The other day, when overwhelmed by anger, grief and not knowing how to go forward – I found in my thoughts I was shouting to my Dad. I was thinking -Dad give me the patience to find a route through this. I can’t do it on my own, help me, Dad, help me.

At first, I thought I was losing it. Then, I found I felt stronger. I felt his love surrounding me.

I need the strength of others to help me to continue with my work exposing my experiences of being prostituted. I need the strength of others to challenge the sex trade.

I know that I have no idea if there is life after death. But I do know that we carry those we have loved still live within us.

I feel my grandmother in me almost every day.

I feel her when I challenge prostitution as being portrayed as a normal part of life. I feel her encouraging me to say and write how horrific the conditions are for the majority of prostituted women and girls, in order to say that it is unacceptable.

I feel her encouraging that when I write that I craft my words to make maximum impact. She believed that art can transforms thoughts.

I feel the presence of women I knew that did not survive prostitution.

They are in every word I write, I speak and think on prostitution.

When I am overwhelmed and want to give up, their presence force me forward.

I have no idea why I survived, but as I grow further away from that world, I find I speak not just for me, but more and more for the disappeared women and girls.

I cannot write this log without the wonderful support of so many of my readers, especially those who survived multiple male violence.

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