Some Kind of Freedom

All my life I have striving for some kind of freedom.

I do not believe I can ever be totally free from my past. I cannot free unless I know who and what I was made.

But in this post I will write about moments or even months of freedom. They are both private and public.

All I know is freedom comes with responsibility, and freedom is sweeter when there can a sense that the future is real.


I like nature, but I would not that I am obsessed with it.

For example, I think all mountains should have lifts to see the views. I can’t be bother climbing all that way, especially when it may be misty at the top.

I like nature coz I tend to not feel connected to it – it is outside of my reality. I view nature with detachment and on occasions I will frame it into a drawing.

It makes me calm to stand on the cliffs in Cornwall, as I allow my mind go into nothingness.

But Cornwall is never nothing as I imagine du Maurier, see wreckers, watch sea birds fighting over mackerel, think on tin mining, know I will Tinner’s beer later.

For me I associated nature with level of human inhabitants, that is of interest.

I have no time for a landscape without the human touch, whether good or bad.

I dream of the past weaving into the future when I stand in nature.


I have always had sports to give me a future and hope.

That for me is a massive part of my freedom.

My love of sports is private and public.

It is private in that I do not need others to be with as I watch football, rugby and cricket. I can rather pissed off when others talk when I am watching.

It has always been my private joy, especially when I live inside abuse, it was about only thing I had that was private.

I got freedom over abuse by loving sports.

My love of football give me the freedom to challenge my abusers.

Many johns laugh that a girl loved football, but it made me loved it more.

They did more than laugh, they choose to use it as an excuse to batter me. They challenge that I would know the offside rule, if I did, their hate came.

I often after escape in sports on TV. After, I would choose to erase the rapes, the bashings, the near-death experiences and the eyes full of hate as I watch football, rugby or cricket.

I could not know my real life, so I made sport an obsession.

But it was more than an escape, it was a way of keeping part of my essence alive.

Now, I am safe and secure, I come to know that I am a sports lover. It was never a defence, it was always a way of giving myself joy.


I think of myself as a Londoner. I love walking in London, for I feel there I have some roots.

I am not much of a place person, always felt it people that make somewhere good or bad, not the place. I tend find it hard to be settle anywhere, for I never know if things may wrong again.

For some reason, I tend feel settled in London. I find easy to be relaxed there.

I enjoy walking viewing layers of history and cultures that made London the confused city that it is.

The other day when I was in Westminster, I was struck again by the beauty of the Thames views. As I looked, I thought of Pepys, Wordsworth, Dickens, Virginia Woolf, Turner, Monet and tons of others knowing some of that view, and being awe struck like I was.

I want London to always changed, but always keep it’s essence.

Much as I imagine my future.


This is a huge freedom to me.

For me, ownership is being able to be gay or straight, freedom is to be celibate if that suits me.

I do not know if I ever will truly own my own sexuality, but I am determined to go in the direction of that freedom.

It was so damned hard, when since I was six my sexuality was stolen from me.

I stopped being a virgin technically when my stepdad finger-fucked me till my hymen broke.

There is no freedom at losing virginity before you have any real concept of sex.

My stepdad continual sexual abuse made his toy, made me lose the freedom to have the young adolescent’s choices to explore their own sexuality.

I feared kissing, I feared fumblings, I feared the innocence of young exploration.

So I had no boyfriends or girlfriends, no gentleness, no laughter, no discovery.

Only the harsh reality of being a fuck-toy for my stepdad.

And his showing me porn made my sexuality die inside me.

I saw porn and know I had no right to be anything but whatever men wanted me to be.

If I felt anything, if I had an inkling of joy, if was outside men’s fantasies – then I had to kill that.

I would not even masturbate, unless I was watched by men – usually be told what to do, even when they saw it was hurting me.

To say that my stepdad made a prostitute, is somewhat of an understatement. He made into a body that would care how it was fucked over, would not acknowledge the agony, the terror.

My stepdad made a prostitute who could and would be obedient, would go dead so johns and managers could mould as they wish.

My stepdad stole my sexuality and then give me into prostitution.

Now I growing away from all that hate.

Now I slowly I finding that I have sexual feelings that belong just to me.

I slowly am regaining masturbation.

But it may some time I do not perform when having sex with another person.


I feel I have a settled life now.

I have many pleasures. I love eating out, my friends are wonderful. I growing to love the majority of my family.

But my past is always with me.

It is there as body memories, it is there in the anger that makes me write this blog, it is there as I see every day the reality of prostitution is erased from the public gaze.

I cannot have freedom, when I know women and girls are suffering inside the sex trade all the time everywhere.

I can have better times, but freedom comes from the ease of knowing  not one woman or girl is a sexual object in the name of the sex trade.

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