I have to believe that my struggles have a purpose.
This morning I woke with a relatively clearer head. I am still chocking with sickness, still have trances of terror from porn and prostitution in my body.
Still cannot cry. Still have an anger that so many deny my reality, so they can feel good about the continual existence of the sex trade.
But yesterday, as I wrote my closeness to death and my lack of understanding of why I am still alive – especially when so good women and girls are not. Yesterday, as I wrote I broke some of my depression.
Of course, I am depressed, it is only natural.
Is it not depressing to be treated as a fuck-toy for round about 21 years.
Is it not depressing to lose the idea that I could have a sexuality, coz I was too busy trying to fit in.
Is it not depressing that I read of violent porn – read of air-tight sex, read of double-penetration in vagina and/or anus, read of “group” sex/gang-rape, read of s/m, and on and on and on. When I read, the words have no relevance as my every pore in my body knows what it is to inside that porn.
Is it not depressing that when I was made into porn, men wank over my rape and torture, that other men thought it was a damned good idea to film it.
Is it not depressing that a few women see nothing wrong with that.
Is it not depressing that I will have a lifetime of trauma coz men “need” the sex trade.
Hell, of course I am bloody depressed. And I will be as long the sex is consider just a normal part of our culture.
Maybe depression is suppressed anger. Well I have got a lot to be anger about.
I would my depression is a suppressed fury.