Not a Destination, But a Constant Journey

I exited prostitution many years ago, but there seemed no end to the after-effects left inside and around me.

Like many survivors, I thought it would be a simple linear line of exiting to a better life. But by christ, it is never that easy. This post is my experiences of exiting.

I write that is a journey that has many ups and down. I have learnt to not look so much for an end, but to find peace and happiness where I can.

That is the biggest prize.

Exiting is having the strength to face head-on the mental trauma of being nothing but a sex object for a large part of your life.

This means seeing, knowing , feeling and being with that being an object is to be tortured and it is of no importance.

This means coming to terms that you had raped so regular and in such a mundane fashion, that you could never named it rape, only work or just who you were.

This means knowing that large part of your memory have been destroyed and may never be recovered.

This trauma can and will be manipulated by others who wish to defend the sex trade.

To prove that all you say is lies, they say that coz you cannot remember details and “facts”, that proves it never happened.

To prove it was not as violent as your body and mind remembers, defenders of the sex trade will say if it was that violent you say, you would be dead or mad.

But then those same folks, say you must be mad to say such horrible things, it all a ghastly fantasy from a sick woman.

Exiting is to be open to attacks.

Exiting is full of despair.

Despair at knowing where you have come from.

Knowing this through body memories that comes at you every day and effects your sleep.

When others call you a liar,  you are mental and that you must of enjoy it really – then body memories come out with a force.

I get pain in my anus which forces out the truth. I am sick to my stomach when I attempt to shut down my truth.

My throat knows and remembers oral rape. My hand remember acts they never wanted to do.

Hell, exiting is never a destination when body memories scream for attention.

Go to a doctor and there will nothing physically wrong with you – but hell, the pain is terrifying.

That is exiting.

Exiting is to see and live inside triggers everywhere.

Turn on TV and strippers are murdered for the plot of CSI. Listen to the radio, and a rap sings of whores. Posters for selling cars dressed women as prostitutes. Go to stand-up comedy night, and strippers jokes are trendy. Go for a dance, and everyone dances as MTV slag dances. Go to a bookshop, and trendy books on post-feminist sex guides.

There is a constant fun of stripping, fun of being a whore, fun of rough sex, fun of having sex for money, fun of porn.

Everywhere the sex trade is made into a game and always shown as harmless.

Your guts know this is rubbish. Your guts are ripped apart at each and every fun that others see and do.

This fun nearly murdered you. You knew women that died because of this fun.

This fun hides the sexual torture that is and was the norm of the sex trade.

Fun pretend that women and girls are happy, rich, independent and free.

When the sex trade is built on the blood and sweat of making women and girls into objects, or in other words sexual slaves.

As slaves, their lives can be thrown away, so any torture or raping is of no importance.

For who cares that these goods may be mistreated, for they are never fully human.

Exiting is knowing in your guts and mind, that you were viewed as sub-human.

Why else would rape on such an industrial scale mostly go unnoticed. It not seen as rape, but a choice the woman or girl has made.

She just enjoys rough sex, enjoys sex that may place her life in danger, wants every perverted porn fantasy any man can imagine.

Why else would the constant murders of prostituted women and girls be of no importance.

The only interest in their deaths is the thrill of it being a serial murderer – they are just seen as decorations to his sickness.

Prostitutes murder can always liven up a TV cop show, good for dark musicals, fun for wax museums, and some research into how low women can get.

But to care about the prostitute as a real woman or girl. Someone who has dreams, someone who has skills and interests, someone who has felt and given love, someone who has known pain, someone who wants a better future.

To care about her as a full human – now that would be ridiculous.

Exiting is determining to be seen as fully human – and not some stupid cardboard cutout of a prostitute.

Seen that your loves and interests are varied and always about regaining your essence.

That finding peace and stability is an extraordinary luxury that was always out of your reach.

To have what others take for granted is bloody amazing.

Having a stable and safe home. A home where no-one wants or expects sex in exchange for the “privilege” of having a roof over your head.

Having nights in watching TV and doing nothing. Christ, having a boring life is so brilliant.

For me, knowing I am truly exited is having the peace and security to have boring times.

One response to “Not a Destination, But a Constant Journey

  1. I think people really need to hear about how our ridiculous cultural images of prostitution work to hide the reality and contribute to the trauma of prostitution survivors. At best people show a lack of personal responsibility; at worst, they are vicious and cruel.
    I hadn’t considered it before, but a ‘boring’ life is a sign of stability and a luxury- it means you don’t have to search for food or income, you don’t have to suffer violence, etc.
    Anyway, sorry for writing an essay. You’ve really made me think, as usual!
    Much love and hugs to you.


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