Letting My Teenage Soul Speak

This week, I have been reaching out for my teenage. I want to hear her, but in her words, not the niceness of hindsight.

She needs to show the middle, the parts without any imaging of exits. She wants tell her truths however ugly, however messy.

She needs it for she can’t remember so much, and she can’t live with that.

I can’t live with so many empty spaces screaming out at me.

Somehow, I want to believe if I let free some of her voice, I will see who I was then, how it made who I am now.

Maybe we can get a small amount of peace.

Much of my life, I have said I was never a teenager.

Not like teenager in books, films, TV. Not like teenagers I meet.

I do not remember angst – just a logical sense that death was my friend. I had no puppy love, I had no love in me. I stop listening much to pop music. I cared little for causes.

I thought I had lost my normal teenage self.

But that was not true.

I may not of listen to Radio One – but I always know something about music.

Whether it was a distraction in the clubs I was whoring in, whether I heard pop in the background as johns were fucking me, whether to somehow remembering I was young as I watched Top of the Pops.

Music was under my skin.

Let my teenage soul speak.

I would dance and somehow I know I was alive.

I dance in my room when no-one was watching. Turn up cassettes so loud to somehow feel something, anything – pretend I was alive.

I hate reggae.

That is on as I dance for men. Up in some room above the pub, it always another private party.

Only I don’t know anyone, recognise some girls.

Know them by the dead looks in their eyes. I never speak to them.

Speaking would kill me, my heart would be smashed into pieces.

I hate reggae.

Dancing for men who don’t speak, only to call me whore, ask how I want to get fucked, saying of things where my mind fades into the music.

Dancing for men who fingers reach into my cunt, who in the dark would have their penis out, trying to fuck me as I dance.

That was meant to be funny – only I had no sense of humour.

I hate reggae.

In my room, I scream out to punk, yell to soul, cry to David Bowie.

It was the music – I had no feeling outside of music.

Now, I cry for my teenager. Music is so precious to me – and it so nearly stolen from me. Now I love most music – only please no 70’s or 80’s reggae, maybe small pieces of Peter Tosh or Bob Marley.

But I am sick if I hear lover’s rock or soft reggae. That is the music of my rapes and whoring.

My teenage needs to speak of her middle.

She does not know the words for who she was.

She hears whore – and thinks of others.

She hears prostitute – it means nothing.

Hears rapes – it makes no sense to her.

Hears me say torture – and she wants to stop listening.

All that language make her go dead inside, but I must be allow to speak. Speak in a language that is forming from then and reaching into now. A language that is not neat, not calm – a language of a deeply wounded soul.

She will just go for it.

I will begin with what I thought was love, thought was some kind of relationship.

What my adult self call it girlfriend experience. What my adult soul has nightmares about then.

Let her speak.

They must love me, I try so hard to love them.

I know you don’t want to say that. I know I should feel hate.

But I want a normal boyfriend. Someone who is interested in me, someone who doesn’t always want sex, someone who introduced me to his parents.

Someone who sees me.

I try so hard to make men like me.

But I always find that they hate me.

They hate me if I don’t have sex immediately. They hate me if I speak of anything they not interested in. They hate me sometimes if I speak although. They hate me if I am tired. They hate me if I show I am in pain when they fucking me. They hate if I am watch TV and not listening to them. They hate me for sleeping when they want to fuck me.

I have no life when I with them.

Sometimes, I hear my adult soul named this as prostitution, say it darned close to sexual slavery, or to be nice lets called it girlfriend experience.

These words somehow makes sense, but it was so messy.

I did get free food and drinks. I did not want to be in my own home, so I stay with men who hated me. Sometimes they give me money, it was a gift not payment.

Sometimes, I with them for weeks, sometimes a couple of hours.

Many times in the long-term “relationships”,  I was locked in their flats, when they went out. I did not mind – though I did get alert when they came back.

The worse thing of long-term relationships was my fear that I would relax, and become myself.

I was safe if I was what he wanted me to be.

But so often, I could not or would not sleep. Many men were angry if I went to sleep on them, so I taught myself to stay awake.

It is better than being fucked awake, often through my anus.

How can these be real boyfriends if they give no break.

Something I hid deep in me, is that I switch off as they fuck and torture me – by dreaming I was having sex with a woman who loved me.

That was some escape.

Somehow I still believed in love.

Maybe I was a prostitute – but I still had dreams, I still wanted to believe in trust and hope.

Men made me a whore – but I made the choice to refuse to know that.

I wish to go deeper, and speak on what violence meant to me.

My adult soul writes words of gang-rape, anal rape, deep-throating and endless faceless rapes.

I see those words, and slowly I am letting it into my skin.

I try to cope by not knowing my age – that how I have lost my teenage years.

But I was teenager when I was gang-raped – it mostly happened when I was 14 to 17.

That is young, too bloody young.

One gang-rape steals your soul – I have no idea how many times it happened. For that period, it was my norm.

I was being punished – but I never know what for.

All I knew was each time I survived by assuming I would be murdered – so then it would not matter.

The shock was still being alive.

Deep-throating was the same. I knew I was drowning, I knew I was suffocating.

Sometimes I fainted, in those brief periods I had a break, I reach close to death and felt happy.

But always I was back inside the choking.

I cannot cope with anal sex, I hate it.

I hate that was done to me all the time.

I hate that even when I thought I could switch off as it was done to me, there was always pain, often bleeding.

I hate how much men loved fucking there as pushed my face in the pillows, forced me against walls. Made me beg, made me faint, made me sick.

I will never do anal sex again – for I want love not hate.

I say I must have been a prostitute, a whore – but I was never scum.

Not when I had my own secret places.

I had my reading, I had going to films by myself, I follow Arsenal.

I had my dreams that was a life outside of being fucked, being beaten up, being drunk, being nothing but dirt.

I dream I would one day not know that kind of life existed – I would safe, I would be successful and by Christ I would be would be happy.

I had an idea that the life I was in was the illusion – and if I could stay alive, somehow I would find the real life.

Well, I did stay alive, and I did find a real life.

It may be painful being alive – but my teenage soul is damned proud to be here now.

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