Breathing Makes Me Want to Scream

I wish to write about the time I don’t want to know.

The time when every light at the end of the tunnel was an on-coming train.

The time I was alive, but spent my whole life fighting to die.

I will write of my teens and twenties, I will write that I survive – but I could not be a nice person.

I write because I was a whore, I was damaged, I was hardened – and I reacted as millions of young women in many countries react to being trapped in the sex trade.

I thought I was uniquely bad, I thought I was alone, I knew I was not worth bothering about – I never knew that I was surrounded by the despair of so many damaged whores.

How do start with that time.

Do I dive into the middle without explaining, just let out her screaming, her rage, and feel her cold terror.

Do use my adult mind to find some kind of linear way to order her chaos.

Do I write words only to find the gaps and silences are wider and wider.

I don’t know how to write her – all I know she wants to be made public.

I will write as my mind or spirit leads me.

If I confuse you, then it is nothing to her confusion.


I knew that I hear and know shut doors.

I know a horror I want to laugh at, a fear I refuse to know.

I am struck.

I now am a whore.

My mother always said I was one, my stepdad wanted me to be one.

Now, here inside some room with some strange men – now I am what I always was.

I will be fucked, I will be beaten, I will be strangled.

It may be filmed, it may watched in silence by other men.

I will be called slut, filthy bitch, fucking whore.

I will be moved into unnatural positions, I am tied up, I am gagged.

I hear look what you made me do, you know you love it, I will hurt you bad bitch.

I am in many rooms.

I don’t know where, I don’t what age I am.

I just know I am cold, I am performing, I feel no emotions.

I know I am smiling, saying that’s good, I know I let them do it over and over and over and over.

I am made nothing.

I am three holes and two hands.


I had no power, only I believed I was all-powerful.

I try to kill my brother.

I could not bear that he was happy, I hated that I could love him.

I could not stand his innocence.

I hit him so hard, I would strangle him, I placed pillows on his head.

I could not kill johns, my stepdad was always alive, managers laughed at my violence.

So a small boy got all my hate and fury.

Later, he forgive me and he always was full of love for me.

My kid brother know it was not me killing him, he did not understand what it was – but he know I love him really.

I could scream and scream and scream, that men pour so poison into me forming into a person I never was.

I am not a violent person, but then I attack only those who could not fight back.

I do not want to hate, but their endless destruction of everything that made me human – made hate my only reason to keep breathing.

They made me have a war, where their trickery and brainwashing meant  I stood no chance of winning, I just had to survive.


I was made into porn.

Porn is not real to the men, to the profiteers, to outsiders looking in, to feminists who see it as empowering, to liberals saying it is liberation, to fundamentals saying it proves women are corrupt evil, to makers of porn who hide behind the image.

Porn is nothing but fantasy, a few words on a page, a painting, a piece of furniture, a computer image, some film, photos lying around, chat on the phone.

Porn cannot be allowed to be real.

It cannot be about ripping, fucking with hate, hitting, tearing at, smashing into walls, tying up till numbness comes into the body, being close to death.

It cannot be leave bleeding, damaged cunt, terror in every cell of the body, stopping all tears, leaving wetness everywhere that makes memory go dead.

It cannot be that men who making me into their porn-toy have pre-planned each and every rape, sexual torture that my body goes through. It cannot be that they love with a passion my terror.

It cannot be that others make huge profits out making porn to be used over and over and over and over.

It cannot be that organised.

Only it was.

To think otherwise is to be deluded.


This is too hard.

My teenage and early twenties soul cannot speak out, without knowing there can be hope.

She is angry at my success now, afraid it make her chaos invisible.

She wants me to write without being too good, to write with the gaps and silences.

Write to the screaming, not running away from it.

Words can never capture the wild surviving of that time.

Time where alcohol could never drown out the pain, but hell it could deadened some memory.

Time where if I thought I was a fuck-machine, then I could imagine I was happy.

Time where I waited to be dead.

One day, there may a language that speak to that void.

One response to “Breathing Makes Me Want to Scream

  1. ((((hugs))))

    Thank you, thank you, thank you for speaking out. Your bravery and your courage are simply astounding.


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