THIS IS TRIGGERING – but the truth of what happens to the prostituted must be known.
Living with PTSD is to live with nightmares, nightmares that are just memories.
Let me told you what I see when I shut my eyes, and then you will know why prostitution is not harm-free. It was no fun time for me then.
And now it embedded in my dreaming, in my sickness, in my inability to grieve, in shutting down ways forward.
I am a strong fighter, I have huge determination – but by christ, my pain, my terror and my knowing too much that becomes unspeakable is slowly eroding me.
Last night, I had many nightmares/body memories of what johns thought was fun.
Fisting enters my dreams.
Nothing erotic, no gentle easing in, no idea that I wanted it.
No this was how whores are fisted.
I was fisted in the vagina, usually I thought myself lucky if was one hand without another object or other hands. I thought I was lucky.
I had fist/fists rammed down my throat.
I was fisted into my anus.
I live with those memories. God, I try so hard to close them down, I try to pretend I must have wanted it, I try to imagine it was not so bad.
I try to forget fisting nearly killed me. The pain would give small heart attacks, my mind would prefer death to my reality.
Men give me extra money, men complained if I bled on them or even fear made me shit.
These men had read or seen films that fisting was clean, women loved it, it made them real men.
Forcing their hand up my ass made them someone – for they made me no-one.
They could walk away, and I left with fear of any pain in my anus, still choking trying to unblock my throat, still deciding to be unadventurous with sex.
They had their fun, they took control – and I still dead inside.
I get nightmares regular of choking/drowning.
There is no mystery or hidden message to that – my throat was a porn playground for many years.
I was strangled, I had objects shoved down my throat, I had my face put into water as I was penetrated or anally raped, I was deep-throated, of as I have said fisted.
So I cannot breathe deeply, I get afraid of eating, I get sick, my throat spontaneously blocks itself.
Those men thought it was hilarious to bring to the edge of death, only to save my life.
They could imagine themselves some kind of hero for not killing the whore. After all many men would have killed me or other prostituted women and girls – so they must be the good men.
They did not know how much I wanted to die – why live in a world where sexual torture was my norm. Where I touch death, feel a brief moment of peace, of silence, of being free – only to forced back into life, and more hate, more terror, more pain, more degradation and more inability to feel.
That is what they save me for. Well, to be honest they were ok with raping me, coz everyone knows you can’t rape a whore. Ok with bashing me senseless, that was just part of the game.
But to kill me – now that would be a crime, they may not be able to talk their out of that.
Though I was constantly told no-one gives a shit about a murdered whore – so they would get away with.
I knew this, as I lived in a world where prostitutes just vanished, no searching for them, no concern they were missing as for most people they had never existed in the first place.
I knew some had been murdered, and no-one was bothered – except a few other prostituted women and girls who had them in the back of their minds, always carrying the fear they would be next.
In my nightmares I am murdered and thrown away, sometimes I cannot believe I am still alive.
I often get nightmares of being gang-raped.
These are never simple nightmares, they are made of pain in every hole in my body, of hands and penises/objects capturing every part of me.
I am not going to feel, I refuse to know what is happening to me, it cannot and will not be true.
It must just be a horror movie, it is reading too much Edgar Allen Poe, it is all that porn shit I was made to read or watch, maybe I am just Anita in “West Side Story”.
Gang rape is meant to be an one-off event, a crime that society claims is unacceptable – maybe some male fantasy – but not what I know and get nightmares about.
Gang-rape in the world of prostitution is a punishment, is the reserve of special customers, is the ultimate porn-dream.
Gang-rape for many whores is repetitive, a constant threat, a great way to keep her under control.
As the electric fence is to farm animals, gang-rapes is to the prostitute. She may ignore it most of the time, only every time she is gang-raped she goes back into shock, and her only way to cope is destroys all memory in order to not kill herself.
I do not know how many times I was gang-raped, I just know it became normal enough that I learnt to go dead as the room filled with men, and I know all hope was pointless.
In my nightmares, I feel that beginning as men eyes go into me, seeing only how to fuck me bad, I feel being held down, I feel some of the poking and rubbing.
Then there is so much blanking it out.
I always know some of the endings, as my body has pain in places it can’t even think about, as I feel bodies on me suffocating me. I go in and out of consciousness.
When they decide they are bored, or have no more money – I am left on the bed, or thrown out onto the street.
I had injuries I would not know, I was bleeding from many holes – I did nothing. I did not cry, I would feel the pain, I refuse to be scared.
It had happened before and would happened again.
Always in my nightmares, I am left in that zombie-state, I am inside the centre of hell.
These are examples of my nightmares.
I write them to show how damaging prostitution is.
If you make the choice to support prostitution, you are allowing that men can own women and girls – and in that ownership, all the violence I have described is ok, for it just a business exchange.
It an issue of human rights – nothing to do with legitimate work.
Put the rights of prostituted women and girls to safety, to dignity, to freedom and to be a full human above everything else.
Help me build a world where future women and girls don’t have to live with my nightmares.