Yesterday’s post has hit me very bad – to be very honest I am in a terrible state.

If I could go back to deadness I would. I hate having emotions, I hate knowing my life.

I hate that I am witness to knowing what I want to be unknowable.

I am speaking from grief, a grief that stares wide-eyed, slack-jawed at the horror that was my prostitution.

I try to cover my grief with rage, I try to hide the grief with making connections. I run away from grief, only to have it smashed me down.

Let me say that I do not how to grieve my prostitution, I do not know how exited women find a route to allow the enormity of that grief.

It is a grief of being made into nothing.

How do grieve that. Nothing can come of nothing.

Well, with all my strength of will, all my warrior spirit – I will make something out that nothing.

I will make something, I will work alongside the courage and unbreakable spirit of many exited women – to say we are not just alive, but we have something very powerful to give the world.

We are meant to have never of stay alive, or to not be sane enough to have a voice.

So the women who have been lucky enough to exit, and have the extraordinary strength to speak out loud and clear against the sex trade – they are an unstoppable force.

Let me pause here in this rallying cry – that makes it sounds far too easy and simple.

Exited women who speak out do so carrying an ocean of grief for what they have known.

Grief for having inside their bodies – every rape, every sexual torture, every injury, every STD, every abortion, every bashing, every hate-speech, every suicide attempt, every drink, every drug, every cut.

That grief was never allowed out, not when she was taught it was just the risk of the job.

Grief for understanding what rape could be – not as she knows she must want it, it must have been her choice to be there no-one made her a whore, hadn’t she got the money, somewhere to stay, a meal/drink, bad girl don’t get raped.

How can you grieve rape when it is not part of your vocabulary.

The shock of exiting that can be intolerable, is knowing the vast majority of johns raped you over and over and over and over and over.

Raped you until it was all that you were.

My grief and the grief of many exited women is how can we speak with other women about our realities of industrial rape, when we can often only speak in coldness and matter-of-fact way, when we speak with tons of gaps and silences, when we speak knowing all our rapists are faceless and nameless.

We may not cry, we may not even has the ability to know shock any more – we may just speak with of calm voice of the unspeakable.

But our calmness is yet another role.

For me, and for many exited women, that calm and outward strength, is disguising an endless sickness of knowing what it to be raped into deadness – and then know that was just the beginning, for a time that seemed to have no end.

Exited women cannot join in the recovery side of rape language – they know they have left the world of prostitution, but the scars and hell they have known will remind sunk in them.

That makes them the stronger women I have ever meet, for many exited women have learnt to know trauma will not cured away, and use that trauma as a push to show the world the realities of the sex trade.

That is courage beyond words.

There should medals handed out, there should be parades, brass bands, a day to celebrate that courage.

Instead, there is mostly silence.

I grieve that to be heard, we speak words that don’t fit our lives – but this grief makes me write harder.

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