The more I know my past, the more I see I survive by being roles.
By being roles, I never allow myself to be fully alive, to feel that I was worthy of existence. Become a role, and being an individual is of no importance.
Now, I am in a world where I have no idea what role fits me.
When I was a small child, so small I can hardly remember, I was afraid of my mother.
My fear made me want to fit into her view of the good child.
The child that was quiet, the child that was a clothes-horse, the child who did not get dirty, the child who make herself invisible.
I mustn’t bore my mum, I mustn’t stop her from doing what she wants when she want.
To be the perfect daughter I must be her doll, not some living child.
I always failed at that role.
I would make too much noise, hell, I made noise of a normal child. I got my clothes dirty in rough play or just by living.
I was far too visible.
My mum never forgive me for being born. I was born trouble, that was our family myth.
I lost my temper, I buried my rage – afraid to be trouble in case I thrown away.
I was a role or roles for my stepdad – I try desperately to please him with hope against hope he would not hurt me.
I would be the role of his little princess, the one who laugh at his “jokes”, the one who sit on his lap making out she was not afraid, the one who pretended to like fishing, knowing she wanted to be playing football with mates.
I was his idea of a daughter he would spoil. He brought gifts that were expensive, and always so pointless. I would smile, and put firmly to the back of my mind what I did and would have to do to get those “gifts”.
For, mostly I was his little whore who was always there at his beck and call.
My role was to his porn-doll, who didn’t move, never complain – just took whatever he could think to do next.
I was not allow fear, I was not allow pain, I had no tears – it just broke the role I was meant to be.
By the time, I came to prostitution – I understood the role of the whore.
I understood that I was less than nothing, if I was a thing it was just the dirt at the bottom of the shoes of all the bastards that brought and sold me.
The role of the whore is to the void that men can fuck into.
Think on that hard.
Think how would you survive being that role. The only way is not to know what is happening to , and why it is happening.
To make yourself the role that is the happy hooker, that is a brilliant way of surviving.
This is to say you had chosen the violence that is done to you, you have that sick mind, you were properly born that way.
That means it cannot be violence, it cannot be degrading, cannot be real rape and certainly is not threatening your life.
If it does go wrong, is your own for choosing not to notice he was a dodgy john or just coz you were careless in so many ways.
God, I spent years and years, blaming and hating myself for the violence johns and profiteers did to me.
But, by not seeing the bigger picture, I know I survived. It would have killed me to know how cynical the sex trade was, and how the johns that nearly destroy me had pre-planned all their violence.
To be a prostitute, is to be a living blow-up doll. The johns wants you to have no feelings, no memory, no life outside of his dick.
The john knows you being used over and over and over by many men – but he want to be the role that makes him special and always the best.
The profiteers sold as the sex-toy who loved pain, could never be humiliated and would smile when “normal” women would be terrified.
I learnt that role very quick.
I have the sickness in my stomach as I know my past self smiling at not just their rapes, but allowing in her body their sexual tortures.
I smiled – did I not give those sadistic bastards permission to know their behaviour was acceptable – I find that hard to live with. Was I not be part of allowing them to abused more prostituted women and girls – and maybe go out into “normal” women.
It is hard to forgive myself for that smile, for my encouraging words as I was tortured – even if with my logical mind, I know it was a pure survival tactic.
I wanted to pleased them, hoping they would not murder me, that the torturing would go on for shorter periods.
Even when I was desperate to die – I wanted to live so damned hard.
So, please never judge the whore who appears to be happy – for you do not know what she having to blank off to be that role.
Now, I have broken away from abuse – now I live a safe and stable life. Now, I have no idea what role I should be.
I can do the outspoken exited prostitute role, by waiting to see and hear what others want her to say or write.
I can do the role of watching others waiting for how they want me to be.
But, I cannot know what I am.
So I turn to my music tastes, to my love of sports, my interests in classic films – is that the real me, god knows.
I look back at my good family history – our huge interests in culture and the arts, our history of always struggling for uncomfortable human rights, our ability to want to see the good in the majority of people. Is that who I am?
I look into the centre of my self – afraid when I hit a void. But in time I may find my essence.
That would be wonderful.