Today, my brain is a mess, it cannot think, it wants to stop all life.
But I always stay alive.
What I cannot and will not live with is the wilful ignorance of others when viewing the hell that is named prostitution.
I know this blog is making changes – but everywhere is more reasons to repeat over and over and over what I write.
It is slowly killing me – speaking out has killed amazing women before and will after my work.
But, survivors of the sex trade who speak out have no choice.
Once you have seen and really felt the reality of what it is to endure, and usually barely survived, it becomes unbearable to know millions of prostituted girls and women are in similar and much worse conditions.
It eats at your stomach, it sends memories of sexual torture into every cell of your body – it is a rage-storm in your brain.
There can be no stillness for those who remember the reality of prostitution.
Only, as I write and speak out, I feel the more I express the less I able to show the utter degradation, the pain that is so huge it can not be felt.
Words were stolen when I was prostituted.
My brain was filled instead with the language and paragraphs of the sex trade.
It was always called sex.
Sex is a word that pretends there is equality, that there is communication, that consent is mutual, that any pain is just a game.
Sex is a word in which everyone is an adult, where to be with many strangers is to be being adventurous.
Where if you don’t like it, you are a prude, no sense of humour, scared to try something new.
Of course it name it as sex – never rape, sexual torture, porn – just sex with the bonus of cash.
How in that environment, can the vast majority of prostituted women and girls know it is abuse, violence, rape and their destruction. How can they know that.
They must say it is just sex for money, say there nothing is wrong with that.
Here, the sex trade gives the prostitute more language to make the violence and degradation invisible. The language of how society is wrong to condemn her and her work, that is the real problem.
Not that they are made into fodder for male violence and hate.
Not that they are fucked until they are almost dead.
Not that they are seen as disposable fuckable goods – who most likely end is either death or being thrown away when consider too old or ugly to b e fucked.
That is not the problem, for it their job to be living porn for any man.
No, the problem is that society sees being a whore as bad.
This could be jealously, could be religious fanatics, could be interfering feminists, could men too weak to use prostitutes, or men who lie to women as they condemn prostitution, could be politicians who don’t understand ordinary lives.
All this is dripped into your brain by the sex trade.
Anything to stop the prostitute even thinking of the outside world, even imaging that anyone could cares about her.
It is said your family would not understand you or hates you for what you are doing, that your only friends can be found in the sex trade – no-one else would accept you.
And the classic that you can never escape – for once a whore always a whore.
So why not just relax into it, and know that your only real family is the sex trade.
That is poison – it is more than just lies, more than a breakable brainwashing.
It is a brainwashing that seethes into every cell and all aspects of your life.
I mostly did prostitution part-time, but my life outside the sex trade always felt artificial.
I thought I was safe inside the private hell of prostitution, for at least I thought understand what my role was there.
It was killing me, but I like a tiger in a zoo that had too long ago forgotten to hope and know a word like freedom.
So I said I was happy. What else could I say.
I think the vast majority of prostitutes have to believe they are happy, or at least doing ok.
But, it is exiting that can brings it home to you.
It is never immediate, often many years after exiting, but trauma is the knowing the reality of prostitution.
Knowing your body had so much violence, that it had to blocked off the vast majority of it.
The mind shows enough of the worse until you know the truth – that is the sexual torture, the raping until the essence is dead – the mind protects, by not showing it all.
Trauma is the knowledge that it was hell, the knowledge comes through the body, through shock when triggered by what is hard to named.
Trauma rarely fits into language – but many survivors are desperate to use language to show the hell that is the sex trade.
That just increases the brain storm – we want to communicate, but words always seems to make it less.
It is a scream, a sickness that will not stop, acid in piece of skin.
It is a disgust, a blockness of the throat, a cunt and anus being ripped apart.
It is all that and so much more.
It is coming alive from being made into nothing.
It scraping off the belief that you are trash, dirt, shit beneath the feet of men.
It is all that and so much more.
It is knowing what it is to be inside violent porn, it being those holes and hands for endless men, it ignoring the pain, it is forgetting pride.
It is fitting the label whore – and not remembering to care.
That is some of what prostitution is.
But, there so much more that is wordless.