Emotions are Coming Alive

I feel very uncomfortable in my own skin – it is like I want to scratch out insects that are eating me out.

This is how emotions come back into my body.

I could say it the breaking of solid ice that protected me from knowing I had been living with the unbearable – the unspeakable – the truth that my mind cannot compute.

I write often, I say often, that I was mentally, physically and sexually tortured as I endured the sex trade – but up to now I was ok, coz I could not feel that truth.

I was safe inside my blank.

I could see with a logical eye it was nothing but torture – but it was saying and reading words of another person. I had no connection to me of then to who I have made myself now.

It is easy to be political with that detachment – for I saw myself just as an example, use my past as a lab rat to force others to get the emotions I could not reach.

Only the more I dug into my truths, the more I discover the scale of the violence and hate of the sex trade, the more I saw my exploitation was interconnected with all that violence – the more I could not hold back my buried emotions.

I could no longer make my emotions disappear – they crashed out of the box.

For now my truth is known from the centre of my stomach, not just the top of my head.

I have feelings of what being tortured really is.


I was brainwashed for decades into not knowing my truth.

I believed I was only there to be used, to be smiling as I was dying, to not care that I was viewed as scum whilst being forced to act the princess.

I believed that one day – the day that would never come – that some man who was using me would see me, see I was human. He would stop buying me and would rescue me. I never got over the crash when it never happened.

I believed what I was told by men managing me – that no-one care about me, no-one would notice if I was dead or alive, that as I was trash so what did it matter what happened to my body.

This I believed for I could not know the truth

Now, feelings of utter grief show me the manipulation that trapped me. It was all planned to eat away my essence and make me sub-human.

How do you feel that.

That betrayal from every angle that meant millions of women and girls are allowed to so brainwashed that they become sexual goods to torture – they are smiling, saying it their choice to be there, and being advertisement to recruit yet more women and girls to get trapped inside the sex trade.

How do you feel that pain and terrible empty grief.

We are betrayed by so many passing by our tortures – so how can we trust enough to let out true emotions, not just the show of fake emotions to play the role that others want us to be.

To feel the reality of being so completely brainwashed is gut-wrenching, it make you not know what the real is and what is just a role.

I say I grieve, my body shakes, my sickness is regular and exhaustion is my norm – that I would name as grief.

I slowly knowing these emotions matter.


Often when speaking of the harms of prostitution the focus is on the sexual – but the harms is done all of the body, the harms are often non-sexual and just hate.

But it is always interconnected with sexual violence – for it always the prostituted are used as living porn.

My memories and sickness from that time show endless ways profiteers and punters physically tortured me.

I was smashed in my stomach, I was gagged and tied, I was kicked around, I had objects thrown at me, I had my head smashed into walls, I was spat at, I was locked up, I had my head put into water – that is some of what I can remember, but there is so much more.

If you want to know what is the norm for prostituted women and girls – look at the fashions in hard-core and you will know.

Now, tell me how do you feel such constant and unrelenting hate and violence.

I can feel fury that those profiteers and punters had the entitlement to use the prostituted as their personal torture farm.

I can cry now as on the news there are stories of political torture – as those tortures are happening on the prostituted everywhere, and it is made invisible, or worse of no importance.

Watch any hard-core porn on the net for two minutes – and see the water-boarding, see sleep deprivation, see electricity used on all genitals, see all the tortures that the Left would stop if done to the non-prostituted.

But place it inside the sex trade – call porn and or prostitution – and by magic, it is no longer torture, it is free choice that could be empowering.

My body never felt empowered or liberated – it just closed down in order to survive.

How can we feel – when all around us others are saying it was not real torture, so why are we still going on about it.

Sometimes all we can do is talk among ourselves of the many physical tortures that still feed our nightmares, still are remembered inside our bodies as pain often convincing we are seriously ill, still putting us on alert when meeting others.

But why should our tortures always be censored – so others can continue to believe that the sex trade is relatively harm-free.


To be prostituted is to live with extreme sexual torture as your norm.

That is a truth that is continually silenced.

Say there was some rape, some sexual torture – but do not say the scale for others must believe it just entertainment or some kind of social service.

Not to know that the vast majority of women and girls inside the sex trade are sexually tortured so often, with so much calculated hatred – that the only way they can survived is to murder their essence.

We were raped to almost dead.

How the hell do we feel that.

When I remember the sexual violence done to me there can seem no end and no beginning – just the knowledge that was a time it was in every cell of my body, and then I can’t remember how or why it was not what I was.

But my grief, my anger, my confusion and my wanting to roll up into a little ball –  that is my shadow of what sexual torture really is.

I have written often of anal torture, of oral torture, of gang-rapes as torture, of being to act out girlfriend material as torture, of the torture of always having to re-enacts hard-core porn fantasy.

All that is eating away at me.

But how can I express the massive screaming of the thousands of sexual tortures that I had to endured.

I can be sick – I can write and speak out – I can distract myself. But I cannot ever get the rapes, the anal and oral horror, the eyes of hate, the hands ripping at me, the teeth sending in pain that has no name, the darkness that does not make me safe – or the taste and smell of fear.

That is what I want to emote – that is what I want to block out.

All I know is that the only way forward is put the voices of exited women first and foremost – for then with care and slow growing of trust, maybe we can speak of being  inside continual sexual torture.

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