Trying to Stay Above the Water

I have been in deep trauma for several months now – making me afraid to write, afraid of sleep, afraid to eat –  I am alive, but have no idea what living is about.

What is strange – and really hard to take – is how outwardly normal I am being, how I am dealing with my day-to-day existence with some ease.

I have too much pride, I have been a performer for far too long – to know how to ask for help or how to stay still enough to let that help into my heart.

I am writing this post to say I know and hold deep inside my heart that so many care and do wonderful stuff to care about my welfare.

I want to say if I have run away or been too terrified to see your good will – I want to explain, and I am truly sorry.

I feel I am so used to thinking, often with reason – that I will never be helped unless it was to betrayed me, unless it was to use me to pour in my body and mind more hate and pain.

I cannot a time when I felt safe, when I knew I was a human not an object to be used.

I have had to learn how to trust.

I can give out love and often deep friendship – but I always feel it will never last if others knew my whole past.

I learnt to stay silent about what it is to be made into goods, stay silent on what torture being over many years has done to my mind and body, stay silent on that I raped in countless numbers.

I stay silent for so long that I am terrified that I have lost access to language that allows me to be human again.

Now i am slowly finding I can trust – that are a few people, mostly women who do not just listen and hear – but want to give as much time and space to speak to my newly formed language.

I have found other exited Sisters – women who know and read the silences and gaps in our evolving words.

My Sisters can look into the deep void of what it was be embedded inside the sex trade – we know in every cell of our minds and bodies that to become truly human, we must look deep into that hell and allow that it no nightmare or delusion.

We must allow in the void – into our conscience minds, not lost in the subconscious without language or solid form.

We must say in our own language what it was to be lost in that void – cut away from the “real world”, made to be sub-human, as sub-human we learnt it was normal that we were invisible.

It is a void where torture was routine – where torture invaded our every space; where torture was our past, present and future; where not one cell of our minds and bodies was safe from torture.

That is why we cannot have the language of rape – it is the language of rape that reject so many exited women.

How can we speak when in the language of rape many women are full of shock and righteous fury, when a woman said she was raped by more seven men in seven different times or in seven different places.

How can exited women speak to that – how do you say rape was your routine, how do you say that penis-in-vagina rape is a relief to many and multiple ways punters normally sexually torture prostitutes and women in porn – and how do say the bitter truth of counting the punters that raped an individual prostituted woman or girls is unhelpful, for it may push over the edge into self-harm.

I know I got to 300 punters raping just me – and then my brain exploded, and I went towards self-destruction.

I have no idea how many punters were in my body, have no idea how many sex trade profiteers and their “friends” rape me.

I only know I enter prostitution aged 14, and left when I was 27 – it was not every day or night – but it was intense and sadistic every time it happened.

I had no words for what it was – now as an exited woman, I am making language fit what was unspeakable.

I believe that being embedded inside the sex trade murders how exited women remember, we have no concept of linear time.

I was in indoors prostitution with it being on occasions filmed for porn for 13 years – but that is not how I remembered it.

I dive deep into my past – but however hard I try to make linear and logical sense, always 13 long years feel to me like a few months.

I cannot remember individual punters or profiteers – unless their violence was so extreme it sticks inside my trauma.

I cannot understand what age I was – I cannot cling hold of outside events or the music of time to pinned down age.

The outside world was surreal to me, I was just floating in it pretending I was human as nothing was real except going back to sadism of the prostituted world.

How can language fit this stripping of time and reality?

The prostituted class live in an environment where they are constantly drowning – but the world is saying they just love swimming out of their depth.

No wonder exited women have huge trust issues.

I feel now, I am learning how to not live by drowning.

I am reaching dry land, but I am at the stage where I am gasping for breath.

I need friends and deep support to get into being alive.





5 responses to “Trying to Stay Above the Water

  1. Your words are so deep and soulful that I often have trouble finding words to express how much your words move me. I think you’re doing a helluva good job swimming and putting into words what is unspeakable and unthinkable, and with that you show just how deeply human prostituted/trafficked women are. Trauma makes linear time/movement difficult, but linear is a limited & robotic way to live anyway, which is why your words are so impactful for me, because of their non-linear, non-sanitized nature. In a world that is rapidly forgetting what it’s like to be human, you & other exited women are helping me find/remember my own Humanity/Human-ness. I see you getting into being alive by being you, not just a human, but by *being* human, however it manifests (rather than *doing* human/performing). In this world, that is very hard to do, and I so respect you for it.


  2. So much love to you, my sister. Instead of filling out such a long reply to you, which I easily could, allow me to share a link to a post I just wrote a couple days ago that expresses what I would say to you, now…

    I know there are so many of us here for you via cyberspace. My prayer is that some of us are accessible to you in person, to take your hand, hold you, walk with you, sit with you, as you navigate to places of complete peace and deeper healing. Bless you…


  3. not an exited woman myself but part of my childhood sexual abuse included my rapes being filmed & iam sure – sold- i relate to the staying above water theme expressed here- it would piss me off way to much to not stay alive – if only to make the abusers unahppy that they didnt kill me


  4. I love you and you know I am here for you. Even though we mostly just laugh about idiots on the internet and talk about your cat, I am here for you in whatever way I can be. This post struck a cord with me, especially what you said about the timeline and not being able to place anything in chronological order. This infuriates me, it makes me feel like I have no control over what happened. I didn’t have any control, but being able to remember things clearly would be reassuring, but I can’t. Relearning how to trust is a massive job and really really difficult but you can trust me to never let you down and to never not be beside you through all of this xxx


  5. I know what you mean. And it’s okay.

    You are still speaking my truth.

    And I’m still fighting for you. ❤

    There was a specific day I broke through. I was lost, confused, wandering around the prison of memory. Seeing one thing and then another and speaking aloud to the person who was there with me. I remember the room I was in, locked in the back bedroom of the townhouse my boyfriend was renting. It was only a few months, I think, after you emailed me, thanking me for fighting the chads on 9/2's blog. You'd not commented her blog in so long I remember being surprised that you read it – and then feeling kind of dumb for feeling surprised. We spoke briefly. I told you, I would rather be angry than afraid. It uses up so much strength but it covers up the fear, fills in all the holes. And that seemed to help you, at least for a while.

    That was the day I realized that – It's not now. You know what? It's not now. I love that it's not now. I probably put an absurd amount of time into contemplating now. Where I am – the room I am in. The clothes I'm wearing. The chair I'm sitting on. Where I am. I can piece together how I got here, now. It's like falling down the rabbit hole, except in reverse. Back to today.

    Talk to me anytime. ❤


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