Cry, Cry, Cry

I have not been able to write, and I not sure if I can write now.

I will to the grief that is blocking me and see where it takes me – I will write closing my need want order.

For to be prostituted is to know chaos without end, a chaos that as an exited woman I spent every day attempting to hide – to hide from my own essence.

I lived in chaos, chaos ruled as struggle to want to live as a prostitute.

Always with this blog, with my speaking and with deep friendships – I attempt to make order out of that chaos.

But always, there is a crying – a silent endless crying saying that order is pushing out too parts of my prostituted essence.

I still run away from my essence – I still cannot gaze down into my own void.

I have to stop enough to know grief – which is why I had to stop or slow down my writing.

I may never truly know tears, may never sob – but I will know and touch, even hold grief.

I will grieve what I lost, I will grieve what was stolen from me, I will grieve my confusion, I will grieve my pain, and I grieve my grief.

I will grieve for in grieving and I becoming a full human.

I can say with my warrior-spirit that the truly strong are those who stare into their pasts and know it in the round.

The truly strong know that being vulnerable is to be fully human.

The truly strong can stop fighting and try to grieve why they have to fight.

My warrior-spirit sees and knows how my childhood, my adolescence and young adulthood was stolen from – and weeps in pain that it was impossible to replace.

I cannot know how it was to be a child with wonder, I cannot be that teenager who learns from her own mistakes – I had idea how to be that, though I try to copy others round me.

I grieve that joy was stolen far too young.

I grieve that too young eyes and ears knew porn, knew sex was pain, knew sex would kill if you did not stay silent and still.

I grieve how early I learnt to hate those who were meant to be the ones I loved.

God, I grieve for my child who try so hard to make order in a world where she had no power.

I grieve how she learnt too young to close down visual memory, close down thoughts of another world without abuse, close down hope.

I grieve how early she was able never to cry, never to show pain, never to be fully alive.

I grieve that she so soon decided death was her only real friend.

That is no childhood.

But mostly all my deep grief is for my prostituted soul – I cry for her as others make her invisible.

There is no end to the sorrow I have not just for my personal experiences of prostitution – but my sorrow cannot end till all the prostituted are made free.

For to understand what it was and is to be prostituted is to know all the prostituted are interconnected, and that all the violence done to the prostituted is never personal.

Nothing personal when to be a prostitute is to be made goods, to lose what it is to be human, to be made nothing.

That is a grief that most will refuse to know.

To punters and sex trade profiteers – all the prostituted are interchangeable.

They do not see the human with dreams, with a childhood or a future, with ideas outside the moment they are being consumed.

To be a prostitute, is to not exist except as the porn-dreams of those who want make you dirt.

That is a part of the grief without end.

I knew I had no existence to punters – only the existence of their anger, their sense of shame, their need to control, their desperation to prove they were a man.

I had no existence as they ignored or enjoyed my pain.

I had no existence as they wanted me to be young, place themselves as my conquerors taking my innocence.

I had no existence as they experimented on my body sadist sex, or gang-rapes – on occasions my only link to some existence was the film they had of my slow death.

My existence was drowned in drink, was covered by toughness, was destroyed by refusing to sleep.

I could not exist for to exist was to know and feel I was living inside torture.

That is what it is to be prostituted.

That is our deep grief, or a very small part of it.

That is why we fight for abolition – for justice is the only true cure for such grief.

8 responses to “Cry, Cry, Cry

  1. I don’t understand or want to understand this world where people can shut up their ears and minds and hearts to this right here that you have written. How can this be? It’s effing madness. There’s no hope for women and girls to be seen as human beings so long as this willful ignorance and defense of prostitution continues. I love you.


  2. The grief is the hardest thing, for me. Shame, the medical aftereffects (I had cervical cancer by the age of 19), PTSD etc are bad enough, but the grief for all we never had is absolutely gutting, aye. To grow up and see all the girls around you giggling over boys, playing with make-up, having first relationships and all…yes, I know it’s not perfect for everyone and we all have different experiences, but to be denied all that finding-out-for-yourself, it hurts.

    Or to put it bluntly, I remember my female classmates all planning on going to a house party one Friday night, the clothes they’d wear, the guys who might be there, the drinks they’d have, how to do their hair etc. I spent that exact same night having my torn vagina sewn back together by my half brother (because I sure as hell wasn’t going to casualty to tell them why I got stuck with a bottle by my pimp in front of a group of guys who’d paid to watch). That hurts, more than physically. And that’s often hard to explain.

    No-one should have their youth dragged away from them just to satisfy male dick/ego. We’re not disposable. And no amount of money that we may or may not have received makes up for that loss. It’s as if your whole life dies and you become an actor in someone else’s world.

    Rambling, I know. Just to say *massive hugs*. I can’t make it better, but I sure as hell can grieve with you.


  3. Thank you for sharing the painful truth of your experience so others can get a glimpse of it and be inspired to help others.


  4. I just discover your blog now, reading some articles of yours on another website….. I met some of those tortures you speak about from men. I don’t know your face, but if there’s something I know for sure is that you are beautiful. Everything you are is beautiful. And as much as they tried to destroy that, your beauty, your very own living flame, is still here. And even though I am no one, I can just say that : I love you, and I wish that my love could feed and warm you. You are unique, you are beautiful, you are a wonderful human being, and I send you all my love, hugs and smiles.


  5. Evil is truly alive and well. For a male “human beings” to enjoy and watch your spiritual demise-that is evil. There is no excuse in this world for what these guys have done to you. I have heard them all, believe me, as I am an ex-prostitute. “Oh duh-I just wanted to try that once.” Or “think of all of the money she is making for that act” etc. ad nauseum. I don’t care what people say-men are evil. No, women didn’t make them this way. They have no hearts/compassion/empathy as women do. I am so happy that you are alive and doing your share to out these evil men. I read alot of your entries and cry, but your strength shines through! It takes a brave woman to share your story with everyone and I love you!


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