Climbing Back on My Horse

I have too full of trauma to write for a while.

I have let fear, exhaustion and a burning out of my brain stop me from coming to my work.

I have found it hard to feel solid when memories are drowning, making my choking so intense that sleep and breathing is the only issues that I can care about.

Today, I stare directly into my trauma and say enough – I will return to my work.

I will ride my bucking horse again – for deep inside I know only patience and love will tame it.

That is, I can learn to one with my past, my present and my future if I just hold on tight to my wild horse and learn it is just part of me.

Sound so simple, but it the hardest work I will ever do – the work to mend and really get to know my prostituted soul.

The heart of the matter – the heart that I run from but want to know so deeply – is to be one with who I had to be in my late teens and early twenties.

To know my terror then, to know how the pain was, to know it was never truly a world without  exits just it was kept blocked from me.

To know that I was isolated, to know each and every punter saw me as nothing, to know money went into hands that I never saw.

I need to know the heart of what I had to do to survived prostitution.

To know I hang on to some kind of pride by keeping reading even as punters and pimps laugh at the “reader-whore”, and would rip my books, or give me Lolita, de Sade and Anais Nin to read.

To know I hang on to knowing Arsenal were still in my heart, that I could love football – despite being rape or batter for knowing more than punters about the offside rule, or when they bore me thinking of footie results.

To know I hang on to my passion for Hollywood – despite punters using my love of films to put in the back row to suck their dick, so they put down in the crap on the floor and make me their trash.

I need to know it was impossible to be inside prostitution and stay a good person.

To know I reach for some kind of self-respect by stealing from punters – not coz I needed the money, but coz if they hurt or torture me I wanted to take something from them.

To know I learnt to make myself numb to my own reality by sleeping as little as possible, by drinking as much as possible, by smoking in order to die, by not eating good food, by forcing my brain to not know I had a body.

To know that I survive by not letting in the real world, not letting in hope, not letting that there were people and places that wanted me to live and thrive.

I could not know the real world until I hit rock bottom – and from deep inside me I made the choice that I wanted to be truly alive – and not the deadened porn-puppet the sex trade had made me.

It is through knowing what I had to be to somehow survive prostitution, that I have learnt to see through the lies of those who support the sex trade.

A classic is the old line, that the major issue for the prostituted is not male violence or being made into sexual goods – but that society will stigmatised the prostituted.

I believe that most so-called stigma was created by the sex trade to keep the prostituted in-line and as a slave-class.

Much of the stigma is about saying most outside the sex trade have no idea what it is to be prostituted – so it is invented that outsiders don’t care about the prostituted, that outsiders see all the prostituted as sub-human – and the only true care for the prostituted comes from the sex trade “family” that is pimps and some punters.

This is bullshit – it is pimps and punters that need and want the prostituted to be isolated, it is the pimps and punters that need and want to keep all the prostituted as sub-human sexual goods.

Of course pimps and punters will act the good guys, pretend to some kind of family, will drip-feed poison and say it is honey.

When I was prostituted, I was made to believe that all the violence was “accidental”, that the pimps were sorry I was hurt, that some punters are just bad but most just want simple sex.

When I was prostituted, I was made to believe that those who said they may help me were just do-gooders, religious freaks, were jealous coz they could get enough sex, were judging me but leaving to be trashed.

When I was prostituted, I was made to believe that if I just toughened up I would be fine. I would learn to adapt.

These vicious lies made it impossible to even imagine an escape, or  believe there could be a world where I would be human enough to have the right to safety.

I write this to give a reason to fight for full abolition of the sex trade.

To stop more girls and women going through what I did – we must not go for half-measures, please listen to exited women.

4 responses to “Climbing Back on My Horse

  1. Pingback: The sheriff ain’t gonna like this, Billy-Bob…. | gigoid

  2. I love you, Rebecca. I have read alot of your work over these past few months. I am in no way religious, but if there is a hell, these evil men would be a great candidate for it. My breath is taken away by the honest words you speak about the evil sex business. I have been there too..I like what you said about the pimps feeding you poison, and pretending it is honey. That speaks volumes about what they do. Lie, connive, etc. I once believed sex is evil because men will do basically ANYTHING to have that orgasm. (Hetero sex, to be exact..) Sometimes, hetero sex is like rape too, because women don’t always want it, but do it anyway to please their men. Yuck! Anyways, thanks for another great writing, and it is imperative that you stay back on your horse…


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