Writing Inside Too Much Noise

I have not blog for some time. I have chosen a day when I washing clothes, phone keeps ringing and there are workmen in the flat below.

I will write into my depths, but it may very disjointed, and my anger may come and go.

I have turn on soul, disco, blues and gospel up loud to drown annoying noise, but no promises that I can stay focus.

Ahh, city life is so wonderful!!!!

I had to stop writing because I needed to face my grief, I needed to stop running away from my own past, see my past without downplaying it, or convincing myself that others had much worse.

In this post, I want to stop and look into that grief, look at certain words that I write and say often – but usually with detachment, or making it about all the prostituted but my teenage and young adult self.

Grief is the beginning of finding true freedom.

Grief is the opening of the frozen heart to a route back to light and compassion.

Grief is accepting the pain and terror of the past, and learning the vital lesson to end condemning yourself.

Grief is forgiveness of who you had to be to survive, forgiveness of the “bad” actions you had to do just to cling hold of life.

Grief could be the washing away of body memories and drowning out those who made you into nothing.

That is just some of the multiple parts of grief.

All I know is that grief is teaching me to see my prostituted self and to learn she was and is lovable.

Grief kills the lie that I was made nothing.

Grief is the comfort blanket that was always within me, just had way of having full expression.

I believe that to grieve after extreme trauma is finding true freedom.

But grief does not mean full recovery, or that the pain and fear magically vanishes.

It is never that simple.

I still have horrific body memories, still get terrors in the night, still cannot cry, still block so much.

But somehow grief holds my hand.

Grief is like a close friend at a funeral of someone who you deeply loved.

Grief cannot make all better, grief cannot end the aching hole of the loss, grief cannot stop the pain of not knowing what the future may be.

No grief is not a miracle worker – it is far better than that, for grief works inside your mind, heart and gut reaction to allow you to see reality and know the future will be slowly built.

Sometimes grief is a gaping silent screaming – that sees and fully knows what to be prostituted really means.

Grief silently screams at the knowledge that torture was so normal that it could be felt or known.

Grief silently screams that rape was so normal, so constant – that the prostituted mind can only label it as rape if she is on the edge of death or the pain breaks through her detachment.

Grief silently screams hearing the endless justifications that is just work, that prostitutes have a natural high pain threshold, that it her free choice to be in that world – hell, prostitution is always with us.

No wonder grief is a silent screaming when surrounded by the noise of lies and justifications that make invisible all violence done to the prostituted.

If that scream was given a noise is would shake the earth and deafen all those who make those justifications.

Grief is the part of all the prostituted that is reaching out for real love.

A love that is made solid, and given without manipulation or trying find other ways to use the prostituted.

A love that is not about re-making the prostituted into sexual goods – but seeing and wanting to meet all aspects of her, seeing the prostituted as fully rounded and complicated people.

A love that come from within the prostitute, a love that will slowly heal and teach her to be fully human.

Grief is the close friend who does not judge or speak for the prostituted, but stand by her as she finds what it is to be human.

Grief is that close friend that knows laughter is life, and encourage sick dark “jokes” to force life back into the prostitute.

Grief is the close friend who is not afraid of silences, or deep rages.

Grief wants and needs all expressions and emotions to come out – including those that are ugly or unbearable to feel and know.

Grief wants the prostituted to be whole and fully alive.

I am happy to grieve – always knowing how hard it is.


One response to “Writing Inside Too Much Noise

  1. Good post. I learn something new and challenging on blogs I stumbleupon on a daily
    basis. It will always be useful to read through articles from other writers and practice
    a little something from other websites.


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