I was a dreamer much of my life, but I learnt to hide that aspect of myself as much as possible.
Dreaming did not stop my pain. Dreaming did not make men respect me. Dreamers are trashed by the sex trade.
But now with safety, ability to trust and stability – I am learning to dream again.
I know there was a time, time of a child when dreams were encouraged, when dreams were entertaining.
I know I had that time, only it was smashed away.
Dreams can and do kill the prostituted.
To be seen as a dreamer, is to be as a manipulated object – all the joys of being a dreamer is forced out of you.
To be a dreamer is hated by the sex trade, for it is proof that a prostituted woman or girl can and does have some private space no man can invade.
I was punished for reading, I was punished for showing a real interest in TV, I was punished for saying I had a life outside of being fucked and made into trash.
I was hated for having an imagination – as punters and sex trade profiteers force me into roles from their many porn dreams.
How do you keep dreaming, when all you thoughts are made into rape, made into torture?
I did not allow my brain to imagine, I train not to sleep enough to dream.
I was more calm about having nightmares – then having dreams of hope or a life beyond pain.
Nightmares made sense, dreams made me want to die.
If you want to truly get under the skin of the prostituted, then imagine wanting nightmares and hating dreams – then you may have some glimpse of our reality.
I learnt to not have visual memory – for all I saw was the endless replaying of punters raping/torturing me, all I saw was lack of care when anyone know I had been paid for it, all I saw was pimps saying I was trash and getting what I deserved.
I would shut my eyes and hope all I saw was nothing, or just watch the red balls falling across my eyes.
I would shut my eyes and hope they would never open again.
But always I open my eyes and found the pain, the hate and the confusion was still there.
I stop thinking beyond one moment at a time – then like a goldfish I would pretend to forget the moment before or want to know the moment after.
That is the essence of the hell of prostitution – that it so non-stop and without hope, that most of the prostituted only survive by not allowing in the reality of their lives.
To dream in that environment is to have a death-wish. To dream is to hope, to hope inside the sex trade is to be smashed into the ground.
That is why the majority of the prostituted have dead eyes – hope cannot be seen.
If the eyes are truly the essence of a person – then what does it say that the prostituted murder that essence in order just to live?
I want to weep for those dead eyes, I want to rage for those dead eyes, and I want to fight for those dead eyes.
I can have the privilege and safety to dream now – but I will never forget when I had to murder my dreams.