The Body Remembers, By Hell It Does

I am in extreme pain, as my body remembers what my mind does not want to know.

I believe that this pain is a reminder that it was never small what is done to my body, to the bodies of the prostituted alive or dead.

The mind cannot handle knowing every detail, every torture, every humiliation, every moment when death was so welcoming.

The body holds, contains and only open up to pain when in a place of safety and long-term security.

Heck, the reason I in total agony is coz I rebuilt my whole life away from prostitution.

Yesterday, the doctor deleted from my records that I had gone back into prostitution.

I think I have gone into shock at the very thought I could ever re-enter that so-called life which is death.

Of course, like most survivors of the sex trade I could easily all back into that lie.

Just enough self-hate, more and more bills, more wanting to deaden emotions and access to pain – all that makes is seems an answer.

But I cannot remember what the question was.

Except maybe how do you kill yourself without actually physically dying?

I would never go back into that world again – the world of lies, the world where women just disappear, a world rape is just the norm of the “job”.

I have been in shock and deep agony just at the idea that I could be a prostitute again.

My anus is killing me – but it also giving the strength to know why I would always be an abolitionist no matter what.

4 responses to “The Body Remembers, By Hell It Does

  1. Rebecca do you have a paypal account where we can subscribe and send you money each money like Meghan Murphy has over at the feminist current – many people revere and support your writing – i’d like to do more


  2. I am on Paypal, and if anyone would like to help, that would so lovely. I would expect anyone to do so, but would very honoured if I had some help, coz this very hard and stressful work. I will privately email anyone who is interested.


  3. The body remembers.

    Passing thoughts – based on a poster I saw in Bristol General Hospital mental health clinic when I was freaking out (1995) following all the images, possible abuses, possible horrors that were being shown to me by everyone around me (with no support for me, I went half mad, I tried to kill myself several times, I went to about 4 different GP practices for 10 years and the GPs just sat in silence and said nothing when I told them what was happening to me.. During this time I held down gainful employment – as a word processor after being awarded a PhD – except for 6 months, and I stayed on Prozac for 10 years or so with alcohol self medication – cheap cider, 2 litres or so every night)

    Well, the poster. It showed a human spine, with all the vertebrae, in the form of an elephant’s trunk. The slogan was something like “The body never forgets”.

    That poster stayed with me (and still does) when I was trying to understand what might have happened to me. It gave me confidence to trust my own responses to situations. To listen to my body. To trust my intuition, my feelings, my body responses.

    It was so so so so so so so so helpful.

    What might have happened to me included being drugged and sexually played with as a child – and as a baby? and as an adult?.

    I remember one incident only when I was a child aged about 6 or was I 8 ?- or were there more than one incidents?

    The incident I remember has no bad memories, on the contrary, I remember it as an adventure but trusting my body I have slowly in recent years recognised that – I believe – I was over stimulated, over sexualised, while unconscious.

    Because I was unconscious this experience was never, I believe, dealt with by my conscious self. So I stayed sexualised, just touch me and I would orgasm – the female equivalent of premature ejaculation. This has stayed pretty much the same until the last two years when my sex hormones have died down (I took HRT for 20 years to keep them going, my sexuality was so important to me).

    Now for part of most weeks I am with my partner (who could have been a former abuser – the older boy in the incident outlined below? – my own father if he fucked my mother when he was 10 years old? – both are possibilities – ). But for 23 years he has been loving, caring, and supportive, and we are close in lots of our attitudes – its possible he dipped into my adult life earlier, and I couldn’t deal with him – I am also totally convinced that he is a sex addict, it is sex sex all the time even now when his joints are stiff and painful and he is 78, but he can still climb on me, fuck me and spunk me and wants it more than I do, but I love it, and it has always been great, great, sex, constant variety, with him wanting to give me satisfaction just as important as him having orgasms.)

    So for years and years I wanted a lot more sex. But I never learned to flirt, never learned to come on to a man even when I really wanted to him. So I wanked all the time. Every day. More than once a day often. I wanked to fantasies of having good fucks , being seduced and fucked.

    The up-side of the horrors people showed me from about age of 47 (I am now 69) is that they also showed me – and encouraged me – how to get lots of sex – at sex parties, sex clubs, swinging, online dating. That was, and still is, so good, but confusing, mixed up with the horrors they showed me. But I never paid for it, was never hurt, never forced to fuck or be fucked. No bad memories. I feel I had a really hard time, but I also believe people out there were looking after me I believe – more about this another time.

    But the body remembers. The incident I remember was playing under a rhododendron bush, in the woods across the road from where my mother and a gang of other women with their children were picking commercially farmed blackberries – we did this all the time in school holidays, and played and roamed in the woods and fields all around – and other fruit, this was in Kent, the garden of England, we picked fields full of blackberries, blackcurrants, strawberries, Kent cobnuts, potatoes, apples, pears, plums etc – with my sister and two boys we knew. There was an older boy in the background.

    Under the rhododendron bush the boys asked to see us wee. That was ok. Then they produced a cotton wool pad with ether on it. They said it would make me go unconscious. I said ok, lets try it. I was a tomboy. I don’t remember anything after that. But I do remember, completely separately, being taken to a village GP in a different village to my own, to be examined “down there”. Nobody would tell me why I was being examined. I was embarrassed and humiliated.

    I know that I had – pre-puberty – strange erotic dreams / fantasies, when I would be in bed with a man and wanting to be fucked but it wasn’t allowed, so I would make the man unconscious so I could have him.

    I forgot all about the incident for years, but when I remembered it, it was “Oh yes, I remember the ether, they said they got it from the school science lab.” Just a childhood adventure.

    But completely separately (was it just after this incident?) my mother sang “Ave Maria” in church in high emotion (this was an unprecedented event). I couldn’t understand why. An added complication – the name of my sister, the adored perfect princess of the family was/ is Mary. What was happening to her? (I don’t know. We are estranged.)

    Also completely separately (was it just after this incident?) I was asked at my village primary school to choose my favourite hymn for morning This was also unprecedented. I chose my favourite hymn – it was:
    “Summer suns are glowing
    Over land and sea
    Happiness is flowing
    Bountiful and free”.

    Oh no, they said, that won’t do, choose another one. Why? They ask me to choose a hymn and then say its not right. Was I too happy? Too cheerful?

    So I chose
    “Morning has broken
    Like the first morning
    Blackbird has spoken
    Like the first bird.”

    I was a happy country child with my mates in the small village school, as this shows.

    That was just about ok. We sang it.

    But again, when I was 47 and being shown horrors etc around abuse, I was given hints and echoes from my past which implied that as a child the incident had damaged me, my standing, my reputation (!) and nobody spoke about it, and nobody came across flirty to me. But I was never ostracised. I seemed to receive only kindness from villagers, other children and schoolchildren.

    So I hope this rambling account explains why I understand that the body remembers. My memories are so different to yours, Rebecca, no apparent horrors.

    But the silence, the secrecy, the anti-sex culture are so so so so so so bad.

    They can destroy as much as the paying for sex and the raping and killing that go with the paying for sex.

    That young man in America who murdered and shot himself after killing in revenge for being a virgin. He had a privileged upbringing. He was goodlooking. Why to hell could he not get a fuck. I hope you understand my thinking about this.

    I will I hope clarify my thought processes on this when I respond to your blog that “its difficult to be an abolitionist”.

    Thankyou thankyou Rebecca, Rebecca, keep posting.


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