Train Spotting

I sometimes wake into a nightmares with trains rattling past my window.

Trains came through my life when I was a prostituted.

I travelled on trains from one town to a city.

Train were outside my flat as punter sexually tortured me..

Trains was the background noise of my private hell.

But somehow, without reason, I always kept my love of trains.

I thought of trains taking me to Cornwall, into Scotland, or even to some airport.

I listen to Blues, country and rock songs of endless trains, taking the A-train into jazz.

I wanted electric train-sets, which were always the Royal Scot or the Orient Express.

I read of engineers and builders of railways.

I wanted trains to take me away into safety.

Only now I can face the nightmare of trains that still invade me.

How do I describe the travelling on trains down to yet another punter.

There are few words that reach into creeping deadness, that deep sense of self-hate and blame.

As I sat in the train, I would close down all emotions, I would train my body to be a block of ice.

I made myself not care.

Not care that I was going badly hurt.

Not care that I could be killed.

Not care about the scenery.

Not care about the small part of my mind telling me to get off the train.

I became bravado, devil-may-care, don’t mess with me.

I was falling into the role of the whore who was worth nothing.

In a journey often of just 40 minutes, I had lost all that mattered to being fully human.

I still get nightmares of slow death as I sat on trains.

I still find I cannot make a particular journey, without thoughts of suicide.

The worse memory of trains was the flat I had backed up to a train station.

Most of the time, I would find the noise of trains relaxing and one way to escape reality.

I, like the Railway Children, would dream where the passengers were going or why they stop in my town.

But my flat was just the space I existed in, it was also a place where too many punters came and polluted the air.

I would focus hard on the noises of trains to block out as much as I could.

I would pretend I was travelling to anywhere as far as possible – as the punters penetrated me, made my body into their personal sadist porn playground, and be careless whether I live or died.

I would try to remember as many songs about trains as possible, try to name each station I could remember, list famous trains – anything to not be in the moment.

For those moments with those punters seemed to have no end or beginning, just a constant middle.

A middle of hell, as every cell is pushed beyond pain, as the small part of my mind is screaming just stop now and pleading for real help.

That middle when the light at the end of the tunnel was always a fast train.

I know I was somehow alive if I could still hear the trains.

I have rebuilt my life, and now travel a lot by train.

Now I am pretty chilled on train.

But I honoured the bravery of the other part of me that clings to trains in order to know I am alive.

4 responses to “Train Spotting

  1. Thankyou for your reply. Understanding the past. Yes.

    Me – its not much anger now (huh – well, its deep inside me but I am always scared it will bubble up and I will scream and scream and scream). I screamed a lot around 1995 – at parties, in the street, at “friends”, at acquaintainces – they all just ignored me so I felt my screaming wasjust one hand clapping. Nobody was hearing it?

    But they were hearing it. They were in front of me while I screamed. Why did they stay silent? Understanding the past, yes. But why nobody nobody nobody else speaking out?

    Meanwhile, trainspotting yes. One person I met in 1995 was weird, ah hell, I don’t want to bother about this but I will tell it. Its about trains and I’ve just remembered it. Another rambling story.

    This man I met for sex. I wanted him for sex. I can’t remember his name but its in my old diaries somewhere. He was odd but interesting, full of talk about universal love stuff, wearing robes of silver and gold. We had sex. We met another woman I think for sex in Hereford or thereabouts, not sure about that, the memory is vague. I didn’t like her.

    Trains – yes, What was really strange about him though, was that he drove me around the countryside (mid Wales, South Wales, Herefordshire) looking for tiny end-of railway lines, sidings buried in the woods. He said he was mapping them.

    He/otherpeople seemed to hint at the time that strange, dark . maybe deathly or tortuous sexual liasons happened in places like this, linked to the railways, perhaps and maybe always involving children, boys. For this reason I had time for the guy to try and disentangle the mess where sex for pleasure and sex for depravity, cruelty and death met. Like I said, this kind of stuff drove me half mad.

    I now remember that my current man, John Duffy, also drove me to dark spots in the woods in South Wales seeming to hint that horrible things had happened there (heck, I love the woods, normally I am never spooked by them, but these times I was).

    But back to the railway man. I remember. We met a cross dressing man for sex. That was ok. He wanted to be a friend and we would go to concerts together which I would have liked if he had been an ordinary woman n’t but I didnt want it with him. Even though I quite liked him. But my ex husband had gone into cross dressing and I hadn’t minded (I wanted rid of him at the time) so I didn’t want that stuff.

    Then we met a couple, in my flat. I had told the man if we should NOT meet anyone who reminded me of my ex husband or my sister and if we did they would have to go. The woman in the couple reminded me/looked like/could have been my sister. I freaked. Told them to get out. They left. The man was eerily upset. He left.

    A few days (weeks?) later he turned up and stuck a gun (imitation or real, I didn’t know) in my neck. I talked him out of it, called the police. They spent the afternoon taking a statement, time wasting I thought, misspelling, vaguely inaccurate. I just wanted to get away and finally did to take a train (ironic or what?) to London to my first “on my own” sex party. I had a ball.

    But tell you what, getting away from the man, and then the police, and getting to London felt no worse than as a teenager, getting away from my mother to have a good teenage time on a Saturday night then later for weekends with my boyfriend, when she tried to keep me at home, doing chores. No way.

    That’s my railway story. I don’t check for replies, but may do in the future. At the moment its enough to know that someone is listening to my strange stories that I want to share, make public, but until now, since 1991, no-one has linked i chento them. Sorry about the typos, my keyboard plays up and I will send this without checking it, don’t want to lose it.

    By the way the railway man took me to county court for costing him expenses after I had agreed to do sex therapy stuff with him and others. It dragged on in Birmingham and Bristol County Court. But that’s another and too boring story. It stressed me out though.


  2. Rebecca – just found this while carrying out another Google search. I stopped logging onto your website because I was at last (at the age of 70) finding a gentle, ordinary lifestyle, with some friendly stuff, built around ancient (childhood) loves – gardening, choir singing.

    This is happening and is good but there are still gaps, of emptiness in my life. I will now check out your postings and find out if I can deal with the pain of abuse all around me, while having parts of my life which are relatively pain-free? Maybe that’s a good thibg

    I stand by everything I have ever posted to you. I kind of miss you but I don’t miss all that pain (most of it for me being second-hand pain, being around the abused and tortured. I find it tough, but I am trying to follow the ‘’ stuff involving outing paedophile torturers and murderers. What do you make of it?


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s