Between Sports 

I am have been resting, or at least attempting to.

I cannot turn off my trauma that easily, so as there some space between space, I thought I would go into a stream of consciousness.

I feel empty, but very sad.

I think I am remembering inside a fog, remembering what my mind spent years blocking out.

In this post, I will attempt to view some of my broken memory, see into gaps and silences.

The gaps and silences of my tortured Self, the gaps and silences of being raped so often words are stolen, the gaps and silences of being made into sexual goods.

The gaps and silences that only the prostituted can understand.

My body hold the pain, the grief and collective memory of being prostituted.

A prostitute is never just an individual, she carries all the lost voices of the prostituted, all the body memories of the tortured prostituted class.

To be prostituted is reach back into lost time, lost places and too many lost voices.

I, speak inside a collective of centuries and many countries, my individual grief and pain is just a tiny example of the longest slavery in human history.

How do I write to those gaps and silences without sounding banal – I am not sure that I know.

I use simple known words hoping I can connect the soul of the prostituted with my readers and allies, only to know all I write is surface and silences still sink down into the gaps.

But, words can start communication – I know the arts and ritual can reach spaces left by words -but words are a beginning.

Words I use are from background as a white middle-class woman who reads, listen and watches arts/history documentaries, is heavily into popular culture, who tries to think beyond England, but always the more I think I know the more I need to know.

I now love living coz I love knowing there so much to explore or just take pleasure.

I am so glad I did not succeed in suicide attempts, or die from physical exhaustion, or was murdered by punters.

I love that life has become slow enough to notice new ideas or gather old ideas that I thought I had lost.

My memory was broken by many years of physical/mental/sexual torturing that was indoors prostitution for me.

That I have fragmented memory is evidence of that torture, for the mind cannot hold the repeating torturing of the prostituted.

The mind will hold all that memory, but only show enough for exited prostitute to believe that she was deeply harmed and that she was not to blame.

The regaining of memory is part of learning to forgive yourself, part of having justified fury, part of knowing who is to blame, and part of the fight for full justice.

It is vital to understand the regaining of memory is deeply painful, full of grief and very confusing – but it is also part of liberation, part of finding joy, and part of becoming fully human again.

Memory will come as inner strength grows, for I believe the mind is kind to exited women, even if it can be very hard.

To remember the realities of being prostituted is an act of deep courage – never underestimate your strength, stamina and bravery.

But,I still find words cannot hold what it is remember with fragmented memory, or to write into the soul of being prostituted. I can only try to write.

I find I reach into the soul of my prostituted years, by remembering the language of film noir, language of classic ghosts stories, language of Jacobean plays, language of Grimm tales, the language of Edgar Allen Poe.

The language that enters silences and gaps, the language that confront terror in the eye, the language of a cold forensic eye, the language of a survivor who has no choice but to fight for freedom.

I write by reading and listening hard to words, and slowly discovering a landscape that fits the trauma of the prostituted.

A language that can enter the rooms I was tortured in, and record without judgement or rewriting that reality.

I find it is a cold language – a piece of ice in my heart. 

To see my prostituted Self with emotion is too hard, it may break me. So I create a forensic eye,and see by surrounding myself with music.

I see how lost I  was, I see how I was so used to unbearable pain that I could feel it,I see how still and frozen I was.

I see splinter of evil in the eyes of punters, I see their enjoyment of my pain and vulnerabity, I see that the punters cannot see that I am human.

I see the profiteers laughing at my fear, I see profiteers allowing sadist men to consume me over and over and over, I see profiteers pretending they have no blood on their hands.

I see the public turn away as I was injured or seeking help, I see the public telling I cannot be raped or harm if I took the money, I see the public wanting me to silent and not trouble their conscious.

But mostly I remember how hard it was to feel, to know how to stay human.

I was living inside a violence that was unpredictable but at the same time was an repeating events.

I hope this post give some understanding.


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