My last post was an attempt to unpack my broken memory, in this post I will try to continue that task.
I feel and know I was tortured, but have no clearness of placing it in a particular time and place.
Instead, the hate and violence that punters and sex trade profiteers put into me is made into one long piece of remembering. All their faces, all their hate-fuelled actions and all their entitlement becomes one piece of poison drowning me.
I sometimes wake from dreams of being crushed as I am raped by faceless queues of punters.
I often get pain in my anus as memory of endless anal rapes refuse to be forgotten.
I still don’t like any contact with my throat even by folks I love and trust.
I still don’t like being in water as memory of being drowned as I was anally raped or laughed at re-enter my body.
Broken memory is remembered in the body as the mind slowly catches up.
Broken memory is remembering as I slowly grow the strength to believe myself.
To truly remember is to learn to forgive yourself, learn that all choices were stolen from you, and to learn that even at the lowest points you deserve real love.
I am learning all and more, I am learning that my prostituted Self was strong, fought for a better future, and was always worth more than any punter could imagine.
To understand my past and broken memories, I need to see who was to blame and who stole my right to be fully human.
I must see the punters as they are, not as they re-written by history or those who want to keep the sex trade.
To survive prostitution, I had to make excuses for the punters, I had to pretend was unusual even as as it occurred over and over and over.
To survive prostitution, I had to blame myself for all the violence done – telling myself I just wanted to be hurt, that I did not know what real sex was, that I done something to push the punter over his edge.
To survive prostitution, I had to close my eyes to those who profiteer from my pain and fear. I had to pretend I was just fancied by many nameless faceless men, who may get presents, meals or money.
I had to force myself into the role of the Happy Hooker, paint on smiles, feel no pain, forget I had an existence outside being a sex object, and always place the wants of punters above my personal safety and sanity.
No wonder my memory is broken – for to hold the realities of prostitution is unbearable.
How can the human mind bear the knowledge that my body was raped, sexually tortured so much and so often – that the only way to cope is break it up into tiny memories.
These memories come out in a slow pace, waiting for the time I can believe myself and forgive my prostituted Self.
I was raped so often that I may never know how many punters consumed me, how often their sexual violence brought to the edge of death, or even how many places I was raped in.
Sexual torture was my norm – that knowledge is hard to write, but harder to accept with wanting to be detached.
Prostitution is torture in and of itself – for do not say one act of rape is torture, is it not torture to know at any time or place a man can physically/mentally/sexually abused you, is it not torture to have all access to consent stolen.
But, the reality of prostitution is that torture in all its forms is the norm.
This is because the purpose of prostitution is that the punters can owned and fully control the prostituted. In this entitlement, the punter can do any form of torturing he can imagine without consequences.
The prostitute has no rights to say no to the punter, her consent is brought the moment he decides to be a consumer of the sex trade.
All tortures are rehearsed on the bodies and minds of the prostituted – and it is made to be nothing for no human is involved.
I sick and exhausted to live in a world that refuses to see the endless torturing of the prostituted – a world that re- framed torture as adult leisure, s/m sex, kinky etc.
This torturing is destroying the prostituted and we choose to not care or even see.
I will end here.