Speaking with My Spirits

I will try to write to survivor tactics. In this post, I will write as my inner spirits.

My spirits are not religious, but aspects of my personality that carry my past, my pain, my grief and hold my terror.

I am an athiest, but know there is aspects of us that is unspoken, is hidden from memory – that I name as spirits.

It is not supernatural, not religious, not an outside force – it is part of being human, and vital for survival and to hold memory.

I have chosen to divide my aspects of personality into nine spirits, and in this post, I will write in their voices. Remember there is no real division, just different ways of holding my past.


I remember through my dragon-spirit as I reach into my deep grief.

A dragon knows loneliness, a dragon has been ripped from its history and culture.

All the prostituted their past stolen, their access to friends/family and a loved culture ripped from them – all the prostituted live inside deep grief.

My dragon-spirit holds this pit of grief, and in silence crys, weeps and on occasions howls.

Always knowing, no-one want to know that grief, my dragon-spirit hides in a cave away from public gaze.

The grief of the prostituted is silent and kept hidden, afraid of the empty space it leaves.

The silent grief is huge – it the grief of never receiving full justice, it is the the grief of being made so sub-human that you become invisible, the grief of having outward injuries and wounds but being told you enjoy being a whore.

My dragon-spirit hold my grief without judgement, only weeps for that past.


I have a baby-spirit, a sense that I had a time of innocence, a time of wonder, a time of safety.

I am scared to know my baby-spirit, for I am scared to see how vulnerable I was, how much I longed to be loved, how naive I could be.

My baby-spirit wants fun, wants to be loved, wants to love others – and wants a mother.

But there always a hole in my baby-spirit, there is and was no mother-love.

My baby-spirit is not held by her mother, she is ignored by the mother when she is hurt or crying.

The mother has stopped speaking to my baby-spirit, turns out all lights even when knowing the baby-spirit hate the dark.

The mother slowly teaches the baby-spirit to hate herself, to know she must be bad, that it is of no matter if the baby-spirit is in pain.

The baby-spirit learns to smile through pain, learns to stop crying for help or love, learns to be a doll instead of a human.


My snake-spirit is the holder of wisdom.

The snake-spirit knows to change and disguise its purpose in order to survive a world out to destroy it.

The snake-spirit will be ruthless when needed, will be invisible when needed, will be still when needed.

I know my snake-spirit was vital to my surviving the violence of punters – for my snake-spirit held my memory, my pain and my fight till I was in a safe place to know those emotions.

As I became detached from the reality of be raped, tortured and the edge of death – the snake-spirit was storing it all for a time where I see my past without self-hate or blame.


My teenager-spirit is hard to know, but I have learnt to love her and to see she was blameless.

My teenager-spirit is full of unexpressed rage, full of suicidal feelings, she believes any light at the end of a tunnel is an oncoming train.

My teenager-spirit is lost in a world where she can trust no-one, where to being tortured/raped/murdered are her surroundings and norms.

My teenager-spirit acts tough when she is terrified, paints on a smile as punters pour their hate into her body.

My teenager-spirit would be labelled the Happy Hooker by those who refuse to see or listen.

I can now grieve for how lost I was as a teenager.

I can now grieve all the injuries, hate and death-threats force in my teenager-spirit.

I can now love, forgive and hold tight my teenager-spirit.


My little girl-spirit is when I knew I was losing hope or that I could loved.

I find it hard knowing this part of myself – knowing I was a child without safety, a child with no love to hold her, a child who became feral.

I am finding to hard to write to that part of me, as I am blinded by tears.


To understand my little girl-spirit it is important to meet the mermaid-spirit who is her secret friend.

As the abuse became my norm, I fall into books to find escape. 

I read “Water Babies”, and thought I had found a way out.

I wanted to die, and vanished into the world underwater. 

A world without adults, a world without pain, a world where children had justice.

I imagined that world as I became a sex-doll for my stepdad, I imagined that world as my mother reminded me how much she hated me.

I survived by vanishing into a world where nothing matters, only endless playing.

In this world, I became a mermaid-spirit – the child who wants to not know their reality, a child who has fun as inside she imaging how to kill herself.

It was part of surviving to be detached.


My eagle-spirit is one of forensic memory and desire for full justice.

My eagle-spirit sees with a clear one who is to be blamed for all the pain, hate and terror poured into me – see it is punters who did all the torturing of my body and mind.

Like an eagle can see it’s prey, however smal or hidden, from great distance – I see the male hate and greed that is the foundation stones of all the violence done to the prostituted.

It is a cold eye, a sight that see only the guilty and discards all red herrings.

My eagle-spirit is ruthless, is freedom loving, is cruel for a purpose – but mostly it far- and clear-seeing.


My tiger-spirit is a cub seeking it’s mother, but in the meantime it has a sense of play and desire to protect even when the abusers are too strong.

My tiger-spirit is my sense of  being an orphan, even those I had a mother. 

I could understand why I felt so isolated and that maybe I was a changing.

My tiger-spirit held in that sense of unbelonging, keep it in silence – occasionally coming as I drawn or read ghost or fairy tales.

My tiger- spirit was the part of me that always wanted protection or to fight back – but only found abusers too strong or they would just laugh at me.

I had to learn the hard way I could never stop the male violence – I had to learn to survive by giving in.

To show self-pride, or any signs of being human when prostituted is too dangerous – especially when most punters are turn on by our fear or pain.


To end, my horse-spirit is one of my sense of independence, freedom and never to be told how be labelled.

My horse-spirit will never allow itself to be trapped, order around or made into sexual goods again.

My horse-spirit is my fight for liberation from everything that the sex trade did to me.

I will never be tied down.

One response to “Speaking with My Spirits

  1. Dear Rebecca;
    Please always remember and know that you are a goddess. A powerful soul in all ways, shapes, and forms. I have read your blog for years now, and your strength helps me. I want you to know that,through all you struggle with and contend with, you are a bright shining star to many women. Please please please give yourself a smile! Because you are awesome !!!! Thank you for your words, and may all peace come to you!
    A fan who stands with you,
    amanda ashley


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