I have many gaps in my memory.
This hurts and wounds me in many ways – I feel I am missing too much of my life. I have lost the years between 6 to 27.
It is not fully lost, just in so many fragments I cannot find how to fit them together.
I am a neglected jigsaw with pieces gone.
I want to cry, but I have forgotten how.
I want to scream – but that voice is lost in a past that is shattered.
I want to know my truths – but only touch small edges.
I understand with logic, why my memory is so damaged.
I understand the mind can only take in so much reality of torture, then it cannot hold any more.
I understand that most of prostitution is repeated violence – repeated ways of raping, repeated ways of mentally/physically/sexually torturing, repeated ways of breaking down the prostitute.
I understand that repetition cannot be remembered fully – only remembered until it is discovered that all the prostituted are not to blame, and the violence done to them was pre-planned.
I understand that to survive the hell that is prostitution, it is vital to close it down or to replace the violence with inventions of empowerment and having a good time.
All this and more, I understand with a clear logical mind – but it does nothing to end the grief of lost memory.
In this post, I will try an explore memory – maybe speaking to moments/hours/weeks/years.
May I say that I was prostituted between 14 to 27, and previously sexually and mentally abused at home from aged 6.
Those years are just moments to me – for my fractured memory has made the good times disappear as well as the abuse and violence.
I remember standout moments – but with the years of prostitution I cannot see my age, cannot see the exact location, and usually cannot fully the men abusing me.
I remember through pain throughout my body, I remember through sudden terror, I remember and try not to doubt myself.
I remember as I choking without cause, I remember as I try to sleep but feel bodies raping me again, I remember when I try to love my partner and my mind wants violence.
I know memory is trapped inside my body, it trying with desperation to connect to the mind.
My instinct is to disconnect from my body as much as possible – I fall into music, reading, eating, TV and so forth to be away from my body.
Heck, now I have Twitter and Facebook, I can run away even more.
But my body pushing memory into me, even as I choose to run away.
The more I run, the worse the pain and grief gets – so I know I must turn round and confront a past that refuses to be silent.
It is a past made up of rooms.
Rooms in hotels, rooms in flats, rooms above clubs, rooms behind pubs.
Rooms where all I remember seemed the same, though it was different times and many locations.
Rooms where all I saw was the bed, maybe a place for money, maybe see a way to a bathroom.
I cannot remember how many rooms, only know I was a robot just seeing any bed – I knew what I was, and could not imagine a world where I was not a whore.
It was a past made up of punters.
A past where I did not know sex could be done with care, done with love, done without pain.
A past where men enter every part of my body – wearing down all memory that I had ever been human.
A past where consent meant nothing – as I was brought and sold, where could my no have any meaning.
A past where one could keep me as his sexual slave for weeks, a past where gang-rape was normal, a past where torture was rehearsed on my body.
For torture is always rehearsed on the prostituted – we are just living porn to punters.
So it is impossible to fully remember the past.
But I remember enough to know I did nothing to be in the line of such hate and violence.
I remember enough to know all punters will torture the prostituted – even if just mentally or by refusing to see the prostituted as fully human.
I remember enough to know violence is the norm of all aspects of the sex trade.
I remember to know I am only alive by luck.
I remember to be an abolitionist.