Let My Mind Flow

I have put on 60’s girls groups and as the Dixie Cups sing innocent and light songs, I will try to reach into the parts of my mind that has been giving me insomnia.

I find I can face the dark if I play cheerful music.

It may not make sense – it may be that it my way of detaching myself from my own words.

All I know is I write to the parts of me that were crushed or made sub-human, I write and maybe some of the music reaches those parts.

I will try to mend some of that past, I will try to give it a voice, I will try to hold the wounded warrior that cries inside me.

I cannot get images of my broken past, only if I let my mind flow I can feel enough to come to terms with it.

I can learn deep forgiveness for that I could stop what happened to me.

I can feel grief, even if I cannot cry or show sorrow.

I am learning not to deadened myself by vanishing into my TV, not to deadened myself by making sick jokes and acting as if nothing can or would hurt me.

I am learning it is ok to be vulnerable, ok to trust others, ok to say in a clear voice yes it is still hurting – and that hurt is going around for a long time.

By saying that I am finally my true strength and courage – not the fake bravery that claims nothing can ever hurt, the fake power of saying I coped with being inside prostitution.

Let me make it clear – no human can truly cope with being prostituted with deep trauma, without needing to deaden yourself to just stay alive.

There is no such thing as an undamaged prostitute – but all the damage is placed into the prostitute, it is never the fault or some weakness of any prostitute.

It is easier to blame the prostitute – then see the cold hate that create the sex industry that feeds on male violence to the whole prostituted class – be that female, male or children.

All I know is one to survive prostitution is not know the reality of the world you are in.

It is world that is organised, but pretends to be chaotic and run by individuals.

It is a world where the prostituted are pass around, and place into many aspects of the sex trade.

I was as an example was move to several cities, I was placed in flats, in hotels, in clubs, pick up on the street, pick up in pubs.

All this done to confused and mentally abused the prostitute – often making her feel is disgusting for she “chooses” to go to multiple places.

There is always control over the prostituted – the best control is made invisible to the prostitute, so her self-hate and sense of shame will keep her trapped.

It is natural in the situation where you have no control, no access to an exit – it is natural to turn the world of the sex trade upside-down.

It is normal when embedded in prostitution to say that it is empowering, that it was freely chosen, that of the prostitution is fun.

To survive prostitution with some degree of sanity, it is normal to close down the reality of violence, close down the fear that is so deep that most prostitute cannot feel it.

That fear, pain and confusion is always there, only to survive the prostituted learn to firmly not know it part of their reality.

The voices of the “Happy Hookers” are voices of deep damage.

They are voices that cannot think back to how and why they enter the sex trade.

They cannot see or know when they could still be terrified, when they could wordlessly know they were being raped and/or tortured.

They are the voices that cannot see the hurts and pushes that place into the role of the prostitute – for they have to believe it was just their choice to somehow make sense of the insanity they are existing in.

We should not be angry at these voices – we should have deep compassion for their pain, grief, fear and confusion.

We should not hate the Happy Hooker for she/he is being manipulated by the sex trade profiteers and their cynical allies.

Of course, the sex trade has the intelligence to push the voices of these damaged mainly women forward, and for punters and sex trade profiteers to feed them what to say as they hide.

I have written enough for now.







Get My Mojo Going

For too long now, my trauma has been horrific.

It is body memories, it is apathy, it is exhaustion, it is feeling dead to emotions, it is wanting to cry or scream, it all that and more that I have no human words for.

I need to move it, I need to get my mojo working.

I do this best by confronting where the pain comes, confronting my truths that I am afraid to know.

I do this best by confronting the hate-speech of pro-sex trade lobby that is pouring trauma into my essence, and blocking my future.

I get my mojo back with courage, with allowing in my vulnerability, with a fierce warrior soul.

I write as one way to get my mojo going.

Where do I begin, when trauma is all round me and suffocating me.

I can write, and hope my choking keeps it distance.

I will write even as sitting on my anus as it screams into memories.

I will write, and try to ignore my exhaustion that is just a blocking mechanism.

Writing is my road to freedom, writing is my way to speak to the truth.

But where do I start?

I suppose I could start with the words of hate that the sex trade lobby send my way all the time, or send to all other exited women who speak out.

It is easier to start with outside forces, and more into my essence.

Words are –

Sex work, underaged-sex worker, choice, forced prostitution, trafficking vs prostitution, clients, businessmen, harm reduction, made safer, indoors prostitution vs outdoors, underground – and such like “friendly” words.

These words are used to make the sex trade appear welcoming, clean and safe – words that implies all so-called bad aspects of the sex trade can and will be dealt with in-house.

These words are used to push prostitution indoors, and less likely to have outside interference or any consideration of the welfare of the prostituted.

Words like harm reduction and made safer are used to say – yeah sure, there is violence in all aspects of the sex trade, but let’s make it the fault of the individual prostitute, say she is weak or incapable to care her own safety.

Just don’t mention that it may be the punter who is the cause and reason that there is violence against the prostituted.

Just don’t mention that the major profit in the sex trade is when punters are allowed to be as violent as they can imagine – those punters spend more and more likely to return.

Just ignore that it is impossible to know when a punter may be a sadist – just ignore that paying for sex is an act of violence in and of itself.

But what is this harm reduction – is it not a method to patch up the prostituted with condoms, a short talk, and some coffee – then send her back into the line of danger.

Harm reduction is about the endless flow of the prostituted, with a small rest to pretend to care.

I do not want the harm to be reduced, I do not want the prostituted to comforted and then throw back into the fire – that is just a slow death – and it is cowardly and irresponsible of those who use harm reduction as a route to keep the sex trade going.

I wish to speak to my trauma, to my pain, to my grief.

I want to dig deep, if I can without my normal blocking.

I feel my PTSD has been bad off and on since January.

This has meant writing has been very hard.

Yes, I have run away into sports on TV, but it does not make my trauma disappear, just numbs it for short periods.

Now, I am using this post as a start to confront why this trauma is so awful.

I am knowing the pain, the sense of despair, the terror that was being prostituted.

I am coming to terms, beginning to come to terms, with the facts that I was tortured when I was prostituted.

I am coming some kind of terms of how many lies keep me in prostitution, how I was brainwashed to think I was worthless.

I am accepting that I was raped in the thousands, that I was raped by punters of all classes/ethnicities/beliefs.

That is some of the source of my trauma.

To be prostituted is to have no hold on how often you were abused, to have no hold on memory as it fractures with too much torture and hate.

I believe the prostituted need only remember enough to know that the torture really happened, and to believe in their heart and soul that they were never to blame.

It is impossible to remember with full knowledge when raped in the thousands.

It is impossible to have a sense of linear time when so much of the violence is repeated over and over and over inside your body.

It is impossible to know the faces of the punters as they merge into one long horror.

It is normal to have fractured memory after prostitution.

Instead of interrogating those of us who have been lucky enough to exit – with questions like –

Where did it happen? How many men exactly? What age were you? Why did you not just walk out? Why did you take the money if it was so bad?

Forget those blaming questions, and think deeper and with real compassion.

Like the exited explore their past at their own pace, learn to accept the holes and silences in their memory, listen without speaking over.



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.

War Makes No Difference

At the moment, there is a meeting in London to discuss rapes in war-zones.

This is wonderful, but always when that subject is raise, it seen as an atrocity that is done to civilians, but not all civilians, never the prostituted class.

Wars are no different for the prostituted class than peace-times.

All the time, the prostituted are raped.

All the time, the prostituted are sexually tortured.

All the time, the prostituted are mentally abused until they are made into nothing.

All the time, death is hanging over the prostituted.

There are some differences in war-zones, but only in matter of scale, only in how it is framed.

Inside any long-term war, it is expected that armed forces have their own brothels.

Brothels in peace-times are hell.

Brothels are not a places of empowered “whores” who can choose their clients.

Brothels are not the House of the Rising Sun with happy hookers lounging around waiting for gentlemen to visit.

Brothels are not places to make easy money quickly.

No, even without brothels are built around the degradation of the prostituted.

Brothels are designed to make the prostituted sub-human, into sexual goods that are lined up for punters to pick and choose.

Punters in brothels are not gentlemen, they are not men that even notice the human inside the prostitute.

Most punters are drunk in brothels, even when sober most punters have their minds full of violent porn that they force into the prostitute’s body.

Whether it is peace-time or not, the purpose of any brothel is to let punters create war on the bodies and minds of the prostituted with no intervention or sense that it is a crime.

The major difference of brothels inside war-zones is the scale.

When brothels cater for armed forces mainly, it is anything goes for sexual, mental and physical done to the prostituted.

It is the place where the armed forces can wind down.

Instead of dealing in a serious manner with the trauma inside many of the armed forces, rather than letting the armed stop enough to see the human in every prostitute – brothels are used as an ineffective shot-term solution to burn out in order to get the armed forces to keep fighting without question.

That is why it is labelled as rest and recreation, an euphemism for rape, sexual torture and murder of the prostituted class.

These brothels keep the prostituted locked away from non-sex trade world.

These brothels allow armed forces to gang-rape, to sexually torture and to murder without restriction.

It is a world that rip up human rights, ignore laws – it is it own country, where the prostituted are sacrificed.

In all war-zones, prostitution goes on as it does in peace-time.

There is still access to street prostitutes, still access to escorts on the net, still sex club.

A country may bombed to hell, may have streams of refugees trying to get out, may be driven back to the stone age – but punters whether armed forces or civilians still must have total access to all aspects of the sex trade.

Sickening, it is not rare that sex trade profiteers gravitate to war-zones, for the demand increases.

But is there any mention of this in London – I doubt it very much.


Dreams Cannot Stop It

I was a dreamer much of my life, but I learnt to hide that aspect of myself as much as possible.

Dreaming did not stop my pain. Dreaming did not make men respect me. Dreamers are trashed by the sex trade.

But now with safety, ability to trust and stability – I am learning to dream again.

I know there was a time, time of a child when dreams were encouraged, when dreams were entertaining.

I know I had that time, only it was smashed away.

Dreams can and do kill the prostituted.

To be seen as a dreamer, is to be as a manipulated object – all the joys of being a dreamer is forced out of you.

To be a dreamer is hated by the sex trade, for it is proof that a prostituted woman or girl can and does have some private space no man can invade.

I was punished for reading, I was punished for showing a real interest in TV, I was punished for saying I had a life outside of being fucked and made into trash.

I was hated for having an imagination – as punters and sex trade profiteers force me into roles from their many porn dreams.

How do you keep dreaming, when all you thoughts are made into rape, made into torture?

I did not allow my brain to imagine, I train not to sleep enough to dream.

I was more calm about having nightmares – then having dreams of hope or a life beyond pain.

Nightmares made sense, dreams made me want to die.

If you want to truly get under the skin of the prostituted, then imagine wanting nightmares and hating dreams – then you may have some glimpse of our reality.

I learnt to not have visual memory – for all I saw was the endless replaying of punters raping/torturing me, all I saw was lack of care when anyone know I had been paid for it, all I saw was pimps saying I was trash and getting what I deserved.

I would shut my eyes and hope all I saw was nothing, or just watch the red balls falling across my eyes.

I would shut my eyes and hope they would never open again.

But always I open my eyes and found the pain, the hate and the confusion was still there.

I stop thinking beyond one moment at a time – then like a goldfish I would pretend to forget the moment before or want to know the moment after.

That is the essence of the hell of prostitution – that it so non-stop and without hope, that most of the prostituted only survive by not allowing in the reality of their lives.

To dream in that environment is to have a death-wish. To dream is to hope, to hope inside the sex trade is to be smashed into the ground.

That is why the majority of the prostituted have dead eyes – hope cannot be seen.

If the eyes are truly the essence of a person – then what does it say that the prostituted murder that essence in order just to live?

I want to weep for those dead eyes, I want to rage for those dead eyes, and I want to fight for those dead eyes.

I can have the privilege and safety to dream now – but I will never forget when I had to murder my dreams.

Do Our Deaths Even Matter

Every day in every continent there is a genocide of females inside the sex trade.

Every moment of every day there is a prostituted woman or a woman inside porn who is being sexually, mentally or physically tortured.

Every day girls and women are being forced, coerced, persuaded or told lies to make them enter the sex trade.

This is going all the time – has been going for almost all human history, occurring in all male cultures.

There is nothing new about prostitution – even if some may label it as modern sex slavery, or lie that it just sex work or part of the leisure industry.

It is a genocide and wide-spread male violence that is made to disappear.

The deaths of the prostituted class are of no importance – how can they matter when in life the prostituted are stripped of the right to be human.

Last week, there was a shooting of several females – last week, there was outrage at male violence.

There was scream that men are murdering females on a mass scale everywhere – but as exited woman I hear this outrage, and wonder where it was for the 3000 years of prostituted women and girls being at front-line of male violence and hate.

Do our deaths, rapes and tortures means nothing?

Let me speak of my personal experience of being prostituted, and I know my experience rings bells for most if not all exited.

I live with death as my norm, I grow used to rape, and torture was common.

I live in a world where prostituted would just disappear – maybe to a another and possibly worse aspect of the sex trade, maybe to suicide or deep mental trauma, or maybe murdered and thrown away.

I remember when I still embedded in that world of death and disappearances, reading about the Argentinian Mothers of the Disappeared. I saw their empty scream at having no justice, having body to place their grief onto, having to be in a surreal space between life and death.

I saw their words, saw their reaching towards grief, their frustrated fury – and I was slowly understanding why the prostituted become so empty and wordless as each day women and girls vanish round them.

We are made dumb by death being all around us.

Our silence is not compliance, our silence is never acceptance – no, our silence is a fierce will to somehow survive against the odds.

To be prostituted or inside porn, is to know that death is just the toss of the cards – there is no route to staying alive or being yet another disappeared one.

No, it like being in a line in a concentration, as the Nazis randomly decide who may live or die that particular day. Each and every person inside that line know just coz they were allow to be alive that one day, that at any time they could be dead.

That is in the heart of all the prostituted – that at any time and any place we could be murdered, could die through ill-health or lack of the fight to keep living, or through suicide.

Our deaths came whether we were fighters, whether we obey every violent act that punters or sex trade profiteers demanded from us, whether we thought we inside a safe aspect of the sex trade.

We do not die because we were weak, we do not die because we do understand the “rules” of the sex trade, we do not die because a particular punter is mad or out-of-order.

No, we die because we are made in life sub-human, so our deaths are made to mean nothing.

Those of us who somehow survived often have strong survivor guilt.

It almost impossible to understand how we manage to survive – all I know is for me, survival was luck but the fact I am alive and can remember, means I must fight for abolition as some kind of payback for the majority who could not make it.

Exited women carry deaths inside them – we hold too many who society just throw away.

We hold deaths that we had to block out, we hold deaths of prostituted women who we thought were too strong to die, we hold deaths of women and girls inside the sex trade we never knew but have deep connection to.

We hold them close – and wait for societies everywhere to express grief for these lost lives, and start building real justice for all the prostituted class.

But now, we know our deaths will be ashes in the wind.

We are not the women who deaths matter.

We have waited 3000 years to count and to fully grieve – there is no justice whilst our deaths are made not to exist.

See the Human

I have been unable to write, for I have allowing myself to know that I human.

I needed to be away from writing, for though it from a place of deep truth – I can only write by being detached from my own words.

To write into the truths of my exploitation, I must have a heart of ice. I cannot feel, in case I am sick or just want to self-harm.

It has been effective for me to not know my own blog too closely, but now I want to write with feeling.

I want to be human, I want to stop the endless deadness that was forced into me and made me almost nothing.

I want to see that I am human, I want it to be clear to me that I am human.

I could scream at how my skin, my ways of seeing, my ability to be touched or touch, my sense of smell, my vagina and anus, and ability to breathe was destroyed by the violence o the sex trade.

As I write now, I am choking near to sickness. I am choking all those penises, all those objects force into my throat, choking out water as memories of being drowned return.

As I write now, my vagina is in old and ancient pains of countless rapes, pains from my experiences join up with the pain of all the prostitute class being raped till it is of no importance.

My vagina was conquered, raped, erased, nuked by so much penetration by so many punters – my brain cannot know how many, or see, hear, feel or know the pain of too many men entering one very small area.

How do the prostituted know in a human way, what it is to be raped.?

We speak to our emptiness, we speak with detachment about threats of death, about extreme sadism,

How can a prostitute know the pain, the grief, the endless terror without building a wall around herself?

I know I can only know, feel and remember a few rapes, some of the sadism, parts of my near-death experiences.

I know I was raped beyond what my mind can hold.

I have spoken and written for many years – and there is so much that my mind keep away from me.

I believe we remember enough to know torture was true, to know that we did our best to survive in a terrible circumstances.

I believe the mind shows enough so we can grieve, know the reality of our deep pain, and to believe enough to forgive ourselves.

But the prostituted rarely remember her past as a whole – mostly we remember with many gaps and a sense of being empty.

How can one human truly know the scale of the violence and hate that is what it is to be prostituted? How can it be remembered without falling into self-harm or closing down completely?

I believe the mind is intelligent enough to hold away most memories of prostitution, and help the prostitute slowly learn to live fully and have a real pain-free future.

The mind fights for the prostitute to know and understand that she is a human – not and never sub-human sex goods.

I am at the point where I learning to trust my own mind – learning to not be afraid of gaps and holes in my past.

I am learning to be alive, to want a future.

I am learning that I do not have to live inside pain, that terror and being on constant is no longer my norm.

I am now happy that I live a boring non-eventful life – it is a blessing to know I do so little that is exciting, I can at last rest without one eye open.

This is a tiny start to being human – it is will a long and unseen road.





I have been unable to write recently.

It is partly because my grief is going into body memories, and making me too exhausted to write.

It is partly because I am scared before I am on Radio 4 this Wednesday.

It is partly because I have allowed myself to be distracted by sports on TV.

But it mainly because I am aware that porn-hounds read or track my blog and use my words against me.

This, for a while, knocked the stuffing out of me.

But I know I would come back.

Here is a tiny amount of the way my experiences and words are used against me. All these examples are searches used to find this blog –

Ultimate slut, porn doll, torture porn, tortures in porn industry true, gang raped or forced me to orgasm in forced rape, he made the hooker scream, girl had enough porn, Rebecca sex blog, most horrifying porn made, Rebecca Mott a cunt, Rebecca Mott is skanky ho, tips sex, will that fit into my cunt, exited sex scream, cunt is weeping painful fuck foto, dead sex slaves fantasies, woman made to have anal sex, porn torture violent baby girls, many rapes one slut porn video, don’t breathe porn video, stop I can’t breathe porn, my stepdad fucked me in vagina, easy money for women, is sperm good to eat, violent porn, child porn, gang rape porn.

I am sure you find that hard, triggering or near to impossible – but that is my and many other exited women daily experience of daring to confront the sex trade.

We know that our words, our experiences and our determination to fight is made into porn, made into dirt – making our words and progress seemed to be nothing.

But the more punters, sex trade lobby and their supporters try to ridicule, destroy or distort our words and experiences, the more this prove we are speaking to the truth.

Our truths is highly dangerous, the sex trade lobby is right to be afraid that we will not just heard and read, but our words plant a seed of radical change.

It is a seed that turns upside-down all the lies and propaganda of the sex trade lobby.

It is a seed that shows all the excuses, lies, propaganda and manipulation of the sex trade lobby to be ridiculous.

It is a seed that sees clearly that the conditions of prostitution are of trafficking, conditions of slavery, that all aspects of prostitution is embedded in the conditions of torture.

This seed can only grow. It will branch out into deeper awareness and the slow ability to have deep empathy with all the prostituted.

The empathy is arriving when the language of sex work is abandoned. In its place the language of human rights, the language of revolution, the language of full humanity and the language of freedom.

Awareness is shown by not fighting for harm reduction – but seeing with a clear heart that all prostitution is in the line of male violence, and fighting for abolition for prostitution can never be made safe.

Empathy is learning the gift of truly listening and hearing when exited women speak out. This means not talking over, not treating exited women are victims or pets. This means not placing your life or experiences of male violent over the words of exited women.

Awareness is on the journey to arriving if you can learn that the violence done to the prostituted was never personal – it could not be personal for the main motivation of the sex trade is make all the prostituted sub-human.

I see the growth of awareness and empathy are a slow building of firm roots of an abolitionist movement.

No abolitionist movement will work unless is firmly rooted, and has enough solidness to deal with constant attacks, to cope with grief and pain that is embedded in all abolition.

Abolition must be rooted for it a long-term fight.

Abolition is like an oak, we may not see much change or progress, but each and every day our fight and determination is building another ring of growth.

I believe that sex trade will be eradicated – only it may not be in my lifetime.

I know each and every voice from many cultures and many centuries that speak against the sex trade are inside the rings of growth towards abolition.

That is why the porn-hounds fear our voices so much.

They know the abolitionist movement is progressing, they know their language of labour or empowerment cannot hold water.

I know oppressors always are their must violent when they feel their structures of power and control getting undermined or slowly destroyed.

The sex trade lobby is reacting with violent words, with violence to hold onto their control over exited women, with violence inside social media, with mental violence when speaking to the media or at conferences.

The sex trade lobby is very noisy, full of bullies, always grabbing hold of headlines – but this is because they are such a tiny minority, and scared that fewer people believe their language of hate and fear.

I see that the abolitionist movement is making amazing progress that the sex trade lobby spends so much time and energy trying to kill us.

So although it hurts and triggers me, having so many porn-hounds on my blog.

I take it as a huge back-handed compliment, for it shows how they afraid the sex trade lobby of this wee blog.

Writing Inside Too Much Noise

I have not blog for some time. I have chosen a day when I washing clothes, phone keeps ringing and there are workmen in the flat below.

I will write into my depths, but it may very disjointed, and my anger may come and go.

I have turn on soul, disco, blues and gospel up loud to drown annoying noise, but no promises that I can stay focus.

Ahh, city life is so wonderful!!!!

I had to stop writing because I needed to face my grief, I needed to stop running away from my own past, see my past without downplaying it, or convincing myself that others had much worse.

In this post, I want to stop and look into that grief, look at certain words that I write and say often – but usually with detachment, or making it about all the prostituted but my teenage and young adult self.

Grief is the beginning of finding true freedom.

Grief is the opening of the frozen heart to a route back to light and compassion.

Grief is accepting the pain and terror of the past, and learning the vital lesson to end condemning yourself.

Grief is forgiveness of who you had to be to survive, forgiveness of the “bad” actions you had to do just to cling hold of life.

Grief could be the washing away of body memories and drowning out those who made you into nothing.

That is just some of the multiple parts of grief.

All I know is that grief is teaching me to see my prostituted self and to learn she was and is lovable.

Grief kills the lie that I was made nothing.

Grief is the comfort blanket that was always within me, just had way of having full expression.

I believe that to grieve after extreme trauma is finding true freedom.

But grief does not mean full recovery, or that the pain and fear magically vanishes.

It is never that simple.

I still have horrific body memories, still get terrors in the night, still cannot cry, still block so much.

But somehow grief holds my hand.

Grief is like a close friend at a funeral of someone who you deeply loved.

Grief cannot make all better, grief cannot end the aching hole of the loss, grief cannot stop the pain of not knowing what the future may be.

No grief is not a miracle worker – it is far better than that, for grief works inside your mind, heart and gut reaction to allow you to see reality and know the future will be slowly built.

Sometimes grief is a gaping silent screaming – that sees and fully knows what to be prostituted really means.

Grief silently screams at the knowledge that torture was so normal that it could be felt or known.

Grief silently screams that rape was so normal, so constant – that the prostituted mind can only label it as rape if she is on the edge of death or the pain breaks through her detachment.

Grief silently screams hearing the endless justifications that is just work, that prostitutes have a natural high pain threshold, that it her free choice to be in that world – hell, prostitution is always with us.

No wonder grief is a silent screaming when surrounded by the noise of lies and justifications that make invisible all violence done to the prostituted.

If that scream was given a noise is would shake the earth and deafen all those who make those justifications.

Grief is the part of all the prostituted that is reaching out for real love.

A love that is made solid, and given without manipulation or trying find other ways to use the prostituted.

A love that is not about re-making the prostituted into sexual goods – but seeing and wanting to meet all aspects of her, seeing the prostituted as fully rounded and complicated people.

A love that come from within the prostitute, a love that will slowly heal and teach her to be fully human.

Grief is the close friend who does not judge or speak for the prostituted, but stand by her as she finds what it is to be human.

Grief is that close friend that knows laughter is life, and encourage sick dark “jokes” to force life back into the prostitute.

Grief is the close friend who is not afraid of silences, or deep rages.

Grief wants and needs all expressions and emotions to come out – including those that are ugly or unbearable to feel and know.

Grief wants the prostituted to be whole and fully alive.

I am happy to grieve – always knowing how hard it is.


Grief and Memory

My last post had to cut short coz grief is the thing I to see and hold in my heart.

Grief from knowledge of torture is so near to impossible to hold – I can only stay safe if my amazing supporters prayer, hold me or keep me deep in their thoughts.

This is not my grief, it is the grief of all who managed to exit the sex trade.

It a grief that knows the unbearable, a grief that conflates memory and linear time, a grief of knowing parts of our being was stolen and trashed by the sex trades.

We live with trauma – mostly we live with such extreme trauma it is the heightened levels of long-term torture victims, and higher than most soldiers who been in the front-line.

This trauma comes from the constant and extreme violence that was our norms.

But it also destroys our memory – we lose hours, days, months or years.

This is not just the violence that wipe out memory, but the fact that the violence done to the prostituted is very repetitive.

How can the brain remember each and every rape when for too many of the prostituted it is in the hundreds or thousands?

No, the mind will remember the most brutal or unusual, the mind may hold the “ordinary” rapes and see enough to know it was true, then say that enough to hold.

How can the brain remember the common tortures that the prostituted know?

No, the mind will remember enough to say the prostitute was not to blame, to show her how trapped she was, to say it was a living hell she had to endure – then say that enough, now learn to it never your fault.

It is the job of the mind to teach those who are lucky enough exit the sex trade that they can and will heal.

Healing is made real if grief is fully expressed.

It is so hard for the prostituted class to grieve.

We have been taught and made to know we have no access to human emotions – we are sub-human so emotions are irrelevant.

The pain of exiting is learning we are fully human, learning we have the full gamut of human emotions.

Emotions is a shock to many survivors of the sex trade – we have no idea how to hold happiness, we fear anger, we need to learn it ok to be still – and grief overwhelms and tears us apart.

We have so much to grieve about – for our grief is never just our personal history, we carry the grief of the silenced prostituted class from all time and every continent, our grief is now connected to all still trapped inside the sex trade.

It a grief that would rip the world apart if fully express or truly heard.

Our grief is constantly hidden, censored, made tame or put into words the prostituted find no meaning for their lives.

The true grief of the prostituted class is a revolution that must be suppressed.

Our grief see and has a clear picture of the cold heart of male violence. We know most male violence is pre-planned and done to make women and children into nothing.

The point of making the prostituted class is make humans objects – so it become if and when there is male violence, it becomes that nothing is done to nothing.

In our grief we remember what being nothing is – it is the language of trash, the language of Whore, the language of fuck-object – it is the language that makes the male orgasm holy.

So yes we have personal grief – grief of being raped into being sub-human, grief of knowing torture is common and always ignored, grief of losing huge parts of our life and memory.

Yes of course grief is personal – but as an exited woman I know I am always connected to all the prostituted from all time, all cultures, all classes, all background and all aspects of the sex trade.

I was told I was nothing – now I know I am strongly connected to some of the bravest, strongest and spiritual peoples that ever existed.

I am very proud to be a small part of the prostituted class.