Monthly Archives: April 2008

Just Don’t Want to Know

Posted on by rmott62

At the moment the world’s media is obsessed with “one-off” case of male sexual violence in Austria. It is as weird and nothing to do with the casual sexual violence that happens to women and children on a day-to-day level.

I don’t know but I see the case in Austria as tip of an ever growing iceberg.

In my personal opinion there are many women in many countries who are imprisoned by male sexual violence.

They may be walking free, but male sexual violence is controlling their minds and their bodies.

I see children, especially girls, who live with the constant threat of sexual violence. They are brainwashed to believed that their only worth is to be a sex toy.

Many lived for years unable to escape the mental, physical and sexual abuse. Many cannot imagine there is a life beyond the violence.

They may not be locked in a cellar. They may look like they are leading a “normal” life. They may go to school, college or work. 

But these girls are living in a prison.

Only the media turns a blind eye to that type of abuse. It happens too often to be worth reporting.

Hell, if it is so bad the girl would tell someone wouldn’t she.

So child sexual abuse is seen, but little is done.

Basically it is no longer sensational enough to be reported.

So the media doesn’t want to know.

My memories of prostitution was being isolated from the “real world”.

That is a form of imprisonment.

Many prostituted women and girls are closed off from outside contact. Or they may have relative freedom, but are brainwashed to believe that the outside world will condemned them.

When I was in the world of prostitution, I was encouraged to believe all I was an object that “liked” pain when I performed sex.

The world of prostitution formed me into that object, by teaching me to ignore the pain. Taught me not to speak.

I was an object that was there to do whatever the punters wanted.

I hide my disgust. I suppressed my fear. I ignored my anger.

I had no rights to be a human.

Hell, that is living inside a prison.

Yes I was “free”. For I went home to my own flat. I had times without male violence.

But for 21 years of my life, I lived with the constant threat of male violence. Whether child sexual abuse, rapes by “friends” or prostitution.

In the times where I was not being abused by men, I had no freedom.

The male violence was so ingrained in me that the “real world” was surreal to me.

I did not know how to live outside of violence.

I was living in a prison of my mind.

I had told and shown so often that all I worth was to be a sex object. I had told and shown that all I deserved was violence.

I was brainwashed to believe I had freedom, as I rotted in my prison.

But violence to prostituted women and girls is uninteresting to the media.

For don’t ask for it with their lifestyles.

So the media ignores the rapes and tortures that happened to prostituted women and girls.

They don’t want to know.

This post is very personal.

I am sick of how the media acts all shocked at their chosen monsters. They pick one or two serial killers to focus on. They are shocked that a father imprisoned his daughters.

But they don’t report men murdering prostituted women and girls one at a time.

They don’t report fathers who rape their daughters from childhood into adulthood.

They don’t report wives raped and battered by their husbands.

They don’t report women in porn being raped and tortured.

I could on and on with the endless forms of male sexual violence the media doesn’t want to know.

All those women and children are living in a prison.

I am furious that men like the father in Austria are seen as “freaks”, when they just taking male sexual violence to the logical extreme. 

Sometimes It So Damned Hard

Posted on by rmott62

Although I wrote earlier my mind will not shut up with shouting about my years of prostitution and having “date rapes”.

It shouts say what you can, and maybe then relax into TV.

It so hard coz I just want to think of nothing. I want to be blank again.

This week has been exhausting.

Every emotions I had suppressed has entered into me. I am drowning as I feel everything I don’t want to know.

I want to scream, but I don’t have that much energy.

When I choose not self-harm through prostitution, the floodgates opened.

Now, seven days later I need to write who I was then. To write is to forgive.

When I was 14, I thought I was an adult. I thought I could control my world.

I knew I was not a child. For I imagined children were innocent, and I had lost that so far back.

I disowned that I could be a child. For children were vulnerable. Children let themselves get damaged.

By the time I was 14, I had grown to hate children.

I hated that they were loved even when they were bad. I hated they were always so happy, even after being shouted at.

I could not let children in my heart.

As I was hurt over and over, my anger went to that I was still viewed as a child.

How could I be a child when every Friday my stepdad put his mouth and fingers into my cunt.

How can I be a child when I spend hours walking the streets.

No, I could not be child.

That is who I was before I entered prostitution.

I entered with the knowledge I would have to give out sex. But that was as far as my imagination went.

I did not know that I would be broken.

I thought I would ok, I thought I was tough enough to handle sex with strangers.

After all, I was not innocent. My stepdad had sex with me on a regular basis.

I was so naive.

Now, I cry from the bottom of my feet at my youth. I cry so hard at my true innocence.

When I was in the flat. When I was being gang-raped in silence and near-dark. When I knew men were staring down at. When I had no idea where the pain would come from. When I was thrown away.

Then I was broken.

Then I could no cry. I could not speak. I saw injuries and cuts, but could not see it was me.

Then was the true deadness. I was a robot.

And being a robot is safer than reality.

I see my life. I see now I was using bad sex as my way to self-harm.

But I never deserved what happened. However much I had been taught to hate myself, I never deserved to be tortured.

I cannot remember how many times I was gang-raped.

I remember the degradation as men would use my body to re-enact rapes in films, in pictures and in books.

I know porn infected every gang-rape I was put through. Gang-rapes are created by porn.

I will never believe that the majority of men that raped me did not use porn on a regular basis.

I felt the porn as they manipulated my body. I felt the porn as they fucked me everywhere they could imagine.

I felt I was drowning in porn.

All they did was to degrade me to the maximum, whether it was gang-rapes or single rapists.

Why else would they put sperm into my eyes. Why rub sperm into all my skin, why rub it in my hair.

Why do brutal anal sex. Why have men ramming my throat, my anus, my vagina at the same time.

Why strangle me. Why put pillows on my head. 

Why say “you know you want this”.

Why beat me up. Why throw me out the flat when they have finish.

That is nothing to do with sex. There is no respect there, there is no interest in my welfare.

No, I enter prostitution at 14, and learnt very fast I was a non-human.

Then the small part of me that cling to being a child died.

Now, I want her back.

Seeing Through the Void

Posted on by rmott62

I cannot remember ever having a visual memory. This has made seeing the abuse I lived through prostitution.

The last thing I remember seeing in my mind-eye was the hard-core porn.

Seeing that murdered my visual imagination.

Before I read books and pictured them. I would see Narnia, imagine Treasure Island.

Before I could dream.

I could rest when I shut my eyes.

Porn made my mind close down. It did not want to know.

It place a void instead of visual imagination. That void made me know the terror. 

All I know is gut tells about the violence I lived. I feel the fear, I know the terror and I breathe the grief in every cell of my body.

Still I see nothing in my mind’s eye.

All I know to do is to say in detail how my body was remember.

I feel remembering the violence I lived through is like trying to grab water.

When I remember my stepdad, I see his face. I know his name. I feel his breath on me.

He is solid.

This I do not have with the rapes in my teens and twenties.

I want to have those men named and shamed. I want them to rot in prison.

I want more than anything to see them as individuals so I can them as the man that rape me – not a general john.

It rots me inside that I cannot see their faces. It all melts into one.

I see no face. I see a void.

I lived with years of extreme sexual violence. This my mind cannot handle.

I remember times of violence. I do not know my age. It all melts in to one.

Many acts of violence were repeated over and over. This all melts into one.

It fall into the void.

This void can paralyses me.

It make me know I will never have justice for all that sexual torture.

All I know to do is work to get justice for others.

On Elements

Posted on by rmott62

For much of my life I have lived in my head, and not taken much notice of my body. Part of this have meant I have not felt I in the world, just on it.

I am writing about the four elements. For I wish to explore how detached I was, and maybe an opening to accepting my body.

This is hard, because I was made to believe that my body betrayed me.

AIR

For too much of my life, the only reason I know I was alive was that air went in and out my body.

Breath was there in my every moment. It give me a slow strength to believe that there might be a future.

But I grow to hate how each morning when I would wake into life.

I would see my chest go up and down, and know I had not lost all my air in the night.

I have always done shallow breathing. Only when I smoke do I want air in my lungs.

Air was too clean for me. Air was too simple.

I did not deserve to be still breathing it in.

I remember how I could not stop breathing. I live as the violence grow and grow.

I did not stop breathing as a 6-year-old, and the pain of my stepdad’s finger in my cunt stopped my heart. No, I was still breathing.

I did not stop beathing as I cut my arms.

I did not stop breathing as men put pain into every cell of my body. As they stared into me.

I lay dead. But I was still breathing.

I hated breath as it let in the pain.

Sometimes I had brief times I touch air and it could be good.

I watched birds of prey controlling the air.

I stood on cliffs letting air toss memories and pain away.

On rare occasions, I breath deep and did not feel scared.

But mostly air was life, and I hated life.

EARTH

Earth reminds me of death.

That was a comfort for many years.

I was in love with death as a child. It was an end. It was a place I would not be hurt.

I wanted to be buried in the earth. I wanted worms to eat me.

I needed to be nothing but earth.

I had no love of touching earth. I hated gardening.

I walked for hours, but with little regard for my surroundings.

I was blind to the beauty of the earth.

My walks were the walk of the dead. I was lost.

Often I would in place I had lived in for many years, and I was lost.

I was lost as I could not remember how I arrive and where I had been.

Sometimes I stood touching the earth, and pain enter my body.

I could not remember where it can from.

Sometimes I stood so still that I thought I may cry. I always stopped that.

I walked and walked. I could not stay still.

I move to stop thoughts. I move to imagine I was safe.

Now, I do see the beauty in the earth. I see it in nature, I see it in buildings. Now, I walk and I can look.

FIRE

Fire has always fascinated me.

I watch it’s destruction with joy. It makes me laugh.

Fire in my belly forced to live.

In my mind’s eye I burnt all the porn I was shown by my stepdad. Leaving a trail of destruction. I knew I wanted to kill my stepdad.

My fire was a slow burner, but it never went out.

The first time I meet my stepdad, I raged that I did not like him.

This rage was the petrol to my fire.

My fire keep my mind safe.

Men treated my body as a dustbin.

Men pour all hate into me.

But I had my rage protecting me.

Men would rape me.

Men would treat as live porn.

Men would beat me.

Only the fire in me meant they could never reach my mind.

Men could never owned me.

Not whilst I hated them.

WATER

Water has never felt safe to me.

I was abused in the bath by my stepdad. I was often made to wash before and/or after the violence in prostitution or “date rapes”.

Water is functional to me. I would rather ignore it as much as possible.

I have grow to like baths, but I would not see having a bath as a way to relax.

I cannot shut my eyes in water. I may feel the abusers in my body.

In water the traces of the violence sinks into my body.

I have always love to watch the sea. Then I can feel nothing matters.

I can know I don’t always have to stay in control.

For much of my life, I did not drink much water.

I did not want to be healthy. I did not want my body to continue.

Water meant going forward. But, I just went forward to yet more abuse.

My hatred of life became an irrational hate of water.

Why be refreshed.

I was just being freshened up so I appear suitable for rape.

I did not want to be well.

Men rape me however ill I looked.

I still have many mixed feelings about water.

But I do drink quite a lot these days.

FINAL WORDS

I think I slowly letting myself live. I am letting myself feel that I am worth my place to breathe.

I allowing myself to see my environment. To feel I belong inside the earth.

I letting my fire go into being creative, not just dreams of destruction. It burns still, but on a low heat.

I allowing my body not to dry up and give up. Water helps it rest for a while.

I try to bring elements into me. I try to not to live detached.

I want to be whole, not a robot.

On Courage

Posted on by rmott62

I wish to write, even though I am completely mentally drained.

I am writing because I think I am having some understanding of what courage Survivors have to have.

It is the the courage to go forward with life.

I feel that in the last few days I have reach an emotional state where fear and grief is drowning me.

This for most of my life fear has underpinned my day-to-day experience.

I have live with fear for so long, that most of the time I do not recognise it.

I first felt fear as a young.

It was ignored, so I suppressed my terror.

Only now, it eats at my body. It makes me lose all my energy.

I thought I was depressed, when I was terrified.

I could not let myself be scared, so I turned to self-hate.

When I feel fear, I can see that my stepdad choose to abuse me. I see I did not want to see porn.

When I let in fear, I know I never wanted to be prostituted. I know I hated all the violence.

But, I had to make it what it was not.

I was told over and over that I “force” my stepdad to use me. I was a flirt. I throw myself at him.

I was a tart.

This infected me with self-hate.

I could not stop him raping me. Whatever I said or did made no difference.

So all that was left was to blame myself.

That was the only thing that made sense.

I felt all I was was a “whore”. All I deserved was to be hurt by sex.

For me entering prostitution was a logical action. I know I was worthless.

Prostitution and bad sex became my way to self-harm.

I found that the men left little evidence on my body of their violence.

This matter to me, because I could self-harm and there no cuts or marks for others to see.

Self-hate through prostitution and bad sex is more than damaging to the body, it is more than mentally damaging.

It destroys everything that made me an individual.

I was more than worthless. I had become nothing.

I was raped and raped. I lost track of how many men. 

I was raped in too many places. I cannot remember where I was.

I was raped until I was on auto-pilot each time I was with men or a man.

I am scared to remember how that auto-pilot work.

I would be undressed on a bed without thinking why.

I would move into positions that give me pain, but I know from porn.

I was lost.

I did not know how to find myself.

I write this because I did go into that auto-pilot on Saturday.

This is where I understand the meaning of courage.

Since my mind has been showing me the reality of the hate and violence I live through in my teens and twenties, I have been in a great deal of pain.

On Saturday I wanted to run away from myself.

I know having bad sex would make dead again. I know if I went back to hating myself, I would back in a world I kind of understood.

Feeling my past was too bloody overwhelming.

I was getting too scared.

I was like a robot with that man on Saturday.

I was falling back to thinking I was worthless.

But then, courage enter my soul.

Courage to remember I was worth more than being a fuck-object.

That no money was worth the humilation.

I had the courage to walk away.

Then real courage enter me.

All the suppressed emotions re-enter my body and mind.

I have always used self-harm to kill my emotions.

Courage is allowing those feeling in, and not running away.

I feel really terrible. A complete wreck.

But I know I am doing the bravest thing I have done for a long time.

Spinning Spinsters

Posted on by rmott62

I just wanted to say that the fabulous Spinning Spiinsters has put another piece of my writing on their site.

Please read that site, for there are some really inspiring and moving writings by women.

Thanks so much, I really needed to have a boost.

Learning to Forgive Myself

Posted on by rmott62

I feel that I am collapsing with the fear of knowing my past. I want to integrate my past with my present, and to make a future.

But, when I look at the violence in the eye, I want to run away. I want to have no feelings.

It is then I find it easier to blame myself, then to listen to my heart.

I know in my heart, that I have made many mistakes in my life. But I never deserve or wanted the violence that I live with.

I want to learn to forgive myself. I want to not get so much self-hate.

I think I am beginning to see that most of my self-hate come from my fear of what I know.

When I see and feel my past, I can feel that have done a good thing exposing how violent it was. But then I feel the pain and grief.

Then I want to run away. Then the old patterns of self-harm come.

I want to forgive myself for knowing that I have “let” men use me for sex as my way to attempt suicide.

I want to forgive myself for needing to go dead inside.

I want to forgive myself for avoiding looking after my body by going out when exhausted.

I want to forgive myself from closing down my anger.

I want to forgive myself running away from help.

When on Saturday, I nearly fall back into my old patterns, I terrified myself.

I was terrified how quickly I fall back into being a robot.

I was terrified how I allow the man to feel me up.

I was terrified how well I know how go back into a silent role.

I need to forgive myself for that.

I am glad I push myself away from replaying my old pattern.

I think now I am in a state of massive shock.

I want to say Abyss2Hope’s comment about my last post about being in shock when saying no to old patterns is so good.

I am shocked that I was able to get out of the flat, and keep some dignity.

I am shocked how fast self-hate can take me over.

I am shocked how hard I find to give myself credit.

But, I have some pride in me.

I am proud that I did not push Saturday night away.

I am proud that I wrote about it, instead of letting it fester in me.

I am proud I did eventually not allow my self-harming to take control.

I know and feel that others don’t blame me.

It is a long and slow road to not blame myself.

Falling Off the Wagon

Posted on by rmott62

I try to remain stable and strong as much as possible. But sometimes I fail.

Last night I nearly fall back into my self-destructive behaviour.

I feel deeply ashamed of myself. And I feel I have let down all my supporters.

I think I tend to be quite cut off from my fear of facing my past. I am afraid of becoming vulnerable.

Last night I went clubbing even though I was exhausted.

I should of watched football and Doctor Who.

Without admitting to myself I got depressed. I stop dancing and just watch. My mind went blank, as I had pains in my body.

So I walked home. But I didn’t.

I was accosted by a young man, asking me if I wanted sex.

Now, if I was the person I should be, I would of ignore him.

But instead my self-hate re-enter me. I said –

How much will you pay.

He offer £200, I know he was lying, but I didn’t care.

I don’t how to explain this. I just know having the crashing of memories has made me scared. Has made lose some of my self-respect.

Those are excuses.

I follow him back to his flat. I let him kiss me. I let him put his hand down my trousers. All this slease in corridors.

I turning to stone.

I would not answer questions he asked. I was not very enthusiastic.

It meant nothing. I meant nothing.

In his flat, as expected were soft-core porn pictures on the wall. It was like stepping back to my past.

Please don’t hate me for going backwards.

Then he lay on me, both still dressed.

I wanted the money up front. He said he hadn’t said he would pay. Then I push him off. He said what about £30, I was putting my coat on.

He then said £5 to give him a blow job. I left.

I was stupid to be with him.

I was very lucky he did not use violence, that all he did was laugh at me.

I was not sure if I should write this.

But I do respect my readers, and that why I must be honest.

Self-hated is a cancer. When I think I going the right direction it smashing back into the past.

I am very sorry to let you all down.

I hope this was a slip, I feel by facing it that will make me less hard on myself.

Calm After the Storm

Posted on by rmott62

Although I am very tired. Still have many pain in my body. I feel I have come to a place where I can feel some pride.

CHILDHOOD

As I view my childhood, I can now hold that time.

I see with tears in my eyes. I see and let my suffering flow out.

I can see with pride me letting go of my shame.

Shame that kept me silent until I could not form words even in my mind.

Shame that made me tidy away any evidence of abuse.

I cleared my bedding with blood, sweat and sperm on it.

Clearing out any pain that I felt in my body.

I cry and cry that I had to forget that I was a child.

I could not play without looking over my shoulder.

His presence was in me whether he was in the house or not. He was under my skin.

I did not want friends, for I fear they would see the badness in me.

I was terrified he would rape my friends.

I cry as I see me trying to find how to be a child.

Then I cry.

In the calm after the explosion of remembering, I do cry.

I let myself see I was a child.

It was never completely stolen from me.

HARD-CORE PORN

Now I see with pride that I can say what I saw in the porn.

I do not always need to slam an iron door on those images.

I can say with pride I will and do face that fear.

I see women looking dead as men rammed into every hole they could find.

I see objects forced into women who are made to smile.

I see images of gang-rapes made into humour.

I saw cartoons children being raped.

I saw images of girls being screwed.

I saw so many images of S/M.

I am proud that I remember some of what I saw.

But always I feel a terrible blankness that what I remember is just the tip of the iceberg.

But I feel pride as I face my fear of hard-core porn.

I face it and fight to destroy it’s power.

PROSTITUTION AND OTHERS

I feel I have been through a massive rush of memories seeing the sexual violence I had outside of my family. This has overwhelmed me.

My pride is that I see that past without falling back into self-hatred and self-harm.

I have not got drunk.

I have not abused food.

I have not forced myself to stay awake.

I have not cut my arms.

Instead I have face my past in the eye. I have look straight at all that I had blanked out.

I open the door on how the men tortured me.

I look directly at their hate.

I have seen with a clear eye that they planned all the sexual violence that they did to me.

I see and hold how much damage they did to my mind and body.

I hold and cry that I was so near to death.

I cry that my best friend died through male violence.

I am proud that I survived that world.

I am proud that I kept my intelligence. Even when men try to beat and rape it out of me.

I am proud I still small spaces where I could give and feel love. As I was held by girlfriends I could briefly remember I was human.

I am proud I kept in contact with my grandmother. Then I could pretend I was normal.

I grieve that I lost my teenage years.

I was not safe enough for angst.

I could be vulnerable enough to be confused.

My growing pains were trashed as men raped me, beat me up and made me a sex doll.

I was not a teenager. It was stolen.

I cry for that time

NOW

I let pride into me now.

I am very proud of this blog.

I am proud that my truths are coming in a strong and vulnerable voice.

I am proud that I can say I have confusion. That I do not hide behind making a neat and tidy story.

I am proud I show the reality of the tortures that I had to live with.

I am very proud that others Survivors read my words and can feel a connection.

Survivors are my most important readers. Their belief and encouragement make me face my past and not run away.

I am proud that I face being call a liar and mad, and not given up.

No, it has made more determined to say my truths.

So, now I have space for calmness.

I will say

I am proud.

Pop Culture Made Me Happy

Posted on by rmott62

I have always love things that are popular. It give me a place in a world, where I often feel an outsider.

I love sports, TV, classic crime books and films. Much of my life I have been critised for all of these. But, when I want to relax or switch off, I go back to popular culture.

And I feel joy.

SPORTS

I am a huge football fan. I have been since I round seven.

I would rather watch “Match of the Day”, than go clubbing.

I feel safer with watching TV, than going to a club. I am not comfortable with the sexual behaviour. Too often it can triggers thoughts I don’t want.

Too many clubs have pornographic images. Too many people treat each as sexual objects.

In clubs I can get depressed. Or I have to be drunk to start enjoying myself.

So I fall back to my love of football. Saturday is my night to be alone and watch football.

I watched as a child.

Football brought me close to my real father. He is the only person who does not judge my love of fooball.

My love of football give an interest in social history. I researched how different fans follow their football teams, how it is knitted into each culture.

I grow interested how politics use and misuse the popularity of football.

As a fan, I am always interested how authority figures try to manipulate fans for money, for votes, for media images etc.

So I am not surpised that the sex trade will see football fans as a cash cow. What did surpise me was how many football were furious at being manipulated by the sex trade.

I feel you can be a football fan and stay intelligent.

I went to rugby and cricket with my grandfather. I still love them both.

I love cricket because it a game that uses the mind as a weapon.

All my life. my mind has keep my revenge. My mind is my stronger weapon.

As a young child, I learnt cricket. I learnt that to win you needed to play mind-games with other side. But not to show too much in the face.

This help a little when I was being abused.

Rugby in both leagues is the final sport I love.

I love the staged violence. I love the speed.

I feel alive as I watch sports.

I can scream and swear – no-one is bothered. I don’t have to be a good girl watching sports.

No, I can let out some of my anger.

I have cry at sports. The tears come from a deep place of grief. But I can say it is

Arsenal have losed again.

CLASSIC CRIME BOOKS

I like crime books that have a solid story.

I read Wilkie Collins, Edgar Allen Poe, Josephine Tey, Patricia Highsmith and others.

I tend to attracted to classic crime that show “a worm in the human soul”.

I like stories where all the characters have twisted motives.

To me this suited my view of human nature for too much of my life.

Now, I am more of an optimist, but still love a good story.

I not that interested in who-done-it, more why did they do it.

That suits my mind.

TV

TV is part of me.

As a child, I use TV as my safe place.

I would watch many of the 60’s children’s programmes and escape into them.

I imagine Batman and Emma Peel would beat up my stepdad. Rescue me and I would join them on their adventures.

I would watch the Monkees, and I would laugh.

I had a safe fear with Doctor Who.

TV was a friend when I felt so alone.

When I was in prostitution and violent sex, I watch TV rarely. Usually I too drunk ot in shock to concentrate.

But I remember a few trash programme that I loved.

I love V, I was amused by Dallas, I watched Hammer House of Horror.

My mind could only take in trash. It could not concentrate for long periods.

Now I have gone back to loving TV for myself.

I watch lots of dramas, often the darker stories.

I watch 6 Feet Under, Boston Legal, Nip/Tuck.

These programmes confirm the part of me that has a dim view of human nature. They amuse me seeing the mess that factual characters make of their lives.

It is not real, so does not matter for more than an hour.

Unlike real life that has no ending, TV programmes are neat packages.

TV allows me to forget my pain and grief. It does not go away, but I get a rest.

TV often let me laugh.

I don’t need much more.

FILMS

I would say I am film addict, mostly films from classic Hollywood.

Western without Indians give a closeness with my real Dad’s family. He is half-American, from Denver, so was brought up with Westerns.

I love the psychological Westerns, which I see as American myths. The good ones are like Shakesheare as they focus on the aloneness of their main character.

Many classic American films attract me because their characters are isolated from the world. They copied my emotions.

Film noir has always my favourite genre.

The characters are lonely, cannot communicate, are surrounded by fear and cannot make sense of all the events around them.

That is how I felt for most of my life.

But, unlike my life, these films have an end.

I use films to escape.

I watch classic “horrors” with Peter Lorre, Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi. I love how over-the -top they were. I love that they chilled, but allow the viewer to laugh.

My favourite classic horror is “Cat People”.

I escape into musicals and old Disney, “Dumbo” especially.

Films give me so much joy. Films allow me to feel fear in a safe time and place.

Films hold my hand when I close to despair.

Films say there always another film you want to see.

So don’t die.

Live for another story that takes you away from the shit that was force into you.

For me that is why I love popular culture.

It give me hope.

For I know, I will always find

A football match 

A crime book

A new TV programme

Another film

to amuse me.

So I kept going forward.