Monthly Archives: May 2008

Finding My Soul

Posted on by rmott62

I see this as a follow up to my last post.

By losing connect with my body, I thought I had lost touch with my heart. Only it never left, it just hid.

Always hidden, scared, I had something close to a soul.

In this piece, I want to write the dangers and goodness of having that soul.

As I learnt to stop crying, learnt to not expect help from the outside. I went into my heart, and whispered to my soul.

Before I know language, I spoke to that part inside me that made me feel I had a reason to live. I express nothing but an unspoken fear, saying nothing but I don’t want to be alone.

But, I was alone.

Alone as I grow to realise that my stepdad would stare at me. He look at every inch of me. I was his object.

As I learnt the use I was to be put to, I had so much desire to die.

I die as his eyes made me become his sex robot.

I die as I try so hard not to know his hands and mouth was polluting me.

I die as he called his special little whore.

Only as I die, my soul was desperate to live.

It cried as it could not stop the regular sexual abuse. It cried with frustration. It cried that I would not allow comfort in.

My soul was crying, but I could not listen.

Only, slowly I felt a small warrior resisting inside of me.

My soul place on armour, pick up weapons, and resisted.

I resisted as I did not show emotions to my stepdad. I resisted as I refused to touch him. I resisted as I knew I hated him.

My soul resisted, placing me in so much danger.

I remember so clear, my stepdad only let loss his hate, when he thought he did not have complete control.

“I want to make you go mad.”

This he said when he thought no-one would hear.

I knew “mad” meant destroying my soul. He wanted to own me so I had no thoughts, no hope, no idea there life outside what he show me, and I would lose my heart.

He failed, and he hated me for out of his control.

I kept my soul, putting myself at risk.

He forced violent porn into me, hoping this would destroy my essence.

Porn terrified me. Porn froze me to the core.

But my soul increased it resistance.

Seeing the images of torture, seeing the eyes that had given up hope  – my soul screamed with grief.

In silence, I listen my soul screaming and howling.

I thought I was dead, but my soul was fighting for life.

As I being taught that the images of porn was my future, my soul gear up it’s weapons and resisted.

It give me happy dreams of murdering my stepdad. My soul show me worlds where no adults were allowed, where everything was safe. It give a brief escape.

My soul kept telling this can’t last forever.

Only it so hard to imagine an end.

My soul was battered from all sides, but it refuse to disappear.

This was never more true than when I lived in sex trade and world of violent anonymous sex.

I had no reason to live then. The only reason could be my soul forcing life into me.

My soul could only watch. My soul could only cry. My soul could not stop the violence.

But it could prevent my essence being destroyed.

As my stepdad hated me for not being destroyed, so the hate increased as men raped and tortured me.

I was beaten, raped, tortured and made into nothing – but I was never owned.

I never let any man know me as a person. I refused to make eye connect. I refused to be kissed. I talked as little as I could.

They would not have my soul.

As men poured all their hate into me, as they should of made me lose my sanity – I resisted.

Now I felt my soul was coming to it strength.

My soul would not allow my mind to snap. My soul would force my body to be detach, holding me in a safe space.

Only as my soul was strong, I could feel the fear overwhelming it.

I felt my soul was in a deep sense of shock.

As men find more and more ways to torture me. As my mind could not believe that men could imagine such things, my soul went into shock.

My soul into shock as it saw too many uncared wounds on my body. Wounds that my mind refused to remember where they came from.

My soul was shocked as even it could not imagine a better future.

When my soul was in shock, I thought it must be the end.

I had always cling onto my soul, looking fo the light at the end of the tunnel.

It was an oncoming train.

In the end I was saved by my soul. I was save by my body collapsing.

After too much violence, too much hate, too many people disppearing and too much of too much, my body decided to stop me by becoming paralysed.

It was the only way to stop me.

As I could not move, my soul could be heard.

My soul forced me to live. I wanted to die so much. I thought I could just die, then everything would alright.

But my soul refused to die.

I knew to live, I had to run away from the world I lived in. To live, I had to know there was hope.

My soul give me the will to leave male violence. To know I was worth something.

Only, living in a world without constant male violence is hard.

It should be so easy.

But I never the rules of a “normal” life. I never learnt to have self-respect.

My soul is slowly teaching me to have pride.

My soul remembers my loves that were never destroyed by male violence. My loves of classic Hollywood, football and reading. I have them back, and remember who I am.

My soul allows to have sexual feelings without hate and pain. My soul allow me to have control. My soul has place no into my mouth.

My soul has allow me let friends into my heart. It has given me the space to give and receive love.

My soul has show me that I can be caring. Caring to cats . Caring to the good parts of my family.

My soul has let me find that I can believe. Believe that there can be happiness. Believe in my private faith.

I write this, for to me it a clue to why I lived.

I am grateful to my soul for never letting male violence destroy me.

Learning to Live With My Body

Posted on by rmott62

I have decided to write about my distorted relationship with my body.

Fortunately on the radio is Mozart, who is my absolute favourite composer. This may help me to write without giving myself more pain.

For most of my life I have hated my body.

My body betrayed all the time. My body was weak when I wanted to be strong.

I decided my body was attached to me, but I wanted little to do with it.

Now as I have pain. Now as I have illness. Now I am afraid to deal with my body.

I have high blood pressure, bad thyroid, I am overweight and other stress illnesses.

But I also have a phobia of doctors. A phobia of taking care of my body.

I find so hard to love my body.

I do eat fresh food, I walk instead of getting the bus. But I am also lazy, love TV too much. I have sweet tooth. I am not a vegetarian.

I am scared to know my body, scared of the grief deep inside of it.

From when I think I have memory, I thought my body was my enemy.

I knew I should not cry, but tears came out. I could not stop wetting my bed.

My body would be out of control, when control was the only thing I had to hold onto.

So I hated my body.

I taught myself not to cry.

But as my stepdad abuse me, the bed wetting went on and on. I was too old to wet my bed. My mother was angry.

I was angry.

I was ashamed.

As the abuse became my norm, my body grow into it.

From around 12, my body would betrayed me.

I had orgasms.

At first, I had no idea what was happening. Only it felt wrong. It felt like I was destroying myself.

I thought I am still wetting myself. Only I felt dizzy.

When I begun to know what was happening, that it was called arousal. That I was told that shows you are having good time.

“You are loving it, my little whore.”

When I knew, I truly despise my body. It was having a good time, when I wanted to die.

So I split my mind from my body. I thought I would have a safe space then.

This did not work, but it help me pretend that I was dead.

Only my body reacted.

My body would release orgasms. My body would back away in disgust or pain. My body would not be calm.

I wanted to lie dead, and my body would move.

“Don’t move. it will only hurt if you move.”

My body moved, and it bloody hurt.

It hurt as his fingers went into holes too small, holes resisting by being dry or closing up.

It hurt as he eat my cunt. His beard scarping at me, his teeth putting fear into my heart.

It hurt as force his penis into my mouth.

It hurt, but I refuse to show my pain. I would not cry, I did not turn away. I would not let pain control me.

I would not show my humiliation, it give him too much pleasure.

As I write, my body betrays me again. I had to be sick.

I want to say my truth as clear as I can, but my body is so damned scared.

My body is terrified to know how it was treated during my teens and early twenties.

It closes down so much knowledge of that time.

But sometimes it will remember. It will make me listen and know.

It comes if I sleep on my back, When I feel unknown men on top of me. When I feel my cunt in agony. That is from that time.

I know when my anus is always scared of the slightest discomfort. When it is hard to even sit on.

I knew when having sex with love and affection, and I put my hands above my head. Then I froze and felt terrified.

I know each I think I deserve to have pain every I even have sexual thoughts in my mind. As I still think sex is a punishment for something I can’t remember.

This all was forced into me during my years in prostitution and violent anonymous sex.

I hated my body with a vicious intensity then.

As men ripped, poked, tie me up, bite and beat me. My body would never go dead.

It did go dead as I was raped in the mouth, ear, anus and vagina. No, it stay alive.

It still reacted.

My mind wanted it all not to matter, wanted to pretend it was not happening.

Only my body flinched in fear, making the men laugh or hurt me more.

My body bleed, had bruises and give out pain.

And my body still had orgasms, making me so angry.

Now, I know I could not control how my body reacted. Now, I am learning to forgive my body.

As my body shows me the truth through pain, I am choosing to no longer to run away.

I want to let my body have peace.

To have peace, I must feel as much as I can in however much time that take.

To have peace, I need not be scared to say how terrified I am of facing the tortures my body had to live with.

My body did not betrayed me.

It made the best of surviving inside a world that was attempting to kill it.

Give Me a Break

Posted on by rmott62

Everywhere I look or hear there is the idolisation of the “whore”. It is on TV, in the cinema, at art galleries, in advertising. It is in books, in radio discussions, discussed in parliament.

The “whore” is everywhere, making the reality of prostituted women’s and girl’s lives invisible.

For the whore is the image of the prostituted woman as viewed by men who wished to continue their “right” to buy or sell women or girls. The whore is shown as liberated and glamourous with an rare glimpses of a dark side.

As a film addict, I have seen the whore in too many films.

Most often it is the bad girl who has a heart of gold.

The whore in films can contrast with the good woman who will appear dull and without a sense of adventure.

Dietrich often played the “whore-role”. She was the classic male fantasy of the bad woman who nearly drives the male mad with her sexual wiles. As the bad whore, Dietrich would play with her sexual role, flirting with men and women.

This was acceptable for she was exotic, Dietrich was unknowable.

This image of whores was common in Hollywood in the 30’s and 40’s. Orson Welles often had bad women who used their bodies to gain power.

This image has become a myth which harms real prostituted women.

The myth that all prostituted women will use their sexuality to manipulate men. That the prostituted women are in control.

And added to that myth, another myth that prostituted women are exotic, are not like the “good” women. No, prostituted women are there for fantasy and sex, not to know as a human being.

These myths are highly dangerous.

When prostituted women and girls are said to be manipulative, this will assure their word is disbelieved. If a prostituted woman or girl states she has been raped or tortured, it place her as vengeful or a liar.

If prostituted women and girls are shown as having control, it makes invisible the structures of the sex trade.

It makes invisible that the vast majority of prostituted women and girls are controlled by manager and/or pimps. That the prostituted women and girls have their rights stripped away.

They do not have the right to choose the men who buy them. They do not have the right to complain if they are raped or physically abused. Many will not have the right to basis medical care. 

They do not have the right to demand use of condoms. They have no right to say no to sexual acts that may disgust or terrify them.

No the vast majority of prostituted women and girls are a million miles away from having any control. They are no Dietrich.

By saying prostituted women and girls are “exotic” whatever their background, is an encouragement to say this group of women have a different attitude to sex to the “good women”.

It allows men who buy prostitutes to imagine that this group of women will do and “enjoy” any sexual fantasy.

For “exotic” women don’t feel pain, they don’t get degraded – no the more dirty and dangerous the sex, the more the prostitute will want it.

“Exotic” can mean the transport of women and girls from other continents to spice up the local sex trade. “Exotic” can be a man feeling he has dirty sex with drugged up local street prostituted girl or woman.

“Exotic” is an excuse to torture and rape, and then make out that the woman or girl loved every moment.

Exotic makes the prostituted woman or girl be nothing but a fuck-object.

Classic Hollywood “whore” imagery has nothing to do with reality of living as a prostitute.

In many films, the whore is an alternative morality. This concept of the whore is common in high-brow arts.

In paintings, the courtesan is seen ideal sexual companion for the rich male. She is in novels, plays and some films. She is shown as an intellectual equal. 

She has more power than the marriageable woman.

But is the courtesan a reality or another dangerous male myth.

Often the courtesan-figure has power, but will loses it all and may be degraded. She must not be shown to be competing with men.

And what is a courtesan power. However rich she may become, however much she in the powerful circles, in the end the world will view her as a “common whore”.

In our culture, the courtesan had become the high-class escort.

She is portrayed in many films, TV programmes, novels and plays. The high-class escort is our way of pretending that prostitution is harmless and the woman’s free choice.

The image of the high-class is painted as a dream for girls to aspire to. It will give lots of money, an independent lifestyle and maybe a rich man to marry when they get bored.

That image is everywhere, “Pretty Woman” is just the tip of an iceberg.

But the reality for many high-class escorts is they have as little control as any other prostituted woman or girl.

There is nothing to stop men raping , beating or even murdering an escort.

The mental damage of having to have sex with men who may degrade or use violent is no different for a high-class escort or a street prostitute. Neither have the right to say no.

Both have high rates of PTSD if they can leave the sex trade.

To oppose the image of the courtesan/high-class escort, there is the image of the street prostitutes or forced prostitution, to show the ugly view of the sex trade.

Often this view is through patronising eye, in which prostituted women or girls are helpless victims who has little or no expression. This is the common portrayal in crime fiction, TV crime drama, and gangsters films.

In these portrayals, the prostituted woman or girl is just there to show the evil actions of the males in the foreground.

The silence of these prostituted women and girls give the impression that there is little that can be done to prevent the violence of the sex trade. It is made to appear it is an endless problem, and is outside the reach of the “real world”.

There is no suggestion that prostituted women can and do resist the violence. There is no suggestion that some prostituted can and do find ways to exit the sex trade.

Instead, in the majority of popular culture the prostituted woman and girls may exit the the ugly side of the sex trade by being murdered or rescued by a “decent” man.

By portraying these women and girls as voiceless victims, it makes them into nothing. This can give permission to men who choose to buy women to treat them like dirt.

It makes a reality of murder, rape and torture. For these women and girls are nothing, so where’s the harm.

To end, I will say there are a few positive images of prostituted women.

I have always like Toulouse Latrec for his ability to show prostituted women with compassion. I find his etchings and painting very moving.

There are films that shown the mental damage of being a prostituted woman.

“Klute” with care debunks the myth that being a high-class prostitute is safe. “Klute” is brilliant at showing the mental damage that Bree, the escort, has. How detached she has become, how she has forgotten who true self is. This film reminded me of cold detachment which is important to survive being in prostitution long-term.

“Mona Lisa” have a terrifying image of the violence in both high-class prostitution and street prostitution. There is a coldly filmed rape scene, that show how high-class prostitution can be a vicious world. The fragile attempt of love between the two prostitutes is very moving, for there too much mental damage for the love to last.

“London to Brighton” a recent English film is am amazing and gut-wrenching of terrible mental and physical damage of street prostitution. It also is show the reality of child prostitution.

All these films show the prostituted women and girls as rounded humans beings. They all damaged mentally by being a prostitute, but they are all more than just the role of the prostitute.

When exiting the sex trade, it is almost impossible to be open, when surrounded by the images of the “whore”.

For it hard to say about the scars when all around there is a belief that it was a happy life. Or it may hard to speak out when there are glamourous views of the violence done to prostitutes. 

When in TV, paintings, books, and films, the murdered or tortured whore is the ideal victim. Her death means nothing but an excuse for a plot, she is nothing.

So how can the real violence be spoken of, when the fictionalised image is so convincing. The reality is just too sordid, or dull to be heard.

Speaking out about prostitution is so hard when all around the whore fiction dominates.

But there will always be women who will speak out, slowly eroding the image of the whore.  

On Fitting In

Posted on by rmott62

I have never known how to fit.

I felt I was born wrong

I could feel without words, I was not wanted. As I looked for a mother, I found a lack of interest.

I tried to as good as I could. I tried not crying. I tried to be a joy to my mother.

Only I could not fit her image of a child.

Not fitting, I held my thoughts inside myself.

Meeting my stepdad, I thought he won’t fit in my family.

He was wrong. He gave me a sense of fear. He looked at me with eyes that burnt into my soul.

I thought he would go. Only he fitted in neatly with my mother.

I know I could not fit in that family unit.

I put my fear on one side.

When I laid in bed after my stepdad had finger-fucked me. When I laid in the wet. When I had forgotten how to move. When I imagined it had not happened.

Then I knew I would never fit in.

I knew without being told I would say nothing. I knew to ignore the pain I was in. I knew I would not cry.

I knew to clear away the mess. To hide the red and yellow stains on my sheets. I could only think to hide under my bed in a tangled heap.

After all, I was a child. I was only six. Being tidy seemed not important.

As I cleared away any evidence. I thought if I pretended nothing had happened, then maybe I would fit in.

Only the abuse went on till I got away from my stepdad when I was 19.

The more I try to fit in and attempt to work the rules so I won’t be abused, the more the rules changed.

I thought by being good, I would not be “punished” by abuse.

Only then my stepdad said how much he “love me”, that I was good company.

Words before he again and again put his hands and mouth in me.

I tried to be bad, thinking I may disgust him.

My stepdad just found me funny. I was kept on a short leash.

As he screwed me, he joked I was his “little whore”.

I wanted have some sense. I thought that if I understood why I was being abused, I could stop it. I had no idea that I had no power.

I try dreaming of magic spells that would make him stop.

I tried praying to god, to Zeus, to Arthur. Only I was speaking to empty air.

I thought if I sent thoughts to my Dad and grandparents, they would stop him.

Nothing worked.

I could not fit in when I carried around all the time that I must be a “whore”. Even before I understood that word, I knew that was all I was.

On top of that abuse, I was shown images from porn. I was shown and heard photos and tapes from sexual crimes.

I viewed “Hustler”. I heard the tape from the Moors Murders. I saw police photos from the Manson murders. I was read parts of de Sade.

I had no hope. My stomach was so sickened that it gave up feeling. My eyes and ears would not stop remembering.

It was the knowledge that children were being tortured that destroyed me.

I knew that was my future.

I did not want to fit in with those images.

I wanted to scream – leave me alone. No sound came.

This was before prostitution. This was the teaching and learning of how to be a prostitute.

I learnt to be dead before I became part of the sex trade. Being dead made me fit in easier.

I had learnt to think pain was normal with sex. I fitted in the sex trade.

I had learnt to be silent. Not to questioned, not to show fear and certainly not disgust at what the men wanted. I fitted in.

I was the role of the whore. But I still could not fit.

For my heart and mind resisted.

My heart was screaming, was crying – don’t do this, please, stop it now.

My mind resisted by reading novels, going to high-brow movies.

I resisted, but it would not stop.

It did not stop when I saw cut and bruises all over my body.

It did not stop when I throw into shock that men could imagine such sadism.

It did not stop when women and girls disappeared from the club I worked in.

It did not stop when my best friend killed herself.

No, it would not stop as long as my self-hate was so deep in me.

I could never fit if I hated myself.

The reason it stopped was because my body completely collapsed. Then I knew I would die if I continue the way I was living.

I wanted to die, but I choose to live.

But living after child abuse and prostitution is bloody hard.

Now, I really don’t know how to fit in.

Sexuality is a major problem for me. It is so interconnected with self-hate.

I have only had one relationship in my life. That was with a woman for eight years. Otherwise any non-abusive relationships I have had were very short-term.

I could not trust myself to have a relationship.

I try to a lesbian, but I do understand the rules.

I tried the scene, but it was too much like thrown back into my memories of the sex trade. There can be porn pictures on the walls. There is an encouragement of anonymous sex. Sex without affection or care of each other. Sex that is target driven.

It triggers me too much to see beyond the porn.

I like the idea that lesbians can be more than sex-oriented. That they may be interested that I have a mind. They see me with my past, and allow to fit in their world.

But it is hard to find that world.

I am scared to be a lesbian, for when I get depressed, I still fall back to wanting or having anonymous sex with men.

This I am fighting on a daily level,for it is my most self-destructive behavior.

I have decided for my peace of mind to be celibate. When I don’t who I am as a sexual being, I need time to think a little.

Also, I have had enough sex for two or three lifetimes.

My feminism comes from a belief that all men that choose to use violence against women and children should be held accountable.

But, I also believe that if women choose to use extreme violence they should held accountable.

This comes from believing that many men and a tiny amount of women will plan, gain power and continue to use extreme violence. They will not stop willingly, so must be punished.

I believe that feminism is about putting the women and children who have had to lived inside that abuse first.

Personally, I don’t give a damned about abusers. I want them to rot in prison. I am not interested in their constant excuses.

I do have a little bit of spirituality. I am attracted to Quakers and Unitarian Church. For I do not reject Christianity, especially the free churches and left-wing views they contain.

I find that type spirituality allow my mind to question the words said, allow my opinions to have an importance. I do not feel I am told what I should believe, or told to hold onto symbols.

With Quakers and the Unitarians, I have discover that I can explore. That I do always have to have solid answers. But the journey of the questioning has given lots of inner strength.

I know this means I may not fit in with feminists or many Christians, but I would labeled myself as both.

I have written for far too long. You, my caring reader, must think I been very self-indulgence.

I hope not. But thank-you for your patience.

Florence R.I.P.

Posted on by rmott62

Florence died peacefully today at the vet, she either had a stroke or a heart attack.

She was a beautiful cat with a gentle and peaceful nature. She was the calmest cat I have lived with.

To be honest the cat I loved the most. We were very close.

I told my ex-girlfriend who was with me when Florence was brought into my life, and we work out Florence was about 17 or 18.

So she was very elderly for a cat.

She was found in a dustbin in a plastic bag. I loved her back to life.

With my love and stable care, she became a calm and quiet cat.

She forgot her trauma, for it had no relevance.

I have done quite a few sketches of her, and some photos.

Florence rest in peace. Thanks for helping to find my heart. 

Football Lover

Posted on by rmott62

Since I can remember football has been my passion.

It makes happy. It allow despair. It gives me a community. I love watching alone.

Football for much of my life give me a purpose.

When I had no hope, no reason to believe in anything.

I could believe in checking the back pages.

Football let dreams into my heart.

I think I was seven when I became a real fan.

I found groups of other children and we follow Arsenal.

We knew the names of each player. We wanted to be them.

I wanted to be a goalkeeper.

We were a community.

Many of us children were unhappy at home. We played out not wanting to be in. We kick the ball, we discuss tactics.

And we forgot we could be unhappy.

Playing football we could imagine we were heros.

I went a few times to football with my Dad. I instantly felt at home in a football.

There I close away my home. I refuse to see my mum and stepdad.

I loved football because they hated it.

As I stood with my Dad surrounded by fans, I felt this a place I can belong.

I love the noise. It was an ordered chaos.

Out a low mumbling of general crowd noise, one or two would start a song. Then without a conductor or prompting a large section of the crowd would sing in unison.

Yes often the words were crude and non-pc, but hell it was the best community singing I have been in.

I love how learning the rules came through watching each week and listening to the crowd.

I was more interested in the rules of football than learning at school.

What I enjoyed as I grow was the shouting and swearing.

As I grow, as the abuse was controlling most of my existence, my anger was silenced.

But watching football on TV or live, I shouted, I sweared, I jumped up and down. I let my anger out.

As I cursed the ref, I was safe.

I was safe hugging strangers when Arsenal scored a goal.

I was safe when Dad went for some pies leaving me saving the seats.

These adults mostly men, were absorbed in their passion.

There was aggressive language. It was a rough atmosphere.

But all the violence whether by hooligans or in my home was outside the football ground.

Inside the ground, my passion and deep interest in football gained me respect from other fans.

Football made me interested in other countries.

It begun with watching the World Cup, and looking at maps –

“Where is Brazil?”

But gradually, I notice how country played with different tactics,

This give me an interest in the social history of football and the communities involved with football.

I learnt how politics always manipulated football because of it’s popularity.

There is the good, trying to educate anti-racism, giving some children an activity away from their abusive homes.

But politics is usually bad when mixed with football. Most extreme right-wing and left-wing parties “adopt” football teams to make themselves look as if they have the popular touch. For example in Spain, during the Civil War the Fascists adopted Real Madrid, the Republicans adopted Barcelona FC.

The cynical promotion of the sex trade when there are large football events, is politicians and the business men seeing football fans as a cash cow. It is not about football, for I think the business men and politicians don’t care one tiny bit about the game.

Football fans tend to very pissed off when politics mixes with football. For it always patronising and ignorant. Most football fans don’t like to be manipulated just for a vote.

What I often find quite funny is how people who say they hate football tend to talk a lot about it.

I try to not often to speak too much about how passionate I am in football.

I really don’t care whether others like or dislike football. For me it a private pleasure.

I loved speaking with others fans, especially when they have a wide-ranging ways of viewing the history and culture of football.

But I never would expect or want others to be interested.

I hate tennis. I not interested in acoustic guitar. I don’t watch reality TV.

These I have no interest in talking about, so I don’t.

So, why do others have to go on and on about why football is “destroying” their lives.

And why am I told that is weird as a women to care so much about football.

That is just ignorant. For in every country, football fans have many women and girls that watch with intense passion and deep knowledge of the game.

It is just bullshit to say only men have intense love of football.

Football in many way give me a reason not to kill myself.

For all true football fans live with the dream and hope as each season starts. 

Florence

Posted on by rmott62

I have just had to leave Florence, my cat, at the vet.

She is very ill, it happened fast yesterday. She wouldn’t drink or eat.

It was very sad because she was disoriented and quite wobbly. She could not lift her head.

The vet has her on a drip, and is doing another blood.

I feel very sad, for he was very shocked at how ill she was.

I may have to goodbye very soon.  

My Mother

Posted on by rmott62

I feel I need to write a post about my mother. I want to confront her in my writing.

Although I have a phone relationship with her now. A relationship where I keep to safe and detached subjects. I still have fear and lack of trust of my mother.

I feel this affected my last post. It affect this whole blog.

When I learnt that my mother may read this blog, I censored writing too much about her.

But living with my mother formed much of who I am now.

There are some very positive stuff I got from her.

She give me a great love of the arts. Whilst my Dad give me a love of classic Hollywood, I went to European and indie films with my mum. She taught modern dance. I was went to art galleries with her. She encouraged my reading of novels.

This is the main safe subject I speak to her about. There so much variety to the arts it is good place to hide in.

But, always when I speak with my mother I can feel her detachment.

I will write some of my memories of living with her. I am very afraid she will read this.

But if I am to have a healthy future many ghosts of that mother need to be laid.

I have never had a feeling of affection from my mother.

I was told and believe that she never wanted me, that she thought I would hold her first marriage together. I failed at that.

She wanted to abort me.

I suppose I am meant to grateful for that.

I always remember not expecting any love from my mother.

I was an affectionate child, I loved hugs and playing with safe adults. I knew without words my mother would not hug me.

I have a memory I can’t get rid of knowing not to cry for that was just ignored.

I have a memory of being in a cot alone, wanting to cry. Only there is no light. I remember not expecting help.

I was told later, I was such a good baby. I hardly ever cried. I was told that my mother thought I was a nuisance then. So she would turn off the light and shut the door.

Of course, I have no proof for that, then my gut fear.

But as I grow, I try to get my mother’s love, or just some attention.

I would say my mother emotionally neglected me. That lay me open to abuse.

I often want to find reasons for my mother’s attitude.

I want to see her as a victim, but it is so hard.

My mother is a very independent and strong-minded woman. She likes to be in control.

She wants everyone to fit in with her lifestyle. Otherwise she will cut that person out of her life.

I try to excuse my mum, but always her self-centreness prevent that.

My mother put my stepdad at the centre of her private world. She protect him in order that she can have a smooth life.

She has lived without him a lot. She usually go on holidays alone. She live in France for three years before he joined her. They lived together but separate.

Only she will never divorce him. For he is perfect to her. He can no wrong, all else is slander.

When I live with my mum, her protection of my stepdad was extreme.

To protect him from me, I was became the trouble and bad in her family.

I was destroying her perfect life.

This meant she give away to male violence.

In my heart I knew my mother knew I was being sexually abused by her husband. I knew she did not care.

As I became a teenager I started to confront my mother. I thought if I said the words, she suddenly hug me and say –

“God, I’m so so sorry.”

I thought she would get divorced. I thought she would listen to me.

I started by saying I didn’t like being alone with my stepdad.

She just laughed, and said I made no effort to like him.

I fall silent.

Then when I was 14, I exploded. I said I hated my stepdad, I said he was touching me. I finally said he has sex with me.

I laid out there. In an anger, that I hid most of the time, I said some of the words.

I wanted a miracle.

But I got her coldness. In a calm tone –

“Make sure you don’t get pregnant then.”

In those words, all hope went out the window.

Although there was no simple connection of those words and entering prostitution. In my mind they are linked.

Hearing say “don’t get pregnant”, made it clear she knew my stepdad was raping me.

But she had formed it as a “relationship”.  It did not bother her if it was private, and did interfere with her life.

I knew her fear I may get pregnant was fear it may become public.

Her choice was to blame me for “forcing” my stepdad to have sex with me.

I had manipulated the man.

She told me I was mentally ill.

I was told I had an illness that made me lie. That I did not know I was lying, but most of my words were fantasy.

I was told that I did not feel pain.

That if I was being abused, it did not matter coz I did not matter.

Although I was told I did not feel pain, my mother also said –

“Good sex is always painful”.

This made me silent.

I was mostly told I had always been a slut.

I had always “thrown myself” at my stepdad. He had try to resist me, but what could the poor man do.

I can think of a million things he should of and could of done, rather than mentally and sexually abusing me for 14 years.

I mean he could of given himself up to the police.

He could of never been near children.

Hell, he could of killed himself.

But, I was framed as the slut. I was told how I wanted sex with him. I was told I enjoy looking at porn.

I no words to say that was not true. My words were struck in my throat.

So, I feel my mother’s rejection of me made go toward fulfilling the role of the slut.

I thought that was all I was.

As I went into prostitution and anonymous sex, hope was leaving me.

Now, I am trying have a safe relationship with my mum.

She is still living with my stepdad, so I can never trust her. I know he is still the most important person in her life.

But, I have a detached relationship with my mother. It does helps that she lives in another country from me.

I see my mother very little, every two to four years. We don’t phone very often.

But, I know how easy she find it to cut me out of her life.

I want her to remember that I am her daughter. 

Something That Makes Me Uncomfortable

Posted on by rmott62

I am not sure if it right to write this post, but I have nagging feeling in my body that is demanding that I write.

I am very uncomfortable that a tiny minority of women who do commit extremely violent crimes are justify by some feminists, when their crimes are inexcusable.

I do believe the vast majority of women who use violence are pushed into it. I believe it understandable to kill a man who has battered you for long period. I understand girls joining gangs for identity and protection.

But I believe to be a feminist it sometimes important to see that woman are capable of crimes that are inexcusable. That they are responsible for their actions.

Otherwise we infanticides women.

I am uncomfortable with the excuses made for Mrya Hindley especially.

I would never make an excuse for any man who kidnapped and took part in the torture of children. I would not care if he claimed he was manipulated.

I would not take his word as the truth.

But I am told to believe the word of a women who kidnapped and take part in the torture of children.

I am told I should sorry for her.

But every day women and girls are mentally, physically and sexually tortured by men. The vast majority of those women and girls do not torture children.

I do believe she was manipulated by Ian Bradley. But I do not think that is an excuse for her actions.

Part of my abuse, was hearing the tapes from the Moors Murders.

I heard the child being tortured. I heard the coldness from both Ian Bradley and Myra Hindley.

She was no outsider to those murders.

I believe all abusers will play the pity card. Their word has no importance.

I do not think feminists should fall into the trap of making women like Myra Hindley into a cult heroine.

It is important to say if we say that men who rape, batter, torture cannot be excused. Then we should not make another rule when women kill or torture the innocent.

I feel very strongly the focus should on why the majority of women and girls who do not turn to extreme violence.

I had so much anger in me, I imagine many ways of murdering. But I like many women and girls was non-violent.

I suppose there was a conscious in me that said there be would no excuses for violence.

For when reasons are given for violence they are all excuses to get away with the crime.

“I was abused, so I know no better.”

Utter rubbish. Most people that are abused never want to inflict that misery on another.

“I was drunk/drugged/mentally ill.”

Rubbish, you choose to abuse. 

“What’s the harm. It is just society doesn’t understand my needs”.

Your needs for raping children, torturing prostituted women. Yours needs to mentally damage all that you come in connect with.

Hell, society is so backward.

I can on and on and on with excuses abusers make.

I feel as feminists we need a clear eye.

99.9999% of abusers who do extreme violence are men. But the tiny minority that are women who are not innocent.

They did plan their crimes. They did pick on the weaker.

They do use manipulation and lies like men to get away with their crimes.

I will always stand up for those who are abused or tortured.

I have no feelings or time for abusers and torturers.

 

On Hating Men

Posted on by rmott62

I have often been asked –

“How come with your past, you don’t hate all men.” 

I have no real answer for that, expect that is not my nature.

I suppose I was lucky to have a few men around who were not violent. Who did not manipulate me.

I had a few men that I felt safe with.

Who I respected for they respected me.

But, these few were rare.

I do believe that the vast majority of men as a group disrespect women and girls.

I do not hate. For hate can all sound and no action.

No, I have a consuming rage at how male privilege is destroying women’s and girl’s dreams and hopes.

When you are raped as a six-year-old, male hate is thrown into your face.

Before I was raped, I had small doubts that all men were safe. But I dismissed those thoughts.

As my stepdad finger-fucked me, I grow up.

As the pain hit, I knew from a knowledge deep in me, to be silent.

I knew to clear away the mess left on my bed.

From that start, even aged six, I knew the rules of living inside male violence.

But that first rape, planted my fury. I was silent, but my rage give the will to live.

I did and do hate my stepdad. I dream of of harming him. I dream of placing fear in his heart.

But more than hate, I feel a cold anger against him.

What I like is now he is dead to me. All he is used for is in my writing. Outside my writing he is nothing.

That is my revenge.

As I lived with my stepdad, as he increased his mental and sexual control, my hate to him grow.

He control me like a robot, but he never reach me.

I had a part of me where I was protected by anger and hate.

As my body became his toy, I disappear to a place where I was strong. A place where there no pain.

I could pretend I was safe.

Hate fuel my dreams. Hate help me to imagine hope.

Yes, I hated being a sex toy. I hated hearing my stepdad saying –

“I do this coz I love you.”

Liar.

I had a cold hate that help to keep me sane.

I was not confused by thinking I should love my stepdad. I just knew to be silent.

My rage was hidden, but carry over into when I was prostituted.

How could I not feel hate at that time.

How could not have hate when surrounded by the way I treated.

The men that used me had pure hate on me.

I remember how dead their eyes went before they rape, verbally abused or tortured me.

I remember how slow the violence was. The care they took to do me maximum damage.

I remember the laughter if they thought I was scared. Say I wet the bed. Say I may shut my eyes. Say I may flinch.

I remember hearing causal chat of killing me.

Now that is real hate.

I feel too many women and girls are on the receiving end of the hate of men.

Girls are raped by men that they should trust. Men who say they are a father-figure.

Girls and women battered by men who say they love them.

That is hate.

Prostituted women and girls used by men to do sexual acts –

“I wouldn’t do this normally”.

Sexual acts that the men know will create pain. Sexual acts that will degrade the prostituted woman or girl. 

These men don’t care if they damage the prostitute. All the men care about is that it is a power-trip.

They can treat a woman and girl as a piece of rubbish, and not be in trouble.

That is hate.

Men rape women and girls.

Men batter women and girls.

Men say porn is harmless fun.

Men make excuses for child rape.

But women are not allow to hate men.

Hell, when men stop controlling women and girls with violence. Then women will stop hating men.

But each rape, each battery and each degradation of women and girls, is a nail in men’s self-made coffin.

Treat women and girls with respect, and then you will receive respect.