Monthly Archives: April 2009

My Mood This Week

Posted on by rmott62

I have decided to try to write a post.

My mood is on edge, what with being a public place, and having about 20 minutes to write this.

I thought having a break would help me to be more relaxed, but my PTSD does not disappear that easily.

I still know what I know. I still know how I was made who I am.

My memories don’t just vanish.

I find that I like not writing, but I get ill when I don’t write.

I cannot invent a magic spell that makes prostitution vanish.

I cannot magic away my trauma.

I can only write and speak my truth. I can only know, read and listen to the truths of others survivors of the sex trade.

I write to try to help stop making invisible the torture that goes every second in the sex trade somewhere.

 It may on your street, it may in the country you go on holiday to.

Prostitution causes damage to everyone it touches.

It causes damage utter damage to women and girls that are made into goods for men to screw.

It causes damage to men who think and know they have can control and owned those women and girls.

Damage is spread like poison by the managers and pimps that run the trade.

And the major damage is to those who pretend the sex trade is nothing to do with them.

For as they turn a their backs on the suffering on prostituted women and girls, they are saying that sexual violence is acceptable as long as it out of  sight.

This will and does mean that male violence can spread for always the excuse will be it is only done to bad girls.

While we allow to happen to prostituted women and girls, we will and do open the door to allow rape and sexual torture to happen to all girls and women.

Do not put prostituted women and girls into a separate species, unless you think there is nothing wrong with male sexual violence.

Writing in the Library

Posted on by rmott62

I do not like writing in a public area, especially when I have just an hour to do everything. But I thought I would write just to say I have not gone, just finding it difficult.

I find when I can’t write, I get phsycially sick with something like flu with depression.

I cannot not know what I know.

I try to relax, and treat like a holiday. But all my mind wants is have the money to bring my computer back to a private space.

I cannot express my reality without some kind of outward sign that I am finding it hard, so I hate writing in public.

I am still very much here, just reading.

Sorry, if I have let anyone down.

I may start gambling to get money.

It is better than this sickness I get.

My Computer Has Died

Posted on by rmott62

My harddrive has given up the ghost.

This will affect my blog because I am having to write in public spaces, which is not very good for what I write about.

My writing often has a huge physical toll on me. Yhis I will not show in public.

I usually write alone and to loud music, writng surrounded by people is hard and it far too quiet for me.

I need noise to write on trauma, I need to have the “now” round me as much as possible.

I will checking on this blog a lot and I try to write when I can.

I will love still to have comments.

When I can afford it I will get my computer back.

At 17

Posted on by rmott62

I cannot listen to the song “At 17”,  because in many ways being 17 was the middle of when I was dead.

I write this post as a letter to my teenaged self. To the self that only know hatred. To the self that was growing used to prostitution.

To self that still had my stepdad thinking he owned me. To the self that was drinking to die.

To the self that had injuries but could not be noticed. To the self that bleed outside her period, who bleed from her anus,  who bleed where she should of remembered being hit.

To the self who had an abortion, and no-one was interested that she was raped.

I am writing to my prostituted self, my raped self, my staying with men coz it better than going home self – damnit I write to her because now I can love her.

So here’s goes.

So that record you hate is on the radio again.

I feel your scream in me. Don’t they know being 17 is shit.

Yes, I can remember being 17. God, you know I spent all my life running away from remembering. I watch “Home and Away” and “Dawson’s Creek” imagining what teenage must be like.

I invented a teenager that was never there. A teenager who know about punk. A teenager who mixed, drunk and acted with teenagers. A teenager who could explore her sexuality.

A teenager who rebel in a safe way. Could have angst and write deep poetry.

I invented a teenager that never existed.

I did that so well for so long, I nearly forgot you.

But you eat away at my stomach, you refuse to die.

Always you were screaming in me. Always I felt your rage growing.

Only there was no language between us. I had done such a good job of alienating myself from you and everything you to wanted show me.

I fear you. I hated you.

Yet again you were placed as the despised, only it was the biggest betrayal coz I was drowning you with my self-hatred.

You don’t deserve that.

No you must be seen, you are my truth, you are my warrior spirit and you deserve the rest of being heard and believed.

“At 17” should be soothing, but it send sickness into my soul.

About a week after my birthday, round Christmas, I was dreaming of suicide.

Christmas with family, and again my stepdad feel my cunt, again the silent treatment from my mum.

I am 17, I could kill them but I do nothing but become a robot.

By January, I back in the club, back to the violence, back to the coldness.

Back to not allowing myself to know I am a prostitute.

All I know is I am nothing.

Nothing as I am gang raped. Nothing as the violence increases, and I say nothing – just attempt to be invisible by moving as little as possible.

That was 17 for me.

In January, I had my abortion. I had in silence.No-one interested in how I got pregnant. No-one spoke of no boyfriend in sight. No-one spoke of the injuries I had. Not the bruises, not the cuts and certainly not the damage to my cunt.

No, I had an abortion and that’s was that .

No space for shock, no space for grief, I continued in the hell I was living in.

I don’t how I got out of being 17 alive, just I did.

But christ, you wanted to die.

You took a full bottle of paracetamol mixed with vodka. You cut yourself deep.

You could care less if johns would of murder you.

I feel your rage now that they choose to do sexual torture over and over and over and over – but always kept me alive. Rage at them bringing the edge of death – through chocking, through deep throating, through extreme anal sex, or just plain battering – only to choose to keep me alive.

You were not grateful for having life – why the hell would you be.

I don’t blame you anymore for wanting to drink to die. I don’t hate you for eating food that you knew was unhealthy. I know you smoked praying for lung cancer.

I can’t repair you pain. I can’t ever stop what those bastards did to you.

I can only let your reality be known.

I will not make it neat. I will say it full of gaps and silences, and what is too terrible for even I to know.

I will not say it will get better, that is a lie said to make into a story not a real life.

But, I will allow you to scream, yell, whisper, not speak your truth.

I will let go enough to give you that.

That is what I would write to my teenage self.

I know this may be a selfish post, but it was important to me.

Oh, I still can’t stand Janis Ian.

When Will It Count

Posted on by rmott62

I often told that there is not a hatred towards prostituted women and girls.

No, I am wrong and have things upside down. Men love and respect prostituted women and girls. That is the main reason they are having sex with them.

I try not to laugh in people’s faces when they say such words. I try to be patience, I try to use reason – but usually this viewpoint is so ingrained and back by our culture, that I may as well speak to a brick wall.

I understand wanting to place the johns into the role of good men, who are just misunderstood. I understand not wanting to see their violence. I understand not wanting to know that they are cold as they pour hate into prostituted women’s and girls’ bodies.

Sure, I can understand but it does stop me from wanting to throw up.

For as the speaker chooses to see the john as a nice guy, the speaker is saying very loudly ther is no harm is prostitution.

Often, it said I would do that or I know no man who pays for sex – but it should there for those who need it.

Now, what man needs to fuck a prostitute. What man needs to make another human being into an object to be fucked to get his precious orgasm. What man has to have that much control.

How do you stick to he is just a good man.

I’m sorry if a man cannot masturbate or get a real relationship – that still does give the right to have orgasms by controlling a woman or girl.

If men thought it was such a right thing to do – then why did a whole class of women and girls who were made for them to fuck without having to justify their actions.

If it so right why then do men take away human rights from prostituted women and girls.

Why do they paint rape and sexual torture as consenting sexual acts. Why is so much emphasis that all prostitutes choose their lives.

Why do they invent prostituted women and girls as a separate species. A species that feel pain less than other humans.  A species that does not get degraded or humiliated.

A species that has no words, just does actions that pleases men.

A species that never is out the view of men.

Men invent prostitutes, then say they have power over men. That men lose their will when with a prostitute – so he must prove his manhood by using force on her.

Men invent prostitutes – their existence has no importance outside of men’s minds.

That is why the everyday murdering of prostituted women and girls goes unreported, unnoticed and becomes acceptable.

Murdering prostituted women and girls is made to not really murder – but just a clean-up project.

Men made prostitutes into sub-humans, so why should we care about their deaths.

I say, I started this blog in protest at the endless deaths of prostituted women and girls. Nothing has changed – only the deaths are becoming more and more invisible.

After deaths of prostitutes are just entertainment these days. Christ knows how often CSI begins with a dead prostitute. She is no-one and nothing, just a plot. Tells me a cop series or film without dead prostitutes who have no voice, no background and are just there to sort the good and bad men in the plot.

That may be fiction, but in real life real prostitutes are murdered in every country, in cities, in the countryside, in brothels, on the streets, in flats, in hotels, behind pubs,  – christ, prostitutes are murdered all the time everywhere.

They are murdered as children and old women, they are murdered coz it is cheaper than paying. They are murdered than men say it just rough sex gone wrong.

Men find every and any excuse for these murders. But they needn’t bother, for most will go unpunished, for it was just getting rid of dirt.

Well, I have enough of men murdering prostitutes.

I would say it was a genocide – only it more like slash and burn.

For it not ridding the world of the prostitute – it more clearing away prostituted women and girls to make room for fresh supply.

It is that calculated. It is that cold.

Murdering of prostituted women and girls is no accident or rare incidents. It is done to reminds prostituted women and girls that they can never live with safety.

So the invention of the good john is vital to keep prostituted women and girls down.

For it is an environment of madness where you never know if a john is going to rape you or just want to talk, is he going treat like a princess or smash you into the wall.

How would you survive living in an environment where dodging murder becomes a norm.

I sick to my back teeth of knowing as I write yet more prostitutes have been murdered, and even people in the same street may know nothing about it.

I sick of prostituted women and girls being less than nothing.

They must count – coz when they don’t count we are letting them be slaughtered.

Follow Up From Yesterday’s Post

Posted on by rmott62

I did not think I could add anything to Andrea Dworkin’s speech, but after a very restless night – that is my past screaming at me – I realise I have to give my personal response to her words.

I choose to reproduce her words because I find the anger, pain and grief is important to make real changes to bring forward an end to prostitution.

Too often language around prostitution is keep calm, made to make it seems not so bad, used with large amounts of detachment.

But, to understand torture and mental abuse it is important to place yourself in the shoes of those who are being tortured. This language is allowed by Amnesty International, by left-wing discussions on sweat shops and even animal torture.

But there is a loud silence when discussing the conditions that the majority of prostituted women and girls are forced to survive.

A silence that refuses to know that prostitution is torture. Refuses to know the extreme trauma that is prostitution’s legacy.

A silence that refuses to hear, see or know what is really happening to prostituted women and girls.

It must not be known that women and girls are reduced to holes for any man to fuck.

It must not be known that any man can and will practice any porn fantasy on her body. It does not matter how much she is damaged –  for she is nothing.

It must not be known that what these men do must and should not be labelled as rape or sexual torture.

No, it must be re-written and re-shaped to make the violence invisible. To make the reality of the prostituted woman or girl invisible.

Call it a choice. Then if it goes wrong, say the woman or girl made a bad choice or choices.

Say it is sex work, just like any other form of work. Make invisible that she has no rights over her conditions, no right to say no, no right to safety.

Yes, most people dislike their work at some time, many for years. But how many live with sexual torture as a norm, how many have their money taken from them and how many think being murdered is just part of the job.

Damn it, there is a silent genocide of prostituted women and girls all the time everywhere.

Prostituted women and girls are murdered so often it usually not reported. It has to have a sensational angle for the media to be bother with their deaths.

Why report on the deaths of women and girls who had no visibility in life.

Most reporting is more interested in the murderer, than the lives of the women and girls he killed.

Yes, I am angry. I have the anger of a person who know girls and women who were thrown away, their lives dismissed.

I hold them in my heart on a daily basis.

I have the anger on someone who placed on the edge of death – with men saying –

No-one would miss you. You’re nothing.

So I know there is a genocide of prostituted women and girls – only just to clear for another layer of women and girls for men to pay to fuck.

What is important for me in Andrea Dworkin’s words is the visceral descriptions of what it is to be prostituted.

That must be visible to understand where I and other exited women are coming from.

Language is used to make invisible the harms that prostitution did and is doing to our minds and bodies.

Think of living with anal sex so often that you ignore the bleeding. Think how when it comes back as trauma that it may make you faint on the toilet. It may make walking painful. It may stop you sitting in a hard chair.

Think of your mouth being used over and over to have penis after penis force to find your tonsils. Think how you get lockjaw. Think how after eating becomes scary. Think how how swallowing becomes a conscious act.

Think what it is to be only an object that men fuck in any way. Think how they will fuck whether you are tired, ill, in pain, scared, unconscious or even if you are dead.

Thnk what it is to made into a porn fantasy. Think how your safety is unimportant. Your dignity is thrown away. You are nothing remember – you are three holes and two hands.

Think all this and you may be beginning to understand what it is to be prostituted.

Know this, then know why we cannot live with prostitution.

But also as I write, I know why it so hard to find a language to fix the reality of being prostituted.

When each sexual torture became part of a mass of sexual torturing. the silence grow.

How can it be spoken of when it became normal to ignore the pain. To not see the bleeding and bruises on your own body.

How can it named, when each rape is just a job, when every degrading act is to be expected and when all language is used to remind you that you bad and dirty.

The terrifying of recovering from prostitution is knowing it was rape, it was life-threatening, it was torture and it was a complete abuse of human rights.

That can almost impossible to know.

To know that survival was luck, and only by the skin of your teeth.

So if exited prostituted women speak out for abolition of the sex trade, they must not be left to that by themselves.

It is vital that others framed it as a human rights issue.

It is vital to say that men who choose to buy and sell women just for fucking, are choosing to say women are nothing. Saying that male power is the only thing that matters.

It is true that as long as we allow prostitution to be acceptable – no woman or girl is safe or seen as a full human.

To separate the prostituted woman or girl, is say male dominance is ok as long it does not affect me.

To ignore the prostituted woman or girl, is saying men have the right to sexually torture and murder a class of people.

If you choose to turn away, you are choosing to make your own life less safe.

Andrea Dworkin on Prostitution

Posted on by rmott62

“… If you have been in prostitution, you do not have tomorrow in your mind, because tomorrow is a very long time away. You cannot assume that you will live from minute to minute. You cannot and you do not. If you do, than you are very stupid, and to be stupid in the world of prostitution is to be hurt, is to be dead. No woman who prostituted can afford to be that stupid, such that she would actually believe that tomorrow will come.

…. It is the use of a woman’s body for sex by a man, he pays money, he does what he wants. The minute you move away from what it really is, you move away from prostitution into the world of ideas… Prostitution is not an idea. It is the mouth, the vagina, the rectum penetrated usually by a penis, sometimes hands, sometimes objects, by one man and then another and then another and then another and then another. That’s what’s it is.

… I ask you to think concretely about your bodies used that way… I want you to feel the delicate tissues in her body that are being misused. I want you to feel what it feels like when it happens over and over and over and over and over and over: because that is what prostitution is… The circumstances don’t mitigate or modify what prostitution is.

And so, many of us are saying that prostitution is intrinsically abusive… Prostitution in and of is an abuse of a woman’s body. Those of us who say this are accused of being simple-minded. But prostitution is very simple… In prostitution, no woman stays whole. It is impossible to use a human body in the way women’s bodies are used in prostitution and to have a whole human being at the end of it, or in the middle of it, or close to the beginning of it. It’s impossible. And no woman gets whole again later, after… But nobody gets whole, because too much is taken away when the invasion is inside you, when the brutality is inside your skin. We try so hard to communicate, all of us to each other, the pain… The only analogy I can think of concerning prostitution is that it is more like gang rape than it is like anything else.

… An innocent woman is walking down the street and she is taken by surprise. Every woman is that innocent woman.  Every woman is taken by surprise. In a prostitute’s life, she is taken by surprise over and over and over and over and over again. The gang rape is punctuated by a money exchange. That’s all. That’s the only difference… You give a woman money and whatever it is that you did to her she wanted, she deserved…

It is always extraordinary, when looking at this money exchange, to understand that in most people’s minds the money is worth more than the woman is… The money is real, more real than she is… His so-called sexuality becomes the only thing that matters; her body becomes the only thing that anyone wants to buy…

Incest is the boot camp. Incest is where you send the girl to learn how do it. So you, don’t obviously, have to send her anywhere, she’s already there and she’s got nowhere else to go. She’s trained.  And the training is specific and it is important: not to have any real boundaries to her own body; to know that she’s valued only for sex;  to learn about men what the offender, the sex offender, is teaching her…

… We are all trying to find ways to say what we know and also to find out what we don’t know… It is the presumption of most prostituted women that one knows nothing worth knowing… What matters here is to try to learn what the prostituted woman knows, because it is of immense value. It is true and it has been hidden. It has been hidden for a political reason: to know it is to come closer to knowing how to undo the system of male dominance that is sitting on top of all of us.

I think that prostitutes experience a specific inferiority. Women in general are considered to be dirty… But a prostitute lives the literal reality of being the dirty woman. There is no metaphor…

The prostituted woman is, however, not static in this dirtiness. She’s contagious. She’s contagious because man after man comes on her and then he goes away… In general, the prostituted woman is seen as the generative source of everything is bad and wrong and rotten with sex, with the men, with women… She is, of course, the ultimate anonymous woman. Men love it… She is perceived as, treated as – and I want you to remember this, this is real – vaginal slime. She is dirty: a lot of men have been there… This is visceral, this is real, this what happens. Her anus is often torn from the anal intercourse, it bleeds. Her mouth is a receptacle for semen, that is how she is perceived and treated… She bleeds because she’s been hurt, she bleeds and she’s got bruises on her.

When men use women in prostitution, they are expressing a pure hatred for the woman’s body… It is a contempt so deep, so deep, that a whole human life is reduced to a few sexual orifices, and he can do anything he wants… She has nowhere to go… She is literally nothing…

He, meanwhile, the champion here, the hero, the man, he’s busy bonding with other men through the use of her body. One of the reasons he is there is because some man has been there before him and some man will be there after him… And what they have in common is that they are not her… All of those dirty words are just the words to tell her what she is… She is expendable. Funny, she has no name… She is no one. Not metaphorically no one. Literally, no one…

… Prostituted women are women who are there available for the genocidal kill. And prostituted women are being killed every single day, and we don’t think we’re facing anything resembling an emergency… They’re no one. When a man kills a prostitute: he feels righteous. It is a righteous kill. He has just gotten rid of a piece of dirt, and the society tells him he is right.

… But prostituted women are treated like a certain kind of object, which is to say, a target… But a target you go after. You put a dart in the hole. That’s what the prostitute for…

Men who use prostitutes think they are real big and real brave. They’re very proud of themselves – they brag a lot… Because they are predators who go out and hump women, they rub up against a woman who’s dirty and they live to tell about it… Unfortunately… I would like to say to say to you that these men are cowards, that these men are brutes, that these men are fools, that these men are able to do what they do because they have the power of men as a class behind them, which they get because men use force against women. If you want a definition of what a coward is, it’s needing to push a whole class of people down so that you can walk on top of them…

… We say we want to be human. We say that we want them to treat us like human beings…

… Prostituted women are all on the bottom. And all men are above them… Every man in this society benefits from the fact that women are prostituted whether or not every man uses a woman in prostitution.  This should not have to be said but it has to be said: prostitution comes from male dominance, not from feminine nature… I underlined that because I want to say that male dominance is cruel. I want to say to you that male dominance must be destroyed…

… That means taking power away from men… They have too much of it. They do not use it right. They are bullies. They do not have a right to what they have; and that means it has to be taken away from them. We have to take the power that they have to use us away from them. We have to take the power that they have to hurt us away from them… Any man who has enough money to spend degrading a woman’s life in prostitution has too much money…

… Now, it will cost you to fight them… And it is male dominance  that has to be ended so that woman will not be prostituted.

… Don’t respect their laws. Women need to making laws…

I am asking you to make yourselves enemies of male dominance, because it has to be destroyed for the crime of prostitution to end – the crime against the woman, the human-rights crime of prostitution: and everything else is besides the point, a lie, an excuse, an apology, a justification, and all abstract words are lies; justice, liberty, equality, they are lies… ”

This is part of a speech from 1992, and I found when I re-read I was angered and shocked at how so little had changed.

I will say very little for now, for Andrea Dworkin’s words speak so much that pushes me forward with my blog and my my struggle towards a world without prostitution.

All I will say is as long as we speak of statistics, in academic language and steer clear of the visceral pain and grief  – we will never understand the reality of prostitution to any women’s mind and body.

Hillsborough Memorial Service

Posted on by rmott62

Today I have been in Anfield for the Memorial Service for the 96 football fans who died at Hillsborough in 1989.

I did as a football fan, I did it to stand up for the lack of justice – and I did because I recognize and know PTSD.

It is difficult to grieve the Hillsborough 96 when there still no justice, no acknowledgment that the South Yorkshire Police Authority made a series of massive and fatal mistakes.

It is difficult to grieve the Hillsborough 96 when lies are still said about. Lies about them as football fans, lies because they were Liverpool fans.

I will not repeat the lies, only say it gets in the way of grief.

I went to Anfield to place some of my grief, anger and confusion there. Laid some of my PTSD to rest.

I know that about trying to grieve a life that some choose to say is all lies or fantasy.

I know the frustrated anger that brings. I know how that make you doubt your own reality.

But I also know the truth must be faced, or it does make you sick.

I know about having no justice.

I know my stepdad will never take any responsibility.

I know that johns remind invisible, unpunished and always believing they are in the right.

Prostituted women and girls live with no justice all the time, so much that they have act as if they do not care.

But they do care, they care so much that it becomes a vicious form of PTSD.

I put some of my grief in the Memorial Service. I got a little piece of peace.

A Map of My Body

Posted on by rmott62

Edited to include anus.

INTRODUCTION

I am writing this post as my map to PTSD. I find I know my reality through my body, so a tracing of a map will show the impact of male violence on me.

HEAD

I will start with the top, start with my head.

My head was cut off from the reality. My head fall into books, sports, architecture, birds, arts, films – any and everything not to know my reality.

My head vanished from rooms where men were fucking me over and over. Rooms where I went unconscious – that was my head gone.

My head left when it felt my stepdad’s hand going into my cunt. It did not want to know.

If my head was not there, then nothing much mattered. It was just some sick dream.

It could not be real, my head would not allow it to be real.

But I always had headaches. Pain that split me in half, pain that made want to die. The headaches went on and on.

I must have a brain tumor, that the answer – it can’t be what I don’t want to think it is.

Somehow I have to connect my head with rest of my body, but that is terrifying.

FACE

I knew I had the face of someone who was to be fucked. Why else does it keep going on and on.

My face is tattooed with “Whore” on it. Why resist when I am marked.

That is how I thought until I was about 30.

How could I not when everywhere I went male violence follow me. Why I not believe it was my face.

How could I know none of men give a damn what my face looked like.

THROAT

My throat is always trying to block itself up. It does not want to breath, it does not want to know, it cannot see the point in life.

My throat was used as porn since I can remember.

When my stepdad had his penis in my mouth accidentally when kissing me goodnight. When he said sorry, my throat burnt with hate.

When later my stepdad washed in the bath, making me suck his dick, sending it back to meet my tonsils. My throat tried to closed down, resist – but resistance is bloody futile.

And as a prostitute, being made into Deep-Throat porn was the fashion.

Even as my throat was sick, even as it went unconscious, even as it was drowning – nothing would matter, coz porn feels nothing, it all just an act.

My throat cannot cope with the torture it has known.

If I get a sore throat, I want to die. I chocked on a regular basis.

My throat has so much grief, so much fury, so much pain, so many memories. My throat carries too much.

ARMS

I felt that arms let me down, they never fought back.

I thought I should do judo, be a boxer, learn to strangle.

Bring silent death onto my rapists.

But no my arms went above my head, in a whore-pose. My arms held down their heads as they eat me out. My arms took the money. My arms acted nice.

My arms were traitors.

HANDS

My hands were made to perform.

Learnt to rub my stepdad’s penis without thinking. Learnt to hold hands with rapists who wanted the boyfriend experience. Learnt to take money.

My hands were alien to me.

Now my hands are writing. My hands are making a path to finding my own reality.

My hands are making a revolution.

CHEST

My chest is filled of grief. It sends chocking into my throat, it cannot cry, so it chocks.

Somewhere in my chest my heart is holding my truth. It knows and it had held memory until I had safety in my life.

Heart knows to hold memory in, not to allow reality to be known when it is happening – knows that would of killed me. I was protected.

My chest wakes me at night in terror.

Again I know the landing of men squashing in my chest as they fuck on and on and on. The chest can’t survive when no room to breathe as one man or gang-rape seems never to end.

I can’t stand any man on top of me any more.

I have to know that I can breathe.

STOMACH

I am sick so often, my stomach cannot get rid of the poison that male violence put in me.

I cannot puke out all the rapes, all the hate, all the being told it did not matter, all the torturing, all the being living porn, all the aren’t you over it yet, all the you were just unlucky, all the contempt, all my reality being made invisible and all the knowing that what happen to me is happening to women and girls all the time everywhere.

I am sick over and over, but the truth won’t be puke away.

The sickness make physically weak – but it makes me fight more to express my reality.

CUNT

My cunt was made into war-zone, it was damned closed to being nuked.

My cunt could not feel, numbed as a Tommie after the Somme, it did not feel – it just knew.

My cunt was not just penetrated, that would of been too easy.

All so-called new porn is old porn.

My cunt was penetrated by several penises, my cunt was penetrated by objects which I would look at.

My cunt was eaten with teeth. My cunt was pulled at, hands dragging inside my cunt. My cunt was hit. My cunt was sworn at. My cunt was filmed.

My cunt went wet when agony was all it could know.

Then men felt triumph.

My cunt could not feel, it had to close down.

All my cunt could do was to perform, and hope it would come out alive.

Now, I slowly want to have my cunt back, not numbed with terror, but back in safety and with knowing some kind of love.

I want my cunt back.

ANUS

When I first wrote this post, I found I miss out the anus.

I left it out because so much of my fear and so much of my violence went into my anus.

I do not know how many times I was anally raped. I do not know how I survive the pain. I do not know how I made the degradation normal.

I do not know because I am terrified to remember.

But christ, I do remember.

I remember as I live with a low aching pain in my anus is there in the background all the time, increasing and decreasing as my stress, PTSD and exhaustion goes in and out.

I drag my anus around with me.

Anal rape is unspeakable – that is the way rapists want to be.

Rape without a face, rape where pain is a guarantee, rape that make degradation a god, rape that is nothing but rape.

Anal sex is what is done to whores. It is what what whores were made for.

What did I expect, I was a whore after all.

And as my anus was rip apart during gang-rapes. I shut that out. And my face rammed into a wall, legs together, hand to throat, I am anally raped with no warning. I shut that out.

I do not scream, that was lost so long ago. I cannot cry, that was lost so long ago.

I just know that I am afraid of the constant pain in my anus.

I know I am afraid of the toilet. I have been known to faint on the toilet when pain grabs my heart.

Anal rape give me small heart attacks.

LEGS

All my life I tried to run away, only to land back into male violence.

My legs could never carry me far enough away.

I felt a failure.

Legs would walk on and on. I would always walk after nights of prostitution, walk away the rapes, walk away thoughts that of the violence, walk away that I may of been killed, walk away until I was numb again.

I was known as a walker.

There was no joy in walking, no seeing where I was, no sense of exercise – just walking back to my deadness.

I would known that I was walking because I was living in terror.

FEET

I was never grounded.

How could I be. You be grounded when sexual torture is your norm. You be grounded when all your reality is made invisible.

Maybe my feet touch the ground, but that had no relevance to me.

My feet were ignored.

CONCLUSION

That is a map of my body, I am sure much is missing. I am sure each time I write of my body, I will see it different. But always I will see my truth.

Hillsborough

Posted on by rmott62

I was watching “Match of the Day” on April 15th 1989, watching in front of my eyes 96 fans dying.

I was on the outside looking in, I knew no Liverpool fans – but I sat in shock, and slowly I was weeping.

It was my community dying, community of football fans. Community that was misunderstood, community that felt they were outsiders.

I belong inside football.

Watching the horror unfolding in front of my eyes, I felt my detachment melting.

I knew being an outsider, I knew being misunderstood. As I had known to be silent about that I was prostituted, as I know to not speak about child abuse.

I join with football fans, I found a family who all lived inside their own silences.

Remember the 80’s where loving football was being told you were stupid, scum, hooligans, and always male. Remember the 80’s when football fans where pinned into the stadiums, squashed up till they hardly breathe. Remember the 80’s as a time of shame for all those who condemn football fans.

Hillsborough was inevitable in a society that treated football fans as subhumans.

The unnecessary deaths could be any group of football fans.

I remember the terror of being squashed into terraces. I remember the fear I may faint, be trampled underfoot.

I remember the ignorance that surrounded those who felt outside of football.

I remember Margaret Thatcher wanted to rid the country of all football fans.

The 80’s has terrible memories for me. It was a time of ignorance and hate in every corner of my life.

Hillsborough taught me to know PTSD.

I see the families and friends gathering at Anfield today and on Wednesday coming, and I know how raw their grief is.

Grief where there is no justice. No-one accountable for those 96 deaths. Still some voices saying it was their own fault, still saying football fans are and always will be scum. Still saying it does not matter for Liverpool is just overdramatic about it’s own history.

Grief where there is no justice is the common thread in PTSD.

It there for in child abuse. There as it is dismiss as something you be over now, it was so long ago wasn’t it. There as my abuser goes through life safe and unpunished.

And there is no justice for surviving the sex trade. No interest in hearing that it is torture, that there no human rights for prostituted women and girls – that is shown to be unimportant. Don’t say the reality, because that just upset and disquiet that the sex trade is just a normal part of life.

I know not having no justice. I know that grief that screams like a wildcat in my stomach.

I know the grief of being on the outside. Child abuse and prostitution does that for me.

I see the crying for Hillsborough and I cry for football fans, cry my child waiting to be abused, cried for my prostituted self who tosses hope away.

Don’t anyone say to anyone – it was long time, why ain’t you over it.