I am finding writing very hard.

It is too full of pain, memories are too raw, fear is too close to the surface.

I am a writer, so I will write however hard – and however much my body resist it.

I write with a warrior-spirit, I write as a witness to all I wish I had no knowledge of.

To be a true is not to be in a place of comfort or ease – to write to the centre of human cruelty is to write as if you are stabbing yourself.

In this post, I will to write about judgement on the major and minor levels as it may affect me and other exited folks.

Judgement comes from all angles – all beliefs and the non-believing, from all classes, from all types of political thinking, from all cultures.

To judge the prostituted is acceptable by nearly all people, going back to a time before human could leave a written record.

The classic judgement come from deep ignorance and the desire to express that the prostituted are sub-human, but in a nice polite way.

This is the old classic myth that all the prostituted have a sub-human sex drive.

This handy myth leads to judgement that the prostituted are sex-crazed, are dragging good men down into sin, are stealing men from decent women.

It is a myth that I detest, and will spend the rest of my life fighting against.

The prostituted class have never had the freedom to own and to control their own sexuality, or even to have the right to say yes or no to certain sexual practices.

The prostituted class are always owned and controlled by the men that buy them, and the profiteers that sell them.

It is the punters and profiteers that create the demand for dangerous sexual practices – and it the prostituted who have their bodies and minds destroyed by that demand.

This sick myth is used to say the victim – that is the prostituted – must be to blame for “forcing” punters to do unspeakable sexual acts – for it is claimed that the prostituted are all insatiable.

On a lighter note, there are the constant minor judgments placed on many exited women, especially if we show any interest in feminism.

We are meant to be perfect feminists or we are not allowed to count.

I am judged for watching sports – a male leisure, where many of the participants or supporters may be punters.

I would say I know that many men who support/play football/rugby/cricket will consume prostitutes.

But then so do male politicians, male actors, male musicians, males in all types of businesses, male students, male religious leaders, male writers, males artists, male comedians, male farmers, and all males in all spheres.

If I was to live in a world not polluted by punters – I would never watch films/TV, never read any books mentioning men, never listen to music, never buy anything in case a punter was part of making or selling it.

I may have to kill myself, if I truly never want to do anything that is contaminated by punters and sex trade profiteers.

Also, this ignorant judgement tends to work on the assumption that exited women are too unintelligent to watch sports/films/read books/listen to music/consume TV, without knowing it should be taken on face-value.

Maybe we do these things as escapism – knowing our extreme trauma may fade, but it will not disappear.

Escapism is not about losing intelligent, it is about resting, about giving yourself back some joy and comfort, about regaining pleasures that may have been stolen from.

All that is vital for all exited prostituted folks – and if you dare to judge our freedom to escape, then spend five minutes inside our trauma and then tell where we are going wrong.

Back to more serious ways the prostituted are continually judged.

We are judged for our lack of emotions, for being cold, being too tough, judge as being cruel or hard-hearted.

In this judgement come the constant that any real harm can be done to the prostituted – after all we are not crying, we do not complain, we took the money/gifts so it must be ok.

Only think about the degree of mental/physical/sexual torturing that is the norm for all the prostituted.

It is normal for a prostituted woman who has been in the sex trade for round three years, to have torture everywhere and to have piece of her body that is not polluted.

This prostituted woman has been raped by hundreds if not thousands of punters.

This prostituted woman is likely to be more round many aspects of the sex trade, usually to more violence and control.

This prostituted woman will live the mental violence of knowing at any time and any place, she could be murdered and her death will made to be invisible.

This prostituted woman will live with physical violence as a norm.

This prostituted woman will have all forms of tortures put into her mind and body – and it just called men having fun.

This is the norm of all aspects of prostitution – no wonder that the prostituted are closed to emotions and the language of saying I hate this.

Torture will silence most humans, but it does not destroy our souls.

It is normal to adapt to long-term torture, by acting as if it is nothing.

Acting tough, never crying, saying you do not need help, being numbed to most of the physical pain, cutting off from knowing your past and not believing you can have a future – all these are normal reactions to long-term torturing.

So instead of judging the prostituted for appearing emotionless – why not celebrate their amazing survival skills and ability to keep part of their humanity safe.

I will end here – exhausted zzzzzzzz

I have come back from my birth-town, the town of years between 12-27.

A place that should belong to me, but is only a place full of ghosts and body memories.

I went as a changed woman, but only to be haunted over and over by sense of being drag back to my private hell.

I went back to Cambridge, and I spoke out.

Spoke out to a very close friend, spoke out to the buildings haunting me, spoke to the parks where I wanted death so, spoke out to a meeting.

My voice was cracking, my voice was waiting everything to go wrong.

But I spoke out about Cambridge in Cambridge.

And my prostituted soul felt a freedom it could not dare know existed.

When I arrived in Cambridge, I was mentally exhausted, but unable to rest without shaking or crying.

So, I went for a walk by myself. Thinking if I struck to the tourist parts of Cambridge, I would be fine.

I was wrong, coz there is no part of Cambridge that is not poisoned by my past.

My home-town is beautiful, is full of so many things I loved – but I knew its underbelly, and my trauma can never forget, only fight to make it smaller.

I was prostituted in a town that was in deep denial.

The image of Cambridge of beauty, intellect, and peace is kept, no nastiness is allowed to see, hear or talk about.

There could no prostitution in Cambridge – that belonged to real cities like London.

Only any man who wanted to buy sex in Cambridge had a variety of choices in just the small city centre.

Prostitution was hidden in plain sight – as the police ignored it, as the university ignored it, as the councilors ignore it, as Social Services ignores – all punters saw this availability.

This is what some would say is underground prostitution – only it is legal and vastly available.

This is the world I knew, the world that made my nightmares, made a life-time of body memories, made extreme trauma.

Hidden in plain view, I like far too many prostituted women and girls – was being mentally abused, tortured, put on the edge of death, rape beyond what the mind can handled.

This blood and sweat was pouring into the bricks of Cambridge, the silent screams of the prostituted were part of the haze round Cambridge.

Cambridge bears the hidden horrors of prostitution, and makes the terrible demand that it never to be spoken of or even acknowledged.

I was silent for many years, and it nearly killed me.

So, I am speaking out.

For Cambridge is typical of any tourist city that refuses to allow that it has a dark side.

I do not believe there is anything unique about my hell in Cambridge, and I break some of my silence to help other trapped in cities/towns/villages that refuse to believe that prostitution is part of them.

Living where the whole city deny your reality, that is a poison that can only lead to self-destruction.

I know this as I see the streets of Cambridge – see streets I lost any sense that I could be fully human.

It was on these streets I attempted suicide, these streets I got so drunk I thought I would forget.

It was on these streets, I was raped so often I could allow myself to care.

It was on these streets, I walked and walked and walked – hoping that walking would turn into a robot.

In my walk last week, I walked past many places and buildings that made me sick.

I had to walked through the subway where I was raped, to get back to my hotel.

I walked through town, past streets where I pushed friends to their limit.

Past that college where I was brought, and used like a rag-doll, as I to focus on the beauty of the architecture.

Into the market, where I hung out refusing to feel or know I was still alive. Hanging like a normal teenager, but knowing too much and having too many reasons to want to die.

Onto King’s College, where my mind was too dark to know the beauty.

Into more colleges where I was brought, and thrown away.

Down past a pub where in the back-room, old men brought young prostituted girls to have a torture-toy.

Into the parks, where I walked and walked and walked till I could switch some of my mind.

That is my Cambridge, I am so angry and saddened by that.

In my last post, I begun my journey to understanding my fear of Cambridge, but also my sense it belongs to me as I was born there.

I could never live in Cambridge again, all my roots have been ripped out long ago.

This saddened me deeply. My mother’s family had live there since the 1930’s – and had quite an impact on the city.

My grandfather was an architect, and designed many fine buildings in Cambridge. My grandmother run Cambridge Ballet Workshop.

I am proud of that side of Cambridge, I can fit into that world whilst always having to be apart from it.

I cannot live in Cambridge, coz I would go mad if I went back for more that one night.

The dark side of my Cambridge is too loud, too demanding, too attached to my essence to stay there too long.

I, like MR James, see only evil seething into every inch of Cambridge. Not demons, but normal men acting with hardened hearts.

Only MR James was creating fiction and shocks for a good read.

My memories of what evil was and is – that is real, being real it is very mundane and made normal.

The worse evil is in the ordinary, in events that are so normal that it becomes invisible. After the best trick of the devil, was to make it that it does exist.

That is how the sex trade works in tourist cities, in provincial city – it makes itself invisible whilst being everywhere.

I can imagine giving an alternative tour of Cambridge –

This is the pub where men queue to pay for rape by the beer barrels.

This street has many flats where under-aged prostitutes were gang-raped, tortured and groomed to be silent and still.

This building is where I was anally till I lost consciousness and ended up in hospital.

This graveyard was a regular place for cheap prostitution.

This college was full of rich foreign students having “parties” with whores with no voice, no human rights – only a desire not to die.

This street is where I failed to kill myself.

This West Indian pub had the upper room for punters to dance and rape under-aged prostitutes.

Not a fun tour, but my tour of Cambridge.

I could call it a ghost tour, call tour of the underbelly of Cambridge – all trendy ways to hide my terror and sickness.

What it too hard to state, to remember, to know in every cell of my body – is that tour would just the beginning of my horror of living in Cambridge.

Now, with great distance and years gone past – I am ready to confront Cambridge, ready to look beyond the tourist image and see into the shadows.

I can see how lost I was, how much I wanted to invisible, to be dead.

I also see I was desperate for real help or even for the world to stop long to hear my pain.

I had been abused since before i could remember, I could not imagine a life where I mattered or where there no pain.

My life in Cambridge was waiting for death, but feeling too much of a coward to kill myself.

I had no hope – without hope, life is just breathing.

I was nothing – so if men raped/tortured/killed me, it meant nothing.

I was there to have men pour all their sick porn dreams into – I was not alive enough to make it matter.

Only I could not stopped having emotions, feeling pain, knowing something was going wrong.

I could not be a robot – my humanity keeps coming into me.

There is nothing worse in prostitution then being conscious of what is happening to your body and mind.

Knowing that prostitution is rape is unbearable when there many punters waiting for their term.

Feeling what is to be tortured in every cell, and not fainting or blocking it out – that is unbearable.

Being send close to death, feeling some relief that at least it is some end – only to find a punter laughing at you, saying “don’t fucking die on me, bitch!” – that is unbearable.

To survive prostitution, learning to be dead is a vital skill.

So, that is why I must confront Cambridge – for the major ghost that haunts me, is my prostituted self.

I want to give back the streets, the colleges, the parks, the river, the flats, and other buildings.

I want to walk through Cambridge as a ghost carrying all that pain and degradation.

I want to get back my birth-town, and to feel freedom there.