I am a fighter – but I fight coz I have know and be inside deep grief.

A grief made from being trapped with no sense of hope.

A grief of having every cell in my body polluted by the violence of the sex trade.

A grief made from seeking love and security in all the wrong places.

A grief of thinking it could only be real sex if I was in agony.

This is the solid grief of what it was to be part of the prostituted class – a grief that appears endless.

It is a grief that pushes me forward.

Forward so no other human should be prostituted, and become tortured as was my norm.

Forward to expose all the punters and sex trade profiteers who enjoy causing this suffering.

Forward to give my prostituted self a sense of pride and self-worth.

But as I go forward – I know my warrior-spirit is weeping – weeping tears I cannot show.

I feel my warrior-spirit carry those memories.

Memories of the countless unspeakable acts of sadism punters planted into me.

Memories of their eyes of hate making me become sub-human.

Memories of blood, injuries internal and external, unwanted pregnancies, marks of strangulations, and constant pain in my vagina and anus.

Memories of my fear of sleeping, in case I made myself too vulnerable.

Memories of asking for help – only not believed, told I must enjoy it, told it does happen in this town.

Memories of gang-rapes as my norm, of being water-boarded as I was anally raped, of having no time to recover from one punter as another waiting his turn.

My warrior-spirit carries these memories, and cannot make them disappear – only hold them and weep with desolation.

I am proud of my warrior-spirit – for real courage is made of vulnerability, being able to know sometimes there can no answers just the strength to see clearly.

Real courage is to see with the eye that is forensic – see your own suffering with detachment mingles with deep compassion and sorrow.

Real courage knows stillness is needed before any fight, stillness to reach inside and remember who the enemy is and what tortures made your fight so vital.

A true warrior does not want to fight – wants to live without any more violence in her life, wants a life that is quiet and even dull to learn how to recover.

A true warriors only fights those who consciously and with pleasure torture, and turn the prostituted class into sub-human.

A true warrior grieves the need to fight.

I will end here.

I have unable to write for a couple of weeks, instead I am surrounded by trauma and nightmares.

So I thought I would write my personal legacy from prostitution – or a close study of living inside trauma.

I will trace how it affects my body, mind and spirit. I will try to be as truthful as I can, whilst at the same time fighting my self-censorship that wants to protect my essence.

I do not one way to reach into this unspeakable part of me, only I know several ways,. some appearing opposite to each.

One way is listening to my spirit-animals – these are not animals, but the silent parts of my Self that has little or no expression.

These spirit-animals carry memories I had to block out.

These spirit-animals hold pain, terror and confusion that one human cannot bare alone.

And these spirit-animals have all the tears, I thought I had lost as I learnt to never cry in front of abusers.

I have nine spirit-animals – dragon, snake, little girl, mermaid, teenager, tiger, horse, eagle and baby.

The dragon carries my grief, my sense of loss, my tears and holds them safe. The dragon hold my loneliness.

The snake will hold my ability to shred my past by placing a new face on who I am. The snake holds the strength to be patience with striking back at all my abusers.

The little girl is lost and searching for love without consequences. The little girl is too trustworthy, blocking all memories of being betrayed.

The mermaid is the mirror-image of the little girl, the mermaid is living in a world with no adults/abusers. The mermaid refuses to have memories of why she need to disappear, only faint body memories of pain and terror.

The teenager is nihilistic, full of rage and frustration. The teenager throws hope onto the trash-heap.

The tiger is wanting a mother, as it wanders alone in a world that makes no sense. The tiger has too much love, at the same it will attacks any who see its vulnerability.

The horse needs freedom and never to be told who and what she is. The horse will run away when afraid or too confused by memories, pain or knowledge of her past.

The eagle will be on constant alert for danger, and will destroyed all those who choose to abuse with pin-point accuracy. The eagle will only attack the guilty and those who have no conscience, never the innocent.

The baby was the part of me that was unharmed. The part of me that just needed love and hope.

As I said, I have many ways of tracing my trauma – another is my personal body map

I start with my head/brain. The place where all memories are stored – some coming out in nightmares, some coming out as pain, some hiding deep in me scared to know they ever happened.

My head that cannot have headaches without knowing the violence of prostitution, or how hard it is to remember how to be fully human.

I go on to my mouth and throat – what I cannot swallow without memories of endless penises and objects blocking my route to breathing.

I still taste that cold terror, that sperm poisoning my way back into hope.

I still choke, as I attempt to forget.

I go to arms and hands – hands touching flesh that is determined to humiliate and harm my own flesh.

Arms made to hug punters who pretend they care – only to smash, push, grab, and tore apart any sense that I matter as a human.

I go to my stomach – place of decades of sickness as punters pour their porn-hate and terror into me.

I go to my vagina – a place without a sacred space, a place for punters to conquer, a place that is used out but wanting to be re-born.

I go to my anus – the place that still hold so much terror and silences.

My anus still bleeds when trauma re-enter my body.

My anus had too many, so many punters attacking it – it was a war-zone.

I am still scared to go to the toilet or to lay on my back when asleep.

And I go to legs and feet – which never were able to run away – so now get restless if even a hint of being trapped occurs.

Those are two ways I reach in the silence of trauma.

I did not write to make complete sense – but to give some opening to understanding trauma on different levels.

This is about where liberal feminists have chosen to betrayed the prostituted class – and in that betrayal are allowing the constant male violence to engulf the prostituted.

Liberal feminism considered itself to be the fourth wave of women’s fight for equality.

It is not a radical movement, it does not fight for liberation for women – no it fight for individual wants of often privileged women.

Liberal feminism was made for white Western women who are often middle-class.

Hell, if I had experienced childhood abuse and being prostituted – I would have a perfect candidate for liberal feminism.

But there the rub – liberal feminism excludes the prostituted, excludes women of colour, excludes working-class women, excludes women outside the West, exclude past generations of feminists – heck, liberal feminism excludes the vast majority of females.

Liberal feminism follows the philosophy that the individual women can improves her life, and is almost blind to the institution of patriarchy and organised women-hating.

It is philosophy that refuses to see men as a class – a class that benefit from oppressing women as a class.

This narrow view is the basis of the betrayal of the prostituted – for to call the prostituted sex workers is to say it just individual stories.

In the language of liberal feminism – there is no structure or organisation of the sex trade – just individual prostituted women having a good or bad experience of sex trade.

There is little or no mentions of huge profits of the sex trade – sex trade profiteers become invisible or just kindly employers.

Male violence to the prostituted is dismissed in many ways –

Dismiss as the prostituted women not being mentally right for the sex work.

Dismiss as only happening in so-called underground prostitution.

Dismiss as only being done by punters with mental health issues, punters who don’t understand Western culture, punters who are drunk/high – never by the good punters.

Dismiss coz the individual prostituted woman should read the punter’s body language and seen he was a sadist.

Dismiss as only occurring when the prostituted woman is a street-based prostitute.

Dismiss because the prostitute is Black/indigenous/Asian/white working-class/under-aged – anything but a privileged Western white woman.

Dismiss because the individual prostitute may not understand it just kinky sex or S/M, coz of her mental health or previous abuse.

And so many disgusting excuses for male violence.

Liberal feminism may as well be the voice of sex trade profiteers and punters – for it does nothing for the prostituted.

How do we make prostitution real to the non-prostituted?

How do words fit our hell, our exhaustion, our everyday terrors, our pain in all our bodies?

How do you say or write with a clear mind and speak true to that void?

I feel I write this blog exploring that, and always feeling always the essence of what it is to be prostituted is out of reach.

Words mean nothing when speaking to the heart of torture, heart of isolation, heart of knowing what it is to made sub-human.

I know I write and speak out – I know I have to repeat over and over and over words that may touch that heart of darkness.

I also know the more words I use, the more distance I make between my memories of hell and my role as an exited woman now.

I want to find some language that fits those memories, and fit the gaps and silences that I hear other exited women express.

I don’t want to invent a new language, I want known words and expressions describe our reality.

I reach into poetic prose for some answer – I also reach to music, painting, drawing, dance, and all the arts to express our terror and pain.

I find the arts express our fragmented memories, our desire to not show our vulnerability, our closeness to pain and terror, our rapes becoming so common they become nothing.

I find the arts know our silences are full of screaming, our calmness is a desire to stop feeling and thinking, our ability to survive is grow from deep fury and remembering all our prostituted friends who never reach an exit.

In the arts, there is more space than research or what is called facts,

After all, how can we truly know facts about any aspect of prostitution – when the sex trade is so skilled at hiding male violence, at hiding deaths of the prostituted, at denying there is any torture only kinky fun.

We must question many facts about prostitution as they were formed by those who want to keep the sex trade – and want to silence any exited who speak out about how they remember.

I will try to write into that heart of darkness, it may take months or may take weeks – but I will start by trying switch off my own censor.

I know when I think to the middle of prostitution there are many things that are constant.

There is my fear to see myself – to see my dead eyes, see my body bruised/cut and too thin to live, to see myself is to know a ghost.

There is the cold hate in so many punter’s eyes – that look that makes clear no words or actions will stop his violence until he decides he is done.

Knowing that no part of my skin, my insides, my essence will safe from that violence and his pollution.

I could scratch and try to erase that hate and violence, but even after many years of being an exited woman – there is no cell on my body that can be free from that pollution.

There is a knowledge of male violence that is inside my skin – my fight against male violence was born from my tortured body, the intellectual follows when I had safety and security.

I know violence that I would love to think no human is capable of – only this violence was repeated over and over and over and over till could only live by blocking out my reality.

Most punters who make the choice to be violent will use mental/physical/sexual torture as their norm – and unlike the myth spread by the sex trade lobby most punters make the choice to be violent.

But, I and most exited women would say and know – to make the choice to buy and sell the prostituted is an act of violence in and of itself.

To buy the prostituted is to pay to rape – so no punters can let off the hooks by claiming to the decent guy.

We hate all punters. To survive we pretended to be happy and in control.

But to reach into why prostitution must be framed as torture and considered a human rights, I must describe what it was to be made a living porn-doll.

Punters consume porn as their bible, then pour that hate into the prostituted’s bodies.

In porn, bodies are punished beyond hope and remembering to stay human – that is the norm for the prostituted.

Firstly, the vast majority of the prostituted are raped on a scale where it become their norm. It is to raped and have no time to recover.

To be prostituted, is have many rapists wanting to consume you. But it is rarely just rape – no punters pay to mentally control, to create pain in places that your body thought would be safe.

Punters enjoy the long game of torture – especially if they can consume the prostituted indoors.

The more money and status a punter has, the more time and space he will have to tortured the prostituted.

Most sadist violence or murders done to the prostituted is done indoors – even when the prostituted are brought on the street.

Society allows the private space to punters – saying we will turn away from his violence, and refuse to or hear the terror and pain of the prostituted.

That is some of getting to the heart of prostitution – a start, but I must take care of myself, so I will end there.

I feel like showing off.

Over the eight years of writing this blog, it has been read in all these countries.

Aaland Islands, Afghanistan, Albania, Angola, Antigua & Barbuda, Armenia, Argentina, Austria, Australia, Azerbaijan.

Barbados, Bahamas, Bahrain, Bangladesh, Belarus, Belgium, Belize, Benin, Bhutan, Bolivia, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Botswana, Bulgaria, Burundi.

Cambodia, Cameroon, Canada, Cape Verde, Cayman Islands, Chad, Chile, China, Colombia, Congo-Kinshasa, Costa Rica, Cote d’Ivoire, Croatia, Cuba, Cyprus, Czech Republic.

Denmark, Dominican Republic, Djibouti.

Ecuador, Egypt, El Salvador, Ethiopia, European Union.

Faroe Islands, Fiji, Finland, France, French Guinea, French Polynesia.

Georgia, Germany, Ghana, Gibraltar, Greece, Greenland, Guadeloupe, Guatemala, Guernsey, Guyana.

Haiti, Honduras, Hong Kong SAR China, Hungary.

Iceland, India, Indonesia, Iraq, Ireland, Isle of Man, Israel, Italy.

Jamaica, Japan, Jersey, Jordan.

Kazakhstan, Kenya, Kuwait, Kyrgyzstan.

Laos, Latvia, Lebanon, Libya, Liechtenstein, Lithuania, Luxembourg.

Macao SAR China, Macedonia, Madagascar, Malaysia, Malta, Martinique, Mauritius, Mexico, Moldavia, Myanmar.

Namibia, Nepal, Netherlands, New Caledonia, New Zealand, Nicaragua, Nigeria, Norway.

Oman.

Pakistan, Palau, Palestinian Territories, Panama, Papua New Guinea, Paraguay, Peru, Philippines, Poland, Portugal, Puerto Rico.

Qatar.

Reunion, Romania, Russia, Rwanda.

Sao Tome-Principe, Saudi Arabia, Senegal, Serbia, Seychelles, Singapore, Slovakia, Slovenia, South Africa, South Korea, Spain, Sri Lanka, St Lucia, St Vincent & Grenadines, Swaziland, Sweden, Switzerland.

Taiwan SAR China, Tajikistan, Tanzania, Thailand, Togo, Trinidad & Tobago, Turkey, Turks & Cairos Islands.

Uganda, Ukraine, United Arab Emirates, United Kingdom, United States, Uruguay, US Virgin Islands, Uzbekistan.

Vatican City, Venezuela, Vietnam,

Yemen.

Zambia, Zimbabwe.