Our Voices Matter



"Writing from a Place of Pain" by Rebecca Mott


THIS MAY BE TRIGGERING.


I am seeing my life as a prostituted woman and girl, I am seeing with feeling it.

Now I can exactly who I was then. Now, I can feel how I was treated.

It is a place of pain. A place that is hard to write about.

It makes me want to cry. It brings despair into my heart.

It makes me want to scream. Scream until all the sickness is out of my body.

It is a place of rage. A rage that terrified me, it sends me back to silence.


Before Prostitution

Pain hits my heart as I see how I was trained to be a prostitute.

My abuse from my stepdad transforms me from a child who able to be free. Free to laugh. Free to explore. Free to trust.

All that was destroyed.

I lost how to be a child as I learnt to accept pain.

I learnt to know I was a sex object. I learnt this as I felt his eyes watching me everywhere. Always targeting on my bum.

I learnt not to show if he hurt me.

Not to show pain as he finger-fucked me so I bleed onto the bed. Not to show pain as his penis went to the back of my throat. Not to show pain as he claimed - “It only hurts coz you moved”.

I shown nothing just made myself a blank space.

I knew that looking at hard-core porn was a training to how I was expected to perform.

Perform as a dead piece of meat.

I was trained up for prostitution.

My inner scream is outrage at the calculation as stepdad had. He made become silent, obedient, ignore my own pain and a perfect sex slave.

Hell, I was that. But, I also had an inner rage that was not safe enough to come out.


Inside Prostitution

I wish to write quite graphically about some of my experiences in prostitution. I feel this is needed to to chase out some stubborn ghosts.

I need to confront that time.

After all I survive it so it cannot be that scary - can it.

I can say I was gang-rape. That is easy to say, no feelings there, I am detached.

But I want more. I want to remember the reality.

The time when I was so dead inside, I had to believe it must all just be a film.

I try to act the part of the “whore”, but the rapes were too many meant I forgot the role.

Being gang-rape as a prostitute is so cold. The men rape you with efficiency.

I remember how I was raped one after the other. I was raped in all holes at once.

I was expected to smile.

It was a time where my body was so full of pain, it could not compute it - so my body vanished.

God - I weep that my body became a rubbish dump for those men.

The worse thing of prostitution is there no time or space to know you have been raped.

How can you acknowledge rape when another man is handing over cash.

There no place for grief. No place to feel the injuries in the body. No place to think in peace.

Rape can only be recognise when the mind has the safety and peace to face the pain and grief.

That would of been a luxury when I prostituted.

But I was raped. I was raped for years. I was raped by scores of men.

I was raped till I had no feelings. I was raped until I did not know who I was. I was raped until my body disappeared.

How do I live with knowing every part of me that could raped was.

I could from top of my head to my big toe, nothing was left alone.

I had sperm rubbed into my hair. I had sperm ejaculated into my eyes.

I hate that. I hate the degradation. I still know the shock of the pain as I thought I blinded.

As for the mouth, men decided I “enjoyed” deep-throating.

Enjoyed feeling I was drowning. Enjoyed the pain as the penises hit vulnerable part of my my throat. Enjoyed having to shallow when I wanted to be sick.

I had penises shoved into my ears.

My hands did hand-job on automatic, as I felt nothing except sometimes a buried contempt. Sometimes men wanted my hand to sooth them, make feel they were loved.

They were not. But I was an actress.

Many men would rub my skin all my stomach, back and down my legs. This was not affection or foreplay.

It was possession.

I was expected to lay completely still. Then I was real-life porn for men to do as they wished.

It was very scary when men were “gentle” for I never know when the sadism would start again.

As for my cunt it was battered, raped and ripped at.

My cunt was stolen from me when I was a prostitute. I could owe a place that was a battleground.

For me, I was tortured there so much that ”ordinary” rape became almost a relief.

I don’t how often I was penetrated. I know I had an abortion and some morning-after pills. That is all my mind could do was to think of the practical.

I know that I often bleed after men push in their penises so hard and deep. I felt they were hitting my heart.

Men would eat my cunt. Their teeth would tear at me. Often as their hands were forced up me.

I would be slapped if I fainted.

I was anally raped so much. It was always rape.

I still cannot cope with the degradation and pain of anal rape.

I find hard sitting as I know that reality.

Anal rape for me was torture in it purest form.

It was always with my head in a pillow, or forced against a wall. There no warning, no lubrication and no hope.

It was forced into my anus hard and fast.

I could not scream. I could not breathe.

Often I fainted or had small heart attacks.

God I hate those men so much.

They brought me, then rip away everything that made me a human.

I was trash to them. I was used then thrown away

My rage can never fade about that type of man.


LIFE AFTER PROSTITUTION

Having survived prostitution, I am now trying to find way to part of world without control and violence.

It can be a place where I feel lost. I expect to be manipulated, but I am meet with respect and kindness.

This takes some getting used to.

But it is appreciated from the bottom of my heart.

As I learn that I can feel, pain enters my body and mind.

All the tortures and rapes are now presence.

They are known.

As I let in pain, I can build a future.

With pain, grief is given permission to enter me.

I grieve that all those events are stored in me. My body grieves for it is safe now.

As I show my truths, it is very painful. But I can speak now, I can reach towards others.

I am not alone.

I hear and know there are many women who understand the reality of that pain.





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