Archive for the ‘survival’ Category

I hate uncertainty. I need clarity in all things. With that in mind, I hate even more when I allow the filters through which I was taught (brainwashed) to see the world to influence me. I know where those lenses came from. I know why I think this way. So why can’t I stop it?

While I feel free here in Israel in a way I never have before, there are times when I pause in terror of conflict or potential conflict. This includes times when I’m asked where I want to eat, whether I want to do something or not, what do I think of (blank)…

Then there are the bigger things. I’ve finally loosened up to the point where I can not only interact with others, but I’m actually having fun. And then I feel like shit for having fun. Like its so exhilarating, it must be wrong. I half expect some sort of punishment to fall on me.

Fun has come in the form of dancing mostly. This week drinking also, since I’ve realized if I’m not set out to destroy myself, it’s okay. And drinking doesn’t mean drunk. Drunks freak me out. But so do clubs.

Anyways. I avoided clubs and dancing for the longest time. My experience of going out to dance included seeing how many guys I could lure at the urging of my ex. This was when I was recently exited, and had turned down stripping jobs (as if that would have eased me out of the lifestyle. NOT). He knew all this. That’s why he got a sadistic kick out it (just like he did when I broke down crying cause I didn’t want to work anymore in any aspect of the trade). Not to mention being molested in clubs by drunks. Which my ex thought was funny.

So. Dancing. I went dancing before I left for Israel. It was a transformational experience. It had nothing to do with seduction, pretense, performance. Just feeling the music. Was amazing.

I don’t think I’d be able to go out now if I hadn’t that night. The only thing I care about is the music. No one else matters, nothing else exists, it doesn’t matter what I look like.

This is intensity. Reaching the moment where I am so overcome by the beat that I lose my Self in the moment. I dance smiling like an idiot cause it’s the greatest high.

Unfortunately, I later come back to myself. And with returning self-awareness there condemnation and doubt, even though I know there is no reason for it.

But I think to myself of the way I have gone out of my way to avoid people who party or drink in any way. Avoiding, but not judging. So why do I judge myself? What am I judging myself for? What is harmful about enjoyment?

I feel like I’m heading in the right direction, doing things I would not have been able to do months ago, even. Its amazing. And terrifying.

It’s a learning curve that feels more a twisted maze.

My vision of the city I grew up in comes to be in flashes of Technicolor.

Doctors offices, roving doors of emergency rooms, psychiatric wards, rooms made to look comfortable while having my mind probed. Medication. Violence.

This city:

It’s the scent of desperation coating my skin. Hopeless that smells like Chanel *5. The scent of death in its sweet seduction. The scent of choking on the very air you breathe, gasping out without sound.

This city:

It’s the feel of silky stockings, riding up to my thighs. Sexy in heels, and covering up red gashes of misdirected anger. A multitude of sin wrapped in a pretty package yet still rotting.

This city:

It’s the blurred location, blurred vision of bedrooms, blurred vision of faces. Meaningless. Endless.

This city:

It’s the feeling of violation. Of violent penetration. Of silent pain.

This city:

It’s the reflection of a person I don’t recognize. A familiar face masked in death. A body waiting to expire and eyes who’s light has extinguished.

This city:

It’s the relentless drug of sex and money. Of devaluation, objectification, and money purchasing worth and consent.

This city:

It’s the loss of any sense of Self, of no longer being an autonomous entity. Body and mind a product belonging to those posing as loved ones.

This city:

It’s forced orgasms, forced screams, posing and pretending, terror and anxiety.

This city:

It’s the unbelievable question ‘Is this making love?’ while being raped. And as the customer is always -always- right, it’s my flirtatious answer and another blow to my soul.

This city:

It’s being indebted to my pimp after running out on a client turned violent.

This city:

It’s the inability to hold onto tainted money. And the lasting incredulity of minimum wage. The knowledge what I can make in an hour. And knowing I never could.

This city:

It’s filth. The inability to feel clean. The feeling of scalding water and abrasive surfaces and sobbing in the shower.

This city:

It’s degrading names, and derogatory terms, and shame. Of isolation. A conviction of corrupting anyone near me.

This city:

It’s finding false redemption in hatred masquerading as love. It’s waking up on the floor of a hotel room mostly dead. It’s anger at not being allowed to die.

This city:

It’s survival. It’s forgiveness. It’s redemption. It’s healing. It’s mine.

Prostitute: A sexually exploited woman who need love, support, and acceptance. Every look of condescension, every sneer, every leer, every dismissive actions confirms her worthlessness. She is a daughter, mother, sister. Absolutely precious.

Pimp: Subhuman. Damaged in such a way that he cannot see the innate value of humanity. Charming, manipulative, controlling, abusive. They destroy lives and are celebrated and revered for it.

John: A name used to normalize sexual inequality and mass rape of women. Just as I was nothing but living porn to them, they remained nameless and faceless to me. The difference is that they got to walk away. I carry the scars.

Service Provider: Normalizing the Sex Industry by giving it a professional veneer. Pro sex work lobbyists can argue that it’s a career like any other. Um… yes, there are jobs that are humiliating, stressful, degrading. But if you’re not getting raped night after night, I’d say you have a better job.

Review: Turning women into a product, raving or critiquing every aspect of her person and performance.

No little girl thinks to herself that she will grow up to become a rentable body and garbage receptacle. There is no such thing as a happy hooker. Only those that have cultivated effective denial as a survival tactic. Distress reveals itself in unspoken ways. Self-harm of various types, through mutilation, body modification, food intake, drinking, drugs, dissociation, isolation…

I’ll have to pick this topic up again. For today, that’s all I can write.

My last few therapy sessions have been oddly informative.

I’ve realized I have to not only call a truce between the side of myself that believes in fighting for women’s rights, and the side of me that still believes that all I will ever amount to is a whore… I have to make them get along too.

Ugh.

See, here’s the thing –

I can’t go anywhere outside my bedroom and feel like I belong. Like I am on the same plane as others. I am convinced I am a corrupting influence on others, and that my taint will infect others. Kinda like Lady Macbeth scrubbing her hands clean when there is nothing upon them. Ya, that’s me. Just swap blood for body fluids (TMI, I know).

So my therapist tells me I have a koan to crunch on mentally. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/koan The riddle being, how do I remove the taint? Obviously, logic doesn’t work with this. I’ve scrubbed myself clean in showers and baths, I’ve gotten love and acceptance from other people, I found God, I’ve expressed my hellish past in my writings….

And yet…

Sigh.

I started writing about my first experience as a “pro”. I managed to describe everything up til the actual act. Then I froze. Then I got pissed at myself.

What am I censoring myself from? And whom will judge what I write in the privacy of my own laptop, in my bed? (besides myself)

I guess the truth is that my confidence in my sexuality has taken a major hit in the last several months. And since that is the ONE area of my life I have always always always been confident in… I feel like a part of me is lost. Whether or not this ends up being a good thing remains to be seen. It’s effing weird though.

But I promised my therapist I would bring my “first time” story. Which I guess means I have to complete it within the next week.

Anyways. Back to brooding.

Stay Safe.

 

This is loosely related to my last post. Just a continuation of where my thoughts have been going.

Aaand, it figures, that my ex would pick this moment to call me (no – I didn’t answer. Yes, I know I should change the number)

I’ve been isolating myself to some degree, since September. Not just because of the assault, but also because of all the de-numbing that’s been going on.

It’s tough to realize that I’ve messed around with all but one of my male friends. And that I had to mess around with them first, before becoming friends. I’ve known I need new friends for a while now, but hell if I know how one goes about that. A while back (when I got myself out of the sex trade… about two years ago then) when I changed all my info, social media, numbers… I also cut out most of the people from my life. Bad influences, bad memories…

But I somehow managed to get some really great friendships from that time period.

I’m just not sure how I feel about those friends now. Weird, certainly.

One of those friends I hung out with a couple days ago. He’s like a male version of the way I used to be, so we have lots of common ground. Or, we used to.

Anyways.

He started talking about how he’s never done the whole dating thing. Just sleeps with someone, and ends up in a relationship.

That hit me hard.

Like, f*ck. I’m the same way. I can’t remember ever going on a nervous first date, or the stereotypical first-second-third date before “letting” a guy kiss me.

Honestly, the thought of doing that… I think it’s a waste of time. But I don’t think my way has been any better. Well, I know my way is not better. It got me into a lot of crappy relationships and compromising situations.

Sorry for my vagueness. There a lot of sh*t I don’t want to admit to, but is on my mind anyways.

It’s so much easier to date (or just screw around), when you are numb and dissociated.

Which is why I now remain single.

I need to unload a bit here.

My house is currently undergoing renos. The whole main floor, the spare bathroom in the basement, and the stairs going to the bedrooms upstairs. That is just the first phase. Second will be the rest of the upstairs. No idea about basement plans, but its already been tinkered with.

Anyways.

Having strange men invade my living space is disturbing to me. My old-ish line to myself of “I’m too fat to be attacked” or “They can clearly see my sister is the pretty one” (don’t judge me, I love my sister, but it’s true) can’t quite work for me anymore. Obviously, rape/assault has nothing to do with sexiness or attractiveness. I clearly know that. Doesn’t stop my thinking. Doesn’t help my discomfort.

So –

I’ve kinda been hiding out in my room since they started. And my room is not a place of comfort. It started getting really messy around the time I was almost strangled to death. Actually, mess is putting it kindly. It looks like a hurricane tore through. I guess you could say it’s now an outward reflection of my inner turmoil. Except I’m not sure how much turmoil I’m actually feeling anymore. So I’m not sure the mess really does anything for me anymore.

Even my bed has been a source of triggers. This is something I don’t talk about to anyone – the why’s of how I wound up crashing for over a year on the couch in the living room. Which I can’t do anymore. But, it being my bed, it not much of a stretch to imagine what has gone on in it. Shudder.

Which brings me to my next thought.

I f*cking hate – HATE – the city I currently reside in. I’ve lived here forever, and so many places here bring back things I do not care to be reminded of. Tonight reminded me of that. I was out with my parents, just to get a break from my room, and we went to pick up some stuff for our makeshift kitchen. Would not have thought that would be a source of triggers.

But as soon as I walked in, I wanted to get out. I looked longingly at the bus stop. Then it hit me. I had been there before. Why I would have been in that area, I have no idea. Not an area I would normally frequent. Regardless, in a flash it all came back. An seemingly innocuous memory… I was there with the same ex mentioned above, and he was telling me about a cosmetic procedure he wanted. Ridiculous – the guy was freaking gorgeous, but whatever. We then went in for a space heater, I think. No memory of what happened before or after that. Just the place. Which was enough to make me feel like I was about to pass out while in the store. I guess being stoic is both a good and bad thing. I panic, and no one can tell. Not that I would want anyone, especially my parents, to clue-in to my feelings. I was very glad to leave, however.

Sigh –

That’s been happening more and more. I wouldn’t call them flashbacks, because I associate flashbacks with the symptoms of PTSD… It’s more fragmented memories surfacing. Memories I didn’t think I had anymore.

Memories I do not want.

Because with the memories come uncomfortable feelings. Shame, guilt, disgust. In myself, mostly. I feel very uncomfortable in my own skin.

But I guess that’s part of the process, and I can accept that.

Stay safe ❤

I am struggling with new-found p*ssedoffness right now.

This morning, my brother, while eating breakfast, announces that he and his friends were assaulted saturday night outside a club by a bunch of bouncers, unprovoked. Apparently, the police came, and did nothing (jeez, what a shocker there!), and my bro ended up with a punch to the head (along with other injuries that his friends suffered). They went to the hospital, since his friend needed stitches on his head. But my brother did not seek medical attention, nor did they file a report (neither did the drs. ask if they wanted to file a report… another shocker!).

Of course, I am appalled at what happened to my brother. Of course, I hate seeing him hurt. I hate thinking about what might have happened. I love my bro, regardless of our personal difficulties.

My issue with this scenerio, lies with my parents, and their reaction to the situation.

They immediately sided with my brother, expressing their outrage over what happened to him (and his friends). After the initial freak-out, my mom then called the police to see what my brothers next step should be, offered to take him then and there to the station to file a report, and even looked up the number for the Better Business Bureau in order to file a complaint about the club.

All natural reactions for a parent finding out their child has been wronged.

Or so you would think.

Their reaction to my assault (read: rape), which occurred three days before my birthday (happy birthday to me :/), was a LOT different.

First there was the yelling at me, for waiting to tell them (which I knew would happen, and was why I waited until I absolutely needed a ride to the hospital). Then there was their look and expression of disappointment in me.

Then, when I decided to press charges, it was first their utter lack of support, and then, their actively discouraging it when it seemed like I would actually go through with it, even getting my aunt, the lawyer, to weigh in on the matter (she told them it would not be in my best interest). Of course, in the end, I did not press charges. And I wonder now, whether my decision would have been different had I gotten just a touch of support or word of comfort with my finally standing up for myself.

Then, to make things worse, during one of my mother’s “talks” to me, she laid all the blame on me. Not just for the recent assault, but for EVERYTHING I have been through. Laid it straight on my feet, losing her temper, and completely disregarding and invalidating my feelings and trauma (this is not the first time she has done so, but it was the most hurtful).

So ya, I’m pretty effing p*ssed at them. My mother, for reasons I gave above, and my dad for being utterly passive and siding with my mother. Heaven forbid he actually side with his daughter for once.

I just can’t wrap my mind around the contrast in behaviours and reactions. I “get” that a nonsexual assault from man to man is somehow “different” then raping a woman. Its somehow easier to accept, and thus be enraged about.

But seriously? My brother is fine. He may have had a mild concussion, but I doubt he will have any lasting traumatic emotions. I doubt it will keep him from clubbing again. I doubt it will prevent him from drinking again. I doubt he will look at clubs in horror, and actively avoid them. I doubt he will actively avoid men who look like bouncers. I doubt he will have flashbacks, and nightmares, and panic attacks over the whole situation. I doubt he will shudder in horror at the very mention of clubs, dancing, or bouncers. He appears to have shrugged off the situation, and now wants to make a complaint, and sue the bouncers. Perfectly normal reaction.

(I am not invalidating my brother’s experience, only saying that there is a difference our reactions and the long lasting effects. Of course, it could be that I am completely off base, but from what I know of my brother, I do not think I am wrong in my assessment)

I was molested in a club. Not raped, but “just” groped from behind while I was dancing between my legs and chest. I punched the guy, and he left me alone. But I still avoid clubs.

Not to mention any guy that looks, moves, or acts like any of my exes.

It just feels like a slap in the face. Aren’t parents supposed to side with their children?

Sigh.