Archive for the ‘victim’ 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.


Free choice. Something that I really didn’t have for most of my life. Whether it was from doctors, being overly medicated, being pushed into choices due to disability, to being dictated to by a multitude of abusers. One would argue I never had to make any real decisions of my own.

I say ‘sure‘ in response to most things. My ‘sure‘ is not an agreement, but neither is it a disagreement. It is a neutral yet polite and positive response to something I have not yet made my mind up about. And it may very well take me a long time to make my mind up, because I like knowing my choice comes directly from me. I dislike any hint of being pushed in a direction I am uncertain I want to go in.

However, sometimes it borders on ridiculous. I answer ‘sure‘ as if I still am somewhat expecting a violent reaction from others. Which, to be honest, I am. There is a tension still there when a decision to be made is directed to me.

And yes, it is a lot easier to just let someone else make a choice, and go along with it. Which is what I typically do. And which is what I can’t really do here in Israel, where people really know their own minds and voice it.

I’ve even been told that being here is good for me cause it’ll force me to learn to make choices for myself. Which I completely agree with. But it is a statement that also makes me feel very much like a child.

Meanwhile, it is my choice to be indecisive about a lot of things. I choose to take time to make my mind up about things.

I was thinking about this cause it’s been really hard and draining, the last several weeks. I had a moderate freakout which lead to a shared cigarette and buying makeup and earrings for the lobe piercings I retired long ago. Which really isn’t a big deal on the surface, but in my mind it was the first step back into oblivion.

However, smoking made me realize why I stopped in the first place (it’s really yuck. I had to decontaminate myself afterwards). And wearing makeup does not make me look like a whore. Nor do multiple earrings.

Which made me look at why I kept thinking like that, and realizing I’m still internalizing J’s abuse long after his exit from my life. I just figured he was right: I was a whore, therefore I looked like one. So I tried to eradicate any lingering ‘signs’ (weight, clothes, hair, appearance, everything). Which is ridiculous. And brings me back to choice. Perspective too, since anyone who is human could be a ‘whore’, and what does that word mean anyways? Cause it’s really not applicable to me, despite what I lived through (circling back to choice).


So I essentially said fuck you in my head, and hoped he got the message, wherever he is. And went late to class this morning just to put on some makeup.

I did my nails too.


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.

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?



For the past several years it has been easier to deny my sexuality then to figure out what, exactly, went wrong with it. I feel like my trafficker damaged my sexuality on a level that as of yet, I don’t yet understand. I just know that it is not the same as it was before I met him.

But I guess I was “damaged” before then. Being trafficked was not my first time being sexually exploited. Just that the extent of the exploitation was… beyond words.

Lately I have been wondering about the type of relationship I had been in.. and how I could not have seen that it was so perverted.

I was submissive to his Dominant. I had been in other casual power exchange relationships, without being abused, so I’m still trying to figure out where it went so wrong. Actually, I know I was conned even before I met him, he had a woman con me into meeting him. I had no change to begin with.

I veered away from anything kink since then, choosing vanilla partners, or, as of recent history, no partners at all. I was suitably scared off of the lifestyle.

So why did I find myself in a female-oriented sex shop last week, looking at books on consensual power play and radical ecstasy?

Even more surprising, this was while I was on my way to my therapist, and instead of hiding my actions like I was ashamed (or flaunting them, also to hide my shame), I just came straight out and talked about it.

I feel like I’ve had a break-through of sorts — for so long I’ve held a cloak of shame because of the type of sex I used to like to participate in (I’m no longer sure, I feel like I have to rediscover that aspect of my life all over again).

Not just that, but for so long, I felt like I was the ONLY one in the BDSM community who was so severely abused. Everyone talks about “safe, sane and consensual”, but what about when it all goes wrong?

I felt like a total anomaly, even among my surviver sisters… Not only was I different because I have a tainted sexual past (the scarlet whore… whatever), but I felt like it was my fault because I had identified as a submissive (sexually)… Had I brought this on myself because of my abnormal sexual tastes?

I’ve realized a couple things in the last few weeks:

I’m not abnormal. I’ve finally been able to admit to myself what I am attracted to in power play: and that is the exchange itself. It takes so much trust to just let go, and I want to be able to do that. I like that there are rules and structure to the relationships, I like that scenes are negotiated. It makes me feel on more solid ground. It’s about being mentally secure with someone else.

I have no reason to be shamed: I was party to some interesting discussion about the Sister Wives and consensual Polyamory. I think that that is what started me thinking of my own journey. Shame was pushed on me by someone else. And that emotion keeps me tied to them. I don’t want that.

The books are… eye-opening. I am not reading them with a closed mind like I have been the last couple years. I have no judgement in my mind, against myself, or others. And so I am left with a curiosity about what I can learn about myself.

I’m just left with a vague feeling of sadness, for who I was, for me now, and for all I lost.

I spent the last 2+ years wondering why my trafficker let me keep profits. WHY? I knew he got a sadistic pleasure seeing me being pimped out, and that’s what I told myself was the reason for my keeping profits – that money was not his goal out of trafficking me. But now I have another explanation that make SO much more sense, and is SO much more chilling.

My theory:

A young woman I was seeing at the time put me in his sights. I have reason to believe she was one of his “girls”, a favoured one, and she saw “potential” in me, and got him to contact me.

He set her aside and chose me, claiming to love me. I asked what he did, who he was… all those normal things you do with a potential or new partner… but could never verify his businesses or his name (and I did try) – but I ignored all of this because “he loves me”.

I believe he then started grooming me – sending me out to have sex with other men while he watched, even when I did not consent (which was all the time, especially in the beginning… later on in the relationship, I would simply shut up, and asked how high when he would say jump).

He had me join an escort service after months of debate and protest, and told me I needed to make money (never really explained why though, or why a “normal” job wouldn’t do… He just broke me down by constantly objectifying and sexualizing me). I think he wanted me to become addicted to the money (I was making 180-300$ an hr – all profit, and all soul-killing).

He kept getting infuriated that I would save none of it. I considered it blood money, and it ran like water through my fingers (something I at times feel pangs about since I am unemployed and attempting to start a business)… He tried, and succeeded for a time, to make me believe I was only good for sex, and all I was, was an object to be used. That my worth lied between my legs. It is a belief I still struggle with.

He mentioned that he was involved with someone who later become a BDSM porn star. That I DID verify. He wanted me to get into porn. I never did, and just missed doing so only by the grace of God. I now believe he was still involved in that poor woman’s “career”, and he bragged about getting her into it. I believe he was seeing profits from her. And I do not believe she was the only one.

He mentioned in casual conversation killing people, and wanting me to participate. I went along with this (I had a lot of self-loathing and anger towards men), but never took him seriously. I now take what he said VERY seriously. I believe he DID kill someone. And that he will again.

He kept trying to get me to stop taking my medication. Every time I listened, I would become suicidal, and eventually go back on them.

I now believe he was trying to get me addicted to other drugs, use the profits I made from sex to move in with him, and then he would “casually” take over finances, keeping me there as a sex slave, financial prisoner, and emotional punching bag, and whatever else his sociopathic mind saw fit to put me through.

I had to go back to emerg last night. The pain is getting so bad that it hurts to sit up straight, and it hurts to walk. I feel unsteady on my feet.

Emerg was a disaster for me. There were too many people there – too many men. I went by myself, though I guess I had the option of having someone with me, it is just too shaming to have someone “normal” there with me when I feel somehow defective.

It felt like the nurses were checking up and comforting other people while I sat there alone, crying.

The woman beside me asked if she could help somehow. I thanked her, and said I was alright. How do I explain that I’m there because I was raped and I feel like I’m dying?

I talked to the nurses, explained it hurts to sit. They told me to stand. Umm. ya, like that would help. I replied that I would fall. They in turn explained to me that there was no bed available, as there were other people ahead of me. Yes, yes, I know, I understand the e.r. is overworked and understaffed. But you think I really cared about all that, while I was (am) in agony? Frankly, no, I could not care less.

I went back to sit down, but grew more and more agitated and angry. The thought of being touched again made me want to punch something and scream my pain out loud. So I left, scribbling my name with a shaky hand on the form saying I was leaving against medical advice. Honestly, I didn’t want to sign it, since I was not given any medical advice to begin with, and I’m pretty sure the nurse I spoke to had no idea what brought me in to begin with.


Back at home, I am at least more comfortable. I can lean on my side and curl up on the couch, which does not reduce the pain, but I am a bit more relaxed.

I admit, that in my despair I started wondering if there was any point staying alive. Until I received an outpouring of love and support from my DV group. It brought me out of my head a bit.

I left a message with my regular doctor, and have yet to hear from her office. I also plan on “bugging” the police a bit, see what is happening with my case.

Doctor just called back and I have an appt this afternoon. Maybe, hopefully, I will get some some sleep.

I have been unable to sleep in my own bed – to afraid to, though the exhaustion is catching up with me.