As A Kid

Sometimes, when I get quiet and pensive, I shape the T-word in my mouth. I roll it around on my tongue as memories flash behind my eyes like neural impulses—instinctual and imperceptibly fast. My lips part, and I open my mouth…and nothing comes out. Even when I’m alone, I can’t say it.

I can hardly believe the life we’ve lived, the violence we’ve witnessed. It sounds fake—like the script of a bad movie or the plot of a weird nightmare.

As a kid, we obviously didn’t know it as trafficking. It was referred to as “serving men” or “making My friends feel good” or “doing what they want.” Everything was always framed as pleasing others or being helpful. We were rewarded for being quiet and compliant; we waited on our owner or trainers’ command for everything.

We weren’t explicitly told what was happening, so things often didn’t make sense. Details were hidden or purposefully misconstrued so we were always confused enough to remain obedient. We interpreted our fragmented memories as isolated incidents, disjointed and unconnected, that were constantly occurring. At times, we wondered if there was a sign over our head, visible only to abusers, that read HURT ME.

Gradually, things became clearer as they went on. I understood that some of the religious men I served, the ministers, knew each other. I understood that all of the men identified as “friends” of our owner. I understood that our owner got “rewarded” for our service; He’d indicate as such in His satisfaction and praise afterward.

I was never really allowed to be curious about the way things worked. Anytime I questioned it, any time I disobeyed, the religious dogma that I’d been forced into since birth was wielded against me like a dual-sided sword. On one end, I’d be stabbed with, “You must obey me, as I am a man of God” or “This is your penance for the wrongness that is your existence;” on the other, the blade taunted, “You’re a disgusting sinner for serving men” and paradoxically, “You must serve penance for this.”

Trained to do whatever I could to please the men I fucked, my dissociative mind was used against me as a means of becoming the “perfect girl.” Parts of me split off under tremendous, intentional abuse and were presented as clay for clients to mold into their own personal fucktoy. (“Call her whatever you’d like. She’ll pretend to be whoever you want.”) And other parts of us were assigned the job of making sure we always followed the Rules laid out for us to ensure our fervent obedience.

We were a human child made into an object, trained to take and follow orders and maximize adult male pleasure by any means necessary. A passive, helpless, “gentle” little thing that never stood up for itself, never said no, and never got out of line.

I wonder if we’re really any different now.