Hello, dears. Today I read in the paper this question: When fear is trying to get the best of you, continually ask, “What’s the worst that could happen?”
People could shun me. Talk behind my back. Insult me openly. Consider me crazy. Misguided. Hate me. Ridicule me. Be embarrassed for me. For my family. My family will be humiliated and embarrassed by me. I could feel embarrassed and humiliated, regretting my choice to speak out.
When I was sixteen, I engaged in survival sex. That’s often what a teen does when (s)he is homeless, penniless, terrified, hungry, lost, and powerless. (S)he engages in sex in exchange for shelter and food. I write about my experiences in my memoir, NASTY GIRL, so titled because that’s what a psychologist called me when I went to him for help. It’s what the other clients called me in a show of so-called love. “That’s nasty, Polly,” they would say to me on various occasions. I knew I was nasty, that my behavior was nasty. I saw myself as the daughter the rock group The Mothers of Invention lead by Frank Zappa sang about in the song “Brown Shoes Don’t Make It.” I’m going to make her do a nasty on the White House lawn, Zappa sings. Nasty, nasty, nasty. Nasty, nasty, nasty, goes the chorus.
I have since retitled the memoir to A Minor, Unaccompanied. Most importantly, many services are now available to homeless teens. If you are homeless and need shelter, contact: National Safe Place.
So, here’s my quandary. Why write about it?
Because girls, and boys, who engage in survival sex, and who often get lured or trapped into sex trafficking are not nasty. They are wretched. They are miserable. They are in pain, but desperate to survive by the only means available to them.
My experience was 50 years ago. Fifty years, and still, I am hesitant to write about it. What will people say? What will they think? Will they call me a nasty girl all over again?
Because I want others to know how much it hurt, how it hurt, and why it hurt. I want others to know I understand. Whatever you are struggling with, I get it. I don’t hurt anymore, for the most part. Every once in a while, I run into a pocket of pain that I express with surprise, release, and let go. The feeling passes and I am that much stronger. I love myself now. I adore myself. You can adore yourself, too.
But you’ve got to love the pain as well. You have to cherish it and hold it dear. That’s where recovery begins. Until we are able to embrace the pain it will keep us chained. Face your nightmare. Own it, with help. And get free.
"You don't have to like your experience; you simply don't resist it. Resisting your experience is the same as not trusting the movement of true nature -- believing you must control things to ensure movement because you do not experience the larger flow of reality. By not resisting, you don't get stuck or fixed on a particular feeling or concern, so your experience is able to flow and transform more easily and naturally." "Soul Without Shame--A Guide to Liberating Yourself from the Judge Within" by Byron Brown