sexworkerproblems:

But to the rest of the world, they seem that way.

I suffer from chronic mental illness. I can’t seem to have a functional relationship. I only like people who are emotionally distant—attracted to me, fond of me, but never willing to commit to me, or feel something deeper.

And you know what gets blamed for that? Sex work.

People see what I write, and they see that I’m a sex worker, and they think, “Sex work made her sad. Sex work subjected her to abuse. Sex work taught her cynicism, made her hard, made her incapable of loving anyone who could really love her back.” They see the problems, and think they find the answer in the job description, because it’s so obvious to them that sex work is bad, and therefore, this must be the thing that has made me so hopeless, so sad.

My first boyfriend, who became my first husband, made me sad. I committed too early to a man who was so afraid of being alone that he was never going to leave me no matter how bad things got, no matter how wrong we became for each other as we grew up, and apart. He was the first person who called me a “whore,” long before it was ever my job description. He was the first person who abused me, who pressured me into sexual situations I was never comfortable with, who told me I didn’t love him enough because I wouldn’t fulfill fantasies that were hard limits for me. He was the first person who didn’t think I was entitled to boundaries.

That was a loving relationship that everyone around me approved of. I lost half my friends in the end of it. Is it any wonder I don’t want to commit? That I only fall for other people who are never going to ask me to make a hard choice again? That I’ve been avoiding “real relationships” since before I entered the sex industry?

But no. Sex work must be my problem.

Sex work must be my problem—not serotonin deficiency. Not a history of mental illness that goes back to my childhood, not a clear genetic predisposition for it that is easily traceable to my family. Not a lack of insurance that would cover real talk therapy, instead of just drugs that cover up the problem and have variable success rates. Not a lack of time to actually TALK to those poor, overworked doctors about what’s really wrong with me, so they can actually treat me.

No, I’m crazy because I’m a whore. I’m just a sad, crazy whore.

And what they don’t see, what they refuse to see, is how sex work helps. How it taught me to love my body unabashedly, to see the beauty my clients see in it. How it taught me to recognize one-sided relationships, how it taught me to not put up with bullshit from people who want something from me, and never give anything in return. How it taught me to say no and mean it. How it taught me to name abuse instead of calling it love. And, more than anything, how it makes me feel secure to know that whatever else happens, whatever ups and downs my life takes, here is a trade I can always turn to.

Sex work isn’t always great. It has its problems, like any other job. But most of my problems? Have nothing to do with it.

But no one listens to me about the problems I do have, or the help I really need. After all, I’m just a sad, crazy whore.

-SW10

stripstripsugar:

So don’t bother telling me.

or show me pics on your phone no thanks

nylasdiary:

Answer: I walked into a strip club and asked if I could work there.

everythingbutharleyquinn:

and like, the whole idea that people who have suffered abuse - particularly childhood abuse - are perma”broken” is fucked as fuck anyway. I mean, there’s a reason we all stopped using “victim” and started using “survivor”.