A Self-Doubting Whore

TW: Rape, PTSD, Trauma Dumping

I hadn’t realized I had childhood PTSD until last weekend. The revelation came after a particularly dark conversation with Liberty. I’ve been quite private about what I’ve been up to lately with regards to my “transition” away from full-time sex work. I don’t intend to fully transition out for several years, however the process of switching back into vanilla life will require a significant investment of time and effort. I’m applying for grad school with the hopes of becoming a licensed psychologist specializing in therapy for sex workers. “Sex worker focused therapeutic approach development” doesn’t fall neatly into the bucket of marriage and family therapy, nor does it seem broad enough to fit into a general clinical psychology bucket. There are some tie-ins to LGBTQIA therapy and a bit of addiction and recovery, however it only intermittently touches upon these niches. I’d begun doing research into the various specialties, unsure of which program might best serve my goals, and casually disclosed my plans to Liberty, during a particularly slow evening at the club.

“You should be my therapist!” Liberty declared, sipping from a solo cup, “I don’t trust therapists, uh uh,” she shook her head, “They’re full of shit, or worse, they get sad when I talk about my life. They don’t fucking understand nothing.”

“I know, they really don’t.”

“That shit is traumatic, man! They look at me like I’m fucked up, and I know I’m fucked up, I got trauma. I been through a lot. A lot most people don’t even know how to deal with. Selena, you should just start with me! I’ll be your first patient.”

I appreciated her encouragement, but I felt immediately overwhelmed. I’d fallen already into an ethics conundrum and I hadn’t even begun. While I am interested in being a therapist, I am NOT a therapist yet. I have neither education nor credentials. I also don’t know if it is ethical to take on friends as patients, regardless of being qualified to do so.

“That’s really sweet of you, but I haven’t started yet.”

“You can practice on me. I trust you, because you’re like me. You get what I do. I just need to talk about this shit. And I’ll pay you!”

“I couldn’t accept–”

“Girl, I need help. I was raped by my grandfather when I was four-year-old, and then by the guy who used to run the apartment building where I lived. He put a gun to my head and told me he would shoot me if I told anyone. I let him do it, because I didn’t want to die!” she laughed ruefully, “I told my parents, but they didn’t believe me. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know anybody. This was when we moved to Barcelona.”

I felt my throat clench and a wash of dread pass over my body. I blinked, trying to keep a neutral expression as I listened to Liberty detail her abuse. I felt the way I had as a child listening to my mother describe how she had been molested by her uncle, or how gang rape had changed her best friend forever. I knew I needed to mentally separate myself from what Liberty was telling me. She spoke with almost emotionless candor. This was her life. It was the past, and she had survived to this present moment, developing a steely resilience. I felt bewildered as I grappled with the degree of trauma she had experienced. In my naivete, I’d expected to talk to sex workers about love; negotiating their personal intimacy with their paid intimacy; and what their relationships to their bodies looked like. Instead, in talking to Liberty, I realized I needed to focus on trauma.

“I can’t come when someone goes down on me. I don’t feel anything. I wish I felt something, but I’ve never been able to. I also can’t come with a dick.”

“Never?”

“I’ve never been able to.”

I could relate to her numbing. When I contacted Rahi for somatic healing sessions, I’d been struggling with the same lack of positive sensation. He had called it “genital armoring,” a defense tool people sometimes develop in response to trauma. Mine hadn’t happened because of my rape. It had happened in tandem with full service sex work. I learned to dissociate, and decided to avoid bringing my eroticism into meetings with clients. Initially I’d been open to enjoying myself, but I soon came to feel overwhelmed by this disconnected form of intimacy. It felt unsafe, particularly in situations where my job was to encourage selfish behavior. Once I made the decision to shut down, I realized regretfully that I didn’t know how to switch myself back on again. My brain had created a neural pathway correlating sexual touch with unwanted touch, regardless of whether it was my own chosen intimacy or intimacy with clients. I didn’t have a solution to Liberty’s numbing. I didn’t have a solution to my own numbing.

“I want to figure these things out because I wanna become a mom in the next few years, and I can’t be dealing with this shit. I’m going to chef school and I want to open an equine therapy center for kids like me with sexual abuse issues. I won’t make them talk about anything, just teach them to ride and care for the horses. I’ll give them time to open up. I didn’t talk about what happened for a while either. I’ll share my story, so that they know that I understand, then let them talk when they’re ready.”

It was beautiful hearing her vision and drive to pursue healing. While I was not (and still am not) qualified or knowledgeable enough to tackle her issues, I decided, perhaps against my better judgment, that I would at least try to be there in whatever capacity I could. I could listen. I could validate they ways her body unconsciously has defended her. I could point out her incredible resilience. It wasn’t much, but it was maybe more than she had at the moment.

“Sometimes I just scream, especially when I’m alone. I need to get better. I need to move on.”

She sighed. We both took a moment to watch Mariah on stage. Liberty cupped her hands over her mouth and hooted, waving at Mariah who smiled back. There was only one man in the club, and he sat in the back, far from the stage. He gazed off, away from Mariah, trying to disappear and avoid tipping her.

“You have my number, right?” Liberty asked.

“Maybe..” I checked my phone, but nothing came up.

She put her number into my phone under a name I didn’t recognize.

“That’s my real name. Thank you so much, babe. I love you so much.”

That weekend, as I spiraled trying to wrap my head around how to be useful to Liberty in her healing process, I began searching Youtube for videos by licensed trauma therapists where I could learn more about treatment methods. I watched one video by a so-called “trauma coach” who adamantly repeated that she is *not* a psychologist. She had some useful tips, but wasn’t the most comprehensive. From that video, I stumbled upon a series by a childhood trauma specialist. Since a lot of Liberty’s trauma had begun with betrayals as a very young child, I figured it was a good enough place to investigate. Little did I know, I was diving into a personal wormhole.

His channel included a video on triggers: “Signs You Might Have Childhood PTSD. As the therapist listed the symptoms, I became hypersensitive. Every sound felt louder. I noticed pain in my body that I’d been unaware of prior. My teeth clenched, and my heart raced. The video suggested I take the Adverse Childhood Experiences, or ACE Test. The ACE Test was created by Kaiser Permanente in collaboration with the CDC to learn about the long-term health risks associated with traumatic early life experiences. The study showed a direct correlation between a higher ACE Score, and long-term behavioral, physical, and mental health issues. A high ACE score is 4+. I scored a 5. It both was and wasn’t surprising. I sent the test to my friends and they scored similarly high marks. I gravitate toward people with trauma, and they gravitate to me.

I messaged: “Congratulations! We’ll likely have long-term health complications related to our trauma.”

They responded with party emojis. What else was there to do other than make light of these bleak revelations (and later tearfully confide our terror to our therapists)?

I wanted to know more and understand how I’d missed something that was so integrated into my daily life. How could I have missed something so obvious? I struggle with sensory overload and feeling waves of emotions that render me speechless when I hear loud noises. I police people who I feel are inconsiderate, even if they’re just living their lives as best they can. Witnessing sad or unjust circumstances send me spiraling out, and I find myself unable to shake away sadness or rage. I am unable to articulate when I need help, or am overburdened–instead I silently suffer or lash out when my unmet needs overwhelm me. I’m hypervigilant, constantly aware of the feelings in a room, and prepared to be victimized by those around me, even when they mean no harm. I identified with so many symptoms. As I recognized myself in them, I felt out of control. I was exhausted, and yet I could not sleep for the next 48-hours. What had I unwittingly dug up?

I also felt ashamed. I’d thought I had made peace with the past. I am relatively healthy; I maintain close, loving relationships; I don’t have a substance abuse problem; I’ve maintained a steady job; and I don’t struggle with being emotionally available to my loved ones. It felt like in a single night I’d backtracked substantially, and had to grapple with the lost ground. Even with decades of therapy, my inner child was still wounded.

I decided it wasn’t all bad, I decided. I had encountered new information, and I was learning. I realized the path I was embarking upon would inevitably flick on a trigger every now and again. It wouldn’t be easy handling those moments, but I resolved myself to try and make them teachable experiences. Experiencing this roadbump had renewed my sense of determination. I had learned a bit about my trigger points and could anticipate it in the future, and I now had a greater understanding of the path I would have to take to get where I wanted to go.

There will be many barriers, a few of them I’ve already experienced as I’ve embarked upon my journey. It is very vulnerable to share the beginning of a journey, particularly before I’ve accomplished anything. People have already congratulated me, but those congratulations feel premature. I’ve only made a decision to do something, and that is not the same thing as successfully completing the task. I don’t know if I will get into the universities I apply to. I don’t know how much discrimination I will face in the admissions process. I don’t have the shiniest, prettiest resume in the pile. While I may have a community that believes in me, the odds are stacked against me, and I am scared. Just because I endeavor to do something, it doesn’t mean that I will be able to do it, and putting it out there in a semi-public space before anything is determined is more than a little terrifying. But this new mission has consumed me, and I can hardly think about anything else right now. While it may be frightening for me, I hope my bumpy process might empower some other self-doubting whore to be brave. I’m not perfect. None of this is easy. Nothing is guaranteed. But I believe it is worth trying.