I have a problem with waiting in rooms.
Actually, I have a lot of problems with them. When I’m there alone, but I can hear other people; when I don’t know who’ll be coming in or what will be expected of me; when I’m waiting to find out what will happen to me for the next hour or afternoon or day. It’s not surprising, really. Over the years I’ve waited in many of them more often than I could even begin to count, and I don’t remember the outcome ever being a good one.
This time, today, I have more information than I did then but I’m still nervous. I can feel my stomach as it turns somersaults, I can hear my heart pounding, so I try to concentrate on what I do know.
I’m meeting a woman.
She only wants to talk to me.
There will be cameras, but I’m safe.
I’m here because I choose to be here.
My story will be heard.
When I waited in rooms before, they were sometimes in houses, sometimes in flats. Often I was in a hotel, sometimes a posh one, sometimes a budget one. I would be meeting men. ‘Meeting’ – that isn’t quite right, is it? We weren’t going to chat, we weren’t lovers grabbing a few stolen moments.
Those men, those rooms…
They were buying me.
I have flashbacks all the time. It started when I was so young and, to be honest, I’m not even sure it’s over. They have done so much damage to me – emotionally, physically, psychologically, that I think I’m probably broken beyond all repair. But I’ll fight. Today is part of that fight. This woman wants to hear my story. She’s going to talk to me, she’s going to listen, then she’s going to add my words to the words of other girls and women like me, and she says maybe someone else will listen too. I’m not so sure about that bit – I think most people want to close their eyes and ears to what happens on their streets, in flats and houses across the country, and in hotel rooms. They want to pretend that only certain types are involved in this ‘sort of thing’. They’d rather it was one section of society, or one type of girl. They feel more comfortable putting labels on it and saying it would never happen to them, to anyone they know.
But those girls, those women, are someone’s daughters.
Those men are someone’s sons.
And fathers.
And husbands.
I want to speak out, I really do, but it’s so hard to trust anyone because I’ve been through so much. I want to tell my story to help others and to prevent more young girls from a life of horror – but the flashbacks never stop, the nightmare is far from ending. Sitting here, waiting for my story to be heard, I just want to leave, I want to run. I could do that – I could walk out of that door right now… But the thing is, I always could. The hold they had on me wasn’t one of locks and chains, the only key I needed to access was one within me. And that was hidden for so very long.
So, I’ll do this. I’ll speak out and maybe, just maybe, that’ll loosen the chains no one can see and help me find some freedom from my own past. But it won’t be an easy journey…
Are you ready to take it with me?