He loomed over me, his bare skin exposed, his outstretched arms were both intimidating and threatening. I had seen what strong men had done to me before. I sat on the hotel bed, curled up into a ball of raw shame, holding back tears. I reached out for the pen and signed the nondisclosure agreement that would ensure my silence.
With a smug expression on his face, he bragged about his successful company and his infidelities with escorts while his pregnant wife waited at home. His narcissism made my stomach churn with disgust.
I reached for the rolled-up note, hoping to numb the anger I felt towards him. It was a futile attempt to find solace in the face of such terror. I knew deep down that the white powder could only provide temporary relief. Luckily he had plenty for me.
As he used me like an object, living out his abusive and violent fantasies, I lay there, still and silent. My mind drifted away, and I began to pray to a god that I didn't even believe in, hoping that he would only take out his anger on me and not on other escorts or his wife.
I clung to the delusion that there was something unique about me that made men want to abuse me. It was a desperate attempt to hold onto some semblance of sanity in a world that seemed to be unraveling around me. I allowed myself to believe that men only wanted to be violent towards me.
As the brutality continued, I liked to think about things that made me happy, like writing, and art, to distract my mind and body from the abuse. Dissociation was my safe space. As the torment ended, I lay there alone, wondering what kind of life I was living, questioning if my materialistic lifestyle was worth enduring such agony.
- It wasn’t
