In this harrowing article, Jenna describes her struggle to build a new career after prostitution.

It has been several years since I sold sex. In that time, I have done a lot of reflection and come to many realisations regarding the harm that I was subjected to. Adjusting to a ‘normal’ life and a regular 9-5 afterwards was not easy in practice. I had anxiety. Some days I didn’t want to wake up. And I didn’t manage to be fully in control of my emotions.

The first job I worked in after I left was in customer services and it involved taking calls from dissatisfied members of the public. It came with a lot of shouting. People shouting and swearing at me down the phone while I tried to help them with their bill or their technical difficulty. It wasn’t personal but it felt like it was. Those people would have shouted at whoever they spoke to but it upset me every time. I felt angry. Why were they shouting? Why were they speaking to me like I didn’t have a brain? Like I didn’t deserve any respect?

I struggled. With my health, with my emotions and with being able to cope with life in general. I’d gone from working two or three days a week, satisfying the whims of sex obsessed men and having money that I felt I’d really earned to working five days a week, being shouted at and not having much to show for it. 

I stayed in that job, eventually moving on to a slightly different role (same money, slightly less shouting) and was fortunate to have an understanding manager who knew that health was more than just physical. She saw me as a whole person with a past and not just a worker bee who needed to be put in her place. I was grateful and when I was made redundant from that role, I felt lost and unsure of what was to come next. 

Since then, life has felt shaky. I managed to get another job which again involved taking calls. This time from vulnerable individuals who had distressing stories to tell. I did my best. I stayed calm. I tried to help. But the pressure was too much. I had zero time between calls and couldn’t catch my breath. This was not what I’d hoped for. I was getting older. I had experience, skills, an education. I felt cheated. My past as a ‘sex worker’ had stolen big chunks of my life. It had made me anxious and vulnerable and above all angry. I always felt like I was playing a role. The submissive quiet one who won’t cause trouble. I left, unable to take call after call like a robot and feeling like a failure.

I didn’t give up though. I needed a new direction. Something to give me purpose. A challenge. I managed to do some training and get a job in the field that I was looking for. I hadn’t been there long when a male member of staff made me feel uncomfortable. It was frustrating. I’d put on a lot of weight since I left the sex industry and I was older now. Why was this still happening? It’s not a rational thought process I know but in some ways being older and larger protects me now and I didn’t have the fight in me to confront this man.

In the past I would have let it go, would have talked myself out of doing anything about it. They will just think I’m a troublemaker, overreacting. It could make things worse. The anger called me though. Why should I keep quiet? Why should he be comfortable making me feel small? So I did report it and I felt proud that I did. Who knows what else this guy might be doing? In my past experience, it’s rarely just one woman affected by a predatory man. 

I was getting on, feeling like maybe I really had turned a corner when I realised that there was a sex buyer I knew on the pay roll – one of my old regulars. I didn’t work directly with him but when I saw who it was, it was like going back in time. No. This wasn’t me. I was strong now. I’d done so much work on myself, made so much progress. Why was he here? They’re everywhere aren’t they? I’m never going to escape it. I left. Didn’t go back. And sat with swirling thoughts of failure and sadness and anger. So much anger. 

I just wanted to be a functional woman. A success. Stable. Happy. At peace. But my bubble was burst again and I felt despondent.

I needed a job and money. I’ve got bills to pay. Thoughts raced through my head for weeks, and I could feel myself getting lower and lower. I may as well just go back to that life. At least selling sex is quick money. At least I wouldn’t have to do it every single day. Maybe I could still do it. I don’t look the same as I once did but there’s a market for everyone. In my cloud of darkness I contacted a woman I’d worked for and in less than 24 hours I had a date to work. 

The day before, I felt nothing but despair. I tried to picture myself doing the things I’d once done. I felt sick. I couldn’t. I’ve come too far. The thought of those men touching me made me feel murderous. How had I even got here? Am I really that broken? I felt out of control. Couldn’t sleep. I started drinking at 5am and by 6am I was popping paracetamol and codeine until they were all gone and I felt light headed. I’m not sure I wanted to die but I did want to disappear. At least for a while. So I couldn’t go there. Couldn’t do that.

Maybe I will get some help.

Maybe someone will finally hear me. Understand how impacted I am by those men. Maybe I will get real help and find a job that won’t have me running for the hills. The doctor barely looked at me “we all have good and bad days”. Yes, doctor. Yes we do.