My Descent Into The Sex Trade

My Descent Into The Sex Trade

Two things happened to bolster my career: I found work for a singing telegram company and I met a producer of erotic, female wrestling videos.

By Citizen Correspondent Tara Lynn

Date Posted: 07/23/08

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I was raised in a "good family" of strict Catholicism and ethics. Whether this had any bearing or not, I was lured into a life of exotic dancing, then nude performances with sex games and eventually full-scale prostitution. From as early as the age of seven, I had suffered from severe depression and was often suicidal. I was also studious, and eventually earned my master's degree and doctorate. For many years I lived a double life. Eventually, I pulled myself out of the business and dealt with my depression, but not without scars. My tale is neither cautionary nor prurient; rather it serves to shed light on the complexity of human existence.

I named myself, at various times in my life, Tara, Jacqueline, Monique, Monica, Trina, and some names I have since forgotten. I was also all these: good Catholic schoolgirl, depressed child, straight A student, dancer, erotic wrestler, singing telegram girl, stripper, prostitute, suicidal. I am now a college professor, PhD, writer, Latin dancer, and while my life is not perfect, I am rarely depressed.

At the age of 40, diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I spent most of my life negotiating “personalities” around web of lies. Not diagnosed well into adulthood, I had suffered a good deal of my chaotic life not knowing. I mostly felt like a freak, but I could fool anyone into thinking that I was brilliant, self-assured and quite competent. I avoided intimacy at all costs.

After a brutal rape, I left my small town and moved to New York City and fell into an obsessive love affair. Even though I periodically suffered depression, when I was inevitably rejected (due to my mood swings), I was torn apart with searing pain. Days looked bleak; my sense was that reality shape shifted to my inner realm, and this terrified me; it bordered on psychosis.

When I saw my “ex” one day, hand-in-in hand with a new paramour, I cut my wrists - more as an attempt to release pain than to die. I tried group therapy, but it was futile. The other depressed people depressed me more. I scrounged up about $250, and boarded a plane to L.A., still a mess.

Acclimating myself to a beach life and squeaking by on unemployment insurance, I rented an apartment share. I calmed my frayed nerves by swimming every day.