Kendra
15.5K posts

Kendra
@SurvivingCFS
Disabled by #mecfs | Disability rights advocate | Formerly homeless | living at an abusive nursing facility | Former English teacher trying to survive | 🏳️🌈
Chicago, IL Katılım Haziran 2023
8.3K Takip Edilen11.6K Takipçiler

@sydneyflow7 Is your implication that someone who did sex work in their past couldn’t one day work in the political sector because of it? If you’re going to say it say it with your chest. Don’t hide behind a bad faith question riddled with sarcasm. That shit doesn’t go over my head,
English

This person in our community is shaming people who use s*x work to support themselves financially. Something disabled women disproportionately have to do in order to make ends meet when they have limited options. There is nothing wrong with a disabled person doing s*x work to support themselves whether that be by choice or the need for financial instability.
sydneyflow@sydneyflow7
@SurvivingCFS Didn’t you say a while back you’ll start OF?
English

@sydneyflow7 And even if I did? And??? It would have been for survival. What are you even talking about? Sex work isn’t a determination of someone’s ability to do something good. What are you even TALKING about???
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@SurvivingCFS in fact your own treatment experienced
might still hold liability for the company that’s sold the place
They got the fines from the IDPH, but they did harm to you specifically (stealing your mail; starving you; roommate assault; $)
That could have financial damages awarded to you
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@sheilatebra @Blackwomangold Didn’t think crying this early would be on my bingo card this morning
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Anonymous
I run a small pizza shop. Deliveries mostly. Late nights. Got a call at 10 PM. Woman’s voice shaking. “Can you deliver to Sunset Motel?” “Yes ma’am. What would you like?” Long pause. “What can I get for six dollars? I have three kids.” Six dollars wouldn’t cover one pizza. “We have a special tonight. Family meal. Three pizzas, breadsticks, drinks. Six dollars.” No such special. She started crying. “Really?” Made the pizzas myself. Added wings. Cookies. Juice boxes. Drove it over.
She opened the door. Bruises on her neck. Three little kids behind her. Terrified. Quiet. “Thank you. You don’t understand.” I did understand. Started happening weekly. She’d call. I’d have a special ready. Month three she didn’t call anymore. Worried me. Two months later she walked in. Different person. Confident. Had a job. Apartment. Kids looked healthy. Happy. Handed me three hundred dollars. “For all the specials that weren’t real. I knew.” Tried to refuse. “Please. Let me pay forward.” That money started a fund. When someone calls from a shelter or motel desperate, we use it. Six years now. Over a thousand meals delivered. She’s a paralegal. Refers families to us constantly. Works with domestic violence survivors. Her oldest is in high school. Works at my shop weekends. “Because you fed us when we were running. Now I want to feed others.” Last Saturday she delivered to a family at that same motel. Came back crying. “That was us five years ago. Now I get to be you.”
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