Your Networking and Your Intent Hold Hands. Here’s Why.

It has been five years since I published my first book, a collection of poetry entitled “Dusted Shelves”. I went into the studio with a great local producer in Seattle, WA, Lance Randall, and recorded Dusted Shelves Poetry C.D., complete with scoring and sound affects. The same year, 2013, I published an interactive journal, “Becoming Gratitude”, designed to reconnect ourselves with mindful awareness of our life. I published these two books while I was writing “Cult Child“, which I published in 2015.

 

When I reminisce on my writing processes recounting my childhood trauma through the pages of “Cult Child“, I realize I was writing it all inside of a very deep emotional triad that my brain was using to keep me balanced.

Dusted Shelves” was spilling my emotions through organization of poetry written when I was in trauma. “Becoming Gratitude” was helping me every day, stay focused on a positive mindset while I was writing out childhood trauma.

The ability the brain has to work in sync with itself is amazing to me.

Marketing has been a challenge. It has been a process of trial and error, testing and most of all, learning where I will make connections which contribute to my greater good as a person. Having been online from its conception in the early 2000’s, I have, in the past couple of years, felt myself begin to spin with the arrival of fast moving applications like Instagram. Twitter’s fast rise and the plethora of apps being thrown at me to market my writing likewise can overwhelm me. Things seemed to be speeding up faster then I really even felt an inner desire to keep up with.

I set out to understand where I was connecting to my readers. Who could understand me and emotionally feel my writing?

Since my memoir is based out of growing up in a cult, I first gravitated toward the cult advocacy society, where survivors of cults and other mind control groups, tended to congregate. Outside of a few connections who have turned out to be gems, I  learned over time this was not where I was finding the scope of authentic connections I longed for. I walked away from my time in that community learning that the content of my book does not dictate its audience or who will connect with it.

In my explorations, I chose to do a short podcast series entitled Survivor Voices Show. I interviewed strong voices like popular author and marketing expert, Rachel Thompson, owner of Bad Redhead Media and founder of Monday Blogs on Twitter. M Dolon Hickmon, author of bestseller, 13:24: A Story Of Faith and Obsession, Liz Ianelli, artist Survivor993, Cathy O’Brien, best-selling author of Access Denied: For Reasons Of National Security and PTSD: Time To Heal, and my fellow cult survivor, Glori L. Stiner, founder of Move Forward, a cause dedicated to exposing the abuses we children endured growing in Sam Fife’s Move of God cult. I wanted to cover as many mind control and generational abuse based stories as I could. I am pleased with series and am considering doing another one.

I spoke with author Matt Pappas, popular podcaster, sexual abuse survivor and owner of Beyond Your Past. I learned something extraordinary from everyone I talked with. We all had differing experiences when we broke down how our abuses were enacted. We all were even on differing paths in our healing journey. Yet still we all dealt with similar bi-products of the abuse we endured. We experienced Dissociation Disorders, cPTSD, Anxiety, Personality Disorders and a very long list of every day impairments left behind by our abusers. Amazingly, so many of us are thriving and supporting each other as we all are healing.

These experiences taught me that beyond the fences of my journey in this life is something important; that I am surrounded by those who are traveling the same road as me for one reason; because the destination leads to Healing. In the interim of all that I do, this matters to me more than anything.

People who have suffered childhood poly-abuse (sexual, physical, emotional) have the most in common with veterans of war. Yet, the difference is, children shouldn’t have to go to war.

There is no one arena or mold where I fit. I greatly respect and relate to those who have seen the horrors of war and the horrors which can be wrought on a child. I have read many a marketing post about finding my “target audience.” Yet, as I share my journey, what I have found to be an absolute for me is when I stayed rooted in an intent of connecting with survivors, instead of hunting down an audience, I felt the best. It changed my direction. I realized I could funnel small amounts of marketing funds into boosting posts while using my personal energy to really foster positive connections with other survivors from all walks of life.

I believe that as I gear up to release Rise of Sila next year I won’t change much about these connections. My peers will continue to understand me, as they have had the same struggles of abuse even in their teenage years. My story is still the voice of many a survivor, and it is for them, and my own mental health, that I finish this duo-logy.

I usually hunker down between the months of November – February. They are the months of holidays and taxes. I avoid social networking and pound out work. Leading back to the original topic of whether you are running in the right circles for your work, I leave you with this consideration.

Remember you are not just your content, you are also your intent.

Is your content fueled with the intent to connect with those who will understand what you are sharing? Are you rooted in the originality of who you are? Is this shining through your work and connections? If you are struggling to understand who you are, remember that we evolve, and part of who we are is constantly figuring out who we are! When you come into an acceptance of your now, I promise you’ll find your people.

Meanwhile, pound the pages, the canvas, the pavement, whatever you do to purge, create and express. This is the root of your creative intent.

We Are Your Resurrection

There are ghosts in my view. I am traveling hallways. We are coming back for you. Your breath quickens as you wait. Will your heart give in to the ache; the secrets you hold? They rot your insides, you know.

We are your shadow self.

Every deed, word, blow and theft of innocence lurks inside the remnants of your biological cells. You never considered that hell would come from those you desecrated.

When we come, we are a pack without a leader.

We have no need to follow, holding hands side by side, we yell, “Red Rover, Red Rover, come on over!”, and we smile. You taught us to rip at each other’s wrists, remember? Danger as an entertainer. That was your pleasure.

There were the games we played in secret, away from your judging eyes, sneaking moments with quiet giggles. We reserved our spirits from your shattering, scattering into life, struggling through its mores as we held ourselves in fetal positions to survive. Now, we rise.

We have gathered the ashes of our pasts, reconstructed our wings, and we are prepared to fly.

We are the children of your terror. We are the outcasts and sinners, scar bearers and wayward waifs. We are the tattooed tyrants, birthed from your horror, walking our own paths against your wrath. We color our hair bright. We carry ourselves Light. We know each step with precision as we enter this fight.

We are not mercy. We are strength. We are not bitterness. We are valiance.

We are turning your worlds inside out, releasing the doubt you preach from pulpits and podiums and classrooms to children and vulnerable humans. We are Dragons, gathering in the night.

We have been watching you a very long time. You see, you taught us well, but you failed to keep the tide from turning. Now we take everything you forced us to absorb, the intel and verbal hell, battered bones and dissociated minds, childhoods left behind, never to be relived, and create a mighty hurricane, gathering speed every time another survivor speaks their abuser’s name.

We release shame. It is not ours. It belongs to you. Your time to be burdened with your own deeds is long overdue.

I am a lurker in the darkness, mystic of the floated corners where the view is clear up here. I see the past and futures merging. I see the sadness and the pain purging. I feel every heart hurting, from the wicked to the wounded and my eyes can only focus on the cries of the affected, injected by decades of apathetic sociopathy using human flesh in the deadliest fashions.

For those who have a passion for hurting others, it is you I watch, even those who cloak themselves in the mask of mirrored goodness. We are keenly keeping our eyes focused. We are passed hoping. We are ready for war. Are you? How fast will your knees buckle when the first blows come? How long before your run?

No more will we be ruled, organized or contained. No more will we remain silent or compliant.

Associations and organizations meant to capitalize on those who’ve almost died inside and outside are crumbling at their feet. Too long you have preyed on the weak. Your time has come to an end, and no matter how much you pretend, keeping an illusion of control, you are quickly slipping into a sinkhole.

Even as your wrinkled fingers hold the purse strings, we sing.

Even as you watch us still, spinning tales of the ones who tell truths on you, we laugh as your ropes fray. It is your day. Your reckoning has arrived. We have been released from the hive, a swarm, marching with precision. Welcome to your new religion.

One must wonder about the abusive adult whose mind is so oblivious it cannot rationalize, that what you forced us to internalize would return to watch you burn. Yet, into the flames you will run, because the thought of combusting will feel less painful than the torture we will enact. Every item accounted for. Every brick will be removed. Each stone you drove home to build your wall will fall, and in the end what will be left, are more humans, free from your invisible chains, living in happiness.

For now, you shake beneath the hands of a mighty earthquake. In this surge, graves are unearthed and after years of holding still, we now run swiftly, legs strong, to destroy the villainous ones.

You will relax, forget to watch your back, and we will attack, because you deserve to be fought. You deserve to be tested with unrest.

Welcome to the Resurrection.

2018 Alaska Cult Awareness Conference

What an amazing experience, to talk to some Alaskan residents and share our hearts as survivors with doctors, lawyers and other cult survivors.  We have ignited a spark that won’t be quenched.

Click the coinciding .pdf PowerPoint presentations to follow along with the speakers.

Part One – the Early Days by Vennie Kocsis

PDF File:

I Survived the Move

YouTube:

Watch on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/moveforwardinc/videos/231836517505644

Part Two – the Modern Move by Glori L. Stiner

PDF File:

The Move of God cult presentation Glori L Stiner

YouTube: 

Watch on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/moveforwardinc/videos/716126958728186

 

My Mother Didn’t Want Me Calling Boys So I Wouldn’t Look Like a Slut

Cover Only

“Rise of Sila” book cover – coming soon!

As I’m writing “Rise of Sila”, the sequel to “Cult Child“, which details my transition as a teenager from growing up in a cult, to adjusting with American culture, the many ways in which I was conditioned by my child sexual abuse is coming out in deeper ways.

Excerpt from “Rise of Sila”:I feel confused and lost.  Boys come to school all the time with “love marks”, as everyone calls them, on their necks.   Why does that make me bad?  When it comes to boys, things aren’t so different in this world than they were back on the farm.  Boys get treated better out here too. Girls? We’re dumped if we say no when they want to have sex with us and sluts if we say yes.  My second lesson is that because I am a girl, even in this new world, I will still never be right.

Eventually Mama does ask me where Russ is; why he doesn’t call anymore.  I tell her he met another girl and doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.  Mama spends the next hour telling me that men are shit.  They’re all shit.  They take and take. That’s it.  So, I should expect it.  I should never trust a man as far as I can throw him.  If I carry one thing into my adult life I better take this one, Mama rants on.   Her voice fades into the distance as it has come to do when she begins to lecture.

I won’t listen. I will grow up to become battered and bruised by the men I would choose.  I will also become hardened.   She’s right about one thing, though.  Right now, as I sit here listening to her, I know I’ll never be able to trust a boy.”

My mother reinforced in me an ideal that males can never be trusted.  She did so any time a boy I liked didn’t like me back.  While she had strict rules about boys, so I wouldn’t look like a “slut“, such as not allowing me to call them because a “lady” always lets a boy call her, she also projected her own hate for men out through my coming of age experiences.

The layers of aftermath created by the abuse of Sam Fife’s Move of God did not end the day we boarded a plane at the Fairbanks, AK airport in 1984 and flew off to Tennessee.  It would settle into my skin and dominate how I experienced every aspect of my life in regard to relationships.

Writing this sequel is, at times, daunting.  Stories I once told as funny, in short, cryptic and satirical form, now take on a different perspective as I re-live the experiences.  They’re not so humorous anymore.  They are painful and raw.  They are a direct look into my own reality.

Most of all, they are making their way out of my DNA, through my fingertips, and into the pages of a book, which continues to tell my true story through the eyes of a girl named Sila.

Back Transparent Signature

Vennie Kocsis is the best-selling author of Cult Child and the hostess of Survivor Voices Show and her live Sunday broadcast Off the Cuff. She is an advocate, poet and artist.

I See You

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Liz Ianelli

I met her online, but I feel like I have known her forever. We have conversations like sisters, laughing and saying whatever we want.  We understand each other’s brash language and sarcastic thinking.  I feel so happy to have this connection.  Child abuse survivors understand other child abuse survivors.  We have our own way of conversing.  We joke about off color things. We find the macabre fascinating and nerd out on unexpected subjects.

Liz Ianelli was sent away as a teenager.  For 993 days she suffered.  Now, she rises out of the ashes to speak for those who cannot.  Liz sat down with me and shared her story on my radio show, Survivor Voices Show.

Click below to listen:

Liz’s story and incredible artwork was recently featured in ICSA Today’s 2017 Fall Quarterly Journal. After over 80 deaths of her fellow survivors, many of them suicides, Liz decided to begin the #ISeeYou campaign to inspire others and let them know they are not alone in their struggle. She rallied up her fellow survivors to make videos sharing their stories and what we deal with on a day to day basis as a result of being abused. Soon, survivors were sharing their stories. Liz hopes to continue rallying survivors, asking them to make videos as they feel comfortable.

Vennie Kocsis is the best-selling author of Cult Child and the hostess of Survivor Voices Show and her live Sunday broadcast Off the Cuff. She is an advocate, poet and artist.

50 Shades of Bible 

by Vennie Kocsis

Chapter One

The view from the second floor of the palace is clear, void of fog or dust. King David lounges on His fur covered, ornate chair, gazing through the stucco columns of His balcony. She is bathing again, the marble tub filled with milk. She is naked, voluptuous and unaware of the eyes that could be watching her. He will have her. After all, He IS the King. He has decided to wait no longer.

Many an evening He has spent observing her. One day there would be a word for this behavior. Stalker. Yet, it is a time of dust and candles, rulers, slaves, bathing beauties and Kings who do not accept no as an answer.

The King smiles to Himself. He has sent her husband, Uriah, one of His soldiers, off to war, with secret orders to His private lieutenant that Uriah must surely die in battle. Soon, word arrives that the deed is finished.

David sends for the milk bathed beauty. Up close she is more breathtaking than He has obsessed over from afar.

He has a room prepared especially for her. Roses line the bed, tucked into wooden vases, filling the room with a subtle, sweet scent. Soft fur blankets and pillows adorn the bed.

She pauses in the doorway, her head bent down in reverence as she curtsies slowly. He takes her in with his eyes, stirred by the simple, flowing gown covering her dark skin.

Come, dear one. Lift your head.” He directs her toward him.

Her dark hair is braided down her back; three plaits to signify her royal status. Gold bands wrap around the bottom of each braid. Her lips are full. Her face is bare and beautiful. She has an air of humble confidence as she glides towards Him, kneeling at His feet.

He lifts her chin.

Look to me. I must tell you something that will break your soft soul in half. Then I will heal you.”

Her eyes fill with tears. She knows what the King is about to tell her.

He is gone.” She whispers. “My love. My Uriah. The swords have taken him.”

Tears stream down her cheeks, and unexpectedly her chest explodes as she finds herself sobbing into the King’s lap.

There, now, My dear.” He soothes, gliding His fingers over her skin.

So soft.” He thinks. He is filled with the urge to bed her.

He will. After caring for her as she grieves the loss of her husband, grateful to the King for His loving care, He takes her into His arms. She complies, wishing simply to be held, to remember the touch of the one man she would truly ever love. Uriah.

The King smiles each time she sighs into His chest after their coupling. In times when one can command a murder to have the woman He wishes, it is good to be the King.

Chapter Two

When the Master first sees her, she is dancing beneath a tree. Enraptured, He holds His hand up, a signal for His twelve bodyguards to cease speaking or walking.

The group of men stand still as they watch Him. Their Master walks closer to the dancing woman.

She is a glowing movement of magical beauty. Her hair is flying in strands of long black curls. Occasionally she throws her head back, laughing and letting out the most beautiful warble, as if a bird is whistling music inside of her head.

She is free.” He thinks.

A crowd has gathered, watching her. They are yelling at her.

Whore!”

Slut!”

One man picks up a small stone, hurling it toward her, but he misses.

She continues dancing, completely oblivious of the swiftly turning crowd, which is forming a semi-circle around her.

She grabs the hem of her skirt, holding it up as her long legs brush the sand elegantly. The Master holds back an urge to laugh in delight. Her hips sway. She is bare stomached, with a soft cloth covering her breasts, her shoulders curved and flawless. Love shoots from His stomach like never before.

His attention turns to the crowd. He beckons His bodyguards to follow as they walk over. She has stopped dancing, now aware of her impending doom, fear settling into her deep, brown eyes. She huddles behind the tree.

The Master brushes His lips with His left fingers as He passes her.

Shhhh.” He orders, and their eyes lock for seconds, sealing a bond that will never be shattered.

The Master stands before the crowd, His teelve burly men flanking Him. The crowd falls silent.

You.” He points to the largest man with the heaviest rock, beckoning him to come forward. The man laughs, dropping his rock and walking over. He is confident that he will take this would be Commander down with one blow.

Why do you hate this woman?” The Master inquires, His voice welcoming and warm.

She is a harlot.” The man growls angrily. “Look at her. She shows her body. She dances alone. She has no respect for herself.”

I see.”

The Master contemplates for a moment, silently, as the man shifts uncomfortably in his dirty sandals.

May I wager a deal?” The Master asks. “If I prevail, you command the crowd to leave.”

Confident that he will win, the man heartily agrees.

The Master leans down and picks up a small piece of branch. He says nothing ad he writes in the sand.

You have been bedding your brother’s wife for many moon cycles now. If you do not leave this woman alone, my men and I will follow you into town and tell your whole family.”

As the Master gives the man time to read, He watches his face change to shock. How could this Master know such a thing?

Silence continues until the man looks up at the Master, who then uses his foot to wipe the words from the sand.

Without hesitation, the man orders the crowd to leave, leading them away from the woman who had been dancing beneath the tree.

She rushes toward the Master, falling to her knees, kissing His feet. She lifts her face, her eyes endless pools of tearful emotion as she whispers.

Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

The Master reaches down and takes her hand to help her stand. He pulls her close and whispers into her ear.

But will you serve Me?”

Her body falls slack against Him. He smells of desert dust and days of traveling with no baths. She will wash each inch of His skin tenderly, down to his calloused feet and gnarled toenails.

Yes.” She breathes. “I will serve you, my Lord.”

She will serve Him until His last days. He will reward her with camels and baby goats, fresh wheat and apricots. She will weep at His feet when His own people murder Him, hiding their children as not to have His heirs slaughtered as well.

Her name is Mary. She is a Sacred Whore. Her Master loves her, and even in His absence, her heart will belong to Him until her last breath.

Motherless On Mother’s Day

by Vennie Kocsis

I don’t quite understand these constant holidays, dedicated to moms and dads and bunnies and love. I see them as marketing scams, a way to boost economy almost every month, by throwing in a Holiday.

But hey, maybe I’m bitter.

On these days I am reminded of my absent mother. See, not only did she pass away in 2007, her mother’s soul was stolen when I was three.

Recruited by an ill-intended woman into a sinister cult, my mother was forced to be separated from her children, initially physically starved through food rationing. After years of brutal torture, all of our spirits were broken.

Emotionally, I never had a mother. In cult life, I was rarely allowed to express my feelings to anyone. This was considered to be self centered behavior, a feeding of the flesh and a sin in the eyes of God.!!If by some chance I caught my mother in a listening mood, my emotions were most often turned back around on me.

“Suck it up, buttercup.”

This was one of my mother’s favorite phrases.

These days feel so distant to me. Social media is filled with flowery and adoring words dedicated to mothers. They are loved and adorned with the flowers of sparkly attention.

I wonder if those mothers are supported every single day as they raise children, work and juggle schedules. I wonder if they have their own mothers to love them.

My mother is not here to love me. If she were here, she would most likely be in the midst of her Queendom, wearing her dark “Godmother” sunglasses which she’d taken to wearing for her glaucoma.

She would be the center wheel, the rest of the family mothers in her shadow, as she preened. There is a wince inside of my star heart, a little ache to return, back into the portal where my real home awaits.

I see the outstretched arms of my celestial Mother, her lips parted into a smile reflecting light from her pearly white teeth. She is waiting for me. She is proud that I succeeded in my mission.

“Welcome Home.” She says softly.


(Gif by Vennie Kocsis)



There is no banner or trumpets to celebrate my return. We are not a star family of false pretenses. She gives me the intimate connection which supersedes any material gift.

She holds me inside of her love, and as her arms wrap around my body, I sigh a heavy breath into her chest. I am home again.

To the mother in the starlight, who visits my dreams at night, soothing my cries, stroking my holographic hair, I am alight in your glory. We will see victory in this round.