Streams of Consciousness – 1

Insomnia / wish I could sleep / but I’m awake / avoiding / the heater is too warm but I don’t feel like moving to adjust it / I have errands to do today, and here I am 4 am / unable to sleep

I should write here more / but I’m often avoiding / writing a novel / writing out feelings / that shit be overwhelming sometimes / there’s only so many jagged pieces to be sifted through / until the blood starts seeping / sometimes from my eyes / sometimes from my fingertips / sometimes I go numb

You ever just need to disappear? / need a fuckin’ break / from the heartache / not just mine but the entire human race / I see it in almost every face I pass / and I find myself forcing smiles toward them / because I can’t bear their pain / I’m an Empath / I need them to heal their heartache / so I can be all the way okay

And just because I dive / just because I ramble / don’t mean I’m not alive / or alright / sometimes I just gotta / get shit off my mind / freestyle like

And that’s what blogs are for, right?

Rest Without Getting Depressed

During my childhood living in the cult we children were required to always be kept busy to the point we were often in sleep deprivation mode.  It was so ingrained into my head that now, in adulthood, I have struggled with being okay with just simply resting.  My inner talk would begin, saying things like “You’re being lazy.” or “You should be doing SOMETHING.”

This conditioning of always having to be working as a child has followed me deeply into my adulthood.   At the same time, exhaustion sets in when one has worked since such a young age.  Where typically I should have a zest for working at this current point in my life, I often find myself feeling an aversion towards it, become exhausted even at the thought of having to keep a regular schedule without knowing how my body/mind/spirit will feel.

I dealt with a trigger toward the end of the week and found myself exhausting very quickly, body wanting to sleep, and I listened to it, getting hours of rest.   I had some thoughts I wanted to share afterwards about the difference between sleeping off a trigger, resting the body and letting it heal as opposed to being depressed.  For me, at least, there is a difference, and I’ve had to learn how to differentiate between the two.   I talk more about this in the below video.

Anesthetize

You stand there in your
White smock,
Arms crossed over the chest,
Same smile fifteen years later.

I wonder who you are anymore
As your voice echoes
Dismissive screams
Disguised as suggestions
For my wailing.

“Hop a bus to the Harbor,”
You say
“Over a bridge.
Live a little
But just in case you can’t…”

Medicate

I stand small in my boots,
A dandelion inside of weeds
Smashed by every brain
Who dismisses my needs;
Who doesn’t see
Things are different for me.

I fade off beyond the windows
To the skyline.
There’s a blue beneath the clouds
That could be ocean.
I swim there as his voice becomes a whisper,
And I float
As he tries to care.

Medicate

There are answers unaccepted
Even for sadness unexpected.
There’s no more bend in my back.
I’ve walked upside down
Using mirrors for balance.
Those days are long gone.

And I stared
At the scrape on your head
Wondering if you fell
Because you’re aging
And just don’t care anymore.

Not a lost heart,
But a man tired
From carrying the remnants
Of sickness hung around his neck,
Seeped into his stethoscope
Beginning to squeeze his throat.

They don’t use it, you know.
It just looks…
Doctory.

Medicate

I laugh for you.
What a beautiful mask,
All brilliant glow of teeth,
Age lines posing as dimples
Make sideways jokes
A temporary anecdote.

I am a dipping bird
Desperate for worms,
And you are watching as if
My flying is a dance
While I hope for chances.
I nose dive
Into the hive.

I count emotion as it passes.

Anger
Despair
Confusion
Weariness

My body is consumed
As your fingers type out scripts
Because letters spell loneliness
And your scientific ride
Is the most toxic drift.

Medicate

Here we go.
Papers pressed in hands,
Urgent goodbyes;
I inhale in the parking lot
Staring at the setting sun
I’m just another one
Last lock for the day.

Nothing in this is changing,
Just passing by and waving.

When a heart has been danced upon
Until it is trodden earth,
When indifference becomes
The script to numb the hurt
When you can’t see the answer
Is the atmosphere that

Where I breathe
I die.
Where I breathe
I am alive.

And you
Want to anesthetize it,
Like purity holds no power,
Pain should be pacified,
And all the while I am just
Frozen inside these boots.

So tell me, doctor, what would you do?

Medicate?

Vennie Kocsis
©venniekocsis.com

An Army Inside the One

What a cruel fate; these women who live inside me. What a scatter, a hush, a bustle of activity, a wish for silence as our skin is touched.

What a tortured existence, the ending of the blissful discovery, when truth comes with the sunrise and lies disappear with the moon.

What an angst to carry, an anger undefined, many in one, intertwined in the darkness surrounded by a glow. If you could only know the sullen, and still love them, but these indifferent frames don’t bring authentic feel.

What a solitary run through this planetary blink. These women who are me, hold secrets of a girl. What a war of surviving the battles, staring daily at the scars, invisible to strangers whose walls block their view.

What a fall to choose , tortured to feel the agony of every passing earthling; their soul’s dying soaking into my being, a starfish beneath the seas. They drown me.

What a mask to wear, holographic in its design, changing with the seasons of my mind. I am translucent to the blind, in moments ceasing to matter, drowned by the chatter of silent lips obsessed with their own loneliness.

What a circle, the daring five, brave enough to fight to be alive, an army dwelling inside the one; a portal into the caves.

and right now, we are afraid.

The Hiding Place (“Cult Child” excerpt)

     “Brother Coblin announces at service one night that we’re all going to get to watch a movie called The Hiding Place. It’s about a woman named Corrie Ten Boom, a Jew who was in the concentration camps during World War II. I’m excited to get to watch a real life movie. I think about Anna telling Mama the stories about the same war.

But The Hiding Place just rips my heart out. I fight tears during almost the whole movie. Jess Carter laughs at me for crying, and I lie saying I sneezed and it made my eyes water. Corrie Ten Boom huddles on a bunk with her sister eating bread she’d stolen so they wouldn’t starve. Her head is shaved and she watches as people are marched to the gas chambers to die.

I will have night terrors when I get older; dreams filled with women in white gowns walking single file on a path carved inside a wall of snow. They will march towards the potato dugout gas chamber, and they be holding bloody babies in their arms.

Brother Coblin says when the Communists come they’ll do the same to us that Hitler did to the Jews. We’ll be persecuted for believing in Jesus, just like the Jews were tortured for what they believed in.

     The Hiding Place just leaves me with more bad dreams where I see myself standing in lines waiting to go into the chambers and die. I have a shaved head and black dust on my face. There are only children in the line with me. We have sad, hopeless faces with dark, hollow eyes crying tears that leave trails down our cheeks. Brother Ray stands smiling in the doorway of the gas chamber. He is holding a tin of cookies out to me. I start awake then shove my head under the covers, afraid of the demons that might be lurking in the dark corners of my room.”

“Cult Child” is available on Amazon.com (paperback / Kindle (unlimited/lending) http://www.amazon.com/Cult-Child-Vennie-Kocsis/dp/0692235647/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1421028994&sr=8-1&keywords=cult+child

Broken Until Spoken

IMG_1456

This was not an easy photo for me to do this morning. I cried. It hurt to take. I was swept back to being a five year old child, mouth taped so often to train me to be silent, just like this, except it was white packing tape, so even more humiliating as I couldn’t hide my cracked, dry lips. For those who have read the novel, Cult Child, you may recall me describing this practice.

I forged forward today and took this photo in support of Broken Until Spoken because I was most definitely broken until I could finally get it out, talk about it, and allow the telling of my truth to be my strength.

My fellow abuse survivors and thrivers, these are the times for us to speak and tell our truths. If you are comfortable, please participate in this project.

WE! As in You and I, Need YOUR SELFIE!!

Raped in the Moonlight

I’m in the backseat he’s on top of me. In my mind, I’m screaming no.

But I am sixteen years old and silent.

Groomed by the many hands who have touched me in places non-consenting, I am frozen right here, right now.

It is 1985.

“Just go on a double date with us.” She urges me. “Come on. I don’t wanna go alone!”

My body is already screaming “don’t go”, but I can’t abandon a friend, a habit I’ll carry through life. Something I’ll always pay for in the end when it turns pretend, but here, right now I am willing. I will be there for my friend.

I don’t know him, this date she has pre-arranged. I am stuck sitting in the back seat beside him with my stomach gurgling. He is sandy blonde hair and everything I don’t want touching me, pale skin and pompous sense of southern entitlement.

But she, my friend, has her own agenda. She wants someone along for the ride so she is not alone, and I am quietly wishing I’d stayed home.

I am bitter. I feel used. I don’t know how to refuse until it’s too late.

There’s not much fun to be had in a Tennessee town when the sun goes down, and we head to a back road field, crack open a few beers, smoke dirt weed, and I am praying she doesn’t leave me.

I sense the situation is about to shift to places I will leave my body to avoid the emotional pain of. I am trapped here, fearful and conditioned to comply.

I sit in the back seat of her mother’s station wagon. We have a curfew, and I’m hoping we’ll go back soon. But she starts walking off into the darkness with her love, and I am left with the strange boy hovering over me.

Here is his predictable slide into the back seat.

Feeble attempts to find my voice and say “no”, but I am envisioning death and boys who snap when girls resist and embarrassment that I made a scene, a prude, a drama queen.

I lay listless, head back as he does his business. My eyes become focused on the moon. She is shining clear and bright through the back window. She is almost full, and I call to her in my mind.

“How could this be my life?”

She watches as if I don’t matter. I am abandoned by her silence so I go mindless.

He is saying things he finds sensual, stupid questions boys ask when they’re in their primal, questions that make them feel worth, like my confirmation would relieve any guilt of his theft.

I will carry secrets of violations, fearing for my reputation, a girl so naive I can’t formulate ways to avoid threatening situations.

It will become a pasty mix of shame and self blame, raped beneath the moon, counting grey patches on her surface letting the minutes hazily float by.

He tries to hold my hand on the way back. As if taking from me warrants temporary ownership. No. That piece of chipped heart is buried in the place where the wheels were parked, sunk into the ruts in the country mud.

And I am just an invisible woman in a young girl’s body hoping my star family will find me and help me return to my home, hidden behind the moon.