When Cult Members Attack

Peeling off layers of truth about growing up in a cult which still exists has also released an influx of opinion, perspective, experience and much more from those who were also involved in this cult.

Since first publishing “Cult Child”, I’ve been examining the ways in which my fellow cult survivors have reacted to my publication. Now that I am speaking out more vocally on forums such as the radio, they are seemingly reacting more.

One of the main observations I’ve gathered is that those who were older when the cult began, have a differing perspective than those of us who were either children taken into the program or born into the cult, with those same adults being either our parents, caregivers and/or present and influencing adults.

We children have a differing set of circumstances as we witnessed and experienced horrible abuses. The adults who doled out or stood by and did nothing live in deep denial, often lashing out, calling us liars and being accusatory.

When I say adults, some of them were in their early twenties and participating in the severe beating and abuses of children. I see them for where they stand, deeply mentally ill and having to carry the horror of what they either did to children or did not do to help them.

Just as we victims carry the images of what was done to us, likewise our abusers must carry the images of what they did and/or witnessed.

Another way that I am attacked is individuals leaving poor starred reviews on my book where they can. Luckily Amazon requires one to be a purchaser of a product for the review, so in the least, I get a small compensation for having to be re-abused and attacked for telling the truth about my abuse.

I am not one to be intimidated by gang stalkers. When they call me a liar, I ask them which farm they grew up on? Who did they know? Were they a child? Who were their parents? What specifics can they give to prove, first off, that they were a part of the cult at all. After all, one must have been there, to factually call me a liar.

Furthermore, if they were not on the exact same compounds as I was, they can speak nothing of my life or the experiences of my family. Since stories of abuses have come from every compound Sam Fife and his cronies created, then I ask, if the person was an adult, why they did nothing to turn in the child abusers? So, this attack is easily lain to rest for me.

Another avenue that is used, is to say that I am out for money, made from the backs of other people who suffered in the cult as well. First, aren’t most authors hoping to make a living from writing, after all, writing is our passion? Why then are we not allowed to make a living from what we are bestowed to do?

Secondly, when one reads “Cult Child”, it takes but one page turn to understand that this is the story of me and my family. Every story contained in the first book of this set, yes, there’s a sequel coming, is related, and pertains directly to my family.

However, if I chose to write a book telling the stories of others who survived, I have the legal right to do so. It is not, however, my intention. Not just because their stories are not mine, but because I have other projects that I look forward to delving into. So, this attack is easily lain to rest for me.

My family owns the originals of all photos which are contained in my books. If you happen to be in one of those photos, luckily for you, I chose to blur faces. Luckily for you, there is a disclaimer in the front of my book that states I have changed names for privacy and liability purposes.

Luckily for me, I am well informed, have consulted an entertainment attorney before publishing and scoff at the ideal that anyone related to Sam Fife’s Move of God thinks they in any way hold any rights to the story or photos containing and relating to my family.

As for the statements made about me that return in the circle that is my support network, I somehow feel a great sorrow, for old people who make statements that we children were seductive, leaving me to understand that the pedophilistic mindset this cult built its roots on, still exists today.

It amazes me most that our abusers never stopped to consider we would grow up one day. Did you not think we would have a voice? Did you not think we would have something to say?

You don’t get to say “Yes, it was bad and all but…”. There’s no “but” which follows sexual abuse, demon possession casting out rituals, beliefs in end times, beatings, sadistic mental manipulation, sleep deprivation, brainwashing, demonology, spanking of babies, Old Testament animal sacrifice (Ware, MA) and more.

You see, I am not alone in this truth. I just happen to be the most outspoken. We children are now adults in a gathered tribe, quietly supporting one another, and we are large in numbers.

The network of survivors is so vast that the messages I get which are attacking of me, either myself or someone I know, remembers the person doing the attacking. These people were adults or elders children, seeking to silence the truth about the hidden horrors of Sam Fife’s Move of God.

It never fails to be consistent, that those who step forward to attack me were in some way an abuser, worked in a nursery where they could abuse children, were mean spirited, witnessed the abuse of children, and did nothing. Now, they have grown into bitter, self-righteous things who remain the same abusive evil they were when I was a child.

You don’t think we remember you, the things you said and did? Nothing has changed in regards to your existence, except now, you don’t get to silence me. And you won’t. Abuse is silent. You will never abuse me again.

EDIT 11/25/16: For those who took part in the free download of “Cult Child”, thank you.  For those who missed it, sign up at: http://VennieKocsis.com to be notified of the dates for the next free download days.  There will be one 5 month. Thank you for such an immense interest this month!  I am honored that you are interested in understanding the cult abuse of children.

Streams Of Consciousness V 

I don’t know why I’m choosing Roman Numerals. I don’t know them enough to stay in sync nor do I have the passion to google them.  I’ll return to regular numbers soon. 

Ramblings. Rapid thoughts. Dealing with ignorance is like batting flies. Dumb bitch attempted to attack me with my own disorder she claimed not to know about then in the same paragraph states how close we were.  Don’t send me novela text messages full of lies and bullshit.   

Shut the fuck up.  No more niceties.  You’re full of shit, envy and I’ll respond here since you apparently haven’t been reading it for years.  Such a close friend. Yet never read a blog. Can’t recall disorders shared; the same ones you mimicked.  Fake sister. You’re pretend.  I’m intelligent. Never mistake nice for weak.  You’re right, child.  You really don’t know me.  But that was your choice.  To be self absorbed to the point you can’t recall shared moments… So vulnerable.

Shame on you. Shame on you. Shame on you. 

I keep dossiers of information. Recordings of files just in case memories need to be jarred.   Just in case truth must be revealed. Is that bothersome, email digger? Don’t attempt to hustle the hustler.  Voodoo dolls and dark behavior is comical.  Keep churning your karma and wonder of your misery.  But beware the battles you choose.  I can introduce you to the throngs who lose.  I am long trained in the art of dealing with behaviors spurned from self shame. 

Oh, has life taught me from encountering vermin. Warrior I stand regretting no love given; purely with no lashing, whining or betrayals. I stand proudly in my ethics, but if it’s battle you want, okay.  I have always enjoyed winning fights. 

I hold no secrets and no shame.  I am cunning and on my game.  I’ve trained long, well and if it’s hell the malevolence wants then hell it will be.  So come on. Attack me. I walk away laughing. 

There’s a love awaiting.  It takes a choice. Meantime. I use my voice and no weapon attempted has ever prospered because I have fostered the tool of ignoring the imploring of hopelessness. 

Heal. Heal. Heal.

We’ve all wept, fallen, scraped knees, broke down teeth, pain, disdain.  Choices.  Cycle the pain or rise.  You decide. 

But me? I leave drama behind. Goodbye. No time. Psychopaths lurk in corners and I hold secrets.  Because I keep my word and rats fear what they are the most. Rats. Brats.  Hypocrites. 

Meanwhile gifts are buried under tears and pain, choices that leave humans holding onto the only thing that makes them feel real.  Lashing out. Victim mode. Can’t fly with broken wings.  So we gotta heal some things. 

The cold bites me.  Life is changing.  Rapidly.  I have no choice but to shrug and float, hold onto hope because everyone’s got their journey. 

And mine is winding, invisibly ahead.  So I can only be led by instinct and feeling.  Welcome to me.  I don’t fear the unknown.  I’ve come home to the damage, the holes, the beauty that unfolds and I do so with acceptance. 

But don’t underestimate…. Me. 

You aren’t prepared for what you’ll see. 

So ends this round as I… Sleep soundlessly.