She Said It’s Called Compliance

I have my own sketch book.  She doesn’t put this art out for everyone to see.   She says it’s too graphic; that it might make other people sad.
Well, anyways, I’m sad too.  But she said this one we could use this time.  She won’t let you see the sexual stuff.  Not good, she says, to put those things on the internet.  So, that sketchbook is just all my own for my own memories, and even I have a monster sticker on it.

At Ware, Massachusetts, Sister Debbie Hale is the most horrible woman.   I hate her, and I don’t understand why Mama won’t look up at me at meal times.  I just stopped trying to catch her eyes, because she never looks up or even smiles.

Today, the day I draw this about at the bottom, well, I don’t know what I lied about, but Sister Debbie said I did lie.  So all day I had to wear a board around my neck with the word “Liar” only on it.

And also I just wanted to talk.  Why can’t we talk? But I talk too much so my mouth is taped a lot.  All day.  I don’t get water on this day.  My hands were tied together at the wrist and she makes me sit at the table with my hands folded on top.

Everyone is eating.  My stomach growls so hard.  I don’t get lunch or dinner because that’s my punishment.  It’s hard to go to sleep with a growling stomach.  Did you know that?  But I think I’ll take the tied hands, taped mouth and no meals over a belt beating.

If I can get a potato into my pocket, I might try to sneak it to my bunk.  But then Sister Debbie will hear me crunching it when it goes quiet at night, and I’ll get a beating.  Well, I’ll just be hungry tonight, and tomorrow I’ll be extra good so I can have meals.

Sila Caprin

The art of the child recalls the memory.

The Horror at 1379 Milepost

If you take a drive from Fairbanks, Alaska, an hour down Richardson Highway, through Delta Junction, you will arrive at 1379 Milepost. There you will turn onto a solitary road. At the end of that road is a religious commune with a history so horrible, the average person can only listen with radical acceptance, in order to grasp the total truth about the roots of this cult.  Child Abuse.  Sexual Molestation.  Mental Brainwashing.  Torture.  Public Humiliation.  Sleep Deprivation.  Control.  Triangulation.  All orchestrated in a patriarchal society of narcissists.

Three years ago, a couple of young reporters made a trip out to two of the Alaska compounds. At the 1379 Milepost compound, where I lived from the ages of seven to fourteen, they were met by a man named David Johnson, Their eyes were wide with disbelief. What my fellow survivor and I had told them was in fact, truth. There are compounds deep in the Alaskan woods, secluded, patrolled and controlled, a place where they were not allowed to step foot anywhere, except the office inside of the Tabernacle.  A tour of that compound was out of the question, according to David Johnson.

Plans for The Land Cult Compound 76-74

The original survey plans for “The Land” cult compound at 1379 Milepost, Delta Junction, Alaska

The compound I was on had several names including, but not limited to, Dry Creek, Living Word Ministry, The Farm, or as we referred to it when we lived there, “The Land”. They quit claimed the deeds back and forth, most likely to avoid taxes, changing names, hustling land parcels together. Douglas McClain, Jr was just a child on this compound with me. His father, Douglas Sr, groomed him on a path into prison, where he sits today, awaiting appeal. They were hustling a drug derived from goat’s blood. You can read the actual court complaint here:

Security and Exchange Commission vs Stephen D. Ferrone, Douglas A. McClain, Jr., Douglas A. McClain Sr., and et al.

Doug McClain Quit-Claim Deed

This is just one of several deeds I have showing the quit claim sell of The Land between Douglas McClain and George Harris.

l_b0180077765b4bed80949cc27fd5a15a

Sam Fife in the green coat, with his wife and their private plane, scoping out “The Land”

The words the main reporter used to describe his brief visit to the compound felt familiar to me:

Creepy.”
The energy was so thick and heavy it could be cut.”
An air of sadness hovering.”
Desolate.”
Isolated.”

Indeed. I nodded. I know. I remember David Johnson, with his slit eyes and foul energy. He doled out a few beatings.  Many of the adults where abusers. It was, after all, God’s will to strip a child of its flesh, as Brother Sam Fife would instruct. If we weren’t being punished, we were being humiliated, gossiped about, and any sexual abuse that was found out in later years is blamed on the victim.  Still today, the mentality remains the same. Religion cloaking forced insanity.  We were monitored, lived in continuous fear and told the “night watchmen” were there to keep the bears out.  Yet, the compound was so large, it was impossible for them to watch everything at all times, hence my brother’s success on his second escape.

Bryce and Pat Alloe

Young men at “The Land” approximately, 1980/1981, monitoring with guns.

Three years ago I was there as an adult, hunkered down in Fairbanks, Alaska, just miles away from so many people who had either abused me directly or who I had witnessed abuse other children. I wanted to drive onto that compound myself. I remember the layout like the back of my hand. I could navigate it in the dead of night. I wanted to find Marilyn Hagley and ask her why she beat me so much when she was my teacher.  Maybe if abusers experience what they have doled out onto children, they will get a notion of the affect it leaves behind.

Not far from The Land at 1379 Milepost is another compound owned by this cult. It is controlled by a man named Bill Grier.  Whitestone Farms is located not far from The Land. Some cult apologists have adamantly denied being associated with Sam Fife. Yet, Whitestone is on the cult’s Convention schedule, and Bill Grier’s criminal record began in the 1970’s. Their website proudly boasts about the man who helped broker their land; a man named Doug McClain.  When the pieces fit, they fit.  When the puzzle reveals the picture, it’s existence cannot be denied.

History of Whitestone Screenshot

ScreenshotBillGrierArrestedforExorcism

Press release naming Bill Grier in the use of exorcism on children in school from “Today’s World”, edition dated: 5/23/1974

I remember conventions. Six, sometimes eight hours of sitting with no breaks or food. My mother sometimes kept mints in her purse.

To give us all a little sugar so we won’t get faint.” She’d say.

Conventions are hardcore mind control sessions with the Elite Move Leaders all gathering, vying for the position to preach their sordid interpretation of Biblical text. None of it matters. It’s all just long sessions of angry preachers feeding the fear of Hell and counter love bombing with the concept of Heaven and God for the good people.

Conventions provide a chance for the Movite “big wigs” to cavort with one another and shake their peacock feathers to impress the gathering of cult members, who often travel thousands of miles to attend the conventions and participate in lengthy frenzies of speaking in tongues, singing and serving their religious Handlers who feed their minds controlled instruction.

I wonder if the poor children still have to sit like we did for hours, on hard, backless benches or folding chairs. We sat so long, our hips ached.  Do they at least break for meals now?

There are mini countries inside of America. They make their own rules. They abuse children and swindle their “citizens”.  They are mind terrorists who get away with abuse under the guise of religious freedom, and American citizens have chosen to look away for too long.

I wonder when people will begin to care about the cult no one ever talks about?

The Current Tide

Tired
Morose
Flat
This feels like
An aftermath
Of the rubble
From a space shuttle
I was never meant
To depart from.

Thinking of home
I am a Universal vagabond
With my heart strapped on;
Ripped so many times
There is no more lining
For stitches,
So I wrap it in twine
Tie a knot inside my chest
A place to tether
The sadness.

Stop trying to fix
The broken hearted
With your big words.

Until you’ve worn the shoes
Of a human’s abuse
Speech is mere verbs,
Letters leaving lips
Which can never really
Know what it’s like
To feel all of this.

In the meantime I
Rewind the knobs
Tune the strings
So I can
Sing my way through
All the things I
Never tell you and
Why I like to be alone,
A solitary soul
Singing lullabies
To the invisible sky.

V.K

Pounding Pages

While Adele was chasing pavement, I was chasing memories in the pages of “Cult Child“. Now, she accompanies me as I “go over everything” in the “Cult Child” sequel, “Rise of Sila”.

Pages come in spurts between resting and remaining balanced for another emotional journey into lost innocence, trailer parks, a narcissistic mother, an undefined multiple me and time behind bars.

Sometimes, as I am writing, my mind releases to a distant place where I look back and wonder how this was my life. Deep inside, a purpose drives me. It is a reason I continue on.

I spend my time passing knowledge on to anyone who will stop and pay attention. I want you to know about the children no one checks on. I want you to know about the illusions which exist in the advocacy world. I want you to know how short staffed law enforcement teams are and how seemingly un-interested the FBI is in making this virus of pedophilia and child abuse a priority.

I think about my country, our right to make citizens arrests and our rights to freely investigate without stalking. I wonder if citizens could become partners with law enforcement. I wonder if we could switch out the hundreds of thousand of prison inmates who are jailed for cannabis, with hundreds of thousands of pedophiles and child abusers.

Who do you want on your street corner? The hippie or the child lover?

As I work inside the web of my personal goals, focusing first on my own self empowerment, then to those whom I can support in positive growth, I realize how much of the problem with child abuse can be monitered through citizen volunteerism.

CASA is a great place to start. If there isn’t one in your city, consider contacting them on how to start a chapter. It’s a good way to get started in helping protect child rights.

Most of all, pound out your own pages, whatever they look like. Release your own aches so they can be replaced with passion for others.

I am pounding out the pages of my past in sporatic language vomiting. It tells the truth about this twisted world, from inside the thoughts of my own young mind.

I am Sila Caprin. I survived. We are scribing more memories, in sync with exploring new emergences, through our cave guide, Hyro.

The Collective

Un-Acknowledged

What does it feel like
To be a ghost shunned;
A soul un-grieved,
Un-missed and unforgiven?

In the hovering bowels
Of mysticism where the
Cynics hang their hats,
She waits to be
Acknowledged.

In these times there
Is a satisfaction in this
Inter-dimensional reaction;
When spirit feels the wishing
Just like we did
When we were little
And hurting.

“You are undeserving.”

I see her there
Weeping. She is
Repeating all of the
Mistakes that
Make her ache, but

You see, it’s
Not up up to me to
Provide relief.

There are grave
Consequences for
Actions, and sometimes
They get passed on
To the next
Generation.

Mistakes can’t be erased.
Absolution is a
Figment of your
Imagination, so I say
Proceed on with caution.

Meanwhile, she
Hangs from the eave,
Hovering,
Hoping to be
Seen by me, and I
Wince inwardly.

I remind myself that
She is the reason
I have moments of freezing
Dead in my skin and
How hard I have
Had to fight to win,
So no, without emotion, I
Leave her restless
In eternal hoping.

©venniekocsis.com

Abused Children Wear Multiple Faces

What the un-abused cannot understand is how a child can be raped and defiled, then smile at school the next day.

What I can say as a sex and physical child abuse survivor is that a lot of us victims don’t fully understand it either, except to explain that this is where fragmentation of the mind happens.

We function in multiple settings, some violent and horrific, some considered normal, and we move between these fragments in order to survive. As a species, we don’t fully understand the absolute capacity we have to get through horrible events and experiences. So, in order to thrive, there must be in all of us, an acceptance, instead of a need for explanations or closure that we may never recive.

Why do evil humans do what they do?

Who cares.

Let’s stop them.

We spend more time researching, than we do focusing in on victim rehabilitation and harsh sentencing for perpetrators.

We spend more time debating theologies on news panels for television time, than we do walking into the lives of the victims so we can truly understand what they have experienced.

If you want a solution to an epidemic like child abuse, ask some of us victims. You will find that maybe you should listen to us, whether you agree with our view or not. If you have not been a victim you really aren’t the expert. The victim is. To put yourself in your own absolute bubble makes you a part of the problem.

Start to listen, as we are speaking very loudly, and our Survivor Voices are rapidly growing.

Cult Child at Amazon:

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.

 

When Childhood Gaps Haunt You

I wish I had one less tear for every time I heard the advice to stay more focused on the future than I do the past. Or one less ache for the unsolicited opinion that letting go is always best.

I have spent many years contemplating this.

I revert to the line in a journal that was gifted to me. It says, “Remember to get through it. Don’t stay in it.”

I’ve met many abuse survivors who have all of their memories. I have felt a mixed twinge of jealousy that they remember everything and sadness that they recall all of the hurt. Still, there are some of us survivors with time gaps.

For me, those gaps are not completely blank. They hold flash and impression memories. Flash memories are 3-10 second images which sometimes have no specific beginning, sometimes no end or sometimes both. Impression memories are feelings and thoughts for which there are no accompanying images. Both of these types of memories are cloaked with a big question mark.

There is no closure for them. To forget and let them go is as impossible as the inevitable fact that if one tries to stay awake for as long as possible, eventually, they will fall asleep. The memory will go nowhere whether we will it to or not.

Therefore, instead, to dive into the dark and dismal pits is sometimes the definitive path to wholeness. To finally reach the destination may include feeling our way through some very dark hallways and caves.

The key to this expedition is behavioral awareness. There will be tears and weariness. There will be moments of wanting to give up. There will be times anger will emerge. Being aware of whether or not this is affecting our behavior is important, as it affects those connected to us, our health and well being.

Balance is the ying to the yang. It must be set in place by way of grounding into the present. Dissociation begins with physical symptoms such as a heavy chest, difficulty breathing, rapid heartbeat, nausea, tunnel vision and more.

To dive into the abyss requires a safety belt and a wire. It is not impossible. The more we care for and accept signals from our physical form, the more the gateways of the mind become open.

To enter the haunted house, one must remember the number one rule.

It is not real. Right now, in the present, it is not real. It is a memory. We get to control our response to it. We get to be patient as we learn how to enact that control.

And once our bodies have become accustomed to the trapeze, to know there will always be a net, we can be free to swing between the poles of our soul gaps.

And all that is darkness will be exposed by the light. As horrible as it will be, don’t turn your eyes. Let the images and accounts embed themselves so deep, that you never lose your empathy.