The Constant Ebb of Impending Doom

By Vennie Kocsis

To untangle the web of my current occasional States of Being has required a process of retracing the steps into my past through the portal of my present behaviors and emotions.

Growing up in an end-times cult, I was taught two main death concepts.

1. God was going to end the planet by destruction, and all humans would die.

2. The Communists would begin that process through a brutal American invasion, which would include the genocide of all Christians.

Therefore, from my beginning developing years, my mind was conditioned for a death event which could come at any time.

Although eventually an acceptance set in as I was put through survival training to live off of the remote Alaskan mountainsides in Delta Junction, existing within this mindset created a layer of doom inside of my childhood emotional state.

Life was not only lived in fear of my own death and the world ending, but of the adults around me. I feared the death of the handful of people I had come to love. I feared the punishment of the brutal adults who were always overseeing us like vultures. I had to watch every word I spoke. I walked on eggshells of fear; afraid to say or do the wrong thing.

I held the secrets of my sexual abusers. There was no safe place for me. There was no one I could talk to; no safe teacher, as they were all abusive, no school counselor, since we were schooled inside the cult, no police or 911 to call, no access to telephones, no ability to write un-monitored letters to my Grandmother or Father, whose addresses I was not allowed to have anyways. Not even friends could ever fully be trusted. I was indeed enslaved in body, mind and spirit.

The programming of mistrust ran so deep, the fear of death and saying or doing the wrong thing, always simmered within my mind. It weaved into my normal state of awareness. Simply put, it became a part of my operating wheel.

This doom morphed into a state of being which embedded itself into my body’s scientific chemical system, understanding that emotions derive from cells and brain chemistry, and became a permanent part of my operational system.

Ordinary day to day activities randomly awakened the sense of doom and fear. Going into public, it simmered in my stomach. It became the possibility of everything bad that could happen. It emerged in unexpected moments like grocery store visits where my eyes watched every stranger who passed me, untrusting and suspecting. Or when driving, where I was intensely aware of my surroundings, watching vehicles and noting who was inside of them. It held me often in isolation, not wanting to venture far from home.

It contributed to the choice of two abusive adult relationships, as I confused being controlled with being protected, believing the second time that I could even help an abusive person, although I could not help myself.

It assisted in taking away my ability to have a reality based thinking, or build self-protecting boundaries, a life skill I was never taught. It led me away from my own intuition and eventually replaced it, until the act of living was filled with a thin layer of expected doom, even if it was undefined by any specific event.

As I became older and experienced more abuse, the hyper-vigilance and fear became my fuel. My mind was constantly on the run and in defense mode. I behaved as hunted prey, always on the lookout of my surroundings. I trusted no one. Yet, naively trusted everyone. My trust abilities were reversed, convoluted and tangled.

However, there had to come a moment where I was living my life, not from a sense of doom, gloom and fear, but through an empowering awareness, wisdom and critical perspectives.

While I still have certain thought patterns that I am working through, when survivors of abuse explain an adult life of feeling impending doom emotion, I hold a true understanding. I feel with them and understand why. Especially those victimized by religious abuse.

To carry the layers of who we are as abuse survivors is like carrying a book which must be read, should someone care to know us. Within the pages, cracks created by a multitude of breaks, are clearly revealed.

I require understanding. I want to feel safe around the people I am with. Not just safe emotionally, but physically as well. It is at the top of my requirement list to be a part of my life; loyalty and safety. It only takes once for that to be broken for me, and I either say goodbye or change my interactions.

To love us survivors is to know us. To reassure us. To look out for us. To help us know without a doubt you will never hurt us. Until we can feel that completely, patience is required to help us trust you. When you show interest in giving us that support, in return, you will receive a deep love.

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.

My Childhood Is a Graveyard of Ghosts

I wonder if my mother ever felt the rejection and pain of her children. Did she ever cry? I can’t recall in this moment, ever seeing my mother cry.

I wonder if she’d care that I love pictures of my family; to document moments of happy, because no one ever did that for me. I have no childhood photos to look back on, laugh and say, “Remember when?”

My childhood is a graveyard of ghosts.

I wonder if she ever knew what she would leave in her wake when she took us to a place where they would dole out nothing but pain.

She could not have known how it all trickles down, settling into behaviors and DNA cells. It leaves behind a hell between which I feel sandwiched; a vice grip of the past and the future. I am a spinning wheel. No matter which direction I turn, it seems it could be the wrong one.

So, I stand still. I take leave. I return to where at least, I can love myself. I no longer wish to falsely smile when I am hurting inside. I’d rather come home and cry.

Tonight, I felt triggered back to being a kid in the cult, wishing the other kids would like me. Until one day I stopped trying. I accepted that they would never really embrace me, and they never did.

It makes a soul feel cold to be alone inside repentance to which I can only give myself. I look in the mirror. For all the times I have failed, I tell myself to let go of regret and live again.

Tonight, I feel damaged. I cannot both mend my heart while trying to make up for the hearts I’ve torn apart. I am a thinly woven web of tangles. I feel fragile. I feel that a slight mistrodden step could be the one which makes everything shatter and break.

Tonight I gained more radical acceptance, that accountability doesn’t matter. I no longer pine for my mother’s lost accountability. I never received it. I thought maybe it would heal me, but accountability as a healing tool is a farce. My accountability has not healed anyone I hurt in my past. It doesn’t matter. It is nothing but a ride in a confessional for which there is no pennance paid to right the wrongs.

Even as I hold ownership of the times I fell, it is received as a mirage. People choose to hate or choose to love. I have no strength to beg or vie for love any longer. I have suffered for it to no avail. I am tired. No… I am exhausted.

I wonder when it will end, the generational cycles of pain. Even as I try and heal my own, I know that no matter how whole I become, I cannot glue together shattered pieces someone else is holding.

I sit alone. I am not lonely. These are the times I take flight; when the pain’s too much to bear; when I need the right people to care, but there’s fleeting shreds of empathy there.

I am gripping gravity like it’s the last string of an ending orchestra performance, hoping to stay tethered for the sake of my love.

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