Child Abusers Rarely Take Ownership of Their Crimes

If my mother were alive, and you were to ask her if she allowed her children to be abused or if she abused her children, her answer would most likely be (with Bible in hand), “Absolutely NOT!”

She would then most likely go on to tell you what difficult children my siblings and I were to raise, along with a myriad of other excuses to support the gross denial covering the guilt she couldn’t face.   This is what abusers do; blame the child, and all too often, naive adults actually believe it.

A couple of years ago, a friend who grew up in the same cult as me had a conversation with a woman who knew me when I was a child. My friend asked the woman about my time as a child at the second compound I was taken to in Alaska, and the woman said this:

Well, she was quite a boisterous child and was always in trouble a lot.”

She victim blamed a child who she witnessed be abused and yet still, thirty plus years later, the denial runs as deep as the ocean. What should we have expected? That our abusers would admit to their crimes? What a ridiculous notion. Child abusers rarely admit to their crimes unless they’re caught. Given the chance, they will quickly blame the child.  Witnessing child abuse and doing nothing is just as criminal as participating.

Victim blame a child abuse survivor, and that’s where my patience, kindness and association ends.

I do not ever condone a child abuse survivor having to defend themselves against the abuse they suffered. My fellow child abuse survivors, we’re not mentally ill. Our abusers are. Those who would attack your abuse are in serious need of psychological help themselves.

They lack empathy and understanding. Attacking someone’s child abuse is an extremely apathetic action. I feel we must use our voices to stand against those who would deny the atrocities that we endured as children and that children still endure. We have to stand our ground and not allow children to ever be blamed for the neglect and/or abuse they endure.

Tonight I sit in contemplation, knowing where my passions are, and what makes me feel in a space of forward movement.   I am aware of where I put my time and my energy, for my goal is to always be focused on believing and supporting child abuse survivors.

Sea Angel

This video of “Sea Angel” is an audio poem from my poetry book and accompanying spoken word cd, “Dusted Shelves”, which I published in 2011. This particular poem was written during a time when I was deeply depressed. I was in the cusp of writing out childhood trauma in “Cult Child”, my memoir. I listen to this piece now and what strikes me is that my suffering was so debilitating, the thought of being taken under by the sea felt like a comfort to me. Yet, life and hope have always called, and so the emotion became this piece instead. To those who suffer with depression, PTSD, anxiety and more, keep fighting. I remember you daily.

Stream Of Consciousness 6.1|15

Where do I go on nights when my skin aches; when I feel invisible hands gently massaging my heartache. I clutch pillows, squeezing into pieces until it mimics the human form. I am so far from home. Here alone, swept into the solitary existence of the empath; seeing signs in their eyes as they die. Where do I sing when even the wind is lonely. We are elements without the ability to rewind time. I am not sad. I am contemplative. I feel each strand of my DNA. Close my eyes; watch the molecules fall and rise, morphing sunrise into moonlight. I am a droplet in a waterfall, a music note inside the siren’s call. Hold me tight. I’m feeling it all. Where do I go when I need fixing? Which seamstress has mastered my stitching? I am holding mirrors threading needles through my skin, piecing together some of the fragments again. Did you know I rise and fall a thousand times before I can retrieve my mind? Guess who’s here, my dear? Ms. Melancholy Blues. She watches you run every time the feelings coming. Over emotional roller coaster, could you love her the most with matted eyelashes, swollen from fear letting? Where do we go from here? You played the game the wrong way, sucked inside a wormhole, and now you can’t get away. I feel the watching. I hear the echoed talking. I’m observing, hovering, recovering from temporary setbacks. I am raw and splayed, repairing the frays. And who will hold me when the minutes get lonely? The dark shadows and moon tides? Or the memory of a night I didn’t have the strength to say no?

She Died Today

Exactly eight years ago today she died.  I was at work when I got the phone call.  It was expected.  She guilted and ate herself into diabetes and an early death.  She was only 65.  I used to call her Mom, then Mother, and now I call her by her first name.   Maybe it’s my way of disconnecting in the hopes I can get through the rest of this writing journey to expel the rest of the pain.   I woke up this morning feeling tearful, raw, alone inside my soul, and so I start this journey of being blatantly vulnerable through the fear of mockery and judgment.  I wade through this mist splayed open to this journey of vlogging through The Rise.

Caves of Respite Required

After an encounter last weekend with someone who I perceived to be who they claimed to be, a spiritually evolved human who, in hindsight, was actually too enamored with me, in the same way I became with him, a few days went by and then I fell extremely ill.  I feel this person literally injected me with poison on a spiritual and physical level.

I have been in bed for three days now with a raging flu as if my whole being was sucked out of me by his very touch. Every joint on my body aching, high fever, swollen lymph nodes and a severe headache.

After the encounter with this individual I felt very “high” and heady.  My spirit felt like it was soaring.  Then as I observed and recognized the falsehoods this person presented me with, my body dropped.  It dropped hard as if I was thrown from a cliff.

I thought about the Buddhist book I gifted him which he held in his pocket yet never even read.  I thought about the first question he asked me, which was irrelevant to the current subject, yet triggered me, due to the woman he asked me about was someone who also sucked out my life force.  I had also predicted that the question would be asked of me.

I thought about the direct question I asked of him in regards to a relationship he claimed he was no longer in. He mirrored my language, calling me Otherkin, when he claimed to have not heard that word before me.  The list of contradictions that I didn’t recognize when I was inside of the encounter, goes on and on.

My main hurdle is trusting those I should not trust and not trusting those whom I should.  My eyes feel even more wide open and aware after this adverse encounter, yet I feel even more cautious than ever before

In retrospect I feel I was vampishly bitten and spiritually depleted.  I feel extremely withdrawn and wiped out, concerned for my own health and spiritual safety.  I have blocked this person as best I can from any further attacks including blocking the woman who he seemingly used as a weapon to trigger my emotional well being.  In fact, it would not surprise me at all to find out the two were in on it together including discussing it afterwards.

There’s a deep lesson for me to sift through as I lay here, recovering from yet another night of fighting off fever and body aches.

I am retreating further into a space of aloneness as I cannot afford to continue allowing these malevolent energies to approach me disguised as light. They are dangerous energy and emotion suckers, gaining only for themselves. Wolves in Sheep’s clothing, they present to me as information portals, playing on my interest in knowledge as a tool to draw me in.

Sharpening my senses as I physically recover is my top priority. I realize even after I expressed direct concern about my own sexuality that this person skewed my perspective so that I would give him what he wanted.  I literally could not resist the methodology being used to attack me.

I have being victimized in this way since childhood.  I did not want to have a paranoid mind of mistrust towards other people yet this encounter has resulted in such an intense setback on my spiritual and physical health, I believe it will be a very long time, if ever, before I trust someone to be who they claim to be or to even meet me or be close to me.

I am building deeper onto my defenses so these entities lose the ability of tracking me, attacking my spirit, blocking them on every level I can, knowing that I can still be tracked and attacked.  But I will make it difficult as hell for them.

As I recover from this illness I am flying inside of awareness and realizations more clearly than ever before.

There is a quiet cave of respite waiting my arrival as this will be the last time I open my gates to allow anyone close enough to attack me again.

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

The Masks We Wear

Are we not beautiful?
Even beneath our masks,
Gifting our hearts and hiding the fear?
Are we not vulnerable and capable?

Giving

 Do you see they bring smiles
to hide the pain?

IMG_1927

and yet we cry
like rivers
swirling us
to the deep blue sea
as we weep
weep
weep

IMG_1916

Never cry more tears than you could hold in your hands. When all the world’s airbrushed it’s a sacred bond of trust.

Sometime I see right through the scenery. The first place that’s on my mind, the last place I find each time. Sometimes I swim beyond scenery. Sea moves as mercury to break its perfect skin, to dare to die from within.

Sometimes I see much more than’s good for me. The first thing that’s on my mind the last place I look each time. Sometimes I slip inside imagery, and the last thing that’s on my mind’s the first thing I’ll do each time.

Stars racing to burn out. A storm beginning to break, trees standing black against the sky. This was inevitable.

Sometimes we can see beyond our history the last place you hope to find, the one that’s been there all the time.”

Beth Orton