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

When Writing Out Trauma Is Crippling

A wise person once said, “There are three things you should never share; your relationship, your finances and your next move.”

It has become a mantra for my life.   Years of being both vulnerable and held back at the wrong times have left me speculating my own judgment.  Being alone is safer, away from the possibility of re-victimization.

I learned harsh lessons as I grew up. With no boundaries to define danger or relationships I was tossed out of a childhood that had been riddled with abuse straight into the very society I had been trained to fear, hate and one day even war against in the name of God.

With blinders on, I ran towards everything I’d been taught was sin.  I bathed in it.  I dove inside of it like it was a swimming pool.  I became prey, a seal pup in an ocean full of sharks.

A couple of nights ago, while working on “Rise of Sila“, the sequel to “Cult Child“, I had to write a trauma memory.  I had to get into the details of it, part of them being a time my sister wore long sleeves to hide the bruises her rapist left on her upper arms.    When I was finished with the section, nausea swept through me quickly, suddenly and filled my mouth with water to the point I had to curl up on my bed and do focus breathing until it passed.

Fuck.”  I thought.  “It’s starting.”

This is what happened while I was writing “Cult Child“.  The trauma surfaced in waves, and with it came years of sporadic vomiting, night terrors, migraines, days in bed weeping, high peaks of anxiety and agoraphobia and a lot of deep isolation.

I smiled in selfies to post on the Internet. I spun on the positivity pole as if I was the poster child of survival, and I hid the reality of how crippling writing trauma is for me.

I thought I would feel some kind of relief after getting “Cult Child” out.   Yet, I didn’t.  I felt incredibly proud of myself that I had accomplished the project.  I also felt an extreme exhaustion that still lingers as I continue on.   I feel weakened.  I feel that I have only spilled out a sliver of the truth about the reality that was my childhood.

Last night I had a dream which rocked me. When I woke up this morning, the emotions of the dream came hazily with it bringing short, flash images of children milling about, a lot of confusion and an inability to grasp the rest of the images.  There are no worse dreams for me to have, than the ones which involve children.  They take the longest to shake from my eyes and the hardest to re-balance my heart from.   [Click here to visit my Dreamscape category where I document them.]

I am pushing myself, because this story must be told.  It has to be left behind so my sons and lineage will have documentation of their ancestral life.  I have to tell the truth for myself, hoping that maybe, just maybe, after I am finished, there will be some reprieve.

But, right now, in this moment, I just feel like avoiding.

Through the Mud

I am crawling
Beneath barbed wire.
It is rigged
With explosives.

Shhh.
Head down,
Close to this ground,
Knees deep in, sunk,
Through the mud.

I am dissociated
From the change related
To regular life patterns.

I feel scattered.

Into the caves I
Disengage for battle.
The end is near.
I hear the echoes cackle.

I could hide away;
Pound out the words
To expel the hurt and
Purge the pain,
Even find satisfaction
If I never see the sun again.

Let it rain.

I am on my belly
Exploring human hell.
There are sights I’ve
Yet to see, and I
Don’t know how broken
They will leave me.

I am aftermath who
Has left more aftermath;
Unable to mend the wires
Sparking anger fires.

Don’t envy my smile.
It hides a plethora of
Vile sounds, smells and
Scrambled images.

I take this life serious.

No time for war games,
I am fighting real time battles.
No space for the unsupportive
Who flee
When the cages rattle.

If I go ghost
Into the fog and
Become a mirage,
I’ll never return to
Dissapoint the idealistic
Who created an image of me;
So unrealistic.

I’m a million scattered pieces,
My body struggles weakly,
Swimming through the mud
Picking each one up.

©venniekocsis.com

Ghosts Of the Forest

“Ghosts Of the Forest” / acrylic on 11×14 canvas / artist Vennie Kocsis / 2015

While taking a walk in the woods on Monday, light patterns revealed faces and figures in the forest ground. Memories took on a mind of their own tonight as ghosts flowed from my soul. Letting them go with a brush, a canvas and a pen.

IMG_5988