Vennie Kocsis and Glori L. Stiner discuss the beginning and current life growing up in Sam Fife's Move of God cult.
I can be like a hound dog, occasionally distracted by attractive scents, sniffing successfully until something redirects me.
“You see, I’ve never loved my body, but not because my body isn’t lovable. It’s that the natural urge to love myself in any way was taken from me by abusive adults.” Vennie Kocsis
How does Dissociation work? Is it okay to Dissociate? What happens during Dissociation? So many questions are posed toward the phenomena of trauma Dissociation.
by Vennie Kocsis I don't quite understand these constant holidays, dedicated to moms and dads and bunnies and love. I see them as marketing scams, a way to boost economy almost every month, by throwing in a Holiday. But hey, maybe I'm bitter. On these days I am reminded of my absent mother. See, not … Continue reading Motherless On Mother’s Day
There are people who learn to trust the streets. I think of their lives, how they have made darkness their day and daylight their night so they can stay alive. Where is the safe space when the alleys are teeming with the unloved at night, ravaged by the anger in their souls, screaming out their … Continue reading Around My City She Sleeps
Writing cleanses the soul, and you don't have to be a writer to do it.
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 … Continue reading The Constant Ebb of Impending Doom
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 … Continue reading My Childhood Is a Graveyard of Ghosts
The art of the child tells of the memories. The truth is horrible.
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 … Continue reading The Current Tide