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.

Marilyn Monroe / Monarch Program Poetry

The Surgeon Story is a text written in poem form by Monroe where she describes being cut open by Lee Strasberg and her psychiatrist Margaret Hohenberg. While some describe this story as Marilyn’s recollection of a nightmare, other researchers claim that it is actually a description of a mind control session.

Best finest surgeon—Strasberg
to cut me open which I don’t mind since Dr. H
has prepared me—given me anaesthetic
and has also diagnosed the case and
agrees with what has to be done—
an operation—to bring myself back to
life and to cure me of this terrible dis-ease
whatever the hell it is—(…)

Strasberg cuts me open after Dr. H gives me
anesthesia and tries in a medical way to comfort me  –
everything in the room is WHITE in fact I can’t even see anyone just white objects –

they cut me open – Strasberg with Hohenberg’s ass.
and there is absolutely nothing there—
Strasberg is
deeply disappointed but more even—
academically amazed
that he had made such a mistake. He
thought there was going
to be so much—more than he had ever
dreamed possible …
instead there was absolutely nothing—
devoid of
every human living feeling thing—
the only thing
that came out was so finely cut sawdust—like out of a raggedy ann doll—and the sawdust
spills
all over the floor & table and Dr. H is
puzzled
because suddenly she realizes that this is a
new type case. The patient … existing
of complete emptiness
Strasberg’s dreams & hopes for theater
are fallen.
Dr. H’s dreams and hopes for a permanent
psychiatric cure
is given up—Arthur is disappointed—
let down.

In this odd and disturbing story, Monroe describes being drugged and cut open by her psychiatrists. She writes that she “didn’t mind the operation” because she was “prepared”. Was she dissociating? There is also mention of her seeing “only white” which might refer to sensory deprivation – a method used in MK Ultra programming.

Once cut open, the doctors only found “finely cut sawdust” inside of her “like out of a raggedy ann doll”. These are the typical words of an MK slave who have completely lost touch with their true core personality. Marilyn perceives herself as an “empty” doll.

According to Jason Kennedy, a member of Marilyn’s family, the Surgeon’s Story describes Mind Control techniques such as sensory deprivation and the administration of dissociative anesthetic drugs.

From: https://hollywoodsubliminals.wordpress.com/project-monarch/sex-kitten

When Abuse Is a Child’s Normal

**trigger warning: abuse description**

If there had been a safe place for me as a child, what would I have said? I didn’t know sexual abuse was wrong. I only knew it caused me physical pain and made me want to hide away. It sent me far from this earth place, to other dimensions, so I could endure it.

I didn’t know being beaten was wrong. It was my normal. I had to be stripped of my sin. I was a bad child. All children were born bad. If only I could learn to be good, then maybe the beatings would stop.

I didn’t know demons weren’t real. They lurked in shadows waiting to jump into me and make me do horrible things kids do, like laugh or play, cry and want their mother and make me loud, even though I was deaf. If I sat through enough demon casting out sessions, endure the fistfuls of hair pulling, face slapping, pinching and screaming, maybe the demons would leave me alone.

When torture is a child’s normal, what do they view as worse than that? What is there to tell someone; if there even is someone to tell?

I would one day find out that demons are real. The only difference is… They’re human.

S.C.

Death Is Not Permanent 

Are you afraid?” Someone asked me today. “People die for the truth, yanno.”

Death. If this is the only thing to fear then, no, I am not afraid.  For me, death is never permanent. 

There are little echoes of programming that come in as subtle, cynical whispers.

No one really… Gives a shit.”

and so the argument begins

Programming: “You’re crazy.”

Me: “Fuck off.

Programming:!”No one gives a shit.”

Me: “Fuck off.

And I tell those little doubt programs that come alive to try and stifle our truth or create nervousness or any negative energy that the handlers can feed off of to Fuck Off.

Some will say, “Just love them.”

Not I. I’m a warrior. I take out a verbal pistol and blast them to so many pieces they can’t regain their voice.

I love myself through a lot. Programming isn’t to be loved into non-existence. It’s to be shattered with the same severity with which it split me into a million tiny pieces they could pick up at will.

Except they never can figure out how to completely exterminate some of us. We simply are too strong. They certainly never conceived that so many of us would gather our own shards and make beautiful art of ourselves. 

I am strong. I am a warrior for the unveiling of truths. While sleepers watch the tube, like zombies, I’m preparing for phase two.

A friend said its ended. We are ascending no matter what, and I agree. It’s World War III, and everyone says it’s the Illuminati.

I say it’s you and me. It’s every individual who wakes up and sees. That’s the true battle. Not bombs in the Middle East and staged genocides to keep the sleepers being fear food for the Kabal. No. It is inside of every single human. That’s where the war is as we fight to stay alive long enough to shake a few more awake.

So the answer is no. I’m not afraid. I am ready. I know my truth. I don’t care if it scares you or even if you believe me. The ones who do. They matter. My critics are the non-factors.

We are the calm before the storm. We are rising into our new home.

The Gathering

(written in 2009)

We are the quiet, the hidden
The purposely unnoticed,
The only speak of it to each other
Write it, paint it, sing it…
But not to the masses.

They are unfocused, organized
Religious zealots, diabolical replicas,
Rendered children of Zion,
Angered by the unknown, the
Misunderstood reasons for not
Being willing to understand
Or accept what is inevitable

So they

Wish to kill us, do you?
Wish to rip our hearts from our
Chest, hold them in your hands
As if you have triumphed over our
Spirits, brought yourself redemption
By judging (not) lest ye be judged,
Oh yes, I can quote your scripture,
Talk about your rapture, how you
Crucified your so called Christ;
Made your God weep; all so you
Could keep some kind of purity.

We will gather, make no mistake,
You with your held out crosses,
Your thumping black books spewing
Scriptures that choke out truth,
But we are patient, compassionate
To our fellow man, mistaken for weak
Until our rage breaks and seeps.

We are the Mystics, the witch’s brew,
The keeper of your thoughts, holders of
The knowing. We are the Old World tenderly
Tossed with the New, a salad of
Scrolls garnished with wisdom
And dressed with apparitions
That you call ghosts. We are here
To awaken your spirit should you
Choose to allow your ears to hear it.

There is a fire sparking, somewhere in
The mountains. I see them dancing,
Eyes wild with energy, hands raised,
Feet in rhythm with their own time,
And I smile at the divinity
As they find absolution
In the composition of the wind.

V/K
©venniekocsis.com

The Solitary Empath

You might be a tsunami or you could be the raft to safety. There are phrases, trigger situations that make her step back. She finds balance with the sea and forest. Rarely with other humans. So often taken personally, she is sometimes shy and many times wary. She knows what she carries; what she protects. One wrong step, and she is quietly observing again.

She doesn’t follow leaders. She is her own guru. She is a solitary yearning of scribing while others are trying to find answers they don’t believe they already know. You will rarely truly understand her. You will create your own perception of her, and it will become your view; your truth of her.

She has almost reached exceptions of exceptional aloneness. Shift change. She walks the road one foot at a time. From her perch, hovering above this planet, she listens. One sentence can change her elation to disappointment; hoping to expanded realization of situations. She now feels distant and suddenly in a spiraling reverse. It’s all in the language. Words say everything. She swiftly re-stabilizes her skies.

Humans with the need to believe in anything, follow something, be part of a sect, outside of the truth of who they are; some forever from the gray; when doing good comes with accolades instead of silent appreciation. It’s a sad state of a nation; planetary devastation, and she feels each heart caving.

I am here holding hers. Reminding her of home where there are no religions or rituals, no groups separating one from another or elevating egos; no clashing perspectives; just being in a space so pure, assessment is not needed.

So she keeps her eyes on the color, to swim in the gel like liquid again, each stroke a whisper against her skin. She is reminded that she chose this and is so close to finishing it. She breathes deeply, exhaling her humanness.

Weary a bit, we see in her eyes when they leak water to seep, ejecting the pain and programming. There are volumes held in boxes. Some are scrawled. Some are typed. They may get thrown in a trash pile when she dies. But she’s leaving them behind, in a hidden conclave of trees. Where maps must be followed to find them. There will be laughter, even in death.

Then you will know. You will discover the life of the Otherkin, earthly hybrid, walking among the human ones, unnoticed and undetected save the green reflected in her emotional eyes.

~K~

Battles Are Being Fought

When he touched me it was like wild fires. You see, I have always been the insomniac to the stars. There are wars going on for my existence.

And the host is weeping.

She is weakened by me. I have been a grown woman since I was three; when I was forced into my sexuality.

“Good luck.” I say. “In breaking me.”

They took her mind apart, inch by inch, scar by scar, until there were just tiny pieces of a heart. Then they rebuilt her, and she became us. I became me. We became we.

Now, two of them, they want to kill me.

“No. No. Just bind you for a time. Until all the programming’s gone from your mind.”. Knowing says sweetly.

I know she wants what’s best for me. It’s V who I must befriend. She understands the loneliness.

I know how to make our host long for touch. The kind that leaves her battered the next morning, alone and atoning something, she’s just not clear on what. But in the moment of my rise, I am Queen and Conquerer, leaving remnants of my breath on forgotten thighs.

I’m on the rise, and we’re in a fight. They are thankful for the child. She keeps me chained up a while. Host is always proper in the presence of the innocent. I must admit. I admire this.

But right now, I want to feel hands and mouth and angsty kind of fake ass love; the kind I was programmed for; you know, like abandonment contact that leaves us weeping on the floor. So, she’s numbing, numbing that ache in her soul.

They tell me quiet. I’m a robotic stance. Non-human, I’m formed from the hands of evil men. I must admit, I agree. They created a monarch with exquisite wings.

I’m in the middle, wavering still; here between critically understanding the havoc I can reek and tired of being bound. I need to be free. Dear sisters, the only way to kill me is to integrate me. The only way to blend me is to change me.

And I’m open to change… In moments. But most I want to be left alone.

And in charge.

But the darkness lurks, where chains clink, and I’m smirking. My mind bends towards the deviant end as you two hold my hands. This tug of war is somewhat entertaining. Who will win?

Am I stronger than the both of them?

If I could make them cold; create a diversion, but they are stern these days, focused and watching. And someone’s being sent to stir the waters again. Will they pass the test?

Maude Seven