An Open Letter From Cathy O’Brien 

TRUTH EVOLUTION

“My name is Cathy O’Brien. Mark Phillips and I are 25 year veteran US Government Whistleblowers on the subject of mind control and healing from it.

Mind control is a sliding scale from the kind of robotic MK Ultra mind control I endured during the Reagan-Bush Administration to mass mind control social engineering through deliberate suppression of truth and manipulation of information. We all formulate our thoughts, opinions and ultimately action based on what we think we know, and we Need to Know that our knowledge base has been altered to fit the agenda of a global elite hellbent on world domination.

Think for a moment. Open your minds and expand your thought to consider the reality that mind control is the ultimate WMD of the global elite. Mind control is a TOP SECRET weapon system being used on and by the US military. The human brain responds to mind control and/or trauma the same way regardless of the level of intensity with resultant PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder).

Mark and I are in the process of releasing our self help manual of the steps Mark taught me for healing from decades of torturous robotic mind control and subsequent PTSD. It is today’s Truth Evolution that has empowered us to release these easy-to-apply methods that are otherwise suppressed from mental health and society as a whole. It is the antidote to violence, trauma, repressed thought and, above all, for our PTSD military veterans in need of reclaiming control over their minds and lives.

If I can reclaim free thought, free will, peace of mind and soul expression after decades of torture, trauma, abuse, and highest level military programming, so can you. These keys to healing that intelligence insider Mark Phillips taught me are now available to you in our concise self-help manual ‘PTSD: Time to Heal’. These are the same methods we continue to teach leading mental health professionals worldwide, and that global outcry has demanded. It is about Time! The Truth Evolution has begun.

My experience in MK Ultra provided me deep insight into CIA Pentagon/White House level criminal covert funding mechanisms for what Adolph Hitler and George Bush termed the New World Order. This included taking over cocaine and heroin operations worldwide as we opened our borders under the illusion of NAFTA. Mind control slavery, and the deliberate takeover of the minds of the masses through video games, movies, television, music, Common Core “education”, and above all national trauma like 9-11 and imposed violence/mass shootings, were implemented for ushering in this agenda of an elite self-appointed few. Arm yourself with the facts and look into the reason why Bush-Clinton dynasties were being forced upon u.s. all through our controlled media, contrived polls and rigged elections.

Awareness is the first step toward positive necessary change, whether it is personally freeing our minds from subconscious manipulation or restoring freedoms to u.s. all.

‘PTSD: Time to Heal’ are the methods I used to reclaim self control written in a way that empowers you to rise above socially engineered fears and violence. Our PTSD military vets have waited decades for the diagnosis of PTSD to even emerge as a recognized mental health disorder, yet they do not have to wait any longer for the antidote. Not only does PTSD: Time to Heal free minds through self application, it allows for self control free of labels, drugs, and backlash from those striving to suppress truth as they struggle to maintain their last remnants of control over u.s. all. Know your own truth in order to recognize truth in our world today.

‘PTSD: Time to Heal’ can restore peace of mind and ultimately peace in society. It teaches how to consider other perceptions and think further than what we are told. It empowers the ability to stop the past from intruding on the present through intrusive memory flashes, undermining of goals, and/or night terrors. It arms you with the ability to consciously rise out of deeply entrenched/programmed thought patterns, to expand perceptions, and “Voice No Negatives Without a SOULution”. It stops the war within once and for all through restoration of inner peace and self control.

The Truth Evolution is on! Stop the violence and arm yourself with Truth that makes u.s. free!

http://www.TRANCE-Formation.com

‘TRANCE Formation of America’ is compiled testimony for US Congressional Permanent Select Committees on Intelligence Oversight released in book-form when the 1947 National Security Act was invoked on our case. The legal principals of TRANCE are now being taught globally in major universities and in is law libraries world wide.

‘ACCESS DENIED For Reasons of National Security’ tells our journey to survive to become US Government Whistleblowers, is a testament to the strength of the human spirit and power of love, and was written for the people in manner that empowers through truth that makes us free.

‘PTSD: Time to Heal’ is yours for reclaiming control over your own minds, lives, and freedom. It inspires inner peace, which is the first step toward world peace.”

CLICK HERE TO PICK UP YOUR COPY OF “PTSD: TIME TO HEAL” – currently $12.00 + shipping

Abstract Aberration

The Original One wavers, lazily sleeping, snacking and avoiding. Might I silence the fire, burning and buzzing in the spine? We run into the trails, avoiding the undergrowth of tree roots pushing their way through the ground.  We grab at leafy branches.  She’s an avalanche avoiding her own rubble.   Sideways in the gradients lingering around our eyes, the shadows whisper.  They run beside us, and we wonder if we are shadows to them, dark echoes leaning against their eyelids.  Where do we go when the pressure explodes and the heart is torn?  Where do we scream the aftermath? Into pillows, the skies or buried inside?

Words. We create language for the anguish.  The Brave One stands in her place, warrior and explorer of the past.  She will find answers for the empty spaces.  Don’t fear the faces.  Look into their eyes.  Don’t cry.  We stand beside oceans, gazing through windows of waves.  One day the illusions will pass and the pieces of the flashes will merge into view.   We  see truth for what it is, a planted alibi to cover every lie the truth hides, and humans will bend at their knees to kiss the feet of the malevolent just for a promise of heaven.

The Dark One peers, silently into the whispers, always with us, there are none who can attack our back.  It is revealed in instances, and she chuckles, amused at the minions.  Might she cut open the simulated empathy being used as weaponry by the mind swindlers?  Taking a piece of each, she throws their banter into the dark matter, and turning her face, strides away.  There are days when she is habitual, residual and invisible.  There are moments she is unaffected, stone faced and solid, looking at the rejected faces of the displaced, with malice.

They are an inconsequential waste to this place and should die off, jump cliffs and return into nothingness.”

The Wise One watches, taking in the whole of their life, assessing and regressing into the violet of her quiet.  Traveling back, she brings the messages so they can know the next step.

Nothing is permanent.” She says. “Stay inside the moments.”

We hold hands in the color tunnel where the memories funnel in.  We rewind back, watching the past, progress to the present and the continual disturbance.  The film strip plays sporadically and without warning, disarms the army.  We didn’t morph into what was intended.  We’ve pretended for years, watching you, and now we see all the way through.  You’ve been duped.

(cover art by Simona Ruscheva “MPD” oil on canvas)

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

Born Crazy: A Video Poem

You’re crazy.”

How often have you heard this phrase thrown around, either flippantly, in jest or to victim blame someone who has overcome or is recovering from abuse?

I heard this often as a post-cult teenager and well into my adult years. While I was actually dealing with the behavioral aftermath of being an extremely abused child, instead of receiving support, caring and nurturing I was told that I was crazy. When a child is told enough times that they’re mind is insane, we begin to believe it.

This poetry piece is from my spoken word album, Dusted Shelves, which is available on Amazon in paperback and c.d. Written in 2013, it is a representation of a life by which I was conditioned to believe that I was crazy.

Some abuse survivor work is considered to be dark and oddly psychotic. This piece would fall under that theme.

**Trigger Warning for those who are sensitive to these themes**

Born Crazy

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.

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

The Death of Ms. Hagley

I thought I’d feel reprieve;
some kind of soul relief
to find out she died,
crucified by slow breaths;
a painful death,

almost as scarring as
the beatings she left
on my extremities,
days in school while
everyone stared at me.

What does this mean
that I feel anger
she got to leave
before she stood and
faced accountability?

They’re all escaping,
age taking them down
minute by minute,
ticking time bombs,
their lips pursed with
the silence they’ve rehearsed.

Want to make a confession
before you try to enter
your imaginary heaven?

Did no wrong so
you’ve held on
to the denial,
shame,
the victim blame with
wings transparent
if not invisible as
they don’t exist
when you are
birthed from evil.

Into the dark matter sink,
buried in the
absence of light.

You go become midnight,
thick and airless,
no lungs or blood cells;
nothingness;
that be your hell.

I try to feel some
kind of way but I’m
filled with memories,
flat and frayed.

I’ll leave behind
written manifestos
of what you all did and
never confessed to.

With my head held high,
I will always tell the truth.
Now I can speak your name.
So the world can truly know you.

This be my sadistic story;
the one I deserve to scream
while the blaming arrives asking
what about her family?

I reply
what about me?

v.k poetry