Yesterday Was Her Birthday and It Never Crossed My Mind

I knew I was shut down to her when I stopped praying for her every day.” My sister said.

I’ve never prayed for her. I don’t pray period. I’m non-religious, humanist, truther, but pray to a man-made entity? Not for me. I don’t even think of her fondly like I used to. I just think of what the cult formed her to be; a hardened, judgmental, passive aggressive, Narcissistic woman we called Mother.

Yesterday was her birthday, and it never crossed mine or my sister’s minds. We are just miles from her grave and feel no urge to go and visit it. We are closed off now.  She is ashes to ashes, dust to dust, cycled back into the dark matter. Did she come from there, meant to return to the nothingness that she became after Sam Fife’s Move of God cult took control of her mind?

As I write the sequel to Cult Child, the reality of who my mother became boils to the surface like a volcano. Stories I once thought funny now churn with the sadness and hurt of a woman who lost her spirit to an intricate ring of religious fanatics. They starved her, then criticized her when she got fat again. They treated our family like we were infected because we had no father. They urged her to divorce my dad, then abused her for being an unmarried woman. The mind control enacted on my mother, causing her to participate and validate horrific abuses against us children, is deeper than any ocean ever dove into. Some call it a rabbit hole. I call it a bottomless abyss.

Every once in a while an ex-cult member will exclaim how wonderful my mother was, and I shake my head silently. As most Narcissistic people are she was a fake angel to those she wanted to impress or gain something from and a human of horrific personality behind closed doors.

It’s easier to talk about it. I can keep things short and sweet, tell the story in skeleton form so the listener gets it, and move on. Writing it out is much different. I am traveling deeply into the abyss, using ankle weights to sink me as far as my lungs can manage.  I am examining every angle to see and understand how fragmented Mother became, pieces of evil following us into life after the cult.  She was so fragmented that she remained friends with the wife of my sister’s rapist up until my mother died.

What kind of mother does that to a child?
What kind of shattering did it take for the cult leaders to convince her to let them have her children?

These answers, I’ll never know. My mother is dead. What I have is acceptance of what was, and a long journey of memories still left to purge from my body.

Yesterday was my mother’s birthday, and I didn’t remember.
Yesterday was my mother’s birthday, and I don’t care.

I cannot succumb to the ridiculous notion of honoring parents just because she hosted my birth onto this planet. I was dying in her stomach before I even arrived. Does she deserve honor? Does she deserve respect? Some might say yes, she does.

I say no. She does not. There is no forgiveness without accountability, and that is something she can never give to me now. I do not believe in the notion that forgiveness is needed in order to heal and thrive. Just acceptance that there are malevolent humans wandering soulless through this planetary plane, and one of them end up being my Mother.

This was the last photo taken of me before the cult sucked her into their claws.  I wonder if she ever thought about how small my hands were, the dimples in my fingers, or how tiny my face was inside of those curls.   I never heard fond stories of my babyhood or reminiscing of when I was small.  Maybe she stayed silent because then the questions would come; questions that spawned answers that didn’t fit into the truth of what happened to us.  I look at my face, and I weep for a little girl who only had two years of happiness before spending the rest of her childhood in hell.

10608292_774875035892810_5277895642644372731_o

Rest Without Getting Depressed

During my childhood living in the cult we children were required to always be kept busy to the point we were often in sleep deprivation mode.  It was so ingrained into my head that now, in adulthood, I have struggled with being okay with just simply resting.  My inner talk would begin, saying things like “You’re being lazy.” or “You should be doing SOMETHING.”

This conditioning of always having to be working as a child has followed me deeply into my adulthood.   At the same time, exhaustion sets in when one has worked since such a young age.  Where typically I should have a zest for working at this current point in my life, I often find myself feeling an aversion towards it, become exhausted even at the thought of having to keep a regular schedule without knowing how my body/mind/spirit will feel.

I dealt with a trigger toward the end of the week and found myself exhausting very quickly, body wanting to sleep, and I listened to it, getting hours of rest.   I had some thoughts I wanted to share afterwards about the difference between sleeping off a trigger, resting the body and letting it heal as opposed to being depressed.  For me, at least, there is a difference, and I’ve had to learn how to differentiate between the two.   I talk more about this in the below video.

The Sadists Come Like Lightening Bolts

The sadists come like lightening bolts, Sila!” Madge exclaims, a warning glistening from her eyes.

Shut the fuck up, Madge.” Maude orders. “Leave her alone.”

But Sila knows. They are like lightening bolts, and they will flood her with their electricity, then leave her depleted. They will strip her skin, extract her emotions and bottle her love. She is open prey for the wild no matter where she is.

It’s Angie.” Vennie says. “She attracts them like a moth to light. They become friend, then foe, lover, then liar, laughter then leaving. And we are ALL here to clean up the aftermath.”

the blame

Angie’s fragments
Sila a curled up caterpillar
Madge taunting
Maude doing damage control
Vennie writing it out
Knowing quietly observing

silence

long, long silence

Sometimes,” Knowing says softly, “lightening strikes and splits open things that could never be split open if not for the power of the electricity. Sometimes what’s inside the open spaces revealed, is a treasure that would have been hidden forever. Thank the lightening when it strikes.  It is opening your caves.

And so we do. We thank those who have become our lightening bolts, striking us, devious, mischievous, and as the smoke rises from our skin, it hurts yet through the process of healing the burns, we learn.

“Victim Speaks Out, While Cult Leader Awaits Trial”

“Told in a restrained but highly effective style, reminiscent of Kazuo Ishiguro’s brilliantly understated bestseller “Never Let Me Go”, “Cult Child” provides frightening insights into the methods and after-effects of religious coercion. Her fortress is no bigger than the space between her ears; but through quiet internal resistance, Sila halts her opponents and outlasts their ten year siege.”

Read more:
http://www.patheos.com/blogs/nolongerquivering/2014/10/victim-speaks-out-while-cult-leader-awaits-trial/

M. Dolon Hickmon is a freelance columnist for The Freethinker and OnFaith. He explores the intersections of religion and child abuse in essays published around the web, as well as in the pages of his critically acclaimed novel, 13:24 – A Story of Faith and Obsession. You can follow his writing on Twitter @TVOS1324.

 

 

 

 

From All of Us

October.  Our favorite month.  The energy is alive with the spirits of past; and gifts are a plenty.  The leaves are turning brilliantly gold, red, amber and shimmering yellow.  No season can be unnoticed.  From our heart to yours.  Now.. wonder if you can tell who is who?

All of Us

Click To Read “Cult Child” Amazon Reviews

Patriarchy Survivor: Survival After the Suffering

Testimony by Vennie Kocsis

My abuse story is not “typical”, although who is to say that any abuse is typical. My story is a bit different because I am a survivor of ritualistic cult abuse. I share my experiences openly with the intent of connecting with others who have been abused. It’s important to me that we come to know there is healing and survival after the suffering.

In 1973, my mother took me and my siblings, left our father and our family home in San Diego, CA and drove across the country to Ware, Massachusetts where she joined a religious cult called The Move. I was three years old.

While at this facility my family was separated from one another and each placed into different classification units on the compound. The next four years of my childhood became a nightmare filled with ritual beating sessions, sessions involving casting out of “demons”, molestation by multiple men, slave labor working on the compound from dawn till dusk, methodical listening to hours of tapes of preaching, and an overall hopeless existence of disassociation as my body and soul tried to cope with what was being done to it.

Read More

Patriarchy Survivor is a blog dedicated to “breaking the silence one testimony at a time”.

Follow at: https://patriarchysurvivor.wordpress.com