Abusers In Advocate Clothing

This will be my last post for 2016 as I move onward and upwards going forward. This year has been full of lessons for which I am grateful. I have become wiser and stronger. Now, I will give examples of how abusers hide inside of the world of advocacy work, sometimes further damaging people who are not strong yet.

Just like when I was a child, abusers also interweave themselves into societies where the vulnerable are. You see, for the predator, the abused are easy prey. They become prey for the abuser’s ego, dysfunction and their pocketbooks.

This is rampant in the society of “cult advocacy”, which is filled with narcissistic therapists and religious people trying to recruit victims to their kindler, gentler illusionary faith.

The predatory behavior of apologists and some of these baby booming era cult experts is interesting for me, as a child cult abuse survivor, to observe. They helped create a huge problem, with their free love hippy era; problems that they are now trying, but are unable, to fix. So they either excuse it or use it to their advantage.

What they don’t do, is take responsibility for this disgusting behavior.

When I have been non-compliant or firmly set boundaries with certain people, as I have had to with a couple such “advocates”, and I have done so harshly, they show their true colors openly as I will reveal to you below.

First, thank you to Amazon for requiring reviewers to have bought a product in order to review it. At least abusers have to pay a royalty to enact further abuse on me.

This particular person paid 9.99 to leave their abusive message. Thank you you for the royalty payment.
Here is a screen shot of the gang stalking review, along with my counter comment.

I decided to click the profile. Unfortunately for the “doctor”, her profile wasn’t so anonymous.


We see her reviews, where she lives, and most wonderfully, her name on a review she left on a cult deprogrammers book; someone she has made very clear that she hates.

After reading my counter comment, she came back to my book and deleted her nasty review, but not before I had taken screen shots of it along with her revealing “anonymous” profile.

Get some help, lady. You’re a mentally ill person and the state of Colorado should definitely be aware so you don’t abuse any of your actual clients, that is, if you haven’t already.

Additionally, we have extortionists within the anti-cult society. When people leave cults, 99% of the time they have nothing. They need shelter, clothing, food, transitional support to learn how to deal with the world and most of all therapeutic support.

Here are one “cult expert’s” fees; someone I observed very closely the first time I saw him at a conference. I don’t miss much. I may not say anything for a while, but I didn’t grow up in a deceptive, manipulative cult to not learn the art of quiet and introspective observation. He seemed to zero in on newly departed cult members, but apparently only if they have lots of money to give him, according to some accounts. Now back to his fees:

A licensed professional who understands the subject from the unique perspective as both a former cult member and as a clinical professional who has been working full time in the field since 1976. Fees range from $250 – $500 per hour with paid initial consultations.”

Six months in a cult as an adult doesn’t an expert make. The true cult experts are those of us who grew up in it, and we are rising in numbers, helping each other for free and speaking out. Soon, hopefully, these abusive shills will die off, leaving a fresh pallette for survivors to obtain the well intended support they need.

This is why so many ex-cult members suffer, because most of the people who can help them, won’t even look their way if there’s not money to be made of the backs of these abuse victims.

It is time for this old generation of swindlers and egotistical abusers who wear advocate cloaks to be stripped bare naked for all to see, so survivors will not be their next victim.

Going forward, I well intend to do just that; burst the dam, drain their life force and stand in the shoes of what true advocacy looks like, and that is ethically holding the hands of those who have suffered.

I have fought wars my whole life. Gangstalkers are nothing but swatted flies. #NotIntimidated

For those who are in the process of searching for a therapist, please take the time to read this article: 50 Warning Signs of Questionable Therapy and Counseling

For the Motherless Child

But who celebrates the
Motherless child?
Who remembers the
Grieving sibling
Whose life was missing
Love and comfort
Or the children
Riddled with the loss
Of she who bore them?

Who loves the
Worn down souls
Unable to open
Computer tops
For fear of seeing
Everyone else’s joy
As they
Sit alone.

We are conditioned with
Holidays to
Get the heart wishing,
Fake gatherings where
Children smile for mom
Quiet about the harm
Not showing the scars
Locked in robotic charm,
The alcohol bottle,
The silence, as not to
Make the cages rattle.

Every day is Mother’s Day,
For the motherless, a
Reminder shoved in their face
With flowers torn from stems,
No fond stories to tell
About childhood memories,
Just thoughts of her hell,

Or wishing she was here
To share in the recall
Of the kids who had it all,
But lost her slowly
Until all that’s left
Is a headstone
And lonely.

And so I lift my eyes
To the motherless child;
Open my arms
Let me hold you a while.
Together, see, I understand.
I know the pain.

We will walk in the trees and
I’ll softly wipe any tears;
Hold you to my chest to
Let you seep out the loneliness.

You don’t have to be happy
If it’s not how you feel.
You have the right
To be vulnerable and real.

To you, motherless child, I
I sent respite. So
Rest a while and
If you find strength to smile
I will return it with twinkling eyes.

V.K

art by Vennie Kocsis with influence from Jill Greenberg’s crying children series.

Why You Shouldn’t Stand In Front Of a Runaway Train

When my eldest son was in his early teens, he loved his trick bikes and was quite good at jumping hills. We’d go out to the dirt bike jumps before the days of cemented skate parks. I was adamant about helmets, elbow pads and knee pads.

OMG, mom. I look stupid!” He’d say.

He’d put them on, but just like I changed clothes after I left the house as a teenager, he took off his uncool protective gear when he was out of my eyesight too.

Then one day he bit it. Jamming down a hill, peddling his heart out, he crashed, straight into the gravel. His arms were like mincemeat, his face scraped up, and he was injured quite seriously.

I might have said I told you so, but more, I nursed his wounds, with pillows propped under his gauze covered arms, I felt so bad for my kiddo’s pain. Now, as a father, he requires his children to wear protective gear.  Experiences like that aren’t forgotten. 

There’s a saying; something about not standing in front of someone else’s firing squad. I think on that tonight. No matter how I explained to my son about head injuries and what could happen to him if he didn’t wear protective gear, what mattered most to him was looking cool to his friends and fitting in where he felt comfortable. He still has scars from that accident.

Life experience has taught me a harsh but valuable lesson. If someone is standing in front of a train, don’t attempt to push them out of the way. I’m not talking about suicide here. I am talking about life situations.

I am an outspoken Empath. I see much. One of the difficult parts of owning this state of being is remembering that even when I can see what is coming for someone, I have to let them have their own experience.  Sometimes we have to just let the train wreck and decide whether we want to be a part of the cleanup crew.    

By the way, that doesn’t mean you should let your kids ride bikes without protective gear.

When situations arise in adult relationships sometimes it’s best to step back, float up to an observational space and assess from all perspectives. I have to accept that sharing my experiences, information, insight and perspective doesn’t guarantee someone’s protection, because they may choose to reject it or even interpret it as judgment so they don’t have to accept any truth in it.  I know this mindset because I’ve lived it.  There have been many times I placed my ethics aside, just to have what I wanted, made myself believe it was good for me, then paid dearly in the end.  

I was in an abusive relationship many years ago.  It didn’t happen right away.  There’s always the love bombing stage.  For some narcissists this can be years.  My self esteem had waned to nearly nothing, and I convinced myself that this man would be good to me, was just working on growing himself, and so I dove in.  

Months later, after being choked in an elevator, running for my life, having my head slammed repeatedly against a wall as my helpless younger, pre-teen son stood by, my then partner was finally arrested. 

I received a phone call from the assistant district attorney. 

Do you know his record?” She asked me. 

I replied that I didn’t.  

Ah, well let’s see, pimping and pandering and kidnapping.”  She read the former charges he’d been incarcerated for. 

I asked him about them when I accepted his collect call from jail. He had an explanation; an ex-girlfriend who just had it out for him and since he was a guy, he got stuck with the charges.  

Ah.” I thought.  “How messed up they did that to him.”

Need I remind you that I had been choked, beaten and exposed my child to domestic violence just weeks earlier?  This is the depth of a narcissistic mind controller. 

I went to court on his behalf,  because you see, I was the One.  He was going to change for me.  I asked the judge to grant him counseling because, well, he just had anger issues. My abuser.  I stood and pled HIS case.  

Not my case.

Not my kid’s case.

His.

He didn’t win and was incarcerated.  I was at the prison doors when he was released.  I took him back.  News flash.  He continued to abuse me until I finally left.  Fled would be a better word.  I fled. 

I sat and listened to a domestic violence counselor, who the assistant district attorney asked to call me, beg me not to be with this individual. 

They never change, girl. Not the narcissism that comes with being a pimp, ex or not.  It’s in their DNA.”

Still I didn’t listen, believing that I was the one who would be special.  There is no telling where I would be or what would have happened had I not finally gained the courage to leave and never look back. 

I ponder now on those days understanding that this time in my life was extremely indicative of how I viewed myself.  I assess my life now, and what I still must rid in order to continue growing and becoming better as a human being.   I know my worth.  I am in control of me.  I say when, where and how.   I stand on my feet.  No one will ever abuse me again.  There is only one chance to see the signs of narcissistic behavior in a potential partner, and I am a ghost. 

I must always realize where I am in this life’s journey, focusing inward and ask myself the question I am asking myself every day.

Is this situation/relationship/friendship contributing to my greater good?”

Every situation can contribute to our good if we choose the path which yields fruit. 

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

Poverty

After cult life I
Know what it’s like
Run across the road
In the dark night
Steal vegetables
From the neighboring farm

And it harm none
Mama formed the mission
Holding her Bible
A glory soaked misfit

Cold seeped doorways
On an old trailer
In lot Number seven
Piling up blankets
Summers fanning heat

There was no heaven
In our empty stomachs
Or a cruel mother who
Stood us in the welfare line

She was too ashamed
To carry the box
With the cheese blocks

Public Humiliation
Public Assistance
Poverty Resistance

There was no difference
Between dark and light skin
Not in the dusty neighborhood
I was a teenager in

We all knew the same sadness
The lonely, nights
Listening to the drunken fights
Echoing from Lot number six

The one road that divided us
We crossed it anyways
No moat could kill connection
Of like mind interaction

With them I found soul
First bi-level hair cut
I learned the shuffle
The southern hustle

Our skin color
Had no relevance
To each other
Because we had in common
The struggle of poverty

“What would you buy
If you won the lottery?”

“Back to life
Back to reality”

I didn’t know
What that meant to me

Life
Reality

I was just surviving

And memories of the after life
When things should’ve been better
Are sometimes harder
To remember because they’re

Clearer
Defined
Painful
Reminders

And my keys are more tired
Than my fingers
But the lingering remnants
Drop from their tips
As I tell the rest of it

There are stories
Filling seasons and I
Feel their festering
Where once I had to dive
Now they willingly rise

Exploding, bursting to tell
How one little girl
escaped human hell

Where comfort
Should have rang
I clanked my
Poverty bell

vennie kocsis
7/5/15

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

War Must Sometimes Be Waged 

Maude is a strong alter, the strongest alter we have to deal with.  When she takes over she is exacting and infiltrating, rising and swelling on the power of her sexual energy.

She is an incredibly strong programmed succubus, and her carelessness is spiritually damaging to us.  We have been fighting her for years, and she leaves the rest of us in the wake of her adverse intimate choices.

As a child, Maude was Madge, a girl who was programmed with the ability to seduce like a woman.  Because of her sexual power, her energy is difficult to rein in. This program is deeply rooted inside the depth of our womb.

She often dances with Narcissists and Psychopaths who lie and mirror her, saying what she wants to hear so they get to be close to her, and she knows what they are doing. She allows them to victim blame us, that we are the ones responsible for her acceptance of their lies and underhanded behavior or that we are delusional because of our past experiences.  When, in fact, we are dealing with malevolent intent.

She laughs and says the line from Hustle n Flow. “I know when you’re fucking with my head, D, because I let you.”

She is the alter formed from our sexual abuse.  When she becomes active, we are all left with wounds.

I am tired and worn of her.  She doesn’t have the Collective/Empath’s best interest in mind.  She is a programmed alter who kicks into affect when a handler, a trigger is sent in, usually a strong, charming man. Alien love bites suddenly come to mind.

Arcturus light doing battle with the shadow night.

Maude believes she is in control, and in some ways she is, breathing in energy through her mouth, seeing inside the psyches of the individuals she shares her sexual energy with, listening to the words they speak to her; words pertaining to their want of us.   She also swells on the insight of the truth she sees versus the words they speak, breathing them in allowing her to obtain.

Yet, there is no purpose in her existence or behavior as it pertains to the whole and the greater good of our collective as a functioning wheel.

She is the darkness at war with our Light, and we are geared for a fight. The danger with her is that she even allows these individuals an in to us to even begin with, opening entrances to our sacred spaces that should not be allowed, since the individuals most often do not have our best interest in mind. They have their own best interest in mind; even if to merely taste and feed off of our energy.

When this battle is finished, Maude will be bound in order to stop her from allowing the manipulation that she lets men enact on us.  This must be done so that the programming becomes shattered.

We may not be able to integrate Maude due to her strength.  She may need to be eliminated altogether. Time will tell.

The guides call for chastity of heart, mind and body in readiness and for the duration of this fight.

We are beyond this earthly plane.  We are stalwart and undying.  We are capable, and the Council will succeed.

And so today, we declare war.

V