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

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. 

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

Dear Counsel, I’m Writing To You Again

Dear Counsel,

Again? Ah, I’m trying real hard not to be irritated with you all. I tire of writing to you like I’m some child, although I very much enjoy writing. Just not for this purpose. As you know, I am writing an edgy, sensuous book. So I say this.

I know, Vennie, you are struggling with me. You think I have no empathy for us. You find me dangerous. You said I was self serving. What does that mean to you? If I am serving me, am I not serving us all?

What your friend said is correct. I was there when you were a child. So don’t discount me. Remember me. You wrote about me in Cult Child. I held your hand by the field of flowers. I rode horses with Sila while you took the pain. How have you not put this together when we look absolutely the same? Well, I’ve cut my hair since then. Shoulder length now. More “up with the times.” ::sarcasm:: I’ve been cycling for infinite centuries, but that is my own story to tell.

We are an incredibly intelligent wheel. We are an information station.

I am capable of love, and you’ll find me to be quite sappy at very rare moments. Very rare. I don’t so much care for the free falling feeling of feeling. That’s for you, Vennie. I am much better at defending. I know war, and I have battled. If there has to be a Counsel, my place is in it.

No, I’m not mirroring you. Look at me. Then remember me from when you were a child. Close your eyes and see my face when I looked down at you by the flowers. Dark hair. Dark eyes. I am beautiful. I’m aware of that. I have not aged.

You painted me already, but you know that. What you don’t know is that was when I was a teenager. I am horse and human and air and particle. That painting you did is before I became you. Understand? My eyes are not green anymore. I’ve cycled way too much to be that pure. You’ll paint me more soon. Later. When I really get into writing this book. So much is coming that I know and see. It’s a matter of you being ready.

Yes, I am a shape shifter. I morph. I love horses. We were drawing them in the program. I was Madge when you were a teenager. I know this can be difficult to understand or make sense of, but you know. Madge and I. We are one and the same. Understand? You nod. You smile. You cry. What are you feeling? Gonna write about it or be all whiney “what if they judge me” and “shame shame shame”. Call me a cunt but damn, shut up and let someone else talk. How many times do I have to say fuck them?

Look at the photo you took with your sister when you were sixteen. See us in your eyes? Your eyes are dark in that picture because our eyes are dark; black actually, very black. Glad to see some of yours green again, by the way. That’s says much about how far we’ve come.

How do you differentiate between what you might be creating in your head in order to deal with me and the truth, you ask? Isn’t that what you are doing now; putting me to task and checking memory facts?

You doubt me too much. I know you more than you have given me credit for. I know little details like Angie writes in all caps while Vennie tends to write in cursive. Vennie writes on behalf of Knowing. Angie – is she even around anymore? I don’t see her as often. Oh, and I can write for myself, thank you very much. ::that was a joke so get used to my dry humor and quit worrying so much about offending. again, fuck them::

No, that writing comment was not a slight to Knowing. She doesn’t mind for me to let you know that we knew each other before we became you. Ah, now there’s some news. That surprises you? It’s okay. Don’t feel betrayed. Another planet. Another place. Another space. Cycles.

What you know about me, how I was born, and what I know of humans can only unfold itself slowly. I, like Knowing, understand the importance of holding back. We care about your health and wait as you seem, Vennie, to be in the forefront right now. We’ve been switching for years. We can be a team.

In an attempt to reassure you, I don’t mean you harm. Quite the opposite. You may not like my tactics, but I am who I am. Blunt. Snobby. Standoffish. A bitch. Self-protective. Fuck it.

So if this is what we have to do; write it all out and converse like this, that works for now. There’s things to know, like I can navigate the cave keepers. Ah, well don’t I have your attention now. You’ve been curious about them for a while, since you and Sila had that conversation. You don’t talk to her anymore. She’s been off in the corner by herself quite often. First, you have much to understand so you can navigate these lands. Yet, trust me, when I tell you that you can.

You have to do this mostly alone. Be careful who you let close. Your human circle is exactly where it should be. Stand still for a bit and get to know me.

Drink some coffee for the headache. It’s been a very long day. It is going to be okay, but make no mistake. I am a bitch, a witch and a succubus. That’s all I’ll share for now. Know this. The succubus is not that bullshit they feed in mythology. You called me a Satanist, yet I worship nothing. Worship? I am far past worshipping. There may be those who enjoy worshipping me, but that’s not my road to drive. Those motherfuckers own their own eyes. Get my drift? So know me before you judge me. You study things, yes? Does that mean you adhere? Give me some credit.

I’ll most likely never go dormant. I don’t like to sleep, so somehow find a way to accept me. Don’t I deserve to be free? See? I even write poetry. ::wink::

Well fuck, there you go crying.

M.7

Invisible Diagnoses

There are many of us who carry invisible diagnoses.  Because others cannot visually see them, we are often cast aside.  This is on my mind as I share these vlog thoughts to shed light.

Why the Switch Sometimes Can’t Be Flipped.

Imagine that you’re in an empty room. The room has become completely dark. You need to get up and get out of the room, but in order to do that, you have to be able to see so you can find the door.

All that is visible is a glow in the dark light switch on the opposite wall from where you’re standing. Now all you have to do is just stroll on over there and flip it up. Walla! Light to see the door! Up and outa here! Yeah!

Sounds easy, right?

There’s just one problem. You can’t get your legs to move. Your mind recalls Kill Bill, and you’re saying “Wiggle your big toe.” over and over.

But unlike Uma Thurman, your toes do nothing. You cannot move a thing. Your mind is screaming at your legs to go. You stand there, unable to take even one step.

You don’t understand why. You are so frustrated and pissed off at your bullshit legs that won’t move. You try and reason with them. You try and figure out when and why, exactly, your legs have stopped working.

You are exhausting yourself with the fight to try and get your legs to move. You try over and over and over and over.

Minutes turn into hours that turn into days and months and even years.

You cry out for someone to help you, but no one is around to assist you in training your legs to move. No one is there to encourage you to believe in the ability of your muscles.

Or maybe they’re on the other side of the wall hollering, “Just flip the switch on, and you’ll see the door!”

Even though you’ve repeatedly called out to them that your legs won’t move.

You are stuck in your spot staring at that switch. You are hearing their voices bellowing solutions at you. Yet all you know is that your legs refuse to comply, and you are near the end of your rope.

“Why don’t they just open the door and come help me?” You think.

You don’t understand, and you fill to the brim with helplessness and hurt. Why won’t they realize that you can’t move your damn legs? How many different ways do you have to explain it? What is wrong with them? Are they not fucking LISTENING?

Eventually, spent and exasperated you close your eyes and the illuminated light switch disappears. You give up. What’s the point of continuing to gaze at that beautiful light switch, so close in your reach, if you can’t even get to it?

This is what depression and anxiety feel like. Frozen emotion. Cracked will. Defeat. Drowning in an ocean as people scream at you from the shore to “swim!”, and no one thinks to jump in and guide you to safety.

See, people can’t see these emotional disabilities with their eyes. Depression, C-PTSD and Anxiety don’t sit in a wheelchair or end up hooked to an I.V.

Because people can only view these types of disabilities with their hearts, and all the while people are screaming their opinions, solutions and judgment at you, they too, are just as stuck.

Because they can’t figure out how to reach the switch in their own room; the one that turns on their compassion.