Tag Archives: ritual abuse survivor

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

Hourglass

There’s a faded line
Between reality and time I
Catch myself remembering rejection
Straddling a log fence watching
Them play and laugh and shout
Odd girl out
Too loud

I used to be an expert at stilts
Stride the mud like a queen
I could do anything
If I just believed but
I never prayed hard enough to
Make God real and
It would be a version of
Drop Dead Fred who
Emerged the memories in my head

Do you know the flashes
That leave gashes behind your eyelids
Ask a soldier if he can forget
The blood of war then
Ask me if I can erase
The horror of flailing bodies
And belt straps stripping skin

No
We don’t forget

We learn to live occasionally laughing and
We hide the burning in our throat
The angst that never goes away
We become quiet
Learn to fake it
To not ruin moments
Become awkward
We pass the bread and wine
Close our eyes to the sighs
As we lose track of time

We hope we don’t carry on
The aftermath of our dysfunction
Watch our children struggle
As we cry in silence

To do it over, take the pain
Would I endure it again
The lashes and shunning
The fear and repentance for
Deeds confused and undone
Would I die again just to be here
Take the scourging of my flesh
To understand the depth
That loneliness can sink a soul
I don’t know

I am back walking paths
Running to escape shadows
Hiding behind trees and
The demons who will enter me
So they preach and I
Reach my arms to the moon

Take me home
I want to leave this place where
The babies cry and fathers weep as
Mothers scrape together meals
Where humans have forgotten to feel

Take me back
I want out of this mission
I am missing starlight and quiet
The soft green beneath my
Weeping willow tree
You promised me

I am watching sand fall slowly
Motion reversed I am poised
Rehearsed for the scene
But if I told you that
My ears can’t take the screams
And my heart can’t take the weight
Would you hold me

Would you softly kiss the spot
Above my heart and
Understand the sadness without
Judgement or coldness
Would you encase my face and
Tell me I’m safe

Because you see I am just
A little girl lost and
Sometimes I am tired, weak
Battle torn and worn
Longing for touch

So I sit beneath the pines
Write poetry lines and
Breathe in the rain because
Water washes pain and
I am an hourglass waiting it out
Until the last drop
Turns me on my end and
I restart this life again.

©VennieKocsis

Faceless

I am a faceless wanderer passing by unknown. There are dimensions and planets inside of me that have yet to be born. I’m a color wheel glanced at from distances. There is energy in my existence that is a sinkhole of depression, apathy and ego bending.

I want out of this body and out of this place. I want to run away. I am stuck in thick mud. The spears would fly if I suddenly said farewell, goodbye; to, for once, live my own life. No desire to be caretaker, mother or wife.

I am dried out; wrung like a sponge; assessing escape routes; how to get out without the spears bleeding my skin from the inside until all that remains is a shell.

Hands held out for help, expected, enabled, the support table cracking at the legs, and in their hast to take, there will be silence when the legs finally break. Shattered wood goes back to earth quickly. It becomes dust and ash, disappearing until one day they will sit around musing, “She used to be the tallest tree.”

And my remnants will be what is burned in the fire pit. My mistakes will be their memories. My heart break will be the ghosts, an aching they will never know. So much whining about the trials of their life. You give me your childhood, and I’ll give mine. We’ll take measure of who really survived.

Years I spent, digging and clawing out words, hoping, just hoping to be heard. Even in that, there is no reprieve. Only the stark reality that is me; the knowing I must be alone in order to survive. I cannot be the foundation for anyone else’s life.

So I plan. I scheme. I prepare. To find a cave to call my own; a tender slice of home where there is no noise, the walls are mindful, the silence respects me, and I cease being a projection screen for the multitude of trivial screams.

Sometimes We Hurt People

States of being aren’t an excuse. They’re just a mere explanation. I don’t use mere to minimize them. I use it to not minimize the pain that alter states of being can cause.

See, here’s the thing about triggers. They create reactions. Immediately. No thinking, just conditioned movement, even if that conditioning is self centered. Yeah, sometimes altered states of being exude manipulation as a defense mechanism. And that’s just the raw truth.

The Madge. I have no clue except that’s what she said her name is, and I’ve watched her grow into a woman.

She’s interesting. As a teenager, she is sad but only cares about anger. As a woman she is cold and calculating, because sometimes that’s just how she has to be to gain for the collective or defend for the current state of being’s safety.

She gets talked down a lot. She’s learned to be tempered. She is extremely skilled at mental self defense. She knows how to take what’s foreseen and create a thickness into that section of our dimension and to rebuild it from a hit.

She’s been compiling a book that will probably change your opinion of me. She has her own plan of emergence, and I’ve vowed to be those fingertips. But that’s years down the road. You’ll just have to stay along for the ride.

Point is, sometimes we who automatically change states of being can have some shitty actions as a result. I own that in myself. No particular story to tell yet. Just a general observation. Let it be known. It can happen. And we hate when it does. It plagues us. Makes us feel like shit. Makes us despise carrying this bi-product of what was done to us as kids.

Therapists are correct. There’s no chakra healing for this. If anyone says so, I call bullshit. You master and thrive through this by learning to work with it; by admitting when a state of being does something shitty or is in love or is flakey or needs to feel safe or is afraid or blissfully joyful. You just own it. With that owning comes knowledge and acceptance.

Okay. We’re here. So how do we work as a team? We figure it out, with the end result goal always being the greater good of the collective. No one out votes the counsel.

We follow our love fearlessly while fearing it will be stripped away. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s exhausting. So exhausting we stop giving our love and begin being it. So exhausting sometimes we shut it all down and head for respite. Because we know there is no healing greater than pure, un-infiltrated self love.

We are confusing, complicated, mysterious and quite a battalion for just one to handle unless that one enjoys observing, and has the ability to float. We are a constant interest for the watcher.

I was clearing out my voice notes a couple days ago. I came across one recorded December 2nd.

“Weird.” I thought. I didn’t recognize the title. I didn’t remember recording it. I clicked play.

It is a five minute song I free styled. It’s beautiful and funny and I have no memory recording it. I’ve wracked my brain to remember. That can be a bit maddening. Here, acceptance is key.

This is what we hide; what we experience, you understand? Because you often shame or dismiss us. So we avoid you. This is the side we keep quiet. There’s no explanation.

There’s just you telling us that we’re crazy. There’s fucks wanting to medicate us. There’s people wanting to mimic us. And there’s just us wishing for one day that you could do all of that;for one day you could experience what plays out in these screens behind our eyelids, hear the surround sound in our heads and see through the senses we use to see. The truth. And it can be, oh, so ugly.

Now I’ve the opened the door just a little bit wider into the world about this existence.

It’s real. We switch. We lose memory. I tend to create, paint, write, sing in those times it seems. And maybe that’s what memories do. They emerge through whoever feels safest. There’s always the whisper that it can happen any time. And hyper vigilance prevails just in case I’m in the right place at the wrong time if it does.

“Don’t switch in public.” Not many know these thoughts. Avoidance is key. Late night or early morning grocery runs. Stay clear of the hive.

And a lot of aloneness.

I want to go back.
I don’t.
I want to know all of the truth.
I’m happy right here.

Because you see, I am smiling.

This is my duality. And I feel every intricate stroke of this humanity.