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.

Stream of Consciousness | 1.6

duality / what an odd position / to both / thrive in solitude / drown in aloneness / behind the smile / an ache / that never goes away / arms to hold me / are shadows / only visible / in night dreams / clutching pillows / i have landed / on a planet / of shallow waves / a place / unfamiliar / far away from / beneath my sea / blue washes / my soft cheeks / they will / always leave / when the storms / get deep / no matter how much / the voices plead / stay / stay / don’t go away / but i am here / inside the gray / looking for realms / where the otherkin stay / i could leave today / make it a forever / would they say / i miss her / she was / a good kisser / survived / so much shit / it left a / mental sickness / i am weary of / being food for / the wicked / if i must / sleep alone / in this valley / let the ghosts rally / twist me / into cocoons / taking me / home soon / so tired / spirit endings ache / too much heartbreak / makes the body bend / until the moon / says it’s the end / and she / releases the tides for my / mothership to arrive / i float invisible / in a world of / crooks and cars / i won’t / make it far / unless i / start running now / i just / don’t know how

Child Abusers Rarely Take Ownership of Their Crimes

If my mother were alive, and you were to ask her if she allowed her children to be abused or if she abused her children, her answer would most likely be (with Bible in hand), “Absolutely NOT!”

She would then most likely go on to tell you what difficult children my siblings and I were to raise, along with a myriad of other excuses to support the gross denial covering the guilt she couldn’t face.   This is what abusers do; blame the child, and all too often, naive adults actually believe it.

A couple of years ago, a friend who grew up in the same cult as me had a conversation with a woman who knew me when I was a child. My friend asked the woman about my time as a child at the second compound I was taken to in Alaska, and the woman said this:

Well, she was quite a boisterous child and was always in trouble a lot.”

She victim blamed a child who she witnessed be abused and yet still, thirty plus years later, the denial runs as deep as the ocean. What should we have expected? That our abusers would admit to their crimes? What a ridiculous notion. Child abusers rarely admit to their crimes unless they’re caught. Given the chance, they will quickly blame the child.  Witnessing child abuse and doing nothing is just as criminal as participating.

Victim blame a child abuse survivor, and that’s where my patience, kindness and association ends.

I do not ever condone a child abuse survivor having to defend themselves against the abuse they suffered. My fellow child abuse survivors, we’re not mentally ill. Our abusers are. Those who would attack your abuse are in serious need of psychological help themselves.

They lack empathy and understanding. Attacking someone’s child abuse is an extremely apathetic action. I feel we must use our voices to stand against those who would deny the atrocities that we endured as children and that children still endure. We have to stand our ground and not allow children to ever be blamed for the neglect and/or abuse they endure.

Tonight I sit in contemplation, knowing where my passions are, and what makes me feel in a space of forward movement.   I am aware of where I put my time and my energy, for my goal is to always be focused on believing and supporting child abuse survivors.

Streams Of Consciousness | 6.25.15

I am here weightless. Ear tuned to every sound. The fireworks are starting. A week filled with the explosions of war. I despise the celebration of generations who’ve been traumatized by genocide. Headphones. I’m trying to stabilize.

Can I float off away from this place yet? Work to do, but goddamn, I’m tired. Inside. Down in the caves where the seaweed waves in water. She, there, that siren; she is tired inside her liquid soul.

Outside, my body pushes. My face smiles, forced because maybe if I push at it fiercely it turns into the real real. The sounds of fans whirring above me. It’s heated evenings with the shades pulled up to catch the breezes.

Life moves on. Can’t do shit to change that except to feel it all. Face forward. Eyes on the prize, girl, eyes on the prize. Actualize. My destiny has arrived.

Which looks like….

A settled sunset in a camp chair around a beach bonfire,

A triumphant glow in the eyes of a child who has escaped the pain and healed,

A human holding accountability softly in their palms saying, “I fucked this up. I deserve to carry this, not you.”

An acceptance,
A sag of the shoulders and
A rest before the next climb.

They say don’t expect too much from people. It gives way to disappointment. I say that goes along with all the other ways a victim is left to carry the blame. No. The shame belongs solely to the asshole who throws away lives without a care. Don’t blame us.

Here is YOUR Diagnoses:

Apathy, Chronic
Envy, Unresolved
Greed, Chronic Satiation, Level OCD
Selfishness, Harmful Ideation

Everything with you motherfuckers is about money. It temporarily numbs the pain like drugs, and when that plug is pulled, what’s left but the abscess to drain endless,

Your chosen mental madness,
Your fucking sadness,
The voices in your head
Telling you that you ain’t shit;
I know all about it.
I used to be a pro
At telling myself no,
Instead of attending
To my precious soul.

Thinking about it makes my stomach sick. I’d rather live a thousand lives of loneliness than ever give in to anyone again.

I say yes to this right here; the silence; the peace; the ability to freely be me. And fuck the gurus and the controllers, the betrayals and the disloyal. It’s a journey of suffering embraced like a blanket and the shit ain’t mine this time. I get to leave it all behind.

So, I am weightless on this bed. Thinking about communion style wafers of white chocolate and laughter that fled at the sight of action and accountability, because standing on your own two feet ain’t never been a strength when you care more about Vera Wang than your own ability to become better and change.

Lying and manipulation is the crutch of your existence,

And me? I’m just weightless. I’m just feeling, dealing and healing. Because that’s what I do. Live my truth. Even if the self hating critics keep the rest of you in prison, I have escaped to never, ever return to that gate even if it grows flowers;

Unless I have a mallet
To knock down the malice.

Because Humans Represent The Possibility Of Loss

When I was a little girl of one and two years old, I existed inside of a perspective attached to my sister’s hip. She is four years older than me. It seems I was always either hiding behind her hip or holding onto a part of her belt loop or dress so I could feel safety. Staying beside her, I had a constant guide who would always know what to do next. My father was gone a lot because he worked as a military contractor. My mother was busy giving over her time being slowly love bombed into a destructive cult.

So, my older sister was my anchor, and my older brother was our body guard. My sister took on a mothering role, and my brother, a protector role, available to whip some ass if any other kids in the poorer neighborhood we moved into, messed with us.

Then, in the blink of an eye, our lives were turned upside down, and we were all ripped from each other when my mother decided to take us to one of the most brutal of all the compounds owned by Sam Fife’s Move of God cult. As a three year old child, I went from the safety of my sister’s love and my brother’s protection to never seeing my brother, and not being allowed to speak to my sister or my mother. Overnight I went from safety, to terror. abuse, isolation and fear.

I could only catch sight of my sister when we were out working in the fields. Or when we were in the dining room, we could have telepathic conversations through sneaking eye contact with each other. She holds the memories of my screams when I was beaten. She saved my life once, putting herself in danger to stop a beating where I had passed out and dissociated when I was somewhere around five years old. My sister and I have a connective strand of trauma survival that is unique only to us. There is a deep wound of abandonment and isolation that these experiences created inside of me.

They had a deeper effect on me because I could not process what was happening to me. I was only three, and at seven and nine, my sister and brother could only see me being abused, see each other being abused and helplessly stand by. It would remain this way for years.

When my family’s love is ripped from me on any level, I am deeply triggered to the emotions of that childhood trauma. When I am left by the way side by a family member, not spoken to or responded to, I feel disregarded and reduced to ashes. I am three again, feeling confused, terrified and abandoned, ripped from the only love I truly trust. I am left inside of the unknown. I trust too little or I trust too much. This creates an end result of me not trusting at all.

When these types of situations arise, it does assist me in moving through them when I am able to connect the emotion I am experiencing to the trauma that the situation is triggering. When I can understand that I’m weeping uncontrollably because I feel the pain of the disregard, in the least I can bring about resolve for myself.

I feel the strong emotional trigger of the isolation and abandonment. The tears I flow are no different than a wound which must seep in order to heal. It’s squeezing the infection out. It is me learning to deal with loss, the exhaustion of it repeating itself and somehow figuring out how to maintain acceptance of it.

Recognizing my triggers can be difficult. I have to piece these fragments together, sift through these thoughts and open my mind to understanding their impact on me. I am fragile, yet I have to continue living in spite of the loss. It takes time to figure this out.

Every time I experience it, I ask myself if I have the strength to deal with loss anymore. Each time I am unsure. I don’t know if I can. Each time, I do regain my strength, yet I feel just a bit more tired inside.

Life moves on and each time I am used or feel abandoned, it leaves pieces of my love ripped from me. It changes me. It molds me differently. I become more silent inside of myself, where acceptance leaves me in a state of constant observation and a feeling of not really wanting to connect with most things human, outside of children who havent learned to be cruel yet.

It makes me feel distant and shut down into myself, to continue accepting this solitary path, away from the victim blaming and the sick minds who can attack us with our own traumas, to be the silent writer in the attic, seen occasionally carrying groceries; isolated from the rest of humanity because humans represent the possibility of loss, and loss has stripped me to bone.

Streams Of Consciousness | 6.18.15

Your call tonight left me hollow / my chest is under bricks / breath heavy / I feel you separating / and I touched you for a time / like when I was a child / I admired you / now I lose you / again / you’re going back to them / back to the smothering caverns / so familiar / fear of the unknown / is greater / than the pain you’ve called home / so you choose / the lesser of the two / I am riddled with the loss of you / he will isolate your mind again / make the rest of us out to be villains / years will pass / and there will be the memories / of the few months we / laughed and planned / two girls once more / like before / we have always been / a family torn / can I hold this space / my arms are weary / and I am leery of losing / the strands of this heart / are violin strings / shorn from themselves / my skin sleeps but / the lump in my throat / says weep, girl, weep / this sadness runs so deep / I am a million pieces / each trying to figure it out / the turned down mouth / a smile lost / yet all is flat / no real tears yet / will they come? / maybe it’s time I go back / reclaim the coldness / so I don’t have to hold this / next time it will be worse / the hurt / it will beat you / until your knees shake / and you said you were done / with heartache / I wonder how much more / you’ll take / if you’ll outlive / the emotional rape / but I got a journey / I have to take / and I can’t stay, sweet sister / I can’t stay / holding space I gave / and still I love / still I yearn / as the tides turn / becoming the ash we burned / in the hopes that your loneliness / wouldn’t become excuses / and I must tarry on / with my mission / but first I must try / to cry / so the heaviness / will turn light / replaced by acceptance / but first / I gotta feel this

Solitary Repsite

There are those for whom
The night opens up her arms
Embracing sadness
In the singing wind charms

For me she is closing

Closing the spaces
I once shared
Closing the trust
I once spared

She speaks of oneness
Now I know there is
No such concept
Where once I believed
I was emphatically deceived

I am not one
With the envy of the black
I am not in sync
With the attacks
Or the aftermath

I am a retracted rose bud
Surrounded by iron gates
Once open for entrance
Now closed to escape

I refuse to claim
The same energy of the envy
The discord and sick minds
I am no longer blind

I cannot be bitten
Lest I allow myself be smitten
And so I raise the bridge
Over the moat of my soul

There will be no more arrivals
To weaken my survival
No smiles to entice
Just to sink into my skin
A blood lust for my spirit
I fight against in this life

The watchers wait in silence
In the hopes I will give in
But the ending has arrived and
They’ll never be allowed back in

Mistakes have brought me here
Back inside the cave
Where all the secret memories
Are buried; a mass grave

There is no love more daring
No armor built so strong
To pull me into deception
Just to break my tender arms

War has made me stalwart
As I touch each wound and scar
Weeping in the solitude
Beneath this moon and stars

I know from whence I’ve traveled
And soon I will return
To be quietly unraveled
As their soulless wicked burns

Ashes into ashes
And dust into dust
I close my heart to block
The pulling of their lust

Back into the fluid
Of the amniotic sack
My death becomes my birth
As I trace my footsteps back

Back into invisible
Back into the light
Back into the safety
Of this solitary respite

v.k poetry