Dear Nichol,

When I saw my brother today he had a gift for me. His friend, who cleans out apartments, had given it to him. He said as soon as he saw it, he knew it was for me.

It is so special to me when I am thought of in such perfectly eccentric ways. This is a great example of the energetic mindfulness that is important for me to have with those I am connected to.  My brother and I have such a connection.

I immediately fell in love with the beauty of the leather, the laughing tiger hand carving, and the journal’s lovely buckle closure.


What I didn’t expect was the inscription on the inside flap.


Should I know how to find her, I’d place this piece of art back into Nichol’s hands. The inscription from her friend told me so much about her. I saw her smile, the deep secrets held in her dark eyes, the way she uses pen sketches to avoid thinking and how much she was being encouraged to write.  What a special gift.  

I have a leather bound journal that was gifted to me for a birthday.  I write in it often. I cherish that journal.  It made me wonder if Nichol thinks of this journal and misses if. 

Since I cannot find her, I’ve decided to honor Nichol in the hopes that one day, synchronicity will place this journal back into her hands, and she will delight that I have filled it with letters to her. She found her way into my journey, and I have much to share, so that when it returns to her, she will understand what she always felt was missing.

This journal will be entitled “Dear Nichol”.  I will sketch and tell her my secrets in rhymes and moments of scattered, cursive ranting. She will see my parts through my handwriting changes, sometimes all capitals and formal, other times curved and smooth.  It will find its way through its own journey carrying deep parts of my vulnerability, and only one who will be privileged to hold it in their own hands, will ever know its contents. 

Dear Nichol, welcome to my life. You reminded me today to get through it, but don’t stay in it.

When Cult Members Attack

Peeling off layers of truth about growing up in a cult which still exists has also released an influx of opinion, perspective, experience and much more from those who were also involved in this cult.

Since first publishing “Cult Child”, I’ve been examining the ways in which my fellow cult survivors have reacted to my publication. Now that I am speaking out more vocally on forums such as the radio, they are seemingly reacting more.

One of the main observations I’ve gathered is that those who were older when the cult began, have a differing perspective than those of us who were either children taken into the program or born into the cult, with those same adults being either our parents, caregivers and/or present and influencing adults.

We children have a differing set of circumstances as we witnessed and experienced horrible abuses. The adults who doled out or stood by and did nothing live in deep denial, often lashing out, calling us liars and being accusatory.

When I say adults, some of them were in their early twenties and participating in the severe beating and abuses of children. I see them for where they stand, deeply mentally ill and having to carry the horror of what they either did to children or did not do to help them.

Just as we victims carry the images of what was done to us, likewise our abusers must carry the images of what they did and/or witnessed.

Another way that I am attacked is individuals leaving poor starred reviews on my book where they can. Luckily Amazon requires one to be a purchaser of a product for the review, so in the least, I get a small compensation for having to be re-abused and attacked for telling the truth about my abuse.

I am not one to be intimidated by gang stalkers. When they call me a liar, I ask them which farm they grew up on? Who did they know? Were they a child? Who were their parents? What specifics can they give to prove, first off, that they were a part of the cult at all. After all, one must have been there, to factually call me a liar.

Furthermore, if they were not on the exact same compounds as I was, they can speak nothing of my life or the experiences of my family. Since stories of abuses have come from every compound Sam Fife and his cronies created, then I ask, if the person was an adult, why they did nothing to turn in the child abusers? So, this attack is easily lain to rest for me.

Another avenue that is used, is to say that I am out for money, made from the backs of other people who suffered in the cult as well. First, aren’t most authors hoping to make a living from writing, after all, writing is our passion? Why then are we not allowed to make a living from what we are bestowed to do?

Secondly, when one reads “Cult Child”, it takes but one page turn to understand that this is the story of me and my family. Every story contained in the first book of this set, yes, there’s a sequel coming, is related, and pertains directly to my family.

However, if I chose to write a book telling the stories of others who survived, I have the legal right to do so. It is not, however, my intention. Not just because their stories are not mine, but because I have other projects that I look forward to delving into. So, this attack is easily lain to rest for me.

My family owns the originals of all photos which are contained in my books. If you happen to be in one of those photos, luckily for you, I chose to blur faces. Luckily for you, there is a disclaimer in the front of my book that states I have changed names for privacy and liability purposes.

Luckily for me, I am well informed, have consulted an entertainment attorney before publishing and scoff at the ideal that anyone related to Sam Fife’s Move of God thinks they in any way hold any rights to the story or photos containing and relating to my family.

As for the statements made about me that return in the circle that is my support network, I somehow feel a great sorrow, for old people who make statements that we children were seductive, leaving me to understand that the pedophilistic mindset this cult built its roots on, still exists today.

It amazes me most that our abusers never stopped to consider we would grow up one day. Did you not think we would have a voice? Did you not think we would have something to say?

You don’t get to say “Yes, it was bad and all but…”. There’s no “but” which follows sexual abuse, demon possession casting out rituals, beliefs in end times, beatings, sadistic mental manipulation, sleep deprivation, brainwashing, demonology, spanking of babies, Old Testament animal sacrifice (Ware, MA) and more.

You see, I am not alone in this truth. I just happen to be the most outspoken. We children are now adults in a gathered tribe, quietly supporting one another, and we are large in numbers.

The network of survivors is so vast that the messages I get which are attacking of me, either myself or someone I know, remembers the person doing the attacking. These people were adults or elders children, seeking to silence the truth about the hidden horrors of Sam Fife’s Move of God.

It never fails to be consistent, that those who step forward to attack me were in some way an abuser, worked in a nursery where they could abuse children, were mean spirited, witnessed the abuse of children, and did nothing. Now, they have grown into bitter, self-righteous things who remain the same abusive evil they were when I was a child.

You don’t think we remember you, the things you said and did? Nothing has changed in regards to your existence, except now, you don’t get to silence me. And you won’t. Abuse is silent. You will never abuse me again.

EDIT 11/25/16: For those who took part in the free download of “Cult Child”, thank you.  For those who missed it, sign up at: http://VennieKocsis.com to be notified of the dates for the next free download days.  There will be one 5 month. Thank you for such an immense interest this month!  I am honored that you are interested in understanding the cult abuse of children.

Dancing Away 

Waves hold steady as I ride and dive the depths.  Intercept child’s play.  I smile inside.  The lessons are wind, and so I fly.  Quick.  Ready.  The shift tilts.  I am riding cliff edges with spread wings.  Return the matter into the light. Defragment.  Retrace steps.  Boomerang slinkies back to their origin gathering energy times three.  No more to bleed.  I’m free.  Laughing.  Twirling dresses on tip toes through the black eyes Susans, petals move through my dance so golden.  I am holding truth like an infant, shape shifting in an instant.  Tomorrow I be new.  Left behind are the nameless, the shameful, the fools.  It is my time.  I am in the rising, thriving on sun feed and weeping willow trees.  They carry me forward love affirmed.  I am a child of the Universe, my armor the Earth.   Rebirthed into the Seven, I sing inside this infinite heaven.