The Daily Routine

Streams of Consciousness, Daily Struggles and Survivals, Vlogs and More

Why You Need To Make This Small Investment In Your Life

I’ve been through some of the worse a child can endure; torture, sexual abuse, child labor and more. Cult life was excruciating, daunting and extremely emotionally isolated.

My healing journal has been difficult as well. Being diagnosed with mental impairments thrust me into shame and despair for a long time.

So, how did I get through? Fifteen years of hard work and a big mirror reflecting back at me.

This brought me to a place of wanting to share my journey with others. One of the excruciating parts of talking to survivors, is how many are alone, can’t afford therapy and are just struggling to be heard.

So, I started a channel where I can listen and share. Through videos and posts, you, the subscriber, can come to understand more about mental health struggles. I am currently doing a video series on Dissociative Identity Disorder.

I am in love with this channel. Subscribers are private unless you choose to comment or openly participate. I can garauntee a constant stream of information and so, so much more.

Click to join:  My Private Channel

Around My City She Sleeps

There are people who learn to trust the streets. I think of their lives, how they have made darkness their day and daylight their night so they can stay alive.

Where is the safe space when the alleys are teeming with the unloved at night, ravaged by the anger in their souls, screaming out their behavior and trying to numb the pain?

I understand why she sleeps in the day, quiet beneath an office building eave, on a porch never used. I watch the employers walk quietly past her, making sure not to wake her as they enter their offices.

This mixture of compassion and hopelessness fills my observation. She is sleeping soundly where she feels safe. Somehow, there is a silent understanding of this, and so she is left to rest.

I wonder of her story, who hurt her heart, body or both. I wonder when she gave up, how old she was and what would make life different for her.

Caught in a moment around my city, I see the humanness of humans. I feel the dance of empathy and indifference from those who walk past. If they let her sleep, they’ve done enough.

And I feel a woman with a ghost story, thankful for a tiny porch and the chance to sleep in quiet, beneath a mound of blankets, escaping reality for a few short hours.

Around my city, she sleeps, the wind weeps and minds escape into dreams.

©venniekocsis.com

The Pages I Rarely Share: Why Trauma Journals Are Healing

I rarely share my personal, hand-written journal pages. They are private and raw, exposing trails into myself that I don’t necessarily want others to walk upon.

As I continue the journey of writing through trauma, I’ve connected with other survivors looking for outlets for their pain. I believe deeply in journaling, mainly because there are endless ways one can journal. There are no rules. We get to customize it to fit our own need, and it can look like anything.

I have differing journals for varying states of mind:being. One contains dreams I’m either lucky or unlucky enough to remember. Another contains childhood memories. This one is graphic in nature, and I would not share most of these pages publicly.

I write daily in my gratitude journal to keep my self-love balanced. Another journal is filled with letters written to a stranger. A slam journal holds pasted pieces of moments to remember, like movie tickets, a leaf shaped like a heart found on a walk, a cool newspaper clipping and so much more which has fit my fancy to save, glue and tape.

My “Letters to a Stranger” journal is a stream of consciousness ramble of mind dump journal. There is no necessary “reason” to the entries in it. Should someone pick it up, it may appear as the jumbled code of a multiple mind.

These are two pages from my Dump Journal to show an example of what might fall out of my head. I tend to write in this during a mind split moment where my hands need to move while my brain is on overload. I’m in random mode, just clearing subconscious thoughts out of my head. I tend to be lucid. I don’t critically think through it. I allow it to flow and have its own voice.

So, I hope you will dump the images which plague your mind, into words and the thoughts into pages. I hope you give it away, and don’t hold it in.

Dump, my friend, dump.

The Horror at 1379 Milepost

If you take a drive from Fairbanks, Alaska, an hour down Richardson Highway, through Delta Junction, you will arrive at 1379 Milepost. There you will turn onto a solitary road. At the end of that road is a religious commune with a history so horrible, the average person can only listen with radical acceptance, in order to grasp the total truth about the roots of this cult.  Child Abuse.  Sexual Molestation.  Mental Brainwashing.  Torture.  Public Humiliation.  Sleep Deprivation.  Control.  Triangulation.  All orchestrated in a patriarchal society of narcissists.

Three years ago, a couple of young reporters made a trip out to two of the Alaska compounds. At the 1379 Milepost compound, where I lived from the ages of seven to fourteen, they were met by a man named David Johnson, Their eyes were wide with disbelief. What my fellow survivor and I had told them was in fact, truth. There are compounds deep in the Alaskan woods, secluded, patrolled and controlled, a place where they were not allowed to step foot anywhere, except the office inside of the Tabernacle.  A tour of that compound was out of the question, according to David Johnson.

Plans for The Land Cult Compound 76-74

The original survey plans for “The Land” cult compound at 1379 Milepost, Delta Junction, Alaska

The compound I was on had several names including, but not limited to, Dry Creek, Living Word Ministry, The Farm, Game Creek or as we referred to it when we lived there, “The Land”. They quit claimed the deeds back and forth, most likely to avoid taxes, changing names, hustling land parcels together. Douglas McClain, Jr was just a child on this compound with me. His father, Douglas Sr, groomed him on a path into prison, where he sits today, awaiting appeal. They were hustling a drug derived from goat’s blood. You can read the actual court complaint here:

Security and Exchange Commission vs Stephen D. Ferrone, Douglas A. McClain, Jr., Douglas A. McClain Sr., and et al.

Doug McClain Quit-Claim Deed

This is just one of several deeds I have showing the quit claim sell of The Land between Douglas McClain and George Harris.

l_b0180077765b4bed80949cc27fd5a15a

Sam Fife in the green coat, with his wife and their private plane, scoping out “The Land”

The words the main reporter used to describe his brief visit to the compound felt familiar to me:

Creepy.”
The energy was so thick and heavy it could be cut.”
An air of sadness hovering.”
Desolate.”
Isolated.”

Indeed. I nodded. I know. I remember David Johnson, with his slit eyes and foul energy. He doled out a few beatings.  Many of the adults where abusers. It was, after all, God’s will to strip a child of its flesh, as Brother Sam Fife would instruct. If we weren’t being punished, we were being humiliated, gossiped about, and any sexual abuse that was found out in later years is blamed on the victim.  Still today, the mentality remains the same. Religion cloaking forced insanity.  We were monitored, lived in continuous fear and told the “night watchmen” were there to keep the bears out.  Yet, the compound was so large, it was impossible for them to watch everything at all times, hence my brother’s success on his second escape.

Bryce and Pat Alloe

Young men at “The Land” approximately, 1980/1981, monitoring with guns.

Three years ago I was there as an adult, hunkered down in Fairbanks, Alaska, just miles away from so many people who had either abused me directly or who I had witnessed abuse other children. I wanted to drive onto that compound myself. I remember the layout like the back of my hand. I could navigate it in the dead of night. I wanted to find Marilyn Hagley and ask her why she beat me so much when she was my teacher.  Maybe if abusers experience what they have doled out onto children, they will get a notion of the affect it leaves behind.

Not far from The Land at 1379 Milepost is another compound owned by this cult. It is controlled by a man named Bill Grier.  Whitestone Farms is located not far from The Land. Some cult apologists have adamantly denied being associated with Sam Fife. Yet, Whitestone is on the cult’s Convention schedule, and Bill Grier’s criminal record began in the 1970’s. Their website proudly boasts about the man who helped broker their land; a man named Doug McClain.  When the pieces fit, they fit.  When the puzzle reveals the picture, it’s existence cannot be denied.

History of Whitestone Screenshot

ScreenshotBillGrierArrestedforExorcism

Press release naming Bill Grier in the use of exorcism on children in school from “Today’s World”, edition dated: 5/23/1974

I remember conventions. Six, sometimes eight hours of sitting with no breaks or food. My mother sometimes kept mints in her purse.

To give us all a little sugar so we won’t get faint.” She’d say.

Conventions are hardcore mind control sessions with the Elite Move Leaders all gathering, vying for the position to preach their sordid interpretation of Biblical text. None of it matters. It’s all just long sessions of angry preachers feeding the fear of Hell and counter love bombing with the concept of Heaven and God for the good people.

Conventions provide a chance for the Movite “big wigs” to cavort with one another and shake their peacock feathers to impress the gathering of cult members, who often travel thousands of miles to attend the conventions and participate in lengthy frenzies of speaking in tongues, singing and serving their religious Handlers who feed their minds controlled instruction.

I wonder if the poor children still have to sit like we did for hours, on hard, backless benches or folding chairs. We sat so long, our hips ached.  Do they at least break for meals now?

There are mini countries inside of America. They make their own rules. They abuse children and swindle their “citizens”.  They are mind terrorists who get away with abuse under the guise of religious freedom, and American citizens have chosen to look away for too long.

I wonder when people will begin to care about the cult no one ever talks about?

Pounding Pages

While Adele was chasing pavement, I was chasing memories in the pages of “Cult Child“. Now, she accompanies me as I “go over everything” in the “Cult Child” sequel, “Rise of Sila”.

Pages come in spurts between resting and remaining balanced for another emotional journey into lost innocence, trailer parks, a narcissistic mother, an undefined multiple me and time behind bars.

Sometimes, as I am writing, my mind releases to a distant place where I look back and wonder how this was my life. Deep inside, a purpose drives me. It is a reason I continue on.

I spend my time passing knowledge on to anyone who will stop and pay attention. I want you to know about the children no one checks on. I want you to know about the illusions which exist in the advocacy world. I want you to know how short staffed law enforcement teams are and how seemingly un-interested the FBI is in making this virus of pedophilia and child abuse a priority.

I think about my country, our right to make citizens arrests and our rights to freely investigate without stalking. I wonder if citizens could become partners with law enforcement. I wonder if we could switch out the hundreds of thousand of prison inmates who are jailed for cannabis, with hundreds of thousands of pedophiles and child abusers.

Who do you want on your street corner? The hippie or the child lover?

As I work inside the web of my personal goals, focusing first on my own self empowerment, then to those whom I can support in positive growth, I realize how much of the problem with child abuse can be monitered through citizen volunteerism.

CASA is a great place to start. If there isn’t one in your city, consider contacting them on how to start a chapter. It’s a good way to get started in helping protect child rights.

Most of all, pound out your own pages, whatever they look like. Release your own aches so they can be replaced with passion for others.

I am pounding out the pages of my past in sporatic language vomiting. It tells the truth about this twisted world, from inside the thoughts of my own young mind.

I am Sila Caprin. I survived. We are scribing more memories, in sync with exploring new emergences, through our cave guide, Hyro.

The Collective

Abused Children Wear Multiple Faces

What the un-abused cannot understand is how a child can be raped and defiled, then smile at school the next day.

What I can say as a sex and physical child abuse survivor is that a lot of us victims don’t fully understand it either, except to explain that this is where fragmentation of the mind happens.

We function in multiple settings, some violent and horrific, some considered normal, and we move between these fragments in order to survive. As a species, we don’t fully understand the absolute capacity we have to get through horrible events and experiences. So, in order to thrive, there must be in all of us, an acceptance, instead of a need for explanations or closure that we may never recive.

Why do evil humans do what they do?

Who cares.

Let’s stop them.

We spend more time researching, than we do focusing in on victim rehabilitation and harsh sentencing for perpetrators.

We spend more time debating theologies on news panels for television time, than we do walking into the lives of the victims so we can truly understand what they have experienced.

If you want a solution to an epidemic like child abuse, ask some of us victims. You will find that maybe you should listen to us, whether you agree with our view or not. If you have not been a victim you really aren’t the expert. The victim is. To put yourself in your own absolute bubble makes you a part of the problem.

Start to listen, as we are speaking very loudly, and our Survivor Voices are rapidly growing.

Cult Child at Amazon:

When Childhood Gaps Haunt You

I wish I had one less tear for every time I heard the advice to stay more focused on the future than I do the past. Or one less ache for the unsolicited opinion that letting go is always best.

I have spent many years contemplating this.

I revert to the line in a journal that was gifted to me. It says, “Remember to get through it. Don’t stay in it.”

I’ve met many abuse survivors who have all of their memories. I have felt a mixed twinge of jealousy that they remember everything and sadness that they recall all of the hurt. Still, there are some of us survivors with time gaps.

For me, those gaps are not completely blank. They hold flash and impression memories. Flash memories are 3-10 second images which sometimes have no specific beginning, sometimes no end or sometimes both. Impression memories are feelings and thoughts for which there are no accompanying images. Both of these types of memories are cloaked with a big question mark.

There is no closure for them. To forget and let them go is as impossible as the inevitable fact that if one tries to stay awake for as long as possible, eventually, they will fall asleep. The memory will go nowhere whether we will it to or not.

Therefore, instead, to dive into the dark and dismal pits is sometimes the definitive path to wholeness. To finally reach the destination may include feeling our way through some very dark hallways and caves.

The key to this expedition is behavioral awareness. There will be tears and weariness. There will be moments of wanting to give up. There will be times anger will emerge. Being aware of whether or not this is affecting our behavior is important, as it affects those connected to us, our health and well being.

Balance is the ying to the yang. It must be set in place by way of grounding into the present. Dissociation begins with physical symptoms such as a heavy chest, difficulty breathing, rapid heartbeat, nausea, tunnel vision and more.

To dive into the abyss requires a safety belt and a wire. It is not impossible. The more we care for and accept signals from our physical form, the more the gateways of the mind become open.

To enter the haunted house, one must remember the number one rule.

It is not real. Right now, in the present, it is not real. It is a memory. We get to control our response to it. We get to be patient as we learn how to enact that control.

And once our bodies have become accustomed to the trapeze, to know there will always be a net, we can be free to swing between the poles of our soul gaps.

And all that is darkness will be exposed by the light. As horrible as it will be, don’t turn your eyes. Let the images and accounts embed themselves so deep, that you never lose your empathy.