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stream of consciousness 9.18

“The Consciousness of Being Human: Self Portrait”Ā by Vennie Kocsis

I never / consented to this / to be a / part of parts / never asked / for the / broken hearts / the laden road / of being human / I am consuming / energy for air / ripping in half / to leave the / density here / to arrive there / so much to / leave behind / misunderstanding / mistrust / the degeneration / of being human / flat the feel / change the emotion / like ocean waves / this realm will / disengage and / the rage becomes / the sum of the numb / too sequestered / to remember / so they die / fire by fire by fire / and some / we love / memories become / teardrops / and scars / run my fingertip / over the / raised bars / hearing music / there is / no other way / injected through earth / plastic cups which / held my birth / death returns / when it / burns and burns and burns / regrowth the flowers / skin ashen / from flames / renamed and / reclaimed / shine the laughter / in aftermath / sees deeper than seas / trickery / treachery / manipulation / lower dimension / in fifth / long for seven / homeward bound / all your theories / are overthinking / flat or round / beginning or end / real or pretend / free or fenced / cages and rages / self created invasions / float away / against the seam / this is / a nightmare / not a dream / if they can’t / hear the / screams and wails / of innocent souls / this is / no place to / call home / I never / said yes / I’ll be the test / for traumas and / altered DNA / it was never / okay / when their / experiments / get to / intelligent / and layers / become invisible / they march in pairs / watching / from distances / invisibly obvious / mundane / this life / ordinary and / strained / drained by leeches / disguised as / preachers / politicians / the mouthpiece / of the wicked / people / so feeble / co-dependent slaves / cave easily / cracking brittle / can’t learn / from trees to / flow and release / shoot the moon / stage the craft / going back / through time portals / I told you / I am immortal / when this skin / becomes hollow / will I / remember / the aches / of this life / will I / look back / to understand why / floating in / the respite I / daydream of / colored plasma / encased / sleeping / m7

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Absence of Belief

You sleep inside the turmoil. You worry that you are not enough. You fear a planetary end. Beloveds, will you pause for a moment and become still? Inside you will be able to do pertinent compartmentalizations needed to sort through the detritus that feels like confusion inside of your minds.

How to separate truth from fiction? There is only one way. First, you must become completely pure into yourself. How, you ask?

Herein is the essence of you embracing your choices and power. You are, in spite of what is told to you, in control of your present reality. You choose what you listen to, watch and absorb from your surroundings. You choose interaction and focus. You choose perception and sight.

Clearing your environment is imperative and takes an active journey of work. Only you can choose to go into your silence. So many are afraid of this space, as you must be alone with your own mind. Yet, if you do not go alone with your mind how then will you complete your process of clearing?

You are a unique form of energy, cells and matter. There is no other like you. This is how intricately incredible is your form. When you can humbly see yourself with no comparison to another, you are finally clearly seeing.

Rise above the matter weighting down your human feet. Look with eyes clear of all thinking which is not of a program implanted into you by outside source. You know. Inside your DNA is the root of your truth.

Absence of belief. Simplicity. The flow of synergy. This is your being. When you hear yourself speaking words which drip with kindness that is rooted in authenticity, you have made a completed shift into the next step of your existence.

Rise, Beloveds. Fly.

šŸ¦‹K7šŸ¦‹

#MondayBlogs – A Cult Memory

Growing up in Sam Fife’s Move of God cult, reading material on the Delta Junction, Alaska, compound was very censored. Magazines had pages, pictures and sections removed, all deemed by the cult leaders to be “bad for our minds.”

One girl managed to sneak in The Chronicles of Narnia, The Borrowers and Stuart Little, which she let me borrow, quickly read and give back to her with the promise I wouldn’t tell anyone she had them.

One of my cherished possessions was a box set of The Little House On the Prairie series which I found in the clothing bank, a community room where we could rummage through all the personal belongings other people gave over to the cult. I read and re-read those books until the pages were falling out.

In my post-cult teenage life, at the age of fourteen, one of my first introductions to television would be Little House On the Prairie series starring Melissa Gilbert. I would weep hysterically when Mary went blind.

These books were a comfort to me in the cult. So much about Laura’s life was familiar; the isolation, the hard work, the struggles of growing up in a primitive and patriarchal world.

I received a sweet random act of kindness the other evening when my brother stopped by to give me a “never been used” color version set of the Little House on the Prairie series he’d found. It warmed me to hold these books in my hands again. He is always thoughtful with gifts.

I was momentarily swept back to how often I fell into books, reading them over and over. Watership Down, the tales of Laura Wilder and the many pieces of literature that got me through, let me escape the trauma and somehow made me feel less alone.

Books are treasures. They are a place where many of us kids jumped to escape the traumatic surroundings we so desperately hoped to one day be brave enough to run from. We must preserve them and encourage children to read, taking a break away from technology.

Vennie Kocsis is the author of CULT CHILD and host of Survivor Voices Show, airing every Sunday @ 6PM PST. She is an advocate against child abuse and indoctrination. She is an artist and poet residing in the Pacific Northwest.

What Happens When We Dissociate?

How does Dissociation work? Is it okay to Dissociate? What happens during Dissociation? So many questions are posed toward the phenomena of trauma Dissociation.

The scientific process of Dissociation is a brilliant function of a human being’s DNA ability. There are many aspects which could be deeply examined in regards to the phenomena of Dissociation.

  1. Where does the DNA brain and body energy go when it leaves?
  2. Is the ability to Dissociate related to how much torture/pain a human can endure?
  3. Can Dissociation be controlled by the carrier?
  4. What happens during the Dissociative process?
  5. Why do some abuse victim’s Dissociate and not others?

In my memoir, CULT CHILD, I go into great detail about my Dissociative memories. These are real experiences which are extremely clear and prevalent in my memory. They have never changed. They have only been verified.

My Dissociation process as a child did not disappear, but instead, evolved as I became an adult. When I begin to feel my energy separate from my body, a myriad of physical signals happen first.

Sounds disappear. My body feels as though it is floating. My heart rate speeds up. I begin to see my current reality in third person perspective, as an outsider looking in. This happens in a matter of seconds. Then in a blink, I am elsewhere in my mind. I, personally, tend to travel to a dimension outside of my current realm.

Because I dissociated so much as a tortured child, it seemed like a natural and smooth transition to evolve the methods I used to transition, into my own meditative states. If my environment is right, I am able to push through the physically uncomfortable Dissociation transition to access differing sectors of my brain. Now, it is a willful and purposeful action.

The most pertitant element has been grounding to insure I am not left with aftermath; that I can come back to my present reality and be able to function at my own current level. Therefore, before using this technique I usually hold an object in my hand.

For me, there are now two types of “Dissociation”. One, emerged out of a childhood fear, fight/flight instinct, which I used as I was universally assisted through surviving cult inflicted torture.

The other would emerge as a flipping of those ritual tools, utilizing the survival abilities of my childhood abuse as newly assistive methods through which I now freely access the other dimension.

So, from my experiences, there is no set answer to the “What happens when you dissociate?” question. There are too many mitigating factors.

  • a human’s level of pain tolerance
  • a human’s mental strength
  • an abuse victim’s environment
  • an abuse victim’s DNA
  • the type of abuse enacted

For instance, my Dissociations found me continuously returning to the seventh realm, as I know it, while another abuse victim I am friends with jumps to a planet within this galaxy. Yet another abuse survivor I know remains on the ceiling, watching the full extent of their abuse. One element I observe in regards to the extent of an ability to control Disaociation seems to also include a human’s personal evolvement. The more evolved human deals with less fear, thereby being able to travel easier.

To answer how one dissociates would be to speak with every abuse victim who has used Dissociation to cope. While our experiences and circumstances are all differing, what we do have in common are the physical signs, as described above.

Possibly, when we master the skill of traveling, not in fearful Dissociation, but in an ability to focus, using Dissociative abilities to access the levels of our own existence, we have come to explore our memories from a place of empowerment.

This takes work. It has taken me years to evolve my methods. I am still evolving them as I am determined to access more of my mind’s caves. It takes being healthy so the body doesn’t fall ill. One must be able to be in a soothing environment to do this work. Because it is emotionally laborious, most Dissociation carriers avoid the exhaustive journey.

Yet, I say that if one chooses to face the layers of their own dissected childhood, that through the exhaustion, tears and haunting images, learning to stay grounded and traveling into Dissociation has been one of my strongest developments.

Vennie Kocsis is a 2016 Amazon best-selling author of CULT CHILD, a memoir detailing her abusive childhood in Sam Fife’s Move of God cult. She is currently writing the sequel, RISE OF SILA.

50 Shades of BibleĀ 

by Vennie Kocsis

Chapter One

The view from the second floor of the palace is clear, void of fog or dust. King David lounges on His fur covered, ornate chair, gazing through the stucco columns of His balcony. She is bathing again, the marble tub filled with milk. She is naked, voluptuous and unaware of the eyes that could be watching her. He will have her. After all, He IS the King. He has decided to wait no longer.

Many an evening He has spent observing her. One day there would be a word for this behavior. Stalker. Yet, it is a time of dust and candles, rulers, slaves, bathing beauties and Kings who do not accept no as an answer.

The King smiles to Himself. He has sent her husband, Uriah, one of His soldiers, off to war, with secret orders to His private lieutenant that Uriah must surely die in battle. Soon, word arrives that the deed is finished.

David sends for the milk bathed beauty. Up close she is more breathtaking than He has obsessed over from afar.

He has a room prepared especially for her. Roses line the bed, tucked into wooden vases, filling the room with a subtle, sweet scent. Soft fur blankets and pillows adorn the bed.

She pauses in the doorway, her head bent down in reverence as she curtsies slowly. He takes her in with his eyes, stirred by the simple, flowing gown covering her dark skin.

Come, dear one. Lift your head.” He directs her toward him.

Her dark hair is braided down her back; three plaits to signify her royal status. Gold bands wrap around the bottom of each braid. Her lips are full. Her face is bare and beautiful. She has an air of humble confidence as she glides towards Him, kneeling at His feet.

He lifts her chin.

Look to me. I must tell you something that will break your soft soul in half. Then I will heal you.”

Her eyes fill with tears. She knows what the King is about to tell her.

He is gone.” She whispers. “My love. My Uriah. The swords have taken him.”

Tears stream down her cheeks, and unexpectedly her chest explodes as she finds herself sobbing into the King’s lap.

There, now, My dear.” He soothes, gliding His fingers over her skin.

So soft.” He thinks. He is filled with the urge to bed her.

He will. After caring for her as she grieves the loss of her husband, grateful to the King for His loving care, He takes her into His arms. She complies, wishing simply to be held, to remember the touch of the one man she would truly ever love. Uriah.

The King smiles each time she sighs into His chest after their coupling. In times when one can command a murder to have the woman He wishes, it is good to be the King.

Chapter Two

When the Master first sees her, she is dancing beneath a tree. Enraptured, He holds His hand up, a signal for His twelve bodyguards to cease speaking or walking.

The group of men stand still as they watch Him. Their Master walks closer to the dancing woman.

She is a glowing movement of magical beauty. Her hair is flying in strands of long black curls. Occasionally she throws her head back, laughing and letting out the most beautiful warble, as if a bird is whistling music inside of her head.

She is free.” He thinks.

A crowd has gathered, watching her. They are yelling at her.

Whore!”

Slut!”

One man picks up a small stone, hurling it toward her, but he misses.

She continues dancing, completely oblivious of the swiftly turning crowd, which is forming a semi-circle around her.

She grabs the hem of her skirt, holding it up as her long legs brush the sand elegantly. The Master holds back an urge to laugh in delight. Her hips sway. She is bare stomached, with a soft cloth covering her breasts, her shoulders curved and flawless. Love shoots from His stomach like never before.

His attention turns to the crowd. He beckons His bodyguards to follow as they walk over. She has stopped dancing, now aware of her impending doom, fear settling into her deep, brown eyes. She huddles behind the tree.

The Master brushes His lips with His left fingers as He passes her.

Shhhh.” He orders, and their eyes lock for seconds, sealing a bond that will never be shattered.

The Master stands before the crowd, His teelve burly men flanking Him. The crowd falls silent.

You.” He points to the largest man with the heaviest rock, beckoning him to come forward. The man laughs, dropping his rock and walking over. He is confident that he will take this would be Commander down with one blow.

Why do you hate this woman?” The Master inquires, His voice welcoming and warm.

She is a harlot.” The man growls angrily. “Look at her. She shows her body. She dances alone. She has no respect for herself.”

I see.”

The Master contemplates for a moment, silently, as the man shifts uncomfortably in his dirty sandals.

May I wager a deal?” The Master asks. “If I prevail, you command the crowd to leave.”

Confident that he will win, the man heartily agrees.

The Master leans down and picks up a small piece of branch. He says nothing ad he writes in the sand.

You have been bedding your brother’s wife for many moon cycles now. If you do not leave this woman alone, my men and I will follow you into town and tell your whole family.”

As the Master gives the man time to read, He watches his face change to shock. How could this Master know such a thing?

Silence continues until the man looks up at the Master, who then uses his foot to wipe the words from the sand.

Without hesitation, the man orders the crowd to leave, leading them away from the woman who had been dancing beneath the tree.

She rushes toward the Master, falling to her knees, kissing His feet. She lifts her face, her eyes endless pools of tearful emotion as she whispers.

Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

The Master reaches down and takes her hand to help her stand. He pulls her close and whispers into her ear.

But will you serve Me?”

Her body falls slack against Him. He smells of desert dust and days of traveling with no baths. She will wash each inch of His skin tenderly, down to his calloused feet and gnarled toenails.

Yes.” She breathes. “I will serve you, my Lord.”

She will serve Him until His last days. He will reward her with camels and baby goats, fresh wheat and apricots. She will weep at His feet when His own people murder Him, hiding their children as not to have His heirs slaughtered as well.

Her name is Mary. She is a Sacred Whore. Her Master loves her, and even in His absence, her heart will belong to Him until her last breath.

Motherless On Mother’s Day

by Vennie Kocsis

I don’t quite understand these constant holidays, dedicated to moms and dads and bunnies and love. I see them as marketing scams, a way to boost economy almost every month, by throwing in a Holiday.

But hey, maybe I’m bitter.

On these days I am reminded of my absent mother. See, not only did she pass away in 2007, her mother’s soul was stolen when I was three.

Recruited by an ill-intended woman into a sinister cult, my mother was forced to be separated from her children, initially physically starved through food rationing. After years of brutal torture, all of our spirits were broken.

Emotionally, I never had a mother. In cult life, I was rarely allowed to express my feelings to anyone. This was considered to be self centered behavior, a feeding of the flesh and a sin in the eyes of God.!!If by some chance I caught my mother in a listening mood, my emotions were most often turned back around on me.

“Suck it up, buttercup.”

This was one of my mother’s favorite phrases.

These days feel so distant to me. Social media is filled with flowery and adoring words dedicated to mothers. They are loved and adorned with the flowers of sparkly attention.

I wonder if those mothers are supported every single day as they raise children, work and juggle schedules. I wonder if they have their own mothers to love them.

My mother is not here to love me. If she were here, she would most likely be in the midst of her Queendom, wearing her dark “Godmother” sunglasses which she’d taken to wearing for her glaucoma.

She would be the center wheel, the rest of the family mothers in her shadow, as she preened. There is a wince inside of my star heart, a little ache to return, back into the portal where my real home awaits.

I see the outstretched arms of my celestial Mother, her lips parted into a smile reflecting light from her pearly white teeth. She is waiting for me. She is proud that I succeeded in my mission.

“Welcome Home.” She says softly.


(Gif by Vennie Kocsis)



There is no banner or trumpets to celebrate my return. We are not a star family of false pretenses. She gives me the intimate connection which supersedes any material gift.

She holds me inside of her love, and as her arms wrap around my body, I sigh a heavy breath into her chest. I am home again.

To the mother in the starlight, who visits my dreams at night, soothing my cries, stroking my holographic hair, I am alight in your glory. We will see victory in this round.

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.

Ā©venniekocsis.com