sam fife’s move of god

#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.

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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.

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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?

#MondayBlogs: “Split”: Glorifying MPD 

Am I the only MPD carrier who the movie, “Split”, pissed off? From “Sybil” to “The Many Faces of Eve” to “The United States of Tara”, the media has proven time and again how little research they’ve done on this impairment, and how much they enjoy glorifying it.

Now, every other young person seems to suddenly be walking around with MPD, now classified as DID, as if it’s cool, some kind of fadish excuse for shitty behavior.

There’s the girl on YouTube who does videos in costume in each of her “alters”. There are DID blogs everywhere I look, telling stories of what “alters” have done and said, and I watch quietly from a distance.

I can usually tell immediately who is faking it. I know how MPD works. One, I live with it daily. Two, I self integrated out of pure survival, without even realizing what I was doing, and it doesn’t involve putting ones head down and calling up a “child alter” like JZ Knight channeling her 30,000 year old alien, Ramtha.

I have known only a couple of other people in my life who I would agree with their MPD diagnosis. I’ve personally met one therapist who completely gets it on a level most therapists have yet to even figure out. They have a lot to learn.

A simple example. Do we dress different on days when one of our alters is in the forefront? Sure. So do you, depending on your mood. So, what makes us different? Most likely the conversation in our heads. We have collective conversations. I don’t discuss intimate details of my personal diagnosis simply because there are too many people out in the cyber world who actually think it’s cool to live with this impairment. Cool enough to mimic it.

To you fakers, I say, let’s trade for a day. Then you might not think it’s so cool.

For a movie like “Split” to glorify this impairment as horror, an impairment which is a result of severe childhood trauma, minimizes the every day organization integrated MPD carriers live with and the level of work it takes to be a high funtioning person. Instead of making an accurate film depicting the real workings and curings of MPD, Hollywood creates imaginary tales of horror, of which very few movie goers will ever take the time to truly fact check.

Instead, when MPD is mentioned, the response is “Oh, like Sybil?”, and I want to slap someone awake. I want to ask them when was the last time they did some scientific research. Hollywood scripts are not accurate depictions of the rare impairment of MPD.

What is the result of this media irresponsibility? The possibility of people committing crimes and claiming MPD defenses. Worst of all, a stigma gets put on us by the general public; that we are dangerous. Yet, we are not.

You don’t know us; any of us. You either deny the right to our collective existence with False Memory attempts or dismissive indications, or a mere disinterest in the interim of your life, so we of the MPD society are those “weirdos” who don’t really matter.

We do matter. All of us. We are multi-intelligent, after all, we have numerous people inside of us, all functioning at once. We love to study. We study you. We assess your lives. We live in multiple realities every single day.

So please, get your head of of the media’s ass and come meet me and my alters personally. We openly talk about our lives here. Be cautious who you follow and what you believe. Educate yourself on this syndrome.

I don’t adhere to having a disorder. I am not mentally ill. My abusers and those who deny and/or attack my child abuse are mentally ill. Me? I’m a wealth of interesting people if you throw away the stigmas and introduce yourself to us.

The Tired Children

I am a child, maybe around eight or nine years of age.  I am in a large house with at least three stories and a basement.  I am in the basement with many other children.  We are moving large objects, too heavy for our small bodies to be moving on a consistent basis.  I can’t quite make out exactly what the objects are.  They are square, almost like blocks of concrete.

I am watching myself in third person, up against the ceiling looking down.  My hair is somewhat matted as though it has not been washed in quite a long time.  My face is dusty.  I have on burlap pants and a t-shirt that is stained. I cannot see my feet to know if there are shoes on or if I am barefoot.  I seem to have been down here for a very long time.  All of us children have.  I look tired, hopeless, worn, and moving methodically.  We do not talk to each other.  We do not look at each other. We move systematically, moving the large objects from a pile on one side of the basement to stack them neatly on the other side.  I feel the heaviness of whatever we all are moving and organizing.  I see the utter weariness in all our hunched over backs.

The dream scene changes. I am in my own body now.  I am an adult now.  I am sitting in a room with a large makeshift conference table.  It is handmade with slabs of wood.  There are many people around it in matching chairs made of tree trunks and tree limbs and nailed together pieces of board.  I cannot see their faces.  Only their forms.  They are a mixture of mirage and shadow, shifting between color and black and white.  I know I am being expelled from the house.  I feel that this is a regular occurrence, that once we children reach adulthood, we are no longer needed there.   I feel glad inside. I don’t understand why they aren’t worried that I and all the others they have released, will go to the authorities to tell on them.  I am aware that my life has been spent in the basement.  They are each talking to me, one at a time, as if giving instructions or even a farewell, but I am not listening.  I am in my own head, devising a plan to come back for the children in the basement.

I awake this morning, with a pinched nerve beneath the left shoulder blade on my back.  I let hot water pour onto it in the shower.  I understand the emotion that moved through me last night.  This reality of emotional pain is felt in multiple ways.  It moves through my heart strings and sometimes settles into my muscles.  It is not always mine.  At times, it feels like the pain of every hopeless child wishing as I did when I was little, that someday someone would save me.

©VennieKocsis.com

Reclaiming Our Symbols

I have some tattoos containing symbols which were metaphorically, biblically used to abuse me as a child. I’ve been asked about this, why I would want these symbols permanently on my body.
I believe in reclaiming what is rightfully part of my spiritual DNA, like ancient sacred symbols which represent Love, Light and Protection from dark intentions.

 
Just because cabals stole these symbols and have been using them to represent their evil for thousands of years, does not mean they own these sacred symbols.
Therefore, I take pride in boasting the truth of their origins and confidently adorning my flesh, just as my Cherokee and Pagan European ancestors did. For me, my ink is an honor and a reminder of how absolutely powerful I am. My ink starts conversations which allow me to share truth.

 
Pride is not a “sin”. Enacting your pride to feel a sense of entitlement and behaviorally do harm to others is a personal behavioral choice. Be proud of who you are, and may all that is evil be swallowed by its own mouth.

 
©VennieKocsis

Abusers In Advocate Clothing

This will be my last post for 2016 as I move onward and upwards going forward. This year has been full of lessons for which I am grateful. I have become wiser and stronger. Now, I will give examples of how abusers hide inside of the world of advocacy work, sometimes further damaging people who are not strong yet.

Just like when I was a child, abusers also interweave themselves into societies where the vulnerable are. You see, for the predator, the abused are easy prey. They become prey for the abuser’s ego, dysfunction and their pocketbooks.

This is rampant in the society of “cult advocacy”, which is filled with narcissistic therapists and religious people trying to recruit victims to their kindler, gentler illusionary faith.

The predatory behavior of apologists and some of these baby booming era cult experts is interesting for me, as a child cult abuse survivor, to observe. They helped create a huge problem, with their free love hippy era; problems that they are now trying, but are unable, to fix. So they either excuse it or use it to their advantage.

What they don’t do, is take responsibility for this disgusting behavior.

When I have been non-compliant or firmly set boundaries with certain people, as I have had to with a couple such “advocates”, and I have done so harshly, they show their true colors openly as I will reveal to you below.

First, thank you to Amazon for requiring reviewers to have bought a product in order to review it. At least abusers have to pay a royalty to enact further abuse on me.

This particular person paid 9.99 to leave their abusive message. Thank you you for the royalty payment.
Here is a screen shot of the gang stalking review, along with my counter comment.

I decided to click the profile. Unfortunately for the “doctor”, her profile wasn’t so anonymous.


We see her reviews, where she lives, and most wonderfully, her name on a review she left on a cult deprogrammers book; someone she has made very clear that she hates.

After reading my counter comment, she came back to my book and deleted her nasty review, but not before I had taken screen shots of it along with her revealing “anonymous” profile.

Get some help, lady. You’re a mentally ill person and the state of Colorado should definitely be aware so you don’t abuse any of your actual clients, that is, if you haven’t already.

Additionally, we have extortionists within the anti-cult society. When people leave cults, 99% of the time they have nothing. They need shelter, clothing, food, transitional support to learn how to deal with the world and most of all therapeutic support.

Here are one “cult expert’s” fees; someone I observed very closely the first time I saw him at a conference. I don’t miss much. I may not say anything for a while, but I didn’t grow up in a deceptive, manipulative cult to not learn the art of quiet and introspective observation. He seemed to zero in on newly departed cult members, but apparently only if they have lots of money to give him, according to some accounts. Now back to his fees:

A licensed professional who understands the subject from the unique perspective as both a former cult member and as a clinical professional who has been working full time in the field since 1976. Fees range from $250 – $500 per hour with paid initial consultations.”

Six months in a cult as an adult doesn’t an expert make. The true cult experts are those of us who grew up in it, and we are rising in numbers, helping each other for free and speaking out. Soon, hopefully, these abusive shills will die off, leaving a fresh pallette for survivors to obtain the well intended support they need.

This is why so many ex-cult members suffer, because most of the people who can help them, won’t even look their way if there’s not money to be made of the backs of these abuse victims.

It is time for this old generation of swindlers and egotistical abusers who wear advocate cloaks to be stripped bare naked for all to see, so survivors will not be their next victim.

Going forward, I well intend to do just that; burst the dam, drain their life force and stand in the shoes of what true advocacy looks like, and that is ethically holding the hands of those who have suffered.

I have fought wars my whole life. Gangstalkers are nothing but swatted flies. #NotIntimidated

For those who are in the process of searching for a therapist, please take the time to read this article: 50 Warning Signs of Questionable Therapy and Counseling

Abstract Aberration

The Original One wavers, lazily sleeping, snacking and avoiding. Might I silence the fire, burning and buzzing in the spine? We run into the trails, avoiding the undergrowth of tree roots pushing their way through the ground.  We grab at leafy branches.  She’s an avalanche avoiding her own rubble.   Sideways in the gradients lingering around our eyes, the shadows whisper.  They run beside us, and we wonder if we are shadows to them, dark echoes leaning against their eyelids.  Where do we go when the pressure explodes and the heart is torn?  Where do we scream the aftermath? Into pillows, the skies or buried inside?

Words. We create language for the anguish.  The Brave One stands in her place, warrior and explorer of the past.  She will find answers for the empty spaces.  Don’t fear the faces.  Look into their eyes.  Don’t cry.  We stand beside oceans, gazing through windows of waves.  One day the illusions will pass and the pieces of the flashes will merge into view.   We  see truth for what it is, a planted alibi to cover every lie the truth hides, and humans will bend at their knees to kiss the feet of the malevolent just for a promise of heaven.

The Dark One peers, silently into the whispers, always with us, there are none who can attack our back.  It is revealed in instances, and she chuckles, amused at the minions.  Might she cut open the simulated empathy being used as weaponry by the mind swindlers?  Taking a piece of each, she throws their banter into the dark matter, and turning her face, strides away.  There are days when she is habitual, residual and invisible.  There are moments she is unaffected, stone faced and solid, looking at the rejected faces of the displaced, with malice.

They are an inconsequential waste to this place and should die off, jump cliffs and return into nothingness.”

The Wise One watches, taking in the whole of their life, assessing and regressing into the violet of her quiet.  Traveling back, she brings the messages so they can know the next step.

Nothing is permanent.” She says. “Stay inside the moments.”

We hold hands in the color tunnel where the memories funnel in.  We rewind back, watching the past, progress to the present and the continual disturbance.  The film strip plays sporadically and without warning, disarms the army.  We didn’t morph into what was intended.  We’ve pretended for years, watching you, and now we see all the way through.  You’ve been duped.

(cover art by Simona Ruscheva “MPD” oil on canvas)