how i was spiritually raped and left for dead (part 7)

part 1 is here
part 2 is here
part 3 is here
part 4 is here
part 5 is here
part 6 is here

i found myself standing in a dark hallway. the building was dilapidated; the walls grayish. i could see, but there was no discernible source of light, no color, only shades of gray and black. there were no windows, no light fixtures. the hallway was lined with doors on either side.

at the end of the hall was a darkish wooden door, and beyond that door my daughter was crying out. “daddy.” she was sobbing, the way children do when they are inconsolable. “daddy,” hardly discernible through the tears.

i tried to run to the door, but my legs wouldn’t move. i tried to call out to her, but no sound would come out, as if i was drowning.

“daddy,” the sobbing continued.
 
lightning crashes, a new mother cries
this moment she’s been waiting for
the angel opens her eyes
pale blue colored iris, presents the circle
and puts the glory out to hide, hide ~ live

i first learned about powerlessness on the day my oldest daughter was born. her birth was the highlight of my life.

on november 20th, 1992, i was delivering a lecture to a group of 70 parents in houston, texas. in my hand, i held a pager. “only one person in the world knows the number to this pager,” i explained to the parents, “my wife. and when this pager goes off, it means my wife is in labor.”

at that exact moment, the pager beeped and vibrated. i almost dropped it. the room fell silent. for a moment i was frozen. “i gotta go,” i said. leaving midway through the lecture, i walked briskly, almost running, straight-kneed, out the door, down the hallway and through the exterior door. in my car was my cell phone, which, in 1992, was roughly the size of a brick. as i looked toward my car, i could see my wife standing next to it. a friend had driven her to the meeting site. still in denial and shock i ran-walked toward her.

she was in labor and she was hungry.

on the way to the hospital, with friends following, we stopped and ate a quick dinner. i had never seen my wife more collected…confident. she’s a strong woman. i followed her lead.

the hospital waiting room and hallway were filled with long-haired, t-shirt wearing staffers. they were ordering pizza, video taping one another, and throwing nerf footballs in the hallway.

in the delivery room, i stood beside my wife, holding her hand. “c’mon baby, breath,” i counseled her. “shut up!,” she snapped back. i removed my black “metallica” cap and wiped my brow with my forearm. my hair was tied in a ponytail which hung just below my shoulder-blades. she labored through the night.

then it happened. at 6:47 am, on the morning of november 21st, as the sun was rising, the doctor entered the room, snapped on a pair of gloves, turned to my wife, and with one final push, my daughter was delivered into this world and our lives.

things moved fast. someone cut the cord. the doctor passed off my baby girl to a nurse and left the room. as she wailed, the nurse wiped her off, turned around and placed her in my arms. soothed by my touch and my voice, she immediately fell silent and opened her stunning blue eyes. our eyes met for the first time.

tears streamed down my cheeks and around my wide grin, as i held this tiny angel, for the first time. she ignited, deep within me, a passion i’d never known.

after handing her to my wife. the three of us clung to one another. then i walked into the waiting area, which was littered with pizza boxes, pop cans, and crumpled whataburger bags, where our friends, having been up all night, were joking and laughing deliriously. two young guys in round robin t-shirts were sitting at a 4 by 4 table playing paper football. another guy had two balloons stuffed under his shirt like female breasts. he was attempting to get another young guy to 'breastfeed.'

“hey,” i said. they continued their folly. “hey!,” i shouted. everyone stopped and looked. i paused for dramatic effect…

“i’m a dad.”

the room erupted. high fives and hugs for everyone.

in a few short hours the most glorious moment in my life, would lead to the most terrifying.

outside the safety of the texas women’s hospital, houston was under siege. on that very day, november 21st, 1992, a line of severe thunderstorms produced 18 tornadoes across southeast texas. an f-4 tornado ripped through the eastern suburbs of houston, damaging or destroying over 1200 homes. an f-2 tornado touched down in herman park, just off the campus of texas women’s hospital.

inside. my wife, my daughter, and i slept safely, peacefully.

i was snapped out of my blissful state, awakened when the doctor entered our room. he began to speak. with a somber expression and in measured language, he told us that he was “concerned” about the sound of our little girl’s heart. a pediatric cardiologist from texas children’s hospital had been consulted. the cardiologist would come to perform a more thorough assessment later that day.

for hours i knelt beside her bassinet, begging god to make everything okay. i offered to trade my life for hers. every deep-seated fear—“i’m not good enough;” “i don’t deserve to have joy;” “i’m being charged for my transgressions;” “i’m just a worthless dope-fiend”—overtook me. i stood up. my heart was pounding. i was consumed by fear.

i paced across the room, then back again. i grabbed my chest. i wanted to rip it open. tick. tick. tick. jesus christ! could time move any slower? where is this cardiologist?

only minutes had passed. i dropped to my knees again. please god!

i jumped up and headed for the door, toward the nurse's station to demand, “get the cardiologist on the phone! get him over here now!” i turned and went back to our room before ever reaching the nurse's station. i sat on the edge of my bed and dropped my head into my hands, consumed by the full force of knowing i was powerless to protect this vulnerable baby girl.

tick. tick. tick.
 
now i was powerless again. in shades of gray, as my daughter called out to me, my legs were paralyzed. i fell to my knees. then dropping forward to my palms, i dragged my body and lifeless legs down the hallway, toward the door—toward my daughter. as i passed by the doors on either side of the hallway, a door to my left opened. rachael stood in the opening, one hand on the doorknob, partially blocking my view.

bob's wife stood behind her and to her left, looking down at me as i lay on the floor, propped up on my hands. i tried to convey to her, through my facial expression, sorrow, grief. she held her finger vertically against her lips, making a “shush” motion. silent, without moving her head, she shifted her eyes to her left and looked at my wife, as if to say, “see?”

my wife was was wearing baggy denim shorts and a baggy sweatshirt. bob and george were gently guiding her by her elbows, from a black spindle-back chair to a standing position. silent, she looked at me, then down at the tarot card spread on the black-velvet covered table at which she had been seated. like a movie without a soundtrack, there were no sounds with the movement of the chair or the opening of the door. it was an eerie silence.

my wife looked back over her shoulder at me as bob and george began to escort her into the darkness at the far end of the room. she spoke to me, but her lips didn’t move. “i have to…,” she said apologetically.

bob, looking back, smiled both lovingly and mockingly...eerily.

from behind the door at the end of the hall, my daughter cried out for me. i tried to call out to my wife who was now wearing a grayish long-sleeved leotard and tights. she was barefoot. mute and drowning, communicating with my will alone, i pleaded with her. she was emotionless.

just then, my teeth started to crumble and fall out of my mouth and onto the floor which was covered with dust. i reached down with my right hand, still propped up on my left hand, and frantically began collecting the broken pieces and placing them back in my mouth. as i put the pieces back in my mouth they kept falling out, until there were hundreds, thousands, of broken pieces on the floor in front of me.

i looked up at bob's wife, who now had her arms crossed. she was wearing bob’s gold, testicle earring only it was big, about the size of an apple. rachael was now mark williams, another of bob's devotees. smiling, he held out his hand in a “stop” position and slowly closed the door.

i looked down. the broken teeth pieces covered the hallway floor all the way to the door at the end of the hall. when i reached the door and pushed it open, i fell forward, tumbling though the door and into the darkness.

my stomach floated up into my mouth and i struggled, attempting to get myself in an upright position until…snap!

i slammed back into my body and awoke, lying on my back on the ground at the foot of the santan mountains. immediately to my left was my little 4 by 6 zen garden, two rocks lying in it where i’d placed them the previous morning. beyond the zen garden, the sun’s light was majestically peaking over the eastern horizon—brilliant colors, gold, red, orange popped against the eastern blue sky. it was a glorious sunrise.

my heart was racing. i moved my legs, just to be sure. i reached for my mouth—teeth still in place.

i sat up and looking forward beyond the grass and into the dirt field, i saw my spade. driven into the dirt, the shovel’s hardwood handle pointed upward toward the sky. next to the shovel was a hole—a partially-dug grave, in which i had intended to bury my parents.

i jumped up to my feet. i felt strong. i walked to the mock grave, grabbed the shovel and returning to zen garden, threw the shovel down beside a sage colored, shed which stood just south of my garden.
i went for a run.

while running, images of the previous night flashed in my mind’s eye. sitting on the northern slope overlooking the city lights, sitting on the roof of the car. fasting and without sleep, i had come to the stark realization that i had devoted nearly my entire adult life to a cult…a meaningless scam. i had attempted to devise a plan to murder bob and his wife. that plan and the realization of having been duped had been halted when bob’s words entered my mind, crowding out free thought.

for at least an hour, i had sat on the roof of my car, chain smoking, vacillating between truth and truth-tainted lies.

now, running down a hard dirt road, the wind awakening my sense of touch, i felt better than i had in years. my mind was spinning free. thoughts of my previous life, before arizona, passed though me, in and out of my mind.

in the beginning, while working as the director of the st. louis hospital, a 60-bed inpatient treatment program, i had been happy. i continued to run. there was no jolt as my feet hit the hard dirt, no strain on my heart. though i’d been fasting for nearly 72 hours and had only slept a few hours in that time, i felt as though i could run forever.

while working at forum hospital, i would awake each morning with anticipation. i would drive my red renault down manchester road, past the hospital to my girl's apartment. she shared an apartment with, jen, the hospital’s group therapist. i would pick up this young woman each morning and give her a ride to work. i usually rode with my radio off, singing my own made-up songs.

one morning, we were driving back up manchester toward the hospital when a fire truck came barreling out of the fire station straight toward the passenger door of my car. i swerved. the truck barely missed us. it came so close that several firemen came rushing to my car, now stopped diagonally on the road, thinking we’d been hit. when they reached my car, i was laughing hysterically. “what a trip,” i said. “wasn’t expecting that one.”

as we continued toward the hospital, jen asked me a question that she’d asked many times. “what’s the secret?” she asked. “how come you’re always happy?”
 
still running, i came to a pile of rusted, corrugated metal scraps and steel girders. the dented ghost of an evap cooler lay among the wreckage. curious, i climbed to the top of the cooler and looked around at the metal scraps, broken beer bottles, dented cans, played out tires, and battered hubcaps which covered an area roughly 50 feet in diameter.

looking in the direction in which i’d been running, i could see that the dirt road would meet a two lane highway about a quarter mile further down. halfway to the highway, was another dirt road running perpendicular to the one i’d been traveling on. i jumped down from the evap cooler, ran toward the highway and took a hard right onto the new dirt road…my mind spinning free. i was now headed directly toward the santan mountains.

i always answered jen’s question the same way. “i have the best life in the world,” i said. “i have the best job ever, helping other kids (i still saw myself as a kid). i’m in school, making straight a’s. i live in a cool condo, with racquetball courts, a gym, a pool, a steam room, and an indoor hot-tub, with my best friend from high school. i live in the greatest city in the country. i have an awesome family. i play in a crappy, but outrageously fun, rock band. i have a lot of great friends. and…i’m in love.”

she just grinned and shook her head. “you’re crazy,” she said.

in all the time that i’d known her, she never stopped asking that question, as if she was hoping that one day i’d tell her the real secret…or maybe she just liked hearing my answer. it was a question i was happy to answer.

i was still headed south, toward the santan mountains. i had sweat pouring down my face, so i ripped off my shirt sleeves and put one around my head. it served as a sweatband and held my longish hair back. i continued to run, continued spinning free.

images of my past came and went, without effort.

it was christmastime and i had gone shopping with my close friend and coworker, brian. we had cashed our paychecks and had decided to buy christmas presents for the kids at the hospital.

both of us saw it at the same time. it was a framed picture of the sunrise. it said, “god danced the day you were born.” i immediately bought it and gave it to brian—an early christmas present. we hugged unashamedly but held back the tears, trying to maintain some semblance of manhood.

i hadn't spoken to him in years. he had long since been destroyed by bob’s cult—turned to dust. ‘diesel christ,’ i thought as i ran toward the santan mountains. that was my nickname for brian, the tow-truck driver turned loving counselor. he had held the kids, and me, in his heart. at our wedding, he had stood beside my wife, standing in for her father who was deceased. who gives this woman?” asked the minister. “i do,” he replied, with tears streaming down his face.

i hadn’t seen him nor spoken to him since i’d arrived in phoenix years ago.

i thought about the time i had sat on the front porch with my friend, steve. both of us clean and sober, we had been up all night jamming and were watching the early morning joggers go by. laughing like idiots, we had wondered what crazy idea had caused these people to rise before dawn and jog up and down the streets. it was hard to remember a time before steve. we had played and laughed together since jr. high. before sobriety, we sat in his room every day after school listening to zappa or the who, pulling bong hits. i had nursed him through a devastating break-up with his first love. we had been drunk together, gone to class together, dropped acid together, been with the same girls, fought, cried, and taken each other and our friendship for granted. we were briefly separated after high school, when we went to different colleges, but i would often make the late night, high-speed drive down highway 70 to the university of missouri to hang with him.

when he was leaving for to dallas to run an outpatient center, we had stood in the doorway of the condo we had shared. jen was there too. she had tried to get us to embrace. we refused. “this is stupid. we’ll see each other a lot. we’ll meet between st. louis and dallas” we claimed. she nearly begged us, “you never know what will happen,” she said. but we couldn’t even consider the idea of being apart.

“later bro,” i slapped his arm. “later,” he turned and walked away. except for one brief passing encounter that was the last time i’d ever spoken to him. i hadn’t seen steve in nearly a decade.

then there was noah. noah was our favorite waiter at yen ching, our favorite chinese restaurant. before we were married, my wife and i had frequented the place. we always asked to be seated in noah’s section. “number one noah,” i called him. he was a twenty something first generation immigrant from korea.

noah had stood several feet behind me, holding a large bowl of sizzling rice soup, as i knelt before my sweetheart, my best friend, ring in hand. she laughed and i cried while i professed my love for her and asked her to marry me. 10 years had passed.
 
the dirt road ended on the same two lane road that ran along the base of the santan mountains. i walked west along shoulder of the paved road until i reached a dirt road which ran north toward my base, the empty residential center.

at the northeast corner of the intersection of the paved and dirt roads, i saw a rock. it was roughly the size of a football. i picked it up. no scorpion.

i returned to step 2, placed my new rock in my zen garden with the other two rocks, forming a triangle. i then walked across the grass to the other end of the back yard. i opened the trunk of my car and grabbed my journal and a bottle of water.

i sat on the back porch steps, zen garden to my left, and began to write.

my cigarette burned down to the filter beside me as i feverishly scrawled, free association style, with my ultra fine point felt-tip pen. i slapped the journal down beside me and reached into my pocket to find a crumpled pack of cigarettes. using the last match from the matchbook that i’d slipped under the cigarette pack’s cellophane, i lit the smoke. i took a deep drawl and looked down to my right at a full page of disjointed words, phrases, and sentences--automatic writing.


when my cigarette was gone, i wanted another, so i walked back to my car and grabbed another pack of matches from the passenger seat. i lit a smoke and leaned on the car. then i walked the perimeter of the grass. as i walked eastward along the edge of the grass, i stopped midway and stared at the ridiculous “grave” i had dug. i looked up at the santan mountains in the distance beyond the grave and the orchards.

when i got to the zen garden, i stopped. i stared at the three rocks and considered the future of my family.

i walked back to the porch steps, sat down, crushed out my smoke, and picked up my journal. third line: whitley steiber. i am a tree, trees don’t run or walk or eat, smoke or drive. fourth line: i live in the action of… ??? where is my home? robert j. lifton. who is john galt, really? fifth line: a man is encumbered by the slime and the scum that sticks to the bottom of his filthy sixth line: sweatshop-assembled reebok running shoes that stink of sour milk…doesn’t even run, walk, except seventh line: across tile floors covered with black rubber mats with nickel sized octagon eighth line: holes from sink to counter to meat slicer to loading dock, to dumpster. ninth line: robert j lifton, earl grey, duke of earl, mohamed ali…

i pulled the felt pen from the spiral binding of my journal and circled the name, robert j lifton. then i flipped the page and began to write.

milieu control—check
loading of language—check
sacred science—check
demand for purity—check
mystical manipulation—check
confession—check
doctrine over person—check
dispensing of existence—check

dispensing of existence…i thought about my friend brian who had been held up as a leader among those in the program and was now dead to the cult and to me. i thought about steve. again, i thought about all the others who came before dj, larry, paul, dave, craig, jill, jodie.

i looked to my left at the zen garden and the three rocks i’d placed in it. i thought about the woman at the little grocery store. i thought about my wife and daughter, myself.

i knew exactly what i had to do.
i lit a smoke and flipped the page.
i made a list.

“no man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.” ~heraclitus