how i was spiritually raped and left for dead (part 14)

to read this story from the beginning click here

i knew it before she said it.
“i'm leaving you.” she spoke, but her lips didn't move.
she stood sideways, gently pressed against george's hip, hand on the small of his back. she placed her other hand on his stomach and gently kissed the side of his neck. he looked directly at me, smiling, showing pity as she kissed his neck.
she looked back at me as well, a beat, another beat, both of them expressing pity for me.

my daughter was 20 feet behind them, sitting in a motorcycle sidecar. like an overexposed picture, the sun reflected off her blond hair and face. she was smiling, excited, anxiously awaiting the motorcycle sidecar ride.
i the distance was a castle like home atop a lush, emerald-green hill. the land was rich with trees and flowers. birds and butterflies flitted about giving the castle-like home and the land around it a magical storybook appearance.

“c'mon daddy,” my daughter called out to george, showing her closed teeth in an exaggerated, fake-looking smile. her lips didn't move either.
the motorcycle and sidecar sat on a black, paved road which winded up the hillside to the castle-like home. directly behind it was long safari-style, open-sided car with a striped canvas top and several rows of passenger seats where goerge's other “wives” sat smiling, waiting anxiously.
i wanted to beg her to stay, but i knew she was right to leave me. george was better than me. he would give her and our daughter, their daughter, a better life. who was i to keep them from having what they deserved, what anyone deserved? besides, how could they ever love me? i was nothing. the pity she felt toward me made it clear that she could never love me.

she dropped her hands from george's back and stomach, took a step toward me and placed her hand on the back of my head. then, she looked into my eyes. again, she looked at me with pity and, as she gently pulled my head toward her lips, she said, “it's time.” she kissed me on the forehead and with a flash of white light they were gone. i was standing alone in an empty house.

there was no furniture, nothing on the windows, nothing on the walls except blue and gray striped wallpaper. the windows were dingy so that i could not see though them. they allowed enough light to penetrate them to give the room a greyish hue.

i felt nauseous. to my right, through the open bathroom door, i could see a lonely mirrored medicine cabinet. the mirror provided a visual gateway into george's grand candlelit bedroom, where george stood behind my wife holding her in his arms.

she was wearing a black cocktail dress which landed high on her thighs. she was barefoot. he reached his arms around her, placing them on her stomach as she tilted her neck and reached back to kiss him.

as their lips touched there was another flash of white light and i awoke. i was in bed in our pennsylvania town home. it was still dark. i looked over to see my wife asleep beside me. i went to the bathroom and vomited.

the green digits on our clock-radio indicated that it was 5:14 am. i had to be at church in a couple hours to go over a couple pieces of music before the early church service, so i went downstairs and made a pot of coffee.

as my wife slept, i sat out back in the darkness drinking coffee and reflecting.
it wasn't the first time i'd had that dream, or at least dreams built on the same theme. these dreams exposed a loss of self with which i had continued to struggle, my manhood, my essence, even my right to exist.

i thought about all of the staff purpose meetings, in which i'd witnessed the female staff members sitting by george, near his end of the oval. vying for their seats next to the power, they were gathered closer or further from him depending on their status within the program.
the girls on staff belonged to bob and those with less status to george. like whores, they were handed out and repossessed as bob and george saw fit.

this dynamic was part of a more dangerous and insidious hierarchical system which existed within bob's organization where, throughout the years, we just came to accept that some were inherently better than others. within this system, justice was nonexistent. punishment and reward were handed out arbitrarily; more accurately, they were handed out based on what was immediately most beneficial to bob and his wife.

bob used twisted pieces of evolutionary biology concepts to justify inconsistencies in the way people were treated. he referred to himself as “the alpha male.” he justified his constant belittling of one staffer, who he referred to as “the warthog,” by stating that the young staffer was deformed, fvcked-up, born wrong. he had told us that if he had been a dog, the other dogs would have killed him when he was a puppy in order to keep him from dirtying the gene-pool.

if one got close enough to bob, for a long enough period, he was likely to hear bob's ideas regarding who deserved what based on their genetic markers and even their primal spiritual makeup. for his part, bob was at the top of the food-chain, both physically and spiritually.

mostly, however, these messages were insidiously hidden within the structure and doctrine of the program, as well as the actions taken by bob.



why hadn't i killed that mother-fvcker? why hadn't i used raw power to beat him? i had decided to employ my intellect, my cunning, to outsmart him and right now, i hated myself for it. what kind of a man allows another man to beat him down, to take control of his home and his marriage without confronting him directly and beating him to a bloody mash?

my feeling of nausea was replaced with anger, rage, hatred. i imagined beating him with a bat. making him beg me to stop, making him beg for his life. i wanted to become his master. i wanted to terrorize him in front of his wife and daughter, in front of my wife and daughter. i wanted to destroy him, while everyone who had ever witnessed him making a punk out of me watched. and while he died, traumatized and suffering, he would know that he had been beaten in front of all these people. he would know that they knew that he was nothing. but most importantly, i would destroy him, utterly and painfully, proving to myself that i wasn't a punk, that i mattered.
i went to church.



******



the bible.
i've read a lot of books, but the bible is, without any doubt, the greatest book i've ever read. it beats moby dick hands down.

within it's text one will find every conceivable form and measure of human evil. murder, kidnapping, adultery, theft, betrayal, rape, incest, it's all there. the bible doesn't shy away from exposing the darkness that often lives within the hearts of men. i have seen this darkness first hand.

2nd samuel tells the story of david, king of the hebrews, and bathsheba, the wife of one of his his trusted soldiers. while uriah, bathsheba's husband, was on the battlefield, david saw bathsheba and wanted her for himself. he sent an agent to fetch her and he slept with her, taking the only wife of his trusted soldier...because he desired her.

bathsheba later sent a message to king david, informing him that she was pregnant with his child. this is where things get really interesting.

in order to cover up his his betrayal of his trusted soldier, david sent someone to call him off the battlefield. he gave him a gift and sent him home so he could spend the night with his wife, bathsheba, before he returned to the battlefield. not only had he impregnated uriah's wife, now he sent him to sleep with her so that he would believe the child to be his own, causing uriah to raise another man's child believing the child to be his own.

but uriah refused to sleep in his bed and lie with his wife while the other soldiers slept on the ground. so he slept with the servants at the palace's entrance. king david's cover up was foiled. so he tried again. he asked uriah to stay one more night and got him drunk. still, uriah went to sleep at the palace's entrance.

king david continued to scheme. he ordered the general to put uriah on the front lines and to instruct all the other soldiers to retreat once the battle got underway. uriah was killed. david was in the clear.

then, david took in bathsheba and made her his wife.

david had many wives. he could have had any woman he wanted. yet, he took the wife of his trusted soldier and killed him to cover his tracks. now, that's evil.

but that's not the stuff that makes the bible great. many believe that the bible is a book filled with violence, vengeance, and death. sure, it has all of those things. those things exist in the world in which we live. evil has been alive in hearts of some men since the beginning of recorded history and almost certainly before recorded history.

the bible's real poetry is not in its record of evil, but in its message of love. deliverance, repentance, forgiveness, absolution, redemption, these are the primary themes of the bible. even david, when he was shown the magnitude of his evil, found redemption

i think that one's view of the bible, as either a message of vengeance or a message of love, depends upon one's perspective. and i don't mean to say that those who go to church or are raised in the church are more likely to see the bible as a message of love. i've spent way too much time around way too many “religious” people, who claim to have love in their hearts, but clearly demonstrate righteous indignation, legalism and bigotry. i should add, however, that the vast majority of christians that i've known have been loving people. christians have visited me and my children in the hospital when we've been sick. they've prepared meals for my family during times of grief. they've provided us with groceries and money. they've prayed for us and grieved with us.

but i've also seen evil in the church. i won't deny that.

still i don't know why, given similar experiences and circumstances, one individual would come out with a perspective that would cause him to see the bible as a book of vengeance, while another would see it as a book of love. i only know how i see it. i don't even know why i have the perspective i have.

bob was like king david...without the redemption part. taking away the wives of his trusted servants is among the many evil acts i have seen him perform. still, though i could rightly blame bob for a lot of things, i knew i couldn't blame him for the harmful acts that i had committed, even while under his watch.

as an agent of the program i had betrayed my faith, betrayed myself and my family and lied to the community. i had also committed other acts which directly harmed others and had done so in the name of love.

for the next few years i continued to attend church. i read the bible, attended sunday school and bible studies, prayed and took counsel with ministers. but i wasn't seeking redemption. repentance was my goal.



lord, make me an instrument of your peace;
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon:
where there is doubt, faith ;
where there is despair, hope
where there is darkness, light
where there is sadness, joy


o divine master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life ~st. francis of assisi

i had to get a grip, find myself. my nightmares had nothing to do with bob. they had everything to do with how i saw myself. he played his role in formulating my self image. he had aligned his pulse with mine, exploited my deepest fears and desires. he had used me and so many others as a means to his own ends. but it was up to me to take back my soul.

i knew it wouldn't happen overnight. and exactly where is the point of deliverance anyway? when does it happen? the jews escaped egypt, but then ended up wandering around the desert for 40 years. i had escaped bob's fold, but was i wandering around the desert...again?

the message of the bible was a part of me and to the degree i allowed it, it became evident in my mental and emotional state. i changed. the nightmares stopped. the “sightings” of bob and george went away. i no longer experienced bouts of dissociation. most importantly, my desire for vengeance, my desire to hurt bob was gone completely. i'm not exactly sure how this happened; it just did. it was a like a miracle. if there is a god, he did it. if there is a god, then he took away my burning rage and replaced it with the message of the gospel.

that's pretty cool if you think about it. i didn't necessarily deserve grace, but i really needed it. and though, according to evangelical christian theology, i'm lost, i've been delivered...and possibly redeemed. i don't mean to say that i was no longer angry at bob. he continued to harm people, unrepentant, and i continued to be angry. i see that as a healthy position.

when i speak of the message of the gospel, i'm not talking about the idea that only people who believe in jesus go to heaven and non-believers get sent to hell. in fact, from where i sit, the idea of a powerful god sending a bunch of people to eternal torment runs completely counter to the message of the gospel.

i've been to hell and the hell i was in was created by men, myself included. the message contained within the gospel, on the other hand, delivered me from hell.

there were things that happened in the church that i ultimately couldn't live with. at the top of the list was listening to the preacher stand in the pulpit and condemn gays. one couldn't be gay and also be born again, regardless of the state of his heart. even if one accepts the idea that it is a “sin” to be gay, which in itself is hard to accept since there wasn't even a word for “homosexual” in greek, hebrew or aramaic, why set this so-called “sin” apart from all others.*(see note)

i also had a bit of a problem with the idea that anyone who was a born-again christian could join the church, but first you had to go through an interview process with a group of church elders, presumably so they could determine whether or not you were really “born again.” that seemed a bit too similar to the early days of the christian church when the pharisees called for the gentile converts to show that they'd been circumcised in order to prove they'd been saved.

still, it wasn't my place to advocate within the church. i was there to take what i could, to focus on the message contained within the gospel.

in time, i reconnected with others who'd left bob's organization. i listened to some of the horror stories people told. bob and his programs were becoming even more brutal, more dangerous. i feared that people i loved, people who were still in, would be physically harmed or even killed. i began to think more about those i'd recruited into bob's group. i was also deeply troubled by the fact that there was no information about bob or his programs on the internet.

it had now been over 5 years since i'd left. i was healthy. my family was well. my rage was gone. i knew that i no longer had a desire for vengeance. i didn't want to hurt bob. however, i did have a desire to warn his potential victims. i also wanted to provide something for people who'd been harmed by bob and his programs. when i had left, there were no former members to talk to. there was no place to get information. i hadn't had an avenue to connect with others who'd been in the program and had left. there was nothing out there.

i thought about how great it would be to provide a resource to catch people after they left or were excommunicated, a support network where people could talk through things, reconnect with friends that had left at a different time, a place to get their stories out, to be validated. i also thought there should be a truthful resource for young people and family members who were considering joining bob's programs. the use of the internet for consumer research was becoming more common; yet, there was nothing about bob and his groups, other than their own propaganda, anywhere on the net.

then i heard 2 stories that brought me to the realization that it was time to act. the first was that of a young man i'd known since he was just a kid. his mother had been a friend of ours and had still been working for bob when we left the program. she left several years after us and visited our home. she recounted for us the story of how she nearly lost her son. we'll call him sam.

sam's parents and his older brother had entered the program when sam was just a boy. in time, sam's mother, who was active in the parent program, was brought on as the parent coordinator. his brother, though resistant at first, became indoctrinated as well and became a counselor for the program.

during this time, sam became victim to a form of inequity that existed among indoctrinated families where one child was involved in the program and another wasn't. sam's brother, because he was “with the group,” was granted the freedom to stay out all night, quit going to school and smoke cigarettes. the program's stance was this: since he was an addict, the only thing that mattered was “sticking with winners.” the staff and kids in the program were “winners.” kids outside the program (even those at school) were not. sam's mom and dad, like the rest of the parent converts, believed that, as long as their addicted child avoided drugs and drug users, everything would be okay. smoking, school, language, structure were unimportant in comparison.

since sam wasn't an addict, he had to comply with a curfew, go to school, etc. in addition, i imagine that he felt left out, at times. the rest of the family shared the “program experience.” he was not fully a part of that. i know his parents and i'm sure they did everything they could to insure that sam was not left out. but, truth is, this is one of the dynamics that exists with siblings of program members.

though he didn't have a drug problem, sam eventually convinced the counselors, his parents and probably himself, that he was an addict and needed the program. he went through outpatient treatment and became a full-fledged member, able to hang out all night, smoke cigarettes and attend the extravagant dances and parties hosted by the program.

i got to know him and couldn't help but love him. he was a vulnerable kid with a tender heart. he also had a sharp wit and a snarky sense of humor. the more he tried to defend his heart with his wit, the more his vulnerability became apparent. i knew he was the kind of guy you could count on if you were down and out.

the entire family was highly talented. so, bob exploited them. mom became a part of the national leadership elite, brother, a sr. counselor and dad, a seasoned detective with the city's police force, was drawn in by bob. bob personally took him on and became his sponsor. bob always kept “friends” in high places.

sam went through counselor training. in time, he was sent to another city and became the city's executive director. but sam had a secret; he was gay.

years earlier, struggling with sexuality issues, sam had tried to talk to his counselor about it. the counselor explained the program's stance. homosexuality is an aspect of the disease of addiction—the highest form of self hatred. it was unacceptable. he needed to stop entertaining any homosexual thoughts, stay sober, work his program. if he was on solid spiritual ground, he would be straight.

bob was more blunt. he claimed, “faggots are people who suck their own sh!t off other people's c0cks. being a fag is the ultimate form of self-hatred.”

sam buried the issue. to pursue it would surely lead to expulsion from the program and possibly the loss of his family. further, since he was compelled to break ties with the rest of the world, since seeking counsel outside the program was forbidden, he had nowhere to turn. he soldiered on.

as the director of a city, sam was perceived as the spiritual leader. serving in such a position with that kind of a secret must have been excruciating. sam was no hypocrite. he was a straight-shooter, a 'what-you-see' kind of person. so functioning in this manner must have been more than he could bear.

ultimately it was. and so sam, who was never an addict prior to joining the program, began smoking crack. it was the proverbial cry for help. as director of a militant, totalitarian, black-and-white, no questions asked drug treatment program he was using one of the most devastating, dynamic drugs available—a drug that no one could hide using for long.

his mother told us that sam would smoke crack in his car minutes before picking up bob at the airport. wasted, with glassy eyes and dialated pupils, he would drive bob from place to place, the car reeking with the stringent odor of crack-cocaine. bob had to know.

moreover, sam was calling rachael, who controlled the money, and made desperate demands for more and more money. instead of inquiring, she sent him blank checks. by all appearances it seems as though bob was allowing sam to continue to deteriorate until he could find a suitable replacement.

when he did, he took sam's checkbook and put him on the street. he convinced sam's family that they should not take his calls or help him in any way. they were convinced that this course was best for sam and for their family. in reality, bob was angry at sam. this was what bob wanted.

sam was left to die on the streets of a violent, unforgiving city 1600 miles away from home and family.

eventually, sam wandered through the doors of one of the city's charitable organizations. they did what bob couldn't...wouldn't. they helped him detox, nursed him back to health and allowed him to begin the process of embracing his sexuality. he was able to overcome bob's atrocious message regarding homosexuality which had been implanted within him since, as a kid, he first tried to discuss the issue with his counselor.

he became a man. but he almost hadn't.

the second story was told to me by someone who'd been one of my closest friends, until the time i had left the program. we'll call him ty. five years after i'd left, i received word from a mutual friend that ty was out too. i asked my friend to see if ty would give me a call. within an hour, my phone rang. it was ty.

it was great to talk to him and we made arrangements for both of us, along with our families, to meet up in new york city. we stayed at the embassy suites hotel in lower manhattan. our rooms overlooked ground zero. below, we could see the tremendous hole where the twin towers had stood just a few years earlier.

i had first met my friend in 1989 when he became a counselor in dallas. i had known his wife since 1987. i remembered when they'd gotten married, when their son was born. our children played together even before they were a year old. we believed that they would grow up together, that when they went to high school together he would be my daughter's “big brother,” watching over her.

ty was a devoted husband and father. his wife was his true love and best friend. years earlier, while working for the program, his family was evicted from their apartment because the program didn't have any money to pay him and he couldn't pay rent. with baby boy in tow, they found themselves sharing a hot dog they'd purchased, from 7-11, with the last of their pocket change. they didn't know where they would stay or where they would find their next meal.

as they ate the hot dog, ty told his wife that he felt ashamed that he was unable to provide her a home. without hesitation she responded, “my home is wherever you are.”

ty was able to find a place for his family to live. he purchased a no-money-down, take-over-payments town home and spent the next several years building a profitable program. the program put a lot of money in bob's pocket. he and i worked side-by-side as our children played together.

when i left, our friendship was over. in the program, that was the way

his wife, who had been considered a leader among the women, began to fall out of favor with bob's wife. she had asked some questions that weren't supposed to be asked. bob's wife saw to it that she was ostracized. she also began trying to drive ty away from his wife and child.

with no support, no friends and knowing the leadership was pushing her husband to leave her, ty's wife became increasingly more depressed. she needed help. but bob and his wife weren't in the business of helping people. those in need were cast aside, lest they become a burden.

ty got sick once and passed out. his wife was terrified and called an ambulance. the doctors didn't find anything wrong, but bob's wife did. she explained that ty's marriage was making him miserable. because of his devotion, he was unwilling to leave his family, she said. she convinced him that since he refused to divorce his wife, he was trying to die instead. she told him, “you don't have die to get out of your marriage.”

she convinced him that, by staying with her, he was doing a great disservice to both his wife and son. she said he was preventing his wife from getting her act together—that for her to get well, he needed to leave. his son was suffering too. how could she meet his needs when she was spiritually sick? and ty, because of his selfish need to be dutiful, was standing in the way.

they sent ty to st. louis to spend some time with another director who'd been divorced at bob's and his wife's direction. that's how they sealed the deal.

broken-hearted and ashamed, ty returned to his home town and told his wife he was divorcing her and that there was no hope of reconciliation. then, he sat down and told his son he was leaving. it broke his son's heart. he left his family and rented a townhome 45 minutes away.

his wife and child were devastated.

ty was the director of bob's biggest and most profitable program. he was responsible for most of bob's personal income. he had faithfully served bob for years. bob repaid his efforts by destroying the thing he loved the most, his family. and why? because bob's wife didn't like his wife.

ty, continued to serve bob, but he was miserable...every minute of every day. he missed his family, but continued to do the “right thing” day after day, month after month.

ultimately, he couldn't stand it any longer. he believed that he had done what was necessary in leaving his family, an idea that was continuously reinforced by bob, his wife and their minions, but the pain was more than he could endure. so, admitting that he was a spiritual failure, he resigned his position, turned over the program (his business and sole source of income) to one of bob's minions and returned to his wife and child.

this is the story he told me in the hotel overlooking ground zero.

i hung my head. first sam's story and now ty's. again, my thoughts returned to my friends who were still under bob's control. something had to be done.

i was happy. my family was doing well and intact. i had put my life with bob's cult behind me. i had found peace, deliverance. but how could i rest knowing that people i loved were still being torn apart. they believed that they were by choice, but i knew they were captive. brainwashed and manipulated, they were being led down the road to hell which was paved with their good intentions and railed on both sides with bob's insatiable manipulative powers. standing on the side of the road, looking the other way, while others were driving unknowingly toward the cliff, wasn't an option.

is there a road to redemption? in his letter to the ephesians (eph.2:8-9), the apostle paul says, for it is by grace you have been saved through faith; and not of yourselves; not as a result of works, so that no one should boast.”

i believe what paul says. forgiveness is never earned. redemption is never earned. it is given not because we deserve it, but because we need it. whatever peace i had gained came as the result of a gift that i could never have deserved. though i hadn't spoken to my parents and siblings in years, when i left the cult, they never asked me to earn their forgiveness. they welcomed me and my wife and children back into the fold, no questions asked. even my old friends, which i'd abandoned when i entered the program, accepted me without reservation.

the issue of redemption is really beside the point anyway. as i stated previously, i wasn't seeking redemption, but repentance. i had learned ephesians 2:8-9 as a child, but i had just recently read what james had written in james 2;15-17:

if a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, "go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill," and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? so faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.

taken together, the message seems clear. forgiveness, deliverance or redemption, whatever the case, is a gift, but it is useless without repentance. the greek word for repentance is metanoia, which means a change of one's conduct following a change of heart.

i don't claim to know many things (actually that may not be an accurate statement, but stay with me here), but i do know one thing for sure. a person can be wealthy and successful, a great athlete, writer, thinker, scientist, artist or academician, but if he turns his back on his brothers and sisters, if he neglects them when they need help, he is nothing. his life means nothing.

i knew there was nothing about me even approaching greatness. the love i had been granted was a gift. the peace i'd found was not of my own doing. any happiness i had was the result of being blessed with a loving wife, great kids and a loving family. to simply resign any humanitarian efforts to enjoy my newly found peace would be a waste of a human life, my life.



the only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing ~edmund burke



my family didn't want me to do it. they were afraid for my safety. my mother warned me to always check my car before i started it...to make sure no one had tampered with it. they were worried that it might destroy my career as a drug abuse counselor—that my reputation would be attacked—that i would slip back into ptsd. there was a risk of losing myself completely.

i knew that people would come after me. those i'd harmed while i was in the program wouldn't care that i had believed i was acting in accordance with a higher purpose. they wouldn't care that i'd been manipulated. they would want their pound of flesh, and rightly so. i knew this. those who were loyal to the program would spread vile rumors about me. they would try to discredit me. secrets i'd shared with my program peers would be exposed. they would hurt me in any way they could. maybe bob would send one of his goons to rough me up. maybe he'd dig a hole in the desert.

i didn't know it at the time, but this simple step, that of speaking the truth, would lead to a national movement. it would result, for the first time ever, in an environment where thousands would be allowed an opportunity to tell what happened to them--where victims would receive validation. i also didn't realize that these people would come together and provide a loose network in which virtually anyone who had been harmed by bob and his organization could find someone to talk to.

it never crossed my mind that these people, these program castaways, would draw national media attention. that the media would inquire and they would respond, telling their stories to newspapers and tv reporters.

in the children's fable, “stone soup,” three of soldiers, returning home, came upon a village. they were carrying nothing but an empty pot. the villagers, who were poor themselves, closed their doors and windows. they knew the soldiers would be hungry and they didn't want to be asked to share their scarce supplies.

the soldiers built a fire, placed the pot atop the flames, filled it with water, and dropped a large stone in it. as the soldiers sat before the boiling pot of water, a few of the villagers became curious and came out to inquire as to what the soldiers were doing.

“we're making stone soup,” they replied. they invited the villagers to have some soup once it was done. then, as the villagers stood watching, one of the soldiers dipped a ladle into the soup, and tasting it, he said, “it's a bit bland, i wish we had some carrots to give the soup flavor.” one of the villagers spoke up, “ i have some carrots, let me run and get them.” the villager returned with the carrots and placed them in the boiling water.

after a bit, the soldier tasted the soup again. “it's almost ready,” he said. “if only we had some onions. another villager went to fetch some onions. and so it continued, parsely, beans, potatos, etc. when the soup was finished all of the villagers along with the soldiers feasted.” everyone was nourished and satisfied.

late one night, in 2004, i sat down before my computer and began writing the text for a website which i would launch. the website would provide a spark for a movement that would provide healing for thousands, expose bob and his entire organization, warn would be victims, and ultimately drive bob to his knees, destroying his credibility and forcing him into retirement.

i can't state emphatically enough that i am not the one who achieved these things. they were achieved by the people he'd harmed, the children he'd abused, the junkies he'd cast aside, the brokenhearted who'd been crushed by lies, the parents who continued to look toward the horizon hoping for the return of they're children whom they'd lost to the program, the castaways.

all i did was drop a rock in the soup.

and when the broken hearted people living in the world agree
there will be an answer,
let it be ~the beatles

(to be continued)

*note: please do not send me bible verses in an attempt to demonstrate to me that the bible condemns homosexuals. i am surely familiar with most of these verses, namely genesis 18-19, leviticus 18:22, leviticus 20:13, dueteronomy 23:17, romans 1;26-27, 1 corinthians 6:9, 1 timothy 9:10. if you just can't help yourself, you might want to review the original greek and hebrew words used to write these and other biblical passages that have been translated by english biblical translators in a variety of different ways. a good starting point? in hebrew: qadesh, quadeshaw, to'ebah.  in greek: akatharsia and arenokoitai. there are others, as well. in the original languages, verses which seem to be a wholesale condemnation of homosexuality, when read in most english translations, generally refer to male and female prostitution within the temple, pagan sex rituals, anal rape, sex with pagan idols, and same-sex relations between heterosexuals during mystical orgies.


in any event, it's just not a debate i'm interested in taking on.


thanks for understanding (or at least for shaking your head and biting your tongue).
oh...and, don't tell my mom what i wrote. i'll never hear the end of it.

how i was spiritually raped and left for dead (part 11)

part 1 is here
part 10 is here

part 11: my confession

“keep your friends close, but your enemies closer" ~michael corleone

i was laying on the floor of a basketball court, flat on my stomach, with a domino between my right thumb and forefinger. before me were parallel rows of multicolored dominoes each standing on end, threatening to topple the next domino. the parallel rows of dominoes extended for several feet, then formed complex geometric patterns, diamonds, triangles, rectangles, before converging to a single row which led to a single, precariously-positioned domino, threatening the trigger of a mousetrap which lay the far end of the basketball court, in front of an weathered, antique, wooden wheelchair with a wicker back and steel wheels.

my wife sat in the wheel chair and in her lap was my 5 year-old daughter, roxanne. roxy was wearing a cotton sundress with fishies on it. she clutched her stuffed dog, kimberly in her left arm and held my wife's hand with her right. on her lap was a bundle of dynamite.

two wires looped out of the bundle of dynamite and extended toward the floor. they were attached to the mousetrap in such a way as to cause the mousetrap to act as a detonator. trip the mousetrap and complete the circuit, causing the bomb to explode.

i carefully placed the domino on the floor and reached up to get another. directly next to me, on my left, was a little red wagon. it was painted and polished, fire engine red, with pristine, shiny black rubber wheels that had thin whitewalls. the wagon said “radio flyer” in white uppercase letters. the little red wagon was filled with a mound of multicolored dominoes, fluorescent orange, red, yellow and lime-green.

i slowly turned my head to the side and took a much needed breath, taking care not to allow my breath to upset the dominoes.

as i reached for another domino, i was aware of the reflection of the red wagon on the highly-polished, hardwood, gymnasium floor.

my wife had jumper cable clips attached to each of her arms. the clips had thick, black wires connected to them which led to group of several car batteries. if i stopped placing dominoes, or went too slow, the batteries would deliver an electric shock to my wife and, through her, to my daughter, causing each of them to shake violently.

i turned my head, took another breath and placed the next domino on the prescribed mark which had been painted on the floor with a black magic marker.

i continued with the excruciating process—not too fast, not too slow. no margin for error.

i looked back over my shoulder. the gymnasium floor stretched on and on, a hundred yards or more. i looked back at the wagon. the white uppercase letters had become scrambled—unintelligible nonsense. i placed the next domino.

i knew that i had to place all the dominoes according to the prescribed pattern in order to disarm the bomb. i knew that if i hesitated, my wife and daughter would receive another devastating electric shock. i knew that if a single domino fell, it would start a chain reaction that would cause my family to be blown to pieces.

on my forehead, a bead of sweat surrendered to gravity and dropped, slow motion, crashing on polished hardwood floor. i wiped my brow with my forearm and carefully placed the next domino.

my eyes were fatigued from the reflection of the overhead, fluorescent lights of the hardwood floor. the task seemed endless. my arms and shoulders ached. as i looked up, reaching for another domino, i saw my wife and daughter, exhausted from relentless fear and anxiety. then, from underneath the bleachers to my left, a rat appeared, twitching, moving aimlessly, starting, stopping, sniffing, twitching. with no particular direction, the rat moved diagonally in one direction, then another, closer to the geometric patterns of the carefully placed dominoes.

i watched the rat carefully, peering at it, then back as i placed the next domino.

another rat appeared, twitching and sniffing, from underneath the bleachers. then another...and another. i turned my head to the side, took another breath, placed another domino.

i had been vaguely aware of george, who was sitting dumbly on the top row of the bleachers. i glanced up at him. he was wearing shorts, tube socks and an oversized coyotes hockey jersey, with a fat, red polka-dot, clown tie. he donned a royal blue, plastic, souvenir batter's helmet. two cans of grape soda rested in can holders which were affixed to each side of the batter's helmet. he was sucking grape soda through “silly straws” which looped from the cans of soda to his mouth.

a large fishbowl sat on the bleacher, directly to his right. the fishbowl was filled with half a dozen red and blue betas. george held a chopstick in his hand and was dipping it in the water, taunting the betas, provoking them, causing them to attack the chopstick and then each other. in the other arm, he held a red, rubber dodgeball. sucking his silly straw and taunting the goldfish, he seemed oblivious to the life and death that was happening beneath him.

i gingerly placed another domino.

there were now dozens of rats aimlessly wandering, twitching and sniffing, moving closer to the geometric patterns.

i stayed calm, focused. i had to keep placing dominoes. i had to figure out how to intervene before the rats reached the dominoes. i had to be meticulous, taking care to place each dominoes in its proper position.

i turned my head and took a breath. i placed the next domino.

i was keeping an eye on the rats. how could i scare them off? i was keeping an eye on my wife and daughter. i became aware that i should keep an eye on george, who, as a result of his mindlessness, might do something that would cause the dominoes to topple, killing my family.

i placed another domino.

i had been lying on my stomach, propped up on my elbows, placing dominoes for as long as i could remember. no matter how many dominoes i took from the wagon, the mound of dominoes never shrank. george in the bleachers. rats on the floor. the lives of my family hanging in the balance. it was all i had known.

as i reached for another domino, trying to think of a solution to the rat problem, careful not to stop placing dominoes, not to move too slow, i glanced up at george. he had grown tired of the fighting fish. he dropped the chopstick in the water, abandoning it. then he looked down at the rats. i heard a muted beeping sound. beep...beep..beep.

i placed another domino.

beep..beep...beep. the sound grew louder. the rats moved closer. george sucked his grape soda. he scratched his balls, bored. my arms and shoulders ached. red hot pain shot down the nerves of my arms and back. i turned and took a breath. sweat hit the floor. george stood up. beep...beep...beep.

i placed another domino.

just then, george lobbed the red rubber dodgeball toward the ceiling in a high, lazy arch so that it would ultimately bounce on the floor where most of the rats had congregated.

i jumped top my feet and began to run toward the ball so that i could intercept it before it could bounce and then crash into the dominoes, but i had snowshoes strapped to my feet.

as i ran, i began to slip and slide on the glossy, hardwood floor. the beeping grew louder, more ominous. beep..beep..beep.

i began to slide across the floor and past the arc of the red rubber ball, until i crashed into the wall and the ball crashed, slow-motion, into the large multicolored domino diamond, causing a chain reaction as each domino crashed into the next. beep...beep...beep.

i attempted to get to my feet but the floor was too slick.

beep...beep...beep. i opened my eyes and looked over at my beeping clock radio. i hit the snooze button, then grabbed the radio and turned off the alarm.

i had a sick feeling. i could hear my wife and daughter talking in the next room.

i jumped out of bed and headed for the kitchen to grab some coffee. “hey kiddo,” i said to my daughter who was sitting, crisscross applesauce, on the family room floor. “morning daddy,” she said. my wife was in the kitchen, reaching for a plate. how'd you sleep?” she asked. “like a baby,” i replied, as i poured my coffee.

i went out back, lit a smoke, took a sip of coffee and began to calculate.

it had been several weeks since i had returned from the santan mountains. so far, things had gone relatively well. i had managed to convince bob that i had been transformed—that i had found my 'true, sociopathic, male self.' my wife and i had shared some wonderful moments. still, i hated having to be manipulative. i hated myself for being a liar. i wanted to tell my wife everything. i wanted to end the charade.

i pushed it all out of my mind and began my daily exercise of assessing current threats and determining how i would approach those who needed to be placated.

in a couple days we would have to attend a pool party at bob's house. these situations could be tricky. bob, his wife, george and his wife would all have to be dealt with simultaneously. each represented a different threat. each had their own need for their particular brand of adoration.

bob's wife would be watching everything, setting traps. someone would offend her during the swim party and would end up facing her wrath. i needed to make sure it wasn't me.

i crushed out my cigarette and went inside. then, as i did each morning, i strapped on my rollerblades and headed out the front door and into the street.

rollerblading was my respite. i began moving through the streets of my neighborhood, picking up speed, letting my mind drift.

as i picked up speed, my stride lengthened. the arizona sun was brilliant, warming, energizing. now, as i hit top speed, the wind blew back my hair. houses and trees flashed past me. my mind was spinning free. i jumped the curb and headed southeast on a bike path that winded behind an elementary school and then to another road which led to bob's neighborhood. i skated past bob's street, around the neighborhood loop and back toward my house.

i returned home an hour later, took a shower and headed for work.

during my half-hour drive to work, i thought about my current situation. for years, i had valued honesty above everything else. i had kept nothing from bob. every thought, every feeling, transgression, my fears and dreams, all of my motives, my internal struggles, pain and joy, doubts, questions and concerns were all shared with bob.

keeping a secret from bob was tantamount to blasphemy. for years, i had believed that if i were to withhold anything, to keep any thought as my own, i would risk devastating consequences, not only for myself, but for my family and friends as well. “we're only as sick as our secrets,” we would say. we saved lives. we had answers that no one else had. young people would live or die based on our spiritual prowess--and confession was critical to maintaining spirituality. one lie could destroy everything.

of course we lied to outsiders, but we were justified in doing so. they weren't ready for the truth—couldn't handle it. it would be dangerous and irresponsible to expose someone to information they weren't equipped to handle. anyone outside the program, armed with knowledge of the program's inner workings, represented a threat.

now, the greatest threat to me and my family were those within the program, the people i'd trusted, opened myself to, the people who called themselves “family.”

shortly after i arrived at work, i got a call from bob. he was in a panic.

clayton, bob's best friend, was in the hospital. he had been throwing up blood and it was discovered that he was experiencing liver failure, cirrhosis, as a result of hepatitis-c, which he'd contracted years earlier from an infected needle.

“these fvckin' doctors don't know what they're doing,” he yelled. “they're gonna kill the mother-fvcker. he continued, “get on the phone. find a doctor that knows what the fvck he's doing,” he demanded.

i was responsible for the hospital-based operations and, since i was working directly with physicians and other medical professionals, bob wanted me to exploit those resources to ensure that his friend was getting the best possible care.

i knew i was in a no-win situation. i wanted to help clay. he was my friend too. he had treated me well. at times, he'd befriended me when know one else would even speak to me. i also knew that bob would complain about any doctor, regardless of the doctor's skills. bob demanded absolute control and, since he wasn't a doctor himself, he had no control over this situation. the almighty bob couldn't fix his friend and his inability to maintain control would be manifested in his spitting venom on anyone else who couldn't immediately produce the results bob demanded.

so, i would make some calls. i would find the best liver doctor in the area. i would try to help clayton and quell bob. i knew, however, if bob didn't like the doctor i found, if the doctor didn't immediately give bob the sense of absolute control he required, i would face bob's wrath. he would place the blame directly on me. if clayton died, i would be deemed his murderer.

a show of confidence on my part would temporarily calm bob. “i got this,” i told him. “now, let me go, so i can start making calls. i'll get back to you in an hour.”

i hung up with bob and started dialing.

in bob's organization celebrities were golden. bob desperately wanted fame. he considered himself somewhat of a celebrity. he often dropped names. he claimed to have been fabian's agent. he had hung out with rock stars and movie stars.

clayton was the son of a famous hollywood producer and stepson of a well-known actress and comedienne. clayton was also a talented artist who had worked with aaron spelling, gary fleder, david brown, farrah fawcett and morgan freeman, among others.

bob had known clayton when clayton's career and life had fallen into ruins due to his addiction to heroin. bob had loved clay, not only because of his hollywood connections, but because clay was possibly the coolest individual he'd ever met.

clayton had charisma even greater than bob's. he was physically beautiful, dressed impeccably, and demonstrated total self-confidence. to me, he was an american version of ringo starr.

ten years earlier, as the story went, clayton had shown up on bob's doorstep holding a baby boy. he wept and begged bob and his wife to help him. the baby's mother was strung out. clay was addicted to heroin. he wanted bob and his wife to help him get clean and sober and take care of the baby until he was healthy enough to care for the child himself.

determined to be a good father, clay dug in and got clean and sober. he transformed his life and eventually began the process of rebuilding relationships in hollywood and rebuilding his career. he also fell in love with linda, bob and joy's spiritual daughter. she became mother to his baby boy and the two of them had another child, a girl.

clay, grateful to bob for saving his child, remained loyal to bob. the two became best friends.

clayton went back to work in hollywood and his wife and children lived near bob and his wife, where linda could serve at their pleasure. when bob moved to arizona, linda and their children moved to arizona as well. they bought a house near bob's and clayton commuted to work in l.a. during the week, he would work long hours on movie and t.v. sets. on the weekends he would travel to arizona to be with his wife and children.

it became obvious that this routine was taking it's toll on clayton, but bob needed linda, so clayton continued the grueling routine.

with clayton, i remember the little things--a pep-talk when i was afraid, my first trip to starbucks, listening to harry nilsson in the car, my first time eating sushi as we sat together in his living room listening to frank sinatra.

one weekend, someone had planned a camping trip for all the guys on staff. clayton was in town and decided to come along. there were about 15 of us all together. as was common, we all brought our guns...and we had a lot of them. assault rifles, pistols, shotguns and semi-automatic handguns. we brought them all. everyone except clayton.

for us, owning weapons was almost a spiritual responsibility. many of us purchased unregistered guns at gun shows for fear that the federal government was on the verge of showing up at the homes of registered gun owners and taking their weapons.

bob believed that we needed to be able to defend our families against intruders. but he also believed that, in the future, we would face an even greater threat--“the niggers.”

he would sometimes tell me, “i know you love your family. i know you want to protect them. you don't have to worry; i've got you covered.” he continued, “once we get enough money together, we're gonna buy a big piece of land. then we're gonna build a big fence around the mother-fvcker to keep the niggers out.”

this was his master plan. to buy some land in the middle of nowhere, build a fence, stockpile weapons and hide out from, as he called them, “the niggers,” who were ultimately planning to head to the suburbs and take all the white women.

although clayton was loyal to bob, i don't think be bought this line. and while we were running around in the woods, bullets flying everywhere, clay was kicked back by the fire taking in nature, probably thrilled to have a few hours to relax.

when it was time to eat breakfast, everyone went to their cars and coolers to grab their food. some had cereal bars, pop tarts, or bologna. others had more elaborate breakfast items, eggs, sausage, bacon.

i pulled a couple hot dogs from my stash, reached for my lockblade and began fashioning a stick with which to cook my dogs. clay pulled his chair beside mine. he leaned toward me. “don't eat that crap,” he said. “check it out.” he opened a small cooler which contained premium bagels, cream cheese, nova smoked salmon and a variety of tropical fruits.

we toasted our bagels and sat back together, in the middle of the forest, eating like kings, laughing heartily and watching our friends, fumbling, trying to cook, dropping their food into the fire.

for that moment, i had a big brother, someone to look out for me.

clayton had been my refuge on many occasions. because of his relationship with bob, he could get away with things that the rest of us couldn't. one of those was being a friend to me when others didn't dare say a kind word to me. countless times, when i was on bob's sh1tlist, and therefore everyone else's, clayton would pull me aside. he would put his hand on my shoulder and place his face inches from mine. “don't let all this get the best of you, brother” he would say. “just take care of yourself and your girls. this is gonna pass.” then he'd take me to get a latte or a gelato. we'd listen to choice tunes and talk and laugh.

while everyone else was avoiding my evil karma, clay was ministering to my spirit. he would make me forget about the constant life and death. he would make it so that, for a few minutes or hours, i didn't feel evil. now he was dying.

every call i made, everyone i spoke to, led back to the same name, the same doctor. it was the doctor who was already treating clay. this was good news for clayton, but bad news for me. it meant that, since bob had determined that clayon's doctor was inept, he would also determine that i was inept. he would channel his anger over not being able to control the situation toward me. that's exactly what he did.

i contributed what i could, which meant that i smuggled in a pack of marlboros and a can of ozium so clayton could have a smoke.

but something else happened, something i didn't expect. liver failure is an extraordinarily painful illness and so the doctor prescribed narcotic pain meds. bob began to complain that clayton was taking the medication. “he's laying around getting high and scratching himself like a junkie,” he said. bob was enraged. he couldn't stand the thought of clayton taking opioids. my take was that he couldn't stand the thought of clayton “getting high,” while he had to stay sober.

at the pool party, there were whispers. i began to pick up on the fact that bob and his wife were beginning to turn on clayton. in time, bob would say that he thought clayton had been secretely “getting high” for years.

after a while, clay was released from the hospital. but he wasn't healed; he needed a new liver. bob and his wife forbade this. “if he gets a liver transplant, he'll never be the same, spiritually,” they said. so, clayton took some time off work and began a regimen of vitamins, rest and healthy foods. he began working with a homeopathic doctor. he didn't get better.

bob was increasingly more frustrated at his lack of control. he sneaked into clayton's house and rifled through his belongings. he found half-filled and empty pill bottles and determined that clayton was getting high on the drugs the doctor had prescribed. he didn't consider the fact that clayton had removed pills from some of the pharmacy containers and placed them in his weekly pill container. he never considered the fact that many, if not all, of the medications had no mood altering effect. he never considered the fact that clayton needed pain medication, or that any time a heroin addict suffers an illness that requires treatment with opioids, he may become dependent on the pain meds, ultimately requiring help to get off the meds once the pain passes. he didn't consider clayton at all. he only cared about the disruption clay's illness had caused in his own life.

so clayton became the pariah. bob began to say, “i wish the mother-fvcker would just die and get it over with.” he told, clay's wife, linda, that she needed to make a choice—“him or us,” he said.

here is my confession: as this man, who had been so kind to me, became more and more sick, i was relieved that i was off bob's radar screen. at least for now, i was safe. i could continue to focus on how to get my family out.

i have a lot of regrets about my past, but this is one of my greatest. i allowed clay's illness to serve as a distraction while i plotted to rescue my family. i didn't defend him. i didn't reach out to him or his wife. in fact, i played along. i acted as though bob's reaction to clay's illness was normal, though it was anything but.

in time, bob and his wife turned against linda as well. “she doesn't know how to be happy without a man; that's why she is choosing that mother-fvcker over us.” she was ostracized.

when clayton was readmitted to the hospital, this time in l.a., they tried to demand that she not allow clayton's children to see him. “what you're gonna fvck your kids up by letting them see their dying father laying in a fvcking hospital bed just so he can feel better. that selfish mother-fvcker. if he cared about his kids, he wouldn't want them anywhere near him.”

bob, the man with all the answers, couldn't fix this problem. in the chaos and controversy, created by bob and his wife, clayton missed the opportunity for a liver transplant.

so clayton died in a los angeles hospital, desperate and in pain, as his best friend, to whom he'd always remained loyal, sat in his lazy-boy, eating gummy worms and talking shit about him. and i, having done nothing to stop the travesty, barred the doors and windows, forsaking clayton and everyone else (save my wife and my daughter), plotting, assessing the threat, determining my next move. i placed another domino.


would you know my name
if i saw you in heaven
would you feel the same
if i saw you in heaven

i must be strong and carry on
'cause i know i don't belong
here in heaven ~eric clapton, will jennings

to be continued

how i was spiritually raped and left for dead (part 10)

part 1 is here
part 9 is here

ain't no sunshine when she's gone,
only darkness everyday
ain't no sunshine when she's gone
and this house just ain't no home
anytime she goes away ~bill withers

a horizontal shadow closed, like a curtain, down the wall and across the concrete floor, in sync with the motor of the garage door. as the garage darkened, i took a deep breath and opened the door leading into my house.

inside, my daughter was playing on the floor. my wife came through the opening leading to the kitchen and approached me as i entered the living room. we were both nervous, self-conscious. we hugged and shared a brief kiss.

i didn't know what they had been telling her during my week away. did they tell her that i had left because i was angry at her? did they give her instructions on how to behave when i returned? was i talking to her...or to bob and his wife? in retrospect, i realize that she was every bit as confused as i. that was their game; keep everyone walking on eggshells.

bob had instructed me to see him on my way home, so i had stopped at his house for a brief “pep-talk” about an hour earlier. he had given me 20 bucks and said, “take her out to dinner.” i was pretty sure my wife would be there when i got home; after all, he had told me to take her to dinner. if they would have sent her away, he wouldn't have given me the money. he wouldn't have instructed me to take her to dinner...right?

on the other hand, there was always the possibility that bob was stashing her and my daughter somewhere and that he intended to act as though he had nothing to do with her absence. he could have arranged for her to “show up” at george's house. “i don't know what happened,” he would say. “she freaked out. she's scared. she wants to have a little time to get her head straight” then, he would get me to focus on the upcoming licensing inspections, promising to “straighten her out” for me. of course if this were the case, i'd probably never see my wife again.

i had seen him do this to another couple before. it was another staff purpose night. linda was at our house for some reason. she was on the phone with a young married woman named dana, making arrangements to meet with her before purpose. linda hung up the phone and left. something didn't feel right.

about a year earlier, dana and her husband, jack, were expecting their first child. things were chaotic. bob and his wife hadn't given their blessing and i caught a glimpse of some of the hush-hush efforts to deal with the “problem.”

dana was young, 19 or 20. her husband wasn't much older. i had been a groomsmen in their wedding. these two seemed as though they were meant to be together, as though the world would have remained forever out of balance if they hadn't found each other.

they were also, critical to the program. jack was a phenomenal counselor. he was making more referrals into the fee-based programs than any other staff member. dana was tender and loving. she ran group therapy. she had a way of making everyone feel comfortable. parents and kids alike trusted her.

on the whole, the program was in a tentative spot. it hadn't been too long since bob had split with jim and al and had drawn us all in. we were short on experienced staff, most were green kids who had no real skill. we had gotten outpatient up and running. the hospital was now beginning to run smoothly. also, another couple had recently had a child, unsanctioned. it had cost the program a staff member (the mother), because bob didn't allow pregnant women or mothers to work as counselors at that time.

“we can't handle another baby,” i'd overheard someone say.

bob and his wife had driven from san diego to phoenix and had arranged to meet with dana and jack at a local hotel. the 'buzz' was that they weren't ready to have a baby—that this baby was a mistake. bob and his wife weren't about to let their “fvcked-up bullshit fvck it up for everyone else.” if they insisted on having the baby, they were gone.

dana and jack spent hours in the hotel room with bob and his wife. i don't know exactly what they were told, but i know what i was told. it came down to this. dana and jack had fvcked up by getting pregnant. since it was their fvck-up, it was wrong to force this soul [the baby] into the world when it wasn't the right time. therefore, the pregnancy had to be aborted to save the baby's soul from taking on dana and jack's fvcked-up karma.

after the meeting with bob and his wife, dana had an abortion. it wasn't talked about much. everyone knew what happened. everyone got the message—get pregnant without bob's blessing and run the risk of losing the child.

in bob's program, we all had the same political and spiritual beliefs. one of those beliefs was that abortion was murder. the fact that this couple had been instructed to have an abortion underlined the seriousness of the situation. we were also taught that we chose our parents prior to birth and that we made that choice based on what we knew that we needed to learn during this lifetime.

the only way that we could reconcile this situation was by buying into the idea that dana and jack had been self-centered by becoming pregnant. we were told that they had attempted to bring a soul into this world against its will to satisfy their own selfish desires and that those desires included sabotaging their own spiritual growth. fortunately, they had bob and his wife to stop the birth of the child and rescue them from their self-sabotaging behavior.

within the confines of the cult, their marriage had survived this trauma, but now their marriage would end.

i arrived at the purpose meeting to find the usual anxious climate in the room. dana spent the entire meeting in another room with some of bob's girls. george seemed preoccupied throughout the meeting. jack was terrified.

after the meeting, jack grabbed me in the parking lot. his wife had already left with bob's girls. frantic, he told me, “dude, i'm freaked-out; i think my wife's gonna divorce me.” what he was trying to say was, “dude, i think they are taking my wife away from me.”

i'm sorry to say that i wasn't much of a friend to him that night. it was more than i could handle. and i knew he was right.

jack was part native american. he had a strong chin and high cheek-bones. his skin was dark and clear, and he sported long, silky, dark-brown hair which hung halfway down his back. he was built like a rock. no one messed with jack.

one afternoon, we had stopped at a convenience store to get some coffee. i had filled my styrofoam cup, capped it and made my way to the cashier's counter.

i was not in the best shape at the time. i had had little time for physical activity and had put on about 20 extra pounds. i waited at the counter as a huge, burly, unshaven biker, dressed in leather chaps and a leather biker jacket, leaned on the counter and carried on a casual conversation with the cashier.

after waiting a few moments, i said to the biker, “hey buddy, you wanna move aside so i can make my purchase?”

the biker turned around, stepped uncomfortably close to me, looked down at me and said, “you wanna take it out side...fat boy?” just then, jack stepped in front of me and calmly replied, “i'd love to...and if you talk to my friend that way again, i'm gonna step outside, after i throw you through the window.” the biker stepped aside, held his hand out, ushering me to the counter, and left quietly.

i wish i'd been a better friend that night in the parking lot. i've replayed it in my head over and over, year after year. what if i'd told him, “you're right, they've got your wife, let's go find her?” instead, i told him everything would be okay. i justified it, thinking there was nothing he could do, thinking he needed encouragement when he needed truth.

no one had told me that they were going to end his marriage, but i, just like jack, had seen it coming. in the previous weeks, i had noticed george becoming increasingly more friendly with dana. he would flirt with her and act as her protector. at the same time, he was talking sh1t about jack. he had referred to jack as a “stupid injun” at times and as a “lazy fvckin' mexican” at other times. he had also commented that he wasn't about to let that beautiful girl [meaning dana] have any “little brown babies.” “i ain't lettin' my kids play with any little brown babies...that's for fvckin' sure,” he'd said.

jack went home alone. later that night, he received a phone call informing him that his wife was not coming home—that she was going to spend the night at george and muffy's house.

the next day, jack received a phone call from brian. he was instructed to go over to george's house. probably thinking that this would be his chance to talk to his wife, he headed to george's house. when he got there, his wife was gone. instead brian and george sat him down for a talk.

things happened fast. george, who looked nervous and was probably terrified of jack's physical prowess, did the talking. brian, who was there to provide the muscle in case jack went ballistic, seemed to come across as though he felt bad, that he didn't agree with what was happening.

“dana needs a break,” george said. “we've arranged for you to go to atlanta and get your sh1t straight. if you do, she'll be here for you when you return.” jack said he wanted to talk to her, to hear it from her directly. “she doesn't want to talk to you right now,” he said. “well, i at least want to say goodbye,” jack told george. “she has nothing to say to you right now,” george replied.

jack was in agony. his people had hidden away his wife and built a barrier around her, preventing him from communicating with her. george was a small man. he was nothing. but he used his position as bob's son-in-law to destroy anyone who possessed personal power. he was threatened by anyone who was more capable than him. jack had two things working against him. first, he asked questions, challenged the inconsistencies he observed. second, he was twice the man george would ever be.

jack determined that the best course of action was to do as he was told. he went home and with the help of another staffer he packed his truck. during that time, he would break down and weep. he would call brian and beg him to let him talk to his wife. he couldn't help but think if he could just talk to her, she would agree to leave the program with him. he was tormented. he wanted to be with his wife, to save his marriage.

when he arrived in atlanta, he immediately knew that things were even more screwed up than he'd thought. he was being “handled.” no one would “get real” with him.

a short time later, a new director arrived in atlanta, someone who had been his friend. jack noticed that the new director was being cold toward him. jack also realized that this guy was spending a good deal of time on the phone, talking long distance...to his [jack's] wife.

jack finally figured out that he would not be getting back together with his wife when he was served with divorce papers. there was no discussion, no explanation. he called george on the phone. “dude, what's the deal. i thought if i got my sh1t together i had a chance at getting back together with my wife,” he said. george responded by simply saying, “well, are you gonna sign the papers?”

perhaps some part of him continued to hold out hope even after he was served.

any hope he still had was shattered when, within two weeks of getting the divorce papers, he received a traffic ticket in the mail. dana's car was still in jack's name after they split. when jack opened the envelope he found a photo-ticket. enclosed was a picture of the license plate on dana's car. there was also a picture of his wife sitting next to the the new atlanta director (who had been in arizona) driving the car. he'd been betrayed, not by his wife, but by the people who'd promised to be his friends, his family. the people he'd turned to for years, seeking guidance, the same ones who'd let him believe that, by toeing the program line, he could have his wife back had set him up and given his wife to another man.*

that night jack went to his room where he cleaned and loaded his .44 magnum handgun. he sat in his room. everyone else in his apartment was sleeping. he sat alone until he was able to accept the fact that he would most likely spend the rest of his life in prison. then he went to his truck to head over to kill the man who'd been seeing his wife.

jack sat in his truck, replaying the events in his head. how did i let them do this to me? how did i let them walk in and take my wife?

as he played things out in his mind, he was hit with a realization. if i kill this man and go to prison, it will justify their actions and beliefs. if i do this they win. they get to go on looking like they “rescued” my wife from me and i get to look like a psychopath.

jack went inside, put away his gun and called his family. though he'd been disconnected from them, they were happy to hear from him. his sister wired him money. it was time to go home.

jack was smart. he didn't say a word to anyone. he simply packed up his stuff and disappeared.

to this day, dana is still his one and only true love. but she is gone.

ain't no sunshine when she's gone
and this house just ain't no home
anytime she goes away ~bill withers

dude, i love you man.

***************

beneath the city two hearts beat
soul engines running through a night so tender
in a bedroom locked
in whispers of soft refusal
and then surrender

in the tunnels uptown
the rat's own dream guns him down
as shots echo down them hallways in the night
…
outside the street's on fire
in a real death waltz
between what's flesh and what's fantasy
and the poets down here
don't write nothing at all
they just stand back and let it all be

and in the quick of the night
they reach for their moment
and try to make an honest stand
but they wind up wounded
not even dead
tonight in jungleland ~bruce springsteen


the living room and kitchen were surrealistically bright from the arizona sun that passed through the windows. and although an air of nervousness also filled the rooms of our house, my wife and daughter were there. i had an opportunity that jack never had. i could talk to my wife, look her in the eyes, touch her. i could try to convince her to leave this place of wrath. i could share a vision of a free life, one that wouldn't be permeated with fear and anxiety. we could escape the drama, the constant life and death. this group, this lifestyle had torn us apart, i would tell her. we had lost ourselves. we had been stripped of any personal desire, passion, individuality. we had been beaten down like whores and turned out, devoid of humanity, constantly struggling, performing, in the hope that our actions would make us worthy recipients of a kind word, a smile, a gentle touch from our captors.

i, unlike jack, would tell my wife the truth i had discovered on a mountainside just a few nights ago...but not yet.




later that night, after we'd put roxanne to bed, we sat out back, facing the south, toward the distant santan mountains. they were there, but invisible to us, except in our collective imagination. behind us was the sliding glass door that led to our bedroom and our beautifully dressed king-sized bed. as we talked, i couldn't help but wonder whether we would end the night there, together. it would depend upon whether or not they had given her the green light.

the stars were overhead, exposing the inviting vastness of the universe, but they were were partially washed-out by a streetlight which hung overhead, in the distance, like an all-seeing eye or a spotlight, exposing us, making us vulnerable.

we talked about my first night out, when i was lost in the high desert...the coyotes. she told me how she'd lain awake in the bed behind us, our bed, knowing that i was lost, afraid i would never make it back.

she looked at me, silent, head slightly tilted, exposing her neck, as i told her of my experience. there was so much i couldn't say. i had thought about laying it all out, telling her that i had made a decision to leave, that we should pack up and leave together, tonight. but i also realized that she had been through too much already. i could tell that while i had been away she had been filled with fears and lies. she was obviously relieved that i'd come back. i feared that if i told her the truth, it would be too much for her, that it would push her over the edge.

so i stuck to lesser truths, or greater ones. i talked of my personal transformation. i told her about the courage i'd gained, about connecting with myself. i explained how i'd felt her presence. i talked about the value of being alone. there were parts i couldn't explain and there were those things that, when i put them into words, began to lose meaning. so i became silent.

she moved closer to me and placed her long, tan leg across my thigh. i put my arm around her and she placed her head on my shoulder. the light caused her profile to become a silhouette. i could make out the shape of her red lips, slightly parted as my hand drifted up and down her arm.

she looked up at me, into my eyes. i squeezed her more tightly. she held my eyes with hers. i moved my lips toward hers, then paused. i moved closer, within an inch or two. she closed her eyes. i paused again, intoxicated by her essence. i kissed her.

her skin was smooth and dark against the creme-colored sheets on our bed. we became wholly connected, body and spirit, weightless, as if we were floating through the night sky. we were enmeshed and enraptured, immersed in this moment, oblivious to all things past, unrelenting in a timeless embrace.

exhausted and energized, i gently stroked her hair as her rested head on my heart. we drifted off to sleep.

****************

my heart was beating furiously. i couldn't breath. i stopped and bent forward, trying to catch my breath. there were formless, clouds of blackness all around me and as i ran through them i was blinded by the darkness. shadowed figures loomed in the darkness, stepping into the gaps of grayish light between the dark clouds, reaching for me, then stepping back as if they were mysteriously forbidden from fully exposing themselves to the light.

i continued to run, trying to avoid the dark clouds and shadowed figures, running though the gaps of grayish light, an endless maze.

overhead, a football-shaped, metallic object floated, chasing me. in the middle of the football there was a round lens. the football-shaped metallic object would float through the tops of the dark clouds as it followed me, moving in and out of the clouds, disappearing and reappearing as it moved in and out of the light.

i had to get to the hispanic woman at the little grocery store. she was standing behind the counter, smiling, in a trance, eyes glazed over. i had left my gun on the shelf underneath the counter. i had to get my gun. i had to shoot the lens.

to avoid the lens, i dropped my right shoulder and plowed through the darkness, intent on leveling any shadowed figure i happened to encounter. meeting no resistance, i barreled through and out the other side of the dark cloud and losing my balance, i fell forward.

i awoke with a start. shadows on the ceiling. my beautiful wife lies beside me, her head still on my heart. she is on her side and the light is peeking through the blinds, illuminating the curve of her waist and hip. her leg is stretched across tops of my thighs and bent into a 'v' shape at knee, so that the tops of her red, painted toes rest against the outside of my upper calf.

she is resting peacefully, oblivious. i am awake.

i want to awaken her...to tell her everything. i want to allow her to continue sleeping. i want to cherish this moment. tomorrow, they will ask her about this night. they will want every detail. they will analyze and interpret everything that took place. she will tell them everything, because she believes it's the right thing to do. she will assign the victory to them. they will tell her their plan worked—that i had gone to the desert and found myself. they will not suspect that i have become an interloper.

it kills me to allow her to go back to them, to allow her to be subjected to their lies. they will continue to draw her in, while i, in turn, will wait for my opportunity to rescue her...rescue us. they will build her up, encourage her to continue the spiritual path that they dictate. this “victory” will galvanize her commitment to their doctrine. although it draws us closer tonight, it will ultimately be used to draw her further into their fold, to give them even more control.

they will claim to have saved our family. in time, they will use that power to tear us apart, again. they will say that they had worked miracles to bring us together and that i, being toxic, destroyed everything. they will point to all of the suffering my wife had endured, my absence while in the santan mountains, her fear that i would never return. they will claim that she had welcomed me home and into our bed, creating the perfect environment for me to “change.” they will tell her to be angry, unforgiving, claiming that she had done everything, sacrificed herself, her body, her spirit out of love for me...and that i had selfishly insulted her by returning to my spiritually destructive ways.

even as i lie awake, with my wife beside me, i know this will be their course of action. i don't know when it will happen, but i know that it will. it is their nature, their way.

i have to beat them at their game. i will be the perfect follower, giving testimony to the spiritual wisdom of bob and his wife. i will sit at their feet. i'll work even harder to add to their wealth. i'll jump through every hoop. still, i know it won't be enough. at some point, they will knock me down again. they will find some action, interpret some statement of mine, analyze my body language and determine that i have brought bad karma into the fold. most likely, they will experience a setback and blame it on me.

i know it will come; i just don't know when. but i will be vigilant. i will watch them, their mannerisms, their statements and body language. when i see it coming, i will flank them. i'll endure whatever i have to endure to rescue my family. i'll take whatever abuse they throw at me. rope-a-dope. i am no sociopath, but i will become one...at least for now. i have one advantage; without my family, i have nothing to lose.

but, there is one part that is nearly intolerable. after they fully draw in my wife, after they grant her reprieve, provide her with sweet sanctuary, they will try to take me down. when they fail, they will bludgeon her. they will strip her of everything they have given her. they will shove her overboard and ostracize her, watching her desperately struggle to stay afloat. she will be wounded, but not dead. and here's the rub: once they have beaten her down, when she is consumed with shame and fear, that's when i will finally be able to tell her the truth.

after they beat her within an inch of her life, rape her (but before they can demonize me and build her back up) i will intervene. that is the time when a cult victim is reachable. that is when i will talk to her about cults, how they operate, how this group meets every criteria of a dangerous and destructive cult. i will remind her of our years together. i will remind her of this night. i will tell her about the secret that i could not share with her even as i held her in my arms.

still, how could they do this to this loving, vulnerable young woman? how can i let it happen? it is only because i know that she they will continue to destroy her, over and over, as long as she stays. is there any way to spare her?

i look at the woman i love, head on my heart. i gently touch the angel's cheek. i can feel her breath on my chest. i am enchanted, anguished, liberated, imprisoned. holding her in my arms, i lie.

to be continued



* i think it's important to note that the atlanta director was an innocent. he was a victim just like jack and dana. his communication with jack was limited and censored by the powers in the program. he also believed that dana had ended the relationship without any prompting and without any hint of coercion, as did dana. he was certain that jack and dana's relationship was over for good, because that's what he'd been told. he was also encouraged to get involved with dana by the people who had “saved him from addiction” and guided him spiritually since his teenage years. there are other factors that absolve both dana and the atlanta director which i will not disclose in order to preserve their dignity.

how i was spiritually raped and left for dead (part 9)

part 1 is here part 2 is here
part 3 is here part 4 is here
part 5 is here part 6 is here
part 7 is here part 8 is here



summer, fall, winter, spring
of the seasons i will sing
to help you through your birth
as you spend your time on earth
in the wind ~ steve miller

you have to let it go. you need to get over it. put it behind you. forget it. move on.
i can’t tell you the number of times i’ve heard well-meaning people say these things about my experience with bob. they don’t get it. this stuff has a way of getting inside of you and hiding, only to surface when you thought you had let it go.

here’s what i mean:

it was november 23, 1999, over 2 years had passed since i had sat in my perch on the northern slope of the santan mountains. i was standing outside talking on the phone with my father. he was ecstatic to hear me so filled with joy. i was euphoric. moments ago, i had held my wife in my arms as she delivered our second daughter, a beautiful blue-eyed, fair-skinned, strawberry blond baby girl. we named her ellie [name changed].

“i’m serious dad, i said. “it’s not just because she’s my daughter, she is so perfect, so beautiful.”

i couldn’t believe it. my wife was fantastic. she sailed through labor and delivered this bright-eyed baby girl with no medication, no epidural, just miles davis, john coltrane and a bit of monkey-hip gumbo and mothball stew playing in the background--the same music that was playing when our daughter was conceived.

we left the birthing center three hours later, heading home with our new baby.

at home, our oldest daughter, her stuffed dog, kimberly, and i, gathered together in our king-sized bed with mom and the new baby. we were a happy family.

this time was especially meaningful to us, because we had been forbidden from having any more children in the bob's cult. though we were older than many parents of newborns, now that we were out, we could have all the children we wanted. this one was precious.

six months after ellie was born, i was on the phone once again. my wife had called me at work, i could hear deep, deep fear in her voice. our 6-month old girl was about to be transported to the hospital in an ambulance.

i hung up the phone, raced to my red t-bird and hauled ass toward the e.r. i was scared. “bob's wife had told us not to have a baby,” i thought. then…“whoa! where did that come from?”

i hit cedar crest blvd, took a hard right and put the pedal to the floor. i didn’t know that this event was going to change our family forever--that it would redefine our lives.

this wasn’t the first time we’d been expecting since we left the cult. once we were gone, i bought health insurance as soon as i could come up with the money and we went to work, trying to have a baby. it didn’t take long. a month later, my wife gave me the good news. we were thrilled.

then, three months into the pregnancy, my wife started bleeding. she was broken-hearted when the doctor told her that we’d lost the baby. i was broken-hearted as well--sad that our dream had been squashed, sadder still for my wife, who was devastated.

being fresh out of the cult, both of us wrestled with the feelings that we were being punished for going against bob's wife. though we knew in our minds that she had no real power, deeper still were the phobias that had been planted within us. not only did we have to question whether or not we’d been wrong to go against bob's wife, whether we had killed a child in the process, but we also had to try to shake the overwhelming fear that we’d never be able to have children again—that bob's wife or perhaps even the universe itself, wouldn’t allow it.

i had to try to hide these fears from my wife. i had to reassure her that bob's wife had no power. this incident had nothing to do with the cult. she needed me to be strong. so i focused on putting the fears aside and giving my wife what she needed.

in time, we were able to push forward. it was a testament of will. we would not allow ourselves to be ruled by a false god. my wife became pregnant again and nine months later ellie was born.

now this.

when i arrived at the emergency room my wife was able to better explain what had happened. she was at the grocery store, ellie was in her baby carrier, which was attached to the shopping cart. all of the sudden our baby started to shake violently. “it looked like…a seizure?,” she said. she had run, pushing the cart and our daughter, to the in-store pharmacy. the pharmacist called 911.

the doctors were reassuring. it was likely a febrile seizure, a seizure caused by having a fever. they said it was quite common. we needn’t be worried. we were relieved.

a few weeks later it happened again.

this time it wouldn’t stop. we rushed her to the hospital. finally, they gave her ativan, a powerful tranquilizer, to stop the seizure. there was all kinds of testing. our 9 month old daughter was diagnosed with epilepsy.

the neurologist said that our daughter needed medication, phenobarbital, a powerful and highly addictive barbiturate. we asked all the questions: what are the potential side effects? will this affect her development? how long will she have to take it? and of course, is this the course of action you would take if this were your daughter?

i couldn’t imagine giving this drug to a little girl. i was quite familiar with the drugs effects, both as a n addiction counselor and a former barbiturate user. but the doctor was clear, without this medicine our daughter would continue to have seizures. and so here it comes again, this time in the form of bob’s voice in my head, “these fvckin’ doctors don’t know what the fvck they’re doing. what!…you gonna turn her into a drug addict?”

this one was even harder to fight. i was afraid of this drug…all drugs. now nearly 2 and a half years after leaving the cult, still believing all drugs were evil, i had the doctor on one side and bob on the other. i was going to give my baby girl, who didn’t even have a voice in the matter, this powerfully addictive drug. fighting everything within us, my wife and i pushed forward. out of will alone, we gave our daughter the medicine she needed.

we had to crush the pills and put them in her baby food.

we were comforted by the neurologist, who was excellent in regard to both her medical skills and her bedside manner. she told us that most seizure disorders are well controlled with medication. as long as she took her medicine and stayed healthy, she might never again have another seizure. even more promising was the fact that she would likely outgrow the seizure disorder. hers didn’t seem that serious and many children outgrow epilepsy, never having to take medication as adults.

we became students of epilepsy and neurology. we read every book, every website. we learned about the many different types of seizures. we also learned about different and rare seizure disorders. some of these rare seizure disorders were serious. some had high rates of death. some caused the victims to become mentally delayed and/or physically disabled. as a parent, reading about these debilitating conditions, i couldn’t help but become fearful at times. what if our daughter has one of these rare conditions, lennox-gastaut, syndrome, west’s syndrome, dravet’s syndrome? then i would talk myself out of it. “these illnesses are so rare,” i would tell myself. “it would be as likely as getting hit by a meteorite.”

also, as parents, we couldn’t help but notice some thing wasn’t quite right. as we learned about different kinds of seizures, some, like absence seizures, where there may be just a brief staring spell, we began to be concerned that there may be more to our daughters condition than we had originally thought.

at some point, the phenobarbitol, stopped working. our daughter began having status seizures, meaning once they started they didn’t stop without medical intervention. trips to the emergency room became more and more frequent.

ellie became accustomed to seeing doctors, having blood drawn, going to the hospital. tubes, iv’s and sticky patches attached to electrical leads became a normal part of her life. her loving spirit and outgoing, friendly personality were unaffected. when the nurse would walk into the room with a needle or an i.v. lead , emily would hold out her arm. “just a little pinch, right mommy?,” she would say. then tears would stream down her cheeks, never complaining, never resisting, as the needle was punctured her skin.

in time, she would take the punishment without tears. “i didn’t cry, mommy.” “you are so brave,” mommy would reply. “it’s just a little pinch, right mommy?”

even with the medications and the seizures, ellie developed nicely. the seizures continued to increase in frequency and severity. we tried over a dozen medications and combinations of meds. nothing seemed to help. we took her to johns-hopkins and washington university for more thorough testing—including a video e.e.g.

for her video e.e.g. she was fitted with electrical leads covering her entire head. the leads were connected to a backpack which held a device that sent the electrical information to a machine that measured seizure activity. her hospital room was equipped with video cameras so that she was monitored on video and e.e.g. 24 hours a day. we learned that she had been having about 200 seizures a day, many unnoticeable to the untrained eye. it was clear that her condition was serious.

we also learned that she had an above average iq and was on track as far her development was concerned, a rarity among children with seizure disorders of this severity.

ellie is loved by everyone who meets her. with a wide-open heart, she has always been quick to let people know her love for them. ellie loved to run and play. she loved to swing on the swing which hung from the elm tree in our backyard. full of life and with a sense of adventure, she liked to camp out in the backyard and go for neighborhood adventures with dad.

among our fondest memories is that of watching ellie glide down the giant slide at the fair, wind blowing back her hair, or seeing her ride the kiddie roller-coaster, next to her big sister. she would race down “the big hill” arms in the air, mouth open, smiling unashamedly. she would run from ride to ride, excited to take on the next new adventure.

sometimes she would walk around the house, wearing nothing but her diaper and daddy’s big black cowboy boots which went all the way to the tops of her legs. other times she'd romp around the house in her fluffy, pooh-bear costume or dance with daddy wearing her princess belle costume. aside from her seizures, she was like so many other little girls.

that all began to change between her 3rd and 4th birthdays. during this time we watched, helpless, as our bright, joy-filled little girl began to deteriorate both mentally and physically. she began to lose her balance and her coordination. at times she would fall out of her chair. her language became affected. communication became increasingly more difficult for her. she could no longer do many of the things she loved to do. when she ran she would lose balance and fall. then she began to fall while walking.

though ellie has lost many of her skills, her courage and spirit remain unaffected. like many kids with special needs she has a way of getting into your heart. today, at 10 years old, ellie goes to a regular, public school and spends most of her day in a regular 4th grade classroom. the other students in her class are a testament to the beauty of the human spirit.

each day ellie has a “buddy,” another student who plays with her and watches over her at lunch, in gym class, and on the playground. the students compete enthusiastically for the opportunity to be her “buddy” for the day.

when we take her to school, we are always inspired by seeing the children’s reactions. they run up to her and circle around her, each vying for their opportunity to hug her. last year, at the end of the year school fair, her classmates guided her up the steps of the big inflatable slide and caught her as she reached the bottom. they held her hand, smiling and laughing with her, guiding her, as she attempted to run from one attraction to another.

sadly she is rarely invited to birthday parties. it’s not because the children don’t want her, but because many of the parents don’t. they lack the courage, love and tolerance that their children possess. they’re afraid of her “condition.”

bob would call her a “bent frame,” or maybe a “retard” (though she’s neither). he would be disgusted by the same child who is loved by so many others. he would complain if he had to stand in line behind her at “sea world” or “disneyland.” he would probably make cruel comments just loud enough so we could hear. he might lean over her, smiling and talking to her, only to walk away making disparaging remarks.

ellie’s illness has had a tremendous impact on her big sister. by the time she was in 2nd or 3rd grade, it had become clear to everyone that roxanne [name changed] had, as they say, a beautiful mind. she had excelled in school to the point where it became difficult to find an environment where teachers and other students could keep up. in math and science she is able to visualize concepts that most people will go their entire lives without the capacity to see or comprehend.

unlike many people with high science and math skills, her language skills are off the charts as well. she was finishing each year with the highest gpa in every school she attended. she changed schools several times in an effort to find a challenging environment. she skipped a grade and and entered the international baccalaureate program, as a freshman, at 13. she will graduate at the at end of this school year and start college with 2 years of college credit already completed. she is 17. i call her “killer.”

she plans to complete undergrad, with a double major in chemistry and premed in 2 years. then she will enter medical school at 19. she wants to be a pediatric neurologist.

as parents, the bulk of our time and energy has been devoted to watching over ellie and trying to find the medical care she needed. sadly, roxanne was often on her own in many ways.

she has learned to take responsibility for her growth and education. she has also learned to care for her little sister.

one christmas morning, roxanne opened a box and was thrilled to find a necklace, a heart-shaped locket, she had wanted. inside the heart, we had placed a picture of our family. she was overjoyed.

ellie saw her reaction to the present and wanted a necklace as well. “where’s my necklace?” she asked. we could tell she was sad that she didn’t get a necklace like her big sister, whom she adored.

without prompting, as we continued to unwrap presents, roxanne slipped away to her room. she returned a few minutes later with a small wrapped present which she placed under the tree while ellie wasn’t looking. the tag on the present said, “to: ellie from: mommy and daddy.”

when ellie opened the box she was elated to see that mommy and daddy had also given her a necklace (roxanne’s necklace that she had boxed and wrapped) just like her big sister’s.

roxanne has never complained about the time and energy, rightfully belonging to her, that has been given instead to her little sister. in fact, she has been fully determined to become a pediatric neurologist since shortly after ellie was diagnosed. ellie's illness has driven her. she wants to find a way to help children like ellie. someday, she will master the powers of science and mathematics to ensure that other children can be free from the from this debilitating illness.

i can’t help but be thankful that rebecca was introduced to disabilities in this way as opposed to the way in which she would have been taught to view disabled children if she were in bob's organization, raised by “the family.”

she doesn’t talk about ellie a lot. she never complains about the lost vacations, last minute cancellations of family outings, the frequent late night visits by teams of firemen and paramedics, or the necessity to often have only one parent at academic awards ceremonies, concerts, and competitions, as the other parent stays home to take care of ellie.

she never complained about having to spend nearly her entire summer with my parents and my sister’s family, away from her home and friends, while her sister underwent brain surgery and stayed in the hospital, out of town, with mom.

i try to compensate taking her to rock and roll concerts, ball games, or out to dinner--just the two of us.

she is well aware of the danger her sister faces. she has taken it upon herself to research epilepsy.

sometimes late at night, we’ll sit outside on the back porch, which overlooks the neighborhood park to the south and the mountains to the west. we’ll talk. on occasion, she’ll discuss her fears, namely the fear of losing her little sister. she knows that there exists a significant chance that ellie could die from a seizure. the thought of life without ellie’s smile is too painful to consider. she realizes that ellie will probably never have the potential that she has. she fears that ellie will never be able to care for herself, live on her own, have a family.

roxanne operates in a highly competitive school environment with about 30 of the district’s brightest minds, doing 2nd year college level work. she excels in all areas of study and has won numerous academic awards. she is still committed to becoming a pediatric neurologist. she wants to cure epilepsy. and although she tries to avoid causing her mom and dad to worry about the impact of ellie's condition on her emotional state, i am sometimes able to coax her to share her feelings with me.

lately, we have been sitting out back together, talking. late at night, roxanne, looking to me with the mountains behind me, wants to talk about the cult--how it has affected her. she talks about what it was like to have her “friends,” the people who said they were her “family,” suddenly abandon her. it still hurts.
 




and high up above or down below
when you're too in love to let it go
but if you never try you'll never know
just what you're worth

lights will guide you home
and ignite your bones
and i will try
to fix you ~coldplay
on the third night, as i sat perched on the northern slope, santan mountains to my back, lights below, stars overhead, roxanne was on my mind. i knew i could not allow her to grow up in this environment. i knew that if they managed to destroy my family, to split us up and cast me aside, they would ultimately cast my wife and child aside as well, but not before destroying them both.

virtually everyone in bob’s past had been destroyed and cast aside. this was the program’s dirty little secret. this was the thing we all knew, but never talked about—never thought about. all of the past leaders of the universal fountainhead of spiritual consciousness, were ultimately beaten down, cast aside, demonized, and left alone with nothing and no one.

that was the secret i would share with orlando, sitting on the curb behind our coffee shop, months later. it would be the last time i would ever speak to him.

i had found myself, but would still have to fight the virus with which bob and his destructive cult had infected the deepest parts of me. it was an enemy that was often difficult to find. it was difficult to separate myself from the evil, death in the name of life, truth mixed with lies, poverty disguised as abundance.

i knew i wasn’t a killer. that was bob’s claim to fame. he had claimed that he had been responsible for the deaths of several other men. i could imagine the travesty of being imprisoned for murder while he came off looking like a hero, an altruistic rehabilitator senselessly killed by a monster whom he had helped to overcome the wrath of addiction. that’s how the headlines would read. that’s what my daughter would believe.

killing bob was not an option. it was not me. i needed to be smart, creative. i refused to allow these people to break up my family. i refused to allow them to infect my daughter. i also refused to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.

steve hassan's book, combating cult mind control was written in part to help people open communication and free their family members from cults.

i wracked my brain trying to remember the book’s content. i was able to recall some of the techniques outlined in the book. cult members are most reachable when they are being ostracized or right after they’ve been “barreled,” as we called it. the cult victim’s family members can often reach beyond the cult mind-set by talking about life before the cult, causing the member to think about difference in freedom and happiness between life inside and life outside the cult. the book instructed loved one's to talk about hobbies and other activities that were important to the victim prior to the cult—things they’d given up to devote their time and energy to the cult.

there was a lot couldn’t remember, but much that i could. “i can do this,” i told myself. “i love my wife. she loves me. regardless of the contrived efforts and crazy ideas the bob and his wife have placed in our minds and emotions, i know this one thing to be true…constant. we love each other. we belong together.”

i made my final decision. i would free myself, free my wife, and free my daughter. i would do it without even the threat of violence. i would play the game, use hassan's techniques. i would connect with my wife. not the pseudo-personality created by the cult, but the with the woman i had fallen in love with.

i would return home, strong and secure. over time, i would be able to help my wife reconnect with her passion, her true self. i would make everyone believe that i was fully invested in the program. i would use the fact that i was indispensable to the organization to hold them at bay. i would wait for my moment.

i spent the rest of my week in the mountains preparing myself. i spent the better part of my days transforming my mind and body. i ran, walked, exercised, and lifted heavy rocks. i developed a deep tan. i wrote in my journal. i cleared my mind of the poison. i reviewed my life, my dreams, my achievements.

at the end of the week, i awoke at sunrise. i went for a run and reviewed my plan. i had made a decision to be on guard against fearful thoughts, mainly the fear that bob would win. i took a hike into the mountains. i realized i hadn’t heard a coyote since my first night out. i returned to the residential facility, took a shower, gathered my belongings, jumped in my red t-bird, and dropped the pedal all the way to the floor.

i pulled over near my house and sat, smoking, thinking, preparing myself to deal with whatever i might face when i returned home. in truth, i didn’t even know if my family would still be there. they could be anywhere in the country at this point.

with full resolve, i pulled into my driveway and into the garage.

i was in excellent physical condition. my mind was clearer than it had been in years. i knew exactly where i was headed.
 
i didn’t know what i would find when i walked into the house.
 
freight train, each car looks the same
and no one knows the gypsy's name
and no one hears his lonely sighs,
there are no blankets where he lies.
lord, in his deepest dreams the gypsy flies,
with sweet melissa ~greg allman