In the months after I tried to run away, Atmananda kept me busy expanding
his postering routes north to Los Angeles and to the Bay area.
Once he had me plan and coordinate a campaign in which one hundred
disciples distributed four thousand posters and one hundred thousand
promotional newsletters across the entire state of California.
He did not seem concerned that I was only twenty-one. He seemed
to have faith in me. But after the work was complete, his faith
regressed into stinging verbal attacks on my level of consciousness,
loyalty, and sanity.
"You are mentally ill," he said. "You can hardly deal with the real world."
He explained that I was a prime target for the mind-ravaging
Forces because I was spiritually advanced, because I held a key
position in his Light-spreading organization, and, most importantly,
because I still doubted him.
"But stick with it, kid," he added. "We haven't given up on you yet."
Atmananda failed to appreciate that my doubt-blocking efforts were
largely successful, except for the time that I spent with him.
It was then that I saw him not as a divine incarnation with a bright
golden aura, but rather as an opportunistic Ph.D. with smooth
social skills. It was then that knots of tension mounted in my stomach,
pangs of guilt haunted my conscience, and, only after several
emotionally exhausting hours of telling myself, "NO!", the surfacing
conflict appeared to short-circuit. It was then that my mind drew
a blank.
One evening, in a movie theatre with Atmananda and the inner circle,
the conflict had already run its course. I felt detached, numb, dumb.
I gazed listlessly at the screen. Atmananda said something.
Sal, Anne, Rachel, and Dana laughed. I looked straight ahead.
I did not smile.
They kept giving me popcorn and candy, but I had deeply withdrawn.
I did not eat. I passed the items along. I wished that it
would stop.
What happened next seemed to occur in slow motion. Sal held
out a bucket of popcorn. Halfheartedly, I reached for it.
I wanted to be left alone. I held the bucket loosely.
It slipped from my hand. Popcorn covered the floor. I stood up.
Popcorn fell from my lap. I sensed that my friends had been having fun,
and that I was ruining it for them. I would not meet their gazes.
I stood there, bathed by the flickering lights of the film,
frightened by the resurfacing conflict.
"Maybe it's been me all along," I thought.
"That's nonsense," I countered. "It's Atmananda who is..."
"NO!!"
I grimaced. I walked up the incline toward the exit.
I left the theatre in a stupor. I felt dizzy and disoriented.
My mind again drew a blank.
I crossed the street to UCSD. I walked to Revelle College.
To the Humanities Library Building. To HL 1402. I often
reserved this room through the Meditation Club for Atmananda's
public and private meetings. I sat down. I did not reflect
on how his talks in this room had changed in the past two years.
Nor did I reflect on how he had changed. Nor on how I had changed.
I just sat there. After a few minutes, I stood up and left.
I walked to John Muir College. I saw a picture of conservationist,
writer, and mountaineer John Muir. I found myself thinking
about the plumber, about Palomar Mountain, about the solitary hawk...
"NO!" I said aloud and turned away.
I walked down the hill to Central Library. I remembered walking here
with two friends from high school who, months before, had unexpectedly
appeared at the Centre door. I had not spoken with them in years.
I told them I was no longer a disciple of an Indian guru.
I also told them my new spiritual teacher was different than the others.
"He's got a Ph.D," I explained. "He's been on Phil Donahue.
He's my friend." Despite my assertions that I was fine and that I could
take care of myself, they still looked at me as if I were in some kind
of cult.
"The past is dust," I now thought, recalling a saying that Atmananda
had borrowed from Chinmoy.
I walked to Third College. To Third College Lecture Hall.
To TLH 104. I saw Atmananda's face on either side of the front wall.
I had placed the two posters. Atmananda often claimed that his
photograph was a doorway to his "awareness field," and now I
wondered if he was watching me through the posters on the wall.
I felt uneasy and left.
I walked to a nearby computer terminal room. I logged on and played
Star Trek. The E on the screen was the Enterprise. R's were Romulans.
K's were Klingons. Klingons had stealth devices. I was E. R's and K's
surrounded E. E got destroyed. Each time I played, E got destroyed.
I logged off and walked away.
I plodded over soft, squishy lawns. The sprinklers were on.
I got wet. I felt like a zombie. I felt small.
I crisscrossed campus several times more. I was tired. I thought about
sleeping in the computer room. I was afraid to return to the Centre.
I was afraid of facing Atmananda. I did not examine the fear.
I walked home.
I opened the door. It was late. Atmananda stood in the living room.
I sensed that he had been waiting for me.
"You may not realize it," he said right away, "but you are very sick.
You are mentally ill. I am a professional and you are going to have
to trust me."
Atmananda spoke authoritatively. He held something in his hand.
He said that he was going to help me.
"Have you ever heard of Stelazine?" he asked.
"No."
"Stelazine is a drug that helps people who suffer from mental illness
or depression. With the advent of drugs such as this, people who
would otherwise be dysfunctional can lead happy and normal lives."