🧨 The Truth About Who — and What — Made Me Walk Away from Scientology

You’re Probably in a Cult — You Just Don’t Know It Yet

🧨 The Truth About Who — and What — Made Me Walk Away from Scientology

You’re Probably in a Cult — You Just Don’t Know It Yet

I didn’t leave because of “The Hole.” Or the beatings. Or the mind games we all lived through.
Yeah, I’ve got more stories about all of that — and I’ll tell them along the way. But none of those crazy stories we’ve all read in one post, article, or seen in the many documentaries on the subject are why I walked away.

What made me leave was something deeper. Something quieter. And something I couldn’t ignore.

I left despite having no plan. Despite having no savings. Despite having no idea where I was heading or would end up. And despite the fact I was already 42 years old.

But that didn’t matter. I couldn’t do it anymore.

Simply stated: I left because Scientology had nothing to offer.

It took me 28 years to discover this — a sometimes painful fact that, no matter how much I try to put it out of my mind, still slaps me in the face occasionally.

A lot of things happened to me in Scientology that should have been enough to make me leave. It’s the very stuff that makes a cult a cult — and a follower a “weirdo,” if you’re looking from the outside in.

I’ll get into why I think cults work in a separate post. I’m finding that as I write, I’m setting off sparks — sometimes fireworks — in my head of memories and stories I want to tell. But I’ll try and stay focused.

Let me justify myself (and others) for a moment.

Belief.

I was raised Catholic. My stepdad had me convinced I’d go to hell if I did not read, understand, and follow the Bible exactly. I will not go into details now, but believe it or not, my teachings and experiences in the Catholic Church were almost — particularly at such a young age — more shaping than my entire Scientology experience.

For now, I’ll just say, I was primed.

When Scientology came along, it felt different. My mother seemed happier than ever. My brother started talking — he had refused to talk to anyone for years prior. My sister found her happy zone. I just tagged along — to me, things were improving.

Our little “Mission” in Orlando, Florida was fun — even though I didn’t understand why a single person’s (Hubbard’s) photo was hung on the wall in every single room.

Eventually, I was taught that in Scientology, there was no such thing as a “child.” We were all spiritual beings who had been around for many lifetimes and shouldn’t be treated as just kids.
That idea appealed to me.

So a couple of years later, when the recruiter came to take us from our comfortable little “Mission” setting and asked us to sign a Billion Year Contract, I was already prepared — and I pushed and pushed my mother to join. I wasn’t tagging along anymore — I was leading. And they made sure I felt that way because they knew they could count on my deep belief.

At 11 years old, I worked from 8 in the morning until 11 or 12 at night — seven days a week, with a rare “liberty” (a day off) once every two weeks, if I was lucky — and I really wasn’t that lucky.

I wore the same pair of pants for my first two years. A brown pair, with a belt, one or two t-shirts, and worn-out shoes. I literally had nothing else — and no one cared.

Because we had “small bodies,” we were made to climb down plumbing chases to do repairs — from the 10th floor down, with absolutely no concern for or safety precautions.

I saw my mother during scheduled “Family Time” — from 6 p.m. to 7 p.m. daily — which, more often than not, got canceled for one reason or another and eventually eliminated altogether.

At 11, I was put in charge — their “Commanding Officer” — of 50 or more children. We got paid for working, or didn’t get paid at all. And if we didn’t get paid, we couldn’t buy smokes — and that wasn’t good. And yes, we all smoked at that age. I’m not sure I ever met a non-smoking Scientologist!

I was fed three meals a day — often rice and beans, chicken, processed cheese substitute, and more rice and beans.

As I moved up the organizational ranks, things got better.

I was paid $10 a week at first, and later, when I made it to the highest position, I got a raise to $50 or so — but was lucky if I got paid at all.

All my money was spent on smokes. The more I made, the more I smoked, it seemed.
I was not just allowed to leave school — I was ordered to not go to public school anymore. Education was considered unnecessary and “misguided.”

At 12, I was sent to New York to move the organization there from 32nd and Columbus to 46th and Broadway — where they are now.

I went to the dentist only when I was in pain — and I had a high tolerance for pain. I went when half or more of a tooth had rotted out. Our in-house dentist once filed down my bottom row of front teeth because a cap on the top didn’t fit right. “We’re all ‘OTs’ — you can grow the enamel back if you want,” he said, with a chuckle and a slap on the back.

Eventually, I got clothes! I wore a military outfit for 25 years.

The rice and beans got a little better — sometimes with onions and seasoning.

I worked hard and became noticed — compared once to one of the most important people in the Church: a boy named David Miscavige, who reported directly to Hubbard. What an honor.

At 19, I went “Over the Rainbow” — a then-hidden facility at Gilman Hot Springs outside Hemet, California. A wide-open complex with lodges, a mess hall, music and film studios, and a house on the hill where Hubbard lived.

The hours were longer and harder. The crew more dedicated than ever. These were the “elite of the elite” — yet no different at all.

We had more fun. We went to movies. We had parties — not the kind of parties you're probably imagining — but they were fun in our own weird way.

We had purpose. We had drive. All the hardships were expected and okay — we were making a difference on planet Earth. And most importantly: L. Ron Hubbard was happy with us.

Then Hubbard died. And Miscavige came into power.

He ruled with an iron fist — through intimidation and by eliminating anyone who might threaten his ultimate control, or not stand when he entered the room, or obviously dive out of his way if he walked down the hallway, or dare call him by his first name!

Organizational policies and charts were thrown out. No one was anyone and no one had a position. Miscavige gave his favorite punching bags names like “Cunt Lips” and “Cue-ball” (for the bald guy) and handed out regular beatings during his never-ending meetings that could go on for hours — even days.

The purpose of these meetings was simple: to convince us we all sucked, and were primal beings in comparison to him.

Miscavige was the only one who made a difference — the only one really “moving the needle” in Scientology. The rest of us were trying to stop him. That’s what he believed. His wife Shelly, I’d soon find out, was skeptical of this.

Scientology became a prison camp. Literally. Hard labor. Endless sleepless nights — a means to keep us suggestible, controllable, and fucked.

From mind games to musical chairs, he messed with our heads — and handed out beatings.
Still, a majority of us stuck it out for a while. Maybe he was right to be angry. Although no solution we offered him was ever acceptable.

By some misfortune, in my final hours I was the “chosen one” — the one guy who understood Miscavige. But like every previously “chosen one,” my commitment to him was pretentious. This was not an easy or comfortable position to be in. At any moment and for any reason, he could turn on you.

I followed him everywhere. Watched his every move. Listened to everything he said. I saw contradictions within contradictions and things that made me wonder — after all these years — what am I really involved in here?

Miscavige was the antithesis of what I had believed or hoped to be true.

Seeing that it took the edge off of Miscavige, I went out into Hemet and bought us a bottle of Macallan 12-year scotch just about every night. Between us, we’d polish off a bottle. He’d read secret reports — on Tom Cruise and other celebrities — and we’d talk about topics from piano to Scientology to his own experiences.

Sometimes it got personal.

I learned he and Shelly lived apart. Shelly had become jealous because Lou — Dave’s “Communicator” — had gotten closer to him than she was.

Shelly and I got closer too. I learned from her she was an ordinary woman, driven by the same basic instincts all of us have. She suppressed her real feelings, desires, and emotions — just like the rest of us. She felt just as uncomfortable around Dave as I or anyone else did, but in a position more precarious than all of us. I could see through her eyes and feel her pain.

I continued to face off with Miscavige — a man who had convinced himself he was the most important person in the world. Literally and figuratively. I think he honestly saw himself this way — it’s not a put-on. He considered himself a world leader. A religious leader.

And he eventually explained to me that he was the man who had to pick up where Hubbard left off. I thought he meant as the leader — organizationally — I never could have imagined he meant it in another way.

Night after night in the “Officer’s Lounge” he had commandeered as his own, in his drunken stupors, he talked more and more. Now about Hubbard — with disdain at times — while concurrently claiming to be Hubbard’s only true friend and confidant.

It became obvious: Miscavige was angry at Hubbard.

Deep inside Miscavige believed (and maybe knew for a fact) that Hubbard didn’t trust him at all. Hubbard had trusted two other people more — and that clearly drove Miscavige mad.
But even that didn’t do it for me.

It was my private moments with Shelly that lit the slow-burning fuse leading to the final, mind-blowing realization.
She and I had a few chances alone to discuss the situation with Dave. She was just as aware as any of us that Dave was losing his mind with power. He was off his rocker. He needed to be stopped. He needed help.

Shelly explained to me that Dave had never moved up “The Bridge” in Scientology — meaning, he himself was incapable of grasping the technology. (Not too surprising — it wasn’t really graspable to begin with — but still, it was a mind-boggling admission.)

“The Bridge,” for those of you who don’t know, was the sales pitch — the levels of Scientology services and the abilities you’d supposedly gain at each: like “Cause Over Life,” or “Exteriorization” (the ability to move in and out of one’s body at will).

Apparently, Miscavige was afraid of “Body Thetans.” (Scientology teaches that we’re covered in other spiritual beings — degraded ones — which cause our bad thoughts and emotions. These “BTs” have to be exorcised out of us. Yes — as in The Exorcist, in case you’re wondering.)
Shelly said Dave had failed. He refused to work at it. It was so bad he had Shelly hide his records (“PC Folders”) so no one else could ever view them and he wouldn’t destroy them.

I believe Shelly cared about Dave. But she also saw through him.

Her problem — like so many others — was that she believed Hubbard would return, as he had promised, and sort things out.

Not long after, Dave told me — over a few glasses of scotch — that Hubbard hadn’t left much behind. Just some worksheets. Scribbled notes — some of which, he noted, included “hand-drawn penises.”

“That,” he said, “is what I have to work with to finish developing OT 9 and 10.”

This was the moment for me.

OT 9 and 10 were the next top-secret “levels” that Scientologists would pay dearly for. These were the innermost secret religious materials that Hubbard himself had developed. (Not to mention — they were the only future for Scientology income!)

Dave said he could only keep collecting donations and pressuring wealthy Scientologists to give for so long before they’d expect what Hubbard had promised.

When Miscavige told me he was going to be “developing these levels” — considering everything I now knew about him — that was the end for me.\

Scientology had nothing more to offer — and in fact, it never had anything to offer.
It was a farce. A waste of time. A money-making machine selling snake oil — and now the snake oil was about to get a makeover... by someone who was terrified of the very snakes it was made from!?

And 28 years in, I had my answer. One I hoped might not be the case — but was.

So here I’ve been, outside that world for some years — finally free of cults!
Oh no, not so fast.

A deeply committed, Christian ex-girlfriend was absolutely sure that Jesus is our savior because “the book says so.” And anyone who doesn’t believe what she believes — what they believe — is dead wrong and should be converted. Or else they’ll end up in hell. Apparently, that’s where I’m headed, too.

I’ve since worked with high-powered billionaires who believe that because they created a tech unicorn from a start-up, they’re more insightful, more powerful — superior. There’s a cult of that too. There’s a cult for everything.

Everywhere you look, there are cults.

Whether you love him or not, there’s a Cult of Trump. And by definition, it is a cult.

Religion, politics, brands, ideologies — anything that demands your unquestioning loyalty, your blind faith, and punishes you for asking questions — or thinking — that’s a cult.

And if you can’t see that you’re in one, chances are… you probably are.

Of course, if you’re in it, you’ll defend it. Just like I did — for 28 years.

So what did I learn?

If it’s not one cult, it’s another. The names change. The language changes. But the grip feels the same.

Any person, group, ideology, or brand that claims to have all the answers — “the only truth” — should be viewed with suspicion.

Believe what’s in your heart. Not what you’ve been told should be there.

Most of all — don’t be afraid to walk away.
Because fear is how they control you.