Perfectly Clear

by Michelle LeClair

  I never asked Larry for proof. I was young and vulnerable and already under his spell. I truly believed when he said Scientology would lead me, as it had him, on a path of self-discovery and knowingness that would make anything possible.

  What appealed to me most about these early sessions with Larry was that I could talk about my problems for as long as I liked. It was a lot like meeting with a psychologist, except a clock wasn’t ticking. I could talk for as long as it took me to purge myself of whatever was bothering me, and, best of all, Larry didn’t judge. He just jotted down notes.

  A typical exchange would go something like this:

  “Do you have a present-time problem, Michelle?”

  “Yes. There is this girl, Candy, who has been mean to me since my first day at Hart High. I’m still hearing that she’s spreading rumors about me. A friend told me she was telling everyone I hadn’t been accepted to any good universities and that I was having sex with a thirty-year-old man. On the morning of my accident I was running out of my house in a rage, crying, ‘Candy rules my life and I have no control!’”

  “Give me an earlier time when it felt like you’d lost control,” Larry said.

  I gave him another example of something Candy did that made me feel helpless.

  “Now think of an earlier time that you felt like you’d lost control.”

  At this point, I’m into it. I like that Larry is taking such an interest in my life and I want to see where this line of questioning takes me. By now, I have forgotten I am hooked up to the meter, even though I am clutching the metal cans that are supposedly measuring the truthfulness of my responses.

  The succession of questions and answers continues until I “cognate,” which, in Scientology, means I have dug down deep enough to get to the root of the problem.

  “Oh my God!” I cry, breathlessly. “Candy makes me feel the same way I did when I was a kid and my stepmother was mean to me and I couldn’t do anything about it! That’s how Candy makes me feel! Wow!”

  I feel unburdened because I appreciate that I am not a kid anymore and Candy is not my stepmother—which leads to the realization that I am a freethinking adult who can reclaim the power I gave away as a teenager. Success!

  “Thank you very much, Michelle,” Larry says. “Your needle is floating. You can put down the cans.”

  I dance out of his office, feeling euphoric. I can’t wait for the next session, the next adrenaline rush, the next life-changing epiphany.

  That was the idea, of course. It’s the Scientology trap. Indoctrination begins with these feel-good, build-you-up therapy sessions. At the same time, the metal cans of the E-meter are sending mild electrical currents through your body, which, studies have shown, stimulate endorphins for the same effect as highly addictive opiates. It’s similar to being a heroin addict. Once the high wears off, you crave the next hit. But in the case of Scientologists, the craving is for another dose of auditing.

  During one of our sessions, Larry instructed me to make a list of the toxic people in my life. With him as my guide, we labeled each person either “PTS” (Potential Trouble Source) or “SP” (Suppressive Person). SPs had to be eliminated from my life immediately with “disconnection” letters. The others were given a chance to redeem themselves by answering a few questions.

  I wrote my first letter to Candy. I said our relationship had not been productive for either of us. I wished her well but was officially cutting ties with her. With the brush of a pen, Candy was banished from my life. Candy didn’t respond to my letter. I heard she laughed when she read it. It didn’t matter to me what she thought. I felt empowered and in control.

  Once my disconnection letters were finished, I tackled the names on the PTS list. This required more work. For each name, I was required to answer a series of questions. The questions were: “Is the person open to bettering him- or herself through Scientology?” “Does he or she make any comments about you practicing Scientology?” “Is he or she willing to be open and supportive of your choice?” One “no” answer meant that person was dropped to SP and rooted out of my life.

  When I expressed regret over exorcising a friend, Larry reminded me that everything I was doing was for the greater good. Sentimentality was for the weak-willed. Scientologists were stalwart and focused on things of far greater importance than the petty struggles that emanated from useless human emotions.

  How easy it was to be swept up in the grandness of our purpose!

  At Larry’s behest, I began attending night and weekend events at the church and met people close to my age. I lost touch with old friends and built new relationships with fellow Scientologists. Scientology quickly became the thread that ran through every aspect of my life. I worked with Scientologists at a Scientology-owned company. My social circle was made up of Scientologists. My free time was spent at Scientology functions. Before long, I was hooked.

  Larry promised that, as soon as I was ready, he would turn me over to a church auditor for indoctrination on the Bridge to Total Freedom, which was a succession of steps to personal salvation. As a field auditor, Larry said, he was only eligible to take me to the level of “Clear,” a pivotal point on the Bridge in which the auditor determines that your “reactive mind,” or subconscious, is totally liberated from the damaging effects of the past, giving you complete control over your thoughts.

  Once I’d reached Clear, my journey up the Bridge would consist of taking a series of expensive courses and auditing sessions that could only be performed in the church. When he determined I was ready, Larry said, he would turn me over to the Celebrity Centre International in Hollywood, the church’s crown jewel, to pursue the rest of my journey. Mom had already agreed to open a new credit card to carry the cost of getting me started.

  After spending nearly six months in counseling with Larry, clearing my mind of the human clutter that had stagnated my spiritual growth, I decided I had made enough progress to be granted the status of Clear. When I told Larry, he didn’t agree or disagree; he simply sent me to the Celebrity Centre to undergo an extensive series of Security Checks, or “Sec Checks,” to determine whether I was fit to move forward in my spiritual endeavors. Sec Checks are grueling interrogations by top-ranking church auditors. They pose questions designed to uncover any possible leftover “spiritual distress,” running the gamut from whether you have ever had unkind thoughts about L. Ron Hubbard or the church, to lies you’ve told, to your sexual proclivities.

  If I passed all the tests, I would be officially “cleared” to begin working my way up the Bridge to everlasting spiritual contentment. If I didn’t, if a church auditor thought I was holding back any disturbing memories or past misdeeds, it would be back to the drawing board with Larry. But I wasn’t worried about failure. I was confident that, at eighteen, I had progressed sufficiently in my personal and spiritual growth to ace the interrogations and be granted the status of Clear.

  I couldn’t wait to get started.

  I was told that if I was dedicated, it would take me a few short months to attain the state of Clear. I was not told that “dedicated” meant twelve hours a day, seven days a week and tens if not hundreds of thousands of dollars—and that was if I was “perfect” and didn’t get derailed by any “ethics” handlings.

  It was impossible for someone my age to dedicate that kind of time or money to Scientology, but I loved the basic courses, which I could afford. I loved the idea of learning how to communicate better, spotting suppressive people in my life and learning how to have successful relationships. There were also marketing courses and sales courses that helped me in business. So I made progress, even if slowly.

  Then there was another obstacle. Every so often, the chairman of the board would announce that some of the books and courses had been rewritten. At a big event, he would announce that some SP executive had screwed up the transcription of LRH handwritten policies into courses. Therefore, “key LRH d
ata” had been left out, and everyone had to redo their courses with the “corrected” books. Some people had to start all the way down at the bottom of the Bridge and work their way up again. There was always some complaining, but the pressure from other Scientologists and staff was greater, so the noise would quickly die down and everyone would line up to start their new courses.

  Between the demands of everyday life, limited financial means and the church constantly rolling out edited versions of coursework and auditing—well, months turned into years. But like any good cult member, I went with the flow. I had found my place.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Down to the Dungeon

  The Celebrity Centre is a kind of magical throwback to Hollywood’s golden days. It is part five-star resort, part utilitarian conference center located on three pristine acres in downtown Hollywood. Built in the 1920s as a replica of a Normandy castle, it was originally called the Château Élysée and served as a long-term hotel for movie stars and other luminaries. In its heyday, it boasted a roster of guests that included Bette Davis, Clark Gable, Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant. By the time the church bought the building in 1973, however, it had fallen into such a state of disrepair that it was targeted for demolition.

  The church sank tens of millions of dollars into the structure to restore it to its former majestic state, a place fit for Scientology royalty such as Tom Cruise and John Travolta, who enter from a private parking lot through a private entrance to a private wing for celebrities. The private President’s Office is up a series of narrow, winding stairs off an elaborate main lobby, which is open to the public. Auditing and course rooms take up the second and third floors, and the top floors are reserved for hotel guests.

  Both the elaborate renovation and the name “Celebrity Centre” were a calculated effort by the church to bring in more congregants.

  The Château Élysée was lavish and attracted the rich and famous to Scientology. The church used celebrity to help win acceptance as a mainstream religion and recruit members both here and abroad.

  There was nothing churchlike about the Château Élysée. Every time I walked into the lobby, with its soaring gold-leaf ceilings and hand-painted murals, I felt as if I were checking into a plush European hotel—albeit one in which you have to pass an L. Ron Hubbard bookstore and a recruiting office to get to the fancy restaurant down the hall.

  When Larry accompanied me there for the first time, in 1991, the renovation was still in progress and many of the programs were held in trailers and tents on the grounds. Larry walked me inside to the registrar’s office, where Mom was waiting for us with her credit card. I signed up for a 12.5-hour block of time with an auditor and paid the $3,500 fee with my mother’s card. My initial Sec Check auditing session took place in one of the trailers. The trailer was stark and brightly lit, furnished only with a desk and two chairs and a portrait of L. Ron Hubbard taped to the wall. My auditor was a woman not much older than me. Larry introduced us, and then left us alone.

  I sat down across from the auditor and, at her instruction, took hold of the metal cans of the E-meter. My file—the one that Larry had kept of my weekly confessions over the last few months—was open on her desk. The auditor was stern and aloof, not at all what I was used to with Larry. She read robotically from the standard text most auditors use at the beginning of session:

  “We are about to begin a security check. We are not moralists. We are able to change people. We are not here to condemn them. While we cannot guarantee you that matters revealed in this check will be held forever secret, we can promise you faithfully that no part of it nor any answer you make here will be given to the police or state. No Scientologist will ever bear witness against you in court by reason of answers to this security check. This security check is exclusively for Scientology purposes. The only ways you can fail this security check are to refuse to take the test, to fail to answer its questions truthfully or if you are here knowingly to injure Scientology.”

  I nodded.

  The woman took a pen in her hand and, assisted by the confidential information in my file, began reading from a list of questions.

  “We’re going to address a certain area,” the auditor said, pushing a sheet of paper in front of me. “I want you to read this policy.”

  I recognized the document as a “Tech Bulletin,” red print on white paper. Tech Bulletins make up Scientology’s scripture as written by L. Ron Hubbard. This one regarded homosexuality. Swallowing hard, I began reading. Hubbard wrote that sexual perversion, which included homosexuality, was contagious and threatened our society. On his “Tone Scale,” a numerical measure of one’s emotional state still used in Scientology today, he placed homosexuals and other “perverts” at level 1.1. People at that level are considered “evil, untrustworthy, a criminal.”

  My hands trembled.

  “Have you ever had homosexual thoughts?” she asked.

  I realized that the auditor must have been referring to my brief encounter with a classmate during my senior year, which I’d confessed to Larry during one of our sessions.

  “Yes,” I said. “I had thoughts about a high school friend.”

  “Okay. Thank you. Did you ever act on it?”

  “No,” I said, telling a white lie. “I did not.”

  The cans shook in my hands. The auditor looked from me to the E-meter. An idling or “floating” needle was a good thing; a jumping needle was a red flag for the auditor. I wondered what the needle was telling her.

  “Okay. Thank you,” she said, her expression as blank as the face of a porcelain doll. “Can you think of a time when you thought about a woman previous to that?”

  “Well, there was another girl in high school,” I said, referring to the masculine girl in my class. “I was fascinated by her.”

  “Okay. Thank you,” the auditor said. “Did you act on it?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Okay. Good. Thank you. And was there a time previous to that?”

  I racked my brain, trying to think of anything that might be relevant to her line of questions.

  “Well,” I said, “I remember a time in the fifth grade. There was a girl, much taller than everyone and much better developed. I remember looking at the way her suspenders stretched around her breasts. I just wanted to hang around with her. I thought she was pretty cool.”

  “Did you ever act on it?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Okay. Thank you. Give me an earlier time.”

  I had to come up with something. If I’d had even an inkling of a thought that I didn’t recall, I feared the needle would betray me.

  “Um, let me think,” I said. “When I was nine my cousin and I played house and acted like husband and wife, but that would be it.”

  “Okay. Thank you. And why do you think this is significant?”

  “I guess because I didn’t want to play house with a boy,” I stammered.

  Before that interrogation, I’d just assumed that all girls experimented with each other. A part of me had always known enough not to broadcast it—not because I thought I was gay; it just wasn’t something you talked about. Larry hadn’t even blinked when we covered that territory. But judging from the reaction of the church auditor, my youthful indiscretions were much more serious than I had previously thought.

  I felt so ashamed. The entire focus of my first Sec Check was the brief conversation I’d had with Larry about that very brief encounter with Lacey. The ethics officer looked at me with disdain, or at least that’s what I read on her face.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “You have to go in for Handling.”

  My heart sank. I knew what “Handling” meant. I was certainly not getting out of there in a state of Clear. The auditor informed me that she would write up a “Knowledge Report” for my file. The next step after that would be a trip to the Ethics Department. Being sent to Ethic
s struck terror in even the most seasoned Scientologist, and I was an eighteen-year-old novice. Oh shit, I thought. I’m in big trouble.

  * * *

  The Ethics Department was in the basement of the Celebrity Centre. It was dark and dank like a prison, and accessed by a single set of stairs, so you knew that whoever you passed on the way down or back up was in hot water. And they knew you were too. Scientology holds that anything that promotes or benefits the church is “ethical,” and anything that is threatening to its core values is “unethical.” L. Ron Hubbard defined “ethics” as “reason and the contemplation of optimum survival.” “Dishonest conduct is non-survival,” he wrote. “Anything is unreasonable or evil which brings about the destruction of individuals, groups, or inhibits the future of the race.” It was obvious that my brief girl whimsy was considered a Scientology crime.

  My legs could barely support me as I walked down the steps. The place was even worse than I’d imagined. I was instructed to sit on a bench in the hallway until an ethics officer was available to see me. People dressed in military-looking Scientology uniforms threw disapproving glances my way as they passed. No one smiled. No one said hello. It was simply, “Wait outside until we’re ready for you.” I waited and waited, trying to hide how frantic I felt.

  Finally, a woman summoned me into the office. She was older than the auditor, but similarly stern and sour. She motioned for me to sit, and I lowered myself into the chair opposite her as she began to read through my file. She read each page with the intensity of someone who was proofreading copy, and it seemed to take forever. I didn’t know where to look. At her? At my upside-down file? I’d better just look into my lap, I thought. It seemed like the safest thing to do. I felt as if I were back in school, in the principal’s office, except that I’d never been sent to the principal’s office—and this, I knew, was far more serious than anything an adolescent would have to repent for.