Perfectly Clear

by Michelle LeClair

  The auditor looked at me. I shook my head, as if to say, Cuckoo!

  Another ten-hour day, another few thousand dollars, and I knew we were getting nowhere. How many times did I have to say it? I didn’t want marriage counseling. I wanted a divorce.

  “See you back here tomorrow,” the auditor said at the end of each day.

  Why? I wondered. Why did we have to come back? I was spending a fortune on auditing hours and I wasn’t even interested in fixing things with Sean. I wanted out of the marriage. Even Charmaine agreed a divorce was the logical answer for us.

  Something didn’t feel right. I had expected to be at Flag for a week and spend a couple of days in session. But we were stuck, going over the same stuff. We weren’t having sex. Why? Because I couldn’t stand the thought of him touching me. Why? Because he was cruel and abusive. What had I done to him? Withheld sex. What was I hiding that I would deny my husband sex? Really? We’re still talking about a sexual urge I had for a girl fifteen years ago? Cha-ching . . . Cha-ching.

  After two weeks of ten-hour days of being grilled about the same topics, listening to Sean hem and haw and contribute nothing meaningful, and, later, when we were unwatched, come banging and screaming at my door at night, I was at my wit’s end. I was writing $5,000 checks every couple of days for something I didn’t need. I was running my business by phone and trusting my staff with my biggest accounts. No one seemed to care.

  I complained. I wrote reports. I was noisy about wanting to go home. I had a business to run!

  In the fourth week, I was called one afternoon into session. Alone. I was overjoyed. I expected to hear that Sean was not participating with honest intentions, so there wasn’t any sense in continuing with marriage counseling. I would receive the church’s blessing. I would be free to return home and start divorce proceedings. Glory be!

  But that was not what happened.

  I was told to sit and was handed a form with red writing. I knew that meant trouble. Red writing conveys instantly that something needs to be repaired. The form noted that I was “pulling withholds,” which meant I was hiding something. My needle wasn’t floating. Was there something I wanted to say? the auditor asked.

  I couldn’t believe it. “I am newly pregnant,” I said. “This is probably why my needle isn’t floating. I am uncomfortable and nauseous and tired. That has to account for something!”

  “Thank you very much,” the auditor said. “But we’re concerned there may be withholds that have been missed and we are going to send you for a withholding check.” In other words, be prepared for a merciless inquisition by Ethics.

  I wanted to scream. “Why are you not pulling in the abuser?” I cried. “Why is it always me?”

  I had been in Clearwater for nearly a month and I was no closer to my goal of a divorce settlement than I had been when I first got there. I was trapped.

  The auditor hooked me up to the cans and started down a list of questions on the form, making notes along the way.

  “Have you thought badly about L. Ron Hubbard?”

  “No,” I answered.

  “The church? Mr. Miscavige? If so, what kind of thoughts did you have?”

  “I didn’t,” I replied.

  “Have you withheld from the auditor?” she asked.

  I stared at her blankly.

  “Have you given an untruth? A half-truth?”

  I was exasperated. “I have told everything I can possibly tell,” I said.

  “Thank you very much,” she said. “What have you withheld from the auditor?”

  “Really?”

  “Thank you very much. What have you withheld from the auditor?”

  My chest heaved and I collapsed in tears. “I have told everything!” I cried.

  “Thank you very much. Okay, now what have you withheld from the auditor?”

  I wondered if they were trying to drive me crazy. I couldn’t think of a thing I hadn’t told the auditor. What was there to tell that I hadn’t already revealed during the other four marriage counseling sessions that Sean and I had attended over the years?

  “What have you withheld from the auditor?” she asked again.

  While Sean was doing who knows what, I was being held hostage by a high-placed Scientology auditor who probed my every feeling and thought, all to determine whether my marriage could be saved. I already knew it could not. She poked and prodded my fragile psyche for hours, allegedly to help me discover why I couldn’t make my marriage work. I wanted to get the hell away from them, from Sean, and return home.

  “What have you withheld from the auditor?”

  I hadn’t eaten since morning and I was beginning to feel faint. Now I’m thinking, This is so horrible. I am pregnant and I have an abuser sitting outside while I’m the one on trial.

  I snapped.

  “Okay!” I said. “I’ll tell you what I didn’t say. This whole thing is ridiculous. I think it’s all bullshit.”

  “Thank you very much,” she said. “Was there an earlier time you felt this way?”

  I thought my head would explode. Obviously, my fucking needle still wasn’t floating.

  “I’ve been through hell because you guys can’t get this right!” I shouted. “I’m here because I want to end this marriage, not because I want to fix it! I’m done! I want out of here!”

  “Thank you very much. I understand,” she said. “Now let me repeat the question. Was there an earlier time that you withheld something from the auditor?”

  “You need to let me out of here!” I sobbed. “My needle isn’t floating because I’m pregnant and hungry and tired. That’s against LRH policy that dictates we have to be properly rested and fed before these inquisitions!”

  She kept pushing and I panicked. We were going down a rabbit hole and I wondered if I would ever get out. What was going to happen to me? What was she trying to accomplish? We were going in circles.

  I was becoming hysterical. If I hadn’t been pregnant, I would have forced my way out of there, but I knew part of her auditor training was to physically stop me. What if I was thrown to the ground and the life of my unborn child was jeopardized?

  Another hour passed. It was late, very late. I had to get control of myself. Take a breath, I told myself. Calm down and say whatever you have to to get out of this room. “I’m sorry,” I said, slowing my breathing. “I’m very hungry now and I need to eat. I am extremely unhappy. I am being interrogated and you are doing nothing to address the years of abuse that I have endured with Sean. Unless you do something about it, I will not donate another dime and I will not return to Flag!”

  The auditor was stone-faced. “Thank you very much, Michelle,” she said. “I understand. I will make sure that this is written up for the case supervisor.”

  She had apparently had enough. Or was it the mention of money that did it? She advised me that the needle had floated and the session was over.

  I dragged myself out of the room and headed down to the lobby to get a snack. Bruce Roger, Charmaine’s husband, was waiting when I stepped off the elevator. The thought crossed my mind that he was there to solicit yet another donation, but if he was, he apparently thought better of it when he saw the condition I was in. Bruce looked shaken when he saw me. “Oh my God, Michelle,” he said, holding his hands to his face. “You look terrible! What happened?” I told him how long I’d been in session and that I was pregnant and sick. He took me to the restaurant off the lobby and fetched me some chicken soup. He looked at me like I was a broken child.

  “May I be honest?” Bruce asked.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “We are all hoping you can get out of this marriage. You are always so uptone [upbeat] and we get so excited when you come here. But every time you’re with Sean it’s like a black cloud following you. I shouldn’t be saying any of this, but I have to tell you, you deserve so much be
tter.”

  I was grateful for his kind words. I felt as if, at that table, we were just two people, one helping the other during a difficult time.

  I felt comfortable talking to Bruce. I wasn’t worried that he’d write me up or report me for talking about my personal business.

  “Bruce, I’m done!” I said. “I’m done with this marriage and I’m done with auditing and I’m done with being dragged through the mud for overts that Sean has committed. This trip has been so disappointing. I came to end an abusive marriage and I thought I would get help. I’ve complained about his abuse for so long and nothing is ever done. What is it going to take? For one of my children to be hurt?”

  For good measure, I threw in, “If you want another dime from me, get someone to listen and help me get a divorce now.” Was I testing Bruce? The church? Myself? Probably all three.

  Bruce changed the subject to my kids. “We love seeing them running around here,” he said. “Tell me about them.”

  Talking about my children was exactly what I needed to calm down.

  “They are everything to me,” I said. “Savannah is sweet, strong, funny and determined. I wish I had her spunk. She has taught me there is no difference between a child you bear and one who comes into your life after birth. Sage has been a big brother to her in every way. My son is a gift. He’s smart and thoughtful. I just worry that he holds too much inside. I’m so sad they have had to experience the turmoil of our marriage at such a young age.”

  Bruce listened quietly until I was finished. I felt as though he really cared.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said. “What kind of person do you picture yourself with?”

  Wide-eyed, I glanced down at my tiny bump. “Bruce! Really?”

  “I mean it,” he said. “I’m talking about after you have the baby. Who do you see yourself with next time around?” It was almost as though he were giving me permission to escape from my personal hell for a moment.

  I thought about what he’d asked, trying to get past my original thought, which was that I was trying to get out of a relationship and couldn’t see myself with anyone at that point.

  “That’s the furthest thing from my mind. But, you know, it’s an interesting question.” I thought for a moment. “Well,” I said finally, “whoever I’m with next needs to be older than me and definitely well established because I need someone who doesn’t depend on me.” Bruce nodded and smiled. “I want someone I can learn from and I want to feel that I can lean on that person for advice and direction.” Bruce urged me on.

  “What industry would he be in?” he asked.

  I laughed. “What popped into my head was the music industry, but I have no idea why,” I replied. “I don’t know anyone in the music industry! But not a singer—someone who is behind the scenes. An executive, maybe. A person who travels a lot so they don’t have to be by my side twenty-four/seven. And they would have to be kind and sweet and love children. Maybe have a child of their own so they understand the love for a child. And I want to be madly in love.”

  Only much later did I realize that I never said the word “he.”

  I felt calmer after talking with Bruce. When I got back to my suite, Sage and Savannah were sound asleep. Monica retired to her room, and I crawled into bed and fell fast asleep.

  The following morning I was advised that I was to meet with the Chaplain to proceed with divorce negotiations. Money talks, I thought. I’d been trapped there for four hellacious weeks, paying for auditing that was useless, and all it took was a threat about withholding future donations to finally get what I’d come for. Bruce had obviously reported back to Charmaine, and—just like that!—the edict was given to facilitate the divorce. It was my first clear glimpse behind the veil of deception that shrouded the church, and I didn’t like what I saw. A coincidence? I convinced myself it was, and fought the feeling that I was being played.

  * * *

  At the end of May, two weeks into our divorce mediation with the Chaplain, I received word that my beloved grandfather was on his deathbed. My grandparents had helped raise me and I was devastated at the thought of losing him. I already felt guilty that I hadn’t been to see him in a few months. The divorce negotiations with the Chaplain were ongoing, but my priority was seeing my grandfather before he passed.

  “I have to fly to Nevada,” I told the Chaplain. “My grandfather is dying and I must be by his side the way he was always by my side.”

  “We’re not finished yet,” he said.

  Yes, we are, I thought.

  “I have to go,” I said. “Monica will take the kids home to California. Please keep Sean here until after I’m gone. Otherwise, he’ll try to delay me and I won’t make it to my grandfather.”

  I spoke with a new certainty and the Chaplain knew there was no stopping me.

  He made me sign a pledge that I would return as soon as my grandfather was gone. I scribbled my signature, agreed to write another big check to the church to secure my release, and told Sean not to be in our house when I returned to California. I’d been at Flag for six grueling weeks and left feeling adrift. One minute, the church was my savior. The next, I was a pawn in a game. I struggled to see clearly in my pursuit of the truth.

  Two steps forward. One back.

  Mom was already there when I arrived in Reno. My grandfather died two days later. I had made it in time and I was grateful. I stayed for the funeral and then it was time to go home. I found an excuse for not returning to Florida. I learned I was carrying twins and I was too sick to travel.

  Sean moved in with his parents, and I had a huge amount of work to catch up on. My life was chaotic, but for the first time since I was very young I wasn’t afraid or worried about anything. Our home was peaceful, the kids were happy, I had twins on the way and our financial future was secure.

  At my five-month checkup, my doctor informed me that I would have to start taking it easy. Most twins were delivered prematurely, he said, and I was already having mild contractions. A month later he put me on bed rest. Talk about chaos! I had to hire a team of nannies to watch my children day and night. It was all I could do to get to the bathroom, much less tend to my business. My executive team picked up the slack and Monica became the liaison between my employees and me. I tried to stay in the game by doing conference calls from my bed. Dror took up a lot of my time. Not Forgotten was in production and going to be phenomenal, he said, but he needed additional funding. He had an international distribution deal in place, which meant a major payoff for our clients. I had already recruited investors and pitched in with my own money in exchange for an executive producer credit, but he needed more up front. It would all be worth it when the film eventually paid dividends, he said. I promised to do my best to help.

  My home confinement didn’t keep the church away. The top “regs” (fund-raisers) had me on their target list and they’d show up at all hours. I didn’t know it at the time, but they were getting daily reports from my mother about every aspect of my life, everything from how much money I had coming in to the status of my marriage and my pregnancy. Mary Mauser, who acted as my confidante, was also sharing everything I told her, giving the fund-raisers information to help them get me to donate more. The fund-raisers would come to my home, plant themselves in a chair by my bed and stay until I made a donation.

  One night, three of them showed up and pitched me about donating to the expansion project at Flag’s Clearwater headquarters. The plan was to resume construction of the new Flag building, which had begun a few years earlier. The seven-story building would house the church’s highly classified “Super Power” program and state-of-the-art equipment to empower spiritual beings to clear the planet of all its perils. Saving the planet—wasn’t that what we as Scientologists aspired to? I knew they weren’t leaving until I paid up. Finally, at two a.m., bone-tired and heavy with my growing twins, I wrote a large check to get them out of my
house.

  I gave birth to the twins on September 27, 2008, five weeks earlier than their due date. Jadon and London were both healthy, and we went home the following day.

  The first week was hell. I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I was distressed and depressed. Virginia, Dror’s wife, came to my rescue. She rounded up another friend, Alana, and they spent a day helping to take care of the babies and cooking a week’s worth of meals, which allowed me time to take a bath and an afternoon nap. Virginia came back every day after that. What a kind and loving friend, I thought. She picked me up and encouraged me when I needed it the most.

  I finally settled into a routine. I was raising four children as a single mother. The idea was intimidating, but I was so happy to be free from Sean. Whatever I had to do to keep up with the crazy production that was my life—my children, business and divorce negotiations— I was willing.

  I worked from home for the next couple of months. My kids needed me, so I conducted whatever business I could from my bedroom. My time was limited and I began refusing visits from church members. The break gave me even more clarity about Scientology. Since Florida, I had really begun to question what the church stood for. Where is the substance? I wondered. They have all this money but none of it is spent on bettering the world. They don’t build hospitals or orphanages or support animal rights. All they do is build their own beautiful buildings and tout their wealth and their celebrities.

  For my entire adult life, I had lived under the church’s rule, by the words of L. Ron Hubbard, thinking his thoughts, suppressing my own, never questioning church doctrine or how the church spent my money or why it treated people so cruelly. Were my beliefs and values really my own? Or had the church planted them in my mind, then watered and fed them during all those weekly sessions with auditors and ethics officers? Was I brainwashed? Had I been intentionally trapped in a warped bubble so I couldn’t think for myself?

  I wasn’t sure anymore.

  * * *