From: informer@informer.org (Rev Dennis Erlich)
Date: 28 Jul 1998 02:01:57 EDT

Faithful Reader,

I am forwarding this for a new friend who needs to remain anonymous for now.

I cannot deny anyone's religion. But some things by any standard or for any reason are wrong.

Earlier this year I heard about a woman who died. Some of the details were frighteningly similar to something that I had gone through, once upon a time. Terrifying. Humiliating.

I'm writing in hopes of helping to prevent this sort of thing from ever happening again.

I was a teenager when a buddy called to tell me about Scientology. He didn't know much about it, but another friend had said that "a few of us should check it out" and if it was really "cool", we would "turn everyone on to it". Three of us checked it out. I don't know what the other two decided -- we lost track of each other over the years.

... I had my own idea of doing the "best for the most", so my first Scientology salesperson showed me a quote from a book about ethics, about "the greatest good for the greatest number", which dovetailed with my idea rather nicely.

When I asked about a large cross hanging on the wall of this Scientology place, I was told that [scientology] was a religion and that it was ok if I didn't agree with that, I would still be welcome.

My parents were both well educated professionals, and I was put on a college track from elementary school on. Unfortunately, my parents, in spite of phi beta kappa keys, various degrees and invitations to mensa, were not happy people. I was somewhat lost as a teenager.

I was invited to leave home if I didn't decide between further schooling or working... but I didn't have any place else to go.

Scie- encouraged me to leave home. One of my three buddies and I got a room together. I got a part time job in a law office. We both studied [scientology.]

After a year or so, a recruiter offered me a job in another city. I wanted to learn, gain competence, and possibly gain a bit of confidence as well.

My best friend and I married, worked together, had a child and later amicably divorced.

For years, I worked long hours with an intelligent, talented and idealistic group of people. I didn't get to do the kind of work I would have preferred, but I did become quite responsible and competent. The organization I worked for was owned by the [scientology] church.

I was busy doing my job, making contacts, looking to the future and following work policy.

There was no one to take my place if I was sick, so I worked even when ill (as most of us did) even though this was against corporate policy.

After I pointed out that this was wrong, that if I was sick I shouldn't be working, my contract was terminated without notice. I happened to be ill with a bad case of the flu and/or walking pneumonia at the time.

I was instructed to go to a [scientology] liason office to get counseling to get better, so I went. The counseling did not materialize over the next day or two, I was sicker than a dog, and the liason office was pressing me to run various errands. I got fed up, put my foot down, made my displeasure very clear and went home.

My home was a small one room apartment in a [scientology] owned building. It was a room with two large windows. My front door was near a fire escape. Inside was a coat closet I'd converted into a kitchenette. The wall between the bathroom door and my front door was filled with shelves. There were books, plants, my child's goldfish bowl and gifts from friends, and I intended to put a phone there once I got around to getting one installed.

Under one window was my antique trunk with a huge plant, my coffee maker and my favorite mugs. under the other window was my fold out couch with a colorful Indian blanket, with my child's bed nearby.

The wall by my little kitchen was taken up by cabinets, which doubled as closet and storage space. Atop the cabinets were my tv, radio and more plants.

I liked my place... I didn't know what would happen, since I'd been fired by scientology and they owned it, but I was happy to be home. I ran water through my coffee maker to heat, to mix with a cold remedy a downstairs neighbor lady had given to me.

Of my closest friends, one was on honeymoon, one was in another state and one couple was on their way out of the country. I never saw them again, nor did I ever again see the people I'd worked most closely with. My child was out of state on vacation with my ex-spouse.

I changed into my dressing gown, made myself comfy, turned on my radio, went over my correspondence, then decided to go downstairs to our little resident's "library", to find something I hadn't read yet.

There was a man outside my door, sitting on a chair and reading a newspaper. The hallway in front of my place was considered residential and the man wasn't scary, but still, the situation was odd; the hour was quite late and he didn't speak to me... however, the man did give me section of his paper -- which saved me a trip downstairs.

I unfolded my couch, read and returned the paper, then dozed off.

When I awoke, it was still dark. I looked out my door. There was another man in the hallway. He sat on a chair by the fire escape. He was familiar to me. I tried to talk with him, but he said nothing. I tried gently kidding around with him. He was not at all threatening and actually seemed to start to smile, but he did not speak.

I hadn't planned on going anywhere until I'd rested and recovered from my flu.

Whenever I opened the door, there was someone there... sometimes two. If people wanted to come to my door, they were welcome. If they wanted to visit, that was ok. But why were these nice non-threatening people coming over? Did they think my door was at the end of a bloody rainbow? Why wouldn't they speak? This began to make me quite unhappy... maybe they can't speak? Am I in the middle of a "Twilight Zone" episode? Am I crazy? What's going on?

I remember trying to converse with one fellow. He didn't speak. I tried telling him stories. He didn't speak. I remember that he brought me food once, cold cream of wheat on a paper plate with a puddle of honey in the middle. I was hungry and called it ambrosia...

Different people came to my door. They didn't speak. This went on for some time. My attempts at communication wore me out. I tried to be polite. I was getting confused and sad.

I ran out of tissue. I needed to blow my nose. I had my quilt wrapped around me, felt awful, and was crying. I opened my door and asked someone for a hanky, smiled through my tears and made a lame joke about my quilt being too big to be a hanky. There were a couple of people in the hall; they didn't speak, didn't smile, just looked at me. I felt stupid.

I got more and more confused.

I lost track of the order in which events were occurring.

At one point I found a note, it said that if I wanted anything, to put it in writing. I may have written requests, I may have even written stories...

I was embarrassed. I'd lost my brush and couldn't get the tangles out of my hair after washing it. A girl I had been acquainted with came in... she whispered that she wasn't supposed to speak to me. She started to untangle my hair with her brush, but a man came in and she left.

At some point, two men started removing my belongings from my home. It didn't matter if I was clothed or not, it didn't matter that I protested, it didn't even matter when I jumped a fellow - he just pinned me down. They would not stop taking my things. I lost my temper, I swore mightily at them; I finally started throwing things at them, yelling at the top of my lungs " F--- you - if you want it, take it, it's yours!!" They headed for the door.

I didn't want those unwelcome 'movers' to get my best sheet set, so stuffed them out of my window in hopes that a bag lady would find them instead. I got caught and they pulled me down along with my curtains. The large plant fell and the dirt spilled out.

It was a mess. I sobbed, opened up my trunk, and crawled into it along with my blanket. My home was no longer a safe place.

I could not leave. I tried. I could not fight, sneak by, or fool anyone into letting me leave. Once I actually got as far as the stairs.

I was surprised to see that "pc destimulating" (scientology words) were written on notes that were taped to the walls in the hallway.

Once, someone with a bucket started cleaning the walls of my now somewhat empty apartment. I'd given up.

My couch wound up in the middle of the floor.

At one point I awoke to find a woman with a hypodermic needle leaning over me... she pulled the needle out of my arm, taking a length of rubber with it... in my weariness, with my poor fuzzy vision, it looked kind of like a vein coming out of my arm along with the needle... I commented on how strange that looked.

I did not know what was going on. Scientology was all for communication, and completely against drugs... it was for helping people -- sick or able -- to get even better.

But things did not get better.

A relative later said that I was "missing for a couple of months". I've mentioned here a just a few brief highlights of the first missing week or two...

... I'll continue in another letter.

Rev Dennis Erlich * * the inFormer * *
inForm@primenet.com
inForm@newsguy.com

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