Cult Next Door

March 1978 to December 1979

My return to the city for a month of spring break brings relief from academic demands and also, twice-weekly appointments with George pre-scheduled by my mother. George never mentions Joe; it is as if he never existed. However, he is remarkably friendly and enthusiastically shares his recent revelations. His positive energy supplies a welcome distraction. George introduces the concept of "real love" and it comes up in most conversations. "This is not the stuff they write all those dumb romantic songs about. Oh no, that's just a cover for co-dependent babies mothering each other. This begins with caring about yourself first and then spreading that to everything around you. Boy, when you get practice, you'll feel connected to the whole universe and what ecstasy! It's worth all the work to get to that feeling."

That first day back, just as I am about to leave the office George approaches, and without explanation, kisses me lightly on the cheek. He tells me I'm doing very well. No one has touched me with affection since the last time Joe held me. Spontaneous joy floods me as I experience a personal connection to George. I float from the waiting room out onto East 79th Street with clouds under my feet. My emotions catapult me upward; I am surely in love.

The following week, during our talk-session which always follows my half-hour stint on the biofeedback machine, George surprises me. With a glint in his eye he inquires lightly, with almost childlike innocence, "Would you like to try an experiment?"
"What do you want to do?" I respond with genuine curiosity.

"I wonder how it would be if you took your shirt off," he states scientifically, "you know to break a social barrier. In Europe, women go topless on the beach and it's no big deal; they are much freer over there. We uptight Americans were trained to be ashamed of ourselves. We should learn to accept our bodies. After all, everyone has one and we are not born wearing clothing!"

A surge of adrenalin flushes my face with heated embarrassment, but also excitement. I feel trapped, as if he has just ever so politely forced me into a corner, but I do see validity in his logic. Inside, I squirm and panic, because I have never been put on the spot like this before. I don't want to do it but I can't say no; George is the boss. So I comply, removing my shirt and sitting bare-chested in the big, brown, leather chair next to the biofeedback machine, giggling like a little girl, nervous and ashamed, and yet happy, because George seems pleased with me. In fact, from the smile I see on his face, I think he is beginning to love me. Within a few minutes, George invites me to sit on his lap. After I calm down, he gently places a hand on my breast. "See Elizabeth, it's really no big deal, just a new experience to adjust to," he reassures me.
Soon my hour is over and I am gratefully released. When I leave his office, I keep it all secret. Anyway, who do I have to tell? My mother? She would only get mad that George chose me instead of her for his experiment. . . .

A couple of sessions later, George pushes me again, asking if I would like to take another step into the unknown but only if I have "the courage."

"How about if you try to masturbate in front of me?" he suggests with sweet caress and curiosity in his tone.

Danger! Danger! My adrenalin surges instantly. But again I feel trapped, and again excited too, anticipating challenging this taboo. With such contradicting emotions, I don't know what to do, so I let him decide for me. I follow his suggestion and remove my panties. George positions himself in an armchair across the room, a voyeur, studying my every motion. I am nervous. I hate what I am doing, yet somehow I push through it, relieved when it is finally over. When I have dressed again, George praises me and then offers a lesson for "advanced students." He will now train me to "focus."

"Just look directly into my eyes and try not to blink. . . . No, don't move your eyes back and forth, just straight ahead, both eyes at once. Focus hard and the whole room will come into view."

After about ten minutes, he asks me what I feel.

"Well, I was nervous at first, but that passed, and now I feel like I'm floating. I have no more thoughts; I feel calm, as if the room around us, all the sights and sounds, have receded into a distant background. Now this is really weird, but I see white and green light around your head, and it keeps getting more intense. What is that?"

George grins proudly, "Very good, you are really coming along. That light is the energy that flows through everything. It is all around us, but most people are too distracted to notice it. When you connect with the light, you get in touch with your real, living self, not the programmed, robot self. You connect to the universe and everything in it."

"I see light around the chair too, why is that?"

"You see, all things are alive, not just people and animals; everything is made of energy all one interconnected mass. Only our minds break things into parts post-office boxes. Actually, that chair is more alive than we are, because it doesn't have controlling, know-it-all thoughts which get in the way of just yielding to the universal energy field and existing."

"I've never tried it, but this must be like meditation . . . ?"

"Not at all; this is way beyond. People who meditate put themselves into a state of stagnation by repeating a mantra. They make themselves even more dead than they already are. Focusing makes you alive and advances you spiritually."

My mind races from his explanations. I would never have believed that a chair was alive certainly my biology textbook wouldn't agree but I didn't imagine this light I just saw for several minutes. So, although this doesn't feel right, I must keep an open mind; maybe I have more to learn.
As I am leaving, George praises me for my courage to break today's barrier; I will be rewarded with personal growth from our session. He also warns me that "the others," (Dr. Rogers, my mother, and his other patients) aren't advanced enough to understand. "This must be our secret until they can grow to our level. Understand?"

I agree to comply.

These barrier-breaking episodes bond us, and I soon become George's protege, his partner in discovery. Among all of his patients, he has selected me, and I feel special. I finally have a mentor; more than anything, I want to be just like him. In my mind I give birth to the new me, "Little George," and my commitment solidifies. Another bonus, my mother and I now have something to share, something about which we are both excited, (as long as I keep certain secrets from her). Over the next several months, George, my mother, and I become the originators of a new and exciting mission. Although I am only able to see him on vacations, when I am home he usually shares any new information with me first. George reads copiously, and he often references the authors' ideas in his discourse. But he assures us that this pastime just gives his mind "something to play with" his true information is delivered directly from some higher, spiritual source. George becomes divine in our eyes, and we can think of no one else.

By the end of the year, George has self-published a book. Its plain, brown cover sports the title Biofeedback and Beyond. All of his innovative strategies for personal growth lie within. My mother purchases two dozen copies from him to distribute to friends, relatives, and co-workers, people who she is sure will benefit from George's wisdom. And she urges any and all to "have a session" with this "unique genius" she will even pay for their first visit as a gift.

As George continues to break subsequent "social barriers," during our sessions, the biofeedback machine frequently remains untouched; instead, we find ourselves lying on the office carpet, locked in intimate embrace. George directs our activities with such conviction that I now comply unhesitatingly with every suggestion. It feels good to have someone guiding me, especially because I believe that George really cares and wants to watch over me. Naturally, the possibility of being caught is ever-present, but our fear from shared risk only fuses us more tightly. George seems to trust me to keep his secrets and begins to let me in on just about everything. For example, Jackie, the office receptionist, has been flirting with him, so one day after closing, they release their passions, writhing under Dr. Rogers' desk while he is across town seeing patients at Saint Vincent's Hospital. George is also sitting naked with some of the other female patients. I am not jealous; I don't need to be the only one. I just want him to pay attention to me anything to fill the emptiness from Joe's absence.

"Elizabeth, how about if I stop by your apartment this afternoon before your mother comes home?" George suggests after one of our sessions.
His gently delivered, "How about if . . . ?" the preface to all of his propositions, leaves me with a sense of personal choice every time. In my mind, this is merely another innocent, curious experiment. So, later that day, his professional commitments complete, George heads uptown toward West 98th Street to visit. I am so excited. . . . I can't wait to give him the grand tour of my home, especially my room to share another piece of myself with him. My favorite hobby is photography and I have set up my darkroom in a spare bedroom. But George has his own plans. Immediately upon crossing the apartment's threshold, he strides swiftly down the long hallway, past the livingroom's French doors and finally into my bedroom. Uncannily, as if reading my mind, he plops down on my bed and abruptly states, "And don't show me any photographs; I don't want to see them."

He squashes my spirit instantly with a giant invisible fist. I don't understand why; most people enjoy viewing my images I'm pretty good. Command delivered, George moves on, soon noticing my baby picture on the bureau, an appealing image of a vivacious one-year-old. He disapproves and begins his lecture. "This whole, stupid society is lost. Everyone lives in the past hanging onto memories, distracted by thousands of thoughts instead of experiencing the now. Whatever happens should be enjoyed fully and then let go. Why must we use photographs, diaries, and old letters to bring back experiences which are dead? People only save mementoes from insecurity. They don't have the courage to just be alive. I don't hold onto anything; I travel light and live each moment to the fullest, then, onto the next. My home is under my hat. I threw out my old photographs years ago, and I feel free."

Seating myself next to him I reflect on his words for a moment and then purposefully make my sacred commitment: From now on I will find the means to drag myself out of the stagnant thinking patterns into which I was conditioned. I embrace his controversial, yet exhilarating, perspective. George is clearly a man ahead of his time. It will take hard work and dedication on my part to attain the lofty, enlightened station he now occupies, but I intend to give it everything I've got. We remain on my bed a while longer, chatting. Today we have crossed another barrier from professional to personal. Our relationship is maturing, and George E. Sharkman has become the most significant person in my life. Of course, this visit must be another secret I keep from my mother and Dr. Rogers.

A week later I force myself past my resistance and take the necessary action to prove my new commitment. While my mother visits the local grocery, I place two treasured albums of my baby pictures and more than 100 rolls of black and white negatives pictures I've developed in my darkroom since high school into a brown grocery bag. Exiting our apartment, I walk halfway down the hall. With a resolute, deep breath, I open the door; I wince as the heavy books bang against the incinerator walls, making their final journey into a pile of ashes four stories below. Hating to give it all up hundreds of hours of heartfelt dedication to my craft and irreplaceable childhood mementos I attempt to reassure myself. Now I am one step closer to freedom. I must expect this personal growth to be difficult, but the rewards will be worth the pain, and George will certainly be proud of me!

Soon, I am challenged again. One day I return home from work to an empty apartment. My mother told me she'd be home, but where is she? Calling her name, I search the rooms, until finally, standing in the hall outside her bedroom, I hear a faint reply. "Is that you, Liz?"
"Where are you?" I move toward the voice and soon discover it is coming from behind the closed door of her bedroom closet!
"What are you doing?" I demand, confused and upset.

"Oh, I've been here all day." Her sing-song voice responds nonchalantly. "George has given us a new exercise to break resistance. Our focus on distractions: working, watching TV, talking on the telephone, shopping. . ., must be overcome in order to be open to growth. Sitting in a small, dark place will force us to drop our thoughts and make room for new information."

Disgust floods me, but Rachael is aglow a model student who has completed her assignment with flying colors. My aversion holds no validity for her, and she repeats the exercise several more times during the weeks that follow. Her unswerving dedication wears on me, and I begin to feel like a traitor for not following suit. So finally, one Saturday I relent; while Rachael is out doing errands, I spend five hours in her closet. After a period of irritated boredom, I fall asleep. Eventually waking refreshed, I am otherwise untransformed. My mother soon returns home to discover me, and she is pleased. I smile weakly with relief. Sometimes, rather than fighting, it is easier to give in. . . .

Within a few weeks, George informs my mother of his visit to our home, and trips to our apartment become a regular event. My mother is thrilled. It is company something she hardly ever has. She feeds him hamburgers, and he talks and talks. . . . His presence fills our lives. We learn about his family, his past, his personal philosophies, and his dreams for the future. During these hours in our living room, the three of us solidify our relationship. As if we possess the seeds of some special spiritual gift which we are about to sow and water, we are sure the harvest will be unimaginably wonderful. Like intimate friends, hungry for details about each other, we share our personal histories. Among many other things, my mother gives him the particulars of my father's death and my inheritance now worth about $200,000.
George also tells us about his past. He was the middle of three boys. His father was a kind, although weak-willed, man who developed a lucrative, family business selling breathing apparatus to hospitals. In fact, he invented machinery that is still in use today. In contrast, his mother, George claims, was the most evil woman in existence. Abusive and nasty, she once force-fed baby George his own vomit when he threw up in his high chair. His mother threw irrational tantrums without warning, often chasing her son around the house with a butcher's knife. George adds that he found it amusing when she went crazy; he often laughed at her, escalating her reaction to even higher levels. In addition, he knew exactly how to trigger her. Sometimes he purposely "heated her up." He brags that his mother was so good at manipulating others, she could "intimidate and control anyone on the planet," bullying them to their knees in terror whenever she wanted. But George would never let her control him. No way! While the other kids were outside playing, at three years old, George was sitting in the kitchen scrutinizing his mother and her female friends while they interacted. He analyzed their behavior so that he could learn how to avoid the psychological traps they set. At that tender age, he began to intensively study "The Female Game." Now, he insists, no woman will ever get over on him with any type of seduction or control. He is an expert at spotting all female manipulation.

As a child George developed grand mal seizures. A frequent occurrence, they prevented him from being a successful student or holding down a regular job when he got older. One day, as a man in his early twenties, he decided to use his willpower to force himself to remain conscious during a seizure. At one spectacular moment within this experience, he perceived a new path of total bliss. Like a seminary student who has just been called by God, he perceived his destiny: to pursue this ecstasy. Soon after that incident, his seizures ended. In college he mastered the art of hypnosis. George could hypnotize "an entire room full of people." One time he put himself and two other boys under. All three wandered around the school for a few days doing and saying strange things, until the dean finally found out and demanded that George remove the post-hypnotic suggestions holding them captive. During his undergraduate years, he discovered that his body put out an inordinate amount of energy, so much so that when he carried batteries in his pocket, they discharged themselves. George never graduated from college. A psychology major, he left school just three weeks before he was due to earn his diploma. He quit on purpose to prove to the world that he did not need "society's approval" to succeed in life. After that, he earned only one professional credential, a biofeedback technician's license.
At the time of these intimate meetings in our apartment, George is in financial straits. He earns $18 per hour assisting Dr. Rogers part time and drives a beat up white VW Beetle. He has two children, Serena, age ten, and Christopher, age eight. His family is crammed into a two-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side. His wife, Doris, adds what little she can to the family income with part-time bookkeeping jobs. Up until recently, George worked in sales for his father's business. However, he, by his own admission, was lazy, and would often slip into X-rated porno movie theaters during the afternoons, rather than making the rounds of his father's customers. Eventually, a breakup occurred, and his spiteful mother disowned him and cut him out of the will. George seems to be proud of his role as family black sheep. Nonetheless, he is left to his own devices, and although he acts cocky and confident, my mother senses that his money problems terrify him.

One day George invites me to sit in on his session with someone new. Sara is a heavyset, thirty-something African-American who lives on the Upper West Side near my mother. Possessing an unshakable positive attitude, she is always jovial, and George finds her weird and fascinating. In fact, he seems almost obsessed. George makes frequent visits to Sara's apartment, bringing me back tales of tarot cards, incense, strange homemade wine, and occult relics she has collected from all over the world. Sara claims to be able to channel spirits, and the two of them spend hours immersed in her special powers, meditating, focusing, and brainstorming. George seems to want to suck all of the knowledge out of her head. Unexpectedly, during one of their intimate sessions, something miraculous occurs. According to him, "My head just started shaking side to side on its own!"
George is out of his mind with excitement; he talks about headshaking and nothing else. Almost immediately, he trades his interest in Sara for the headshaking. And Sara soon disappears from the scene.

The three of us are engaged in an evening session at my mother's apartment when George first introduces us to his new found skill. Seating himself in one of our stiff-backed, living room chairs, he commences his routine, shaking his head slowly and purposely from side to side. Faster and faster he goes, until it looks like he must be hurting his neck. Soon, his legs begin to levitate, and then his arms rise as well. What a bizarre creature George seems, all four limbs suspended in the air, as if on the end of a puppeteer's strings, throwing his head back and forth violently. As my mother and I continue to concentrate on his head movements, we feel somehow mesmerized by the motion, and I slip into a state of relaxation. My thoughts float away, rendering me mentally and emotionally sluggish. Pausing after several minutes, George explains, "You know how a dog shakes his head to change his mood, well now we can do the same; we can control and change our emotions."
After several more minutes of shaking, George asks us what we are experiencing. I tell him that I am calmer, and he explains why. "The energy pouring out of my body can relax, even heal, any person who is willing to give in to it. Soon we won't need to use the biofeedback machine anymore. We'll be able to release our stress just from the headshaking. When I shake, I feel a switch turn on in the back of my head which releases my special energy The Energy. No one besides me has to shake, they can just sit near me and experience what I am putting out."
His eyes glow, and his passion escalates, as George feeds us the incredible significance of what he is just now discovering about his special powers. "For some reason, I have been chosen to pass The Energy through my being. I see now that it is the answer to every problem ever made. It can heal our bodies and minds; it will get us to freedom out of The Program forever."

"What's The Program?" I ask.

"It is a universal rule book that they handed us at birth. All people in society follow it like dead robots. Because they are too stupid to notice they are only chasing their tails, they never get to live their real lives. Look at everyone around you. People celebrate holidays which don't mean anything and give gifts to family members they hate, because they were trained to feel obligated. I never bring a gift when I pay someone a visit holiday, birthday, or otherwise; I am the gift, not some meaningless object that the person probably doesn't even need. And funerals, look at how ridiculous a coffin is, fancy satin and mahogany, useless speeches to a lifeless body which couldn't care less. If my mother died, I wouldn't waste one moment of my time; I'd stick her in a pine box; she wouldn't know the difference. . . . And men, I don't care which house you pick, the husband is controlled totally by the wife but he acts macho to cover it up and then defies and punishes her on the sneak. Now take the woman, she has contempt for her baby husband and then withholds sex to get what she wants. Every interaction is no more than a parent-child game, 'Mommy, I will perform for your approval.' This starts at birth, and we never grow out of it. No one has the courage to go for themselves to become their own person. I broke The Program in myself years ago, when I studied my mother's games, and I can teach others to do the same. Feeling The Energy forces people out of The Program temporarily. Then they must make a decision to work toward their freedom. It's all about breaking distractions, resistance, reactions, and fears the strong wiring that connects you to The Program. This defines our mission; it is why we are all together."

My mother is all applause, but I am not. George's focus on the headshaking feels overblown. I don't like the fact that he is doing it several hours a day, and his talk about his new experiences leaves me feeling ignored.
"When I shake my head, I have wonderful feelings," George declares. "They are the ultimate and surpass all others."
He also tells us that the shaking evolves his brain and propels him into another dimension. In fact, once it fills him, he becomes invisible to the people in The Program. "I could walk down 42nd Street stark naked, and no one would pay any attention to me," he professes.
This outrageous declaration makes me sick, but my internal coach reminds me, at times like these, to keep an open mind. Our journey of discovery could lead to amazing things, if we find the courage to challenge programmed thinking patterns.
Intensely curious about everything George does, I try the shaking myself. The resulting calm from the exertion feels the same as when I exercise. True, I feel relief from anxious thoughts, but this is not my definition of joy; I want what I felt with Joe personal love. I refuse to believe that these headshaking feelings are the ultimate; they are certainly not my goal!
I have tested his theory, and now my gut instincts scream to wake George from the spell which he must be under. Uncharacteristically, I confront him angrily, my face reddening in frustration as I exclaim, "No. Headshaking feelings are only physical, no more. There is something else out there something real that happens between people, and this is not it. What you are saying is a lie!"
I expect that my fervently delivered feelings will affect them, but I am sadly mistaken. Instead, my words fall on the deaf ears of George and my mother, and they continue to praise his wonderful new discovery. I try harder, begging to be heard, until my voice is hoarse and my throat sore. "This is all wrong; I despise you for ignoring me."
I cry, yell, plead . . . but my efforts are futile, and George just stares at the wall, cut off from me. When I have finally given up from pure exhaustion, he thanks me sincerely. "Elizabeth, I really appreciate what you have just done. You have helped me to become even more sure than before that I am right."

In the months which follow, George's headshaking becomes his trademark. He shamelessly performs his act in restaurants, on airplanes, at movies, parties, and family dinners. In public, embarrassed, confused strangers try to avoid looking at him. Without our inside information, they usually conclude that he has an affliction to his nervous system, some sort of palsy. His wife, Doris, is mortified. She calls him a weirdo and begs him to stop. Defiantly, he responds with pride, "Hey, I'm a weirdo. That's pretty cool. I like that name."
George seems to relish the attention people pay him and the discomfort it causes them as well. He enjoys their confusion and the fact that the truth behind the shaking is his coveted secret to be shared only with a select few. His visits to our apartment, after office sessions, continue to be frequent, and we spend hours simply staring at the shaking, trying to feel some shift in our physiology and mood. George's movements are so drastic that the window panes rattle and the chair joints squeak painfully, threatening to become unglued. The irritating repetitive sound drives me crazy, and I sit there hating him, wishing he would stop. However, George doesn't care; nothing else in this world exists for him but that shaking.