The Academy

In my last post, My Elementary School Used a NSFW Portrait of Marilyn Monroe as a Fundraiser, I explained how the Family of Light claimed to run a private school “providing superior educational opportunities to exceptional young people, including children suffering from hyper and attention-deficit disorders, the gifted, and children with other special needs.” This was a blatant falsehood. Sri, the ‘principal’ of “Little Switzerland Academy” had even told me on several occasions that she did not believe ADHD to be a valid diagnosis and considered it more of a disciplinary issue.

Since they painted themselves as a school for students with disabilities, I ask that you keep that view of them in mind as you read the following.

This is my experience of attending the Academy.

Trigger warning–be advised the following contains description of child abuse.

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Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child

By the time I was attending Little Switzerland Academy, it had changed quite a bit from when it had originated. Being the youngest child of the cult, I was the last one to attend the homeschool. My experience was very different from the “older kids” (the generation of children that had been through the conception of Little Switzerland Academy); their stories were legendary to us younger ones. I have very few memories of those older kids; many were in their own process of leaving the cult around the time I was born. I’d heard stories of how they’d lost their way, gone out into the world, and renounced The Group. I’d also heard the whispered rumors and stories of the things they went through in the school. As shocking as some of the stories were, I didn’t have any trouble believing they were true. Certain adults, including Sri, even bragged about how they’d punished the older kids. I was told about how they’d forcefully restrained, corporally punished, publicly humiliated, and otherwise abused those children. Of course, the word abuse was never used; it was “discipline” and it was god-ordained.

Due in no small part to what I heard about the experiences of those older children, I was scared of disobeying the adults in the school. I also genuinely loved my teachers. Tori, whom I’ve written about previously and was like a mother to me, will always have a special place in my heart. Charlotte, who took over the primary responsibility for my tutelage after Tori was also dear to me and someone I strived to make proud. When I think back about my schooling there are a lot of mixed emotions. On the one hand, I had teachers I loved and respected and on the other they, and all the adults involved in the school, were complicit with the abuse doled out in the name of discipline. It is still difficult to reconcile that reality.

Processed for Day-Dreaming:

As I had no companions, I often passed the time at recess walking the perimeter of the yard by myself. I’d pretend there were fairies in the woods or mischievous pixies in the weeds. Sometimes I made myself the queen of the fairies or the scrappy human warrior fated to save their kingdom. Dancing in mushroom rings I’d find near the edges of the yard; I willed myself to be transported into their realm. As I came to a stop inside the circle, I closed my eyes and held my breath, certain that I’d open them to find myself in a magical world. Instead, an angry voice shook me from my concentration.

“Megan!” Sri screamed from the doorway.

Startled, my eyes flew open and in an instant I realized that no one else was outside. Filled with dread, I broke out in a cold sweat as I ran towards her. What did I do? I racked my brain for any minor infraction I could have committed, trying to figure out what I’d done to anger her. Whatever was coming, I knew it wasn’t going to be good. Sri was rarely involved in anything I did academically at this point in my education, so the fact that she was the one at the door meant I must have done something egregious.

“Lunch is over, what are you doing?” She asked, not quite yelling anymore, but clearly angered by my tardiness.

“I didn’t hear the call to go inside,” I said as my tummy churned. It wasn’t like we had a loud school bell to let us know our recess was over, one of the teachers usually just called out that our break was over when it was time to come back in.

Sri scrunched up her brow in frustration and firmly reprimanded me.

I apologized and adamantly agreed to be more aware in the future. Internally, I breathed a sigh of relief. Was that it? I wondered, as visions of Processings, hitting, and humiliation whirled like a carousel within my mind. I knew the stories I’d heard about the older kids and what kind of punishments they’d endured. I silently thanked God that my fate was kinder.

My brother, Erick, came and stood next to Sri. He crossed his arms as he leaned against the door frame next to her, “Why didn’t you follow when you saw the rest of us heading inside?” He asked, accusatorially.

Sri, raised her eyebrows and looked down at me expectantly.

This conversation has nothing to do with you, Erick, I gritted my teeth in anger. He just wants to get me in trouble. “I didn’t notice you going inside,” I replied, defensively. My anger at him creeped into my voice. He and one of the other kids in his grade were frequently entertained by making me the target of their bullying.

“She’s lying!” Erick said, turning to look at Sri, “I saw her look at us when we ran inside.”

A fresh wave of hot anger crashed over me. Oh,I’m lying? I tried to explain that I’d been preoccupied and hadn’t seen them go inside, but nothing I said seemed to make any difference. In everyone’s eyes, I was guilty. More people came to see what all the fuss was about at the back of the house that served as our school. I felt the panic rise in my chest as I tried again and again to explain that I hadn’t been willfully disobedient and that I wasn’t lying. Each attempted explanation only dug the grave deeper. My brother’s accusation had branded me with a scarlet L. As Sri walked me inside, I maintained my innocence and refused to admit to a crime I didn’t commit.

Although not large, the whole school, children and teachers gathered as I was made to stand in the living area and listen to each person tell me I was a liar, couldn’t be trusted, and how they weren’t sure they could ever believe anything I said ever again. This was a Processing. I’d seen this play out so many times with others that I knew well the role of the accused. I knew how the scene ended. All I had to do to make it end was abandon myself, my pride, and the truth. I had to become the liar they accused me of being.

My mind pulled a shroud of dissociation over itself leaving the experience unfocused. My mind blurred with dissociation while my body screamed in protest. I was not allowed to sit down during the Processing and I remember the ache in my calves from standing for so long. There’s only so long someone can withstand the pressure of public humiliation and persecution; especially when everyone in the room is older and more powerful than you, you are forced to remain standing, and you know that the Processing would continue for days if necessary. I don’t remember saying the words, but eventually I cracked under the pressure. Before I was allowed to sit down, I was forced to publicly apologize to all of the teachers and other children for lying.

I looked at the small crowd of bodies in front of me and felt my heart flap futilely in my chest like a fish thrown onto a butcher’s block. My eyes leaked heavy streams of tears and I choked on gulps of air as I tried to speak “I’m sorry….” I took a big mouthful of air; feeling like my lungs were burning with the effort of holding down a sob, “for lying and not coming inside when I was told.” I finished with another jagged breath. For a moment, I thought it was over.

“I don’t feel like you mean that,” Sri said from her seat in the center of the living room couch. She shook her head sadly as she twirled a satin ribbon between her fingers. A tool she used for prayer, I watched its rotation hypnotized by the movement.“You’re going to say it until you mean it.”

I felt more tears prick my eyes and tried to speak around the growing lump in my throat, “I’m sorry….”

“Again.”

“I’m sorry….”

“Until you mean it,”

“I’m sorry….” Again and again, I choked out the apology. I don’t know how many times I was forced to repeat the words, but I became exhausted and dizzy. My body felt limp and weak. My legs burned from standing. Again, each person spoke about any perceived lie, fib, or exaggeration I’d ever said and how because of this behavior I couldn’t be trusted. I didn’t hear their words this time, I was somewhere far away; watching the scene unfold like a movie on a screen.

When I returned home from school that afternoon, or evening, or the next morning (time had dissolved in that room), I was still lost in a haze of dissociation. Hardly aware of what was happening, I received a lecture and a hard spanking from Mama regarding my behavior at school. I listened as she yelled and told me about how the other kids wouldn’t want anything to do with me because I was a liar and I’d broken their (and everyone’s) trust.

This is why you don’t have any friends. It was my thought, but it was Mama’s voice that spoke it in my mind. Outside my fractured mind, she was still talking. I couldn’t hear her over the argument taking place inside my own skull.

I didn’t lie, I was just distracted; I thought to myself. My internal voice was weak and the internalized version of Sri’s voice soon over powered it, No one likes you. You will always be alone. Mama’s voice inside my mind chimed in, Nobody will want to be your friend.

Everyone hates me. No one believes me. This is why no one likes me. This is why I have no friends. The internal messaging had been successfully reprogrammed.

I wonder if this was one of those “superior educational opportunities” they were providing for myself and the other “children suffering from hyper and attention-deficit disorders, the gifted, and children with other special needs?”

As I got older, the homeschool continued to change and evolve. After moving to the cult compound, I had classes with individual teachers spread out between various bedrooms, the dining room, and more than a few hallways. I discussed in this post how Sri began conducting classes in her underwear on a regular basis. By this time the “discipline” was no longer distributed by the school itself, instead it was handled either by the parents or in front of the entire Group. Still, I was so anxious about keeping The Family of Light a secret, that when I had the opportunity to go to public school I asked to continue my homeschooling with the Academy. I couldn’t take the daily panic attacks over keeping their secrets and continually monitoring myself to make sure I didn’t say anything that would implicate the existence of a cult or Master.

A Note on Writing This Essay:

This was no easy thing to write. There were many involved that I love and who had a positive impact on my life. They remain dear to me even as I know they were complicit. In a cult, there are many actions taken and things said that would never be acceptable to those individual in any other setting. In fact, one of the hardest parts of cult recovery is knowing you participated in or were silent during the mistreatment of others. The pressure to adhere to authority and the consequences of not doing so are intense. I feel the need to say that while I do not approve of the actions of those present at my first (or second, or third, or fourth) Processing, I do not hold those moments against them. Instead, I hold the person in power responsible as it was at her command that these and other abuses took place.

Sources

Glossary

If you are just reading my blog for the first time:

My name is Megan and I was born and raised in a cult called The Family of Light. I was brought up to believe that the cult’s leader, Sri, was the vessel for God Himself. Sri claimed to channel the entity we referred to as Master and He directed us to prepare for a great devastation to mankind. We were His chosen Children of Light and were tasked with using our prayer and meditation to hold the Darkness at bay and help usher in a golden age after the foretold destruction.

For much of my life, I was a model member. I prayed to and worshiped the voice that spoke through Sri. I sat at her feet, taking in her teachings to the best of my ability. As I got older, I began to notice incredible discrepancies, hypocrisy, and harmful practices. After years of being subjected to and witnessing extreme abuse caused a crisis of faith, I began to see things clearly for the first time.

When you join a cult as an adult, you have a pre-cult identity to return to. When you’re born and raised in one, you are left with the duty and honor of completely rebuilding yourself. This blog is a series of personal essays, a peek into my memoir, an examination of how my experience shaped me, and how I built myself into the woman I am today. While this blog does not follow a linear timeline of events, it may be helpful for some readers to start at the beginning.

Note: names and locations have been changed to protect identity and privacy.