Take Me for a Ride Part 21

Sal, Anne, Rachel, and Dana laughed. I looked straight ahead.

I did not smile.

They kept giving me popcorn and candy, but I had deeply withdrawn.

I did not eat. I pa.s.sed the items along. I wished that it would stop.

What happened next seemed to occur in slow motion. Sal held out a bucket of popcorn. Halfheartedly, I reached for it.

I wanted to be left alone. I held the bucket loosely.

It slipped from my hand. Popcorn covered the floor. I stood up.

Popcorn fell from my lap. I sensed that my friends had been having fun, and that I was ruining it for them. I would not meet their gazes.

I stood there, bathed by the flickering lights of the film, frightened by the resurfacing conflict.

"Maybe it's been me all along," I thought.

"That's nonsense," I countered. "It's Atmananda who is..."

"NO!!"

I grimaced. I walked up the incline toward the exit.

I left the theatre in a stupor. I felt dizzy and disoriented.

My mind again drew a blank.

I crossed the street to UCSD. I walked to Revelle College.

To the Humanities Library Building. To HL 1402. I often reserved this room through the Meditation Club for Atmananda's public and private meetings. I sat down. I did not reflect on how his talks in this room had changed in the past two years.

Nor did I reflect on how he had changed. Nor on how I had changed.

I just sat there. After a few minutes, I stood up and left.

I walked to John Muir College. I saw a picture of conservationist, writer, and mountaineer John Muir. I found myself thinking about the plumber, about Palomar Mountain, about the solitary hawk...

"NO!" I said aloud and turned away.

I walked down the hill to Central Library. I remembered walking here with two friends from high school who, months before, had unexpectedly appeared at the Centre door. I had not spoken with them in years.

I told them I was no longer a disciple of an Indian guru.

I also told them my new spiritual teacher was different than the others.

"He's got a Ph.D," I explained. "He's been on Phil Donahue.

He's my friend." Despite my a.s.sertions that I was fine and that I could take care of myself, they still looked at me as if I were in some kind of cult.

"The past is dust," I now thought, recalling a saying that Atmananda had borrowed from Chinmoy.

I walked to Third College. To Third College Lecture Hall.

To TLH 104. I saw Atmananda's face on either side of the front wall.

I had placed the two posters. Atmananda often claimed that his photograph was a doorway to his "awareness field," and now I wondered if he was watching me through the posters on the wall.

I felt uneasy and left.

I walked to a nearby computer terminal room. I logged on and played Star Trek. The E on the screen was the Enterprise. R's were Romulans.

K's were Klingons. Klingons had stealth devices. I was E. R's and K's surrounded E. E got destroyed. Each time I played, E got destroyed.

I logged off and walked away.

I plodded over soft, squishy lawns. The sprinklers were on.

I got wet. I felt like a zombie. I felt small.

I crisscrossed campus several times more. I was tired. I thought about sleeping in the computer room. I was afraid to return to the Centre.

I was afraid of facing Atmananda. I did not examine the fear.

I walked home.

I opened the door. It was late. Atmananda stood in the living room.

I sensed that he had been waiting for me.

"You may not realize it," he said right away, "but you are very sick.

You are mentally ill. I am a professional and you are going to have to trust me."

Atmananda spoke authoritatively. He held something in his hand.

He said that he was going to help me.

"Have you ever heard of Stelazine?" he asked.

"No."

"Stelazine is a drug that helps people who suffer from mental illness or depression. With the advent of drugs such as this, people who would otherwise be dysfunctional can lead happy and normal lives."

I had a flash of fear. I glanced at the door.

"Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of," Atmananda said, holding out the pills. "You'd be surprised how many people experience some form of neurosis or psychosis. I have a cousin who took anti-psychotic drugs for years. Now he flies F-14's for the military."

The conflict sparked and it flickered and then disappeared.

My mind became still. I reached for the pills.

"Western doctors don't really understand mental illness. It is a form of possession. Stelazine blocks out the lower occult worlds, which are inhabited by the Negative Forces."

I nodded. My doubts remained submerged.

"We are not about to desert you. But you have to understand that you *are* mentally ill. All along, you thought that this was some kind of game. You did not take my warnings about the Forces seriously.

You opened up your consciousness to them, and now you are paying the price."

I nodded again.

"Of course, there is still hope. But you've got to stop fighting me.

You've got to act *now*." He instructed me to take the drug.

I had no premonition as I swallowed the Stelazine that Atmananda would later call me his "chemical experiment."

In the days that followed, Atmananda seemed to enjoy his a.s.sumed role as psychiatrist and nurse. He knocked on my door several times a day and, in a cheery voice, announced, "Hi, kid--reality check.

How do you feel?"

"Dizzy," I replied. I smiled. I was enjoying Atmananda's attention and kind treatment. "I feel pretty relaxed."

"Good," he said. "Now tell me about your thoughts."

I did.

He seemed pleased that I was finding it difficult to concentrate, that my thoughts had a fuzzy, dream-like quality to them, and that my self-a.n.a.lyzing, authority-questioning nature had submerged beyond my control.