Once he had me plan and coordinate a campaign in which one hundred
disciples distributed four thousand posters and one hundred thousand
promotional newsletters across the entire state of California.
He did not seem concerned that I was only twenty-one. He seemed
to have faith in me. But after the work was complete, his faith
regressed into stinging verbal attacks on my level of consciousness,
loyalty, and sanity.
"You are mentally ill," he said. "You can hardly deal with the real world."
He explained that I was a prime target for the mind-ravaging
Forces because I was spiritually advanced, because I held a key
position in his Light-spreading organization, and, most importantly,
because I still doubted him.
"But stick with it, kid," he added. "We haven't given up on you yet."
Atmananda failed to appreciate that my doubt-blocking efforts were
largely successful, except for the time that I spent with him.
It was then that I saw him not as a divine incarnation with a bright
golden aura, but rather as an opportunistic Ph.D. with smooth
social skills. It was then that knots of tension mounted in my stomach,
pangs of guilt haunted my conscience, and, only after several
emotionally exhausting hours of telling myself, "NO!", the surfacing
conflict appeared to short-circuit.
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