Confessions of a Former Cult Member

Let my first confession be: I wasn’t actually in a cult. 

Confession was one of the more difficult and sometimes truly scary rituals of growing up in Catholic school. My first time completing this sacrament was with my second-grade glass, around the time when we were preparing for our First Communion. Though we had already memorized the Ten Commandments, teachers handed out the list and instructed us to decide if we had violated any of them. Then, one by one, we would sit with a priest in the wooden privacy box. The admirably high theatricality about the entire performance of confession wasn’t enough to counteract my terror. I was seven years old; when did I have the chance to sin? The paranoia of being “bad” intensified. Holding the sheet of paper in my little hands, my eyes scanned the Commandments. Did I covet my neighbor’s things? Did I honor my mother and father? Did I have an idol that wasn’t God? 

My family isn’t religious or socially conservative, but they are into traditions. For Irish and/or Italian families (I am both), baptisms, cross necklaces for your newborn babies, and Catholic education are just what you do. So at four years old, my parents enrolled me at St. Andrew’s, a local parish school--nothing fancy. My otherwise not-strict mom wanted my sister and me to be instilled with the same values she was raised with. But if you ask her now, she expresses regret. 

From Pre-K through eighth grade, I was slowly brain-washed into disliking my body, feeling insecure, crazy, like an outcast, ugly, fat, weird, like I had to be good all the time, terrified of being in trouble, wanting so badly to be liked, seeing what happened to kids who behaved “badly.” I’ve had devout moral convictions ever since I can remember, branded a “goody two-shoes” type after lecturing family friends’ kids as to why ding-dong ditching is unkind. Maybe the public school path would’ve put me on the same course; I’ll never know.  

Despite many more instances of my choosing “good” over “fun,” I can also remember vividly choosing truth over good many times. I was often in trouble for talking in class and sneakily reading books propped up inside my old-fashioned wooden desk. There must have been a part of me dying to rebel. Some do it for the sake of rebellion itself, but not me. Terrified of being misbranded as anything but smart and well-mannered, I’d like to think I saved my rebellion tokens for the absolutely necessary, including moments of sheer boredom. I wasn’t academically challenged enough, and, more importantly, was shut down by teachers in sparks of creativity or curiosity. 

I continued my Catholic school journey into high school, the only co-ed private one in the area with a large, diverse student body more akin to a public school than the snooty nearby institutions that charge $20,000 per semester. On one hand, this seemed like a natural progression; yet, there was no other option offered to me. Feeling much freer amongst a larger pool of people, I made friends and was placed into rigorous, higher-level classes where my ambitions were encouraged. I finally had the approval I craved, but for people-pleasers like me, it’s never enough. 

My first retreat was in the fall of my sophomore year. Since some of my close friends were going, I asked my parents to help me pay for it, and they agreed, despite being surprised at my interest in this lifestyle. I had never been away from home and my family simultaneously. I had some nerves, which soon subsided. Out in the crisp, crunchy woods, I ran free. We laughed and played like children and talked all night in bunk beds. I felt protected by an aura of love. When did I last feel this safe around my peers? 

These weekends did have their more serious, highly religious elements. Throughout the three days, each member of that chosen team gave a “talk,” a pre-written personal story followed by a song and a procession of hugs. Essentially, a talk gave space for a more godly teenager to unload their trauma on the (likely younger) “retreatants.” We broke into small groups after each one. These were assigned at the beginning of the weekend; each was led by 1-2 retreat team members, but not monitored by the teacher chaperones. Heavy topics like eating disorders, grief, absent parents, depression, anxiety, and suicide often resurfaced. Not one talk was vetted by the teachers, nor was there professional support on stand-by for the inevitable reactions.

How do I know? I would soon sign up to be a retreat leader myself. 

To join, I had to meet alone with a young male teacher who asked me grueling questions about my faith. Yes, I was raised to believe in the Catholic God, but I was more drawn to the community elements. I let him wax poetic about faith and service; by the time he was done talking, it sort of made sense. He shook my hand and I was in. Many of the friends who introduced me to retreats were excited to have me on board; others acted like I wasn’t good enough, or rather, not godly enough. New team members start with Freshman Retreats, which you had to do with your first-year religion class just once at the beginning of the year for about an hour on an assigned weeknight.  Again, there was little to no training from the adults supervising us. We were told to observe the older, more experienced leaders and learn by their example. Despite being teenagers with homework to tackle and personal lives to develop, the emphasis from the start was on sacrifice. When I led the famed Search retreat my senior year (a coveted spot that caused a lot of upset in the team), my co-leader and I were encouraged to pull all-nighters throughout the weekend. I was barely 18 years old. 

One of the more culty Catholic traditions we participated in over these weekends is a ceremony called Adoration, in which the Eucharist (believed by Catholics to be ceremonially transformed into Jesus’ actual body) is placed into a vessel called a monstrance and then displayed on an altar for us to revere. For a non-Catholic, praying to a flavorless wafer might seem insane, but just wait--there's more. As the retreatants and team alike would sit in a candle-lit cabin, one by one, many would begin to sob. Because, you see, for Catholics, being sad is a currency: the sadder you are, the more God can fix you. It was a wonderful performance, a chorus of crying. After any retreat, we also celebrated “Fourth Day” by wearing these Friar Tuck wooden cross necklaces and greeting fellow retreatants with “Happy Fourth.” This initiation kept us close.

I’m lucky to have emerged relatively unscathed, compared to most. Feeling grateful to have avoided abuse is telling of how the Catholic Church’s values can often manifest into manipulation, sexual perversion, shame, and secrecy. But technically, an organized religion that’s existed for thousands of years doesn’t qualify as a cult. A cult is defined specifically as a fringe group. Anything accepted by society as the norm cannot be considered a “cult” by its definition. Other important elements of a cult, though, might sound familiar: shared language and rituals, an all-powerful leader, hierarchies, and an overall sense of belonging. Aside from my Catholic upbringing, I find myself fascinated by cults or anything even deemed “cult” (e.g. cult movies, conspiracy theories and their following, weird religious offshoots). But maybe this personality trait doesn’t exist outside of my personal experiences; maybe they are linked. 

In the eyes of my former Retreat Team supervisors, I committed a great sin by attending a notoriously liberal and secular college like NYU. They warned me that I would lose my religion, and they weren't wrong. In a different kind of community, I found myself again. But after graduation, my tether of belonging snapped. I sank into the worst depression I’ve ever experienced. I would reluctantly get out of bed only to stare at the walls of my apartment until I had to leave for my part-time babysitting job. That is, until my friend Catie told me the cool thrift store she managed was looking for holiday help.

Walking into this warmly lit East Village shop was all at once magical, inviting, and unsettling. My instant déjà vu wasn’t far off; I soon realized that I had been there before. During my freshman year of college, I wandered in and bought a sterling ring before scurrying off, intimidated by the curated clutter. Was this a sign? Did my ring guide me back to this destiny? This was the perfect place for me, and looking back, that’s not entirely untrue. Working here was part of a larger chain of events I had no way of foreseeing.

I quickly proved myself to the quippy, aloof Gen-X store owner “Lisa” whose attention I craved like she was the popular girl at school. I was first trusted by her to stand at the helm of the register, then promoted to Social Media Manager/keyholder after the previous guy was fired for stealing, lying, you name it. I heard the worst of him and thought, how could he have betrayed her after all she did for him? This “all” included furnishing his apartment with one-of-a-kind antique wares, giving him extra money after his confessions of poverty, and other anecdotes I learned of in hushed tones behind the closed inventory room door. Catie and I occasionally bickered, but overall we had such a blast working all afternoon into the evening, partying until the sun almost came up, and doing it over again the next day. This was my family. I was learning about this entirely foreign realm, initiated into negotiating prices, distinguishing brass from copper, and getting familiar with the never-ending list of ghost experiences. In the winter of 2020, Catie quit to work at Christie’s, and I was promoted in her place. Then the pandemic hit.

While we were in lockdown, I remember texting Lisa that she was “the best” after she offered to give me an advance on future paychecks. The store had to stay closed per state regulations, so she brought clothes to my apartment for my roommate and me to photograph and list. Oh yeah, my roommate/high school bff/college bff also worked there. And our apartment was (at least, partially) decorated with items gifted to me by the boss herself. What a life I had! I found a new passion and purpose surrounded by people I loved being with. But upon returning "back to normal," I found myself slipping back into another depression. Lisa was so happy for me when I told her I had an online therapy session scheduled. Meanwhile, in my new role as co-manager, still the only one posting on our Instagram account, and now an online store, I felt the pressure breathing dragon-hot down my neck. Since Lisa had a young kid, she would only come in during the day and leave around 3-4 pm. At night, she watched the happenings of the store from the Nest security cameras and would call or text me any time she saw any piece of merchandise out of place. Or to report what employees in my blindspots were doing. Sometimes to mock a new person on the team. We would giggle. The closer we became, the further away I felt from the staff I managed. I told her this, a confession to which she responded you’re not allowed to be friends with them anyway. But I still was iced out from the private bond she had with the other manager, who had worked there for much longer.

One August day, when I arrived at the store, my boss told me I have a surprise for you before introducing the new girl. Now you have a friend. “Steph” was presented to me like a doll on Christmas morning, except she was a living, breathing human woman, 2 years younger than me. She was ultra-bubbly and sweet; as predicted, we did click right away. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this way. My life was alive again. Is there a love at first sight, but for friends? That was what Steph and I had. Together, I felt hope, like coming into work wasn’t going to slowly unglue my feet from gravity, leaving me adrift in the wind. While Lisa and I would giggle, Steph and I would laugh, hysterically. I’m gonna pee my pants, she said, maybe 10 times a day. You can’t be friends with anyone else, only Steph was my strict order. When I hired more new people that I liked, forming any rapport with them was frowned upon. Soon, Steph was promoted to be my assistant manager. She helped me with everything from merchandising, sales, Instagram, and even eBay. Sometimes we would come in well before store opening, grab coffee before, and photograph sterling tea sets in the freezing cold before the store would open. We did work well together, despite how much fun we also had. You’re like a sister to me, Steph said. And one morning, after screaming at us for who even knows what, Lisa said we’re like a family, and sometimes families fight. 

First, I was gifted a friend, then an assistant, next instructed not to have more friends, and, to round it all out, was chastised for being exclusionary. The closer Steph and I became, the more Lisa seemed to hate us for no reason. Unless she was in the mix. Regardless, I never knew which personality of hers I was going to find every morning. We could have had a rough closing the night before, and as I was walking in, dreading her scrutiny, she would tell me the store looked beautiful. But the,n the morning after I personally checked each and every item on the racks, she managed to find a flaw. When I told her working late nights made me feel unsafe, especially with our track record of customer harassment, she laughed at me. Typically, about 45 minutes to maybe 2 hours after a big blow-up from her, she would text me to come into the back. Dragging my feet to what could be another lashing, I was 5 times out of 10 brought into an ultra-exclusive whisper session, handed a piece of jewelry she found in a pile, or both. 

So we went on like that for months: Steph and I bonding and Lisa pulling all the strings. She liked to call me on the phone while I was running her store, and she was at home in her giant West Village loft, and gab about anything and everything. I felt so special. But it was a trap. Why didn’t this get done? You need to focus. You need to be at the register but also in the basement photographing and creating eBay listings and posting on Instagram and also managing the staff and making them feel welcome but not too welcome because they all suck because you hired them and you’re cliquey but don’t be friendly especially not to that one she’s so weird omigod hold on I have to send you a picture because you won’t believe what I caught her doing on the sales floor. Two hours could go by like this. 

Did I mention that the store was prone to flooding? About once a month, we had some kind of water-based issue of biblical proportions, including a toilet explosion and many, many drips that turned into Titanic-level sinkage before our very eyes. I waded in disgusting rat water (because of course, there were also rats/mice that we would find all the time. Once a mouse even crawled into my purse!) rescuing artifacts from the backroom while, again, my omnipresent boss watched us from on high, yelling through the phone that we had to move faster! Conveniently, when everything was mostly cleaned up, she would arrive to announce that if only we had done more…what? What could two liberal arts grads with big dreams and a penchant for vintage clothes have done? We were just two shopgirls, and I thought this was supposed to be fun. 

What kept me hanging on? I’ve never been a quitter and resigned myself to being “relentlessly optimistic,” as Catie once called me. I was gripped by the store’s shared mythology, this world of whispers to which I was allowed to bear witness. Lisa operated on a currency of pain and otherworldly encounters; the more grueling the project, the more you earned your spot there. But like all other aspects of this existence, I had to choose my moments of lamentation as carefully as I handled the fragile merchandise. Spin a tale of hauling molded antique medical books with soot-covered hands at the wrong moment? Lisa might snap back with a classic you don’t even know and then spin a yarn of true suffering in the ever-holy pursuit of secondhand treasure. I think the apartment building across the street threw out more vintage magazines. Can you sift through the garbage and check? I didn’t even question this demand, framed as a casual request. I dutifully marched there and bare-handedly completed my mission. I would’ve done anything to find the special piece, to receive the praise, to avoid the wrath. Not everyone gets us. No, certainly not. 

Every week, I cried to my therapist about my job. I wanted to leave, but couldn’t bring myself to quit. Before therapy, I thought all of the tirades I endured were normal, something I had to shoulder through and learn from. My sense of self-worth was in a proverbial toilet, just like the grapes I found in the actual toilet at the store. But we had a chance for a fresh start: the store was relocating! In actuality, this was the beginning of the end. Steph and I were given a false sense of hope. This is going to be something that belongs to all of us, something we can all be proud of. Cut to: Steph, her friend “Drew,” and I hauling boxes of the most fragile, expensive, special shit ever about 200 times from the old store to the new during a July heatwave. You guys aren’t even good at moving, Lisa “joked” while sitting on her phone in the air conditioning. One day while Steph and I were tagging jewelry in yet another damp basement, we decided to listen to a podcast episode about Jonestown. The host began by explaining the main qualifiers of a cult. As the list went on, she and I looked up at each other and started laughing. An unquestionable, all-powerful leader whose whims we all bow to? A common goal we’ve been convinced to think benefits us? Why does this sound familiar?

Steph lasted only a couple more weeks after getting injured on the job so many times and being told she was fine. She didn’t make it to the reopening of the new store. Shortly before her departure, I realized just how much Lisa was manipulating the two of us, even against each other. As for me, I stayed a few months in the new store and half-heartedly looked for new jobs. Who would hire me? What were my skills? Every day, walking to work was like walking to my execution. I hired a new crew of college kids, and everything was completely different and exactly the same. I almost missed the ghosts and floods. Lisa hired my sister to be her son’s nanny, but she still could only work until 4 pm every day while the staff and I stayed until 9 each night, meticulously scrubbing the light gray floors and cleaning scuffs from the white slab counter with acetone nail polish remover. A year and a half prior, I hid all of the vicious truths about my job from the staff and the customers, thinking I was protecting them. In my last months, Lisa didn’t have anyone left to dangle in my face. But she did tell my new assistant manager that she “wished she could fire me.” Even though I desperately wanted to quit, the realization that she would never appreciate how I devoted myself to her business like it was my own, that she was pushing me to my breaking point on purpose as she told me she had done to previous employees, that she was tough and mighty when she had me cornered but when celebrity customers came in she hid. My people-pleasing spirit was broken, so I was free to speak my mind. I told Lisa I knew everything she said behind my back. I did what I thought was right. I gave an employee a discount. And she fired me for it--over text.  

A month later, with a new, way more normal job, I was approached by a woman who complimented my long red hair and asked me if I wanted to work with her friend’s hair care company. I was already out with my long-time friend Emilie and her sister, so we invited her to join us for drinks. After maybe an hour of smooth, friendly conversation, this woman revealed the offer was actually for her business venture, a multi-level marketing company called Monat. She offered me a Soho House membership, a huge supplementary monthly income, and even to help me find “the man of my dreams” as long as I gave her the starter sum and pledged myself to pursue the never-ending pyramid of recruitment. Obviously, I had to politely turn her down, but there was a sliver of hope in her promises. Finally, I said no. A firm no. 

Typically, we might think of those who join cult groups as downtrodden by society, pushed so far into the fringes by life that they find themselves believing someone as average as any of us is a god or godly enough to follow anywhere. And sure, some of the people drawn to QAnon or Twin Flames Union or Jonestown were not in their right minds and have done horrible things in the name of their beliefs. But even on day one of signing up for Scientology, things seem mild. Cults don’t typically initiate you at maximum danger; they coax you in with a false sense of normalcy, security, and community. We might all (well, most of us) know better when it comes to a mega-church but a seemingly harmless online community? An after-school club? A thrift store job? 

I was always a joiner. In addition to my high school Retreat Team, I was also a fervent member of the Drama Club (these two had a wide overlap), National Honor Society, International Language Honor Society, French Club, Irish Club, Social Justice Club, and probably more I can’t remember. I loved to over-achieve and never wanted to let anyone down, especially not an authority figure When the person in question expresses the potential they see in me, I find myself compelled to make them proud. 

Reflecting on my forays into cultdom, I was vulnerable and lost at times, but I was always filled with ambition, a deadly combination for manipulative eco-maniacs. Yet, I can’t say it was all bad. I developed the spirituality I have now from those days of praying in the woods. Some of my first exposure to the nonfiction and memoir genre was the “talks” given those same weekends spent huddled around a campfire. Without the store, I wouldn’t have made certain friends or awakened a semi-dormant love for fashion and interior design. I furthered my spirituality here, believing in the power of energy held in objects, ridding myself finally of the black-and-white binary between good and evil. And without surviving those who wished to stamp out my light, I would remain naïve in the face of future snakes waiting to strike.