How I Reclaimed My Life After 10 Years in a Cult
I never intended to join a cult when I was younger, but I did. My original plan was to get to know my inner self through meditation, but I was intrigued by the 14-year-old Indian prodigy “Guru Maharaji,” now known as Prem Rawat, who spoke of creating world peace one person at a time.
I was inexplicably drawn to learn more about him and to become part of the growing movement of hippies, freaks, and spiritual seekers who were following him. I didn’t want to dabble on the fringe. I wanted to go all in.
Prem Rawat is the youngest son of a guru from Northern India. When his father passed on in 1966, Prem, who was eight years old at the time, began addressing crowds of hundreds of thousands in India with a core message that has remained remarkably consistent over the past 50 years: “There is peace within, and I can help you experience it.”
In the fall of 1972, my senior year in college, I learned how to practice his meditation techniques. My initial experience of meditation was low-key — peaceful and calming — but I kept at it for nine months more. My experience grew. I felt different. Something was happening within me, and I knew it was my path.
After graduating with a degree in English literature in 1973, I got involved in the organization that supported Mr. Rawat’s activities in the United States. It was called Divine Light Mission at the time; it was a religious nonprofit. There were — and still are — millions of followers in India and 50,000 more internationally, but only a few hundred were direct employees that lived communally in ashrams and had taken vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience.
I took those vows. I took them because I wanted to understand everything I could about the experience of meditation and about this boy guru.
Life in the ashram.
My life in the ashram began as a community leader. I soon became a meditation instructor and, eventually, the president of the organization, which was renamed Elan Vital. I started in Boston in 1973 and ended my work there in Miami in 1984. During those years, I traveled throughout the United States, Canada, Europe, Africa, and Australia.
I lived in ashrams — all were large, rented homes — with 10 to 12 other men and women known as brothers and sisters. We ate vegetarian food, sang devotional songs each morning, and meditated together. Some of us went off to regular jobs, while others stayed behind in the ashram to do a variety of organizational tasks.
We ate dinner in silence, attended two-hour nightly meetings of music and inspirational talks, and then meditated more before bedtime. We slept on foam mattresses in shared rooms with two or three other roommates. It was frugal living, but we were happy — full of joy, love, and laughter. It was like living with a whole bunch of cool people taking a mild dose of MDMA every day — except we were sober. There was no sex, no drinking, no drugs, no visiting family, no movies, no TV, no bars, no restaurants. We received a minimal allowance each week but no salary or personal monies.
I lived like that for 10 years and believed I was following someone who could bring peace to the world. I was full of hope, happiness, and excitement. I was blissed out, utterly consumed with what I was doing.
My experience was reinforced by living and working with people who shared similar beliefs. We believed that Prem was the living “Perfect Master;” he could reveal perfection within. Many people referred to him as the “Lord of the Universe” or the satguru — the “true teacher” in Hindi. I drank the Kool-Aid in large quantities and became a true believer. Anyone who didn’t subscribe to the belief that Mr. Rawat was the chosen one didn’t get far in the organization.
Of course, I didn’t think I was in a cult at the time. We worshipped Prem and treated him like a holy man and a celebrity. We gave him the best that money could buy. He lived on a multi-acre estate in Malibu and had other homes in Miami and London. Expensive cars, private aircraft, and helicopters were provided to him by his followers. Although there was never a fee to learn how to meditate, many people freely gave whatever they could. Some gave millions. Some gave their inheritances.
In India, it is not uncommon for followers to worship gurus as deities or lavish them with gifts, but in Western society, it’s quite different. We expect our holy men or women to be chaste, modest, and unassuming. Mr. Rawat certainly broke those stereotypes when he left India at 13 and married an American woman four years later.
And yet, what he brought with him, reinforced by a close circle of former followers of his father, a guru himself, was the philosophy of Bhakti yoga, a spiritual practice within Hinduism that emphasizes devotion to a personal deity. Young Mr. Rawat embraced it and demanded unwavering devotion from his followers through the 1980s.
Moving into the inner circle.
After becoming a meditation instructor with the organization, I traveled the world to teach meditation and speak at community gatherings. As a guest of honor, I was treated with a great deal of reverence. I received private rooms, personal drivers, cooked meals, and got my clothes washed and ironed. People attended to my every need; they hung on every word.
I felt enormous pressure to be an ever-present source of inspiration after months of traveling and speaking. It was a lonely life, too. I spent many days alone, as I spent my time reading, running, and listening to recordings of Prem speaking.
My sexual repression manifested in vivid, erotic dreams for years. Nobody ever spoke about sex, so I had no idea what others were experiencing. Eventually, I passed a message to Mr. Rawat about it, and he sent me a message back, telling me not to worry. It was natural, he said. That was somewhat helpful, but it certainly didn’t take care of my raging hormones.
I always had a pleasant and loving but distant relationship with Prem. I think he filled a void in my life as a father figure, and I was grateful for what he taught me and the inspiration he provided. But as I learned more about his opulent lifestyle, I struggled to reconcile it with his public persona as an enlightened spiritual teacher.
My intuition told me something was off, but I pushed it aside until I had a chance to speak to him privately. When I asked him about his use of alcohol, the first thing he said was, “Who told you?” I left the conversation less than satisfied but continued to march on with lingering doubts.
After touring the world for three years, Mr. Rawat asked me to become president of Elan Vital, and I said Yes. I moved into a large house with 10 others in an exclusive part of Miami Beach, and all of us worked in his legal and financial office. I had a private bedroom with a real bed, a car, a generous expense account, a secretary, and more access to Prem.
Dinner was no longer in silence. I caught up on movies I hadn’t seen. I exercised more, drank non-alcoholic beer, wore expensive Italian suits and shoes (because Mr. Rawat did), and had a window into his private life. I was now close to the inner circle — and that circle was full of politics, drama, and privilege. I thought it would last forever, but it didn’t.
A few years later, I started to date my secretary, and our relationship became a physical one. I spoke with Prem about it, and he said I could continue as president but should refrain from teaching meditation. He believed his meditation instructors should be celibate.
I continued as president until Mr. Rawat downsized Elan Vital, laying off 100 people and closing all of his ashrams worldwide. It was a messy process and could have been done with much more care. He also began redefining his public image from an Indian guru to a global peace ambassador. For me, the transition was many years too late but necessary to be more culturally acceptable. The 70s were well over, and the average person who might be interested in meditation would likely never get past the idea of worshipping a guru who demanded devotion to him. I also couldn’t erase my memories of him in full Indian ceremonial garb, with a gold jeweled crown on his head, dancing on a massive stage in front of 10,000 devotees.
My secretary and I — we would eventually marry — were the last full-time staff to leave the house. I lined up a job selling business telephone systems. It was a bit of a shock: one day, I was the president of Elan Vital, and the next, I was a nervous salesperson knocking on doors in South Miami.
Life on the outside.
I was dead broke. No money, no savings, not even a bank account. I borrowed $2,500 from a friend and began to build a new life with my wife. This included buying a car, furniture, and renting a one-bedroom condo. I was adjusting reasonably well to life on the outside, except that for the first six months, I couldn’t sleep through the night.
The stress of having sales targets to meet each week ravaged me. As a result, I was a mental and emotional wreck, a person suffering from a massive identity crisis.
A year later, I learned that Prem would be speaking at an event in Miami. I found myself standing in line for tickets and then sitting in the back of the venue. No one noticed or cared. Whoever I had been 12 months earlier didn’t exist anymore. I had given my life to this movement for 10 years only to find myself just another follower, a stark reminder of what had always been the case.
In the years that followed, I struggled to find my foothold. My wife and I became parents. I stumbled through low-paid retail positions and found my way to other philosophies and ways of thinking. I spent hours in psychotherapy, found a path to heal many of the pains of my childhood, and was able to reconnect with my estranged father.
I started to play guitar again and began writing and recording songs. I got my ear pierced, got a couple of tattoos, and bought a Harley and a black leather jacket. I took long rides in the country and rode with the Vietnam vets down the freeway in Philadelphia.
I bought a Smith & Wesson Detective .38 special handgun — for no other reason than that I could. I got a permit to carry a concealed, loaded weapon and an underarm holster. I thought I was some kind of vigilante for a while. I wanted to do anything I couldn’t do when I was in the ashram. I learned a lot about myself and what I was capable of, and I learned about my flaws and limitations.
My career had become very successful; my wife, children, and I gave people the impression of the perfect American family. But, inside, I was struggling, and it manifested in self-destructive behaviors, including a short-lived affair and a prescription drug dependency. Eventually, my marriage came apart. The guilt about breaking up the family haunted me for years, even though the divorce was amicable, and we remained good friends. It didn’t stop until I could establish a new peaceful life of self-acceptance.
I wanted to integrate aspects of myself I had kept hidden for so many years — my insecurities, self-doubt, and risk-taking behavior. I realized that accepting them did not diminish my strengths and gifts but made me a more complete human being. As I did so, I became more forgiving of myself and others.
I thought about Prem — groomed to be a guru as a child, worshipped by millions at eight years old, and gaining vast power and wealth as a teenager. It was hard for me to imagine the psychology of being raised as a child god. While he had incredible gifts and talents, I began to see him as a person with imperfections, just like the rest of us.
Yet, my eyes opened even wider in 2001 when I read online blogs written by his closest advisor revealing more details about inappropriate behavior. And since then, more facts have emerged about his character that I found unacceptable for an alleged spiritual leader. I cut my ties with him completely.
Over the past few years, I’ve wondered how deep and long-lasting the psychological impact of worshipping another human being is, particularly when you’re as young as I was. I’ve wondered about my motivations to get so involved and the interplay of free choice and destiny. I’ve wondered how my beliefs about him were shaped. I’ve wondered how I can reclaim the personal power I gave away during the years I was at the ashram.
Apparently, the psychological impact does run deep because I’m 70 now, and I’m still dealing with it 50 years later. I’ve had to do my untangling, and it hasn’t been easy. Perhaps Prem has done his. Maybe that’s why he’s now a global peace ambassador and not the “Perfect Master” anymore.
Through the eyes of resolution.
Throughout my time with Divine Light Mission and Elan Vital, I saw some beautiful parts of our planet. In my 20s, I worked with people from many cultures and countries. I experienced first-hand that human beings everywhere want inner peace, whether they’re in a small village in Africa or in central Vienna. I developed the confidence and ability to speak in public, a skill that has served me well. I learned about service, humility, and kindness and made many lifelong friends.
I witnessed the great things people can accomplish when they have a shared purpose and mission. I learned about simplicity — and I learned that I don’t need much to live and be happy.
Of course, there was a price to pay for immersing myself as I did. I got a late start with my psychological maturity. I didn’t understand how to be in intimate relationships. I repressed my sexuality, which played itself out in a variety of unhealthy manifestations. I developed a spiritual ego and viewed spirituality through the narrow lens of life as a monastic, which has taken many years to dismantle.
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I have no regrets. The inner experience I had — and still have — is incredible. My life during those 10 years made me what I am today — flaws and all — and I wouldn’t change a thing. It was my path.
-Don Johnson
First published on Medium.com