Inside Scientology

by Janet Reitman

  Nieson Himmel recalled that Hubbard, on at least one occasion at the Parsonage, talked about his desire to start his own religion. Certainly many others had done it. During the 1920s and 1930s in particular, Los Angeles teemed with new or offbeat religions, from the Theosophists to the Mighty "I Am" to the Church of Divine Science and the yoga-inspired Vedanta Society. There were also many prophets in residence, notably the evangelist Aimee Semple McPherson, whose International Church of the Foursquare Gospel was one of the country's first mega churches—at its peak, McPherson's Angelus Temple in Echo Park attracted crowds of well over five thousand people, and it had its own Bible school, radio station, and publishing house, as well as numerous bands and choirs. It was also a lucrative business. H. L. Mencken once called McPherson "the most profitable ecclesiastic in America."

  As Hubbard kept scant records during this time, we will never know his precise ideas on the matter, nor what he might have learned or assimilated from Aleister Crowley's Thelema. But Hubbard would later refer to Crowley as a "good friend," even though the two never met. Seizing upon this statement, numerous critics of Scientology have tried to establish a definite link between Crowley and Hubbard; religious scholars, however, differentiate Thelema from Scientology, pointing out that unlike Thelema, Scientology does not believe in "sex magick" or in many other occult practices. But certain tenets of Scientology echo Crowley's belief system, including the emphasis on finding "who, what, and why" one is and the assertion that "suppressives" of various sorts are hostile to one's success. Similarly, Scientology, like Thelema, is drawn from the Western esoteric tradition, which is also true of faiths like Theosophy or Rosicrucianism, in which secret knowledge and secret levels of enlightenment are core principles.

  In September, Hubbard left the Parsonage and entered the Oak Knoll Naval Hospital in Oakland, California, to be treated for a recurrence of a duodenal ulcer. There, Hubbard would later claim, he healed himself of not just ulcers, but of war wounds that had left him "crippled and blinded."* He also, according to his later statements, did groundbreaking research into the workings of the human mind.

  No evidence of this research has ever been found in Hubbard's hospital file. Instead, his chronic ulcers gave the navy cause to discharge him. This was not welcome news, as the navy had provided Hubbard with a steady income, the first he'd ever had. He sent an anxious telegram to his superiors, trying to downplay the seriousness of his ulcer—"Have served at sea with present symptoms much worse ... without prejudice to duty and did not leave that duty because of present diagnosis," he said, imploring to be kept on—but it was to no avail. Two months later, on December 5, 1945, Hubbard was discharged from Oak Knoll and officially "detached" from the navy. Then, hitching a trailer to the back of his Packard, still dressed in his navy uniform, Hubbard drove south to Pasadena, where the next stage of his transformation awaited him.

  During the months that Hubbard was gone, Parsons immersed himself in the practice of magic. He was set on conjuring up a woman—he would refer to her as his "elemental"—to be his new mate. Parsons was pleased when his friend returned to the Parsonage and asked him to be his assistant during a prolonged ritual that Parsons called his "magical working." Hubbard agreed, and after several weeks of their combined efforts, Parsons claimed to have summoned his elemental, who appeared at his door a week later in the form of a very attractive young redhead named Marjorie Cameron (an artist, Cameron moved into the Parsonage almost immediately; soon after, the couple married).

  As for Hubbard, when he wasn't serving as the sorcerer's apprentice, he was holed up in his bedroom, contending with what appeared to be a massive bout of writer's block. Having purchased a new Dictaphone, which he hoped would help speed his productivity, he'd written reassuringly to his agent that he was about to experience "a flood of copy" over the next few weeks. "You will have to hire squads of messengers just to get it around and an armored car just to pick up checks," Hubbard said. But he spent day after day staring at the wall.

  It was during this period that Hubbard convinced Parsons that they should go into business together, with Betty as a silent third. The idea was to pool their resources in a venture called Allied Enterprises and then profit jointly off the "capabilities and crafts of each of the partners," on projects yet to be determined. Parsons put up most of the capital, investing nearly his entire savings of $21,000. Hubbard put in all of his money too—about $1,200—but his primary job was to come up with ideas.

  As their first venture, Hubbard suggested that Allied Enterprises go into the yachting business. He and Betty would withdraw $10,000 from the partnership's account and go to Miami, where they'd use the money to secure the boats. Then, he told Parsons, they would sail them back to California to be sold at a profit. Excited by the adventure of the business and confident that Hubbard's proficiency as a sailor and sea captain would stand them in good stead, Parsons readily agreed to the plan. Hubbard had meanwhile written to the chief of naval personnel,* requesting permission to leave the country in order to sail around the world collecting "writing material" under the patronage of Allied Enterprises. But Parsons had no knowledge of that proposal, and so it was that in April 1946, L. Ron Hubbard left Pasadena for Miami, spiriting away both Jack Parsons's onetime mistress and his money.

  Parsons finally began to worry when a month went by without hearing from his business partners. Chastened after several members of his household, and Aleister Crowley, warned him that he had been the victim of a confidence trick, Parsons flew to Miami in June, where he found that his fears were justified. Hubbard and Sara—she was called Betty only at 1003 South Orange Grove—had taken out a $12,000 mortgage and purchased the boats: two schooners, the Harpoon and the Blue Water II, and a yacht named the Diane. Now, having hired a crew with Parsons's money, they were preparing to sail away on the Harpoon. Quickly, Parsons secured an injunction to prevent them from leaving the country, and a week later, Allied Enterprises was formally dissolved. In exchange for Parsons's agreement not to press charges, Hubbard and Sara agreed to pay half of Parsons's legal fees and relinquish their right to the Diane and the Blue Water II. They were allowed to keep the Harpoon, which they ultimately sold, but they paid Parsons $2,900 to cover his interest in the ship. Parsons returned to Pasadena "near mental and financial collapse," as he said, and soon afterward sold 1003 South Orange Grove.* The era of the Parsonage was over.

  But the era of L. Ron Hubbard had just begun. L. Sprague De Camp, Hubbard's colleague in science fiction, had attended Caltech and knew Jack Parsons. De Camp was aware of Hubbard's friendship with the scientist and also knew of his most recent escapade in Miami. De Camp, skeptical from the beginning, saw in Hubbard's activities a familiar pattern. Sometime soon, De Camp predicted in a letter to Isaac Asimov, Hubbard would arrive in Los Angeles "broke, working the poor-wounded-veteran racket for all it's worth, and looking for another easy mark. Don't say you haven't been warned. Bob [Robert Heinlein] thinks Ron went to pieces morally as a result of the war. I think that's fertilizer, that he always was that way, but when he wanted to conciliate or get something from somebody he could put on a good charm act. What the war did was to wear him down to where he no longer bothers with the act."

  On August 10, 1946, L. Ron Hubbard, then thirty-five, and Sara "Betty" Northrup, twenty-two, were married (bigamously, as Hubbard had never bothered to get a divorce from Polly).* They settled into a small cottage in Laguna Beach, where Hubbard, nearly penniless, tried to resume his writing career. True to De Camp's predictions, Hubbard started filing claims with the Veterans Administration, hoping to increase his disability pension. He complained of numerous ailments, including psychological problems, and in one letter appealed to the VA to help him pay for psychiatric counseling. In that letter, dated October 15, 1947, Hubbard complained of "long periods of moroseness" and "suicidal inclinations"—symptoms that, in more recent years, might suggest a form of posttraumatic stress disorder. But he'd "avoided out of pride" seeking help, or even confiding in a ph
ysician, in the hopes that "time would balance a mind which I had every reason to suppose was seriously affected [by the war]." But now, having tried and failed to regain his equilibrium, "I am utterly unable to approach anything like my own competence," he wrote. "My last physician informed me that it might be very helpful if I were to be examined and perhaps treated psychiatrically or even by a psychoanalyst ... I cannot, myself, afford such treatment."

  The Veterans Administration responded by urging Hubbard to report for a physical and ultimately did increase his pension. But Hubbard, by all accounts, never followed through with psychiatric counseling. Instead, he chose a more independent path, quietly writing a series of personal "affirmations" in his journal. It was an experiment, as he said, to "re-establish the ambition, willpower, desire to survive, the talent and confidence of myself." It would also be the most revealing psychological self-assessment, complete with exhortations to himself, that he had ever made.

  In the affirmations, Hubbard confessed to deep anxiety about his writing as well as his struggles with impotence, which he blamed on steroid treatments he had received to treat his ulcers. He also acknowledged his compulsion toward lying and exaggeration. Despite frequent exhortations to the contrary, his war record, he admitted, was "none too glorious," but he added that he must be convinced that he suffered no reaction from any disciplinary action. His service was honorable, he affirmed.

  Hubbard's months under Jack Parsons's tutelage had led Hubbard to believe himself to be a "magus" or "adept," an enlightened, ethereal being who communicated through a human body. Since adepts exist on a higher spiritual plane than the rest of humanity, the standard rules of behavior, he reasoned, shouldn't apply to them. He could have anything he desired, Hubbard told himself. "Men are your slaves. Elemental spirits are your slaves. You are power among powers, light in the darkness, beauty in all."

  The affirmations went on for pages, as Hubbard repeatedly avowed his magical power, sexual attractiveness, good health, strong memory, and literary talent. He would make fortunes in writing, he affirmed. "You understand all the workings of the minds of humans around you, for you are a doctor of minds, bodies and influences."

  He would use his mind, in other words, to repair his soul. And soon, he would show others how to use their own minds to do exactly the same thing. "You have magnificent power," he wrote. "You need no excuses, no crutches. You need no apologies about what you have done or been.... You start your life anew."

  Chapter 2

  Dianetics

  EARLY IN THE WINTER of 1949, L. Ron Hubbard wrote to his literary agent, Forrest Ackerman, to tell him that he was preparing a manuscript of brilliance. The book would be so powerful, Hubbard joked, that a reader would be able to "rape women without their knowing it, communicate suicide messages to [their] enemies as they sleep ... evolve the best way of protecting or destroying communism, and other handy household hints." He wasn't sure what to title his book—perhaps something along the lines of Science of the Mind. "This has more selling and publicity angles than any book of which I have ever heard," he said.

  Soon after, Hubbard sent a letter to the American Psychological Association, hoping to interest its leaders in his discoveries. Having studied the theories of Sigmund Freud, he wrote, he had come up with a "technology" that could erase painful experiences from one's past that were buried in the subconscious, and also help a person relive his or her own birth. Hubbard, like the Freudian disciple Otto Rank, believed that the "birth trauma" lay at the root of many contemporary neuroses and psychosomatic ills. Unlike anyone else, however, he claimed to have engineered a cure for these ills, which he had used successfully on more than two hundred people. Hubbard offered the APA a paper on his findings. The society turned him down.

  The science fiction editor John Campbell was not nearly as dismissive. Urging Hubbard to visit him, he found Ron and Sara a cottage in the genteel New Jersey beach town of Bay Head, about an hour's drive from Campbell's own home in suburban Plainfield. A few weeks later, Hubbard arrived and offered his editor a demonstration of his techniques.

  Over the past several years, Hubbard had become a skilled hypnotist, though he never explained where he learned the technique. In Los Angeles, he had demonstrated his skills to science fiction colleagues, often wearing a turban while putting people under. His new technology had many of the classic elements of hypnosis: Campbell lay on his couch, closed his eyes, and counted to seven. Then, with Hubbard guiding him, he tried to recall his earliest childhood experiences in as much detail as possible: What were the sights, sounds, smells, and other feelings associated with each event? Had something similar occurred at a previous time? Campbell found himself not just remembering but sensing that he was actually returning to long-ago times and places to again experience particular incidents; after a few sessions, he'd traveled far enough back on the "time track" of his life to reexperience his own birth. Afterward, to his great surprise he found that his sinus condition, a chronic annoyance, was much improved.

  Convinced that Hubbard had made a truly groundbreaking discovery, Campbell eagerly began promoting Hubbard's work, alerting friends and colleagues in the science fiction world to an upcoming article on "the most important subject imaginable." "This is not a hoax article," Campbell wrote in his editor's letter in the December 1949 issue of Astounding Science Fiction. "It is an article on the science of the human mind, of human thought ... Its power is almost unbelievable."

  This was the first public mention of Dianetics, which Hubbard later explained was a combination of the Greek terms dia (through) and nous (the mind). Within a month, Walter Winchell, the powerful syndicated columnist of the New York Daily Mirror, had heard the rumors. "There is something new coming up in April called Dianetics," he wrote in his column on January 31, 1950. "From all indications it will prove to be as revolutionary for humanity as the first caveman's discovery and utilization of fire."

  Hubbard had by now a small circle of disciples. The "Bayhead Circle," as they would be known, was led by Campbell and included Dr. Joseph Winter, a Michigan physician and sometime contributor to Astounding who'd taken an interest in Dianetics after Campbell had told him that Hubbard had cured more than a thousand people with his techniques. "My response to this information was one of polite incredulity," said Winter. But he was sufficiently intrigued to visit Hubbard in New Jersey and also to submit himself to Dianetics therapy. Hubbard was then enlisting a number of his colleagues to give it a try, and, as Winter recalled, "the experience was intriguing." People went into a Dianetics session tense, depressed, and irritable; they'd come out cheerful and relaxed. Sometimes, while observing Hubbard use his techniques on another subject, Dr. Winter found himself experiencing sympathetic pain, exhaustion, or agitation. Winter also found that his memory greatly improved after Dianetics therapy. He was further impressed when his young son appeared cured of his crippling fear of the dark after a few sessions.

  The Bayhead Circle also included Art Ceppos, the head of Hermitage House, a publisher of medical and psychiatric textbooks; Campbell had enlisted him to publish Hubbard's new book. The group spent the next several months refining Dianetics theory and coming up with much of its scientific-sounding terminology. By the end of December, Hubbard had extracted a sixteen-thousand-word manifesto from his larger manuscript. Entitled "Dianetics: The Evolution of a Science," it ran in the May 1950 issue of Astounding Science Fiction. It bore an introduction by Dr. Winter, who described Dianetics as "the greatest advance in mental therapy since man began to probe into his mental makeup."

  On May 9, 1950, Hermitage House published Hubbard's book Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health. Weighing in at a hefty 452 pages, it opened with a dramatic statement: "The creation of Dianetics is a milestone for Man comparable to his discovery of fire and superior to his inventions of the wheel and the arch."

  Dianetics, which Scientologists often refer to today as simply "Book One," portrays the mind not as the mysterious, complex labyrinth that many scientis
ts made it out to be, but as a simple mechanism that works very much like a computer. Its main processor, called the analytical mind, is like Freud's conception of the conscious mind, in charge of daily events and decisions and the management of information: taking it in, sorting it, and filing it in the appropriate places. The mind also has a subprocessor, which Hubbard called the reactive mind. This tends to undermine the work of the analytical mind by promulgating system glitches, or "aberrations," which manifest as fear, inhibition, intense love and hate, and also various psychosomatic ills. Like the Freudian subconscious, the reactive mind is not capable of independent thought and in fact lies dormant until awakened by a jarring event: a moment of pain, unconsciousness, or trauma, the most significant of which is the moment of birth.

  Painful or traumatic moments are recorded in the reactive mind as lasting scars, which Hubbard called "engrams."* These, Hubbard asserted, are the source of many present physical and psychological problems. To get rid of them he advocated a new therapeutic process called "auditing." In an auditing session, a patient was led through a series of commands intended to call up the minute details of an engramatic incident. The first questions might deal with a recent problem—an illness or injury, perhaps. But with each request for "the next incident needed to resolve this case," the patient, lying on a couch, eyes closed, would become aware of incidents farther and farther back in the past, all the way to what Hubbard called the "basic-basic," or prenatal incident. Once that had been identified, the subject would be asked to "run," or reexperience, the incident numerous times until its impact was neutralized.

  This form of therapy was not new. In the late nineteenth century, Sigmund Freud and the psychoanalyst Josef Breuer had used similar techniques in their early treatment of hysteria, often hypnotizing patients to uncover buried memories and lead them to relive traumatic incidents, a process known as "abreaction" therapy. Freud ultimately abandoned it in favor of free association and, later, standard psychoanalysis. Carl Jung, another champion of abreaction, or what he called "trauma theory," also lost interest in the process, finding that most neuroses were not caused by trauma. "Many traumata were so unimportant, even so normal, that they could be regarded at most as a pretext for the neurosis," he'd later write. "But what especially aroused my criticism was the fact that not a few traumata were simply inventions of fantasy and had never happened at all."