Thought Control is a Slippery Clown Fish

Disclaimer: I believe in starting many of my cult-y church-y observations by telling a story that took place in the 1970s. Having lived through a time when kids would ride in the front seat of a car with no seat belts and the parent at the steering wheel could openly be drinking a martini while driving gives me a survivor cachet that’s hard to beat. Thank you for your attention to this matter, President of Coffee, Cults & Comedy, SS.

When my sister was 9 years old, my mother received an alarming telephone call:

“Rose! Your daughter and [name redacted for legal purposes because this woman was such a tyrant she would sue me fifty years later]’s daughter are in the alley and they are smoking!”

This was 1974 and although our wall phone had the longest cord in the neighborhood, much to the envy of my friends who had to conduct their preteen business in full hearing of nosy parents, it was not long enough to stretch all the way to the alley. Knowing that time was of the essence, Mom dropped the receiver where she was standing, yes, right there on the burnt orange shag carpeting next to the bright yellow bean bag chair and groovy beaded curtains, and hightailed it out of the house.

To say that she caught Danni and [name redacted as the daughter is the tyrant’s mini-me] in the act would be an understatement. My mother jogged up just as my sister was taking an epically harsh drag on an unfiltered Camel cigarette, filling her tiny 9-year old lungs with enough tar and nicotine to fell a full-grown man (e.g., my father, who was the pachyderm’s previous owner).

The evidence being utterly clear and non-negotiable, my mother shouted, “Danni! You’re smoking!”

My sister looked at her, dropped the cigarette on the ground, and said with preternatural calm, “No. I’m not.”

This thing is, Danni was not lying.

Technically, she wasn’t smoking in that particular millisecond, so she was able to state her truth without hesitation or even a glimmer of a guilty conscience.

This type of thinking was, and continues to be, mind-boggling to me.

Here’s a quick reframe of the story with my sorry ass cast in the starring role:

Mother says, “Shari! Are you smoking?”

Shari, who has one finger on the cigarette because she’s about to pull it away from a puffing pal to save her friend’s corporeal flesh and eternal soul, collapses to the ground and wails, “MEA CULPA!”

I know. I’m exhausting. (My sister agrees.)

Currently, in the Year of Our Lord 2026, I am learning about the ‘guilt complex’ that often goes hand in hand with ADHD. Emotional dysregulation, the ‘mistake gap’, and RSD (Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria) are hallmarks of the neurodivergent brain.

But in the Prehistoric Year of Our Lord 1990, every bit of this fell into the church’s bucket of “sin”.

If you’ve been reading my articles, perhaps you’re at the point where you’re questioning why I didn’t pick up on the red flags, push back on the arrogance, or just pull a Grandpa Alphonse and yell, “Motherfuckers, can’t you see that I’m just prayin’ for sanity over here?!”

Because thought control is a slippery clown fish (with apologies to Nemo and his Dad).

After the obnoxious “Word of God” bible study, I was considering bagging this whole thing and going into witness protection where Elfin Dervish and her Monotheistic Minions would never find me. But then… there was a sermon.

There was always a sermon.

This one centered on how we’d failed God in every way. That he saw our ugliness in the moments when no one else was around. That we personally put Jesus on the cross with our very beings. That we deserved nothing but condemnation for all of eternity. That Christ loved us despite ourselves and wow, that was good news, aka “gospel”.

Having never heard any of this before, not even in Catholic church, I started sobbing in the first thirty seconds and continued sobbing until the end of the sermon.

And continued sobbing during the two closing songs. And into the “fellowship” time. And when the brothers started moving chairs back into the chair racks but nervously let me stay in mine because I was doubled over in anguish. And when the maintenance guy finally told me I’d have to leave because the space was rented. And then in the bathroom where I put my head on the sink and keened while Sympathetic Sally patted my back awkwardly, unsure of how to deal with the roaring success of my full indoctrination.

In my mind, I finally had an answer for why I felt so guilty all the time.

I was a sinner.

I murdered Jesus.

But God loved me anyway.

I’d found “the truth”.

Now listen, obvi I’m not discounting that we should feel guilt over crappy decisions and selfish actions, nor am I religion-bashing for my own absolution. I definitely did some stuff that I’m not proud of to this day. But this wasn’t guilt.

It was shame, weaponized.

Whether the preacher actually believed his faulty message or instinctively used it to get butts in the (rented) seats was immaterial. The result was that my entire worldview shifted to my inherent evil, an evil so extreme that God himself had to die a violent death to mitigate it.

So, going forward, if you find yourself reading my story and slapping your head in a “doh!” manner because the manipulation is painfully obvious and comically outlandish, just remember that I was operating under the assumption of personal responsibility for the death of that sweet fella who healed lepers in 1960s movies.

In other words, I was caught holding the smoking Camel cigarette.

Next time on Coffee, Cults & Comedy, “Itemize That Sin List, Baby!”

Before you go, a recommendation! Nadine Templer graduated with (dis)honors from the same kooky church family as myself and she is a fierce advocate for those who have been harmed by the system. Love her to pieces.