When I was a teenager, during one of my bouts of depression, I wandered about the streets of Wilkes-Barre in tears. I felt unloved, unwanted and totally friendless. I wanted comfort, security, some form of relief from my misery. I was ripe and ready to be approached by a cult.
And I was. Several members of a cult known as “The Family” approached me and tried to convince me that they were my friends. I wanted them to be, but all I heard were the same empty promises that I heard on Sunday at the church I attended.
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