. . . One day my grandfather led me to a bookshelf and showed me volumes of his father's works. He said, "your mom says you want to be a writer. Well, don't believe everything you read, but
believe everything you say."
I never met the man who gave me my red hair, the manic depression still twisted in the strands of my DNA and the first time I saw a psychiatrist when he asked me if mental illness runs in my family, all I could say was "yes, yes, yes it does." When I told him my great grandfather was a cult leader that enslaved the minds of millions, he accused me of having delusions of grandeur.
What can I say? It runs in my veins.
I've been in secret to L Ron Hubbard Hollywood life exhibits where his latest victim leads me on a tour of a life he never led; my family written out of existence and this disciple will never know
the legacy of lies that I still carry in my last name.
DeWolf. A cover story to protect us from my great grandfather's true children, the army of empty who greet me in train stations with an e-meter and a personality test and they ask me if I've ever heard of
L Ron Hubbard.
And I want to ask them: "which one"?