i’d join a cult if they picked me first
an essay on Midsommar, loneliness, cult psychology, and the secret desire to be chosen—even by something dangerous
In plain terms: I am the most perfect victim for a cult.
In even plainer terms: I also don’t even care if it’s evil.
They could chop people up and throw them from bridges and I would likely think, Damn, that’s crazy, and walk off.
The fantasy of running on autopilot is the most appealing aspect. Or maybe my brain splits itself in two and I’m choosing to prioritize comfort and protection. Someone deciding what I eat, do, and think sounds quite nice.
Worried about finances? Money never seems to be an issue for a cult.
Worried about your diet? Most seem to be vegetarians anyway.
You’re not expected to be pretty in the traditional sense. I could let my body hair grow out, not wash my hair, and the cult would still decide on me.
The masses misunderstand Midsommar. I, as the ever-evolving and ultimately complex victim of my own life, understood Dani completely. She did nothing to earn their love and was accepted anyway. They acknowledged the depth of her pain and met her there, unafraid. And they displayed it (her boyfriend deserved it—I’ve seen the deleted scenes) and said it was okay.
And that’s the sales pitch, isn’t it? The fantasy isn’t the cool wardrobe or even the spiritual psycho-babble bullshit. It’s someone, anyone, looking at me—ugly me—and saying I’m exactly what they were looking for. With tears in my eyes, I would gratefully accept my fancy white robe. And then whisper to the person next to me, What do we believe in again? I wasn’t listening.
Going deeper—it’s the acceptance of the unfixable. I talk too much, too loud, swallow up the oxygen in the room and command attention. To a cult, this isn’t my Fatal Flaw. I wouldn’t need a decade of therapy or anti-depressants to attempt to fix what I feel like is broken. I wouldn’t need to reparent myself. I wouldn’t have to be a vessel for unbearable levels of shame.
Perhaps, for once in my life, someone could choose to love me and take care of me. And the only thing I needed to be was me.
I exist in the daydreams of my childhood. I float through the hallway of my middle and elementary schools and haunt them like a ghost. Isn’t it heartbreaking how someone has the power to ruin our lives before it even begins? Parents do as they please, friends pour salt in the wound, and we all extend forgiveness.
Everyone copes with What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger or My flaws make me who I am. But what if I don’t want to be me? What if I want to be a clean slate, an empty vessel? What if I only see the bad parts? I don’t see the good everyone else claims to see.
You spend your life wandering, wondering, Why am I so bad? The cruelest part? Everyone else makes sure they get what they need first. And they keep returning for more, as long as they know you’ll give it.
The image of myself is reminiscent of those carnival mirrors. Warped, hazy, and always shifting. But if the cult says I’m the chosen one, who am I to argue?
If this cracked something open in you, good. Me too.
💌 Find more essays like this under Girl on the Verge or Woman on the Cusp.
🌀 Start here if you’re new or just lost and spiraling gently.