In the last chapter, I mentioned being employed at Brynn Marr Psychiatric Hospital. While the work with clients was rewarding, the values and norms of the setting were not a good match. I then worked in two public mental health settings. The second one was Sampson County Mental Health Center. That lasted just about 9 months before I wanted to move into private practice.

I was able to complete all the requirements for licensure as a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) within the state of North Carolina before I left my employment at Sampson County Mental Health Center.

It was clear that whatever problems I had on the jobs at this agency or at Brynn Marr Psychiatric Hospital had nothing to do with how I performed with clients or patients.

During this time, I had sought feedback, counseling, support, and guidance from my colleagues. I had joined the local chapter of the Society for Clinical Social Workers which had regular meetings where I could interact with colleagues in a congenial setting where we got to share our ideas, request feedback on casework, and learn from one another.

It is through these meetings that I kept in touch with Chris Hauge who was a mentor of mine as I have mentioned previously.

I had approached Chris seeking advice on entering private practice because I looked up to him... I had known that he had kept a private practice for some time. He had been very supportive of my goals as they related to making a positive difference in the lives of others.

The Keys to Success and Accomplishments

As it turned out, Chris said that he was considering retirement and that he was cutting back his office hours. He offered to let me rent his office space at a certain rate per hour if and when I used the office. This was a very affordable way for me to find success.

I believe it was about $15 per hour - Chris wasn't using the office anyway during these hours. He told me the hours in which he used the office and when the office would be available. He shared an office with a partner - they had the main waiting room and reception area and two private office rooms where providers, like myself, could meet with clients.

If I had to build a private practice on my own, it could be challenging to get started. I would need to build a base of clients that would be paying every week for treatment with me. If you rent an office full time you have access to the building any time, day or night, but you pay a monthly rate to do this.

The cost to rent an office every month would be higher than the costs that Lynn and I were paying to rent our home - though her mother had been renting it to us and therefore we had gotten a great deal, a cheap rate for renting a home.

Chris gave me a key, introduced me to his partner and we discussed how I would record the hours in which I was going to use the office. He had a schedule I could consult to find out when the office was available.

There are so many things to consider when you are pursuing a career in this field and when you are seeking to work in private practice. As noted, I had to consider Professional Liability Insurance also called malpractice insurance, which are different names for the same thing. Chris needed to know that I had this coverage.

Billing is another issue. I had to file insurance claims for treatment with a client's insurance company or agency. So, I had to get registered with various insurance companies including Medicare.

I had contracted with someone to do the medical billing as well and I got a post office box (PO Box) for non-personal mail.

Having all my mail go to Chris' office didn't seem like something that I wanted to do yet. If I did not go to the office because I didn't have a client that day, then I might miss my mail that day. There was a place where I could get a PO Box close to our home.

It's great to have someone with whom you can consult when you are doing all these things and Chris was helpful in this regard as well.

Then I had to advertise in the newspaper and online. The internet was still a bit new in the late 90s, but I was able to create a website.

Other Advice That I Received from Colleagues

It's important to reflect upon the support I got from colleagues as well as the therapy or treatment that I had been receiving.

I became interested or curious to learn something about psychoanalysis and I began to study this formally from an organization that provides certification in psychodynamic/psychoanalytic therapy. The organization provided learning objectives, credits, coursework, as well as certifications for mental health and psychological professionals.

I would go and see Marjorie Israel, who worked out of her home. She was a clinical social worker like myself and I met her at those meetings.

Marjorie invited me to her home office. It was an interesting and scenic location. She had a nice yard with flowers and plants in a beautiful and serene garden with a curving sidewalk.

I would lay back on her couch and do free association or recount my dreams. It was reminiscent of Freudian psychoanalysis with the psychoanalyst and the couch. Marjorie said that she had to modify her approach since psychoanalysis traditionally had been done with a client coming four or five days a week for years.

Oh, I was paying her out of pocket, also. Lynn and I didn't have a great deal of money but she was supportive of me getting the guidance and support that I needed.

She also engaged in more talking than traditional psychoanalysis. 

While so much of psychoanalytic theory is hard to prove with research, I was interested in a technique where I would not be censoring anything at all. I was interested in making sure that I covered everything going through my mind – my motivations and hidden desires. I didn't want any issues from my past to interfere with my role as a therapist for clients.

It is so special that Lynn didn't ask me to work for a big agency that might offer "good insurance." We both knew that insurance wasn't the answer. She was born with a pre-existing condition. Even forcing insurance companies to cover pre-existing conditions is not a guarantee that we would need.

Starting My Practice

One of my counselors cautioned me that Wilmington was a saturated market, meaning there probably isn't a market for another psychotherapist in the Wilmington area.

I was going to prove him wrong, which would make him happy actually. I mean, he had my best interests in mind. He was speaking only about the market for therapists.

I did start to pick up clients rather fast. I had selected a few words to use in the advertisements as specialization areas that I hoped would be problems that people in the area had and/or things that interested me.  So, initially, I thought of advertising that I could help individuals who are dealing with anxiety, depression, eating disorders, and relationship issues. 

I had previously had problems with relationships which was manifested in the form of shyness, social anxiety, and social phobia. 

I added that I could use hypnosis to help with quitting smoking, weight loss, or other problems.

This seemed to work out well for me. I used a second phone number that rang at my home, but the location of where I was living was not revealed.

One guy started paying me out of pocket for weight loss.

Then I picked up a client who had relationship issues. He said that he was gay and asked if I could help. I reported that I could help. To me, relationships require active listening. So, I would demonstrate that in the sessions with the client and help him to learn how to increase his communication skills in the same way.

It's interesting that people in relationships that are non-traditional relationships will understandably want to know if we (the therapists) are comfortable listening to details about their intimate relationships.

Returning to the topic of psychoanalysis, we get terms like transference and countertransference from this field.

Transference is about how the client reacts to or responds to the therapist. It can relate to projection where a client projects onto the therapist ideas and feelings that exist in another relationship.

Countertransference is how therapists respond to the client and the client's behaviors. I was working on my own "issues" to ensure that none of my past was carried into the therapy sessions with others and would cloud my judgment. This was part of why I went for analysis with Marjorie.

Anyway, I also picked up a client who was dealing with major depression. Another issue that I was treating was anorexia. I had taken on a client who was in college and had come home with her family hoping to return to college later.

My client base was growing, and it was getting to the point that I needed more access to the office than what was available while renting from Chris. I also found that by paying a flat rate every month, I could save money.

Recognizing these accomplishments was amazing and a cause for celebration. So, Lynn and I went out to dinner at one of our favorite restaurants. Everything was amazing and a celebration was called for!

This has been an overview of the various types of clients I was seeing and the problems or issues I was treating. Later chapters will go into more detail so I will ask you to keep reading with me.

First, let's talk about family life so that you, dear reader, will know that I had another life outside the office. 

Graduating in May 1996 with my Master’s in Social Work should have been the climax of a long journey. But in truth, it felt more like a beginning. The real transformation—becoming a therapist, becoming myself—was just taking shape.

I accepted a position as a therapist at Brynn Marr Psychiatric Hospital, a locked inpatient facility in Jacksonville, North Carolina, not far from Camp Lejeune. It felt like a natural next step after my internship at The Oaks. I was no longer an intern. I was the therapist—one of two on the adult unit, responsible for half the patients under my care.

Leading therapy groups was a routine part of the job, and I accepted that without hesitation during the interview. The person who NEVER spoke in small classrooms at Georgia Tech was now agreeing to fascilitate therapy groups. But now? It felt like a culmination. Beginning four years ago, I had stood at open mics reading poetry to strangers, declaring my love for Lynn. Now, I was standing in hospital rooms, holding space for pain, for hope, for change. All eyes were on me. Whether the patients thought the group therapy would help was less important than the importance I placed upon my role.

Group therapy sessions happened multiple times a week. Patients could also request individual sessions. And they did. Often. That meant the world to me—not because I had the answers, but because people felt safe with me. I was no longer the shy, unsure young man who avoided eye contact. I was a therapist, and I was showing up for people in ways I once thought impossible.

And I never forgot that I didn’t get here alone.

Lynn’s support wasn’t just moral—it was foundational. She had walked beside me through my transition from engineering to social work, believing in me before I fully believed in myself. Every step of my success was built on the foundation of her steady love.

Not everything about the job was ideal. Brynn Marr was a for-profit hospital, and it quickly became clear that treatment was often dictated by reimbursement policies. One patient, Victoria—a woman with anorexia and suspected Borderline Personality Disorder - quickly exhausted her covered Medicare days. My supervisor wanted to discharge her, but in the mean time, waiting for a new placement, she would continue to see me for therapy. Not the other therapist. Me.

I couldn’t turn her away. She needed care, not just a referral. And when it became clear that the unit was becoming a hostile environment for her, and when my supervisor asked me, I told him: “Yes, I think this is a hostile and non-therapeutic environment for her.”

When she was confronted by multiple staff, I made sure to be at her side. Not to rescue her, but to stand beside her. To be someone consistent. Someone who didn’t flinch.

That’s what therapy often is—just staying with someone in the hard moments.

She was volatile at times, and the term “borderline” was thrown around like an insult. But I never stopped seeing her as a full person. She might storm out one day and return the next like nothing happened. That was okay. I stayed steady. And when she was told she had to attend therapy groups which were conducted by either me or the other therapist on the unit, Victoria stated emphatically, “Fine, I’ll go to Bruce’s groups and that’s it.” The other therapist was a woman with maybe 2 or 3 year’s experience.

One afternoon, that trust was still unfolding—Victoria and I were in session when the phone rang at my desk. The storm outside had intensified. Hurricane Fran was aimed with the eye of the storm coming right up the Cape Fear river where we lived in Wilmington.

It was Lynn.

“What are you doing?” she asked—not panicked, not pleading, but with that firm, unmistakable tone she used when something mattered.

“I’m working,” I said, as if that explained everything.

“You need to come home now!” she said, emphatically “The roads are flooding.”

There wasn’t time for her to explain anything else about her worries about me arriving home safely or her being alone. I couldn’t believe that some aspect of the indifference I had known growing up from my parents had influenced this entirely different relationship. She might have been firm but it was out of love and not convenience for her.

Her voice carried what my parents never did. When I was 18, about to go to college, my father told me to get rid of the fort built when I was a younger kid. The only reason it was still there when I was older was as another place to hide or a temporary home for my friend Paul. I had the crazy idea that I could just burn it down. So, in the middle of the summer, in the evening as darkness arrived, my friend Ken and I decided to burn it down. Talk about reckless and crazy! There was a propane heater inside with tanks of propane in there. Two of them had shot up like rockets missing Ken who was on the top dropping water that I brought from the stream.

There was something different about this memory. I had lost hope that I could put the fire out. I ran up to tell my father to call the firestation. He said “no,” probaby thinking about how I could get in trouble. He didn’t confront me for having the irrational idea of burning it down. On the one hand he might have been concerned about me getting in trouble but I had only known indifference from my mother and father. Without taking time to explain more about how out of control the fire was, I rushed back into the woods behind our house to keep bringing water from the stream to put it out. It’s tragic that I had to wonder about all the tangled ideas that I had back then that came rushing back. Was he confident I could put out the fire? It’s amazing the neighbors didn’t pitch in. Was it just too much for a stoic and indifferent father to cause his son to get in trouble?

Why am I interveaving this memory into my narrative? This is one of those few times when I can only hope that the reader can infer some meaning to this.

Twelve years later with a hurricane coming at Wilmington, I realized that I mattered and I felt something entirely different when Lynn told me to come home now! My decisions and choices took on a different meaning with Lynn. There was love.

I told Lynn, “I am leaving now.” And I added, softly and with tenderness, “I’m sorry.” And I meant it.

I turned to Victoria and said in a hurried tone, “I have to go home.” She had put two and two together in this rare instance of a therapy session being interrupted.

I left the hospital and drove through streets that were fast becoming rivers. Water rose up to the hood of my car. It was pure luck that I made it back without getting stranded. But love—not luck—is what got me to leave.

That was the moment I saw something I hadn’t fully understood until then.

This wasn’t just a job I’d chosen. This wasn’t just a career I had trained for. It was a life I was building. And someone was waiting for me in that life—not out of obligation, but out of love.

She was home, alone, afraid. And she needed me. Not just safe. With her.

I’d never known that kind of need before - not from my parents, not from anyone. But I knew it now.

And I wasn’t going to take it for granted.

By the time I entered graduate school in 1993, I had already spent nearly a decade preparing for the person I was becoming—not just professionally, but emotionally, socially, and spiritually. What began at age eighteen as a painful struggle with shyness and toxic shame had, through small but steady steps, transformed into something resilient, intentional, and deeply rooted in empathy.

It didn’t happen overnight. My career shift from engineering to psychiatric social work wasn’t just a change in job title—it was the culmination of years of internal and external labor. Long before I ever earned a paycheck for helping others, I had already been doing the work.

At Sherwood Village, a supportive housing complex for people with chronic mental illness, I spent weekends on call—providing emotional support, checking in on residents, helping coordinate group meetings and outings. Though I was technically staff, it often felt more like being part of a large, loving community. They trusted me. They felt seen. That kind of trust—the kind earned slowly, through empathy, consistency, and presence—became one of the greatest affirmations of my path. It wasn’t theory. It was real.

At Georgia Regional Hospital, and later The Oaks in Wilmington, I volunteered alongside clinical social workers who saw something in me and helped cultivate it. Chris Hauge, in particular, became a mentor who gave me real responsibilities—intake assessments, participation in therapy groups, and eventually, my second-year graduate internship. His approach, grounded in authenticity and experiential techniques, helped shape the kind of therapist I would become: transparent, emotionally present, and deeply human.

Graduate school itself was demanding—academically and logistically. I commuted long hours, worked weekends, and balanced internships with coursework. My first-year placement at the mental health center wasn’t a great fit—especially on the children’s unit—but even that taught me something: not every environment would be mine to thrive in, but every one could teach me something.

That year, I also worked with day treatment and homeless outreach programs. It was during that time I created a “street sheet”—a resource guide for people experiencing homelessness in Wilmington. Ironically, years later, I would be handed that very same sheet when I found myself in crisis. Life has a strange way of returning to you what you once offered to others.

By my second year, I had no doubt I was on the right path. At The Oaks, I finally felt fully alive in my work. I co-facilitated groups, led guided imagery sessions, practiced active listening, and slowly began offering brief individual therapy sessions. What astonished me most was how open patients were—how much they wanted to share when they felt truly seen.

I wasn’t perfect. I made mistakes. I stumbled through awkward moments and carried the weight of self-doubt. But I kept going. Because by then, I had learned something vital: showing up with empathy, honesty, and the willingness to learn is sometimes more powerful than having all the answers.

This chapter of my life—this decade of growth—wasn’t about finishing a degree or getting a title. It was about becoming someone I could respect. Someone others could trust. Someone who believed, finally, in the possibility of healing.

I had overcome more than shyness. I had crossed a threshold: from observer to participant, from anxious outsider to trusted guide. And I wasn’t just becoming a therapist.

I was becoming myself.

All of this could be a story in itself—the steady unfolding of who I was meant to be. I wasn’t just learning a profession; I was undoing years of silence, shame, and invisibility. I was continuing a journey that had begun at eighteen, in the quiet refuge of weekly counseling sessions at Georgia Tech. For five years, with the same therapist, I explored what it meant to live fully, to speak my truth, to grow. And that same energy carried me through these transformative years—from volunteer, to intern, to someone who had earned a place at the table, not by pretending to be someone else, but by finally becoming who I was always meant to be.

In an earlier chapter, I described the most meaningful accomplishment of my life: building a family with Lynn. As husband and wife, we were a family in every way that mattered.

But long before I could meet someone like Lynn—let alone be ready for the kind of connection we shared—I had to become someone else entirely. I had to grow.

During college, I spent five years trying to overcome what I once called “shyness,” but what I now recognize as social anxiety and a severe lack of interpersonal skills. The person I was at eighteen could barely hold a conversation, let alone navigate the emotional landscape of love, intimacy, and healing. To even meet Lynn, to express my interest in her, required a set of relational and emotional skills I hadn’t yet developed when I entered college.

Ironically, I was preparing to be a social worker even while studying engineering at a school that didn’t even offer a degree in social work. I just didn’t know it yet. It wasn’t until much later that I recognized those years as a time of transformation, not just academically but psychologically and spiritually.

As I mentioned earlier, engineering was never a good match for me. But in high school, no one gave us aptitude tests. No one sat down to ask what kind of life might suit us. So, I did what seemed practical. What was expected. What sounded respectable. It wasn’t until I was immersed in therapy and taking elective courses in psychology that I began to see another possibility.

Psychology changed my life. Therapy saved it. And somewhere along the way, I realized I wanted to offer that same possibility to others.

When I moved to Wilmington in 1992, I was still finding my way professionally. I had accepted a six-month contract at Corning as a technical writer, but I was actively looking for opportunities in the mental health field. That search led me to The Oaks, the psychiatric hospital affiliated with New Hanover Regional Medical Center.

It was there that I met Chris Hauge, DSW, LCSW—a social worker and mentor who would become instrumental in my development. Chris supervised me during my second internship, helped me get started in private practice, and remained a professional touchstone for years. His influence was profound, not only because of what he taught but because of how he modeled authenticity.

At The Oaks, I started as a volunteer, but the work was anything but superficial. Chris assigned me to help complete intake assessments—detailed interviews that formed the foundation for diagnosis and treatment. He asked me to make diagnostic impressions before reviewing the psychiatrist’s notes, encouraging me to trust my observations and clinical reasoning. This practice, rare for a volunteer, deepened my understanding of mental health and validated my ability to contribute meaningfully—even before I began formal graduate training.

What stood out to me most was how Chris created space for authenticity. In his groups, staff were encouraged to be genuine—to respond not just clinically, but humanly. If a patient expressed feelings of worthlessness, the expectation wasn’t to retreat behind neutrality. It was to meet them with presence. Even something as simple as noticing and naming a patient’s strength could be part of the work. That kind of honesty wasn’t just permitted—it was modeled.

It might sound obvious, but in many clinical environments, that kind of openness is rare. Years later, I would encounter professionals who treated empathy like a liability—who worried that affirming a client too directly might be crossing a line. But back then, with Chris, I learned that healing could happen through relationship. Through realness. That was the kind of therapist I wanted to become.

When I returned years later for my internship, I saw even more clearly how the information gathered by clinical social workers often surpassed what the attending psychiatrists had available. Yet, in some later settings, I would find that physicians didn’t always want to hear those insights. There’s a hierarchy in medicine that doesn’t always leave space for the voices of those outside it. Still, I held onto what I had learned: that deep listening, careful attention, and compassionate presence could offer more than a title ever could.

At The Oaks, I was invited into the work in a way that felt real and urgent. There was no busy work, no meaningless tasks to “keep the volunteer engaged.” I had a key to an office where I could meet with patients privately. I sat in on group sessions. I helped complete required documentation. I saw the systems, and I saw the people inside them.

And I saw myself, more clearly each day, becoming who I was meant to be.

It wasn’t just about knowledge or training. It was about alignment—about discovering a life where my values, my skills, and my sense of purpose finally lined up.

I had been through the fire. I had faced self-doubt, shame, and misdirection. But I had emerged with something unshakable: a sense of who I was, and what I was here to do.

Helping others wasn’t just something I wanted to do—it was something I needed to do. It made life meaningful. And it gave me the kind of satisfaction that no paycheck or title ever could.

And so, I moved forward—no longer doubting whether I belonged, but knowing that I did.

Looking back now, I can say with absolute clarity: I was on the right path. I hadn’t just found a career.

I had found my calling.

Before I could become the therapist I was meant to be—or the partner I would become with Lynn—I had to unlearn a great deal of what I thought I knew. Not about others. About myself.

By the mid-90s, I had built something beautiful with Lynn: a home, a deep bond, a shared life. But to understand how I got there, we need to rewind several years. Back to a version of myself that still wasn’t sure I was even allowed to choose my own path. And indeed, I had not even imagined a career in a helping profession when I first started college 1984 with no social skills. The person I was when I started college at 18 would have never imagined the career path I would later pursue.

I had learned so much in college about myself and how to overcome problems that I had when I entered college at 18. The problems at the time seemed to be limited to social anxiety or shyness.

I graduated from Georgia Tech in December 1989 with a degree in engineering—an achievement, on paper. But I’d known for at least two years that I was in the wrong field. I didn’t need a career in formulas and machines. I needed a life that made sense emotionally, spiritually, interpersonally. I needed to be with people, not things.

I had broached the idea of changing majors with my parents. The answer was clear: finish what you started. There was no room for nuance. No consideration of what it might mean to shift directions after investing years in the wrong path. So, I stayed the course. I got the degree. And quietly, I made other plans.

Even then, I knew I wasn’t going to be an engineer. I had already started taking psychology courses, minoring in the subject. I had spent five years in weekly therapy, learning more about myself than I ever did in any lecture hall. I had asked myself the hard questions: Who am I really? What matters to me? What do I want my life to be about?

And I had my answer: I wanted to be a therapist.

When I moved home after graduation, it wasn’t to rest. It was a strategic step. I needed experience in the mental health field—volunteer hours, recommendation letters, something to prove that this new path wasn’t a whim but a calling. I started volunteering at Georgia Regional Hospital, learning from the social work team and quietly confirming that this was the right place for me.

My parents never asked what I was doing. They didn’t ask what I wanted. I wasn’t expecting applause, but I had hoped for something—curiosity, encouragement, a glimmer of pride. What I received instead was silence. Or worse, judgment.

Decades later, my sister would say that I “didn’t do things the right way”—that I owed it to my parents to work as an engineer first before switching fields. As if my life were some kind of debt to be repaid. As if they had invested in me only for the return, not for the person I had become. She said I should’ve worked while getting my graduate degree at night, as though I could simply moonlight my way through a career change that required daytime internships, full-time training, and a complete reorientation of my skills and identity.

The ideas my sister shared just a few years ago were already implied way back in the early ’90s. I just hadn’t let it sink in. I hadn’t yet grasped the full depth of what it meant to be raised in a household where your inner world—your interests, your desires, your truths—didn’t matter.

It was my mother’s voice I heard the most, reminding me that what I wanted was irrelevant. That my dreams were a burden. That my worth was in what I produced or how it made them look, not who I was or what mattered to me. I felt like I was something they wanted to show off - something that they created and not a human being with my own preferences, desires, likes and dislikes, interests and values.

I wasn’t their child so much as their project—something to sculpt, to display, to prove they’d done something right. But I wasn’t a trophy. I was a person. And I wanted to be seen as one

And what made it all the more surreal was that my father—years earlier—had admitted to me that he knew engineering wasn’t the right field for me. He had seen it. He had known. And he said nothing. He had never said anything that could be interpreted as disagreement with my mother. It’s one of the many mysteries of our household: Did he agree with her? Did he simply defer? Did he believe his silence was love?

All I know is that in our home, disagreement didn’t happen. Not openly. Not safely. And now, looking back, I can see just how much that silence cost me.

This reminds me of the many disagreements Lynn and I navigated—openly, honestly—without it ever threatening our love for one another. The contrast is staggering.

Looking back now, I realize that what I needed from my family wasn’t financial support. I found my own way to pay for graduate school through Stafford Loans, as many students do. What I needed was interest. Respect. A sense that my future, and my happiness, mattered.

But it didn’t. Not to them.

And that’s what toxic shame does. It teaches you that your needs are unreasonable. That your dreams are indulgent. That wanting something different, something better, something more you, is wrong. Even when your body tells you otherwise. Even when every cell in your being knows you’re meant for something else.

I didn’t ask them to finance my new path. I didn’t eat much. I didn’t take up space. All I needed was room to grow. But even that was too much.

And yet, I grew anyway.

I got the experience I needed. I volunteered. I made connections. I applied to MSW programs with clarity, confidence, and conviction. And when I stepped into my first graduate-level class, I didn’t feel out of place.

I felt like I had finally arrived.

Every client I’ve ever helped owes something to that younger version of me—the one who didn’t give up. The one who refused to live someone else’s life. The one who found the courage to begin again.

And Lynn—she saw all of that. She believed in it. She walked alongside me not just as a partner, but as a witness to my becoming.

That, too, is part of this love story.

This section begins at a moment of triumph—my graduation from the University of South Carolina’s School of Social Work. After twelve years of striving, struggling, and sacrificing, I had finally reached the threshold of my chosen profession. I was no longer just pursuing a dream—I was living it.

For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to help others. Not in a vague or idealistic sense, but as a real, tangible act of service. And now, at last, I had the tools, the training, and the title to do just that.

I was passionate. Motivated. Relentless. The obstacles I’d faced along the way—shyness, insecurity, financial setbacks, emotional wounds—had not stopped me. They had shaped me into the kind of therapist I wanted to be: present, attuned, and deeply human.

But let me be clear—this work was never about me.

It was about the clients. The patients. The people who sat across from me in moments of crisis, confusion, or quiet desperation. My job was to meet them where they were. To resonate with their experience. To walk beside them—not ahead, not behind—with empathy and humility.

And when I say empathy, I don’t mean sympathy or detachment. I mean feeling with. If a client found peace, I felt it too. If they laughed, I laughed with them. If they hurt, I held that pain—not as mine, but as something sacred I had been entrusted to witness.

At the same time, I had to stay grounded. I had to hold my center. Because therapy is a delicate dance—mirroring without merging, attuning without absorbing. You learn to feel alongside someone without losing your own balance. That’s the art. That’s the calling.

All of this—this emotional labor, this healing work—was the backdrop to my life with Lynn.

We were building something beautiful together: a home, a rhythm, a love that felt both ordinary and extraordinary. But while Lynn was the heart of my life, being a therapist became the structure around it. My career didn’t define me—but it held me steady, even as deeper storms were gathering on the horizon.

This section will explore those years—years when I was finally doing what I had set out to do. When I believed I had found my purpose. When I was helping others heal, even as unseen fractures were beginning to form beneath the surface of my own life.

Let’s begin.

It’s amazing how much the silhouette in the photo that I found to include with this chapter of the book looks just like Lynn.

But before I share the story of our engagement, I want to go back to a moment that perfectly captures the spirit of who we were—a couple rooted in poetry, playfulness, and a love so deep it sometimes caught us both by surprise.

I had written a poem for her. That wasn’t unusual—I often wrote love poems—but this one was different. It had a dreamlike quality, inspired by both the Song of Songs from the Old Testament and a psychedelic 60s song by The Electric Prunes called “I Had Too Much To Dream (Last Night).”

We were at one of our usual Sunday night poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center. It was late May 1994, nearly two years since we started seeing each other. The sun had sunk low, casting the room in golden dimness. Dusty, our beloved emcee, had turned on the soft lamp at the podium. It felt intimate, almost sacred.

I got up to read, not telling Lynn in advance what I was about to share. I wanted it to be a surprise. A public declaration of love.

Here’s what I read:

Dreamlike Visions

In this dreamlike vision
I lay in her lap,
while her golden hair
flows in the gentle wind,
on the beach.

Is this real?
I reach up to touch her
but she is gone... gone... gone
and I am laying on the sand.

Looking skyward I see her
in a vision.
She searches for me,
calling my name, saying,
"I am his and he is mine."

I try to get back
to find her
and that infinite beach
where we would walk hand-in-hand
or lay on the sand
holding each other
together
forever.

The vision –
the dream –
(incomplete)
the love
never ends...

the dream never
ends.

Even now, those words move something in me. At the time, I was still a Christian. Lynn was agnostic but open to the supernatural. I, on the other hand, have since become an atheist—one who still aches to believe. Back then, I wrote from that place of yearning and wonder, of faith intermingled with desire.

The song that partly inspired the poem had lyrics full of longing, of presence that slips away with the dawn. Though it was featured in a horror film, I was drawn to its haunting beauty—the way it captured the way love can feel like a dream, so vivid and intense, you ache when it's over.

At the end of my reading, the applause washed over me like a wave. People smiled and stopped me as I walked back to my seat. It was obvious what and who the poem was about.

But then came one of the most human, hilarious moments of that night.

I sat down next to Lynn, proud and quietly emotional. One of our mutual friends leaned over to compliment the poem. I turned to Lynn and whispered, “Well? What did you think?”

She looked at me, a bit startled. “What?”

“I mean... the poem.”

“Oh,” she said, her cheeks beginning to flush. “I wasn’t listening. I thought you were just reading something I’d already heard.”

There was a pause. I just smiled, shook my head.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” she added quickly, clearly embarrassed. “Let me read it now.”

I handed it to her. As she looked down, I leaned in, gently placing my hands on either side of her face, our lips meeting in a quiet kiss—slow, affectionate, full of amusement and intimacy. There were others around, so we kept it brief. But it said everything.

“It’s okay,” I said softly. “You know I really love you.”

“I love you too, honey,” she replied, eyes still smiling.

She read the poem then. Really read it.

And from that moment forward, it became a kind of inside joke between us. I’d tease her, saying things like, “If I ever pour my heart into a love poem, I hope Lynn’s listening.”

She’d laugh. And in time, she made it more than right. On nights when she hadn’t brought something of her own to read, she would ask me if I had that poem. And then she would read my poem—our poem—at the mic. I lost track of how many times that happened.

There was something magical in that gesture. She made my words her own. She carried them, shared them, honored them.

Just like she did with my love.

We didn’t plan a wedding at the same time we planned to get engaged—though of course, it was implied. Those details could wait. For now, it was about the promise. The meaning. The declaration that we were choosing each other, not just in feeling, but in the form of a ring.

We talked about what it meant to be engaged. For us, it wasn’t a performance. It was a lifetime commitment to live as husband and wife. It felt natural. It felt right. And yet, it also felt astonishing.

Words like amazing and wonderful get used so much they almost lose their meaning. But not here. Let me tell you what actually happened.

We went to the mall to look for a ring. Lynn was practical, as always. She reminded me we didn’t need anything flashy. We weren’t rich. A big diamond didn’t matter. “About two hundred dollars,” she said, matter-of-factly - it was her practicality that mattered. Since this was about us, we were going to be dealing with shared finances. So, I had to do what she knew to be what we could afford.

Still, I was nervous. Butterflies-in-my-stomach nervous. My heart was racing. I kept thinking, This is real. This is happening. I’m not dreaming.

They measured her finger. She chose the ring.

“Are you sure?” I asked, my voice catching a bit.

“Yes,” she said, turning to the salesperson with a smile. “Let’s get this one.”

The woman nodded. “Your fiancé can pick it up on Monday.”

Your fiancé. That was the first time I heard it out loud.

Monday came, and it felt strangely ordinary.

I arrived at her place on Wrightsville Beach with the small bag in hand. Lynn was upstairs.

She entered the room just as I was reaching into the bag.

“I want to…” I began, lifting the box, ready to open it. But I froze at what I was seeing.

Her eyes welled up with tears before I could finish the sentence.

She knew I was bringing the ring—she’d heard the woman at the store say, “your fiancé can pick it up on Monday.” But the emotion on her face—it wasn’t expected. It wasn’t rehearsed. It stopped me cold.

I didn’t finish the sentence. I couldn’t. I just looked at her. I held the box in one hand and reached toward her with the other.

We moved together like magnets. Her arms wrapped around my neck, her cheek pressed to mine, her whole body trembling slightly as her tears touched my skin.

I whispered, “Do you want to put it on?”

She nodded, still speechless.

I slipped the ring onto her finger. And for a second, we just stood there.

Then she kissed me—deeply, hungrily. Her hands cupped my face. Mine moved around her waist. We didn’t speak—not right away.

There was only the heat of her body pressed against mine, her tears mingling with our breath, her legs wrapping around me as I lowered us gently onto the bed.

My arm slid under her shoulders. Her heart was racing. So was mine.

“I’m in love,” I whispered.

“I love you so much,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

It was—without question—the most joy I have ever felt. Not because she said yes. But because she showed me something deeper: that I could bring her such joy.

My legs went weak.

I lifted her slightly, cradled her, and let us both fall back onto the bed. Her body melted into mine. My arm slipped around her shoulders, hers wrapped tight around my back.

Her heartbeat was loud against my chest. Her lips pressed harder to mine. I could feel the dampness of her tears on my cheek, her breath against my skin, the way our bodies moved together—like music, like ritual.

“I’m in love,” I said again, more to myself than to her.

“I love you so much,” she repeated, as if it needed no further explanation.

Nothing in my life has ever come close to the joy I felt in that moment. I had made someone that happy. Her. Lynn. The love of my life. And her joy was so pure and obvious.

She kissed me again—this time with hunger, with urgency. Like she had waited her whole life for this moment and didn’t want it to end. Her fingers gripped my back, my shoulders, my face, like she was trying to anchor herself to something solid, something real.

Later, we sat on the back porch above her kitchen—half a floor up from the surf and sand of Wrightsville Beach. She was on the phone with her mom, Diane.

I barely heard the conversation. My eyes were fixed on her, the light catching her hair, the ring glinting on her finger. And in that quiet, I just sat there, overflowing with awe.

That was the moment. Not the ring. Not the kiss. Not even the words.

I had not known that love could be so amazing and such a powerful experience.

It was the knowing. The knowing that we were building a life together—one full of creativity, practicality, tenderness, and shared dreams.

This wasn’t fantasy. This was commitment. Real. Mutual. And even now, all these years later, that moment still feels like the best single moment in my life.

During our first two years together, Lynn and I didn’t have “dates” in the traditional sense. There were no grand romantic gestures planned weeks in advance. We didn’t say, “let’s go on a date.” After the early weeks—when I sometimes wondered whether Lynn actually wanted to spend time with me—we simply fell into a rhythm. We did everything together. Naturally. Easily.

Without needing to define it.

She wasn’t working full-time then—I’ll explain more about that later—and I was putting in at least forty hours a week. We came to know each other's rhythms. Each day, we’d check in with a simple, “What do you want to do today?”

On Sundays, we went to poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center. Sometimes we’d stop by on other days just to see Dusty, the emcee. We wandered through events downtown, walking beside the Cape Fear River, enjoying the simple comfort of being near each other.

Our social circles were nearly the same. I had gone to the poetry readings initially just to meet people—and that’s how I met Lynn. Many of our friends came from that world, including one of my closest—Thomas Childs. Like Lynn, he had a degree in English.

There were other poetry events we’d attend—like the big reading in Carolina Beach I mentioned earlier. And while I was still technically a paraprofessional, I was starting to form connections with people in the mental health and developmental disabilities field. Those connections would eventually open doors for me professionally, even if they weren’t friendships in the truest sense.

Lynn made acquaintances through her pottery—her creative outlet and her joy. She crafted colorful jewelry, plates, bowls, cups, and hanging planters. Pottery exhibits and seasonal events gave her chances to connect with others, though few of those relationships became close friendships.

Looking back, there’s one moment from those early months that stands out. A moment that revealed just how much I was still carrying—the fear, the insecurity, the quiet ache that had followed me from childhood.

It was April 1993, just shy of our one-year mark, at the Azalea Festival. Lynn was working the Art Center’s pottery booth, and I had come by hoping to spend time with her. But she was occupied—rightfully so—and I was left to wander the festival alone.

I remember walking past food trucks, craft stands, couples laughing and sharing ice cream. The day was warm, the park alive with spring. And yet, I felt strangely adrift. I hadn’t yet experienced what I now understand to be earned secure attachment—the kind that forms when a healthy, loving relationship helps heal the wounds of early neglect or abuse.

Lynn wasn’t rejecting me. She wasn’t ignoring me. She was just busy, doing something she loved. But the old story I carried—the one that said you’re always the extra person, the outsider—echoed loud in my mind. I wasn’t used to being claimed, to feeling fully wanted, and in that moment, surrounded by joyful couples and families, I felt like I was back in the shadows again.

That loneliness didn’t last, but it left an imprint. It reminded me that while I was healing, some pieces of my past still had a hold on me.

Later that year, around Halloween, we took a haunted tour of Wilmington. Just the two of us. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I loved the mystery of it—the way the historic town seemed to breathe in shadows and flickering lanterns. We walked side by side, her hand in mine. There was a quiet magic in it. That night, I didn’t feel like an outsider. I felt like I belonged.

We had our favorite restaurants. For casual nights, we’d go to P.T.’s for burgers and seasoned fries. For something special—like Valentine's Day—it was always our favorite sushi place. Our rituals became part of the rhythm of our relationship.

Each December, we went to a Christmas party hosted by someone from Lynn’s pottery class. I didn’t know the people there, and the first time I wasn’t sure how she’d introduce me. But by the second year, there was no doubt—I was her boyfriend. And that label, that place in her life, felt more than good. It felt earned.

That night, I remember wrapping my arms around her waist as she chatted with someone, feeling both proud and slightly out of place. She placed her hand over mine—grounding me, letting me know I wasn’t alone.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” I said. And I was. Because she was with me.

Even then, even months into our relationship, I was still discovering what it meant to be loved without question, without having to prove anything. To be claimed—not just in private, but in public. To feel seen.

That Azalea Festival moment in April had shown me how far I still had to go. But moments like this—her hand over mine, her smile, the easy way she introduced me—showed me how far I’d already come.

There’s more to share, of course. But that early experience—the loneliness I carried into the sunshine of a crowded festival, and the quiet safety I would later feel beside her—reminds me how healing happens not all at once, but in gentle, repeated gestures.

In being chosen again and again, until you finally start to believe it.

Seeing Lynn’s Dreams – And Letting Go of Old Expectations

As I reflect on how deeply Lynn became the center of my world, it feels only right to turn toward hers—her aspirations, her values, her quiet defiance of the narratives so many of us are handed.

She never lacked ambition. But her ambition didn’t follow conventional rules. It wasn’t about money or titles or status. And I admired her all the more for that.

Many of our friends in the poetry scene had degrees in English. A few had studied other subjects, but most had pursued literature not because it guaranteed a high-paying job, but because they loved language. In America, where we’re taught to equate education with income, an English degree is often dismissed as impractical. Lynn didn’t care about that.

By the time I fell in love with her, I had grown deeply weary of that kind of judgment. If someone had questioned her path—or her poetry—I would have spoken up. Maybe in the past, I wouldn’t have. But things were different now.

Her confidence was infectious. She had a favorite phrase she used when something crossed a line: “That’s unacceptable.” I wish I could recall a specific moment she said it—maybe it was in response to something I said offhand. But what mattered was the clarity in her voice. She didn’t let things slide. And slowly, I began to do the same. I stopped absorbing criticism as if it were deserved. I stopped apologizing for who I was.

To be clear, neither of us was putting the other down. We had left that kind of treatment behind. I had known what it felt like to be belittled, to be criticized without compassion. But now, I was starting to embody the same firmness with my parents that I had first seen modeled in Lynn.

Before Lynn, I hadn’t always known how to speak up—even when someone hurt someone I loved. I remember holding back when it came to Celta. I hadn’t yet learned how to defend someone without fear. And while I was still living at home, I wasn’t in a position to reject insults or challenge my parents. But with Lynn, I found my voice. And I made it known—any insult toward her, her choices, or her creativity would be met with unwavering resolve.

We weren’t building a life like the one I grew up around. I had been raised to believe the man should lead, provide, and decide. That would never have worked with Lynn. And the truth is, I didn’t want it to.

There were also practical realities shaping her decisions. Lynn had Cystic Fibrosis, which meant ongoing treatments, daily medications, medical equipment, and the ever-present need for reliable health insurance. She qualified for a state insurance program designed for people with CF, but it came with strict income limits. Even if she had chosen a more "practical" degree or job, she couldn’t earn above a certain amount without losing the coverage that kept her alive. She worked part-time, not because she lacked motivation, but because she couldn’t afford to gamble with her health.

And yet, she dreamed. She talked about going back to school for a Master of Fine Arts in poetry, like our friend Jean Jones. Jean wasn’t using his degree to teach or publish in elite journals—but that wasn’t the point. He pursued his art because he loved it. That kind of integrity spoke to both of us.

Lynn didn’t write poetry to impress anyone. She wrote and shared because of the passion for poetry and the written word that she shared with me. When she stepped up to the mic at poetry readings, she wasn’t performing. She was sharing something personal, something sacred, in her own time, in her own way.

We honored each other’s dreams. We created space for one another’s creativity. For me, the dream of love and marriage had always burned quietly, sometimes with desperation. For her, the relationship blossomed more unexpectedly—but just as powerfully.

That’s not to say everything was perfect. We argued, of course. Sometimes about ideas, sometimes about nothing. The small things that didn’t matter. The big things that did. When I said something that hurt her—when I got careless with my words—I knew it. And I apologized. Quickly. Sincerely. I never wanted space to grow between us.

The truth is, I don’t remember what most of our arguments were about. And maybe that’s the point. What we had wasn’t fragile. We disagreed, but we came back together. We listened. We learned. We made amends.

From Shyness to Celebration: The Joy of Being Seen

Before Lynn, I had never really thought about giving gifts as an expression of love. But during our first year together—especially after the evening she asked if we were more than friends, and I responded with “I love you”—everything changed.

From that moment on, saying “I love you” became as natural as breathing. We said it often—sometimes multiple times a day.

Lynn might’ve joked that I was more impulsive in the romance department. I was usually the first to say it. She leaned more toward endearments—sweetie, honey—while I simply called her “Lynn,” which, in retrospect, feels like something I should’ve done differently. Still, I never held back how I felt.

We were affectionate in public, too—something I’d never imagined being comfortable with. But Lynn brought that out in me. She’d take my hand, sit on my lap, rest her head on my shoulder. Her touches were playful and intuitive, never showy or awkward. She knew what felt good to me, and I felt safe returning the gesture.

By Valentine’s Day, I wanted to give her something special. I walked into a grocery store to buy roses—the first time I had ever done that. It might seem like a small thing, but for me, it was monumental. I didn’t just want to pick out flowers. I wanted to be seen picking them out. I was the kind of person who used to shy away from attention, who kept emotions tucked away like secrets. But that day, I wanted the world to know.

I approached an employee and said—loud enough for others to hear—“Hi, I need roses for my girlfriend.” I wanted them to know. I wanted to say it out loud.

“For the card,” I added, “maybe something that says ‘I love you.’ I’ll sign it, ‘To Lynn. Love, Bruce.’”

And when she said I could pay at the register, I thought, Perfect. More people would see me walking through the store, roses in hand. More strangers would witness that I had someone. That I was loved, and that I loved someone fiercely in return.

That day, I felt like I was ten feet tall.

Later, I went to a jewelry store, not sure what to buy, but sure of one thing: I wanted to say it out loud again.

“I need a gift for someone I love—my girlfriend.” That declaration, made to a total stranger behind the counter, was thrilling.

She asked if Lynn preferred silver or gold. “Silver,” I answered. I didn’t hesitate. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I just wanted to find something she’d like.

Another clerk joined in to help, and we finally found a piece that felt just right. My face must’ve given everything away. I wasn’t hiding anything anymore.

Before Lynn, I would’ve kept that kind of thing quiet. I would’ve bought a gift silently, tucked it away in a bag, and slipped it to someone in private. But now, I wanted the world to know. My love had changed me. I didn’t want to be invisible anymore.

Being a couple wasn’t just a milestone. It wasn’t just a stage of life I stumbled into. It felt sacred. Miraculous. Surprising.

What we had wasn’t routine. It didn’t look like the marriages I’d seen growing up. It didn’t follow the patterns I’d always heard it should follow.

Have you ever heard Carly Simon’s song “That’s the Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be”? It’s peaceful, even haunting, with lines like:

“My friends from college they’re all married now
They have their houses and their lawns
…Tearful nights, angry dawns
…They drink, they laugh
Close the wound, hide the scar.”

That wasn’t us.

We didn’t come together because it was expected, or because we were supposed to. We came together because we fit. Because we felt something that was spiritual in nature and necessary.

A touch. A look. A shared glance across the room. These weren’t just gestures. They were declarations. Our kisses weren’t hurried or hidden—they were slow, intentional, often preceded by a smile or a glance. Public, but gentle. Expressive. Poetic.

We were two poets writing our love in the way we touched, the way we walked, the way we looked at each other.

Even now, it still takes my breath away.

And when we fought—and yes, we did—it never meant we loved each other any less.

I don’t remember the substance of most of our arguments. Maybe that’s because they didn’t leave lasting wounds. Or maybe it’s because what came afterward—the repair—meant more than the disagreement itself.

If I had said something that hurt Lynn or pushed too hard in a debate, I felt it immediately. And I didn’t let the silence linger. I’d walk over, look her in the eyes, and say, “I really love you. And I’m really sorry.”

She would smile, sometimes reluctantly, sometimes with a laugh she tried to suppress. She didn’t want to stay mad - but she also wanted me to see her frustration. And I did.

We ALWAYS worked through our issues and problems. That was our rhythmif there was a fight(argument): connection, rupture, repair. Again and again.

Let me take you to one moment that still lingers in my mind.

We’d had a disagreement—something sharp enough to leave a chill between us, though not sharp enough to change our plans. That night, we were headed to a book signing downtown for our friend Jean Jones, who was releasing a chapbook at a cozy coffee shop.

Lynn and I sat upstairs, stiffly, saying nothing. My brother and his girlfriend were with us, but the tension between Lynn and me filled the space. It wasn’t loud. It was just... there.

After a while, I quietly stood up and said, “I’m going downstairs. I’ll be back.”

Downstairs, I approached Jean. “Let me get two copies,” I said. “Can you sign one for Lynn?”

Then I went to the counter and ordered an iced tea—exactly the way Lynn liked it, with lemon - and carried it upstairs like it was the most natural thing in the world. Anger and not speaking was something to be fixed.

She noticed me carrying the glass of tea and the two signed chapbooks, and I caught the first flicker of a smile.

Standing beside her, I handed her one. “This one’s for you. Jean signed it.”

Her expression changed instantly. She couldn’t contain her happiness—or the amusement.

She glanced over at our guests, then back at me, eyes gleaming. “How can I stay mad at you when you do stuff like this?” she said, practically laughing. Then she took the tea, still smiling.

Still standing, I offered what I needed her to hear. “Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” The fact of my love was simple and straightforward.

That was always the truth I needed her to know. And she did.

That night, my brother left not long after—maybe because he was bored, maybe because he sensed that Lynn and I needed time alone. (Though to be fair, I’m not sure how tuned in he really was.)

But we were back. The wall had crumbled. And in the quiet that followed, we reclaimed the comfort we always returned to.

Fights didn’t scare me—not with Lynn. Because I knew, deep down, that nothing we said in frustration could ever outweigh what we had.

The love wasn’t in question. It never was.

What Drew Us Closer

One of the things I’ve mentioned—earlier in this chapter and throughout this book—is how Lynn had dreams of her own. She talked about maybe getting a Master of Fine Arts degree one day, like our friend Jean Jones. She also dreamed of having her own kiln so she could fire pottery at home. She was endlessly creative, and she loved working with her hands—sculpting, shaping, turning earth into art.

I shared my own ambitions with her not just to inform—but to feel validated. Lynn was practical and grounded in a way I admired deeply. When I talked about graduate school, or trying to find the right path in the mental health field, she didn’t just listen—she helped me think it through. She asked thoughtful questions. Let me bounce ideas off her. She challenged me when I needed it. Encouraged me when I doubted myself.

I told her about the federal loans I’d learned were available to graduate students, and how I was planning to finance school. I wasn’t just thinking aloud—I was hoping to see a spark of belief in her eyes. And I did. She didn’t just approve—she believed in what I wanted for myself.

After years of second-guessing my value, it was healing to have someone hold my dreams with the same care I gave hers. She didn’t care whether my plans would make me wealthy or impressive—only that they would make me fulfilled.

That kind of support… I had known it before, briefly—but not like this. Not with this kind of steady presence. Not with someone who stayed.

A Love That Deepened Naturally

As we moved toward our second year together, the topic of marriage and engagement came up. It wasn’t about changing anything—it was about offering more of ourselves. About asking: What else can I give you? What else could we share?

The idea of getting engaged wasn’t about proving something. It was about honoring what we already had. A way to deepen the relationship in a symbolic and meaningful way. It came from passion.

We already belonged to each other. The engagement would simply give that belonging a shape—something tangible we could hold.

Somehow, I did get a job finally that could have made my parents satisfied. Everything was always about them. They never asked about anything that was happening to me. So, they never inquired about why I was going for grief counseling because they had no knowledge of this.

Working as a Software Engineer/Programmer

Anyway, I got a job at the National Science Foundation as a contractor. I was developing a network for the museum and that involved network programming in the C programming language. This was a job that represented me using the skills of an engineer. I would later learn that my parents felt like I owed it to them to work as an engineer because they paid for my education. They didn’t see it from my point of view… they didn’t care at all what I wanted in life.

I had not asked them to pay for graduate school but I assumed that they at least cared about me doing what made me happy. I should have known that they were not capable of that. It was my sister who decades later conveyed that knowledge that my parents felt like I owed it to them to work in a field they knew was of no interest to me. They were not just trying to reason with me that I could make more money if I worked in a job that used the skills I learned at Georgia Tech. No I owed it to them. It was an obligation.

No matter what I actually wanted.

So, with the job at the National Science Foundation, I was a software engineer. I did accomplish a great deal in that job capacity and my supervisor was very impressed with my talents. Again, this was not at all interesting to me. Yet, I was making sure that I successfully met all deadlines and deliverables.

I vaguely remember a summer trip to Las Vegas. The company paid for this to cover some job related training. It was amazing. I had this incredible per-diem rate where I was paid my salary plus extra money for expenses that exceeded the cost of the Vegas hotel room.

Vegas was probably the worst place for me to go with so much free cash and free drinks in the casinos. Somehow, I made all the presentations for the training that I was sent there to attend. In the evenings and free time, I hit the casinos and made some decent money. Nothing to write home about. Gin or vodka was an escape but somehow, I didn't drink so much so as to get sick at night or even the next day.

As I try to write this now, I have only momentary snapshots with no full-running narrative memory. Just random disconnected sensations. My hands were unable to touch the leather inside a car. The sun shimmers on the pavement. Casinos. Drinks. Sitting at a poker table. Pulling a lever on a slot machine.

I must have done what was expected of me. I don't remember any complaints from my boss.

Yeah, I moved through time like a robot.

The job was going well, as I said. I was proud of how well I was doing.

I was drinking more and more during this time period after the trip to Las Vegas. Everything except beer. Vodka with tonic or orange juice. Gin and tonic. Whiskey with ice, water, or coke. Not so much wine.

I was passing out and once or twice I would puke. I really hated throwing up, always.

A Meaningless Connection with a Lady

I did meet this girl from the home office of the company that was paying me. She lived in Alabama and I was in Augusta, Georgia and we decided to meet in Atlanta, Georgia where I had graduated not long before that.

My supervisor was joking that I had "jungle fever" because I was a white guy who was going to date a black woman. He was black, as well. I didn't let that bother me. Spike Lee's film "Jungle Fever" had been out, and it was an important film. I have always been fine with having a conversation about race if that was something that was desired.

My mother actually asked about my date. I suppose the name of my date sounded ethnic and my mother asked about that guessing that she might be Italian. I said, "no, she's black."

I was proud of one thing about my ability to assert myself. My sister had heard the argument about how “others wouldn’t approve” when she was going out on a few dates with a black guy. My mother knew not to waste her breath expressing her racist ideas by telling me that others wouldn’t approve. No, her response was a simple “oh.” And that was it.

I remember that this was the first time I kissed anyone other than a brief kiss that Celta and I shared back in December of the last year. I mentioned that earlier. This was extremely passionate. She brought her kid and left him in the car and parked near the Student Center at Georgia Tech - the same building where I worked on the bottom floor in the post office.

We were looking for someplace to sit or be as private as possible outside after dark. I remember making out at a few locations here and there. I could feel her large breasts against me, and I was aroused.

My first passionate kiss before Lynn. We'll get to that later.

Did I feel guilty about dating so soon after Celta? Maybe. But I wasn't actually feeling nor was I "aware" during this time period. I was so numb that I needed to feel something. To wake up! I was trying so hard to wake up.

The tricyclic antidepressant made me feel good for a few moments. That didn't make life a meaningful experience. An antidepressant can’t create meaning, hope, or escape from depression.

My mother had made me feel so not okay and so had my father somewhat. This "date" was a way to get out of the home and to appear normal to my mother. If I was going out with someone from the company that employed my services, it made me appear less worthy of the criticism I had been getting from my parents. That's how I figured it. It was an escape.

This wasn’t meaningful, it was pleasurable, though.

There wasn't a second date. I had expressed my concerns about pre-marital sex. My boss at the company had given me a talk about making sure I had condoms. I was living under the weight of religious brainwashing. Many Christians were having sex but somehow for me it was not going to be acceptable to God.

We weren't even in a committed relationship. I drove to Atlanta to meet her for a second date, but she never showed up after she heard that I wasn’t ready for sex. I was frustrated out of embarrassment for driving all the way to Atlanta. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen. We would get a hotel room and just kiss.

After I realized she was not going to show up, I went back home. I just forgot the entire matter by the next day and never thought about the matter further.

The various medications and the alcohol impeded grieving and dare I say reality testing. People who are grieving are in such a state of denial that it is almost like a temporary psychosis. From what I was reading and hearing in the stories of grief that I studied, "normal," healthy people did for a while embrace denial to such an extent that it bordered on delusional thinking.

The loss of Celta could not be washed away with alcohol, grief counseling, or an intimate date.

Poetry as an outlet...

I can thank my mother for introducing me to Martin Kirby, who went to our church and he was a professor of English Literature and related subjects at a college in Augusta, Georgia. He would become my writing/poetry mentor. It’s so strange that my mother noticed my interest in poetry. I didn’t think she noticed anything about me. I had given up a long time ago trying to gain her attention. Yet, here she was introducing me to Martin and telling him about my interest in poetry. How did my mother even know this about me?

Martin had not heard about my plans to be a social worker from my mother nor did he learn about the love and the loss I experienced… until I shared those things with him and his wife.

I would show up on a regular basis for poetry readings at Martin’s home with his wife where I shared my poetry and got feedback, advice, and guidance on writing good poetry. He also heard me write about my experiences with Celta and listened to my experiences. This was very helpful because I had no other outlet for this or place to talk about Celta and my relationship with her.

He said he thought it would take about 10 years for me to be able to write good poetry about Celta because the feelings were too raw.

I was living in a difficult environment with my parents. I was dealing with a major tragedy and yet the name Celta wasn't even being mentioned at home.

Between drinking, the different medications I was put on, and the panic attacks, I had to go to the Emergency Room (ER) on two occasions.

The psychiatrist tried me on a major tranquilizer, and I had these horrifying muscle spasms that twisted my body up into contortions that made me think my bones were going to be broken in my neck and elsewhere. The doctor said that in higher doses the drug is used for psychotic disorders but somehow it would help with my depression, I guess. That was the reason I was taken to the ER once. My father took me.

Another time I had a panic attack and again my father took me to the ER. It's strange that they weren't asking why all this was happening. Nothing like this had ever happened to me. NEVER!

The only ones listening to my stories about Celta were Martin Kirby and his wife as well as the attendees at the grief support group. Again, my parents were not interested to learn anything about what mattered to me. They never seemed to have any awareness that I was even going to grief counseling.

This is so utterly astonishing! I had not deliberately been trying to keep everything a secret about what was going on with me. On the contrary, I looked for an opening to discuss the matter. I wanted to repair and improve the relationship. I wanted to share the fact that I had found someone who loved me.

With all this going on, all the problems I was having, I began to doubt that I could achieve my goals in life, my career goals. I wondered how I could help others when I had so many problems myself… problems just living life.

It should be noted that while I was put on a major tranquilizer, my psychiatrist NEVER said he thought I was psychotic. We knew I had problems coping with overwhelming stressors.

After the job with the National Science Foundation ended, another opportunity presented itself in March of 1992. I was offered a job in Wilmington, North Carolina, to work with Corning as a Technical Writer. They wanted someone with a technical background.

This would change everything. I was about to be on my own again. Finally!

My perception that I had long-term "problems" would disappear as if by magic, literally - it was unbelievable. My problem was rooted in the reality of living in a toxic environment and that was complicated by the grief and the effort I had made to ignore, suppress, or deny the natural processof grieving.

My own doubts about my ability to achieve my career goals in life were contributing to the problems I was having.

It's hard to believe that I had only known Celta for one year – the year 1990 and when that year ended, so had Celta's life.

The tragic loss of Celta did not erase the positive impact she had on my life. There were other positive experiences during this time. I had become more confident.

I had been writing poetry about the experiences I had with Celta and I had been sharing that with Martin Kirby my poetry mentor but now I wanted to share this with others. The love I had experienced was so important and meaningful!

Preface

I spent twenty-two years learning to be visible, only to discover that becoming real is not the same as staying real.

As a very young child, I hid behind a telephone pole when my mother told me to go play with the other kids. Not because I was playing hide-and-seek, but because without a secure base at home, I didn't know how to reach out to the world. I climbed trees and disappeared into the woods—not to escape the neighborhood, but to escape my parents. From the sudden punch or kick that could come out of nowhere. From parents who built a pool and took us to Disney but never once asked if I was happy, never seemed to notice or care who I actually was. 

Even as a child, I could see the disconnect—the performance of family for the outside world, the indifference behind closed doors. By fourteen, I was asking questions I had no language for yet: Why are you doing these things for us when you don't actually care? The only time I remember being held was around age three or four, in swimming lessons, my arms wrapped around the young instructor's neck, and even then I felt certain I didn't deserve it.

By high school, I had perfected invisibility. I sat silent in classrooms, never called upon, a ghost among my peers. I went away to college and immediately started counseling—not because I believed I could change, but because I couldn't keep living this way. I set goals: speak in class, ask someone out. 

For most of my undergraduate years, I remained the third person with every couple—best friend to both the boyfriend and girlfriend, even best man at a wedding, but never part of a couple myself. I finally got two dates my senior year—one date each with two different people. I never spoke in class. I'd come so far, but something fundamental was still missing.

Then, in 1990, after graduating from Georgia Tech, I was seen through the eyes of love. For the first time in my life, I had proof that I was special, that I mattered, that I was real. It was the missing piece—the experiential knowledge that no amount of therapy alone could provide. She died at the end of that same year, and for a time I wondered: what good is it to find this love and have it taken away so suddenly? But something had awakened in me that couldn't be undone.

In April of 1992, I took a microphone and read poetry, choosing to be the center of attention for the first time in my life. Three months later, I met Lynn. What followed over the next eight years—from 1992 through 2000—were years of success and joy beyond my wildest dreams. Graduate school in 1993, becoming a therapist in 1996, full licensure in 1998. Leading therapy groups and counseling couples despite having gotten only two dates in all of college. Building a life with Lynn—enduring love and earned secure attachment, learning in adulthood what I should have known as an infant. 

I want you to understand what's possible. I could have become like so many others who can only connect with narcissists like their parents because it's familiar. I want to show you that it doesn't have to be that way. That even from a childhood like mine, you can find real connection, meaningful work, genuine love. The kind of success that looked, for all the world, like I'd been cured of my past.

By July of 2000, everything seemed perfect. By September, I'd lost it all.

And that's when I learned what I'm still learning now: psychological wounds don't heal like broken bones or diseases cured by vaccines. You can grow, transform, build a beautiful life—and then lose it and discover that all your old patterns are still there, waiting. Letting my parents back into my life recreated the trauma of childhood. By my mid-fifties, I finally did what I should have done decades earlier: I cut off all contact with my family. This is the story of learning to be real, forgetting I was real, and finding my way back—not to where I was, but to something I'm still discovering. This time, with tools I'm learning to use.

My Invitation

Have you ever felt invisible? Not just shy or like a wallflower, but truly unseen—not noticed, not known for who you really are? Noticed social anxiety in yourself? This book is for you.

You might also recognize yourself here if you grew up in a home where you had many things, but your feelings were never validated or didn't seem to matter. Where everything looked normal from the outside - maybe you even say things were good, you weren't abused—but somehow you became responsible for a parent's happiness or emotional needs. That's called covert narcissism, and it's more common than you might think. And narcissistic patterns don't only show up with parents, they can appear in partners and other relationships throughout our lives.

This isn't about blaming parents. It's about understanding what happened and finding your way forward. As the title states, this book covers Complex-PTSD and/or Developmental Trauma—regardless of where those wounds originated.

You may not relate to everything in these pages—everyone's experiences manifest in different ways. Because we have much to cover, take it slowly. I hope you'll relate and know you are not alone.