career development

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.

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!

By the time I went on my first real date as a college senior, it felt less like a rite of passage and more like a miracle. I had spent years watching others fall in love, flirt, and fumble their way into relationships, while I stood on the outside, silent and studying them like specimens.

Everything changed when I began working with my counselor. But let me be clear: this wasn't casual support or general guidance. This was intensive rehabilitation for someone whose capacity for human connection had been stunted by years of emotional neglect and selective mutism.

The Clinical Approach to Connection

My counselor treated social skills like any other learnable competency. He gave me articles, handouts - actual tools. We broke down conversations into component parts - how to ask questions that invited response, how to read nonverbal cues, how to keep dialogue alive beyond one-word replies.

I took this seriously because I had to. My social life, my sense of worth, my hope for love and connection - everything depended on learning these skills that seemed to come naturally to others.

The Three-Column Technique became my constant companion. In my backpack, I always carried a pad of paper and pen. At first, it felt clinical and awkward. But over time, it became my anchor:

Column One: The Thought

• "She won't want to talk to me"
• "I'm going to embarrass myself"
• "I'm too weird, too quiet, too boring"

Column Two: The Distortion

• Predicting the future
• Mind-reading
• All-or-nothing thinking

Column Three: The Challenge

• What's the evidence this thought is true?
• Have people actually said I'm boring?
• Aren't there times I've made someone laugh?

I filled page after page with these exercises. In classrooms, at frat parties, walking across campus - I was constantly battling the thoughts in my brain. Each interaction required strategy and courage.

Here's what I learned that changed everything: shyness wasn't just a personality trait. It was a survival strategy. One I had outgrown but didn't know how to abandon. Every time I avoided a conversation, I felt fleeting relief - like dodging a bullet. But afterward came the self-loathing, the shame, the deeper invisibility.

The Three-Column Technique gave me something stronger than avoidance: agency. For the first time, I could do something about my anxiety besides disappear.

The Therapy Group Laboratory

My counselor also ran a group specifically for socially anxious students. That group became a laboratory for human connection. We role-played awkward scenarios, rehearsed how to speak up, how to assert ourselves without aggression.

I was surprised by how many brilliant Georgia Tech students felt the same way I did - awkward, unsure, invisible. Engineers and computer scientists who could solve complex equations but couldn't figure out how to ask someone to study together.

It gave me strange hope: maybe I wasn't broken. Maybe I was just inexperienced.

What we practiced in group:

• How to enter conversations already in progress
• How to disagree without becoming combative
• How to express interest without seeming desperate
• How to handle rejection gracefully
• How to recognize and respond to social cues

We also worked on something called "graduated exposure" - deliberately putting ourselves in increasingly challenging social situations. For me, this meant:

• Week 1: Make eye contact with three strangers
• Week 2: Ask a question in class
• Week 3: Initiate conversation with a classmate
• Week 4: Join a study group

Each step built on the previous one, creating evidence that I could handle social interaction without catastrophe.

Always the Extra Person

Despite all the skills I was developing, I still couldn't cross certain thresholds. I never met girls directly at parties or in the cafeteria. The women I got to know were friends of friends, or already connected to people I trusted deeply.

I was always the extra person. The third wheel. The safe guy.

My friend Thomas trusted me completely around his girlfriend, Jo-Lee. That trust wasn't misplaced - I never crossed boundaries. But I couldn't help noticing how easily they connected, how gracefully they touched each other's arms, how they laughed without hesitation.

After Thomas graduated, I grew closer to Jo-Lee as a friend. We'd eat lunch together, talk about life. I never made a move because that wasn't what our connection was about. But her presence reminded me that I could connect, that I wasn't completely invisible.

What I understand now is that these "safe" friendships were crucial to my development. They provided evidence that I was capable of meaningful connection without the terror of romantic rejection. They built my social confidence in low-stakes environments.

Dancing Lessons and Missed Opportunities

At Thomas and Jo-Lee's wedding, I was the best man - a role that came with the terrifying expectation of dancing. I'd never danced, not really. The idea filled me with a phobic-level dread that went beyond normal self-consciousness.

Jo-Lee asked her maid of honor, Mary, to teach me. Mary was stunning and patient, guiding me through basic steps while I tried not to focus on how attractive she was. For a moment, I wondered if I should ask her out. But the old patterns held - she was probably out of my league, probably had better options.

Then, at the post-wedding party, something unprecedented happened. Another woman, Marleesa, was clearly interested in me. Jo-Lee had to point it out because I literally couldn't recognize the signs.

"Seriously, Bruce. She's been trying to get your attention all night."

This was entirely new territory. I had trained myself for years not to notice interest, not to hope. It was easier to assume no one was attracted to me than to risk the disappointment of being wrong.

But once I looked - really looked - I saw it. The way Marleesa kept glancing in my direction, the way she positioned herself nearby, even how she protectively moved a dog away when it was bothering me.

The First Real Invitation

Marleesa invited me to an Easter play at her church where she had a role. This wasn't subtle or ambiguous - this was a clear invitation from someone who was interested.

I said yes, feeling for the first time that someone had chosen me.

After the performance, we walked together under the night sky. The air was comfortable, stars were out. I was thinking about how much she seemed to care about me - which was still difficult to process.

Given my religious conservatism at the time, a gentle kiss seemed appropriate and expected. I leaned in slowly, hesitantly.

She turned her head away.

Shame and Silence

The rejection wasn't cruel or harsh, but it was clear - this wasn't the moment I thought it was. I froze, didn't say a word, just stood there humiliated. My face went hot, my thoughts collapsed inward.

I read it wrong. How could I be so stupid?

It wasn't just about the kiss. It was about everything I'd been working toward - every CBT column I'd filled, every group session I'd endured, every hopeful thought I'd barely let myself believe. It all felt undone.

I didn't lash out or push or even ask for explanation. I just disappeared back into the silence I knew so well.

That was the last time I saw her. Just like Michelle, I let embarrassment override everything else. I couldn't understand yet that rejection doesn't equal personal failure, that social missteps are part of learning, not evidence of fundamental unworthiness.

What I needed then - what took years more therapy to understand - was that my reaction to rejection revealed the deeper wound. It wasn't really about being turned down for a kiss. It was about a nervous system that had learned early that being unwanted meant being in danger, that rejection confirmed every terrible thing I'd been taught to believe about myself.

The path to genuine connection would require not just social skills but healing the attachment wounds that made every risk feel existential, every "no" feel like abandonment.

But I was learning. Slowly, imperfectly, but learning, nonetheless.

The Transformation I Could Finally See

By my senior year, I was amazed by how much I had changed. The person who had been left alone on that August day during orientation, before classes even began, could never have imagined things could change so much.

I was choosing an once-impossible-to-imagine new career direction, drawn to psychology by the very transformation I was experiencing. Psychology was amazing - look what it had done for me! I walked across campus with my head up, scanning for friends to greet rather than hiding from eye contact. I hung out in groups of six to ten people, going to amusement parks and movies, fully included in the social fabric I had once observed from the outside.

I had many friends - real friends who sought out my company. With the women I knew, I might have been the "safe friend" rather than a romantic prospect, but I spent time alone with them, was trusted completely by their boyfriends, and even accompanied one friend to the all-girls college nearby because I was confident enough to handle that social setting.

At the post office, I laughed easily with coworkers like Mike. I spoke up with managers. I had opinions, made jokes, contributed to conversations. In small groups, I was no longer the silent observer but an active participant. I realized I was actually an extrovert who had been trapped by anxiety and poor social skills.

Yes, larger groups still intimidated me. Speaking in class or at full fraternity gatherings remained out of reach. I tried during English classes to share thoughts but couldn't quite break through that barrier. But the contrast with who I had been was staggering.

I was no longer drowning in the invisibility that had defined my high school years. I had learned to connect in meaningful ways. I could imagine becoming a therapist myself - helping others the way I had been helped. The foundation was solid now for a future that included love, partnership, and the family I had always wanted.

That transformation happened through five years of deliberate, sustained effort to heal and grow, and I could see it, feel it, celebrate it.

A Note to Readers

If you've made it this far, you might recognize something of yourself in these pages. Maybe you've sat in therapy sessions wondering if CBT worksheets could really change anything fundamental about who you are. Maybe you've avoided situations that trigger anxiety, telling yourself it's easier than risking rejection or embarrassment. Maybe you've watched others connect effortlessly while feeling like you're missing some essential manual for human interaction.

What I want you to know is this: the transformation I experienced wasn't magic, and it wasn't quick. Five years of weekly therapy, countless Three-Column worksheets, role-playing in group sessions, and gradual exposure to increasingly challenging social situations. It was tedious sometimes. It felt clinical. There were moments I wondered if I was trying to engineer my way into being human.

But it worked. Not because the techniques were sophisticated, but because I was finally learning skills that most people absorb naturally through secure early relationships. For those of us with attachment wounds or complex trauma, these skills don't come automatically - they have to be learned deliberately, practiced repeatedly, and reinforced consistently.

The college environment helped enormously. I had friends who treated me well, a fraternity that provided belonging (however imperfect), and access to excellent mental health services. I was surrounded by other brilliant students who were also figuring out how to be adults, which normalized the learning process.

If any of this resonates with you, I invite you to re-read this chapter after you've finished the book. See if you can identify the specific elements that might apply to your own journey. The path forward isn't always clear when you're in the middle of it, but it becomes more visible in retrospect.

What I learned at Georgia Tech didn't just help me ask someone out - it set the foundation for everything that followed, including my eventual career change to clinical social work with a strong focus on applying psychology to helping others. 

Sometimes the most profound transformations happen so gradually we don't realize how far we've traveled until we look back.

I now had a growing client base and an office of my own. I was accepting insurance payments and/or checks for services.  

I was set up to be able to bill Blue Cross/Blue Shield among others... and Medicare. Clinical Social Workers can't bill Medicaid in North Carolina for some reason. We can bill Medicare, though.  

Treating Schizophrenia with Psychotherapy

I was trying to find out if a colleague in the field, named Mary Ellen, who was working with some individuals who had schizophrenia, could find out if some of them wanted a therapy group. She was a volunteer/intern and through her contacts, she had been given the opportunity to work with a few clients in the community.  

They were staying at a nursing home not far away. I decided to offer the conference room as a meeting place for a support group for people with schizophrenia. Mary Ellen and I decided that there was a need for a support group that would be of interest to the people she was serving.  

She started bringing her clients to my office building. Depending on how many people showed up we would either use my office or the conference room.

This was a great learning experience for me. I really wanted to offer something for people who were battling such a debilitating and disturbing form of mental illness. It was sad that these individuals ranging in age from the late 20s to the 50s were all staying in a nursing home.  

I suppose that is better than being homeless. But usually, you think of nursing homes as being there for the elderly who cannot care for themselves. 

I had asked if any of them wanted to meet with me one-on-one for therapy. I was sensitive to the fact that some people might see this as a way for me to pad my income to enrich myself, especially if I met them at their residence, the nursing home.     

These individuals had Medicare and I could bill Medicare. While it's true that this would increase my income and bring in money for me that doesn't mean I wasn't genuinely interested in helping them. They wanted to have someone listen to them and to try and understand what they were experiencing.

They had a doctor that they were seeing. I knew that much and that they weren't seeing a therapist, though they had someone at the clinic who could provide psychotherapy if the staff person was so inclined to do so.   

It had been my observation that some people in my profession thought that the only remedy for schizophrenia was medication. I had noticed this when I was working at Sampson County Mental Health Center. I also remembered that when I was working there some of my clients, if not most of them, if asked, or if it was offered wanted to meet with me for psychotherapy.  

In my heart, I knew that I was trying to offer something good for people who might benefit from talking to someone who is grounded in reality but also very empathetic.  

In addition to just listening and trying to understand their experiences, I used a few psychological techniques to help them build their self-esteem. I also talked about some skills that would be useful in communicating and coping.

This wasn't something that went on for a long time but I did have a chance to work with some clients for a few weeks. 

The Treatment of Eating Disorders        

I did have a client named was Anne Marie who had anorexia which was particularly challenging because starvation can cause a variety of serious physical problems. There are also serious challenges in getting accurate information about binging and purging.  

It would become clear over time that a medical doctor needed to be the one who is primarily in charge of the care of someone with this serious problem. The empathy and rapport that I had developed with Anne Marie were great, but I still had concerns.

What seemed like a great challenge for me became something that was more serious and needed to be overseen by someone with an MD after their name, with admitting privileges at a hospital.   

Anne Marie had returned from college for health reasons and was living with her parents. We were able to have some family sessions as well. I felt it was important to find out about her health when I listened to the concerns that her parents had expressed. 

Anne Marie's parents became increasingly concerned that I wasn't doing enough and that her physical health was in danger. I was not in a position to assess her physical health. I didn't know why or how I was being expected to act as a central contact person for all of Anne Marie’s physical health and well-being. That was something that I had to make clear.

I had taken some training on the treatment of eating disorders, but it could not cover the physical/medical issues.

The last thing I wanted was to be responsible for someone's medical care or assessing a person's physical health. So, I explained this in-depth. 

I didn't want Anne Marie to feel like I was abandoning her or not on her side. I just needed to be sure that there was someone else that she was seeing for those issues related to her physical health. I couldn't be the one that asked if she had kept an appointment with her doctor or the one that weighed her and took other vital signs.  

Like so many others with eating disorders, Anne Marie had symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). There is a sense that you are walking on eggshells with a person who has BPD, where you are challenged repeatedly to demonstrate that you care about your client.  

Sometimes a person with BPD will cycle between idealizing someone like a therapist to hating them. In other words, we are talking about intense and unstable interpersonal relationships... chronic feelings of emptiness. Another symptom that is readily obvious as overlapping with anorexia nervosa is changing perceptions of self-identity and self-perception.      

For a person with anorexia, they might see themselves as overweight even when others see them as emaciated - grossly underweight. The feeling of food in them can trigger feelings of anxiety and lead to purging to vomit the food out of their stomachs after they eat.  

Obviously, this is very dangerous.  

I ended up transitioning to offering mainly group therapy for those who had anorexia. Bulimia was a disorder I felt comfortable treating. With Bulimia people have body image issues and they might binge and purge but they maintain a normal healthy weight.

 A couple of other girls/young women found me listed on the web, in the yellow pages, or through word of mouth. 

Out of this arrangement, I picked up a client who had been diagnosed with Bulimia. Her name was Jennifer.  

Jennifer's condition did not require the attention of a medical doctor as would be the case with Anne Marie who had anorexia.  

Jennifer didn't have this problem. She did put a tremendous amount of focus on her appearance and her sense of feminine beauty. Sadly, this need can make a person feel like their worth is tied to their body image.  

It was hard not to recognize the focus that she put on her body. She had undergone breast enhancement surgery. It would be naïve for us to avoid discussing details like this. These issues were precisely the kind of things that a person with bulimia needs to discuss with their therapist.  

Obviously, a healthy male therapist has to be aware of his reactions when he is meeting with an extremely attractive woman, which did describe Jennifer. A male therapist who acts like he doesn’t recognize things like this is lying or he is gay. 

Our natural human reaction does NOT mean we are going to cheat on our wives, nor does it mean that we are objectifying a woman! Human evolution has programmed us to react in certain ways.

The point is that we were going to explore these issues in therapy - issues related to her sense of worth as a person as well as her as a woman. While it's true that professional boundaries were going to be maintained, it is valid to explore transference and countertransference issues.  

I had studied psychodynamic and psychoanalytic theories, concepts, and ideas. Jennifer was interested in gaining some insights into herself and so this seemed like a good framework for some of our discussions.

We brought out into the open the thoughts she might have about the reactions she might want from men/guys in her life including her therapist. How did it make her feel that she was noticed in this way, based on her attractiveness?

Her understanding of these ideas grew over time. She talked about her experiences growing up. She was open to exploring dreams and their possible interpretations. She was intrigued by the ideas of Carl Jung, a contemporary of Sigmund Freud.  

Any approach that was aimed at insight and seeking to make connections between events in her life up until now was valuable for her to explore, she indicated. With the insights, she felt she was improving, and the binging and purging was happening less frequently. I thought that knowing why this was happening was less important than her interest in discussing seemingly unconnected events in her life.  

She did want to discuss the fact that she had agreed to be photographed nude by a friend of her boyfriend. I wondered when she told me this if she felt that she was seeking to see how I would react to her discussion of this fact. Did she want me to react with interest or excitement?

I asked her, "do you want to show me this?" I was curious as to her reaction.  

"I don't know," she said.  

I was concerned that she might feel like I was expecting her to show me the photograph(s). 

Now, I am supposed to lie to you and tell you that I didn’t want to see the photographs. Right! A beautiful woman is sitting in front of you, and she brings up the topic of being photographed nude and you want me to tell you that I didn’t for a second want to see the photographs? 

At the time, I was still very young and naïve. So, I felt guilty and discussed this with Marjorie who I was seeing for psychoanalysis. She wasn’t young and naïve. She was about 70.

She said, “Of course, you wanted to see the photographs.”

I said, “but I didn’t think that she was more beautiful than Lynn.”

“That’s okay, it would be worse if you were dishonest with yourself,” she said, adding “then you might fall victim to temptation.”

I settled back down into the couch – remember I was lying on a couch when I saw Marjorie. I said, “yeah, I wasn’t tempted to do anything.”

Anyway, getting back to therapy with Jennifer…

Jennifer said that she also was having some problems with a situation with her boyfriend. The way he spoke to her during foreplay seemed to be degrading to her.

That incident with her boyfriend inspired her to ask if I could see them both for couples counseling. Indeed, I had studied this, and I described some tools that I could bring to the sessions that might be helpful in achieving certain goals for both her and her boyfriend.   

We agreed that he could meet with me alone as well - before or after we met for couples counseling.  

This went on for a while. It was very rewarding for me because she was paying out of her pocket for my services, as opposed to having insurance that would cover the cost of therapy. If either one of them or both had been dissatisfied with my competency, they would not keep coming and paying for ongoing therapy or treatment.  

I only saw her boyfriend about three times alone and that was on the same days when we had couples counseling. I did continue to see Jennifer alone. We would examine her interests, desires, and expectations for her future, for her career, and what increased her sense of self-esteem and her feelings of self-worth.

It was great to see how empathy and respect for her had paid off with positive results as per her feedback. Again, she was paying by check out of her pocket and so if things were not working out for her, she had many other therapists she could consult in the area.  

In the next chapter, I will present some more challenging issues that I had to confront as a therapist.  

A few chapters earlier, I mentioned that my private practice had grown so very fast. It was amazing. There were many different clients that I was seeing with different problems or issues. 

Some of my skills opened up some opportunities for me. For example, I was curious and inspired by the effectiveness of hypnosis and the possible opportunities to use it to help people deal with "normal" experiences and problems, as well as more complex and debilitating problems.  

Let me give an example. I had a couple of clients come in to see me for help quitting smoking. There are scripts that exist and established protocols that I had learned during my training that were approved by the American Society of Clinical Hypnosis (ASCH).

Anyway, hypnosis can help with Major Depression and Anxiety as well. 

Getting My Own Office

With the support and help of Lynn, I selected a location in downtown Wilmington, on Chestnut Street.  

The rent was about $400 per month. Since I had been paying Chris $15 per hour when I used his office, every hour after 26 per month cost me more than $400 in the month. So, it was clearly more cost-effective to have my own office since I was easily needing the office for more than 26 hours.  

Everything was amazing and wonderful beyond my wildest dreams. This was real. I was feeling so proud of everything I had accomplished. I knew I had finally reached the height of my success - everything that I had been dreaming of for so long.  

Lynn and I met with the receptionist at the location, and she was really nice. She said that she would meet and greet clients when they come in and ask for me. Of course, she knew about confidentiality.    

They had a nice waiting room that was never full. A lawyer had been renting the office next to mine. It was a long building with about 10 different offices down the hallway. There were a few other therapists like me and others in different businesses.  

Next to my office, there was a conference room that any of us could use. There was a calendar behind the counter where the receptionist sits that is used to book the conference room when you expect that you will need it.  

I now had two phone numbers to give my clients. One of them went to the receptionist and she would ring my office if I was in and not in session. I had a way to indicate that I am with a client and should not be interrupted.  

It was late in 1998 when I made this transition... from a small private practice and renting an office for a few hours per week from Chris Hauge to having my own office with a receptionist, a waiting room of my own, full ownership of the single office room, and access to a conference room.  

Lynn and I started looking for deals at yard sales to decorate the office. We went to Office Depot and bought a desk and a nice comfortable chair for me to sit in next to the desk. We had to act quickly because everything was happening fast.  

We picked up a nice or fairly decent couch for a great price at a yard sale. I obviously cannot remember now decades later what things looked like. We also picked up a few nice pillows to make the couch comfortable. No one was going to sleep here but they could be helped to feel more comfortable.  

We also picked up a whiteboard for notes and illustrations with clients. Obviously, I needed to put my degree up on the wall along with my license and certifications, i.e., the certification as a Clinical Hypnotherapist with ASCH as well as other certificates I received at various training workshops.  

Lynn was a great help in picking out and decorating the office. I am not someone who cares how things look, so I needed help to feel comfortable that I had an office that looked inviting, comfortable, and professional. I am sure I would have been self-conscious if I didn’t have Lynn’s help.

I knew we needed - I needed - a couple more chairs in case I wanted to do group therapy. I figured I would need to do more of this than the availability of the conference room might allow.  

The conference room had a big table that filled most of the room. There was a phone in there and a large whiteboard at one end of the room.  

I also picked up some toys, a toy box, dolls, and a few other things. There was a couple that came to me to get help with their children. So, I needed a way to work with them. It is easier to work with children by letting them play if they are under the age of ten or twelve.  

I had studied play therapy since that time when I was a first-year intern at the New Hanover County Mental Health Center in 94. While I wasn't thinking I would have lots of kids come to see me, I thought I should have something for kids if necessary or if it would be helpful. 

The receptionist could call clients if necessary, she could help with typing, make copies, perhaps help with billing, as well as accepting payments from clients as they come in or after a session. I had a billing person who would help with billing clients for their sessions, so I didn't ask the receptionist to do any of that.  

We discussed the ideas about what she might want to do for me. I thought that due to the need for confidentiality that I would make calls to clients, but she could certainly pick up calls if they called into the office to cancel, reschedule, or to state that they were running late. She would announce to me when someone showed up and I would come down the hall and greet them.

I didn’t like having to collect payments myself, but I still felt that it would make sense for me to arrange payment agreements and accept payments personally rather than have the clients pay the receptionist, most of the time. Sometimes clients would leave a check upfront with the receptionist.

Sometimes, I would get anxious if someone was running late and I would walk down to the waiting room to see if I had missed the announcement. Plus, the receptionist only worked nine to five, Monday through Friday.  

After those hours, I had a key to enter the building, a key code to enter into the alarm, and I was expected to lock the door, obviously.  

So, I was ready to get to work.  

This was amazing! It was a time for celebration! I wanted to tell everyone I knew just how thrilled I was. I wanted to celebrate!

It was so wonderful to have someone to share this with - Lynn. So, we marked it with dinner and marked the occasion as it was so important ... I wanted to mark the importance of this accomplishment through a metaphorical plaque of honor to be remembered as an important marker in the history of my life and I want it told for generations to come!

I did it!

In the next chapter, I will pick up this story and begin to discuss the wide variety of clients, problems, and conditions I was treating as well as the types of interventions used.