connection

In the last chapter, I mentioned that I asked Lynn out and we spent a weekend together at outdoor events in Wilmington and Carolina Beach, North Carolina. This might be taken out of context to imply something more intimate happened... something more than holding hands. That's not what I meant.

I dropped her off at her home after the fireworks on the fourth of July and picked her up the next day for the poetry reading that was also in Carolina Beach.

Plus, it's hard to describe but there was something more that I felt just holding hands for a few moments when we walked out on that slippery jetty. That's the thing with feelings, sometimes we discover a language that exists that cannot be expressed in thoughts or words... after all, words are the medium by which we think.

I was still struggling with my shyness but only in vague ways. I had insecurities about whether I was really that special if only one person, Celta, had looked at me like I was their whole world like they could love me and/or choose to be with me exclusively.

Maybe she was shy too. I played these ideas over in my mind. "What does she think of me?" "Is she into me?"

As I said earlier, this was a bit surprising to me. I had been grieving the loss of Celta for a long time, but I would not have pursued Lynn if I was not over that loss.

After that fourth of July weekend, I was so invested in wanting to see Lynn every day and as much as possible. I would find myself at work trying to come up with things we could do together that afternoon. It wasn't hard because she lived across the street from the beach. She lived on Wrightsville Beach just across the street from the beach, the ocean. Her mother, Diane, and stepfather, Bob, owned a house that was to be their retirement home and she was living in that house.

I have to admit that I was working hard here to persuade her to make plans with me.

In this story, it seems like for the first month or two I was having to try hard to persuade Lynn to spend time with me that day. That was the last thing I wanted. I wanted to be the focus of someone's interest and attention.

I was very invested in making sure that I did nothing to cause her to back off for any reason at all. It would not make sense to talk her into doing something that she didn't want to do. That would defeat the purpose.

From my conversations with other guys or from TV shows (no one incident stands out), it seemed that I wasn't like any guys that I knew. I just felt like I was more feminine for as long as I can remember like I wasn't fully male. Plus, guys seem to make assumptions that a girl is into them if they are seeing them regularly and they will pursue more of their "desires."

Anyway, as I was saying, I don't identify with those ways of thinking and if that means that I am not very masculine, you are catching on dear reader. I am not much of a man.

I certainly didn't assume anything. I would take whatever I could get in terms of a relationship with Lynn.

The topic of whether we were seeing anyone else never came up. I am sure with my persistence she must have known that I was only into her. It was difficult because I had to ensure that I never did anything to push her away. It wasn't that I had low self-esteem, but I just sensed that she was strong - psychologically and emotionally. I mean I sensed that she didn't NEED to be in a relationship, and I didn't feel entitled to her time.

In talking to other females years later, I have learned that many of them do want to be in a relationship and to be a wife someday.  This is not something I would ever recognize with Lynn. She seemed to find our relationship to be something that happened to her as unexpectedly as it did for me.

I felt a bit weird to be pursuing and not finding the interest I had reciprocated for a while. How could I know that would change?

Why was I so obsessed with and excited to just be talking to Lynn or sitting next to her on the beach... maybe holding hands?

I noticed that the first couple of months with Celta were more "comfortable" for me and there was more of a sense of mutual interest. With Lynn, for nearly the first two months, I felt like I had to persuade her to do things every day. Maybe it didn't take a full two months for me to start seeing that Lynn was very interested in me. I was just frustrated for a while that I had to try so hard to persuade her to spend time with me.

To be clear, as I describe this I honestly wasn't thinking of Celta at all - for the first time.

Anyway, this time that I spent with Lynn... It was becoming something of a routine. I guess I liked it when her stepfather or her mother was there.

"Is Lynn there?" I'd ask if they picked up the phone.

With her mother, Diane, the response was "just a moment." With Bob, it was a deep voice with no friendliness in the tone saying "hold on." Then I would hear, "it's Bruce."

I remember how I would show up early sometimes after work. At one point, I was parking down the street from her home and would pass the time reading from the paperback book that I had. It had the stories "Alice in Wonderland" and "Through the Looking Glass" by Lewis Carol.

I respected what she had said was a good time for me to show up. I was too nervous about showing up early. Again, there was no way I was going to do anything to make her uncomfortable or to act in any way with disrespect.

I didn't have to work really hard to persuade Lynn to go out each day. I just wanted her to call me more, sound excited when I called, and help me to feel that she was interested in me. 

Later, I would later find out from Lynn that initially, for a little while, I was more interested in spending time with her every day than vice versa. 

That would change.

When I recount stories like this to people, these days, they seem to comment from the perspective of how things normally work when a guy and a girl are dating. For example, I was talking to a female friend of mine and she said something along the lines of "a woman wants a guy to..." I try to explain that I am not like most guys. I don't think Lynn wanted a "traditional guy."

Growing Comfortable Together and Serenity

I don't know when it happened exactly, but it seemed like things were going more easily for me. with Lynn. I didn't feel like I had to try as hard to persuade her to spend time with me. I could tell she was becoming genuinely interested in me. This is what I "felt" or "sensed" – how exactly, I can't say.

She smiled when we were together. It seemed that her mother was noticing this too.

One day, it felt so natural to bring my camera over and photograph her on the back porch where she was living. She sat on the railing, her head against the corner board with the setting sun reflected off the marshlands behind her home. Her mother was in the other room and she seemed to me to be happy. That felt good. It suggested I was being discussed.

Lynn was so amazingly beautiful in my mind's eye. I saw her there posing for me... one soft and beautiful leg raised with her head against the corner railing of the porch... the sun reflecting off the water on the marshlands behind her home. 

Boats would sometimes ride up and down the marshland waterway. This was somewhere between the intercoastal and the ocean. Today was quiet and serene as I photographed her.

Discussing my future plans...

I was glad that I had someone with whom I could talk about my dreams and plans for the future. I needed that. Yes, we talked about Lynn's interests, but I am reflecting on my need for confirmation of my plans. I had been moving forward with my career plans.

It was a major change in my career from engineering to psychiatric social work. I needed someone to bounce ideas off, to assure me that I could accomplish what I wanted to accomplish... that I was healthy and competent.

I was glad to be receiving the validation I needed about my career plans from Lynn. She was intelligent and someone I respected. She listened and asked questions. When I talked about what I specifically had in mind for starting graduate school, for example, she was very supportive. That included my plan for how I would pay for graduate school.

Lynn knew I was eager to start to move forward with my plans and she encouraged me to do that.

I knew the contract job with Corning was ending soon. Somehow things still seemed okay. I'd figure things out.

An epiphany

It was September 2, 1992, when I had this peak experience, an epiphany.

We came to Wrightsville Beach, after my work at Corning. It was evening and we sat down together near Johnnie Mercer's Pier. The sun was still above the horizon and behind us.

I liked this feeling. It was peaceful. I NEEDED to feel this.

It seemed like all the time, my mind was so busy trying to figure things... Always, worried about impending problems - a job ending, where I would work next, how I would get into graduate school. 

Something inside myself told me to enjoy this moment. To be here now and forget about everything else.

It was the clearest thought that I have known... I felt serenity. My eyes moved between looking at Lynn and watching the waves coming and going. I wasn't trying at this moment to work through my plans with Lynn's support and advice. I was just at peace.

For Lynn, this was just another day at the beach.

I was excited to be able to hold her hand and walk north on the beach at Wrightsville Beach... aroused. It seemed so right. Sometimes I wondered why I was the one asking for her hand when we were walking together. Maybe other people don't ask themselves questions like that, but I wanted to be sure that she was into me and wanted that contact with me.

I liked being seen with her. I felt special. I liked that she was so glad to see me.

I had been on a date with someone and yet our passionate kisses were less profoundly pleasurable. I do not mean just exciting. I felt something more profound. A sense of awe. Contentment.

Lynn was into pottery and I would show up at the Art Center to pick her up. I wanted to know and celebrate everything about her.

She would show me around the place. She would show me her work on the different shelves in various rooms. She showed me the kiln which is used to bake the clay after it is shaped. Sometimes I would sit and watch her shape earrings or work with clay on the wheel.

The wheel is used for larger items. It does just what you would expect, it spins the clay around a center. Lynn explained that some of the bigger items on the shelves were too big and heavy for her to do. She was almost my height. I'm five foot seven and she was about five foot six. But she was much smaller than me and thin. Healthy looking but thin – yes, I noticed and can add that she was shapely.

I cannot remember how she introduced me that first year. I'll explain what I mean later but you might recall that after the first date on the 4th of July, she said to her co-worker who asked if I was her boyfriend, "no, we're just friends."

Yes, we were becoming an item. Yet, the word boyfriend or girlfriend had not been used, yet. I reflected on all of this and felt that everything was absolutely amazing to me.

Our First Kiss

There was the synchronicity of desires. It was October. What we did when we were together was not something discussed or planned. I mean so far, we had not been talking about what anything means. I can't speak for what was going through her mind but while I might have had a desire that she take my hand first when we went for a while, I didn't say "why don't you do reach for my hand first."

I suppose I was more impulsive. I don't know but somewhere I got the notion that typically guys make the first move and call girls, ask them out. This did not apply to our relationship. Lynn was self-confident enough to speak her mind. She recognized my more feminine traits – not that I looked effeminate but I mean in terms of how I acted.

We were just sitting together on the beach in October, and we knew what we wanted. I looked into her eyes. I was sitting on her right. I could feel where our arms touched, our sides and legs.

I moved toward her instinctually and without hesitation or fear. Her head was tilted slightly back and turned a bit to the right as my face tilted to the right. Her blond hair waved a bit in the gentle wind. I reached my arm over onto the sand, then brought my lips to hers.

My left arm moved over her right shoulder and onto her back. I felt her right arm move to my back as she leaned forward. My right arm moved to her back. Our lips parted ever so slightly as we kissed.

I was only minimally aware of others on the beach. It was more as if I was aware of where we were and that it was not dark yet. 

We were not that far from Johnnie Mercer's Pier. We had not gone looking for privacy.

It seems that we were communicating something for which there were no thoughts or words... It was as if we had discovered a new way to communicate. Feelings, passions, desires. Inescapable, undeniable, and so right.

The best part of this was that it was our first kiss. There was no part of this where I had to wonder if this was something she was letting happen or going along with it. I have heard people say “he kissed me” and then then they respond that they kissed them back. No, no, no. We kissed. Together as one shared action that happened.

I was too afraid of things going wrong to do anything on my own… anything that might disrupt the relationship.

This was a new aspect of our relationship. I imagine she and I hungered for this as much as she desperately needed air in her lungs.

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.

There comes a point when you stop trying to explain.

Not because the pain is gone.

Not because the injustice no longer matters.

But because you know who you are.

I am not what they said I was.

I don’t have to win back trust—because I never broke it.

I’ve lived my life by the highest morals:
With gentleness.
With integrity.
With compassion for those who suffer.
With respect for others’ boundaries, bodies, and beliefs.

Even when I was invisible, I lived with purpose.
Even when I was silenced, I held onto truth.

Even when I was shattered, I chose not to shatter others.

A therapist once wrote that I was a gentle person.
She didn’t say it to defend me.
She didn’t say it to counter a narrative.
She said it because it was the truth.

It still is.

I’ve spent years trying to survive.

But survival isn’t the end of the story.

Now, I want to live.

Not to prove anything—
 

But because I still have something to give.

There’s a voice in me, buried under layers of pain and shame, that’s slowly growing louder.

It says:

You are not your trauma.
You are not what they assumed.
You are not the roles others cast you in.

You are a good person with passion and love to give.

You are still here.
Still standing.
Still healing.

And that is more than enough.

Barriers That Don’t Die Easily

Even with my CPSS certification in hand and nearly two decades separating me from the injustice that wrecked my life, I couldn’t escape its shadow.

I wanted to work. Really work. Not just to survive, but to reclaim who I used to be—before the system stole my career, my name, and a part of my sense of self.

I knew applying for jobs in the mental health field meant facing questions, silence, and rejection. But I also had something new: a letter from the Orange County Rape Crisis Center.

Years earlier, during my marriage, something had started to shift. Memories I had buried—or couldn’t make sense of—surfaced through nightmares and intimacy triggers. I reached out to OCRCC, unsure if I even qualified for help. But they didn’t ask me to prove anything. They listened. They believed me. And most importantly, they put into words what no legal system ever had:

Sometimes, the person labeled “perpetrator” is the one who was harmed.

The letters they wrote—one for the Social Work Licensure Board, another for potential employers—became my lifelines. They couldn’t undo the conviction. But they gave me something the courts never did: recognition of truth.

First Steps, First Falls

By early 2022, I had my certification. It was time to return to the field.

I was hired part-time by Cottage Health Care Services in February—my first mental health job in years. It was rewarding, if modest. I worked closely with a few clients and saw the change I could make. Still, I needed more. Full-time work. Stability. Validation.

So when RHA offered me a full-time position as a CPSS in April—on my birthday, no less—I jumped.

Before quitting Cottage, I was cautious. My IPS worker and Vocational Rehab counselor reminded me: “Don’t give notice until you’re absolutely sure RHA knows about the background.”

I disclosed everything. The man who hired me believed in me. He said he’d fight for me. And when he gave me the green light, I believed I could finally move on.

I started at RHA in May.

After Memorial Day weekend, they told me not to meet with anyone. I was called into a private meeting.

“We don’t think this role is the right fit.”

No explanation. Just: turn in your badge.

Later, a coworker told me what I feared—someone had flagged my background. Eighteen years later, the lie was still closing doors.

Breaking Through the Wall

Then, in July, Freedom House Recovery Center hired me. I disclosed everything again. This time, the HR rep glanced at the OCRCC letter and said something I’ll never forget:

“Unless you’re a serial killer, you’re fine.”

She was joking—but not really. It was the first time someone in HR responded with humanity.

I started work in August 2022, assigned to the Mobile Crisis Unit. I would be meeting clients across several counties, often at their homes. Children, families, adults—anyone in crisis.

For the first time, I wasn’t haunted by the past.

No one at Freedom House treated me with suspicion based on the past criminal conviction. I didn’t have to explain or justify my existence. Clients didn’t know, and they were not going to know. I knew it was not relevant what lies Ana told long ago. My supervisor didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was the work.

I was good at it.

Really good.

I saw it in how people opened up to me. I saw it in how I could read body language again. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I didn’t feel like an imposter. I wasn’t walking into rooms as a man carrying shame—I was a professional offering help.

A New Kind of Recognition

Sherisse, my supervisor, saw my potential. She knew I had a background in social work. When I asked her for a reference for my application to regain my social work licensure (as an LCSWA), she hesitated—not because she doubted my goodness, but because she hadn’t worked closely enough with me to confidently recommend me for clinical practice.

Still, she encouraged me. I had been working for over a year with her when an important conversation occured.

At one point, she even brought up RHA as a place I might apply again. I paused.

“I had worked there but do you know why they let me go?” I asked her.

She didn’t.

So I told her.

“I was assaulted in 2004 and yet I was the one arrested. I had been convicted of a violent felony.”

She looked stunned.

“You?” she said. “You couldn’t hurt anyone. I’d fight someone before you would.”

That moment—that validation—was something I had been chasing for almost two decades.

I said emphatically, “Thank you.” She was noticing what should have been obvious to everyone including the police back in 2004.

The Weight of Love and Lies

During this time, I tried dating again. I met someone—Codi Renee. She knew about my conviction and still chose to see me. That alone felt rare. I stayed longer than I should have, not because I was happy, but because I didn’t want to lose the one person who didn’t reject me outright.

But even that came with emotional complexity. I wasn’t comfortable. I wasn’t fully myself. And eventually, the relationship ended.

Codi Renee had lumped me in with others who had hurt her. It didn’t matter that I was different. It still hurt.

And yet, there was a moment during all of this—a moment I’ll never forget—when I realized that the people who truly knew me didn’t just believe me. They knew I was incapable of violence.

Sherisse saw it. My clients felt it. I knew it. If it were not for criminal record databases we would have to rely on our instincts just like my cat had.

Moving On

For a little while, I thought I had made it. I thought the past had loosened its grip. I was helping people. I was thriving. I had finally returned to the field that gave my life meaning.

But then came the cuts. Budget changes. Freedom House began dissolving the Mobile Crisis team.

They offered me another job—on the Detox Unit. I thought it was a generic Crisis Unit. If I had known what that job really was, I might have said no. It wasn’t just unfamiliar. It wasn’t therapeutic. It felt like a jail, not a place of healing.

But that’s a story for another chapter.

Someone Saved My Life

I might never have written this book if that conversation hadn’t shattered my isolation and made me question what I thought I knew—that I was alone, unworthy, unlovable.

It was a Sunday night in the hospital, but time meant nothing. The hours blurred together as I paced the dimly lit hallway outside the nurses’ station, sleepless and invisible. I moved in and out of shadows, unnoticed by the staff, wrapped in a quiet desperation.

The suicidal thoughts had returned—not loud or dramatic, but like a slow leak in a sinking ship. The kind of thoughts that whisper, This will never change. You will never be free. Not truly.

In 2006, I had come to this same hospital in crisis—a cry for help, more impulse than intent. But this time had been colder. Calmer. More like surrender.

I had survived, but I didn’t know if I wanted to.

Then came a voice. Soft, tentative.

"You can't sleep either?"

It was Kira—21, sharp-eyed, and clear-souled. She had seen through my silence in a way few had before. I don’t remember exactly what I told her first. Maybe it started with fragments: a false accusation, a life torn away. But she looked at me and said what I never expected:

"Oh, I believe you. 100%."

Those words were like water in the desert.

She didn’t ask for proof. She didn’t shrink away. She believed me.

And something inside me exhaled for the first time in years.

Maybe she just said the right thing at the right moment. Maybe I was finally ready to hear it. But that moment cracked something open—a space I had sealed off long ago.

It made me wonder: What if I wasn’t destined to carry this in silence forever?

A few days later, I found myself in the tv room with a few others. At this point, I was joining others. I had enjoyed Law & Order: SVU but the topic of this episode could not have come at a more appropriate time.

This episode was different. The plot mirrored my own life: a teacher, falsely accused of a heinous crime, his life dismantled by lies. I sat frozen. Every scene struck me like a nerve. The disbelief, the humiliation of a false accusation, these were experiences I knew very well. The story was powerful. The police had soon realized that the teacher was innocent but the damage had been done. He didn’t know if he would be able to work in his field. The character was in tears - doing an excellent job of portraying the intense pain of this accusation.

While it was fictional, I felt like the authors who wrote this story had known of an incident like this. I had to share what I was noticing and how I could relate to this story.

During the commercial break, I stepped out to tell two ladies that I wanted to share something when they returned. I was making it inevitable that I would share my own experience. People by now knew that I had been a therapist and cared about others.

As everyone returned to the room, there were now about 5 or 6 of us.

"I can relate to all of this," I said. I then added, “I was falsely accused of a violent crime many years ago. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to work in the field again; it destroyed my life. That is why I am here.”

Then someone spoke. "I’m so sorry that happened to you, Bruce."

It seemed like it would be easy to understand how this would harm someone.

Those words, so simple, so human, broke something loose. Not because they erased the past—but because they reminded me I wasn’t beyond compassion.

Later that week, I joined a group activity. I encouraged another patient to attend. We were given words to represent our feelings and paints to express them visually.

I chose words like misfit, outcast, invisible, and outsider. I wanted to amplify the negative feelings and the cold and isolated feelings that go along with these words.

When it was my turn to share, I don’t know what I expected.

Instead, the man I had convinced to come said, "You’re not invisible. You got me here. You’re everywhere. You’re like the social butterfly of this place."

Others chimed in. They spoke of my presence. My kindness.

My jaw dropped.

Was that really me? How had I not noticed this myself?

They saw someone I didn’t know existed anymore. Maybe had never met.

And for the first time in years, I believed that healing might be possible—not because I was cured, but because I was no longer alone.

Kira and I spoke again. She said I should meet her family for Christmas. We never did, but Elee—my ex-wife, still so compassionate—paid for us to go to a movie together.

It was a simple gesture. But it felt like life nudging me forward.

I left the hospital not healed, but opened. I had stepped out of the shadow of suicide into something like possibility.

And for the first time in a long, long time, I wasn’t just surviving.

I was beginning to live.

I should have thought of reaching out and trying to connect with others sooner than this. To be clear, my problems had been trying to get my own family to understand my pain and what I had experienced. I had been telling myself, as I stated earlier, that if my own family didn’t care than who would? This had created a sense of a world without caring or connection.

The hospital doors had closed behind me, but their weight still pressed against my shoulders. I had become extremely anxious for my ride to take me home from the hospital. I was no longer suicidal. I felt a new found sense of hope.

Elee paid for me to meet with a friend that I met in the hospital named Kira and for us three to see a movie. It was amazing how much this cost and how invested Elee was in my healing. This was right after Christmas. Kira had intended to have me visit her family for Christmas but she was promising things without getting an okay from her family.

I stepped out of the hospital on the 23rd of December, 2019. I was not healed but I was different. I wasn’t carrying the weight of the past alone. I had shared it with others. I had told my story - admittedly it was a very abridged version of the story… but the simple concept that a false conviction can destroy a human life was something others could understand. The full story is this book.

Star Wars IX reached the theaters at that time and Elee wanted me to make a new friend and so she offered to pay for movie tickets for me, Kira and herself. This was Saturday December 28, 2019. Kira’s father brought her and then picked her up after the movie. It would turn out that Kira was dealing with serious issues of her own and this meant that her interest in trying to help me or be a friend to me would not last long.

The Web Development business wasn’t paying much but I was working quite often at Measurement Inc. We were hired as readers. All that was required was at least a 4 year degree. It seemed like this was attracting a large number of people. I doubt that many of them were homeless or had been homeless. Some were at retirment age. It seemed like the place to work for anyone who had nowhere else to go. No clear career tragectory.

I saw Bob there. He was the guy who showed up at my home and who was living out of his van. He was quite a character. Highly religious and spiritual. He was someone who appeared completely rational and normal but if you spent any time talking to him, you heard about bizarre spiritual beliefs that even people with schizophrenia did not articulate in such a clear and coherent manner.

That being said, his low soft spoken well articulate voice would sooth me in a hypnotic and peaceful way when I had the opportunity to just listen.

Tragically, the $30,000 had dwindled away as if it was not meant to last. I had not even purchased a car.

With every cent I'd scraped together from work, I made my way back to Wilmington, driven by a longing that gnawed at me day and night. I took the bus. Initially, I got rooms for a night on the weekend at some of the lower cost motels in town. I’d rent a bike and go to Wrightsville Beach.

The beaches called to me, whispering promises of the belonging I'd known once and still craved so desperately, a sanctuary amidst the simmering trauma, dispair and hopelessness of my existence.

In Wilmington, I reunited with Jean Jones and Thomas Childs—two long-time friends from the life I once knew… a life I expected to continue forever with Lynn.

Jean and I were good friends again and in a new way. Lynn and I used to hang out with Jean occasionally. He only remembered the fights that Lynn and I seemed to have all the time. He failed to see the nearly perfect love that we knew. The reality of that part of my life is part of a different story.

Jean was given a normal life like the one I had always expected. Like most people, no one had ever pointed a finger at him and falsely accused him of a violent crime. Ironically, when he spoke about having guns to protect his family, I thought about how with my ultra-pacifist leanings had violently attacked in my own home and then labeled a criminal who couldn’t be trusted. Jean wasn’t always available when I wanted to come to Wilmington and re-connect with people from the poetry scene. So, he helped me to connect with another younger poet named Ryan. He had a couch where I could stay when I wanted to visit the area.

I went with Jean to the aquarium at Fort Pierce, south of Wilmington with his two children. He met me for meals here and there.

There were a few other regulars to the poetry scene that I befriended. I saw David Capps again. He was cool in every way but there was something inscrutible about him that made it hard for me to truly connect with him. I had known him since I first moved to Wilmington back in 1992 but not like I knew Jean, or Jeff and definitely not like I knew Thomas.

Thomas, in particular, felt like a lifeline, as if the years between us had evaporated. Between meeting Thomas down in Wilmington, we spent hours on the phone, our conversations blazing with the intensity of a friendship rekindled, leaving me warmed for the first time in years by the fierce glow of connection.

I ran across Lynn in mid-September, 2008 with the summer still a part of life in Wilmington. She had once been a part of my life that I never imagined losing. I could even argue with her and it never seemed like it would impact the lasting nature of our relationship. With Lynn right there in the same room, I said nothing. Some part of me couldn’t speak even to Lynn. This was unimaginable. I could have spoken to Lynn about anything.

Yet, I froze up, while standing in the same room with her just a few feet apart. Alone in that room as if someone had hoped or arranged for me to take this opportunity to tell her all my feelings. She had known I was going to be there. I should have told her that for what it was worth, I was still in love with her. I guess I couldn’t imagine being rejected by Lynn of all people in the world.

It was my new go-to coping strategy. Silence. In retrospect it was reminiscence of me standing in front of the judge a couple of years earlier in 2006. I had been silent and unable to speak, to protest the way I had been treated by my lawyer.

It wasn’t that I willingly kept silent when standing before the judge in 2006; it was more that I couldn't muster the courage to speak out. But why was silence my default?

Who would have imagined that it wasn't until I began writing this book that I'd uncover a disturbing parallel: the same gripping fear that silenced me from confessing my love to the person who mattered most in my life was the very fear that suffocated my voice two years earlier in the courtroom, preventing me from declaring my objection to the plea deal... from proclaiming that I was the victim?

That is where the parallel somewhat falls apart. While I had lost the earned secure attachment that I once had with Lynn, suddenly and abruptly, I wasn’t concerned about or wearing the shame of a false conviction around Lynn.

The Bigger Picture Here

The most amazing thing about returning to Wilmington was the peace and serenity that came with this and how that materialized. The disability checks and the occasional work with Measurement, Inc. allowed me to come to what was once home to me. I left behind the shame that came with being falsely accused and convicted.

I never had a enough money to buy a car. Not yet. My credit was not very good as one might imagine considering that I had been homeless and my life had been so chaotic.

Yet something amazing was happening down in Wilmington. It didn’t offer me the home I once knew. There are so many things that had happened. There is an entire story that could be written about aspects of my life that had changed beyond the facts discussed in this book on injustice.

What was significant was the sense that I didn’t have to worry about what others would think about me. I told my two best friends down there, Jean and Thomas. We talked a bit about it but I never felt uncomfortable. I never felt the embarrassment that came from wondering if the person hearing my story would doubt my innocence.

I made new friends down there and strengthened other relationships with people from the poetry scene. I might have been shy about the criminal matter but in many ways, while I was down here, in this scene or setting, it seemed irrelevent. This is amazing since I was just getting off supervised probation from the lies told by Ana. Yet, somehow, I managed to place it in a sealed container that wasn’t opened in the Wilmington area.

Speaking of friends and connections, tragically, Dusty had passed away. As the emcee at the poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center going back to 1992 when I first came to Wilmington, Dusty was a warm motherly type that I could have used at this time in my life.

Indeed, a mother was what any injured person needs. Whether revealed in words or actions, Dusty had once filled that role of a mother figure that I never had. There had been Celta and Lynn who had made me feel special. All that was gone and I had no one who was a source of support during the horrifying moments, that turned into days, weeks, months and years.

The comfort of Lynn’s arms or Celta’s arms existed only as tearful memories of something amazing that was gone. I didn’t have a mother figure or a source of deep love that I had once had. I had to face the lies of Ana and the impact of that injustice all alone. Despite the losses and pain, I might have taken for granted the peace and comfort of not having to worry about what others might think about me. Somehow returning to people who had known me was profoundly peace in a way that I failed to appreciate.

I could have used that attitude to help me cope with the challenges I was facing in every aspect of my other life when I was not down in Wilmington. I was even able to make new friends down there wrapped in the warmth of everything this place was offering me in some way that seemed like magic. I was able to make new friends. There was Ryan who I mentioned above. He let me stay with him every time I visited. I also made friends with Ana Ribeiro from the poetry scene down in Wilmington.

So much was missing and could not be recovered from the injustice and what it did to me. Yet, the peace of being in this place around people who had come to know me… there was something magical about this. Wilmington was a haven and refuge. I had once been forced to leave the area due to the first injustice I experienced with John F. He had made sure I couldn’t work down there and that had sent me Durham back in 2001.

Now I was trying to anchor in positive experiences. This is a term from my training in hypnosis and Neuro-Linguistic Programming. From a cognitive behavioral aspect, I could see how certain beliefs about what people would think about me if they found out about the accusations and conviction. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy encourages us to challenge our thoughts and to try to find deeper core beliefs that create very negative feelings - anxiety, trauma responses, depression.

I had resurrected the poetry magazine that Lynn and I started in 1995. Jean became my new co-editor. We had an event down in Wilmington at a new location for the poets in the area - a wine and coffee bar.

I found an outlet in my writing. I wrote a book of poems that was co-authored with Scott Urban who wrote dark, horror poems. I alluded to this book in my earlier discussion of Amanda. In this collaboration, with Scott Urban, I created a collection entitled “Puncture Wounds.” This drew upon the myth of vampires as soulless and without a conscience. Scott’s poems were not based on actual experiences. I was casting the actual villains that I met in my life, including but not limited to John F., Ana (not my new friend Ana but the perpetrator described in this book). I had minimal contact with other sociopaths and psychopaths and was in fact trying to learn about and understand the thinking of these people - these monsters.

I was influenced in part by the series “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” which was created by Josh Whedon. I believe he was an atheist but he still found the symbolism valuable as a literary form. In that series a vampire lacked a soul which meant they lacked a conscience and preyed upon others. Writing was a form of therapy and catharsis. As a professional in the field, I have learned that catharsis might not create healing in itself. However, I am unsure if it doesn’t actually help us deal with emotions and the horrors of life.

Many of these characters depicted in my poems were responsible for my legal problems and my inability to get justice.

Like Josh Whedon, I was becoming an atheist and giving up my “faith.” Yet, I am getting ahead of my story. I was still a Christian during this time period when I was visiting Wilmington up to at least 2010 and for a while after that.

Under normal circumstances, I might have been very concerned that I would reveal a dark side of myself with this publication. I had squelched any expression of what might appear to be a dark side to myself or a delight and fascination for evil or monsters. I was afraid that might make me appear capable of harming someone as Ana had alleged. I was also uncomfortable even being able to express justiable anger and righteous indignation. Again, this was related to the overarching concern in life that no one sees me as capable of violence.

I suppose the visits to Wilmington and being around people who knew me or were getting to know me gave me a new perspective and lowered my inhibitions - I was temporarily, during those excursions to Wilmington, inside a safer mindset. Being seen and accepted, having a connection can certainly make a big difference when dealing with profoundly traumatic events.

Otherwise, in other situations away from that protective bubble of comfort that I felt when I was visiting Wilmington, a painful scarlet letter had been branded into my psyche.

And I didn’t want anyone to see me in that way. I didn’t want to re-experience the taunting and humiliation that had occured when I was stripped down and put inside a padded suicide prevention outfit for the infamous mug shot taken in the early morning hours of October 2, 2004, after the detectives interrogated me, the victim who had been brutally assaulted hours earlier when the day was still October 1st.

Just for a while, and easily forgotten in time, I had an escape.

This confidence did in part carry over into my life overall. It wasn’t entirely limited to my life in Wilmington.

I was reading a number of different books when she came to me. I had a few books stacked near the bed. It was April 15, 2000. A normal day in the life of a psychotherapist who felt on top of the world.

Yes, I'm talking about me.  

Two of the books were somewhat related to one another. One was from the study material that I had on psychodynamic/psychoanalytic therapy. I had been pursuing credentials in this area though I was aware that the theories were hard to prove.

I suppose there are a number of concepts from psychodynamic/psychoanalytic theory that is useful to know as a therapist. Defense mechanisms, like projection and transference, rationalization, and repression.  

Then there was a book on ego state theory. This did seem like a valuable framework for understanding the different states of mind that describe the normal processes of life. Making love is a state of mind altogether different than other states of mind - I certainly am not in that same state of mind when I am at work.  

The other book was called "Paperclip Dolls." This was peculiar. It was written by a woman who had different alter personalities put this book together. She said she used pictures from magazines to create a scrapbook that depicted parts of herself. Hmm.  

Was she one of the dolls? That seemed to be what she was suggesting. She seemed to have discovered aspects of herself from the work she had done using these pictures that she cut out of the magazines. 

I had only recently stumbled upon this book. 

I had been searching for information about DID, treatment, abuse, trauma, and other terms. Those were keywords I used in my searches. This was before I had discovered some of the more bizarre conspiracy theories described in the previous chapter.

I had found forums, chat rooms, directories, and web sites that I had bookmarked to explore later. Some of these online materials and forums were directed perhaps to therapists and other mental health professionals. However, even those were available to the public. 

Many confused people could end up believing in things that never happened. Delusions. Some people seemed to have become certain about what happened to them, and yet if it were true, it would be an explosive conspiracy theory or set of conspiracy theories.   

What had happened to these people? So many curious ideas were running through my mind. My mindset was somewhat philosophical. Curious. Inquisitive.

I let that go. I looked up and Lynn was at the bedroom door.  

She had a mischievous smile on her face. "I want sex," she said.

"Me too," I said, my face lit up with a smile. I took off my shirt as she was unbuttoning her shirt.

She dropped her shirt on the floor and removed her bra. Seeing her breasts, I felt aroused and excited. My heart was racing with excitement. I was aroused as I removed my pants. I paused captivated by the sight of her as if I was seeing her for the first time.   

She dropped her pants and underwear and I paused for a moment to take in the sight of her and she let me look. Lynn knew how much pleasure I found in looking at her. No doubt, it felt good for her to know she was so beautiful to me.  

"Perfect," I said. She smiled. Looking down she noticed I was excited, but she let me look for a moment as I paused taking in the sight of her… adding the words "Amazing! Beautiful!"

I started to move toward her but before I got very far, she was getting onto the bed.

She was on top of me, her tongue inside my mouth, mine inside hers. We were moving. She was on top. 

I could feel both of our hearts as she pressed her lips against mine. Her arms around me squeezed tighter and tighter. I could feel her breasts against my chest. 

She said, "I feel like I can't get close enough."

"I know," I said, returning to kissing her.  

She was supporting herself somehow, just slightly elevated near our waists.

She paused for a moment as she felt me between her legs. "Oh, you’re too close, sweetie," she said with a sigh of pleasure all the same.  

This might be confusing but remember, Lynn can’t get pregnant. She was telling me that she wanted to be a part of me when she said she can’t get close enough, but despite that desire, she had to be sure that she didn’t get pregnant.   

She continued to move and to wrap her arms closely around me. Her kisses were so desperate and passionate. She was hungry! So was I.

Our arms and bodies moved as I caressed Lynn and she squeezed me tighter. I had a habit of letting her squeeze maybe because I was concerned about her comfort.

Those words repeated in my mind. "I feel like I can't get close enough."  

"I feel like I can't get close enough."  

I dropped a bit and let go with a smile. She sensed what had happened.  

She just smiled. "I came already," I said.

"That's okay."

She was still above me smiling.  

I asked genuinely curious, "that was good for you?"

"Yeah. I am glad you felt good." 

"But you didn't."

"Yes, I did," she said.  

"Not really," I said… adding “You were so hungry for sex and you didn’t have an orgasm, how can that be good enough?”

"We can do that another time, she said, adding, "I'm happy."

"Wow, so am I," I said with a chuckle. 

I reflected upon how amazing it was that this was happening so often, nearly every day as if we had just gotten engaged… as if this was the “honeymoon phase” that I heard described somewhere – something that exists for one year.

The passion was so incredibly intense. You would think we had just gotten engaged a few months ago... or that we had not seen each other in a few weeks or months.  

She got up to start the shower for us. I lay for a moment reflecting on things. 

I felt a wave of serenity wash over me.

I was in love. Because she was in love with me. We were one. 

"I love you," she said.

"I love you so much" I added.  

I then smiled or laughed a bit.

"What?" she asked.

"I was thinking of that song by the Moody Blues and how I would like to sing it to you, but I can't... I can't sing."

"It goes” ... and I spoke the words,

"'Cause I love you,
yes, I love you,
oh, how I love you,
oh, how I love you.’

I like the way the singer sings those words like he is overcome with a feeling that MUST be cried out the same way you cannot contain yourself when we make love. But it’s not the same thing, I can and would cry out those words in public. Then it repeats... those same words.

'Cause I love you,
yes, I love you,
Oh, how I love you,
oh, how I love you.’"

Then I said, "That's how I feel! I want to tell the whole world that I love Lynn."

I then added, “and you KNOW I would do just that, over and over, no matter how many times someone has heard it!

She just smiled.  

I had the thought that I would have shouted these words out to the world not just after we made love but anytime. So often and in so many ways I felt these feelings of intense love for Lynn and an intense desire to tell everyone about it. 

Shortly later that evening, I was still thinking about Lynn’s happiness and what that meant for her.

I thought about how much I cared about her happiness, her dreams, and her aspirations. She wanted a master’s in fine arts (MFA) – could I help with that?

What about a kiln so that she could bake her pottery at home? Maybe I could earn more money.

My Other Family

I was still maintaining a relationship with my parents and siblings. But I only saw them for part of a day most of the time when they did visit.

I think that when my brother and/or sister came they came for part of the day only, as well. I guess they were too good for us.

While I had sought their advice regarding the moral dilemma of living with Lynn and how we couldn’t get married, it seemed clear that they understood I had no other options available to me. And it seemed infinitely clear that we were living as husband and wife and that we made love routinely (almost every day).

Then we went to visit for Christmas, and Lynn suggested that we sleep in different beds because we were under their roof. Symbolically, this felt so uncomfortable. It cheapened the relationship, made it seem less than the union of two becoming one body and one soul.        

In my mind, we had been married in the eyes of God. When Lynn said that we should sleep in different beds at my parent's house around Christmas, that seemed to only confuse me. 

In retrospect, if I had said that they must see us as two people who are committed to one another like any husband and wife, she would have been open to my reasoning. I should have said, “well, if they dishonor our union, I am not going there!”

I should have said to them that if they want me to visit for the holidays, we will be sleeping together like any married couple.

I would be so affectionate with Lynn everywhere and all the time. I had seen my parents kiss, but it was so perfunctory. I am not saying that a couple should make out in front of others, but they should look like the kiss says something like Lynn and I did. We took the time to meet each other’s gaze and slowly moved toward one another, letting our lips meet and pause for just a moment.

I don’t remember my brother ever showing that kind of affection when he brought his wife for the holidays. 

With Lynn and me, it was inescapable and unavoidable… for us to hold one another, hold hands. I also loved this because it was a declaration that said, “I love Lynn!” 

Actually, I NEEDED to be close to her and feel her body when I was visiting my parents. I had never felt completely comfortable with them. 

Despite knowing that what we shared was so right, so blessed, so holy, somehow, I sometimes couldn’t shake the religious brainwashing I had experienced.

I don’t know what I said but it gave Lynn the impression that I had doubts about what we should be doing.

Then Lynn would ask, "do you regret what we did?"

I would answer, "no, of course not."  

I don't think she understood what I was saying because I didn't quite understand what I was saying.         

In my mind, this was not any less holy than the union of my parents, or grandparents, or less holy than any union of any husband and wife. If anything, this was more special than what I had seen. In my extended family, I never saw anything that said, “I can tell they are in love.”   

Intimacy Issues as a Form of Discovery

I do know some things about how couples make love. As a psychotherapist that is something that is discussed. I learned about the male and female sexual responses. I studied master’s and Johnson’s research on activities that are practiced by couples. 

What was unique about our relationship, the one Lynn and I had was that neither one of us expected the other person to have any experience in this area or to be sexually compatible. It was more of an area of discovery for both of us. 

Some though not all gay men do enjoy anal sex. Often among heterosexual couples, this is more pleasurable to the male because they think the anal passage is tighter. While some females may want this, it is more common for males to ask for this. 

This was not something I was seeking in my relationship with Lynn nor was she. 

Speaking of same-sex relationships, oral sex is another way that people express love and is commonly practiced by gay men. I would learn this from my clients in the future.

I knew that this fluid is made up largely of the same components as mucus. That fact made oral sex seem unappealing. Previously, I mentioned when Lynn was in the hospital or at the clinic and she was asked to provide a mucus sample, I noted that I had a weak stomach, meaning it made me queasy.

These observations about mucus meant that I did not expect, nor did Lynn expect oral sex despite the fact that this is “normal” and commonly enjoyed by the recipient. 

No part of our bodies was “taboo” though. We both endeavored to explore anything that would increase the pleasure of one another in bringing about an orgasm. So, we did everything short of activities that would involve tasting each other’s bodily fluids. 

But it was more of a case of exploration and discovering what brought us the greatest pleasure and what we were both comfortable doing. 

I felt so lucky that this was happening. I felt lucky to know that I wasn’t expected to do anything with some level of competency as I had heard discussed later in couples therapy or with my individual clients. 

I felt lucky also that we weren’t talking about sexual competency. 

After we knew what activities, we were comfortable doing we could offer or ask for certain things. I was still a believer (a Christian), and so I saw this as a blessing, a miracle, and a true sense that we were one body. Our bodies were our gifts to one another. And that was holy! More holy than I could have imagined.

As an atheist, I still see things in the same way, but I use different words to describe things. I know some atheists, such as Sam Harris, describe spiritual experiences, but I still associate that with the supernatural and I do not believe in such things. 

I’m a romantic and I believe in the concept of the two become one and are united forever, which is as long as we exist. 

My tasks allowed me the opportunity to get to know others in a therapeutic setting. Recall that when a person is admitted to the hospital there is a short period of time during which the intake assessment for each department must be completed.  

Unlike during my first year when it seemed like they were making work for me to learn as a requirement for an internship, this was a setting where I was being asked to do something that was required by and for the hospital.  

This wasn't busywork. If I was asked to complete this, I was being counted on to do this. It was necessary and required. This made me feel so much more useful than during my first year where it was hard to see that I was making a difference. Also, as I said, Chris knew what I was learning from him and through my studies.

Instead of feeling bad about volunteering my knowledge, wisdom, and insights, I saw that what I was offering was valuable information to consider when evaluating what a patient was experiencing and perhaps how they could be helped. 

I had mentioned that during my first internship I had some doubts about my competency. I chalked up every "mistake" as a learning experience. 

Okay, so during the intake assessments we try to get a lot of information from a patient. Why they are in the hospital as they understand it... what has been going on in their lives... are they married? Do they have children? Can they describe their symptoms and problems? And so on.  

The ability to gather information from a person requires building rapport, creating trust, demonstrating empathy and compassion. The quality and nature of what you learn, what information you are able to gather, are a reflection of your skills and talents in this area. It’s also important to ask very open-ended questions as much as possible because the patient knows things that we don’t.

As you can see, I have come a long way from the young man who needed counseling to learn social skills, communication skills, and how to control my anxiety - social anxiety.

I constantly reflected upon how good I felt about having accomplished so much. Over a decade of hard work had been invested in getting me here where I am in my late 20s.  

It also seemed that when you do demonstrate respect for others, empathy, and concern, they want to talk about their experiences. That was my observation time and again. Chris recognized my growing talent and eagerness and let me start doing some brief therapy with patients. Because the patients were not in the hospital very long, the therapy had to be brief.  

Chris gave me some pointers as to what I might want to do when I sat down with a patient - what kinds of interventions might be helpful. I discussed what I had been learning in my classes and other studies. 

What might I do in a session with a patient? Well, if they are dealing with major depression, we could try Cognitive Behavioral techniques where we learn to challenge automatic thoughts that create negative emotions.

With trauma issues, deep relaxation techniques are very helpful in talking about a disturbing event. I would demonstrate or guide a person in the use of guided imagery and deep breathing to create relaxation. 

By that time, I was clearly demonstrating empathy and powerful listening skills. I received that kind of feedback from Chris when I turned in notes about my activities, but I also had that impression from the feedback that I received from the patients. I’m not saying they gave me a score on empathy and listening skills but there were so many times when I noticed how much people wanted to share their stories and feelings with me.

There were various opportunities when I was on the unit where patients had a chance to approach me and ask to talk about an issue that had come up in a group or from our earlier conversation when I did the intake assessment for example. Sometimes all I did was just listen with empathy. The experience of being in the hospital is not likely to be a pleasant experience. 

This kind of listening may not sound like a technique but in the psychological theories that were developed by Carl Rogers, unconditional positive regard and empathy are valuable tools.

I would tell them when I met with them for therapy that I was going to write up notes about what we discussed in therapy to see if it could be helpful to others who might be offering treatment for them. I instinctually felt that I could and would offer to let them tell me something and ask that it not be recorded in the notes.  

Gender issues were never relevant. I mean the fact that I was male was not a factor in a patient choosing to disclose any details about what they had experienced. Sometimes you might think that a woman might only talk to another woman about something traumatic, especially if they were victimized by a man.  

What probably intrigued me the most was the experiences that people with schizophrenia or psychotic disorders might be having. I thought that if I could demonstrate empathy, understanding, and compassion, and be able to help people struggling with these issues that would be something amazing. 

In seeking to help someone with a psychotic disorder, treatment might include active listening which means summarizing or rephrasing what someone just said to see if we can understand one another. That connection is so important. It’s sad but some people with schizophrenia will develop serious problems with communication and what they say might not make any sense. I believed I was making a difference by listening and trying to understand.

There is a great deal of research that demonstrates a genetic predisposition for various psychiatric disorders. However, it seems from my own experience that being confronted with major life stressors, even stressors that might not seem like traumatic events, and any person can develop a range of different symptoms – hopefully, that is temporary. 

I did file away the observation that so many people were coming to the survivor groups, even though trauma was not an issue that necessarily had an impact on why they were admitted to the hospital. 

Often Chris was present in the group sessions even when he allowed me to lead the group. I would talk about relaxation techniques as Chris had done. I would employ the kinds of guided imagery exercises that were used in the groups that Chris led, meaning, I invited them to follow along with my suggestions or guidance.

I know that I have covered a great deal here and may not have been overly specific when describing theories and techniques or what I specifically did. I'm not trying to give psychology or psychotherapy lessons, per se... but I will go into greater detail later in the book.