Preface

There are moments in life that quietly divide everything into before and after. You don't see them coming. You don't mark them as history when they arrive. They slip into your life like shadows - unnoticed at first - and when you finally look back, everything has changed.

This is a story about how love found me, how it changed me, and how the eventual loss of that love shattered everything I had come to believe about who I was and how life works. But more than that, it's a story for anyone who has ever felt fundamentally different - invisible in a crowd, uncertain of their worth, carrying wounds that others can't see.

As both someone who lived this experience and later became a therapist specializing in trauma, I've learned that our stories of struggle can become bridges to healing, not just for ourselves but for others walking similar paths. This memoir weaves together personal narrative with insights I've gained through my professional work, particularly as a Peer Support Specialist who uses his own pain to help others find their way through theirs.

This is not just a story about love and loss. It is a story about attachment - what it means to be seen, held, chosen. It's about the lasting impact of childhood emotional deprivation and how trauma can masquerade as personality, making us believe we're fundamentally flawed rather than wounded. And it's about what happens when those crucial bonds are broken, when the very foundation of safety we've built comes crashing down.

If you've ever struggled with social anxiety that felt like selective mutism, if you've wondered whether you might be on the autism spectrum only to discover your differences stem from trauma, if you've lived with the deep shame of believing you're unlovable - this story is for you. For some reason, this seems to be the latest fad where being on the “spectrum” is being embraced by many to celebrate their differences which is good but it might not fit you.

It's for those who understand what it means to feel like a ghost in your own life, for survivors of narcissistic abuse, and for anyone grappling with Complex-PTSD symptoms that seem to emerge just when you thought you'd healed.

As a child, I knew emotional deprivation. I knew how to hide and survive. But I didn't know how to want - because I had never been taught what it meant to be loved. The transformation that followed wasn't just personal recovery; it became the foundation for my life's work helping others who carry similar wounds.

Then, I met Celta. And then Lynn. Through these women, I tasted the kind of connection I once believed was reserved for other people. I built a life. I became a therapist. I knew joy and purpose and secure attachment for the first time.

And then, in 2000, everything fell apart.

What I discovered in that collapse was that healing isn't linear, that attachment wounds can reopen, and that Complex-PTSD symptoms can resurface even after years of apparent recovery. But I also learned something crucial: our capacity for connection, once awakened, never truly dies - even when we can barely remember what it felt like to be held.

This book is told in two parts.

Part I is a love story. A story of healing. Of what it means to be truly seen and how that visibility can transform a life built on invisibility.

Part II is about what happens when that love slips away - when loss becomes trauma, when the past you once survived comes roaring back, and when you must learn to live with an activated nervous system that remembers danger everywhere.

This is not a tale of tidy recovery. It is a story of endurance, dissociation, searching, and longing. Of trying to find one's way through the fog of Complex-PTSD while holding onto the professional identity of someone who's supposed to help others heal. And of wondering whether hope, once lost, can ever be trusted again.

But it's also a testament to the human capacity for resilience, the power of peer support, and the radical idea that we don't have to love ourselves first to be worthy of love. Sometimes, it's through being loved that we learn we are lovable.

Whether you're a fellow traveler on the path of trauma recovery, someone who loves someone struggling with these invisible wounds, or a professional seeking to understand the lived experience behind the diagnoses - I offer this story as both witness and guide.

We all deserve to be loved. We all deserve to know we are loveable. And sometimes, sharing our deepest wounds becomes the very thing that helps others find their way home to themselves.

My name is Bruce, and I'm caught in the midst of a grave injustice. As you explore the events of October 1, 2004, it might be useful to know a bit about my life. I sat in the dimly lit interrogation room, the air thick with suspicion, as the police detectives bombarded me with relentless questions. They seemed utterly disinterested in the details of my past or the experiences that made me who I am today. Yet, shouldn't these things play a crucial role in determining someone's guilt or innocence, especially in a violent crime? But then again, maybe it's naive to think they'd care.

The question of what a person is capable of doing is on our minds and yet not so when considering crimes where opportunity, alibis, and means are all that matters.

Let me offer some glimpses into my life and the experiences that have shaped me, though capturing the entirety of who I am in this book feels both necessary and futile.

I arrived in Chapel Hill still haunted by the weight of what had happened. The trial loomed over me like a surreal nightmare that could always get worse—each day darker than the last.

It felt like I had one foot in the Upside Down, that decaying alternate world from Stranger Things—gray skies, black vines coiling through every structure, flakes of ash suspended in the air like frozen sorrow. A world where sunlight never broke through, and something monstrous always lurked just out of sight.

That was my emotional landscape. A place of trauma, fear, and numb detachment. One version of me walked Chapel Hill’s streets. The other was trapped in that shadow world—haunted, hunted, unseen.

I had started seeing a therapist, one I would continue seeing for years. But in those early days, he could barely reach me. I was too far down. Healing felt impossible when my future was uncertain, and every breath I took carried the suffocating fear of what awaited me in court—because no matter how implausible Ana’s story was, sitting in front of two detectives in bloody clothes had not been enough to convince them of the truth.

At night, I slept on the floor of the homeless shelter. During the day, I found temporary refuge in the libraries on UNC’s campus. I’d sit at a computer, pretending to research or write, anything to keep my mind from spinning. I still didn’t allow my mind to go to the place where the charges existed, didn’t understand the sentence I was facing, and my lawyer hadn’t explained any of it.

I was moving through fog, without a map, without a compass.

The Call That Changed Everything

It was sometime in July 2006 when I called my lawyer from the UNC campus. He picked up, abrupt and urgent.

“Come to court. Now.”

No explanation. No context. Just: Now.

I asked how long I had, but he didn’t care—just that I needed to get there fast.

My pulse spiked. I grabbed my things and rushed to the bus from Chapel Hill to Duke. From there, I walked toward the courthouse in a panic, nearly running.

My heart was racing—not just from the exertion, but from the deep-rooted fear I had lived with since being charged. I had already missed a court date once, and the shame and terror of that mistake still sat in my bones. I could not afford another one.

By the time I reached the courthouse, sweat clung to my skin. I was gasping for air—not just from the walk, but from the dread clawing at my insides. No matter how implausible the charge was, my only fear that morning was being late—getting in trouble, being punished for missing something. I had no idea this was a turning point, a break in the case that would define the rest of my life. I was terrified of being arrested for failure to appear—not of walking into a courtroom where my lawyer would ambush me and unravel my future in minutes.

The Ambush

The moment I stepped into the courthouse, I saw my lawyer—standing in the hallway. Not in a private room. Not even in a quiet corner. Just… there. And beside him, the prosecutor.

My stomach sank. The whole setup was wrong. It felt staged.

I barely had time to catch my breath before he said:

“They’re dropping the sexual offense charge. You’ll plead guilty to second-degree kidnapping. No additional jail time, just time served and probation.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

My lawyer had once told me, “No jury will ever believe you capable of this.”

Nothing had changed. No new evidence, no new testimony. No revelations.

He had known I was innocent. From everything I’d ever told him. From every conversation. He had never doubted I was the victim.

But now, standing in front of me, he was threatening me.

“Take this deal, or you could face 10 years in prison,” he said. “We discussed this.”

We hadn’t. That was a lie.

He had never told me what the potential sentence might be. Why would he? If he truly believed no jury would convict me, there was no reason to warn me of prison time. The implication had always been that we’d win. That truth would matter.

Now, I was being railroaded. Ambushed. He was cornering me—and doing it with the prosecutor present.

I was frozen with fear. And in that surreal moment, something happened that still stuns me to this day:
I looked at the prosecutor for comfort.

She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t reassuring. But she wasn’t threatening me either.

My own lawyer was the one making threats.

That moment—me looking toward the prosecutor because my lawyer frightened me—sums up everything.

Walking Into a Lie

I must have nodded. Or maybe I said nothing at all. But the next thing I knew, we were walking into the courtroom.

My mind was shutting down. I wasn’t in control anymore. I had entered freeze mode—a full trauma response.

The courtroom blurred. I was barely registering anything. I was aware that something terrible was happening, but I couldn’t stop it. It was happening to me.

Everything moved too fast.

I stood before the judge. The room felt like it was tilting.

When asked if I was satisfied with my counsel, I said, “I don’t know.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to say, No, this man is betraying me! He’s lying!

I wanted to tell the judge that I had been ambushed, that I hadn’t been given time to process, to think, to weigh my options.

When asked if I was on medication or had any mental condition that might prevent me from understanding the plea deal, I wanted to say, Yes!

I had PTSD. I had depression. I was terrified. I was not thinking clearly. I was on medication.

But I was too detached and in a state of traumatic shock to speak or to summon air that is needed to form words that one might hear.

A Last, Desperate Attempt

As I stood before the judge, I knew I had to slow this down.

I had to fight—even if I could barely form words.

When asked if I was satisfied with my counsel, the only thing I could manage was:

"I don’t know."

What a fool! My mind screamed at me. Tell the judge the truth! Tell him this lawyer has failed you!

I searched for a way out, a moment to speak up. When asked if I was on medication or had any mental condition that would prevent me from entering a plea deal, I hesitated.

Every part of me wanted to say yes.

"Yes, I have a trauma disorder. I have Major Depression. I have an anxiety disorder. I am not thinking clearly. I am on medication."

But I didn’t say it.

I couldn’t say it because I lacked the capacity to draw in air and force it across vocal chords that would utter words of truth.

Forced to Speak a Lie

Then came the final question.

“Are you in fact guilty?”

Everything in me screamed No.

Instead, I pointed at my lawyer and said, “That’s what he told me to say for the purpose of this plea deal.” That was it.

That was my plea.

Not a “Yes, Your Honor.” Not a confession. Just a statement that I was parroting what I’d been coached to say. My lawyer had spoken for me almost the entire time.

He entered the plea. He confirmed everything. He led me—like a lamb to slaughter.

I shook his hand afterward. Why? I don’t know. Trauma does strange things. I should’ve pulled away, but I didn’t have the strength.

Suborning Perjury?

Here’s what I’ve always wondered.

If a lawyer knows their client is guilty—because the client confessed—and still allows them to lie on the stand, it’s called suborning perjury. That’s how we define “knowing.”

But what if it goes the other way?

What if a lawyer knows their client is innocent—and still coaches them to say they’re guilty?

Isn’t that just as wrong?

Even if the law doesn’t see it that way, common sense does.

To any layperson, this feels like the same thing. It is the same thing. Morally. Rationally. In every meaningful way.

My lawyer knew I was innocent. Not suspected. Not assumed. He knew. And yet, he stood beside me in a courtroom and helped me plead guilty to a crime that never happened.

A Crime That Never Happened

As I was led away, a court officer pulled me aside to draw blood for DNA records.

I tried to protest. “This plea deal makes it sound like I committed a crime.” He didn’t care. No one did.

No one ever talked about what actually happened that day in 2004. No evidence was reviewed. No facts were examined. No truth was spoken.

Just a quick hearing. A rushed judgment. A courtroom full of people too ready to move on.

And a handshake with the villain who had silenced me.

That’s all it took to permanently alter the course of my life.

All because the system wanted a win. All because my lawyer, who knew I was the victim, coached me into silence.

All because no one—no one—listened.

Why the Rush?

Why the urgency? Why couldn’t he have warned me on the phone? Why couldn’t I have had a night to think, to speak to someone I trusted, to feel the weight of the decision I was being coerced into making?

Because letting me think was the last thing anyone wanted.

My silence was convenient. My trauma, my fear, my confusion—they all served the system better than my voice ever could. If I had been given time—even the hour-long trip to Durham—I would have been ready to say no. No, no, no! I would have realized that an actual prison would be no worse than the virtual prison created by this plea deal.

But this—this was by design.

As I was awaiting trial, I could barely process the horrifying thought of what could happen if the trial did not go my way. In a brief encounter with my lawyer that I mentioned previously, after I got out of jail, the only thing he discussed was his sense that no jury would be able to imagine that I was capable of harming anyone. 

I was overwhelmed and traumatized by everything that had happened. I had been homeless or on the verge of homelessness before the assault by Ana that landed me in jail for 7 months. I had been homeless in Durham after my lawyer got me out of jail to “prepare for trial.”

At no point during the one meeting with my lawyer had I discussed the potential prison sentence that I could receive if found guilty of these charges - 2nd degree kidnapping and 2nd degree sexual offense. 

I was existing in a state of trauma. I could have diagnosed myself, if I was thinking clearly, with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I could have recognized that I was using a form of dissociation, that is called derealization, as a coping mechanism. This is the brain's creative way to cope with overwhelming stress or trauma. 

My mind was experiencing life as if I was living in a dream-state. This was a living nightmare! 

Ever since the assault and during the months of captivity or while living homeless in Durham and then Chapel Hill, the topic of spending years in prison never entered my consciousness! It was too overwhelming to imagine.

After spending that month in jail while awaiting trial, I would find and secure a bed at the homeless shelter in Chapel Hill. For a brief moment in time, I experienced a miraculous event where I had a chance to connect with a lady.

It was a rare reprieve, a brief glimpse of something tender before I was thrust back into the cold, both literally and figuratively.

Homeless in Chapel Hill, Holding Onto Hope

At the Interfaith Council (IFC) shelter, I started at the bottom—sleeping on the floor, waiting for a bed to open upstairs. Eventually, I got one, which meant a reserved place to sleep. It also meant I had a small storage space downstairs for my belongings, but the space was barely enough for what little I owned.

During the day, we were forced to leave after breakfast. There was no place to simply be.

I tried to find work. Vocational Rehabilitation had funded Web Design training for me, but what chance did I have of landing a job while living in a shelter, marked by a pending trial that would decide the rest of my life?

And yet, I tried.

I still held onto a shred of self-worth, fragile as it was. I still believed, somehow, that I was more than what the system had labeled me.

A Miracle in the Midst of Chaos

Then something unbelievable happened.

I met someone.

It was November, and I had been on a dating website, though my self-confidence had been shattered. What woman would want a man who was homeless? A man who had been cast as the villain when he was, in fact, the victim?

But she did.

She listened. She believed me.

She invited me to Thanksgiving dinner.

I was stunned. A woman I had only recently started talking to wanted to meet me. She even bought my train tickets to visit her in Sanford, NC.

"I am a respectable lady," she told me. "You should not expect anything sexual to happen."

It didn’t matter. Just being wanted, just being seen, was enough.

I packed a few changes of clothes, enough to look semi-presentable, and boarded the train. Thanks to the shelter, I was able to shower, shave, and brush my teeth before leaving. That, in itself, was a luxury.

A Moment of Connection

We had a wonderful evening and weekend.

Dinner was warm and filling. We watched the Superman movie together. That night, we shared a bed, though nothing sexual happened.

But I still felt close to her.

I remember laying in her lap, my arms wrapped around her.

I remember the softness of her lips. I remember her whispering, "Give me your tongue," as we kissed.

She was beautiful—a stunning black woman—and for that brief moment, I felt lucky.

For a single night, I wasn’t a homeless person. I wasn’t an accused criminal. I was just me, holding someone close, feeling warmth against my skin instead of the cold, cruel world pressing in on me.

But then I ruined it.

A Stupid, Simple Mistake

Some of my clothes had gotten wet on the train, so she kindly washed and dried them for me.

But in my absentmindedness, I had left my return ticket in my pocket.

When I realized my mistake, my stomach dropped.

"Oh my god."

My chest tightened with frustration, anger, self-loathing.

"How could I be so stupid?"

I knew I had just created a situation where she would have to buy me another ticket home. The thought filled me with shame.

I clenched my fists and, without thinking, slammed my hand down on the bed—not out of anger at her, not in any way directed toward her, but in sheer frustration at myself.

But it didn’t matter.

The second my hand hit the bed, I felt it—fear.

It was my fear that she might be afraid of me.

The Shadow of False Accusations

I hadn’t even been near her.

What if she thinks I could be dangerous? What if she wonders about Ana’s accusations?

It didn’t matter that I knew I was the same person who had those soft gentle hands - the only hands and arms that could have been there with Lynn or Celta before her. Celta who had anorexia and was all skin and bones.

The fear of what she might think consumed me.

This wasn’t like with Lynn, where I could wake up from a nightmare and simply ask her, "Did I hit you in my sleep, or was that just in my dream?"

With Lynn, there was trust.

But this was different.

I left the next day, hugging her goodbye. But I felt ashamed. Because of the shame that I began to carry, I didn’t think to ask for another moment with her.

That moment was the beginning of a new fear—the fear that someone might imagine that I could be violent. It would take many years, maybe a decade and a half for that fear to evaporate.

I was so frustrated that I had but one short glimpse of hope, connection, and closeness.

Back Out in the Cold

On my way back to Chapel Hill, it started snowing.

The ice and wind cut through my coat, through my skin, through the fragile layer of my dashed hopes that I had carried with me on that train that first brought me to see a lady.

I arrived in downtown Durham, exhausted, stressed, and desperate to get back to the shelter in Chapel Hill. But the buses that would go to Chapel Hill weren’t running.

I had no choice but to take the Durham bus as far as it would get me to Chapel Hill and then walk.

Carrying my two bags, I took bus 10 to the farthest point it would go on Highway 15-501, then walked for miles, uphill, through the wet, heavy snow.

At some point, another guy was walking in the same direction. He seemed safe, and we walked together, sharing the quiet misery of the storm.

But when we reached the border of Chapel Hill, I saw the Red Roof Inn and made a decision.

I would call my parents.

I would beg for a warm bed.

I entered the motel and asked for phone to call my family.

"Dad, please. I’m soaked, I’m exhausted. I just need a place to sleep tonight."

His response was cold, emotionless, detached.

"No."

I was numb.

Not from the cold outside, but from the realization that nothing I said would ever make him care.

I had no choice but to keep walking.

Blisters formed on my wet feet. My hands were numb.

Every step felt heavier than the last.

When I finally arrived at the shelter, I knocked on the door, praying they would let me in.

They did.

For a few precious hours, I had a warm bed.

But as dawn came and breakfast ended, I was back out in the cold.

Alone. Again.

Despair weighed upon me as I wandered the dark Durham night. The shelter was full, so I tried to sleep on the grounds of Duke West Campus. No signs warned against trespassing. I didn’t feel comfortable so I left and taking a shortcut I scaled a 4-foot rock wall, unaware of doing anything wrong.

Then, as if summoned by fate, a police car appeared.

A block down the road, its lights flickered in the night. The car slowed, then stopped. My stomach clenched as the officer stepped out, approaching me with a cold authority.

“License."

The request made no sense. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Why were they stopping me?

And then, those dreaded words. Words that had already shattered my life once before.

"Warrant for your arrest."

Time collapsed. My thoughts spiraled. A warrant? For what?

Then came the explanation—something about using someone’s credit card without permission.

I couldn’t breathe.

A credit card?

Panic surged through me. How? I hadn’t even had the chance to meet anyone with a credit card since my release from jail. How could I have committed a felony without even knowing it?

I barely had time to process the accusation before cold metal closed around my wrists. Handcuffs. Again.

As they led me away, my mind raced to make sense of the impossible.

How the hell did this happen?

A Rabbit Hole of Betrayal

To understand this new nightmare, we have to go back—back to a time before Ana, before jail, before my life unraveled.

I had once been part of therapy groups in Durham, trying to build a community, trying to heal. That’s where I met Kathy.

She knew I had worked with people diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID)—once called Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD)—a condition made infamous by movies like Sybil. It was rare, misunderstood, and yet, here it was, again, threading itself into my story.

Before my time on Holloway Street, before the assault that would alter my life, I had briefly lived in a spare room offered by a friend, Elaine. During that time, Kathy and I became intimate.

Then, one night, everything changed.

In an instant, she transformed—her voice, her body language—childlike.

It was as if I was suddenly in the presence of a child in an adult’s body.

I freaked out. I pulled away and got dressed immediately.

It didn’t matter that she was an adult. It felt like I was with a child.

Kathy soon returned to her boyfriend and Elaine wanted to live alone. I moved into the home of Kathy and her boyfriend —sleeping in the same room as her son, on the bottom bunk. But our relationship had become twisted, toxic.

She demanded my attention, needed me to play the role of therapist. I had already explained how inappropriate that would be after what had happened and I wasn’t licensed and practicing at that point.

Some of her other personalities were angry at me.

Some were obsessed with me.

Some were jealous—especially when I spent time with my girlfriend, Shonda.

The situation was untenable.

And then came Christmas.

The Credit Card That Would Ruin Me

December 2003—less than a year before Ana’s attack.

Kathy wanted to give me a gift.

She offered to pay for my website domain renewal—the same poetry website I had started with Lynn back in 1995.

The life I had shared with Lynn felt so close, and yet, like an entirely different lifetime.

We sat together as she entered her credit card details into my GoDaddy account. It was her choice.

Neither of us thought much about the card being saved on file.

At the time, it meant nothing. But that decision—the smallest, most mundane act—would later become my undoing.

A Dangerous Shift

Tensions escalated.

Kathy became more unpredictable, more hostile.

One night, things turned dangerous.

I felt threatened—physically and sexually.

I ran.

Outside, hands shaking, I called Shonda. She offered me a place to stay, a bed in the back of her family’s store.

Then, I called the police.

The authorities came. They didn’t arrest Kathy, but the report was on record—a crime of a sexual nature, with me as the victim.

I should have seen the warning signs then. But I didn’t.

And now, here I was—being arrested. Because of her.

The Forgotten Charge

Fast-forward to 2005, after Ana, after my release from jail.

I had forgotten about the GoDaddy domain.

My cards on file had no funds, so Kathy’s was automatically charged.

Instead of asking for her card to be removed, instead of seeing this for what it was—a mistake—she pressed charges.

The charge? Felony credit card fraud.

The amount? $15.

Fifteen dollars.

And I was back in a cell.

Trapped in the System Again

This time, I spent a month in jail, mostly in protective custody.

The same lawyer—the one handling my pending trial—was assigned to this nonsense case.

"I’ll enter a plea to misdemeanor larceny," he told me when he got around to contacting me at all, after I had been there almost a month!

"You’ll be released right away. No court appearance necessary."

I should have been furious but I was in such a state of shock during this period of time. I was detached from feelings and living life as if in a bad dream.

Misdemeanor larceny? Over a clerical error?

A System That Doesn't Care

I was too numb and detached to feel the anger that I feel as I write this almost 20 years later.

I was too beaten down, too traumatized to feel the full weight of my indignation.

But looking back?

This shouldn’t have happened.

A competent lawyer—one who actually cared—would have had this dismissed immediately. Instead, my public defender took the path of least resistance, pushing me through a legal system that wasn’t about justice, only efficiency.

I just wanted out.

So, I did not protest when he told me what he was going to do. As soon as I was free, I left Durham—straight for Chapel Hill.

Because even in homelessness, I had learned: some places were safer than others and Chapel Hill was safer.

That's me in the photograph accompanying this chapter. What do I feel when I see that photograph now? I feel a sense of what was missing, and I feel a sense that he was hurt at one point and he was scared. Self-compassion allows me to recognize these things in myself.

Many of the details of the abuse have been processed by me in therapy over the years. Other aspects of child abuse were healed through the relationships I had with friends and those I loved, including those who I loved emotionally.

We were physically assaulted/abused by both of our parents when we were growing up. The details of this have been processed by me through counseling, in conversations with and I have moved on with the support of people I have loved. So, I'm not going to describe actual incidents. I don't think it is necessary to go into detail about this. 

Growing up, we used to discuss this, my sister, Carrie, and me. I don't know what happened to that relationship with my sister. We used to be close.

Not too long ago, I realized that I had some residual problems related to this abuse. Just last year I tried to talk to her about this. Her response was shocking! She acted like she didn't remember the last emotional thing she had shared with me decades earlier. She acted like I was doing something wrong by even talking about these things.

I can't say what she felt about me talking to my therapist about these issues. I just know that she had not demonstrated any empathy, compassion, kindness, or understanding. She was angry at me!

Based on my years of experience and education, I might have some theories that might explain her reactions but that's material that is not important in this particular book. Those theories are not relevant. She isn't my client or patient seeking my assistance. In fact, tragically, we aren't in touch with each other now.

One of the first memories that left an impact on me and which is relevant to this book is a memory I had when my mother's mother heard me in distress and heard what she recognized as abuse. My grandma yelled at her own daughter and her son-in-law to leave Bruce alone.

You see she was weak at this point in her life. She got around with a walker. She and Grandpa moved in with us when we were very young children because their health had deteriorated relatively early in their lives. They first moved into our home when Grandma was about 70 and Grandpa was about 78.

Sometime later, when I was about 8, that's when something was happening as I was on the stairs leading to the second floor of our home. I don't even remember all the details. I only remember Grandma yelling "leave Bruce alone." And I remember thinking "but Grandma, I'm bad."

That was NOT true. I most certainly was not a bad boy. I had tried so hard to do everything right. I was just that small, skinny, fearful, little boy like the one you see in the photograph above. The southerners would say that Grandma cussed out her daughter and son-in-law. I don't believe it was a physical assault, but it had bothered Grandma enough to shout those words as a command – a command that she could not enforce other than with shame, which she hoped would work. Maybe Grandma still believed she commanded authority over her daughter.

Grandpa used to be so protective of me too. We would take out the garbage and do other chores together. He would call me "Brucie" until I was almost 13 until he died. He was nearly blind it had seemed to me. Grandpa died at age 86. One of the ways he was protective or how he demonstrated concern was the way he cautioned against me lifting too much weight when we were doing chores. He said I might get a hernia.

As an immature boy, I was still trying to live up to the standards of how boys are not supposed to be wimps or sissies. We are socialized to be strong as boys and tough. Grandpa's wisdom was good though. I had a hernia operation when I was very young – in the part between the legs. It makes me uncomfortable to just think about getting any more specific.

The earliest years of my life are somewhat relevant to this book. I have no fond memories from growing up. I don't remember having had such memories. Maybe I once did.

A story about something very early in my life will illustrate some important issues that I want to describe. It's a story that I heard from my mother when I was growing up. Unless this story was not related to us later, I would not have known about this because I was so young. So, in the story, I was about two and my parents bought a fire engine. It made a loud noise and I got terrified. I can imagine myself reaching for comfort and consolation and I will tell you how I can imagine that in a moment.

The response of my parents was one of frustration. They had bought a gift and it was about them and how my fear affected them. It was like I wasn't showing any appreciation. Now, I think of my cat getting startled by a loud noise and what do I do even though my cat cannot understand my words. I say in a soothing tone, "it's okay, you're okay." I just noticed this recently. My interpretation and the examples I might use might be different if I was writing this at a different period in my life.

So, I was a "sensitive baby" and that was what was conveyed to me. Here's the thing that we know from psychological research. Babies and children need to bond with their parents so they can feel safe to explore the world. It's like we are on a ship and when the waves come and rock the boat, we need guardrails to feel safe. If we don't have that we are fearful.

This would explain why I was shy growing up. I didn't feel like I had a safe harbor.

I do know from my memories of Elementary School that I didn't feel like I could turn to grown-ups for safety or protection. The only memory of being picked on is a memory I have from when I was in Kindergarten or 1st grade. We were outside for recess and I was last to come back into the building. There were three or four other boys who taunted me and kept me from coming back and returning to class on time.

These four boys seemed to enjoy the bit of fear that I demonstrated. It's okay, kids can be mean and I'm not holding it against them. But I felt so embarrassed for even wanting help and for being picked on. I didn't tell the teacher.

In third grade, a new guy moved into my neighborhood named Paul Plourde. He was a big guy in my eyes. We became friends that year and I felt like I had a protector, so I really came out of my shell. It was amazing. In the mindset of me as a pre-teen kid, strength was what I thought I needed most. 

Only later would I discover that I didn't really need a physically strong protector to overcome my shyness. I didn't need a protector as much as I needed nurturing and comfort.

What do most parents do that was missing for me and what had I wanted? I wanted to be hugged. I wanted parents that snuggle with their children. I wanted to be spoken to with soothing words. I wanted to feel special. I wanted to be nurtured.

When I was about six or seven, I was at the YMCA learning how to swim and I was in the deep end. I had learned some things about swimming, but I was still a little scared. My swimming instructor was a teenager who was 17 or 18, as I remember it. I remember getting scared as I swam toward her and grabbing her around the neck. I thought I had done something wrong or maybe I just felt embarrassed that I needed this. Maybe someone would laugh at me for being weak and needy.

But at that moment, I got what I needed – soothing, comfort, and assurance that nothing would happen to me. I was okay. What I was doing was okay.

It would take me until I met Celta and started cuddling with her to realize that I had hungered for this my whole life so much. I was starving for affection by the time I reached adulthood. I needed caressing, nurturing, closeness, and physical contact.

I'll talk about the need for validation and other forms of comfort in the next chapter, including empathy.

It had seemed that cystic fibrosis was about to destroy my entire life, as well as threaten the life of the woman I loved. I feel selfish to say that it was destroying my life. I cannot say that I was dying, not literally. I felt survivor's guilt because of this fact. I felt I didn't have a right to speak about how I was experiencing all of this. That might be part of the reason why I didn't reach out to friends and say, "I need your help" or "I need your support." or "I need to talk."

Lynn had known the devastating pain this would cause me. I just had a hard time thinking about "me." It's ironic that by not focusing on how this was affecting me, I didn't appreciate that this was an emotional, psychological and existential crisis for me.

To be honest, it happened too fast for me to get in to see a psychotherapist or a doctor for help to deal with this. If I had a physical sickness, I would have called my doctor and gotten an appointment in a day or so, maybe a week. With a psychological crisis or sickness that comes on so quickly, we don't think in terms of emergencies that must be addressed immediately.

I was like a walking zombie without Lynn.

She was now staying at her mother's place in Wilmington, the place on Wrightsville Beach.

I was beating up on myself for not keeping the place clean enough for Lynn to feel comfortable living in our home... but in reality, there was more to the story of why Lynn was living with her mother.

I was reflecting on the entire month that and what had happened.

We had two cats and they used the litter box in the garage. Sometimes I would forget to clean that also or before she went into the hospital the second time, I didn't want to do it myself. I had been in denial and struggling to admit to the fact that she could not do the things she used to be able to do.

Every little failure or thing I forgot to do made me feel ashamed. I hadn't been stubbornly refusing to do these things. I hadn't been angry at Lynn for not helping with any of these chores that would have been shared in the past. No, I just was in denial of what was happening and what her inability to do certain things meant.

It might have seemed like an easy calculation, that cleaning the home and doing other things to make it more likely that Lynn could come home is the most obvious thing for me to do but that just wasn't registering as something that was so obvious. Plus, I was terrified that Lynn might die. I kept pushing that thought away. In so doing, I was pushing a part of my reality out of my mind.

My normal capacity for planning and problem solving wasn't working at peak levels, to put it mildly. All the resources within me that had served me and guided me throughout the years were non-functional at this time. It seemed like those faculties had shut down.

We all need help at times in our lives - a supportive person like a therapist, friend, family member.

Dear reader, you might wonder why I could not offer myself the same support and guidance that I might offer a client. You might wonder why I couldn't draw upon my own skills. Up until this point in my life, I would have been able to step back, plan, figure out what I need to do, and then do it.

I would have done something.

I cannot overstate this fact, but I would have done anything imaginable to hold onto the life I had with Lynn – to hold onto any life with Lynn!

We were still in the month of August of 2000.

Clients depended upon me also.

Despite the grievances of those five clients, I had dozens of other clients whose therapy was going along well and things were fairly "normal" in that regard. I felt a responsibility to try to help them.

I couldn't just wallow in the grief and pain of losing Lynn forever. I also didn't know what to expect regarding Lynn's health. I felt powerless to help her so I didn't know what to do.

I had developed a coping mechanism to deal with the issues of being in love with someone who had a terminal disease called cystic fibrosis. I (or maybe we) had lived life as they say "in-the-moment." What else can you do? I mean, whether you are talking about Lynn who had lived with this her whole life all those years before she met me or if you are talking about me knowing in some way that I might not have Lynn forever, we both had to focus on what we had.

That strategy might make the best sense in a way, but it can also lead to denial. I know that this is what I was experiencing in August of 2000. In essence, it was like telling myself "This isn't happening. Everything is fine." But things were not fine. Lynn needed me and I wasn't giving her any sense that I could be there for her.

I wanted and needed to believe that the situation with Lynn living with her mother was temporary. Lynn's mother, Diane had separated from her husband, Bob, and was living down in Wilmington all the time. She had gotten a job as a psychologist in one of the schools.

On about the fourth of September of 2000, I heard Lynn tell me that she might not come back to me. I couldn't even begin to have a "logical" conversation about this because I broke down and started crying.

I was moving through life on autopilot.

I was in denial when I heard those words from Lynn that she might not come back. I thought, "this is not happening."

This is not happening. I could not wrap my mind around the reality of what I was hearing.

I reflected upon the weeks and months before the nightmare had started.

Just a few weeks earlier life had seemed so "normal." We were so in love. I had felt her body next to mine and knew that the love, passion, and romance had not faded at all in all the years we were together. If anything, it had only grown.

We had been so close just weeks earlier. Falling asleep with my arms around her. My heart and breathing synchronized with hers. I had felt such a sense of serenity as she drifted off to sleep. I tried desperately to hold onto that memory and that peace, but I couldn't.

My mind kept trying to conjure imagines and memories of this serenity of falling asleep, our bodies touching... the image of both of us facing the front window in the bedroom.

Her heartbeat and breathing slowed little by little as she transitioned into sleep. That was just a few weeks ago but it felt like the day before.

It might have been the day before but for her disease - cystic fibrosis.

There were other things that were happening in my life, but I was so consumed by the changes in Lynn's health that I could not function as I once had. I had tried to go on coping and working but things were different now.