empathy

My voice that was mute again in the classrooms growing up had been mute and silent when I found myself standing in front of a judge. Similarly, I hardly said anything to anyone after the devastating events in 2006.

For years, I had carried my shame in silence, believing that no one would ever truly understand. I had wasted time searching for validation from people (my so-called family) who had already shown me who they were—narcissistic, indifferent, incapable of caring. I kept thinking that if I just explained myself the right way, if I just found the perfect words, they would finally see me. They never did.

All that silence had done was bury me deeper in shame. Shame that wasn’t mine to carry. It had never been mine to carry.

Injustice does not resolve itself. It lingers. It poisons. And it does not go away just because the world moves on. I had tried to heal in private, but healing cannot exist in isolation. I could not build a future while hiding from my past. And so, for the first time, I understood—

I had to tell my story.

My second internship would prove to be the most rewarding. All in all, during my second year of full-time graduate studies, I was feeling good about every aspect of my life. I was doing great in classes, in my internship, and at work.    

A master’s in social work is a two-year program and so the second year is our final year. As I was saying, during our second year, we take classes and work in a setting that closely matches our primary interest area for where we want to work upon graduation.  

An Epiphany - An Answer to a Question

I wanted to start with an insight that I had gained during a class that was titled "Abnormal Psychology." I touched on this a bit earlier, but I wanted to add a few things. Anyway, in this class, we studied and learned about the entire range of psychiatric disorders as they are described in the DSM-IV (the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychiatric Disorders, fourth edition).  

We used a big book that is used by psychiatrists and other mental health professionals to make a diagnosis.  

Anyway, when we started covering personality disorders, that's when I had an epiphany.

We were considering public figures as examples of people who may have a particular personality disorder. Some people on YouTube seem to walk on eggshells when it comes to speculating about the disorders of public figures. I don't think our professor was quite so worried about making an error in diagnosing someone. I suppose our professor wasn’t speaking to a large audience nor was he making a definitive diagnosis. 

I remember we discussed OJ Simpson as an example of someone with Narcissistic Personality Disorder. We were also encouraged to consider people we might know who might have a variety of different personality disorders. The thinking was that this would make things more clear and easier to understand.

There are some rules in the US that discourage diagnosing public figures. Those “rules” do not seem to be hard absolute rules. 

With regard to personality disorders, it’s not rocket science nor is it necessary that you sit down with someone to make a diagnosis. Another argument is that the person being diagnosed should be seeking treatment. Sometimes people are involuntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital and so they didn’t seek treatment or a diagnosis. 

Mental health professionals make observations, gather information from people other than the person being diagnosed.

Anyway, it was in this class when it hit me!

Narcissistic personality disorder (NPD) is the problem that my mother had. The questions that had racked my brain for decades finally had an answer or an explanation. I don't know if this diagnosis of the problems that Kathy Whealton had would have been helpful earlier but at least I had a sense of clarity as to what was wrong.  

In many ways my father, Bruce Sr. seemed to have the same condition. It wasn't so obvious with him though.  

It was obvious that my mother could not see things from a different point of view.

That is the difference that I noticed with my mother. She NEVER could come forward and say, "I am sorry for the way I acted... that was wrong."  

There is more to it than these observations. Both parents had a condescending and judgmental attitude toward others. Only certain "special" people could meet their high standards for being worthy of their attention. 

These are symptoms of NPD or characteristics of a narcissistic family. 

Anyway, I do not say these things with an angry heart. Nor is this an effort to make my parents look bad. This epiphany was an answer to a question I have been asking for the past 15 years or so. 

Getting back to the topic of second year graduate studies.

We had courses that covered a variety of techniques for group, individual, family, and couples therapy/counseling. I won’t give you an education here into a typical second-year graduate program in social work. While learning the “basics” we were also encouraged to learn more about certain theories, therapies, and techniques. This is not unlike the way that psychotherapists will specialize in the use of certain types of therapy that they do best. No one can know everything about every form of therapy. 

In graduate school, during our second year, we take classes that ask us to research different treatment techniques and therapies. For example, in one class I did a long paper on treatment options for people with dual diagnoses like a mental illness and a substance use disorder. I felt that the 12-step programs of Narcotics Anonymous (NA) and Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) had some limits and potential flaws.

My concern with NA/AA is that people get advice from others who have no specialized training. On top of that, I had noticed from the literature that these people will tell a person that the main and primary consideration is to avoid the addictive substance. That discounts a person’s overall suffering and pain.

So, I looked for recent scientific journal articles that presented research findings that might be relevant to this topic. I remember my paper was 30 pages long.

I was learning about a variety of treatment techniques and theories. 

My Internship at The Oaks

During this second year of my education, I did my internship at "The Oaks" psychiatric hospital under the guidance and supervision of Chris Hauge. Yes, he is the same Dr. Chris Hauge that I mentioned when speaking of my volunteer work at "The Oaks" in an earlier chapter.  

The doubts that I had during my first year, however infrequent they were, now were non-existent. I had no doubt that I had made all the right choices to get me here finally. Chris had worked in the field for decades, longer than anyone I ever knew, and he was very well respected. 

Chris was happy to have me do my internship there at "The Oaks" as we discussed previously. He saw my passion and drive to help others who were hurting, in distress, or having problems in life. He nurtured that hunger and drive giving me opportunities to do the things that I wanted to do... For example, it wasn't long before I had a chance to do some therapy with patients in the hospital.

I was participating in groups led by Chris - therapy groups.  

What I loved about the way Chris did the groups is that the "staff," psychiatric nurses, other interns, medical students, and others were expected to participate in the group. What I mean is that they were not there to just observe what others were doing.  

I'm going to have to be more specific to describe what I mean. Patients were in the hospital in most cases for no more than about two weeks. So, we had to figure out what could be accomplished in a brief period of time. Chris happened to be skilled in the use of experiential therapy techniques, which I will describe below.

Let's consider some examples. In a relaxation group, we might talk about natural ways to relax and deal with anxiety. In a survivor's group, we would start with deep breathing for relaxation and then Chris would guide us into a guided visualization exercise with our eyes closed. As an example, we might visualize a younger version of ourselves sitting in a chair in front of us.

It was really powerful and amazing. As the name implies, a survivors’ group was for those who experienced abuse and/or trauma. This younger version of ourselves was our wounded inner child... or it could be a younger version of ourselves when we were younger adults. 

Technically, it’s important to note that we were younger a month ago and if something traumatic happened at that time, we would say that we were psychologically wounded. We could also call this wounded inner part of ourselves an “ego state.” It’s almost as if a part of our “self” is frozen in time. Our task is to help a person move past the experience and find closure.  

The use of self-disclosure was also encouraged by Chris. That means that the staff or a group leader will share personal details about themselves. To me, it seemed that this would encourage or make it easier for patients to open up as well.

Think about it. You are a patient in the hospital, maybe there against your will if you were committed involuntarily. For whatever reason, you decide to go to the group to see what is happening, and maybe in the back of your mind, you are thinking that you were hurt at some time in the past and it still bothers you.  

As long as you don't have to talk about it, you will come. You enter the room with chairs that are in a circular formation with an opening in the middle. You are invited to close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. Everyone closes their eyes including those wearing a staff badge/id. So, you feel safe, and something happens.  

What happens? Well, this is called experiential therapy and experiential is a word that is easy enough for the patients to understand because it means what the name says. This is about creating an experience. It's non-directive in the sense that no one is telling you what to focus on or making suggestions about what did or did not happen that was meaningful to you.  

I was able to observe that the therapy did have positive effects on patients during the sessions. This was evidence from the direct feedback from patients during the group therapy sessions and by observing their facial “affect” – displayed emotions.

What was intriguing for me was that people who were in the hospital with a wide range of different diagnoses seemed to be coming to the survivors’ groups and working through past trauma and abuse. The idea that mental illness is only caused by chemical imbalances that occur just because of some genetic predisposition alone must be questioned.  

At the very least, some stressors in life seem to be able to create symptoms that one finds in various disorders.

There was one other job that was very rewarding and fun. I worked the weekend shift at Sherwood Village, an Independent Supportive Living Apartment Complex. There were roughly 30 apartments that housed 30 individuals.  

I was on-call with a beeper for a 48-hour shift from Friday at 6 PM until Sunday at 6 PM. It was a supportive independent living facility in the sense that everyone lived independently but someone was on staff 24 hours per day 7 days per week. This was a place for persons with severe and persistent mental illness. It was called Sherwood Village.

By now I was a graduate student with so many other responsibilities and things going on in my life – a life with Lynn.

I was responsible for transporting the residents to the movies or other similar events. They had a van for me to transport the tenants. I didn't go with them to the movies most times because tenants that chose not to go on an outing might need my services.  

I was allowed to go home with the pager that any of the residents could call if they needed me.  

It was a great job, and I was well-liked by everyone. I stayed on with this position until I got my master’s degree and could move up into a more professional level position.  

It was fun to get to know all the residents. They said they liked me better than the staff member who worked from Sunday at 6 PM through Friday at 6 PM. So, that felt good to know.  

The only activity that I had to do as someone who is "in charge" was to do some inspections of the apartment - mainly that was inspecting the A/C filters and other things like that. Obviously, there were some things that are important to promote a person's overall health that I had to oversee.  

They knew I had a job to do for the landlord and the managers that maintain the apartments. I obviously had to make sure people were okay, but it wasn't like in a hospital unit where someone might come by every few hours. Most tenants were relatively high functioning, so they weren't going to wander away and disappear.  

They had their own cars in some cases and there was no curfew or anything like that.  

It was extremely rewarding because I NEVER had an issue with any of the tenants not liking me.

This would be a common theme in my career overall where the greatest challenge was with paperwork/charting, bureaucracies, staff expectations, and in my role as a member of the staff. 

During this entire decade and into 2000, I NEVER had negative feedback or opinions expressed by anyone I served or helped – with clients, patients, or tenants everything went so smoothly. 

The job was awesome overall. I mean I was getting to know these people and feel like I was part of a family. I considered them part of my family in a way. I mean I liked everyone there. One or two residents were distant and didn't talk much but most everyone was great to know.  

I didn’t think the staff for whom I was working had too many rules. I was on my own for most of the entire weekend and for most weekends. The only people contacting me were tenants/residents.  

I could visit them inside their apartments. Obviously, that could be problematic with female tenants, but it never became an issue. If there was more than one person in the apartment, I didn't feel too concerned about spending some time in any of the tenant's apartments. Sometimes there were emergencies, and that required spending extended time with a particular tenant who was in a crisis situation.  

These crises rarely happened. I do remember one woman having a seizure and I was on the phone with EMS. I had to return to Sherwood Village because I had gone home with the pager when I got the message to call the tenant's phone number.  

Residents of Sherwood Village had disorders such as schizophrenia, Major Depression, Bipolar Disorders, and so on. These disorders were characterized as severe and persistent mental illnesses. That is likely a designation that is necessary to obtain funding.  

I obviously was made aware of the diagnoses of each resident. I also had to know what medications they were taking, physical problems, and other important information. This was all on file in the office. I was given a couch in the dayroom or I could sleep on the couch in the office if I needed more privacy at night.  

I ran the tenant meetings which were held about once a month. Most of the tenants came for the meeting that was held in the dayroom which was a place where people could visit during most hours such as 9 AM to 9 PM. I could certainly spend additional time with tenants in that room if they needed to talk to someone.

Hopefully, you can imagine why this job was awesome for me. And why they all felt like my family.  

It also is important to note how comfortable I felt running the tenant/resident meetings. Unlike reading my poetry to a group, this was more like directing a group event.

Yes, I felt so comfortable interacting with everyone as the person that everyone turned to for help whatever their problems were. I was starting my graduate studies during this time period, so I had been learning other skills in college (graduate school) to help me in counseling individuals in need and how to run group sessions.  

I wasn't actually doing therapy yet but some of what we do as therapists is to listen to others with empathy. To help people feel safe. To be someone who others turn to for help and support.  

We also had a Christmas party on the weekend when I was there. It was so nice. I felt needed and important.  

It felt so right. I mean I was doing a great job, and I could tell that I was. I could tell that I was someone that people felt very comfortable talking to. 

I also know that I was more liked than the young woman who worked there during the week.  

I also have no doubt that both the men and the women felt more comfortable talking to me about anything than they did talking to Donita, who worked during the weekdays. I knew that people there were glad to see me arrive on Friday - they told me.  

What people most want, and I can speak from experience is someone who truly listens and demonstrates empathy. Notice that I said, "demonstrates empathy."  You cannot just feel comfortable believing you have empathy for another person and their situation. People will let you know how they feel when you are working with them or they will be distant, closed off, or reserved as they had been with Donita.

It seems like common sense that people won't be coming to you or repeatedly seeking your help and support if you are not demonstrating empathy. People here were coming to me to discuss everything that concerned them. 

I felt a powerful connection.

Donita seemed to be held out as a role model for me by my supervisor at least until he started talking to the tenants about me.  

The tenants on the other hand did complain to me about Donita’s "attitude." She wasn't approachable, I was told. It wasn't anything that was serious enough for them to complain, for the most part.   

It's important to note that some people in a situation like this do not feel empowered to complain. Having a chronic and persistent mental illness carries with it some stigma and it doesn't lend itself to creating feelings of self-esteem and self-confidence. Low self-esteem can go hand-in-hand with various psychiatric illnesses.  

That being said, I know I made a difference and the tenants at Sherwood Village didn't want me to leave when I had to move on with my career and take on more professional opportunities. That was happening as I completed my graduate training.          

Unfortunately, due to confidentiality, I could not ask them for letters of recommendation for any job outside the mental health center/clinic. I did have complete confidence that each of the tenants, when and if asked about my performance had nothing but good things to say.  

In the next chapter, I will begin to discuss the next stages in my education. More specifically, I am going to discuss my graduate studies at the University of South Carolina in the Department of Social Work. 

In the last chapter, I told you about the joy I found in finding someone to love and someone who loved me. I told you about the experiences I had, and I hope it was clear just how meaningful this was in my life's trajectory. It was so important to present the profound and positive impact this had on my life.  

This was life-altering.   

The experiences I had growing up, in my home environment, were toxic to the development of the kind of self-confidence and self-worth that I would need to achieve my career goals. Something had been missing despite all the improvements I had made in my sense of worth.

It's hard to know what you need to overcome a problem that has existed throughout your life. My therapist or counselor in college was very talented, competent, and profoundly helpful. However, we failed to fully appreciate all the negative impacts of abuse and devaluation that I had experienced in my home life from my parents.  

Then I met Celta, and something happened. She seemed to be delighted in me. She was so interested in my experiences. She also was concerned about my well-being and happiness. I knew she was thinking about me for most of the day each and every day! Her diary-style, stream of consciousness letters told me this.

I knew she was thinking about me for so much of her day, each and every day, because of the letters she wrote to me - her diary of sorts composed with me in mind as someone she wanted to share her life with. I had realized that I previously thought that I was not that important to anyone. This is what I meant by seeking a relationship with some aspect of exclusivity or the idea that I could be the most important person to someone.

I knew that I was the only one that Celta loved the way she loved me. Previously, I had friends, but they all had a boyfriend/girlfriend or spouse, or the relationship wasn’t as close.

After I was with Celta, I felt like I was ten feet tall... confident... worthwhile, and deserving. My self-esteem was higher than it had ever been in my life. I also felt safe trying new things. This idea might seem unexpected. She was just a small girl (woman). I sensed that she deeply cared about me and thought about me and that was transformative.

It's important to underscore these important points before I move on with this story.       

When I say that our relationship was platonic, I mean that we were not boyfriend and girlfriend. We didn't have a physical relationship. That being said, we did exchange "I love you" on a daily basis or whenever we talked on the phone or saw each other. We were close and perhaps somewhat intimate and physical but not in a sexual way.

Late in December, something happened. I had moved to kiss her as I was leaving. It was impulsive. Her lips were so thin that I didn’t feel what I imagined I would feel. This was my first kiss. I felt confused. She had not turned away or signaled in any way that she didn’t want me to proceed. So, why was I uncertain? I didn’t have to be shy with Celta. But I didn’t want to use her for my own personal “experience.”

I would play this back in my mind as I drove away. Yes, I wanted to kiss her. Having decided now for sure what I wanted, next time I would kiss her. 

Sometime later I pictured my face turning to the right and moving closer to her as she moved toward me. I had been in sync with her and felt so comfortable. I knew that she might have said that one time that she was not in love but when we were together there were so many times when she had that look of someone who was so happy, comfortable and it sure looked like she was in love. Well, she definitely had “romantic” feelings. 

Also, when I was with her, I could see myself and my feelings. You just know those things. There were so many subtle behavioral cues that told me what she was feeling and how she was responding to my touches… how I held her… where I touched her. Everything had been welcomed. I played back memories of how when I touched her she moved closer to me.

As I replayed the imagined kiss – next time - I would begin to tilt my head to the right, bend down, she would be acting on instinct, without taking the time to over-think it – that’s what I would do, and she was my mirror. Sometimes we do things as if the moment is such that it is inevitable. She would move to meet my lips… she would be transfixed upon my eyes and I hers. I felt excited as I replayed this in my mind. 

It was as if it had happened already, almost. 

It would never happen. 

On New Year's Day of 1991, I got the worst news of my life. A phone call. I was in my room on the second floor of the house owned by my parents. "Celta died last night," I was told.  

"How?"  I asked as if this wasn't possible or real. I was stunned. I wanted my willpower to make it not real!

"There was a fire... she died from smoke inhalation."  It started from an exposed electrical cord on a TV. 

My mind registered information about the funeral, its location, and time but I could not find the words to begin to convey any sense of what I was feeling. I had spoken a few times to the man previously. He was friends of the family. Tears were flooding my eyes. I just said, “Okay, I’ll be there but I can’t talk…” my voice breaking. I needed the family to expect me.

I dropped the phone and began to cry so bitterly.

I hurt so much! 

I cried so much as I drove the way to the funeral. Just before the funeral, I looked at the closed casket and was overcome. Someone was standing by it and for a brief second, some part of me wanted to open the casket and find out that it wasn't Celta that was inside.

At the funeral, I cried more than everyone else combined. I didn't care how I looked.

It was at the Episcopalian church where I went with Celta and where I would sit down next to Celta's mother and Celta. I was still Christian, meaning I went to church on a regular basis.  

Standing outside after the funeral people were talking. I was looking at the closed casket unable to believe this was real. I was still crying. Celta's mother instructed me not to come to the burial. She could tell that I was not going to make it through that event. My state of mind was such that I needed to be told what I should do now.  

At the burial the one person who loved Celta most, who felt a visceral sense of grief above and beyond that felt by the others... that one person would be missing. I would not be there. I had followed the directions of Celta's mother and left Athens (Athens Georgia).

I certainly felt betrayed and abandoned by God. However, I did go to grief counseling at the Catholic hospital in Augusta, Georgia. A nun was leading a grief counseling group – spiritual counseling. She was using guided imagery, relaxation techniques, prayer, and biblical references. I met with her a few times and asked for tape recordings of the sessions. 

In the group sessions, she spoke about the stages of grief. We were encouraged to bring in things that were mementos of our experience with our loved ones. I listened intently as the others spoke. I was by far the youngest. I had studied the grief process in a psychology class at Georgia Tech. I read some more about this from a “clinical” standpoint. I was keeping reality at a distance.

I was in denial at times and at other times I would be overwhelmed with the idea of not being able to see Celta ever again and I would cry and cry. 

So much is strange about this time period. The struggles with my parents were never intentionally instigated by me out of anger for anything. They just seemed uninterested in me and my life, other than to tell me what I ought to do. 

I suppose I wanted to share the fact that someone had loved me to explain what had changed. It was surreal that there was such denial that anything had happened or changed. I might be in denial as a symptom of grief but I wanted to celebrate the relationship that I had. Where would I begin?    

Child Abuse by My Brother John Whealton...

I expected them to be discreet and assumed they would not reveal who called. I wasn’t trying to hurt him and wondered if anything would come of the matter. 

My brother found out and never spoke to me again. 

 I was asked by the agency that looked into the matter to write a piece about the cycle of abuse.

That was in 2002. 

It’s bizarre how things happen. He was the only one in the family who got aggressive in response to our parents' physical abuse or threats of violence, but they chose to invite him and his wife to visit on holidays and disinvite me ever since. Our family is so dysfunctional! I have an adult niece who doesn’t know anything about me.

Anyway, getting back to 1991, to cope with the tragic loss, I started drinking. A lot.

I was put on a tricyclic anti-depressant by a psychiatrist. I had developed panic attacks as well. The anti-depressant had the effect of creating a sense of positive feelings even with my mother standing there one morning ironing something for work with my father getting ready too. Those fake feelings were only transitory. It is reminiscent of the song by REM titled "It's the end of the world as we know it."... and I feel fine. I guess I felt “high.”

The days flowed around me like a mystical experience in which I flowed in and out of my body. I wasn't fully alive or so it seemed... betrayed even by God.  

It was all a blur. My entire existence. 

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

Anyway, I got a job at the National Science Foundation as a contractor. I was developing a network for the museum and that involved network programming in the C programming language. I was a software engineer. I did accomplish a great deal in that job capacity and my supervisor was very impressed with my talents.  

Again, this was not at all interesting to me. Yet, I was making sure that I successfully met all deadlines and deliverables. 

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

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

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

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

Yeah, I moved through time like a robot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I remember that this was the first time I kissed anyone other than a brief kiss that Celta and I shared back in December of the last year. I mentioned that above. 

This was extremely passionate. She brought her kid and left him in the car and parked near the Student Center - the same building where I worked on the bottom floor in the post office.  

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

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

Did I feel guilty about dating so soon after Celta? Maybe. But I wasn’t actually feeling nor was I “aware” during this time period. I was so numb that I needed to feel something. To wake up! I was trying so hard to wake up. The tricyclic antidepressant made me feel good for a few moments. That didn’t make it a meaningful experience. 

Then later there was the fact that she said in December that she loved me but wasn’t in love with me. I had only known her for one year, from January through December 31 or 1990. I do know that countless times she had that look like someone in love when she looked in my eyes. I was fairly certain she was trying to protect me from being hurt. But I never got a chance to ask her.

And that kiss? I had stopped, not her. It was my first time kissing anyone and I should have been aware that her lips were so small that if I didn’t feel anything at first I should wait or stay there. I was always comfortable with Celta. She had never rejected any of my touches. 

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

Some people with Borderline Personality Disorder or trauma disorders will cut their own skin with razors or something sharp just to feel something. The date was something like that. 

There wasn't a second date. I had expressed my concerns about pre-marital sex. We weren't even in a committed relationship. I drove to Atlanta to meet her for a second date, but she never showed. I was frustrated out of embarrassment. Then I just forgot the entire matter by the next day and never thought about the matter further.  

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

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

Poetry as an outlet…

I can thank my mother for introducing me to Martin Kirby, who went to our church and he was a professor of English Literature and related subjects at a college in Augusta, Georgia. He would become my writing/poetry mentor.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is a positive aspect of this time period of 1990 to 1992 that I did not mention. My parents had friends that had adopted a young girl who was about 12. I have always been great with kids. I love kids and enjoy the chance to be like a big brother.  

I was so impressed that she wasn't shy at all when I first met her. I went to visit with my parents, and they invited us to come swim. It was either 1990 or 1991 when I met her. I was like a big brother and I had a great time doing so many things with her.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It never made sense to me that those who victimize others were themselves victims. Others like me can empathize with what others have experienced and feel motivated to help them.

Things had changed when I moved to Wilmington, not just in that I found love again but I got my life back on track. I started graduate school at the University of South Carolina - pursuing the Master of Social Work degree.

Upon my graduation, I almost immediately had a job as a Therapist at Brynn Marr Psychiatric Hospital.

I had the first experience of providing a direct intervention for a survivor of rape, who I will call Karen. She looked literally dead when I began the intervention, and at the end of the session, she was smiling. It was the most amazing thing imaginable.

This would not be the last time that I provided treatment for someone who had been traumatized in many ways, including sexual assault and rape.

Eventually, I got what I needed to be credentialed as a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) and I could open my own private practice as a therapist.

I had been able to grow my practice fast despite having been in a “saturated market.”

This was success and joy, beyond my wildest dreams. I had gained name recognition in the field. I had truly come a long way. People were paying me to help them with a wide range of disorders and couples came for my therapeutic support.

This wasn’t just about success in a career but it was rewarding to be able to help others as I had healed so much.

Who could have imagined that the person with no social skills when starting college would some day be doing these things. More importantly, I had discovered love.