By the summer of our second year together, I can remember standing on a porch during one of Lynn’s pottery events. I didn’t know anyone else there. I felt a little out of place—but not alone. It was summer.

We walked in hand-in-hand.

Later, feeling a bit awkward I found a seat at a picnic table. Lynn right near me. I reached for her arm and whispered, “Sit on my lap,” guiding her gently as she sat my lap and turned to face a friend talking. There was a pause in her conversation as her acquaintance drifted away. My eyes were suddenly captivated by the shape of her leg revealed by her very short shorts - probably not even trying to be seductive… and her foot with a open sandle dangling there.

My thoughts were playful and seductive. My hand ran up her leg and kept moving, as if no one was watching. She just turned to grin at me. Not telling me to stop, just knowing we were in public and we understood that.

Her body against mine was familiar by now, and this was one of those moments when desire mingled seamlessly with peace. She turned to me and asked sweetly, “Are you doing okay, sweetie?”

My hand had stopped but still was on her leg. My answer was “Oh, yeah, I’m good.” She understood and smiled knowingly.

This wasn’t the only moment of sexual playfulness nor was I the one acting. Even while I was driving… well that’s a private matter… or was it? The memory. I was driving and whether or not a person higher up in a truck might see didn’t seem to change Lynn’s actions or desires to pleasure me… and not needing to ask permission. It would be like asking for consent to tickle a person - the non-predictable nature of the action makes it work.

Later, we visited my parents for Christmas. It seemed natual to do. I was clearly not comfortable with this despite choosing to visit. Part of me wanted to show them the beautiful and loving lady that I had, as if they cared. Another part of me wanted to show what love looked like.

It was about being close as a natural thing, not like newly we were newly weds but we were just close to one another. Being in their home made me nervous. I saw Lynn speaking to my mother and got up close… I wrapped my arms around Lynn. It said “I’m with her and not you.” It also said to Lynn, “I need you.”

Intimacy as Discovery, Not Performance

I had studied Masters and Johnson. I had worked with clients who described their sex lives in clinical detail. I knew the theories about compatibility, erogenous zones, dysfunction, technique. But nothing in those textbooks prepared me for what it meant to discover someone’s body through love—not judgment, not comparison.

Lynn and I weren’t performing for each other. We were exploring. We weren’t trying to “get it right.” We were figuring out what felt good—what was comfortable, what was sacred. There was no pressure to be experienced or skilled. There was only curiosity, trust, tenderness.

I never expected oral sex, and she didn’t either. Perhaps that was because of my queasiness about mucus, a recurring challenge due to her illness. I once admitted to her that I struggled with things like sputum samples. She understood. She never made me feel ashamed of that discomfort. And in return, we both created a space where no part of each other was taboo—even if there were boundaries.

We explored everything else. Joyfully. Lovingly. Respectfully.

And as time went on, we knew what we liked, what to ask for, and how to listen to each other’s bodies without shame.

The Sacredness of Sex

For me, sex with Lynn was never casual. It was sacramental. I was still a Christian at the time, and I believed deeply in the idea of two becoming one. Our bodies were our offerings. Our souls met in that intimacy—not in spite of her illness, but in full knowledge of it.

And yes, I was a romantic. But this wasn’t just romance. This was a spiritual union. And when we were wrapped together, as one body; I felt more connected to the divine than I ever had inside a church.

It’s true—some people confuse physical pleasure with love. But we weren’t confused. We were making love. And we did so not as an obligation, or a performance, but as a celebration of everything we were to each other.

If I’m honest, I was learning to be free in my body by loving hers. I wasn’t trying to impress her. I was just trying to love her as fully as I could. And she gave me the safety to do that.

That was the miracle.

Not the sex. Not the affection. But the safety. The shared knowing.

I had never known that before.

And I have never known it since.

The life I had with Lynn felt like the culmination of a lifelong dream. I had a career that was beginning to take shape, but more than that—I had a partner. A family. Even though we couldn’t have children, we were a family. That truth carried weight and meaning.

From the outside, some might have seen our relationship through a distorted lens. But it was the ability to argue, to disagree—and to talk about anything—that made our connection so strong. I don’t remember my parents ever disagreeing about anything, which now seems bizarre to me. It was like they were afraid to have different opinions. That kind of silence doesn’t feel like peace; it feels like avoidance.

My friend Jean, years later, once remarked on how much Lynn and I argued. But he only ever saw the tension—not the tenderness that followed. He never saw the repair, the softness that always came after.

In fact, in one moment that I mentioned earlier, he missed the part where, after a disagreement, I’d handed Lynn a signed copy of his book and said, “Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” Her face softened, and that amused, radiant smile returned—because she couldn’t stay mad.

That was us. That’s what he missed.

We never let distance fester. If Lynn was upset or hurt, I couldn’t stand it—I had to make things right. Once, in a moment of frustration, she asked, “Then why are you with me?” and I blurted out, “I don’t know.” But I caught myself instantly. “I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice clear and without any uncertainty. There were some things I knew for certain and my love for Lynn was one such absolute truth. “I’m with you because I’m in love with you.” Spoken with the solemnity that was both profoundly passionate and yet simultaneously matter of fact - a truth so undeniable as it was almost a contradiction that passion could co-exist with simplistic truth.

Some of our arguments came from the tangled roots of my religious upbringing—beliefs I’d inherited but never questioned. Absolutes I mistook for truth. But Lynn was patient. We didn’t avoid hard conversations. We challenged each other, disagreed out loud, and always found our way back. Our arguments weren’t threats to our love; they were part of how we strengthened it.

Our Home

Our home was a space that reflected who we were. We adopted two cats—Tip and Boo—and Diane even installed a swinging door so they could reach the garage where their litter box was kept. We each had a car, though we parked them outside because we used the garage as a workspace. It had a treadmill, free weights, and even a punching bag that became my occasional outlet, inspired by Gestalt therapy.

We worked together to make the house our own. Diane helped us build bookshelves using stained ladders and a stud finder to anchor them into the wall. We set up a computer station and eventually had cable internet—cutting edge at the time. One room was turned into a cozy guest space for Lynn’s cousins, with a larger television. In the bedroom, we kept a smaller TV near Lynn’s nebulizer and medication equipment, often falling asleep to Star Trek.

We took turns cooking, cleaning, and organizing. Lynn, ever practical, often directed how things should be cleaned, and I was happy to follow. We both handled litter box duties when possible, though I now regret letting Lynn do it at all—it wasn’t healthy for her to be near the dust. At times, I denied the seriousness of her condition. That was something I had to grow through.

I obviously had to mow the lawn and while I didn’t see the same urgency to do this as Lynn did, I respected her desire that it be done - by me.

Serenity and Intimacy

Growing up starved for nurturance, I often craved closeness in ways I couldn’t explain. With Lynn, I found peace in the smallest gestures—resting my head in her lap, letting her caress my forehead, feeling my body finally exhale into someone else’s care.

We hadn’t had sex before we moved in together, but that changed as our life together deepened. I remember asking Lynn, somewhat shyly, to pick out something sexy for Valentine’s Day. She did, and it meant everything. Not just because it aroused me—though it did—but because it showed how deeply she saw me. It wasn’t performative. It was for us.

That’s the thing about our intimacy—it was always new, always unfolding. There was a mystery to it. We weren’t just reenacting some cultural script. We were exploring. Learning. Responding. Lynn didn’t wait for me to initiate every time. And when we didn’t know what the other wanted, we asked, or listened to each other’s bodies.

Our connection was unusually in sync. We rarely faced the awkward imbalance of one person being “in the mood” while the other wasn’t. We just responded—open, mutual, unguarded. Even a glance, a smile, could spark something between us. And it always felt right.

I’d grown up with the idea that men had to lead, that sex was a duty or an obligation. But Lynn and I had none of that. We moved together in rhythm, equal, attuned. We honored each other’s cues, joys, hesitations. And that felt like a kind of healing, too.

She sometimes slept nude, a quiet gesture of closeness and trust. Sometimes I’d hold her breast gently as we fell asleep, feeling peace and desire mix in a quiet kind of bliss. Even then, I’d check to see if she was in the mood and respect her response that might be something like “I need to sleep now, sweetie.”

She wasn’t fragile. But I needed to know I was giving her pleasure, not pain. That mattered more than anything else.

This, I think, is what love should look like. Passion and tenderness. Respect and desire. A home built not just with furniture, but with trust. And each night, a little miracle in the ordinary: we turned toward each other, and found the same warmth waiting there.

When Diane offered to buy us a house, everything changed. Not just practically—emotionally, spiritually. The moment she said it, without hesitation, it felt like the world had finally caught up to what we already knew: Lynn and I were a family.

Diane saw who we were to each other, and she honored it. With love. With trust. With a profound and silent blessing.

Diane purchased a home in Wilmington, and we would pay her rent—$200 a month, split between us. She helped us furnish it, decorate it, make it ours. She bought the bed, helped us arrange the bedroom, and never once suggested we live as anything less than husband and wife.

This wasn’t something Lynn and I had to tiptoe around. Diane understood. She didn’t need us to explain. Her presence in our home wasn’t a threat to our privacy—it was a quiet affirmation. There were no awkward conversations, no veiled comments. When we stood with her in the bedroom we’d share, picking out furniture or planning the layout of the space, there was a sacred simplicity in it: this is your home, and you belong to each other.

And with that, the final traces of my old religious fears—the ones that had once whispered about sin and shame—finally fell silent.

We weren’t sneaking around or playing house. We were fully living it. As engaged partners. As soulmates. As husband and wife in every way that mattered.

Our intimacy deepened. Slowly. Tenderly. Respectfully. Prior to this, even when Lynn stayed the night, we’d stopped short of what most would call “sex.” But now, in this home we shared, there were no barriers. No more holding back. When Lynn undressed in front of me, it was not bold—it was natural. It was an offering of trust and closeness. A language of love without words.

She wanted to be close. And so did I.

There’s a sacredness to that kind of vulnerability. The kind where nothing is hidden—where desire is not a demand, but a shared yearning. Lynn didn’t wait for me to initiate intimacy. She didn’t assume that role.

Our relationship didn’t work that way. We discovered each other. We listened to each other’s bodies. We made space for uncertainty and gave it time to become comfort.

And always, we talked.

It wasn’t just about passion. It was about care. I asked often if I was hurting her—not out of fear, but out of love. Her answers were clear, direct, and sometimes breathless: “Don’t stop.”

That was Lynn. Direct. Unapologetic. Full of life.

We also navigated practical realities—like the fact that she couldn’t get pregnant. Cystic Fibrosis made that too dangerous. But Diane didn’t need reassurance from me; she trusted Lynn. When I once asked Lynn what her mom thought about our sex life, she just smiled and said, “She just wants to make sure I don’t get pregnant.”

That was enough. It spoke volumes.

Our home became a place of laughter, of routines, of warmth. We adopted two cats—Tip and Boo. Diane installed a small swinging door so they could get to the garage. We had a treadmill and free weights in the garage, which became my mini gym. In the back room, we set up a shared workspace with a computer and bookshelves we built and stained ourselves.

The bedroom had a small TV where we’d fall asleep watching Star Trek. Lynn had a nebulizer and her medication equipment nearby. We made each other meals. Took turns cooking and cleaning. We didn’t have chore charts or rigid rules—we just communicated, shared, and adapted.

There was nothing performative about our life together. It was ordinary in the most extraordinary ways.

Sometimes I would lay my head in her lap, and she’d caress my forehead. We wouldn’t say much. We didn’t need to.

It was serenity and passion coexisting. She could arouse me with a glance or soothe me into sleep with a touch.

Our intimacy never became routine. It always felt like discovery. Like poetry we were writing together, one shared breath at a time.

Even now, it’s hard to describe what that felt like. We were never out of sync. Never indifferent. If one of us smiled and the other saw it, we responded. Always. No deflection. No distance.

That, to me, is the rarest kind of love.

We didn’t need a wedding to make it real. And no institution, no system, no doctrine could define what we knew to be true:

We belonged to each other.

Memories and Dreams of Abuse

For all the serenity and safety Lynn gave me, there were still echoes from the past that hadn’t fully faded.

Memories of the abuse I experienced growing up were never far from my mind—sometimes not far enough. Even in that haven we’d created, my body remembered what it had endured. The nightmares still came.

I had been assaulted—verbally, physically, emotionally. And long after I left that home, long after I was safe, my nervous system hadn’t quite caught up. I was still having nightmares, often vivid, always jarring. They found their way into my sleep like intruders.

In those dreams, I was fighting back. I would lash out at my abuser—usually my mother who was the most abusive. Only in dreams would I strike out at my mother. In that strange space between waking and sleep, it felt like my fists were flying. Like I was punching the bed.

What terrified me was the thought that I might hit Lynn. That, in my sleep, I might hurt her. The fear chilled me to the core. I didn’t fully understand it, but I carried it.

I remember one night, shaken, telling her what I’d dreamed—how I was flailing, shouting, punching in the dark. Her response was immediate and calm. “You didn’t hit me,” she said. “You didn’t even move that much. You shouted, and I woke up. That’s all.”

She wasn’t afraid. Not of me. Not of the shadows in my mind.

And that reassurance—that unwavering calm—was everything. She grounded me. She reminded me that I was no longer in that place, that my body could unlearn what it had been taught by fear. She held me and comforted me. I was like a child, not literally in a fetal position but in my mind I collapsed into that position.

These nightmares stayed with me when I was 30. But Lynn stayed with me, too. Not just beside me in bed, but beside me in the deeper sense—in the places where shame and trauma used to live. She didn’t try to fix me. She didn’t flinch. She just stayed.

And in that stillness, in that love, I healed a little more each time.

After we got engaged, life didn’t transform overnight—but the horizon began to shift. Our conversations became more grounded, our hopes more tangible. I had moved out of the place I shared with Donna and Terri, and sometimes Lynn stayed the night with me, or I with her. We were growing closer in every way.

Even then, we weren’t “sleeping together” in the way most people would define it—not yet. That final boundary remained unspoken, uncrossed. But something had changed between us. Lynn, always attuned to me, may have sensed that I was becoming more at ease, less tangled in the old religious shame I’d carried for so long. When she removed her shirt—no longer stopping at just dropping her bra—it felt natural. Not bold, not calculated, just... right. She was honoring the space I’d opened. And in truth, the hesitation had always come from me. My toxic beliefs.

It wasn’t about a lack of desire. We had that, abundantly. It was the religious programming—those lingering voices whispering rules I no longer fully believed. And still, they haunted me.

And yet—our bodies were already speaking the truth. We held each other longer, touched with deeper intention. Every brush of skin seemed to say: this is good. This is safe. This is love. Nothing in me felt confused about those moments. I wasn’t struggling to reconcile them with morality or scripture. Instead, I found myself quietly letting go of what no longer made sense. The unspoken language between us—how far we’d go, how much we’d share—was shaped by mutual respect and gentle restraint. She knew where I stood, without my needing to say a word.

And then came Diane’s offer.

Diane—Lynn’s mother—offered us a home to rent after our engagement. That gesture was more than generous—it was symbolic. It meant we were stepping fully into a shared life, one defined by commitment and love, not by paperwork or permission. The decision to move in together wasn’t taken lightly. It was the turning point where I had to reconcile what I’d been taught with what I knew in my heart to be true. And Diane didn’t need a marriage certificate to take this step.

Until then, even during our most passionate moments, Lynn and I had kept our clothes on. I had still been holding onto the last fragments of the religious ideas I was raised with—teachings about what sex was supposed to mean. And even though Lynn never pressured me, I think we both knew those barriers weren’t really about her. They were about what still lived inside me.

But once we accepted the house—once we knew we were going to share a home—everything settled. The clarity came.

We were no longer visiting each other’s spaces or planning around separate routines. We were going to sleep in the same bed. Wake up under the same roof. Share meals, memories, bills—and a life.

And with that new home came a new level of intimacy. Not forced. Not rushed. Just… natural.

We undressed without shame. We touched without hesitation. We slept skin to skin. We made love—not because it was overdue or expected, but because it was an extension of everything we were already giving each other.

There is something sacred about being fully wanted. Not just emotionally, but physically. There is something healing in knowing that another human being longs to be close to you—not just out of desire, but from love, from a hunger to belong.

I think of newborns placed on a parent’s bare chest. That skin-to-skin contact, that grounding, that wordless affirmation: You’re here. You’re safe. You’re mine.

That’s what it felt like. That’s how natural it became. Not performance. Not shame. Just presence.

And I knew I had made peace with it. Not gradually—decisively.

I didn’t see it as “living in sin.” I saw it as something sacred. We weren’t hiding from God—we were honoring what He had given us. I believed then that if marriage was meant to be a covenant of love, fidelity, and mutual care, then we had already entered into it. The legal part had been denied to us, but the spiritual part was already real.

But not everyone saw it that way.

The Church didn’t.

When we approached the priest, hoping for a religious ceremony, he refused. Without a legal marriage license, he said, he couldn’t perform the sacrament. He knew what a legal marriage would mean—that Lynn could lose her health insurance and risk her life. And still, the answer was no.

Lynn wasn’t religious, but she was spiritual. She respected my beliefs. But I’m still stunned that I wasn’t driven away from the Church right then—by its coldness, its rigidity, its failure to act with compassion or common sense.

A sacrament, denied. Not because we lacked love. But because we wouldn’t risk her health.

And strangely, the greatest tension didn’t come from within us—it came from outside.

Especially when we visited my family.

On one trip, Lynn suggested we sleep in separate beds. I remember being shocked. Hurt, even. But she was trying to show respect for my parents. And I went along with it.

Looking back, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had said, No. We’re a couple. If that’s not accepted, we’ll get a hotel. Or we won’t come.

It wasn’t about shame. It was about honoring the truth of our relationship.

I could have told our friends: “We’re more than engaged. We’re already married—in every way that matters.” They would have understood. No one would’ve alerted the state. There was nothing to hide.

We weren’t pretending.

We were living it. With tenderness. With intention. With love.

Even without a wedding, we were a family.

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

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

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

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

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

Here’s what I read:

Dreamlike Visions

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

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

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

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

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

the dream never
ends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I mean... the poem.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She read the poem then. Really read it.

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

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

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

Just like she did with my love.

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

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

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

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

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

They measured her finger. She chose the ring.

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

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

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

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

Monday came, and it felt strangely ordinary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded, still speechless.

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

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

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

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

“I’m in love,” I whispered.

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

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

My legs went weak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Preface

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Invitation

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

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

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

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

Some people have questions like what happened to my first wife, Lynn. She died in 2015, I found out. From cancer. There had been no "we" for all these years. Merely talking about her and what happened has been so painful.

Before I met Elee, my second wife, I had tried to get back with Lynn, but it never worked out. As I said in the last chapter, the times when I saw her down in Wilmington were very awkward and surreal. What could my friend Thomas do? Other than understanding what I must have been feeling.

 I couldn't say anything when she was right next to me. I’ll get to that scene below.

I had been more comfortable with her than with anyone else in my life. We had trusted each other implicitly. We had such a connection. I had stated the fact that I would have done anything imaginable to hold onto a relationship with Lynn. That fact cannot be understated.

I should have said something when she was right next to me. I had previously tried so hard. I didn't want to call her after a certain point about three years after we had started living our own lives - she with her mother and me in another city.

I had asked others to contact her and convey how much I felt for her. Obviously, those who heard my story were moved to call her and to convey this information. I had hoped to get some information that might lift my spirits.

I believe it was too painful for her to have to move on without me. I didn't want to cause her more pain. I don't know how she dealt with the memories of when we were in love. 

 I am so sorry!

Lynn had this survivalist instinct due to her illness. After we watched "Titanic" we were discussing the movie with a friend of hers who had cystic fibrosis like her. Her friend and I had agreed that we would jump back into the boat as the girl did to be with the guy.

Lynn disagreed. We had been living together for years at that point. So, I guess she was saying that she would not jump back into the boat to be with me. I know with one hundred percent certainty that I would jump back to be with her if she was in peril instead of getting into the rescue boats that would result in my near-certain survival.

I would NEVER be able to go to safety on a rescue boat with Lynn in a sinking ship. She would not find any justification in dying on a sinking boat just to be with me a bit longer. She might have found it senseless to stay on a sinking ship. I would have done anything to be with her, to help and protect her, no matter what.

So, there was a combination of factors that kept me paralyzed from contacting her from 2003 until her death in 2015. I had not wanted to make her life more painful. What I was going through was extremely traumatic for me and she was in survival mode.

There was another occasion when I almost spoke to Lynn during another awkward moment, years after we had been apart.

It was in late 2009.

Jean had invited me to come to a lounge on a Saturday evening in downtown Wilmington. He told me he was having a workshop for poets. We would share a poem to be workshopped. We would read it and ask for support or feedback from the group.

I had called him earlier that afternoon from Wrightsville Beach near Johnny Mercer’s Pier.

I had been here at this location not long ago… up at the front area is where they have the poetry readings and music. I don’t think this place existed in the 90s.

I heard Lynn would be there.

My mind had been racing with ideas about what I would or should say to Lynn if I said anything. This would be an interactive event… My heart raced throughout the next few hours as I headed in that direction.

What would I say?

I didn't feel the need to explain what had happened to me regarding the false accusations and conviction. I knew that she would not have wondered about that. She knew the kind of person I was.

Recently, I figured out in my mind that I had been a good person - always. So, the idea that I was undeserving of her was a false belief I had back then. It's sad that I figured this out after she died!

I had gotten so close to saying something on another occasion.

That evening came… I was told to go to the room in the back by Jean. 

A few people were talking and then they left the room. Lynn was standing there - alone. I was right nearby.

Had others planned this? Left us in a dark, quiet, private room.

I was thinking and at the same time, my mind was trying to muster the willpower to do or say something. I was thinking of something to say. My heart pounded hard in my chest. I felt frozen – not cold but motionless. I was composing thoughts "I... I what?"

I imagined myself saying "I love you." and her answer would be "I know."

Wow! I just realized what a cliché that would be. It's right out of "The Empire Strikes Back" when Han Solo is being frozen in carbonite and Lea tells him. "I love you."

I'm sure I would have broken down, falling to my knees, weeping bitterly, crying "I love you so much. I NEVER stopped being in love with you."

My mind’s a bit blank as I think back to what happened after that uncomfortable moment when I was there alone, close enough to touch Lynn. 

Others filed into that room from the front. They took seats. Four to my right. Jean is the “leader” – he sat on the right. Three on my left. And then Lynn. My hands and arms were trembling. My breathing was fast and shallow. I’m sure others could hear me nearly hyperventilating.

The rotation was coming around toward me. I had selected a poem that I wrote called “Fugue State.” A fugue state is a symptom of some dissociative disorders. I said they are caused by “trauma”, but I could have just said extreme stress or distress. I had written this about the dark times I had known not too long ago.

Sometimes I don’t know what I want to say until I say it. Below is the poem that I wrote. It’s in free verse. 

(I realized later that it was the imagery of dreams, disorientation, desolation, and despair are that I was trying to convey. I didn’t know how to do this with rhyme or metered verse.)

Holding the poem in my hand I begin to read.

Fugue State:

In the dream…
I think it’s a dream -
I’m not sure how I got
here or where I was going.

It’s dark.
I look at the street signs
that I walk past,
and for a time I’m
not finding any that I recognize.

Then I begin to think
that things look a bit
familiar but I’m…
uncertain.
I want to run
but I’m tired
and unsure how far
I have to go.

I try to remember
but nothing comes to mind
to explain
how I got here…
where I am going…
where I live -
where my home is -
or if I have a home.

I don’t seem to be injured.
I want to remember…
I begin to question
whether I even know
for certain
who I am?

The people I pass
look unfriendly - 
not dangerous;
they just don’t convey
anything resembling kindness
or friendship.
They don’t know me.
They don’t pay much attention.

What should I say anyway?
Ask them to tell me who I am?
Or ask where I am?
I cannot ask how to get
where I am going
because I do not know that.

I don’t know if I am afraid of the ridicule
or convinced of the futility
in even trying to get help.

I want to fall down on my knees
and cry… cry out to someone, 
“Please help me!”

But I’m paralyzed by my fear
and all I can do
is keep walking
and hoping that somehow
things will become clear
and make sense.

--------------

I can’t remember the feedback that I got. 

When it came around to her, to offer feedback on my poem, she said "I pass."

I got up moments later, the feelings were overwhelming me. I walked out into the night, moving fast. I stopped into a bookstore and looked at some books. I got a call from Thomas, who was on the way. 

“Okay, I’m heading back there, I’ll see you in a little while,” I said.

I returned and took a seat near Jeff Wyatt in that front room near the bar. He had been friends with Lynn and me just like Thomas had been. He went into massage therapy at some point. 

I suppose that my last words to Lynn were "Fugue State." My life had been a trance since I had to go on living without her being a part of me and me being a part of her.

I wasn't even mentioned in her obituary.

To this day that hurts so much to think about it.

I mean it really hurts. My tears blur my eyes and roll down my cheeks as I write this in 2021. It feels wrong that I didn't try harder when she was right next to me. 

There was no closure. I had failed to just say those words. I love you!

I dedicate this chapter to my dear friend Thomas Childs, who continues to live in me and in my memories of a very important part of my life. There is a Thomas-sized hole in me that I will never fill in; it's my way of keeping him alive.

I took the photograph of Thomas above in 2008 down by the Cape Fear River near the Battleship.

Sadly, Thomas passed away in 2010, or he would be writing a recommendation for this book. He would recommend this like he recommended my poetry collection, which you can find on Wattpad also - it's called "What Really Matters."

Just like he did for that book, he would say that he is "honored to be asked by me to recommend that you read this.” Trust me. I know my friend.

Some of the most meaningful and lasting relationships of mine were formed beginning in the early 1990s. Second, only to Lynn and Celta, was my friend Thomas Childs and my second wife who hasn’t been introduced yet. Obviously, my connection to Lynn had a romantic component that was lacking in all other types of friendships such as my friendship with Thomas. However, that doesn't exclude him from being considered a part of my family.

As I write this, I am thinking of the song Empty Garden by Elton John. The lines that stand out are "a gardener like that one, no one can replace... and I've been knocking... most of the day...and I've been calling."

This was a time when I felt really connected to a group of people - a social circle. That being said, some of us really clicked. Thomas was one such person in particular with whom I felt really comfortable. We felt a sense of belonging to each other. This was my family. I felt at home in this life that I had. 

It's amazing when you can sit down together and not worry about stilted conversations. Not worry about what you should say. Not worry about if you are okay or not. Not worry about whether you made the grade or are good enough. 

I could talk to Thomas on the phone for hours when we connected sometime after I had been through my own dark time, or dark night of the soul as it were. I wish I had reached out to Thomas during those dark years. We could have supported each other.  

Lynn had wished I kept in touch with our friends when she became ill in 2000. I felt like I had abandoned my friends. For those dark years that began in 2000 and lasted until sometime in 2006, I tried to make it on my own.  

That was the biggest mistake I ever made in life!  

Then in late 2006 or early 2007, I came down to Wilmington from Chapel Hill. I met Jean - a mutual friend - at the bus station and I asked about Thomas.  

We picked up as if no time had passed. I would speak for hours on the phone with my dear friend. We had the same interests of course and so we could find things to share. TV shows or movies that we should watch.  

Current events. Our writing. Things to laugh about together. Commentary on things. Philosophical ideas. Reminiscing.  

"Oh, dear Thomas, I could have used your help, my friend. It was so hard when Lynn got ill in 2000. She said she wished I had kept in touch. I could have just picked up the phone.  

"I was so scared. This wasn't supposed to happen to Lynn at just 34. We had a life planned; it was perfect."

"The biggest mistake was not calling and telling you what was happening, my dear friend." 

Instead, I wallowed in the misery of what was happening. 

Had I called Thomas, I would have discussed the challenges I was facing in my practice and in my career, as well. 

I used to share some of the things I was learning with my friends.  

Let me tell you more about this, dear reader. About this part of my story. It's about the importance of friendship.  

It's so important in times of stress. Emotional support is key.    

We had a social network of friends, as I was saying. This was from the poetry scene. I was part of this group. This was my social life. We felt we were doing something important, together.  

Indeed, we were. Thinking. Writing. Sharing ideas. Creative ideas.  

Our group included in the beginning, Thomas Childs (my friend), Lynn Krupey (girlfriend, fiancée, wife), Dusty (didn't catch her last name), Jean Jones, David Capps, Jeff Wyatt, (David) DJ Ray. I could live within the sanctuary of these people and the scene, as it were.  

There was something comfortable, safe, and meaningful about this reality.  

This was our time to become something. I was going to be defined by all of this and the relationships that I was building. I was growing up and forming a family... a family of choice.  

Arriving on the Scene and Necessary Balance in Life

I could have been afraid and failed to attend that poetry reading at the Coastline Convention Center in April of 1992, and thought to myself, "I can't read my own poetry in front of others." 

What good would it be to show up and be a ghost? What good would it be to sit there and watch others all the while thinking about how I don't fit in?

I can’t imagine how my life would have been if I had not come out for this poetry reading that first week. I might not have met Lynn and shared a life with her. I might not have had the confidence to pursue my dreams. 

That confidence grew out of the events that happened when I did decide to attend that poetry reading. It demonstrated to me that I could speak in front of a group and be the center of attention. I learned that I had something special to offer to others.

Through my relationships and connections with others back then, my life was transformed. I had not been in a good place before that time, when I first arrived in Wilmington. Friendships like I had with Thomas and the relationship I had with Lynn were so valuable and they nurtured something special in me. I was able to give that to others as well. 

That's what shyness can do. It can paralyze you and prevent you from making the connections.  

Yet, I felt a need to share. To give my gifts as Dusty would say. Dusty was the emcee who worked at the Coastline Convention Center.  

Dusty said that we were "sharing our gifts." I thought I was sharing something personal. Lynn wrote for herself; I would grow to learn. But Dusty said these were "our gifts." Wow!

Indeed, sharing something of yourself with another is a gift.     

Some might say that we were a bunch of idealistic artists, but I had come there with a degree in engineering, which would be the springboard for graduate education in Social Work and toward becoming a Clinical Social Worker.  

It might be more accurate to say that I have had values, passions, and interests than to say I was just idealistic.  

The creative side of me might have been somewhat aligned with the values that drive a person to pursue a career in social work.    

To us who work in the field of mental health, we need the support of others. The work can be rather frustrating. The work can also take a toll on you as you support those who have been hurt by life or harmed by others.  

Spending hours with people who are overwhelmed by major depression and anxiety disorders can and does take a toll on you. You need balance and support in life. Emotional support.  

In order to be a social worker, I learned social skills and how to deal with what I called shyness. Those same skills allowed me to share myself with others in my personal and social life outside school, training, the job, and everything else.  

I wrapped myself in the warmth of the friendships I had formed. Back in the 90s, the welcoming nature of Dusty was always a source of comfort. I could show up for drinks at the Coastline Convention Center if I was feeling overwhelmed and alone, and Dusty would make me feel welcome and expected.  

She would seem to have this genuine interest in me and so glad that I showed up. Later, she would ask about Lynn, of course. I would feel less and less alone but occasionally overwhelmed by things in life.    

I remember the warmth of Lynn would envelope me as we sat on the beach at Wrightsville Beach during cold winter nights. That memory would sustain me as well.  

Then it was the comfort of a friendship like I had with Thomas. Again, our conversations were so comfortable, and the time together felt comfortable. Not stilted or desperately searching for something to keep the conversation going.   

In a larger sense, this was a time and place that I knew was something amazing.  Everything seemed so right and comfortable. I knew I was on the right path and that everything was going right.

I had a sense of belonging.

I knew who I was and what I wanted. We as friends would talk about the struggles, challenges, and doubts which existed from time to time in our lives.  

Changes in the Late 90s and Into the Next Century

At some point, I regrettably got over-invested in the job beginning in mid-1999. I only allowed time with Lynn and those times when her family came with their kids which I mentioned earlier in this book.  

So, unfortunately, I allowed myself to stop spending time with my friends, and my social life of writing and attending poetry readings was not happening. It was a crucial missing piece. 

Fast forward to the summer of 2007, and I started visiting the area again. Life in Durham had not been rewarding in any way.  

Anyway, on one of those visits back, Jean was having a poetry reading in celebration of a new chapbook of his poetry being released.  

This was one of those visits back to the place I had called home. I was happy to see my new friend, Ryan. I was thrilled to see my new friend, Ana – obviously not the Ana that attacked me. I was thrilled to see Thomas and Jean. I was happy to see David Capps (he had been part of the scene back in 1992, though he was inscrutable to me).  

Here is a video of Ana Ribeiro reading poetry at the Word Salad Poetry Magazine Event in Wilmington in October of 2009. In the video we are at the lounge where I saw Lynn again as described in the next chapter. This is not the same location where Jean was releasing his new chapbook, so it’s a different evening than what I am describing.

Here is a video of David Capps reading poetry. He was there this evening that I am describing but the video is from a different evening. 

I knew Lynn would be there and so it was a bit surreal. There was no longer a "we" which was what made this surreal. It's hard for me to explain. I felt queasy and I had a knot in my stomach.

This was a reality that I had never envisioned. She had gotten new lungs and so she was still living, but there was no "we."  

The autobiography of my life would need to include this reality. Thomas was that glue in that he had been our mutual friend - a dear friend who had been part of "our" shared life together.  

He had navigated the roads of time maintaining a relationship with us both. Jeff Wyatt had been a mutual friend as well, but I seemed to sense that he was a bit colder than he had been in the past. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.    

Thomas, Lynn, and I had been mutual friends but now there was no "we" that was Lynn and me. This wasn't supposed to happen, and it just felt so uncomfortable for me.

There had been no breakup and things had been so vague and confusing all these years.   

Knowing Lynn was going to be there made me tremble, my heart was racing with anxiety. A good bit of alcohol made this only slightly more bearable. 

I could sense Lynn nearby while I spoke to David Capps. My face was flush not just from the alcohol. My heart racing, pounding. 

I wanted to find something to say to Lynn with every fiber of my being. But I couldn’t do it. I just felt uncomfortable. Lynn and I talked about everything – we even fought and got over it. Thomas and I had not argued nor had Celta and me before that. It seemed to me that being able to get into an argument and get over it, move past was a sign of how much more comfortable I had been with Lynn than anyone else.   

This was frustrating so I stepped outside through the side door as people were milling about. I had noticed Thomas step outside. Ana was there too, talking to Thomas. Ana had not been part of the scene in the 90s.

I tried to bring up the topic of my discomfort with Thomas. This wasn't the first time I brought up the topic with him. What could he do? What could he say? I couldn't make sense of this new reality.

I did remember how in the early 2000s, I had enlisted people I met on Facebook to contact Lynn prior to this evening. They heard the story and were moved to call Lynn. She was polite but we never got anywhere.

I was still carrying the weight of profoundly low self-worth. I had no sense of worth as a person and whether we call it shyness or something else, we have to take action, or nothing will happen. 

Sadly, Lynn might not have known that I still loved her or was in love with her…but she probably did.  

I mean whoever these people were who called her they were moved with such a profound feeling of inspiration to want to connect Lynn and me again.

Life Changes

Later, Thomas had been happy to find out that I met someone else that I was going to marry.  

Her name is Elnaz Rezaei Ghalechi (Elee). We got married in Ankara, Turkey. She had been submitting poetry to Word Salad, which was being published by Jean and me. Word Salad Poetry Magazine was started by Lynn and me in 1995. Later, Jean became the co-editor and co-publisher.

Thomas was a brilliant poet as well. I am sure we published some of his poetry.

Elee and I married in November of 2010 and when I got back, I found the news on a voicemail and on Facebook.  

My dearest friend Thomas had died. He had died of a heart attack.  

When I first heard the news, it didn't register. I had just seen him. I had spoken to him and he was happy for me. We had so much more to discuss!  

No!

Elee responded appropriately. She was on the other side of the world and yet she understood better than my own sister. Elee consoled me as anyone would respond to news of this nature.

I started drinking when I heard the news about Thomas. My mind became a smooth flowing river. I thought this was a way to cope but it wasn't. It just made me sick.  

Whatever was inside me wanted out and I clutched a table to stay alive. I fell to my knees due to a combination of grief and what the alcohol had done to me.

I had not made it to the funeral. I felt such shame for that. Would I have found the strength to speak to the crowds at his funeral? I think I might have done so. I wasn’t the same person I once was but I could and would have had words to say. Or maybe I would have cried and cried.  

Both. 

It's hard to describe the hole that is left by a dear friend. It's hard to describe friendship and the love that we felt.  

For someone like me to be at a loss for words is something in itself! I'm usually rather verbose... but what words can convey the specific things that connect two people and create that comfort among one another?  

Had I made it down there, I would have found the words. I would come to feel great shame for years... To not even make it to the funeral of your dearest friend!

Anything I would have said about his brilliance should have been known by anyone there, but I would gladly repeat and confirm it. I can say that he is not gone! He lives in me and can't be taken away as long as I live and can write.  

That's what I would tell his family!  

That's the point of all these chapters that move between the past and the present... in this single chapter, I've covered events that have spanned eighteen years in this chapter, and each year, month, or day flow around one another in one stream of consciousness full of sound and fury, signifying everything!

What I most wanted to say was something only Thomas would understand. What we had was ours! It was for us and it was epic!  

Dear reader, did you expect something less hyperbolic to come from me? You should know me better by now!  

Writers like me are loath to employ trite statements that just sound like what you are supposed to say when you speak of someone who has passed. No, when I write, I mean it quite literally and explicitly.  

There are so many times in which I have thought, "this reminds me of Thomas," "I would love to talk to Thomas about this" or "I should talk to Thomas about this, he would appreciate it."    

The past is there in me. We are all together in that home that Lynn and I shared on Brucemont Dr. in Wilmington... or at a bookstore... maybe a coffee shop down by the Cape Fear River. I am haunted by the ghosts of the past, but that's a good thing!   

I'm not going to try to summarize a friendship that began in 1992 and lasted nearly two decades until his death. The formality of a funeral has passed. On such occasions we find the necessary strength and words to speak.  

Later, we realize how much was left unsaid and how much cannot be known by anyone besides the one we lost, in this final paragraph of this chapter, that person is Thomas Childs.