identity

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.

This section of the book is about the life Lynn and I built together in Wilmington, North Carolina—not in some idealized, picture-perfect sense, but in the daily, soulful way that love takes root. We were a family. That’s what mattered most.

Lynn was a poet and a potter. I was on my way to becoming a psychotherapist. We met through poetry—through words that tried to make sense of the world—and found ourselves surrounded by a creative, passionate community. The artists she knew through pottery, the poets I met at the Coastline readings—they became our extended circle. But she was my home.

We dreamed out loud together. Lynn wanted to pursue a Master of Fine Arts in poetry. I was preparing for graduate school in the mental health field. We supported each other, not just practically, but with awe and belief in each other's potential.

And we got engaged—not to prove something, but to honor what already was. We were building a life together. Like any two people in love, we wanted a future shaped by shared joy, comfort, creativity, and care.  

There comes a point when you stop trying to explain.

Not because the pain is gone.

Not because the injustice no longer matters.

But because you know who you are.

I am not what they said I was.

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

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

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

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

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

It still is.

I’ve spent years trying to survive.

But survival isn’t the end of the story.

Now, I want to live.

Not to prove anything—
 

But because I still have something to give.

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

It says:

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

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

You are still here.
Still standing.
Still healing.

And that is more than enough.

For a few weeks in mid-2000, I had been making over $1000 per week. Yes, indeed. I had forgotten to mention that previously in this book. Things were really taking off for me. In June, I had been putting in more than forty hours per week and loving that. I wouldn't want to do that forever, because I wanted to enjoy the life I had with Lynn - before everything happened. There were a couple of weeks where I brought in over $2000.     

I had plans. All that collapsed in August and into the first week to ten days of September of 2000. I am not going to offer an itemized list of how I went from being on track to make six figures per year to nothing. The funds that I had were not all for me, of course.  

I want to try to comment on the nature of what was stated by the clients who filed grievances with the North Carolina Social Worker Certification and Licensure Board (NCSWCLB). I mentioned that I knew that John Freifeld had composed the entire grievance/complaint letter for the clients. I found out from my lawyer that the board was aware that he composed the entire statement that they made.  

Some aspects of this complaint letter were vague and likely a form of projection. He filled their heads with the idea that I had only been interested in meeting with them each week because I found them attractive. It seemed to me based on my experience that he was projecting his own motives toward women onto me.  

I do not know exactly what was going on at the home of Jessica, the first client he referred to me when he was still living in Virginia.  

I had heard months earlier that she was having "flashbacks" and "panic attacks" and that was why she and her husband needed John to be living there for free. Yes, that was stated at some point. They thought he was helping her. My efforts to point out how they were getting worse and not better with Freifeld's help were not effective enough.  

These individuals who met in one of the groups that I had I believed were spending time over at Jessica’s home. I heard that he had a few rooms set up for helping them process or deal with their memories/flashbacks of past trauma. Again, they were well aware, as I explained earlier, that he was not trained to know how to set up anything of this nature.  

I had discovered the "conspiracy theories" on the internet following some interactions with two of my clients. I had just done some searches online with various keywords and that led down a rabbit hole.  

I remember how I had as an activity for therapy groups that were like scrapbooking. It seemed like an icebreaker or a way to facilitate discussion. I had used this with various clients over time. I'm only mentioning this because I remember a book that I stumbled upon online called "Paperclip Dolls." That made me think of that workshop on dissociative identity disorder (DID) that I organized in early 1999 with Louise Coggins, MSW, LCSW.  

Louise had mentioned ritual abuse in more than one context, including at that workshop. And she talked about using scrapbooking with magazines as a creative form of therapy. 

I thought I was hearing facts and I did not put "ritual abuse" into a context with "satanic ritual abuse" which was part of the conspiracy theories that were being spread across the internet during this period. My discovery of these "conspiracy theories" was only after I had noticed a bizarre theme coming up in therapy with Jessica and one other client.  

Anyway, the book "Paperclip Dolls" was another book that was in that same vein of a person discovering and reconstructing memories of "satanic ritual abuse" and mind control programming. By "programming" I mean something like behavioral psychology techniques where some cue or trigger could elicit a deliberate programmed response. Think of how Pavlov's dogs would salivate in response to a buzzer or a light because it had been paired up with dispensing food for the dogs.  

Somehow the author of "Paperclip Dolls" had discovered that she had been abused as a child and she had discovered the memories of this from various images in magazines that caught her attention. These discoveries and the sense that they caught her attention seemed to confirm that her new memories must be true. She came to believe that she must have been part of a government program that involved mind control.

This is what the author of Paperclip Dolls had discovered. I hinted earlier in this book that I had been flipping through that book on a very memorable moment and sexually intimate experience that I had with Lynn back in April of 2000. At the time, I had no idea that I was going to be accused of planting false memories of "satanic ritual abuse."  

I wish I could offer more details about how any of my clients had begun to believe that things like this happened to them or why they believed it happened to anyone for that matter. Again, I didn't know what was happening at the home of Jessica, where John Freifeld was living and seeking to help a few of my clients.  

I had mentioned that my colleagues - members of the local Society of Clinical Social Workers - suggested that I tell these clients that I could not help them if they were also receiving treatment from Freifeld. For one thing, everything had been happening so fast that I had not had time to implement this policy. I also don't know how he or the clients with whom I spoke about this felt.  

Family Connections

I mentioned that I had turned to my family for support when Lynn became ill. Any reasonable person would understand how traumatic or tragic all this would be and why I would need support.  

Up until last year, I have maintained a relationship with my parents and my sister. I mentioned earlier that I had not spoken to my brother since shortly after I made a call to child protective services. I had seen him lose his temper and push his daughter Emily up against a wall like she was a rag doll and she had told me when I asked her about some marks, that “your brother did that.”

As I was saying, I had maintained a relationship with my siblings and my parents until recently.

Then it hit me. It seemed so insane that they were not there at all during this period. They had not visited Lynn in the hospital to see how she was doing. Heck, they never even sent a card to me or her. They seemed indifferent to my suffering.  

My sister, Carrie Whealton, has never married or been in love. However, it's not reasonable or rational to suggest that she would not understand what it would be like to lose the love of one's life. She has parents and grandparents.  

I'm not saying that I am JUST angry that this happened. What I mean, is that there has never been any explanation offered for how or why they could have acted that way. It made me feel like I did not matter at all in their eyes. My success did not matter. My happiness didn't matter.  

I cannot spend my time speculating on how or why they made those decisions. I know that I deserve better. 

I suppose I could have been upset at Diane for not caring at all that I had nowhere to do, no income now and I was devastated beyond being able to cope with life at all. But my sense of survivor’s guilt kicked in. So, all I felt was shame and worthlessness. 

We couldn’t get married for health and insurance reasons, so it had seemed too easy to deconstruct our life. In retrospect, Diane knew we were living as husband and wife. So, I was like a son-in-law. 

I had always been welcomed for holidays with Lynn. More than that, Diane bought the home for us. Sure, it was an investment but her decision to sell it when Lynn decided that she didn’t think she would be coming back demonstrated that it was for us and that she knew that I was the one that had made Lynn so happy.

She must have remembered that.

I had nowhere to go now. Lynn took the cats. For a while, I asked to take the cats, but I was feeling sufficiently guilty, and I was on the run soon… without anything that I had known for so long.

I would end up leaving my clients stranded as well without an explanation. 

Dear reader, if you have any unanswered questions now, please understand one thing that is key. I was so out of it, so in shock, so unable to process everything, so overwhelmed… I couldn’t figure out anything myself!

This might be a good time to make a transition to another section of my book. Where I want and what I did as a bounced around after this, as a ball dropped down some steps, will be described in the next section.

Here’s a poem that I wrote as I reflected upon the horrors of this period, including the inability to handle the trauma of my clients as I had been able to do in the past.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

I’d like to think
I’m just like
anyone else -
that we all have limits…
There’s only so much
we can take…
So much -
Pain… Fear… Loss… Trauma.
There’s only so much
any of us can experience 
and remain sane
and true to
our ideals, our values,
who we are and
the person we have become.
When the pain,
the fear, the terror,
the trauma
exceeds this limit,
We snap
and for a while
we drift away…
away to someplace
in our mind,
someplace utterly unknown,
unexpected,
outside reality…
maybe we come back
and then maybe we don’t…
It depends on what
might call us back.

You will learn about what was happening… not why. You won’t read about someone with a plan or hopes. First, I have a short chapter that is a letter to someone else who loved Lynn.

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. 

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 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 have some videos of me reading some poetry at that location.

This next one here is a video of Jean Introducing me.
 

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?

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 earlier as I mentioned in the previous chapter.

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 to Thomas.

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.

Here's a video of Jeff Wyatt reading poetry at the Word Salad Poetry Event. Lynn wasn't at the lounge that particular evening.

I suppose that my last words to Lynn were "Fugue State." My life had been like a bad dream... I had existed without an identity for a while... lost... without direction... without a sense of where to go or where my home was or where it might be someday.

I had not thought that was a very good poem until recently. As I read this recently within the past year or so, I thought "wow, that was good... that is poignant in the way that I convey such feelings and experiences that are so hard to convey." 

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!

And with that, I will end this book.

Please look for more of my memoirs. This is part of a series of memoirs or autobiographical stories. 

[Disclaimer: I have used aliases to protect the confidentiality and identity of clients or patients. No other names have been changed.]

I knew that something was happening to me. This was different than what I had ever experienced previously in my life. So far, I described the impact of what was happening to Lynn and what that did to me.

I tried to act like things were going to be okay with Lynn. For a while, we might have thought things could return to normal.

I drove back home on Monday knowing that Lynn was going to be in the hospital for a while.

I tried to return to work thinking I could still do my job. I had an appointment to see a woman and her two children. Both parents were asking me to work with their children because they were going through a difficult divorce. I had been working with both clients, the mother, and father for some time.

Play therapy seemed to be just the thing I needed. I had met with each parent as well. 

I had a few other clients that didn't seem to present too many challenges. One was an older woman, named Anne, who was dealing with major depression and some addictions - not to alcohol or drugs but to sex. She wasn't really old at fifty-eight.
 

Something happened on three separate days in August. I was falling asleep on those days.

This is going to sound strange because I have no factual proof of what was happening, what caused the problems I was having, or why.

Alice just happened to come in during the morning on those three days. Alice had come down from Pennsylvania or Virginia with a guy named John Freifeld. He was practicing therapy without a license, without any credentials. He had not even gone to college other than maybe a community college and he had not studied psychotherapy. 

He and I had a falling out earlier around issues related to what he was doing. He was diagnosing people with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) and it was really messing with people's minds. I had some of them as clients and they thought they might have DID but I was wondering if that was actually the case.

To this day, I have no recollection of what Alice discussed in any of her sessions or what she looked like. I just know that she came down to Wilmington North Carolina with John Freifeld.

I have told this story many times to different therapists so while I do not recall what Alice looked like or what she discussed, I do know the dates and times when she came to meet with me during the year 2000 when this was happening.
 

She like a few other clients of mine were getting support or treatment from John. 

Now, in the 2000s, it's possible for people to be peer support specialists based on their lived experience. John was not my client but I knew from my clients that he didn't have that training or those credentials, either. Maybe he was jealous of me or he just was obsessed with hurting me.
 

As an aside, I would later learn that he knew that people like me had between $1 Million and $3 Million in liability insurance. This will be an important fact to know later because while he wasn't my client he was very persuasive and so I wondered if he somehow intended to benefit from a civil suit that my clients might bring against me. 

Bear with me while we deal with some events that are and were confusing to me as well as disorienting.  

So, as I was saying, I remember having an appointment with Alice on this day, two days after I returned from Chapel Hill having seen Lynn. This is important to know because the "sleepiness" I am about to describe would have been more likely on Monday after driving all night.

It was Tuesday, the 8th of August of 2000 when Alice came in during the morning, at 10 AM. I let her go to the office while I used the restroom. I had a big Coca-Cola that I picked up at the convenience store near my office on Chestnut Street in downtown Wilmington. This was the first time that I noticed something unusual happening to me. I had a 32-ounce cup. I remember this because I needed the caffeine that day.

I was unusually tired from driving back from Chapel Hill where Lynn was in the hospital. But that was late Sunday and now this was Tuesday.

I found myself struggling to stay awake! That's all I remember about what happened after Alice came to the office.

Over time I have found that my mind wanted to fill in details about these sessions with Alice but honestly, there is just a blank spot in my memory around everything related to her other than the sense that I became extremely sleepy after she came to see me.

I have memories of going to the men's room and splashing water on my face during this hour with Alice. I thought pacing or cold water would wake me up, but the feeling lingered for hours.

Rebecca came in at 1 PM and laid down on the couch facing the wall perpendicular to me as she always did. She was tall and attractive. She had been coming to me because she had relationship issues - she had been unfaithful with her husband and she thought she needed help with her sexual addiction.

Today, again, I had to get up again and use the restroom to try to wake myself up.

"How could I help anyone if I could not stay awake?" I couldn't think clearly enough to figure out what I should do at this moment.

Vanessa came in the next day. She was one of my clients with DID who had been coming from the Myrtle Beach area. She had just been released from the hospital for treatment related to her condition – DID. Her psychiatrist had made those arrangements.

She had been suicidal, though, for a person with DID, it manifested as a plan by one personality to harm "the others." Yeah, to her or them, they were a system with different people, and the fact that they all shared the same body could be forgotten by one personality or another.

Vanessa, after being released from the hospital, now was frightened that something nefarious had happened to her while she was at the hospital.

She was talking about how some cousins had raped her repeatedly at some point in the past. Sodomized her. Held her down. Again, this was that same day August 8, 2000. It was 3 PM.

One of her personalities, inside, was a teenage boy who went by the name Victor. He liked to cut the body and now he was threatening to kill the body with a gun. I wondered why she had been released if she was still in this state. I was feeling like I was responsible for finding a solution to prevent her from acting on her plans to end her life.

She showed me cuts that Victor had made on her arms and legs. She seemed amused as she described this.

Again, Vanessa spoke about her husband sodomizing her. Ironically, this was what seemed to startle me enough to feel awake finally. The way she described it made it sound like it was a brutal and sadistic form of torture.

"Sodomized," she had said. It echoed in my mind like a sharp, cutting blow to her motionless body.

She said she could not move as her husband did this. She froze. But again, her husband did this despite the fact that she had said it triggered reminders of her trauma.

Yesterday's session with Patricia came rushing back. Patricia had started therapy at the same time as another client with DID had started seeing me. They both had reported that they had known for some time that they had different personalities. Those clients found me in a newspaper advertisement. 

That seemed like a lifetime ago – about 18 months had passed.

I would think during this time that it was a good thing that Patricia had never met a few of the other clients that I had with this particular disorder of DID or who reported that this was their disorder. This distinction is important because John who wasn't a mental health professional was diagnosing people with this disorder.

Patricia had no contact with any of my other clients and I knew that John Freifeld didn't know about her. 

I had set up a support/therapy group for people with DID but Patricia never attended that group. So, she didn't have the same problems. I would learn that those who attended the group had exchanged phone numbers and were spending time together. 

Anyway, Patricia, on Monday, had described how her father had done something disgusting for reasons that were hard to understand it was so offensive. She described an abusive scenario in which he had defecated into the toilet and then pushed her face into the toilet bowl.

This event which she was describing had occurred years ago.

This might be a lot to consider and my reactions at this time were confusing. 

We have one character, John Freifeld, doing therapy and diagnosing people with DID. Some of them were clients of mine. And Alice was one of those clients that were sent to me by John. 

At the risk of sounding crazy, I wondered if there was a connection between my unusual experiences and John Freifeld seeking to hurt me or, as I will explain later, he would encourage my clients to file a medical malpractice claim against me and to file grievances with my licensure board.

On Monday, August 14th, after spending the weekend with Lynn in the hospital, I was back in the office and Alice came in at 11 AM and Rebecca came in at 1 PM.

I began to wonder if I was somehow experiencing the symptoms of my clients. Was I trying to escape in my mind from the reality of what was happening to Lynn? I mean at the time I was wondering if there was a purpose to what I was experiencing. It was one of those existential questions about suffering.

During the rest of this past week, I was so stressed about what was happening to Lynn. I couldn't sit still. I couldn't sleep. I was tossing and turning. My heart was racing. My stomach was upset almost all the time.

I knew about dissociative disorders. If I was going to zone out in response to something there would have to be a trigger of some sort.

Nothing stood out about last Tuesday and now today, Monday.

This was just nothing like I had ever experienced. There was nothing to which I could compare this experience.

Anyway, the day dragged on and I couldn't shake the feeling.

My thinking and my perceptions were foggy, like looking at the world through a fog. 

What is strange is that this was different than the metaphorical fog I felt described the experience of dealing with what was happening to Lynn. My reaction to the experiences of what was happening to Lynn was that I was agitated, anxious, my heart was racing, and I would have trouble sleeping.

Now, today, Monday, I was struggling to stay awake all day.

I had not discussed this with Lynn because I felt she had enough to deal with.

For months and years after this, I would have a powerful sensation - a memory or flashback - where I would see myself walking down a hallway and I would be thinking that the observing me wanted to shout at the vision of myself during this time, "wake up, wake up."

"What are you doing?"

Returning to this Monday in August, after returning from spending time with Lynn in the hospital...

I found myself in the men's room several times trying to wake up and squeezing my hands against my forehead and my face trying to figure out what is happening and to stay awake. I couldn't even focus on a plan as to what I should do about these experiences.

I just walked about like some zombie or a robot. How was it that no one was noticing anything?

Yeah, looking back, I would think I should have stayed home or called someone to get myself "grounded" ... just as I had helped others. My mind wasn't clear enough to do even that when it was happening.

Then the next day would come and I would be so confused about events the prior day. I wasn't sure I had dreamed what happened or if it really happened.

On Thursday, August 17, beginning late in the day it started to happen again. The fog hung over me into Friday. I wanted to say that I couldn't sleep that night, but I actually got home at 6 PM and fell onto the bed asleep.

I had vivid dreams that night. I remembered that snakes were appearing in the dreams... Sinister-looking - a diamondback rattlesnake with an expression that seemed to embody evil itself. That's just what was going through my mind. It was like I was in the presence of something evil because while the face of the snake was not distorted in any way, it had a human expression. I remembered thinking this is what evil would look like.

This was the third incident when my mind was not acting like it normally does.

As I write this, I have a degree of clarity, but it is still foggy. There are some things that I cannot recall.

As an aside, I did write a collection of poems called "Puncture Wounds" with another poet friend of mine in the late 2000s. It was inspired by my experiences with Freifeld and a few others.

My poet friend Jean had said, "maybe you did find yourself in the presence of evil." He was Episcopalian like Celta had been – it's very much like the Catholic faith. He invited me to receive some blessing at Church one day years ago.

I remember Jean had said, "if you believe in one you have to believe in the other." He meant belief in God, who is good implies a belief in Satan and evil itself. Yeah, Freifeld seemed soulless. Like a vampire. The collection "Puncture Wounds" is partially based on the themes and symbolism that go along with the vampire legend.

Reflections

These events, whatever they were, and my behavior during this time have never been explained. I have to live with that knowledge. I wanted to know like everyone else who is in an emotional crisis wants to know what happened and why. These experiences seemed to happen after I had met with Alice but I cannot be certain.

I have NEVER had experiences like this previously or since then. More than two decades have passed and I have no answers.

It wasn't a dissociative disorder because in those cases the experiences must last longer than one month. I had never heard of someone saying that they had a dissociative disorder just one time in their life.

It wasn't a psychotic break because I have never heard of anyone saying that it happened once during a brief period of their life and never again. Usually, a psychotic break is the first of a series of episodes and medication is required.

I've never been on medications for either of these conditions nor have I been diagnosed with a psychotic disorder or a dissociative disorder. 

We always have to rule out the influence of mind-altering substances. I am going to qualify my statements in this regard by saying that I have never knowingly used mind-altering illicit drugs or street drugs. I also have no evidence to support the belief that I had been drugged. I cannot say why it would have been done.

At times I have declared this idea that I was drugged, and some people have accepted it as if it were a fact. I merely stated that Alice had the opportunity to put something into my open soda cup.

The limited nature of these episodes also would have been something I would ask clients about to rule out the influence of a mind-altering drug.

There were other ways in which I was acting irrational and confused... making bad decisions. Some of this happened later. But things were never so overwhelmingly strange and bizarre as on three occasions in August of 2000.

This is all I can offer in terms of what I remember and what is lacking from my memory. The lack of any memory of Alice, what she looked like, or what she discussed is also strange and inconsistent with the rest of my experiences.

After the loss of Celta, I doubted my ability to love again or succeed as a social worker because I had my own problems so how could I help others. What I couldn’t predict was that I wound fall in love and discover just how amazing it would be to live as husband and wife, to love and be loved.

Moving to Wilmington for a technical writing job was what I needed to get back on track.

I was sacrificing the chance for a higher salary as an engineer because I felt compelled to assist others. Engineering held no real value for me, no matter how much money it could bring. The satisfaction of helping people through my work was more important to me than any salary or title. Plus, I would never get hired because I wasn’t an actor and couldn’t convince a would be employer that I was interested in any engineering job.

Because of my increased confidence in my ability to write poetry, I forced myself to attend the first of many open mic poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center and committed myself that first evening to getting in front of others and sharing my poetry. I was aware that therapists have to lead therapy groups, so I better get used to being the center of attention.

The emcee was Dusty who was like a mother figure to me - kind and welcoming - this might have made it easier. After that first event, I started attending the readings and sharing my poetry every Sunday.

I started reading poems about the grief and loss of Celta and didn’t think I would ever find love again. I wrapped myself in the warmth and comfort that was created on these Sundays. This reflected my personality and desire to nurture experiences like this for myself and others.

Life should be like that for everyone - welcoming and nurturing.

While attending these events, I felt a new breath of confidence that was new. I wondered if it had to do with the experience of being loved by Celta. Despite the loss, the memory of someone seeing me as that special was transformative.

I met someone who interested me. I somehow found the courage to ask her out to attend a large poetry reading that was going to be held on Carolina Beach. This was a bigger event than the regular open mic events where I met Lynn. To my amazement she accepted my invitation and gave me her number.

On that first weekend together, at the close of a vibrant 4th of July, when someone she knew casually inquired if I was her boyfriend, she replied, “no, we are just friends.” I swallowed the sting of her words, convincing myself it had to be enough, for fear of upsetting the uncertain nature of this relationship. I let the currents of our connection carry us where they may.

But soon, the tide would turn. Before I even needed to label the relationship as more than friendship, I relentlessly demonstrated my devotion by making myself perpetually available, every single day. She was acutely aware that she was the sole focus of my affections.

Lynn was breathtakingly beautiful, a beacon of light that emerged from the shadows of loss and pain. In the wake of heartache, something extraordinary began to blossom.

Each moment with her was a testament to a life filled with joy, excitement, pleasure, and tranquility. I believed that this profound happiness and serene peace would be mine for ... forever in so much as I could think about that concept. Each moment was like eternity.

The first kiss was electric, searing itself into my memory with a force I could never have anticipated. It happened on the beach, where I had commanded my restless thoughts to silence, urging myself to exist solely in that moment. The crashing waves harmonized with the tranquility we shared, and suddenly, as if conjured by some unseen force, everything changed. There was no need to dissect our relationship status or analyze our feelings; the moment simply unfolded like a spell.

Our faces instinctively turned towards each other, eyes locking in a gaze that spoke volumes, a silent invitation to close the space between us. My face angled slightly to the right, and hers mirrored mine. We inched closer, drawn together by an undeniable force.

Our lips met, and remained pressed together, taking me somewhere I had never been previously. Her arms wrapped around my back, pulling me into an embrace that made the world fade away. If there were others nearby, they ceased to exist in my awareness. This public display of affection felt destined, intensely right.

A year had passed since a forgettable kiss on a date, one devoid of the magic and meaning that Lynn and I discovered in that fleeting moment on the beach. Our kiss was shorter in duration, yet it surged with an intensity that eclipsed anything I had known.

Her mother's retirement home, a sanctuary that was often empty, became our refuge. Even when her mother or stepfather were present, it didn't matter; our connection transcended their presence. Each day was punctuated by intimate and fervent kisses on her bed, an exploration that was both exhilarating and tender, yet never ventured further.

Then came the pivotal moment when I handed her the engagement ring. We had selected it together, a symbol etched into our future. The lady at the jewelry shop, with a knowing smile, mentioned, "Your fiancé can pick this up Monday."

She was already aware that I would have it in my possession when I arrived on Monday. Yet, before I could utter a single word or orchestrate the cherished moment every woman dreams of, I witnessed her face transform, tears of sheer joy cascading down her cheeks. The sight was so breathtaking that it stole the air from my lungs. I was overwhelmed with profound elation, knowing that I had the power to bring HER such unparalleled happiness.

In that heartbeat of a moment, I believed with every fiber of my being that our shared joy and tranquility would reverberate through eternity.

Peace and joy were what I had found. It was as if those two different things (joy with excitement) and peace could coexist at the same moment.

Helping people to heal as a therapist was another dream of mine that I was awaiting. It was obviously different than an exclusive relationship with a life partner but playing a transformative role in the lives of others was part of my dream and part of what I knew I wanted.

After getting engaged, Lynn's mother offered to buy us a house where we could live as husband and wife.

During our years together, it was amazing. I loved giving gifts and sharing my love for Lynn with others, even complete strangers. It felt spiritual. Even though I am shy, I still wanted to share details about my life as if I had discovered something full of awe and wonder and I wanted others to know about how good life could be.

We argued quite often but that was ironically what made this relationship healthy and I had developed a stable attachment style. If I said something hurtful, I would make amends right away.

For years we lived as husband and wife. I never took what I had for granted. I certainly never did anything that could cause Lynn to love me any less than what we were sharing. It never made sense to me the way some people do things to their spouses because they think that they have them and they won’t leave.

This experience of love is a story in itself. I truly couldn’t imagine it ending.

I met Lynn and started seeing her around the 4th of July of 1992. I had been grieving the loss of Celta when I came to Wilmington in April of 1992.

I found love briefly with Celta and yet she died so suddenly and at such a young age. I was devastated. I didn't think I would feel, or experience love again. Then I met Lynn in 1992. We fell madly, and passionately in love. The poems that follow are about that love. I wanted to tell the story to all those who would ever follow me in the later generations about some epic love to rival any husband and wife or any couple.

We lived as husband and wife and were married in every way that mattered. As a Catholic at the time, I sought the sacrament of Holy Matrimony from the Church, but they denied us—the disgusting attitude that someone born with a debilitating illness should be denied access to the sacred! This treatment of Lynn, among many other harmful attitudes, pushed me away from religion.

Lynn was willing to embrace any way of symbolically representing our everlasting devotion, even though she wasn't Christian. We both wanted to formally move from engagement to the next stage of formal commitment to one another forever. Now, no longer religious, I can see that if the sacred exists at all, no secular piece of paper could make our bond more holy than it already was.

For years we had a normal relationship, and the fact that she had a chronic genetic illness did not define our relationship.

Our love created a sense of tranquility and serenity at its core—a deep peace and contentment that existed at all times, even when I was depressed, which was merely a transitory feeling that would pass.

In its purest form, love is distinguished from addiction, which is momentary and transitory. We do not pursue a high that we once had and cannot reach again—that would be like implying that once we discover an awe-inspiring sunrise we need a more beautiful sunrise to feel that same sense of awe.

Love is also like beauty in the sense that it's best experienced as opposed to merely being stated like some universal truth. Creative people express these experiences of awe and wonder in many forms.

These poems capture more than fleeting moments—they hold experiences where physical sensations became markers of something profound, eternal, and awe-inspiring. Each moment contained vastness, pointing to the spiritual that even non-believers in the supernatural can embrace. They are signifiers of what endures and give ultimate meaning to what really matters.

An Infinite Beach

On some beach
that never ends
I'm with her
and just for a moment
I pretend
that things never change
that sometimes,
in moments like this
we walk hand-in-hand
forever.
This is my greatest desire -
to stop time
like this...
when there is just this place,
just these beach sounds
and just
she and I.

What Really Matters

Moments
frozen in time.

That is what love
seems to be...
these moments you remember
something in these moments
(takes my breath away)
has a certain meaning
that endures -

a feeling...
an image...
something said...
or shared...
certain sounds
in the background...
whatever it is that
you remember
is all that really matters.

Introduction: We walked into the Coastline Convention Center that Sunday evening in 1995, hand-in-hand as usual, overlooking the Cape Fear River where the weekly poetry readings were held. Lynn had no idea I had a surprise for her.

We took our seats at a table with other regulars—all friends and acquaintances who knew us as the couple we were, always like newlyweds, never afraid of public displays of affection. The sun was sinking low, and the room was getting slightly dark with just a dim light up front near the podium.

When my time came, I stepped boldly to the microphone. As I read this new poem, I could sense the knowing glances from people in the room—casual looks toward Lynn as everyone understood what was happening. I wonder if she noticed those glances, waiting for her reaction to this declaration of love.

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.

Follow-up to the poem: I sat back down next to Lynn as someone else prepared to read. I noticed she was doodling. One of our mutual friends commented on how much he liked the poem. I turned to Lynn and asked, "So, what do you think?"

"What?" she said, looking up confused. "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening."

I shook my head and smiled. She was embarrassed, her face blushing. "I thought you were only reading poems I already heard," she said. "Oh, I'm so sorry sweetie. Let me read it."

I handed her the poem and leaned in close, my arms resting on her chair. I tilted my head and slowly brought my lips to hers. She held my lips there with her hands on both sides of my face—just for a moment, mindful of the others around us.

"It's okay," I said with a smile. "You know what... I really love you."

"I love you too, honey."

She read the poem, visibly moved by this surprise declaration of love.

This became an inside joke for us. I would tease her: "If I share a poem about our love, I hope Lynn is listening?" Her way of making up for it was to read this poem at future poetry events when she didn't have anything else to share. I can't count the number of times that happened, it demonstrated her appreciation and recognition of the value of our love.

I explained that the poem was inspired by the Song of Songs from the Old Testament and a song by the Electric Prunes called "I Had Too Much To Dream (Last Night)." I was drawn to the sensual imagery in both—the biblical celebration of love between two people committed to each other, and the dreamlike quality of the song that captured something both beautiful and haunting about love and longing.

In Love

Some would say they understand 
that it is not that uncommon... 
a word that is overused 
because I can't find another word.

People walking past us 
might have seen us holding hands 
they might have known 
there was love.

Yet they would not understand... 
the miraculous experience 
of her hand in mine 
as we walked by the ocean. 
They would not understand 
the experiences – physical and emotional 
signifiers of something worthy 
of belief.

When we sat side by side 
facing the ocean waves, 
hearing them in the background 
seeing them - 
moved by something unseen - 
our bodies were touching 
and the best analogy for what I experienced 
was electrical signals moving 
at each point where our bodies 
our legs, arms, thighs 
were in contact.

This was not merely something 
physically pleasurable, 
not merely biological 
emotional, chemical.

No, I knew that. 
I have felt passion 
but rarely have I felt 
love – though I have been 
mistaken more times than I can count... 
Meaningless encounters 
where the emptiness remained.

That core Self within me 
ready for connection was not 
fulfilled like it was now.

Waves of excitement, peace, 
serenity, joy, clarity 
flowed through moments 
pregnant with meaning. 
Each moment was vast in duration 
each moment held eternity.

I had an epiphany and knew 
what mattered, what gave life meaning 
what filled that emptiness within 
that brought forth the fullness of the 
Self.

The feelings, moving in waves 
were markers of the profound - 
physical sensations that pointed beyond 
themselves to something transcendent, 
something that could not be reduced 
to chemistry or biology alone.

I have known alcoholics that look 
to a higher power. 
I have known the religious who 
speak of a God who alone 
can fill that emptiness 
within.

Everyone is looking 
for what will complete them, 
searching for transcendence 
in substances, in faith, 
in achievement, in escape.

But I have found something - 
I believe in something - 
I believe in love.

I can't prove it exists 
beyond hormonal desires 
beyond biological drives 
beyond what science can measure.

But I know what I experienced: 
love that is true 
and real 
and right...

Love that transforms 
without diminishing, 
that changes you 
without erasing who you are, 
that asks you to grow 
but never to disappear, 
that leads toward transcendence 
while keeping you whole. 
It shows you eternity 
in peaceful moments 
yet never asks you to sacrifice 
the fire of excitement, 
the expansion of joy, 
the sharp clarity of being fully alive, 
the creative force that moves through 
two people connected 
in the deepest way possible - 
embodying what it means 
to be complete 
while remaining yourself.

I Wrote a Love Poem Once

I wrote a love poem once...
I felt it was good -
I remember how good it felt -
the love...
to write the love poem,
to share it,
to dedicate it.
I felt the poem was good.

It was many years ago...
lost - lost in the fire,
as it were,
the love...
the love poem.

I forget how it goes
the love...
the love poem.

 

I just cannot remember
the words I wrote...
but I know I wrote
a love poem,
once...
or twice or more...

I can't quite remember
how it goes -
that feeling,
that certainty,
that desire to feel
that again.

Introduction to Poem “The Whole Story”

Our mutual friend Jean once observed that he saw us argue often, and I was shocked by his concern. Years later, after experiencing a relationship where disagreements felt threatening, where conversations could end with hang-ups, where love itself seemed in jeopardy over differences of opinion - I finally understood what Jean had missed.

With Lynn, I never hung up the phone. When she said, 'I'm not done talking,' I never said we couldn't keep talking. The cognitive dissonance I felt when Lynn challenged my beliefs didn't threaten our bond—it transformed my thinking, because I respected her completely and knew she respected me. Isn't it strange and amazing when you can become so frustrated and irritated in a relationship with someone special but still maintain that pervasive sense of happiness and contentment! Even despite all the fights and arguments, there was always an underlying joy. That is the ineffable nature of what we had—something taken out of context might look like conflict, but within the whole story, it was actually love expressing itself freely.

The Whole Story

Our love is now like an epic novel,
thousands of pages in length, 
with most pages torn 
others burned - in the tragic fire.

 I tried to save what I could 
believing it was worth saving
or worth holding onto - 
believing that nothing dies 
but in the end, 
what do I have? 

 

Just scraps of the book...

Even the ring that symbolized 
the bond of husband and wife 
is gone.

We wrote the book together - 
I remember how it was, 
page after page, 
chapter after chapter, 
lie scattered around a room 
in a forgotten home 
in a forgotten place 
like dark shadows 
under a hazy sky.

Page after page, 
written with a purpose 
written with love.

Sure, there were chapters 
that didn't seem to belong 
or have any purpose that could be understood 
but every part of the story 
had a purpose and place, 
whether good or bad 
within the larger narrative.

This was a story to be told 
for generations to come - 
passed down within the family 
and as part of a cultural tradition.

Looking back, 
at the whole book 
and not just a chapter here 
or there, 
taken out of context, 
you see a theme 
which emerges out of the many 
unplanned chapters.

It was always about love 
and that matters 
more than the quality of the narrative... 
it matters more than 
how things might have seemed 
at any one moment in time.