injustice

This section of the book covers the time period in which I was held like kidnapping victim. I was kidnapped by the state under the false belief that I was the perpetrator when in fact, I was the victim.

It was horrifying. The guards were like inhuman robots not unlike the police officers that arrested me.

I was desperately needing to trust my lawyer to fight for me. I should have known he was doing nothing at all to show he cared about my case. This would become very obvious when I discovered that despite knowing that I was innocent, despite knowing that I was the victim, he threatens me to accept a plea deal as if I had done something wrong.

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.

December 2019.

It hadn’t come out of nowhere. That’s the first thing I need to say.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t a breakdown or a psychotic snap. It was more like a slow erosion—a quiet, daily wearing away of hope, purpose, and identity.

It was the accumulation of years spent trying to live in a world where a lie had become the first truth associated with my name.

That day, I had Googled my name. Again. I don’t know what I was hoping for—maybe that the link had vanished, that the internet had finally moved on, that something had shifted in my favor. But there it was, like always. The headline. The charge. The lie.

And this time, it broke me. John F had reposted on his website the article that falsely characterized the perpetrator as a “girl.”

The lie was digital. Permanent. You could search me online and find it: the false narrative, the charge, the slander that said I was capable of something I knew in my bones I would never, ever do. And not just capable—but guilty. My name, next to hers. A violent offense. The words “girl” and “felony” and “sexual assault.” The distortion of it all was enough to make the air feel thinner every time I looked.

She wasn’t a girl. She was the perpetrator. I was the one who bled. And yet, for the past fifteen years, I’d lived under a shadow that didn't belong to me.

I had done everything they told me to do. I had gone to therapy. I had tried trauma processing. I had written the story, again and again, trying to make sense of it. I had tried telling the truth out loud, only to find the words disappeared into a society that didn’t care.

I couldn’t live in a world where people thought I had harmed a woman. That was the mantra I had repeated to therapists, advocates, friends—anyone who would listen. But the thing about mantras is, they aren’t spells. They don’t change the world.

They just echo in your head until they become unbearable.

And in December of 2019, it became unbearable.

I called my legal support service one more time, the Pre-Paid Legal law firm, the only law firm I could afford. I explained the case again, tried to argue that the statute of limitations shouldn’t apply to someone who never truly consented to a plea deal, who had been shut down, frozen, dissociated in the courtroom. I asked whether the website quoting a misreported news article could be taken down. I pleaded.

And they said no. Again. They said in a matter of fact way that the article was true based on the fact that I had been arrested and charged. I tried to argue that it was false in the fact that Ana, the perpetrator who was believed to be a victim was not a “girl.” It didn’t matter. John wasn’t even alive.

“There’s nothing you can do.”

Those words. The final verdict. The end of the line.

What do you do when the lie wins? When justice is unavailable? When the past isn't just haunting you—it’s stalking you, shaping your future, dictating your limits?

I wasn’t in a panic. I wasn’t screaming. I wasn’t even crying. I was... quiet.

The vodka wasn’t for oblivion. It was for courage.

I couldn’t do it sober. The pills in the bottle stared back at me—Effexor, antidepressants meant to keep me from getting to this place. But they hadn’t worked. Not enough. And tonight, they weren’t going to save me. They were part of the plan.

It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t some dramatic gesture. It was simply the only thing that made sense after the law firm said what they did. After the same lie kept rising to the top of every search. After hearing again that John F.’s reposting of a misinformed article—one that wrongly referred to my attacker as a "girl"—was untouchable because it was “quoting a news source.”

Even in death, he had power over my name. Even after all these years, my name was still tangled in something grotesque and false. It didn’t matter that Ana was a grown woman. It didn’t matter that she was the one who assaulted me. The framing had been set, and every new acquaintance, every employer, every curious stranger who Googled me would meet that framing first.

I picked up my phone again and typed out a message to Elee. I told her I was sorry. I told her I regretted bringing her here, to the U.S.—even if I hadn’t made her choices for her. But mostly, I told her what I was doing.

It was late. I didn’t expect her to see it in time. I didn’t expect anything, really. I was just apologizing for her having given up her old life for me. Some time passed. I had come close to falling asleep before taking enough pills to end my existence.

But then came the knock on the door.

Police.

Disoriented, I opened it. My thoughts were scattered, blurry, but not gone. They asked if I was okay. I was tearful. Something in me still wanted to be heard, even now. I told them how much I was hurting. About the hopelessness. About what I had done.

They listened. They didn’t threaten. But I knew—I was going to the hospital.

And I knew I couldn’t take the patrol car.

Even the idea of handcuffs made my chest tighten. I had worn them before—not as a danger to anyone, but as a victim of a system that saw me as something I wasn’t. I told them I would go in the ambulance. Thinking, please, no cuffs.

They agreed..

I lay on the stretcher in the emergency room at UNC, the lights buzzing faintly above. The hospital air smelled sterile, overwashed, distant. It was December 11, 2019, just past midnight.

I wasn’t crying anymore. I wasn’t resisting. I was embarrassed.

A hospital volunteer sat beside me. I couldn’t bring myself to say much. But there was a strange sense of peace—not comfort, but surrender. I wasn’t in control anymore. That pressure was gone.

Part of me thought: Maybe this wasn’t even a real attempt. I hadn’t taken all the pills. I hadn’t lost consciousness. But that’s not what mattered. I had crossed a line inside myself. And I didn’t know if I could go back.

Eventually, they moved me to another floor. I hadn’t seen a psychiatrist yet, just nurses who checked my vitals and asked quiet questions.

I remembered this process. I had once been the one doing the evaluations—visiting patients on medical floors to decide if they were going to be going home or if their suicide attempt was serious enough. Now, I was the patient. And I knew exactly what was coming.

When the psych resident finally arrived—a woman younger than me, calm but firm—I tried to talk my way out of it. I tried to argue that someone with my background would have known what was suicidal. Later I would admit to myself that if I had not nearly fallen asleep, or if I had the chance, I would have continued to take pills until I had taken enough.

She looked at me gently. “You’re going to be admitted.”

There was no convincing her otherwise.

Trips to Wilmington used to be a sanctuary for me to connect and find acceptance, but now, they no longer comfort me. I've moved to Carrboro, where I feel like a pariah, excluded from society, grappling with the notion that I might deserve it.

In Carrboro, I tried to build a normal life, seeking meaning, but doubt lingered. I immersed myself in church activities, clinging to my Roman Catholic faith as my last refuge. I yearned for belonging, attended Bible study, and reached out to make friends, yet fear of revealing my past kept me isolated.

Even now, in 2025, I'm shocked that I have a criminal record while the true villain remains free. Shame prevents me from letting anyone associate me with a violent crime, fearing what they might think. So, I bear the burden alone, torn between confessing and fearing rejection.

Marked by Shadows

I knew I was different, and others likely sensed it too. My work status was a topic avoided—I was on disability, not yet brave enough to share why. My passion was social work, helping vulnerable people heal, but this left a noticeable gap in what others knew about me. No one questioned my lack of a car or my reliance on a bike or rides. I struggled to craft a perfect elevator speech, unable to succinctly explain how I was a victim deceived by gender-biased police detectives.

I could verify these beliefs but they were my beliefs.

Another Door Slammed Shut

As I struggled to rebuild my shattered life, I clung to the hope of teaching religion to children at the church. I had always enjoyed children and being something like a big brother. I believed that sharing this light would make me feel alive. Then I heard about the dreaded background check. I was crushed.

The church, haunted by a history of scandals and abuse, built an impenetrable wall of caution. Afraid they would deny me the role, I planned to share the truth with someone connected to the church, hoping someone might see past the false stain of accusation and believe in who I really was.

Instead, I avoided even pursuing this opportunity. This was just another tragedy of a false accusation.

At a raw, vulnerable poetry open mic in Carrboro, I bared my soul to a trusted new friend, recounting the false accusation, the injustice, and the stigma. I yearned for empathy, for someone to say, “I believe you.” Instead, he bluntly remarked, “You can’t expect people to take your word for it.” His words struck like a slap, reopening old wounds and reinforcing a world that had already condemned me, despite my lifetime of non-violence and my nature as a gentle person who healed others.

Now, I must insist: in the twenty years since, not a single accusation has been made against me—a silent testament to my true nature. I had devoted my life to healing others as a therapist, guiding souls through trauma, yet fate turned me into an object of fear. The unbearable weight of rejection eventually forced me to stop trying to prove myself to the church.

It felt like another part of me had been stolen—another casualty of a false accusation and the relentless force of Ana.

My future. My work. My reputation. Now, my ability to be with children hung in the balance.

What made it more difficult was the certainty I had always felt - that I was always great with kids and should have been a parent. I adored the joyful, carefree nature of kids. I had always been patient, kind, someone children could easily connect with.

I longed to mentor, to teach, to contribute something positive to the world. But the world seemed to have decided that I had nothing to offer. And so, I felt that I had lost a part of myself.

The Breaking Point Was Still Ahead

I had been drowning for years, but I was unaware that I was on a collision course with a final, harsh moment of truth.

My entire being would have to be shattered completely before I could piece myself back together.

It would require standing at the brink of my own existence, contemplating the ultimate decision, before I could muster the strength to fight back.

Before I could discover self-love.

Before I could find self-compassion.

Before I could trust in myself.

I didn’t choose to deny myself these things, yet I wondered if I was truly worthy of them.

For years, I had believed I didn’t deserve them.

That belief was partly fueled by my persistent attempts to get my family of origin to understand me and my struggles. To care. To show compassion and empathy. If my own family didn’t care, then who would?

I spent years grappling with why my life had unraveled the way it did. The PTSD diagnosis offered a framework for what I had been enduring. My mind and body were still trappped in many traumatic moments, reliving the past through inescapable flashbacks.

But the PTSD wasn’t new.

The assault by Ana and false allegations had merely been the tipping point—the moment when all the pain from a childhood of emotional neglect, of isolation, of striving to be seen, and then losing the love of my life, my home, my career, and everything else, finally crushed me.

The Major Depression and Generalized Anxiety Disorder were just passengers on a journey that had begun perhaps four years before Ana’s assault.

I had lived with pain for so long that I questioned if I even knew how to exist without it.

I might have had a home. I might have had a hefty lump sum of cash, but the thought of connecting with anyone felt like an impossible dream. The concept of being loved was beyond my grasp. How could I connect with anyone after everything that had torn me apart?

My self-worth lay in ruins—obliterated by injustice, crushed under the weight of loneliness, and suffocated by the relentless branding of something I wasn’t.

Then Amanda crashed into my life. A street person just like me. The sequence of events might be muddled in my mind, but I met Amanda before the $30k lump sum disability payout found its way into my possession. I remember that because once the money arrived, I tried to sever ties with the suffocating identity of homelessness. It took me far too long to realize she was trapped in the clutches of a crack addiction and that she was a sociopath in disguise.

At the men’s shelter, where the air was thick with desperation, three meals a day were served. There, I encountered a cast of characters etched in the harsh lines of survival. Mike stood out, seeming more like a volunteer than a fellow wanderer of the streets. His full story remained a mystery, but he carved a different role amidst the usual throng seeking sustenance. I saw him repeatedly at meetings where companies, agencies, and the community grappled with the behemoth of homelessness.

Janet was a fixture there too, clinging to her camper as a makeshift home, desperately parking wherever she could. Wanda, another regular, came for meals, her own car an elusive dream for me until my mother passed. Bob lived out of his van. And then there was Eddie.

Once they caught wind of my good fortune, everyone seemed poised to become visitors or overnight lodgers. They never asked how long they could stay, but the truth was, there were strict limits on how long someone could actually reside with me. I had been given a house to rent, and my share of the rent was determined by my social security income. The rules forbade me from having others live with me, even if I entertained the idea of transforming my new dwelling into another homeless shelter. Yet, I couldn't forget the haunting familiarity of being homeless myself.

As for Amanda, I had crossed paths with her at the homeless shelter before. It hadn't dawned on me then that her slender frame was maintained through the use of crack. Only in hindsight did the pieces fall into place. Was she interested in me? I wasn't certain. Then, in an uncharacteristic moment of impulse, I leaned in to kiss her one afternoon. It wasn't romance, nor was it connection. It happened there on Franklin Street—a bustling street teeming with students and passersby. The kiss wasn't forceful; it was driven by a hunger—a longing for closeness, for validation that I was still human, capable of feeling something beyond the numbing ache of isolation. She seemed slightly surprised.

I had dabbled in dating during the early 2000s via online platforms, but the gravity of the charges against me led me to believe I was only deemed acceptable to society's outcasts. With a new home in the safety of Carrboro, VR was set to help me embark on a home-based business. Yet, life felt devoid of anything I truly desired. I had left engineering behind long ago. Sure, I was a geek who marveled at technology, but that didn't mean I wanted to create anything that ran on a computer or the web. The excitement was there, but it didn't translate into a desire to be part of the creation of new technologies or the latest websites.

At this juncture, I was just going along with what I thought might bring me joy. I had to craft my own hypnotic scripts to convince myself that I enjoyed this path and that I could find success and happiness. But deep down, I was torn, uncertain if this was truly what I wanted. I should have known that working with computers or writing software for websites was not a good match for me at all. I had learned that about myself long ago.

I can’t forget the lump sum payment of $30,000. By inviting Amanda into my life with her drug addiction, little by little I was being drained of that money. She was good at scheming and manipulation. She always had some lie about why she needed money. Of course, I didn’t know this at first.

I clung to a false notion that there was something positive about the relationship with Amanda, completely oblivious to the fact that she was draining me, like a parasitic vampire, exploiting my vulnerability and loneliness to fund her own destructive habits. I clung to this relationship because I saw myself as wretched and marked with a scarlet letter and so even an unhealthy relationship or connection was better than utter isolation.I was drowning in internal pain, overwhelmed with isolation and loneliness.

Yet I was never like Amanda. I was not someone who used and hurt others. That was part of her character and I wish I had seen it earlier.

Desperate to create the illusion of a better life, I splurged on a few luxuries. I remember heading to Best Buy with conflicted joy to pick up a large wide-screen TV and speakers designed to flood my living room with surround sound. The Geek Squad even came in, setting up speakers—running wires to each speaker, running lines through the attack to speakers mounted on the ceiling—and even fitted it with a booming sub-woofer that promised an immersive experience.

But as I gathered with Bob and a few other friends, crashing on my couch and watching King Kong in 4k with that surround sound extravaganza, a bitter part of me wondered if I had merely traded one kind of emptiness for another. I cursed myself for not keeping some of that money secure in savings, for not making a more pragmatic investment like buying a car. Ironically, it took the long shadow of losing my mother some 15 years later for me to finally purchase a car—the care package I’d denied myself back then.

I couldn’t understand why, after receiving the $30k, I had not invested in a car which should have been a priority.

My yearning for connection was a double-edged sword. I desperately opened my home to people, perhaps too freely, letting them assume it was theirs to use without any regard for my own wellbeing. I’d tasted the pain of homelessness, and I clung to the belief that everyone deserved a home.

Yet I was constantly reminded of the rules—warnings from Vanessa in particular—that no one was allowed to live there. Whether those rules came from Section 8 or the local Shelter Plus Care program, they were clear: visitors were fine, but no one could stay beyond a mere two weeks. And here I was, making decisions, failing to speak up or consider what I needed.

My couches became beds for those who would otherwise sleep in their cars or vans. At different times it was Wanda on one couch, Bob on another. And Mike somewhere else. Bob had his van and so he just brought inside his own portable bed. I was completely passive during all this. I felt compassion for everyone and a certain obligation to share my good fortune of having a home with those who were not given this.

I wasn’t thinking about either what I had to do or what I wanted.

At some point, Eddie, whom I met at the IFC shelter where I went for meals, promised to pay rent to me to use the room that had once been a quasi-office. Now, as I write this, it serves as my bedroom. For a while, that space was where Eddie stayed, complicating my ability to run the computer web design and development business with him sleeping there. Despite being homeless, Eddie had an uncanny confidence with women, a trait I lacked. So, it wasn’t just Eddie in that room but also his girlfriend(s). This was the same room that housed the essential computers for my home-based business.

Then there was Mike, who somehow inserted himself into the new home-based web design venture. He didn’t have any particular skills, yet it seemed web design and development didn't require a 4-year degree. My web design certificate was just that—a certificate, not even as comprehensive as an Associate's 2-year degree. Initially, I welcomed Mike’s involvement. At first.

It’s not like we didn’t get any business. How about that. I said “we,” but with VR’s support, it was, as far as they knew, my business. I/We called it Future Wave Designs, initially, then Future Wave Web Development. The shift to Web Development involved more technical aspects like hosting websites on Linux-based servers. Web Development also required deeper involvement in coding—from CSS, to JavaScript, to server-side PHP coding. Throughout all this, I was torn. On one hand, I had long known my true passion lay in social-oriented careers and creative pursuits, learned as far back as the 80s. Yet, here I was, caught in this web of software and servers, unsure if this was where I truly belonged.

Web design seemed like it should satisfy the creative side of me, but I couldn't quite grasp it. The software and tools felt overwhelmingly complex, and I didn't genuinely enjoy the process. Yet, I found myself making self-hypnosis recordings to convince myself to embrace this new reality—a reality where I supposedly found joy in software engineering. Engineering used to be about creating tangible things, but with the internet's rise, design shifted towards the aesthetics of a website. It was more artistic, yet web design or design in general required mastery of the tools involved. In a way, it wasn't unlike a musician needing to play an instrument.

In this bewildering new world, where I felt increasingly lost, I thought perhaps I should rely on my programming skills, or "coding," as it was now called. My background in electrical engineering and computer engineering, with all its rigorous programming, might be my saving grace. Maybe it would earn me the respect of my family, a respect I had once deemed unnecessary. There had been a time when I could see my family clearly and had abandoned the desire for their approval. But now, I felt adrift, as if I were nobody. That was a different life, a different reality. I was being compelled to embrace something else entirely.

I was caught in the struggle to reshape my entire existence. Who I was and what I yearned for seemed futile. I once had love, dreams, hopes, and ambitions, but now I labored under a burden of shame I never deserved. Rationally, I knew I had done nothing wrong, yet realistically, I knew others would see a different narrative. If I wanted my clinical license back, they would see my criminal history. If I wanted to work in the helping professions, they would see my criminal history. It felt like a stain that would never fade. I was in a constant battle to program my mind to accept this grim reality, yet part of me resisted, unwilling to surrender entirely.

There was a suffocating despair that things would never improve or change. The justice system is a cold, unyielding machine that disregards the potential for revisiting and rectifying errors. Sure, if I were locked away in a physical prison or languishing on death row for a crime I hadn’t committed, there might be a glimmer of hope in the form of appeals. But honestly, I wasn’t even sharing my story back then like I am now. Maybe it would have made a difference when witnesses’ memories weren’t yet shadows of the past. The crushing weight of undeserved shame forced me to suffer in silence.

Eddie had wreaked havoc when he left, sowing chaos with a malicious grin. He deceived the police into believing that some of my possessions belonged to him. In those early years after the conviction, I was a pariah in Carrboro. The police, complicit in Eddie's treachery, assisted in the theft of my belongings—a bike and several other items he falsely claimed as his.

Then, in a twisted act of malice, Eddie went to the magistrate with an insane accusation that I was consuming my cat’s feces. It was a claim so absurd it might have been laughable if it hadn’t been so gravely serious. I was nearly driven to the edge, contemplating giving up my next cat because it dared to defecate indoors. My stomach was a fragile fortress, crumbling at the mere attempt to clean the foul mess. Anyway, my ordeal at the Emergency Room was brief. Mike, still a steadfast ally in my life, stood by me throughout the nightmare. Time has blurred the exact details, but I do remember the harsh reality: once a commitment order is issued, you’re trapped, waiting for a psychiatric evaluation. If someone merely suspects you’re suicidal, it doesn’t unfold like this. With a commitment order from the police, they slap handcuffs on you, shove you into a police car, and haul you to the Emergency Room.

After what felt like an eternity of humiliation, they finally released me, and I trudged home, each step heavy with the weight of injustice.

Probation and the Shame That Lingered

The plea deal I never wanted had left me with two years of probation. I couldn’t leave the state for that long. I met with my probation officer just as scheduled, once a week, speaking as little as I could, swallowing my shame in silence. My silence mirrored the deeply embedded shame and low self-worth that permeated my entire being.

One day, they came to my home for a home visit. "This is for your safety," they said, as they put handcuffs on me in my own home.

No one else was there to witness my humiliation. That was the only mercy.

They searched my home, looking for… what? Some kind of proof that I was the monster the system claimed I was? Who knows. It didn’t have to make any sense.

They found catnip. I had a cat that I named Buffy, after Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I suppose the catnip looked like pot. I said, “that’s not… it’s catnip.”

One of them responded with statement of disbelief, “Where’s the cat.”

I had plenty of photos of Buffy and so I pointed to a photo of my cat and deadpanned, "See? Cat."

I was drowning in shame.

But at my last probation meeting, something shifted. Supervised probation was ending. I looked my probation officer in the eye and finally told her the truth.

"I never did any of the things I was accused of." I expected skepticism. I expected dismissal.

Instead, she just looked at me. And in that moment, I knew—she believed me. Maybe not enough to change anything. But enough to see me.

And that was more than most ever had. Perhaps because I wasn’t giving anyone a chance. I was too ashamed.

The end of things with Amanda

Amanda could insinuate herself into my life because I was desperate for a connection.

I wasn’t just lonely.

I was terrified of being alone.

I should have paid attention. Amanda wasn’t around much. It would take me a while to realize that she had been out somewhere getting high all the time. For a while, Mike was the most consistent fixture in my life. He played a role like that of a business partner. He was a hulking person at 6 and a half feet or more. Eventually, he would become a threat to me.

There was a moment when it all hit me. Amanda was using me. She had no real interest in me—only what I could give her. And I gave too much. I was ashamed that I had not seen this earlier. Amanda was never around. The realization hit like a slow, sickening wave. I don’t even know what was the wake up call.

One would seem to be able to remember that but the truth was that I had not really been able to connect with anyone during this time because I assumed no lady would be interested in someone with a violent criminal history - even if it was all lies, even if I had been the victim. So, maybe I just told myself that there was something positive about having Amanda in my life.

What the hell was wrong with me?

At some point after I knew that Amanda was out of my life, I saw a photo of her in a newspaper. It was about the homeless in Chapel Hill. Mostly good people but the photograph mostly drew me to her eyes. This would be the inspiration for one of the poems in a collection that I wrote with Scott Urban who was living down in Wilmington. Scott wrote dark poetry that was infused with the imagery from the horror genre. I’m getting ahead of my story here.

The Break-In

Amanda left my life as unceremoniously as she had entered it—by telling me how much better her new boyfriend was in bed. I felt pathetic for ever letting her in. I had not cared about her, I just wanted a connection and human contact. She didn’t tell me she was leaving but somehow I learned that she was heading to Florida.

Then, one day, I came home to find my house broken into.

The front bedroom window was shattered.

The home office I had set up for my web site design and development business was where she entered the home. I didn’t have to wonder who did this. The only thing missing was the laptop and perhaps a few other items. The police dusted for prints. This was unusual. Often the police avoided getting involved in minor crimes that didn’t involve grave physical harm or the theft of expensive items.

This window would have offered some concealment from the neighbors. The important fact was that Amanda had stolen my laptop. The police weren’t going to go looking for her but at least they dusted for fingerprints. It wouldn’t matter. She had left the entire state.

The Setup That Could Have Destroyed Me

Early 2008.

I was half-awake at 3 AM when I sensed something was wrong.

A movement outside my window.

I went to the side entrance of my home.

Then I saw them—four police officers.

Guns drawn, pointed down, but ready.

They stormed my house, moving from room to room—even searching the attic.

What the hell was happening? This was surreal. How could my life become more bizarre? This was actually happening! It was beyond crazy. None of them were telling me anything.

I sat at my computer, watching as one officer walked up to me and said:

"Look at your Myspace account."

Okay. I can do that.

And what I saw made my blood run cold.

It said I was holding a little girl hostage. That is what it said on my myspace page… if I had written it myself. As if I was bragging about it.

Obviously, Amanda had done this.

Fighting Back

The next day, they came back—with a court order to seize all my computers and electronic devices. The false conviction I never deserved was being used as justification for a fishing expedition. The court order allowed them to look for child pornography. The content of the information on Myspace said that I had a “girl” that I was holding and it referenced the school up the street from me. The plea deal didn’t include the sexual component of the crime that was alleged originally. However, in my mind, that mere accusation stood not as truth but as reality.

Note, that I have described this distinction repeatedly. Truth is about what really is. Reality is what we come to believe about the world and people.

I spoke to my friend Wanda who had coincidentally moved to Florida as well. She had made the phone call to the police. She thought I was in danger. That is why she called the police. But the story took on a life of its own.

This time I had some funds and I hired a lawyer. My lawyer later told me what one officer had asked him:

"How can you represent someone like him?"

That sentence haunted me. This was so crazy. So surreal. I had been transformed into a villain which was the exact opposite of who I truely was. I had been a therapist who helped vulnerable people. I had given up on engineering because all that mattered tome was helping others. Yet, in the eyes of a police detective in Carrboro, I was some villain that no one should want to help. They didn’t look at the hundreds of lives I made better. Ana had erased that and made the actions of Amanda believable.

After many weeks we traced the IP address. It was from a library in Florida and I was able to realize that Amanda had fled after robbing me. It was hard to believe that she had memorized the password to my account. She was using a public computer in Florida.

She had done this. At the same time, on the same day that my lawyer had this proof, the police gave me back my computer, but there was no apology. They had been ready to believe the worst. Eager to believe it.

I felt like no one saw the real me.

They only saw the conviction.

The label.

The lie.

Insight from this latest villain to cross my path

After this harrowing incident, my curiosity about psychopaths and sociopaths exploded into a desperate need. I had encountered at least three malevolent figures who wreaked havoc on my life, and I had grossly underestimated their destructive capabilities. It became imperative for me to arm myself with knowledge to shield against these predatory individuals.

The first psychopath who invaded my world was that insidious John F., masquerading as a therapist with an air of false expertise. He thrived on chaos and the suffering of others. If anyone actually got better they would not need him. He preferred to leave people shattered and spiraling further into despair without a glimmer of remorse or concern for others.

He obliterated my life when I was at my most vulnerable. Then came Ana, the central figure of this book, whose malevolence knew no bounds. Lastly, there was Amanda, another remorseless antagonist. A few other lesser characters also left a trail of damage in their wake. I picked up books about sociopaths and psychopaths. This included books about sociopaths, psychopaths, fear, awareness and the criminal mind. It also included books about infamous psychopaths who were known for their crimes.

I needed to understand evil.

I wish I could tell you this story had a resolution, that justice was served, or that time healed what had been broken.

But this story doesn’t end that way.

For thirteen years, I existed in a world without color, a purgatory where the days are now a blur and one day was like any other, lifeless and heavy. I wasn’t living—I was drifting, an observer in my own life.

It is tragic to say but something bad was on the distant horrizon. It would mark a second climax to this story. I would not be able to endure this forever. I am getting ahead of the story.

I struggled to pay bills, buy groceries, and watch as weeks turned into months, as seasons changed outside my window while I remained unchanged, unmoved. It wasn’t sadness, not exactly. It was worse.

My life was characterized by emptiness.

I waited—for what, I didn’t know. Maybe for something to change. Maybe for someone to notice. Maybe just for a reason to believe that my life still mattered.

But nothing changed.

Hope was completely gone.

There were moments—brief flashes—when I almost reached out.

A phone call I never made.
A letter I never sent.
A conversation I avoided.

But I always stopped myself.

Because if my own family didn’t care, why would anyone else?

And so I stayed in the shadows.

Counting the days. Counting the years.

Toxic shame is the kind of shame that speaks to one’s sense of self and it’s not about anything one did. The tragic thing about this shame was it cut me off from human connection and support.

The Slow Disintegration

The trauma didn’t just leave scars—it rewired me. I lost parts of myself, the parts that had once fought to be seen, to be valued.

I was not the same person who had once built a career, who had once loved and been loved, who had once believed in something beyond mere survival.

I withdrew. Growing up, I had withdrawn into hiding. This was different. I believed I had to embody the false self that Ana had created with her lies.

Sleep was fitful, filled with nightmares of not being believed and the horrifying results of not being believed by those in authority, those who are supposed to protect victims. And when I woke up, it wasn’t relief I felt—it was exhaustion. Because another day had begun.

Another day of this.

There were disturbing events as well. Beyond the despair and hopelessness, and the remnants of trauma there were new traumatic events.

You look but
do not see
the father of lies
speaks and his followers
come like disciples
drawn to his church -
his temple -
by the millions they come
shouting with exuberant
joy, "It's a miracle."
the great dragon of
perdition fulfills a prophesy
by the abomination of
desolation, declaring himself
god. For whom else but god
can be without sin?

 

The great dragon sits
upon his thrown
upon a great city
in a great land
that swallowed history
centuries ago...
a city on a hill
and the world looks.
He declares his enemies
and they shall be sacrificed
like lambs upon an altar.
Hear them weep!
Hundreds of millions
cry out:
"How long? How long?"
The world awaits its hero
who will come upon the clouds
and slay the dragon of
Babylon!

Notes on the poem: The so-called Christians could see the abomination of desolation that is represented by the current president elect. The belief that we can stop him or stop it, makes it no less evil. The fact that this was part of a US election does not make a candidate any less evil. The monstrosity of evil can exist as such regardless of whether people recognized the evil or whether people are evil in their hearts. 

In fact, the ability of something evil to appear to be something other than evil demonstrates the power of the forces of evil.  People are forced to cry out "how long" must their suffering endure - the suffering the voted for and now deserve. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homeless in Chapel Hill, Holding Onto Hope

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

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

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

And yet, I tried.

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

A Miracle in the Midst of Chaos

Then something unbelievable happened.

I met someone.

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

But she did.

She listened. She believed me.

She invited me to Thanksgiving dinner.

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

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

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

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

A Moment of Connection

We had a wonderful evening and weekend.

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

But I still felt close to her.

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

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

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

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

But then I ruined it.

A Stupid, Simple Mistake

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

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

When I realized my mistake, my stomach dropped.

"Oh my god."

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

"How could I be so stupid?"

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

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

But it didn’t matter.

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

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

The Shadow of False Accusations

I hadn’t even been near her.

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

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

The fear of what she might think consumed me.

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

With Lynn, there was trust.

But this was different.

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

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

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

Back Out in the Cold

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would call my parents.

I would beg for a warm bed.

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

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

His response was cold, emotionless, detached.

"No."

I was numb.

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

I had no choice but to keep walking.

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

Every step felt heavier than the last.

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

They did.

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

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

Alone. Again.

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

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

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

“License."

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

Why were they stopping me?

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

"Warrant for your arrest."

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

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

I couldn’t breathe.

A credit card?

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

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

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

How the hell did this happen?

A Rabbit Hole of Betrayal

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

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

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

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

Then, one night, everything changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some of her other personalities were angry at me.

Some were obsessed with me.

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

The situation was untenable.

And then came Christmas.

The Credit Card That Would Ruin Me

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

Kathy wanted to give me a gift.

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

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

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

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

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

A Dangerous Shift

Tensions escalated.

Kathy became more unpredictable, more hostile.

One night, things turned dangerous.

I felt threatened—physically and sexually.

I ran.

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

Then, I called the police.

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

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

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

The Forgotten Charge

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

I had forgotten about the GoDaddy domain.

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

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

The charge? Felony credit card fraud.

The amount? $15.

Fifteen dollars.

And I was back in a cell.

Trapped in the System Again

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

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

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

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

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

Misdemeanor larceny? Over a clerical error?

A System That Doesn't Care

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

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

But looking back?

This shouldn’t have happened.

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

I just wanted out.

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

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

I was able to find an intimate relationship with a woman again. I got married in Ankara, Turkey to Elnaz Rezaei Ghalechi or Elee, as I call her.  

Elee had been submitting poetry to the poetry magazine that I was publishing with Jean Arthur Jones called Word Salad Poetry Magazine. I, at one point, asked her "would you ever marry someone like me?"  

I had thought she was very beautiful. We began talking on the phone and chatting with video chat across distances that separate us. She was in Iran.  

It would not be honorable for her to come to America without a commitment toward marriage first.  

It might seem like a strange way to get married for Americans. We date people and get engaged, then have a period of engagement, and then get married. Elee and I only knew each other virtually when we made the decision to meet in Ankara and to get married.  

Iran has an embassy in Turkey. I had to tell them that I was going to be a Muslim for Iran to allow the marriage to be recognized. That just meant that I had to say something.  

Ankara was very nice. The Mosque there is very beautiful. The food was amazing. The people could tell that I was an American. I walked outside the hotel and they would speak to me in English about the food that they wanted me to try in their restaurants.  

Then we had to wait almost two years for her to get a visa to come to America to live. She even went back to finish her education in medicine. Elee had been training to be a doctor. She had completed that training.  

I hope Elee can help me to reach my goals again, and to help others who will benefit from my services in the human services and psychiatric field.  

Elee and I got separated in 2018. We weren’t communicating well. We both thought the other one didn’t want to listen to them. We fought all the time. I kept trying to get her to go for counseling or work on the problems in our relationship. I was afraid to lose her and wanted to work on our relationship. She seemed uninterested.

We just are not meant to be married.

So, we are in the process of getting divorced. 

We are friends though. So, it's complicated. She is there for me when I need her. She paid for me to get into Epcot Center this past December of 2020. It was such a special and memorable event. We also went to Daytona Beach and then to Cocoa Beach. 

Getting into Epcot center is so expensive now. It costs $125 per person! Elee is not rich at all. We had to pay another $25 to park there. Then she paid for food that day. When you buy food inside the park, it is very expensive. It's like $5 for a small candy bar. The most affordable place we could find for lunch cost about $40.  

The cost of renting the car for five days with insurance and coverage for the tolls was almost $200. Yes, I paid for some of this but it would not have been possible for the day at Epcot had Elee not paid for that day. She also took me out for a crab or lobster dinner overlooking the beach at Cocoa Beach.

Dear reader: This book is a true story of the life I have known. I am writing to you to share this story in the hopes that we can make sense of things. I welcome your response and feedback on the story you have read.  

How do we make sense of suffering like this? Or injustice? 

I would wonder every year since that plea deal that had been threatened into taking, how I could still get justice. I haven’t stopped wanting that. Ana and Jimmy should pay for what they did to me. And no amount would be enough!

I keep wondering, how can I prove my innocence and Ana’s guilt (or Ana and Jimmy’s guilt? Clearly, they had a well-contrived plan. 

If you are wondering why, I would even consider a plea deal, consider the fact when I was sitting covered in blood, knowing that my attacker didn’t have a scratch on her, that didn’t matter at all!

The sense that I could not get justice or do anything made me become suicidal in December of 2019. 

My memories of the good times with Elee are complicated by the fact that we separated the way we did in 2018. 

Anyway, I was told by a law firm that no lawyer or attorney could possibly help me. They said there were no options. I cannot overturn the conviction, appeal it. I cannot get it expunged. I cannot sue to make the case in a different court.

Since everything that makes life meaningful and which brings joy to me is social in nature and is defined by connections and relationships, it seemed like no hope existed for me ever. This would follow me forever. 

You know how I like kids. Who would let a guy adopt children if he has been convicted of a violent crime?

Even volunteer opportunities seemed out of reach. That’s what I was thinking. 

I am shy so I fear rejection and now with lies out there, I have reasons for my fears of rejection. I had tried to go on a date once and it seemed like she found out something about me online and didn’t show up.

I suppose getting this book out there and telling the world who I really am is my way of changing things. 

It’s ironic, John Freifeld died and that is why I cannot sue him for what he put up on the web about me. The lies. 

Those lies show up in a Google search. 

I felt things were hopeless for me in every avenue and area of my life – everything that makes life meaningful and happy for me. 

So, that’s why I started taking those pills and drinking back in mid-December of 2019. I wanted to end my existence. 

Then I met some people and realized that there are warm, caring, and compassionate people in the world with empathy. People I met in the hospital, other patients.

The year 2020 was one of the best in many years for me, despite a pandemic.

So, relationships, friendships, and more will connect me with life.

I will continue to pursue getting my clinical license in social work again. I will continue to pursue employment in the field. Because I learned that when people do get to know me, they know my character, my goodness, my compassion, and my empathy toward others.

What can you do? Protest injustice. Stand up for the weak and oppressed!  Do not accept the status quo when it is wrong. Do not accept ideas like "that's just the way it is." It doesn't have to be that way. Think about how things might be very hurtful to someone. Offer that person comfort, compassion, and empathy. Listen with understanding. Offer a shoulder to cry upon.

I was considered by the government to be disabled during the period that included 2004-2006. So, I should not have been able to enter into a plea deal. 

Help me fight to get justice. 

I have so much to offer the world as you can imagine by now. 

So, my request is not just about me but the people whose lives I will touch in such positive ways.

Justice for me is doing those things that I used to do. And I will continue to advocate for the vulnerable. You can do that too.  

Comfort the sick and injured. Fight for justice. Never accept injustice. Never believe the lies that "nothing can be done" or "that's just the way it is." Demand change!  

Listen, listen, listen with a warm and compassionate heart. Find out how you can help. What does the person need? Just ask and then listen. Be a change agent.  

If a person is hungry, give them food. If a person lacks sufficient clothing, help them with clothing. House the homeless. If you see injustice, protest, speak up, and be the change so that justice can triumph over injustice.    

Again, I must repeat the words of Edmund Burke who said, "the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing!" How true.  

If you cannot fix the problems a person is facing, after you listen to that person, go speak to others in society. They need to hear about what happened or what is happening. Society needs to know. The world needs to know. That's how we show love.

This book should inspire action! 

Yes, for me but not just for me!

For me, spread this story to the world. Let's see what we can do together. Let's fix these problems that I have described. I don't know what the solutions will look like. I don't mean to be rude, but the solutions will not be abstract ideas or matters of faith. 

Just as a hungry person needs food, a person who has experienced injustice needs justice!