injustice

I had been victimized and didn't even defend myself. Yet, I was the one convicted of a violent crime. I was the victim of a brutal and bloody assault where I did no wrong.

That was the end of my normal life and all the hope that I had ever had in life. I believed that my life was over, and I would only live a wretched existence with no hope of any future.  

It was Edmund Burke who said at the time the US was being formed into a nation that the only thing required for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.  

I would argue that a person who doesn’t respond to the pleas of a victim is not good. That is so much eviler when it involves your own family!

To have maintained a relationship with them after this was a sign of my inability to act with love for myself or with self-compassion. By maintaining a relationship with my parents and siblings after this, I disrespected and dishonored myself. 

I would NEVER forgive anyone who did such a thing to anyone else. It was evil, pure and simple. They had known the nature of my character and had admitted later that I am a good person and that they never thought I was guilty of what I was accused of doing.

It was evil, pure, and simple as far as I am concerned!

They had been doing me wrong repeatedly over and over for going on six years when this plea deal went into effect. They also didn't speak up and say "oh, you should appeal it, let's get you a lawyer." I have heard of parents who make it their mission to save their adult children who are falsely accused of crimes.  

My so-called family, my now ex-family, did nothing! That sickens me and a quote I heard somewhere comes to mind, “I hate them with the burning hot passion of a thousand suns!”

Until I found I could be indifferent toward them. I have gone “no contact” which is a strategy I heard for dealing with narcissists.

I would be hard-pressed to find anything good or redeeming about them, now.  

I was struggling with this and my finances in March of 2020 when I called the Catholic Social Ministries. I needed help with rent, and they were listed as a community resource for this.

I spoke to the lady who ran the social ministries there, Mary Ellen McGuire, and she said, "Can I pray for something for you?"  

I didn't really answer because I wasn't much of a believer after everything I had experienced. I had once believed. I had prayed so desperately when I was in such desperate need of comfort. From the depths of my soul, I had prayed repeatedly over and over many times per day when I was in jail for seven months. I had said, "My God, you know I am the victim and I need help. Please help me!"  But I got no aid.  

This was going through my mind.

I heard Mary Ellen ask again, "Is there something I could mention in prayer for you?"

I said, "You know, I was raised Catholic. I used to go to church until recently. I always lived my life according to the highest morals. I NEVER harmed anyone, ever! Yet, I had everything taken from me and every hope of happiness."

"I loved helping others and I worked as a psychotherapist. It was so amazing to be able to help others who were suffering from emotional pain. In a world that makes sense, I would be of great value. But years ago, there was something bad that happened. I was falsely accused and convicted of a violent crime. Me! I have NEVER acted even remotely aggressive in my entire lifetime. Now, they say it's too late to get justice or to clear my name."

I continued, "You know, I studied the Bible and the book of Job. Job had it better than me. In that story, it is revealed in the end that he wasn't being punished for some wrong that he did. You could say his innocence had been revealed. He was vindicated."

"For me, there is something called a statute of limitations. I was supposed to have appealed the plea arrangement back when I was in a very dark place and all alone."

I added, "and my own family abandoned me and didn't do anything."  

She then said, "well, Jesus never got justice. He was never vindicated. He died yet he did no wrong."

Wow, I could agree with that from a historical perspective. I could relate too. Jesus went around healing people. 

I said, "I actually had thought about that before. Thank you for reminding me."

The imagery of the cross is about the idea of someone who has done no wrong facing a shameful crucifixion.   

The first books of the "New Testament" - the gospels - end with a good person being executed. There was no stay of execution at the last moment with the truth setting Jesus free.  

The friends of Jesus faced execution if they were associated with him when he was arrested. Those who abandoned me, the woman who gave birth to me, the sister who claimed to love me, faced no such threat to their well-being.  

My entire future was on the line and I was thrown out into the cold streets and without a home. They didn't even give me warmth or shelter during those years.  

I met someone who was assigned to be a peer support person in my recovery from mental illness last year. He kept insisting I needed to find a "higher power." I protested saying that I do not believe in such foolish ideas.  

I said it would be a miracle if I got justice for a crime that happened sixteen years ago way past the statute of limitations. "If that happens, I'll believe," I said to shut him up.  

He was insisting that God would or could not do anything for me now. What? Your god can reanimate a dead body, bring someone back from the dead but that same God cannot inspire and touch the hearts and minds of people. That god cannot persuade people.

That makes no sense to me. Why would you believe that the God of Easter can raise a person from the dead and all it takes for justice is to persuade others to recognize the truth and embrace justice. 

When I was a believer, I heard that God is all about justice. This would be the most obvious and pertinent thing on the list of things that God would want to do.  

It doesn't matter how much time has passed or other difficulties. For God, all things are possible. This is certainly less complicated than creating a universe and raising a man from the dead.

This individual who said I should believe in a higher power was part of Alcoholics Anonymous or Narcotics Anonymous. I asked for a different peer support person to be assigned to me.

Mary Ellen McGuire sent me a book called "Everyone Has Someone to Forgive."  She understood how seemingly impossible it was for me to forgive my family. In sending this book to me she respected and recognized that a great wrong had been done on their part by their betrayal.

I have a takeaway from my present insights. We do not contemplate forgiving those people who mean nothing to us. We just don’t think about them because other things are on our minds.

That is where we are as I am about to wrap up my autobiography.

Dear reader, if you are feeling overwhelmed by everything that has happened over the past dozen or more chapters then you know what it was like for me. There seemed to be no end and no limit to the depths of suffering I was experiencing.  

I had lost the love of my life. I had lost my home. I had lost my career. Most of that happened in one month - August of 2000. Then in March of 2001, I had to surrender my clinical Social Work license.  

I saved for this chapter the details about how the case of the false allegation by John Freifeld that I had made harassing phone calls was resolved. The lawyer who appealed the case was able to get the phone records for one of the two days that I was alleged to have called Freifeld on five separate times. He got the records for the day before and after just for good measure. It proved that I had never called Freifeld. I knew that was what would be found. So, we could prove that it was a lie. Right?

 Wrong. For some reason, my lawyer couldn't get phone records for the other day that I was supposed to have called Freifeld. It was within a week of the other day so that made no sense. While it was a minor misdemeanor, it's the principle of the matter. It was wrong. 

My lawyer said the infamous words "the truth doesn't matter, only what you can prove." I had thought that we were innocent until proven guilty.

Can you believe that? Someone can make stuff up about you and force you to spend a month of your life in jail on a lie. You will recall the humiliating way in which I was brought to Wilmington from Durham. In a cage with chains on me! Like I was a wild and dangerous animal!  If you have read this far into this book you probably know that I am about as dangerous as a fluffy bunny or a butterfly.  

Then I was back in Durham trying to put my life back together, little by little, and this happened in October of 2004. This was the kidnapping of Bruce Whealton by the state. The name of my attacker was Ana, she was the landlord's wife, Jimmy's wife.  

This was a form of prolonged and seemingly never-ending suffering of biblical proportions. 

I felt like I was experiencing shell shock. Literally.  

If you are wondering what else happened during these four years from late 2000 through my victimization at the hands of Ana, there is not much to tell other than what I said. A bad nightmare of being profoundly depressed, without hope, poor and homeless. It was just a blur. I am not saying I have amnesia, but it is now very much a blur.

I cannot even remember 9/11 as a significant day! That is how overwhelmed I was.  

It was October of 2004, and despite having done no wrong to anyone and having led a good life, always treating others with kindness and compassion, I found myself abandoned and in jail. Also, it should have been obvious that I was the victim here. My victimization was written in blood on the clothes that were still down in a locker room at the jailhouse – they would stay there from the day of my arrest until May when I got out.

When you get assigned a court-appointed lawyer, they take their sweet time coming to visit you. My lawyer didn't seem to care about me at all or how I was doing. I would write to him frequently, but it was close to impossible to get an appointment with him. I saw him over the next few months once and I saw someone else from the public defender's office just once. Each time it was for not more than fifteen minutes.  

This was extremely terrifying for me. I was placed for a while in the general population. I met people who were guilty of real crimes, violent crimes. I met someone who had been on death row. I didn't feel safe. The guards seemed to have no compassion for individuals who might be innocent and are supposed to be considered innocent until proven guilty.  

My body was reacting in strange ways to this captivity. I was having panic attacks where I would feel overwhelmed by surges of adrenaline. Thinking I was going to die. Feeling short of breath. I would push the button in my cell as a way to cry out to see a doctor or nurse, but no one cared. At least no one cared for a good long time until they put me into protective custody.  

I also discovered new things about my gender and how we think of gender. The first signs of that were in jail. I met a very effeminate person who went by the name Lulu. She was born male but identified as female.

She was an African American woman who was born a man. I am sure she had male genitalia. I didn't care.

She was very kind and sweet to me. I needed to be close to someone. No, you don't get that much privacy in the Durham County jail... nothing remotely intimate happened. Not physically intimate.

I thought she was attractive though. I only remember noticing her legs and her face.

While I did find some comfort and humanity from Lulu, there was no way to change the reality of what was happening to me. My entire life hung in the balance. I was terrified every moment of every day.

I had reached out to my so-called family from the depths of my pain and desperation. Surely, a mother would be moved by the unjust suffering of her firstborn son. For reasons I will never understand, nor can I forgive, both parents abandoned their own flesh and blood - they abandoned the son who shared the same name as his father - I am Bruce Martin Whealton Jr and he is Sr. 

I spent seven months in jail! Seven nightmarish months.

Despite my desperate pleas, my family lacked human compassion and empathy. What little capacity they once had for somewhat normal human emotions had died. My sister also could have done something. They all had the means to rescue me. They knew just how horrifying this was, and yet they did NOTHING! 

It would be literally impossible for me to not act to hire a lawyer and free my siblings or a parent, or even a son or daughter if I had one.

They didn't even come to visit me! That is an act of evil in the faith in which they raised me. It is a mortal sin!

Their capacity for ignoring the pain of someone they were supposed to love knew no limits or bounds. 

I don't know why I expected them to act like real human beings. They had been demonstrating their inhumanity for a long time now - since Lynn got sick in August of 2000.  

Years later, my second wife said that you don't treat your enemies that way! That's true. Their actions were evil!

The faith in which I was raised does not allow for us to act this way. Everything about how they acted over these years goes against everything I was taught as a Christian. I have since metaphorically divorced myself from them. They are my ex-family. 

I had kept in touch from time to time with my sister. She said she and our parents (my ex-parents) knew I was innocent of everything I was ever accused of doing. That wasn’t surprising, actually.

I know that I did not deserve this to happen to me. 

My so-called family could not even be bothered to bring me clothes to wear when I was released from jail.  

I was released finally, in May, to await the trial.

I moved to Chapel Hill where it was safer. I was staying in the homeless shelter.  After my release, I met with my lawyer for thirty minutes, if that. My lawyer had told me that I would sit on the stand and tell my story and that no one in the jury would believe that I was capable of doing what I was accused of doing. That was the plan.

He said he knew I was innocent. He should have known I was the victim too. I had asked him if he could test the bloody clothing that I had been wearing. He said that since I wore it outside of jail after I was released this could not be done to help my case. 

He had seven months to do something like this! I had written to him countless times when I was in jail.

A Guilty Plea for the Victim

I called my lawyer on a day in March of 2006 and he told me to come to court immediately. He didn't say why. I got on a bus and rushed there. I didn't want to make my case any worse than it was.  

My attacker should be the one going to prison. Ana should be in prison for what she did. 

I was out of breath when I arrived in front of the courtroom. My lawyer was there, and the prosecutor saw me for the first time. You might think she would look at me and drop the whole case, laughing - I looked so pitiful and small.

My lawyer scared me, telling me that I would spend 10 years in jail if I didn't take a plea. I was in total shock. What was the big rush? Why was he telling me this in the hall outside the courtroom? 

He could have at least told me something before I headed to court!

My lawyer insisted that I knew this was coming and that I knew what I was looking at if I was found guilty. That is patently false. He had never discussed anything like that.  

He previously had told me to expect a trial. He also never hinted at the punishment that might come out of the matter. NEVER! It remained as some abstract idea that hung over me like a shroud for nearly two years.

He had promised that a jury of my peers would see the truth and free me. Then I would pursue justice against Ana - the perpetrator!

He knew that I was not only innocent but a victim according to his own prior statement to me. 

One usually thinks that a person chooses to take a plea. This implies some time to think about the matter and contemplate the decision. I was still winded. I was hardly in my right mind. The last thing they wanted was for me to think about anything.

I walked down the aisle to stand in front of the judge. He began to speak. He asked if I was satisfied with my legal representation. This was my chance to protest this farce. I began to talk but my soft voice only managed to say, "I don't know."

The reality of what was happening began to settle in and I wanted out of this. I don't think the judge was picking up on what I was trying to tell him. My voice was soft as a mouse. I was scared, I had no allies. I couldn't get enough air to vocalize my words clear enough to be heard and understood.

I have seen on TV shows and movies where they ask the defendant if they are on drugs that might impair one's judgment when entering into a plea deal or if a person had a mental illness that would impair that ability to enter into a plea deal.

I would have answered that "yes I am on mind-altering drugs" though they were prescribed and "yes, I am suffering from a mental illness that would impair my judgment."  I was suffering from anxiety, major depression, and post-traumatic stress disorder. “So, I am not competent to be entering into a plea deal.”

That’s what I would have said.

I had been traumatized by the entire matter that resulted in me standing in front of a judge on this particular day in my life history up to this point. 

The judge asked if I was in fact guilty. I said, "Well, that's what my lawyer told me to say for the purpose of this plea deal but... " I was trying to explain. 

Sometimes on courtroom shows, they depict a person elocuting to the “crime.” That means they say what happened. 

Had anyone asked me to say what happened on that October day in 2004, this would not be the culmination of a plea deal. I would have described how I had been brutally attacked in my home resulting in every item of clothing being soaked in blood all the way down to my socks and sneakers. It would have been a statement of my victimization and my inability to even defend myself.

But no one was concerned about what really happened. They wanted this wrapped up before the real victim, who was being treated like the perpetrator had a chance to think about what is happening and what he is doing.  

Guilt was an abstract term. No one in that courtroom heard anything resembling the truth as to what happened back in October of 2004. What I mean is that in no way did we talk about the events in question.

No one cared what really happened.  

My fate and future were sealed. All hope is gone.

Please, dear reader, let me imagine you are with me as I tell my horror story and try to imagine the comfort that I need when I am so scared like now.

Within just more than an hour, with the sun getting low now, the police showed up again. The most disturbing nightmare of my life was about to begin. My attacker had done a larger and far more sinister evil than brutally attacking me and leaving me literally covered in blood. 

I noticed lights outside.

Then there was a female police officer in the doorway next to the stairway that led to the second floor. It was a warm day, this October 15th of 2004.  

I heard something repeated on the police radio that a woman had been sexually assaulted out here!

What! Oh, my God!

This is not happening!  No, no, no.no.  

The police were just here. They knew what happened. They witnessed the extensive nature of my injuries.  

It had not occurred to me that this would be hard to believe.

Time moved at an excruciatingly slow pace. I was waiting to speak to someone and clear all this up. Surely, they would know what had really happened. They had been out here just an hour earlier.  

The Inquisition, Torture, And Humiliation

Before I knew it, I was being put in a handcuff and put into a police car. I struggled to speak. My mouth was dry, and I could barely draw a breath. I wasn't sure my words were being heard when I said, "no, I was attacked."  

I was terrified beyond belief. I wasn't shaking but I was frozen. I felt dazed and confused. It seemed impossible.

Then I started to move from the frozen reaction of a trauma victim to the fight or flight stress response - a misnomer since neither fight nor flight was on my mind.

On the ride with the policeman next to me, my female friend called me. My hands were shaking as I tried to pick up the phone. My heart was beating so fast, and I was fumbling with the phone. My voice was shaking as I said “Hello,”

I began to explain what happened to me. I wanted the police officer to hear me and the sincerity of my words.  

I told her that I wanted to see her soon and that this will get all straightened out, but I didn't know about tomorrow. 

She was shocked herself. I can imagine her desperately out of words to say to comfort me. 

Choking on my tears I said, "I'm scared. I don't know how this happened to me."   

She knew a little about me and so she recognized the concern in my voice. I heard compassion in her voice as she said how sorry she was that this was happening to me.  

I then hung up the phone. I registered the fact that someone had said that she was the landlord's wife. The landlord who had evicted me recently.

The police officer had handcuffs on me and took me inside a police station. I saw the woman who attacked me inside the doorway, and I said, "she's the one who attacked me." 

I was still holding onto reality.

They sat me down outside a room somewhere. I was asked to wait. It didn't seem like anything was happening. I tried calling the pre-paid legal provider firm as I had maintained an account with them. I never imagined I would need it for a criminal matter.

They were not very much help. I couldn't process what was being explained to me.  

I had never imagined a scenario even remotely like this in my worst nightmares.  

I was naïve enough to still think that the police wanted to find out the truth.

We sat down in a room with them across a table from me. I re-enacted exactly what had happened with me going to the door of the room where I was with the police detectives and opening it to demonstrate what I had done and how said "I'm Bruce," and how before I knew what was happening, she was entering the room or apartment.

They didn't like that and so I tried to re-enact it again. I was confused as to what I had left out that they didn't like or wanted to hear.

They still didn't like what I explained.

I had no idea what they wanted to hear. I couldn't process the questions or make sense of anything. I was sitting in front of them covered in blood from face to feet and shoes. Every piece of clothing was soaked in blood. How is it even remotely possible that they didn't recognize this? Why were they treating me like a criminal in this matter? I was the victim.

Then they said that she was the landlord's wife and that her name was Ana.

I stated that I had briefly seen her with her husband in a pickup truck but that she had not left enough of an impression on me for me to recognize her when she showed up. 

One of the police officers was saying that I would not forget someone that attractive. I thought "what are you talking about? That woman we saw on the way in. You think she is pretty?"

She was like a frightening psychopath who had just brutalized me, and I doubted that at any time anyone would call her attractive. What they said made no sense to me.  

None of what they were saying made any sense. It wasn't like they were giving me any clues as to what she had said or what they thought happened. So, I could not possibly make them satisfied.

The time went on and on and I lost track of how much time had passed. It felt like something from a book by Franz Kafka - bizarre, surreal, and nightmarish. Why? Mainly because I was sitting in front of them clearly appearing as the victim. What could be more obvious? And they wouldn't tell me what they wanted to hear from me.

If you wanted a photograph of a victim, you could have photographed me at that moment.

I wondered what kind of people am I dealing with? Why are they doing this to me?

I had never even been in a fight in my entire life! I had NEVER done anything remotely aggressive. NOT EVER!  Can't they tell things like this? Doesn't their gut tell them when something is so obvious? Couldn't they contact someone to find out who I was?

I looked to them as authority figures who had control of everything so I wasn’t saying much of what was on my mind.

They then suggested that she was there and maybe things got out of hand. That made no sense. Got out of hand? What were they talking about? She had entered my home and brutalized me.

They should be going after building a case against the real perpetrator.  

I was still hoping against hope that they would see the light and realize that I was the victim. I naïvely believed they wanted to know the truth.

I had always seen the police are authority figures and protectors... people you could trust... To get it right. These two didn't seem to care at all about the truth or getting to know me at all.

I had been a therapist who helped victims. I would NEVER harm another person!  Wouldn't these facts about me show up somewhere when they look into my background?  

To make it even worse, now they were talking about something sexual happening. I just repeated that she attacked me, and I pulled her outside the room and called 911. 

I should have pointed out that their fellow officers had witness statements that supported everything I was saying… but I wasn’t thinking clearly now.

More time had passed but I was losing track of how much time had passed.

Then I heard one of them ask to speak to "Brucie."

I was speechless at first. This was a well thought out intricate plan. I had spoken to Jimmy, the landlord, and husband of my attacker. I remembered how I had discussed Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) and used the example where if I had DID, maybe one of my personalities might be named Brucie.

No, I don't have multiple personalities. I just had used that name as an example in a discussion with Jimmy, her husband. 

Logic and rational thinking had seemed to have left this interaction at some point – how long had passed, I don’t know. With the police, seeing them as authority figures you try to do whatever they want. I was thinking about what to do. By this point, I was so exhausted and overwhelmed that I would have pretended to be Mickey Mouse if they asked me.

I said "I'm Brucie" in a soft voice that a personality that was a child might have. It was just a last-ditch effort to make them happy.

I was still thinking that I could convince them to recognize that I was the victim and this entire game that they were playing was not worth it. I had no idea what they were getting out of this. My initial impression that the truth would emerge had evaporated. They weren't here for the truth. This was a bizarre game for them it seemed.  

When that didn't satisfy them, they showed me a statement that they wanted me to sign. I looked at what one of the police officers had written and I was shocked. He was asking me to sign a confession. I asked, "that's what you think happened?"

"I'm not signing that," I answered. "That didn't happen."

First, they brought me in front of a magistrate. I felt a feeling of horror, unlike anything I had ever experienced.

I think Stephen King once described terror as something akin to what one might feel running from danger. Horror was a feeling you get when your mind is taken to places that are unknown when the hair on the back of your neck rises and a chill runs up your spine.

I was the victim who was being put into jail!

I thought I would state that I was suicidal as a desperate cry for help. I wasn’t planning anything at this point nor was I processing these horrors.

I was stripped down and put into a strange outfit that I guess is for people who are suicidal. Then they took photos of me. I thought I was being taunted like Jesus had been before he was crucified.

I was being charged with second-degree kidnapping and second-degree sexual offense. This was so terrifying that I could not process the events that were transpiring.

The next day I saw what she had told them and what she had written in her "statement." 

Her claim was that I tried to undress her or pull off her pants. That's why I was charged with 2nd Degree Sexual Offense.

I was put into jail. 

The way she described it, I would have had to have been standing over her, which would have meant I would have gotten my blood all over her. That was clearly a lie. How could these so-called detectives have overlooked these details?

She also said "he kept switching" in her statement. Hence the question that they had for me - they had asked if they could speak to "Brucie."

What the heck does that even me, “he kept switching?” I can’t even imagine what that might look like. Even those with DID do not do things like that.

It was clear that this was a well-thought-out and planned scheme, but why had they done this?

They had drawn my blood at the hospital, and I thought it would be helpful to demonstrate that only my blood would be found anywhere. This would prove that I was the victim. Right?

The next day I was brought to court for the arraignment. I tried to tell the lawyer that was supposed to represent me that I was the victim and could she fix this NOW! She just said I should talk to the lawyer who will be assigned to the case later. 

Why couldn't SHE do something?

I desperately needed help and NOW!

I could not find a friendly and/or a safe face or voice for months after that.

I was alone and abandoned! I desperately prayed every day asking God to help me because God knows I was the victim, and I didn't deserve this.  

I felt utter desolation. This was the definition of hell on earth.

I had been going to the mental health center for treatment. In my mind I still envisioned myself returning to working as a psychiatric social worker. That was my passion in life. I had helped so many people. 

I now know that I have a rational mind and can objectively review the entirety of my professional experience from start to finish. I know that the conclusions of Dr. Ziff that I lacked social skills and empathy were totally and completely false. It was irrational to imagine all the success that I had over the years would have been possible without empathy, communication skills, and compassion.  

I knew at the time that I had to go through therapy first. Life had taken a toll on my mental health and I needed to build back. There were doubts that I felt. How had I gotten to a point where anyone would want to file a grievance about my actions? I had felt "out of it" in August of 2000 and I had not been at my best, to put it mildly.  

The work of psychotherapists is so serious that I felt I needed to find out if and when I would be ready to begin again.  

Let’s skip ahead a few years now.

We are into 2002. 

I tried dating some. I used online dating services. I guess I wanted the connection I once had with Lynn and the same feelings. 

Was I ready to date or love someone?

In looking back, I had not started loving myself completely yet. I think that to fully love another one must love, value, and respect oneself. One must love oneself and have self-compassion.

One such intimate experience was very unusual. It wasn’t with someone I met through a dating service though.

I had been a participant in a therapy group at the mental health center and I may have mentioned that I had worked, in the past, with people who have Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) and that this experience had caused me some problems. 

Sometime later I was staying with Elaine, a friend I made in Durham, and I made friends with someone else from that therapy group named Cathy. She had seemed "normal" for the most part. I wasn't so sure I was into her or attracted to her, but I let things develop in that direction.  

At one point, we were in my room and we were becoming sexually intimate. Suddenly she changed. Her demeanor and expression were that of a child. I felt like I was with a child. I got up and put clothes on and asked her to cover up. It was like she had become a little girl. 

She was like a child in an adult body. This reminded me of those times when people with different personalities will switch to another personality or identity. Technically she was an adult, but it still felt weird and uncomfortable.  

I would find out that this had never happened previously in the presence of another person to the best of her knowledge. 

Later, she seemed to want my help in dealing with this. I explained that it is not possible for me to do this. For one thing, I wasn't credentialed at the time. Secondly, I had been her friend and the nature of the relationship was such that it would be inappropriate for me to be her therapist.  

This was strange because I had never said to anyone that I was looking for people I could help with their psychiatric issues. I could not imagine why she would have gotten the impression that I would be able to help her.  

DID is supposed to be rare but here I was miles away from my private practice in Wilmington, years later, and without even looking I seemed to have found another person with this rare condition.  

I thought she understood that I could not treat her. I thought we could be friends still. She got back together with her boyfriend and invited me to move into a spare room in their apartment. That didn't go over too well. I had noticed she was expecting me to be there for her at certain times. I couldn't live my own life. Cathy was acting like she was jealous of the girlfriend that I had named Shonda. What was strange is that she was back with her boyfriend.

I wasn't in a serious relationship, but Cathy was jealous of the time I spent elsewhere.  

I began to feel increasingly uncomfortable ANY time I returned to the apartment and it wasn’t just that she was jealous of me dating. She was mad that I had not been there for her. 

I had to involve the police to move out because of how uncomfortable I felt. I was hiding outside until the police arrived. My girlfriend Shonda helped me move out of there and temporarily stay on the bed in the area behind the store that she was renting for her business. It was behind the area where customers would come into the store.  

I moved around a few times before I found a place to stay that was advertised as a male boarding house in Durham. The upfront move-in cost seemed like the most affordable option for me and therefore the best choice. That would prove to be a very bad decision with painful consequences.

This would lead to the next nightmare. As I mentioned, you might imagine that things couldn't get any worse than they have been described. 

At this point in the story, we are into the first part of 2004. 

I don't think it is worth it to describe each and every place where I laid my head each night during this time period of several years... I was either in a homeless shelter or staying with a friend temporarily.    

This section dives into one of the most harrowing experiences of my life: not only surviving a violent assault in my own home but also the devastating aftermath of being disbelieved by the very people sworn to protect me. Here, I recount the assault by Ana—a sudden, unprovoked attack while I was simply minding my own business—and the surreal nightmare that followed when I found myself treated as a suspect rather than a victim.

That night, instead of feeling reassured by the presence of law enforcement, I faced an interrogation that felt more accusatory than investigative. It was a disorienting experience, one I could barely process as it unfolded. In my naivety, I assumed the detectives were simply gathering information to understand what had happened. I believed they would approach the situation logically, with an open mind. Instead, I quickly learned how skewed their perspective could be.

Adding to my confusion and frustration, there were witnesses—people who saw Ana enter my home and leave just moments later, unscathed. They weren’t in the room when she locked the door behind her, but they saw enough to corroborate my account. Still, their testimony did little to alter the course of events that night.

The sun had already begun to set when I heard the voice outside my door. I had been expecting someone, a new friend. So, I had my door open a bit.

"Where’s Bruce?"

I stepped out into the dim hallway to find a woman on the stairway leading to the second floor staring up one of the fellow tenants named Danny who lived upstairs.

Without hesitation, I answered, "I’m Bruce."… instantly realizing that this was not the person I was expecting. This was a white woman and my friend that I was expecting was black as was my girlfriend who might not have known which apartment I had been in - I had changed apartment rooms.

Before I could process what was happening, she stormed past me, into my room, slamming the door behind her and locking it.

We were alone.

Then she attacked.

Her fists crashed into my face with terrifying speed and force. My glasses flew off. I stumbled backward onto the couch, blood pouring from my nose and from cuts to my cheeks, filling my mouth with the sharp taste of iron.

For a brief moment we were separated and then she screamed, "Why do you keep calling me?!"

Through the haze of pain and shock, I managed to ask with utter incredulity : "Who are you?"

Outside, I could hear muffled voices—other tenants, witnesses. Yet, the violence continued. I didn’t fight back. I just wanted to survive. Plus, I was programmed not to not hit females… but then again, I had NEVER been physically attacked in my entire life by anyone of any gender.

Adrenaline took over as I dragged her to the door, my hands slick with blood. I had a few brief moments in the chaos to wipe my hand across my face. My hand smeared blood on the door and I left a bloody thumbprint on the doorframe as I tried to steady myself.

I fumbled with the lock, forcing the door open, pulling her out. I was actually worried about hurting her!

But she tried to force her way back in.

I slammed the door shut. Locked it. My heart pounded. What the hell just happened?

With shaking hands, I dialed 911.

"We are sending the police."

I refused paramedics—I needed the police to see my injuries, to understand the brutality of what had just happened… to get photographs of just how brutal this attack was.

Joachim, just another tenant, told me to go look at myself in the mirror.

Looking in the mirror, I had in utter disbelief at the extent to which I had been bleeding. Not only was I bleeding from my nose but I could long cuts across both cheeks and a bloody swollen mouth.

It was October 1, 2004 and a warm day. I had blood on my face, blood covered my dark green shirt, my light colored shorts, my socks and my sneakers.

As I spoke to others, Joachim asked, “So you don’t know her from Adam?”

“No, I have no idea who she  is.” Looking around, no one seemed to have any idea as to her identity.

When the officers arrived, I was still covered in blood. They listened as I described the bizarre incident that had just occurred. They questioned the witnesses.

I insisted they take photos of my injuries before treating me.

Then just as they were about to leave and I was resigned to the idea that they would probably never find out who had done this to me, I heard a phone ringing. It was not my phone. Behind a pile of books, I noticed a phone—her phone. She must have lost it during the assault.

I handed it to the officers.

"Maybe this will tell you who she is."

They left and I was still in shock.

That should have been the end of it.

But then, maybe an hour later and near sunset, more police cars arrived.

A female officer appeared in the doorway, watching me.

Over their radios, I heard the words that would change my life forever.

"A woman was sexually assaulted here."

Prior to this moment in life, I NEVER would have imagined such a scenario… but it was clear that they were talking about me.

The victim was now the accused.

The nightmare had only just begun.

Injustice and the Burden of Toxic Shame

The woman who attacked me was Ana Ensaf Amador-Rizo, the wife of my landlord. This was beyond bizarre! She had turned from perpetrator to victim in the eyes of the police.

I had lived my life with integrity, dedicated my career to helping others recover from trauma, only to become the target of false allegations.

But it wasn’t just the legal system that turned against me.

I had spent years battling toxic shame, social anxiety, and self-doubt—struggling to overcome the fear of how people saw me. All these struggles had occurred prior to being falsely accused of a violent crime.

If life had been difficult before, how much harder would it be now, with the weight of an accusation I could never escape?

This book is not just about what happened that night.

It’s about how injustice follows you. It’s about the prison that exists beyond the walls of a jail cell—a life sentence of stigma and suspicion.

It’s about the fight to rebuild after the world has destroyed you… to find self-esteem and overcome toxic shame without justice.

And it’s about what happens when the truth doesn’t matter.