Chapter 13 – Homeless in Durham and Chapel Hill Before the Trial
It’s May 2005.
I stepped out of the jail into the late morning light, wearing only the dark green shirt, shorts, and socks I had on the night Ana attacked me. These were the same clothes, still stained with my own dried blood. The moment I crossed that threshold, I felt exposed—marked. I pulled my book bag close to my body and tried to move quickly, avoiding the gaze of anyone who might see me leaving the jail, as if shame itself were chasing me down the street.
The first thing I needed was clothing and a meal. My only option was Urban Ministries, the homeless shelter. I knew if I was lucky, I’d get a bed, but space was never guaranteed.
A Lawyer Who Didn’t Fight
I met with my lawyer briefly after my release and I may have seen him or one of his representatives only two times during the entire seven months I spent in jail. He looked me over, taking stock of me, and said something that left me reeling:
"I’m going to have to put you on the stand. No one will believe you’re capable of anything violent."
I had expected that he would have known that I could only be a victim in this matter but I was terrified. We all know how well the first time I told those detectives what happened. What had he done for me all these months?
I wanted him to prepare me but he said “no.” I was thinking, “really, the last time I tried telling the truth, we know how that went?”
I brought up the bloody clothes, explaining that they would prove I was the victim. The evidence was right there—the blood was mine, no one else’s.
Surely, that mattered?
"We can’t use them," he said, dismissively. "You wore them after leaving jail."
My stomach dropped. Of course I had worn them—I had nothing else! He had seven months to secure the clothes, to preserve them as evidence, to do something that would have helped me. I had written to him over and over, desperate for help. He had failed me. Everyone had failed me.
Survival on the Streets
The shelter wasn’t always available. On the nights I couldn’t get in, I wandered the streets, noting where small groups of homeless people settled.
One night, some of us found a quiet space near a church, though I wasn’t sure we were even allowed to be there. It didn’t matter—I just needed a place to disappear, to sleep, though sleep rarely came.
The shame weighed on me constantly. Some days, I couldn’t even get a shower or a shave. I felt like my humiliation was written across my face for the world to see. To escape, I started spending my days at Duke University’s libraries, hiding among the students.
I rode the campus buses between Duke East and West Campus, hoping I didn’t look too out of place. I found odd jobs that helped me get small amounts of money—just enough to eat. Sometimes, my parents and sister sent me a little money, though what I really needed was for them to step up and help me find a real lawyer. But I accepted what little they sent, because
I had no choice.
I had yet to reclaim the most minimal self-love that would have caused me to be outraged by the breadcrumbs that my family was offering.
At night, I noticed that some of Duke’s libraries stayed open 24 hours. One of them had a computer lab next to a quiet room with couches. I started sneaking in, napping there when I could. But it was never real sleep—just a restless, uneasy dozing, my body always tense. What if someone found me?
What if I was thrown out? I was in my 30s, but I wasn’t a student. I was homeless.
The uncertainty of the trial loomed over me, a shadow stretching into every part of my life. I was terrified.
Wearing a Lifetime of Toxic Shame
What I was experiencing wasn’t just about this moment—it was about a lifetime of being made to feel wrong.
I had grown up in a toxic family, where I was cast as the scapegoat. No matter what I did, I was the problem, the burden. The one who was too sensitive. The one who made things difficult.
It was only later, after everything, that I came across a book that made me understand: Adult Survivors of Toxic Family Members by Sherrie Campbell. It described exactly what I had lived through. The way narcissistic families paint themselves as saints while blaming the scapegoat for everything wrong. How they turn the victim into the villain. How they make sure the scapegoat never truly feels like they belong.
I had escaped it for a time. First, in college, where I built friendships that gave me my first taste of real validation. Then, with Celta and Lynn, I had found love—love that made me feel worthwhile.
But then I lost Lynn. And the world took everything away from me. And now, I was back in the role they had always cast me in.
I was the scapegoat. And this time, the world wasn’t just shaming me—it was trying to destroy me.
I carried that shame everywhere, like a second skin or a shroud.
A Family That Left Me to Rot
I was angry—so angry.
Because I knew. I knew that if something serious happened to my brother or my sister, the family would rally. They always had. I had seen it firsthand.
But when it came to me?
I was an afterthought.
It was a cruel, maddening contradiction—the source of my deepest confusion and my deepest pain. On one hand, I was fed the words, We love you.
You’re part of the family. On the other, they stood by and watched me drown, offering nothing but silence.
I didn’t want to see it for what it was. I couldn’t. So I gaslit myself, twisting their indifference into something that resembled care. I clung to the scraps of their attention, desperate to believe that they loved me, that I mattered to them. Because facing the truth—that I was truly alone—was a horror I wasn’t ready for.
But the cracks had been there for years. I just hadn’t wanted to look.
The Call That Changed Everything
My brother. John.
There was a time when he was my best friend. The bond between us felt solid—something that would never break. We laughed together, celebrated holidays together, shared memories that felt unshakable. I had no reason to believe anything had changed.
But it had.
One Christmas visit home, I met my niece Emily for the first time. She was shy at first, peeking at me from behind the couch. But as the night went on, she began to warm up, her tiny hand finding its way into mine.
I was charmed by her innocence—until she said something that sent a chill through me.
I noticed a mark near her eye. Gently, I asked, “What happened?”
Without hesitation, she answered. “Your brother did that.”
Not Dad. Not my father. She said, Your brother.
It was so small—a detail that might have slipped past me. But it didn’t. And then, I saw it with my own eyes.
Later that night, I witnessed my brother’s temper erupt. He grabbed Emily Whealton, my neice, lifted her off the floor, and shoved her against the wall. The thud, her small cry—it’s burned into me.
My blood ran cold. I had to report the suspected abuse of Emily Whealton by John Stephen Whealton. It was up to the people at Child Protective Services to determine whether John Stephen Whealton was abusing his children or not. It was not my job to make that determination.
The Consequence of Doing the Right Thing
I made the call.
Child Protective Services. Because that’s what you do. That’s what we swore to do as social workers—err on the side of the child. Report suspected abuse. Not judge, not decide—just report.
I wasn’t the enemy. I was the protector.
But to my family, I became something else entirely.
The police came. And with them, the family’s mask slipped. They closed ranks—not around Emily, but around John. It was a “private family matter,” they said. I was a traitor. The police, failing to uphold my anonymity, let everyone know who had made the call.
And just like that, I was cut off.
John Stephen Whealton, my own brother, didn't want to clear his name in my eyes. So, it seemed that he was fine with the label of child abuser.
Gaslight and Silence
John at least had the decency to make his feelings clear—We’re done. And we were. Forever.
But my parents and my sister? They never said those words. There was no confrontation. No fallout. Just… nothing.
And that was worse.
Because everything they did—or rather, everything they didn’t do—was cloaked in this cruel ambiguity. There were no accusations. No fights. Just a quiet, chilling absence where care should have been.
And through it all, they still sent mixed signals—birthday cards, the occasional phone call, just enough to keep me doubting myself. I told myself, If they hated me, they wouldn’t reach out at all, right?
But when disaster struck me—when I was brutalized, arrested, thrown into a nightmare—I discovered the truth.
There was no rallying around me.
No lifeline.
No questions. No concern.
The Disaster They Ignored
When I lost Lynn—my wife in every way that mattered—it felt like my world had collapsed. My career had been ripped from me. I was drowning in grief, homelessness, and injustice.
But it wasn’t just hardship. It was catastrophe. The kind that levels a life.
The kind where you reach out—not for a handout, but for human connection. For family.
And I had none.
They could have done so much. It didn’t even have to be money—though my grandparents' house, sitting unused and empty nearby, could have been a refuge from homelessness. Of course, I was not thinking about that at the time.
I needed to believe that they cared because I had no one else. I also didn’t have any self-worth or self-love. Not yet.
But no.
No visit. No phone call. No lawyer. No belief.
No love.
The True Face of Gaslighting
And here’s where the madness of it all becomes clear.
I never once heard, We’re angry at you for what you did to John. They never connected their betrayal to anything I had done.
On the surface, everything seemed fine—We love you, we care about you, you’re family.
But their actions—or their silence—told the truth.
That’s the thing about gaslighting: it doesn’t have to be words. Sometimes, it’s the absence of words. The void. The unbearable dissonance between what you’re told and what you live.
And when you live in that space long enough, you lose yourself. You question every instinct. You start to believe that maybe you’re the problem.
The Hardest Truth
It wasn’t the abandonment that shattered me the most. It was the coldness.
Because even if they had said:
“You broke our trust.”
“You hurt the family.”
“We can’t forgive you.”
At least that would have been real.
But there was no anger. Just absence.
I wasn’t even worth hating.
And when you’re left with that, how can you not believe—deep in your bones—that you are worthless?
The Final Question
I was left to rot.
Not because they couldn’t help.
But because they chose not to.
So tell me…
If your own family won’t stand by you—who will?
The Trial That Hung Over Me Like a Death Sentence
Every second outside of jail was spent in the waiting. Waiting for my name to be called in court. Waiting to find out if my life would be destroyed.
I spent my days playing mental chess, reliving every moment, trying to understand how this had happened. How Ana had set this trap so perfectly.
How she knew that all she had to do was say something, and the system would make it true.
And I wondered—how much more of my life would they take? Would I ever get a job again? Would anyone ever love me again? Would I ever get to be me again?
Or had the system already decided that I didn’t matter?