male victim of assault by woman

I arrived in Chapel Hill still haunted by the weight of what had happened. The trial loomed over me like a surreal nightmare that could always get worse—each day darker than the last.

It felt like I had one foot in the Upside Down, that decaying alternate world from Stranger Things—gray skies, black vines coiling through every structure, flakes of ash suspended in the air like frozen sorrow. A world where sunlight never broke through, and something monstrous always lurked just out of sight.

That was my emotional landscape. A place of trauma, fear, and numb detachment. One version of me walked Chapel Hill’s streets. The other was trapped in that shadow world—haunted, hunted, unseen.

I had started seeing a therapist, one I would continue seeing for years. But in those early days, he could barely reach me. I was too far down. Healing felt impossible when my future was uncertain, and every breath I took carried the suffocating fear of what awaited me in court—because no matter how implausible Ana’s story was, sitting in front of two detectives in bloody clothes had not been enough to convince them of the truth.

At night, I slept on the floor of the homeless shelter. During the day, I found temporary refuge in the libraries on UNC’s campus. I’d sit at a computer, pretending to research or write, anything to keep my mind from spinning. I still didn’t allow my mind to go to the place where the charges existed, didn’t understand the sentence I was facing, and my lawyer hadn’t explained any of it.

I was moving through fog, without a map, without a compass.

The Call That Changed Everything

It was sometime in July 2006 when I called my lawyer from the UNC campus. He picked up, abrupt and urgent.

“Come to court. Now.”

No explanation. No context. Just: Now.

I asked how long I had, but he didn’t care—just that I needed to get there fast.

My pulse spiked. I grabbed my things and rushed to the bus from Chapel Hill to Duke. From there, I walked toward the courthouse in a panic, nearly running.

My heart was racing—not just from the exertion, but from the deep-rooted fear I had lived with since being charged. I had already missed a court date once, and the shame and terror of that mistake still sat in my bones. I could not afford another one.

By the time I reached the courthouse, sweat clung to my skin. I was gasping for air—not just from the walk, but from the dread clawing at my insides. No matter how implausible the charge was, my only fear that morning was being late—getting in trouble, being punished for missing something. I had no idea this was a turning point, a break in the case that would define the rest of my life. I was terrified of being arrested for failure to appear—not of walking into a courtroom where my lawyer would ambush me and unravel my future in minutes.

The Ambush

The moment I stepped into the courthouse, I saw my lawyer—standing in the hallway. Not in a private room. Not even in a quiet corner. Just… there. And beside him, the prosecutor.

My stomach sank. The whole setup was wrong. It felt staged.

I barely had time to catch my breath before he said:

“They’re dropping the sexual offense charge. You’ll plead guilty to second-degree kidnapping. No additional jail time, just time served and probation.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

My lawyer had once told me, “No jury will ever believe you capable of this.”

Nothing had changed. No new evidence, no new testimony. No revelations.

He had known I was innocent. From everything I’d ever told him. From every conversation. He had never doubted I was the victim.

But now, standing in front of me, he was threatening me.

“Take this deal, or you could face 10 years in prison,” he said. “We discussed this.”

We hadn’t. That was a lie.

He had never told me what the potential sentence might be. Why would he? If he truly believed no jury would convict me, there was no reason to warn me of prison time. The implication had always been that we’d win. That truth would matter.

Now, I was being railroaded. Ambushed. He was cornering me—and doing it with the prosecutor present.

I was frozen with fear. And in that surreal moment, something happened that still stuns me to this day:
I looked at the prosecutor for comfort.

She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t reassuring. But she wasn’t threatening me either.

My own lawyer was the one making threats.

That moment—me looking toward the prosecutor because my lawyer frightened me—sums up everything.

Walking Into a Lie

I must have nodded. Or maybe I said nothing at all. But the next thing I knew, we were walking into the courtroom.

My mind was shutting down. I wasn’t in control anymore. I had entered freeze mode—a full trauma response.

The courtroom blurred. I was barely registering anything. I was aware that something terrible was happening, but I couldn’t stop it. It was happening to me.

Everything moved too fast.

I stood before the judge. The room felt like it was tilting.

When asked if I was satisfied with my counsel, I said, “I don’t know.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to say, No, this man is betraying me! He’s lying!

I wanted to tell the judge that I had been ambushed, that I hadn’t been given time to process, to think, to weigh my options.

When asked if I was on medication or had any mental condition that might prevent me from understanding the plea deal, I wanted to say, Yes!

I had PTSD. I had depression. I was terrified. I was not thinking clearly. I was on medication.

But I was too detached and in a state of traumatic shock to speak or to summon air that is needed to form words that one might hear.

A Last, Desperate Attempt

As I stood before the judge, I knew I had to slow this down.

I had to fight—even if I could barely form words.

When asked if I was satisfied with my counsel, the only thing I could manage was:

"I don’t know."

What a fool! My mind screamed at me. Tell the judge the truth! Tell him this lawyer has failed you!

I searched for a way out, a moment to speak up. When asked if I was on medication or had any mental condition that would prevent me from entering a plea deal, I hesitated.

Every part of me wanted to say yes.

"Yes, I have a trauma disorder. I have Major Depression. I have an anxiety disorder. I am not thinking clearly. I am on medication."

But I didn’t say it.

I couldn’t say it because I lacked the capacity to draw in air and force it across vocal chords that would utter words of truth.

Forced to Speak a Lie

Then came the final question.

“Are you in fact guilty?”

Everything in me screamed No.

Instead, I pointed at my lawyer and said, “That’s what he told me to say for the purpose of this plea deal.” That was it.

That was my plea.

Not a “Yes, Your Honor.” Not a confession. Just a statement that I was parroting what I’d been coached to say. My lawyer had spoken for me almost the entire time.

He entered the plea. He confirmed everything. He led me—like a lamb to slaughter.

I shook his hand afterward. Why? I don’t know. Trauma does strange things. I should’ve pulled away, but I didn’t have the strength.

Suborning Perjury?

Here’s what I’ve always wondered.

If a lawyer knows their client is guilty—because the client confessed—and still allows them to lie on the stand, it’s called suborning perjury. That’s how we define “knowing.”

But what if it goes the other way?

What if a lawyer knows their client is innocent—and still coaches them to say they’re guilty?

Isn’t that just as wrong?

Even if the law doesn’t see it that way, common sense does.

To any layperson, this feels like the same thing. It is the same thing. Morally. Rationally. In every meaningful way.

My lawyer knew I was innocent. Not suspected. Not assumed. He knew. And yet, he stood beside me in a courtroom and helped me plead guilty to a crime that never happened.

A Crime That Never Happened

As I was led away, a court officer pulled me aside to draw blood for DNA records.

I tried to protest. “This plea deal makes it sound like I committed a crime.” He didn’t care. No one did.

No one ever talked about what actually happened that day in 2004. No evidence was reviewed. No facts were examined. No truth was spoken.

Just a quick hearing. A rushed judgment. A courtroom full of people too ready to move on.

And a handshake with the villain who had silenced me.

That’s all it took to permanently alter the course of my life.

All because the system wanted a win. All because my lawyer, who knew I was the victim, coached me into silence.

All because no one—no one—listened.

Why the Rush?

Why the urgency? Why couldn’t he have warned me on the phone? Why couldn’t I have had a night to think, to speak to someone I trusted, to feel the weight of the decision I was being coerced into making?

Because letting me think was the last thing anyone wanted.

My silence was convenient. My trauma, my fear, my confusion—they all served the system better than my voice ever could. If I had been given time—even the hour-long trip to Durham—I would have been ready to say no. No, no, no! I would have realized that an actual prison would be no worse than the virtual prison created by this plea deal.

But this—this was by design.

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.

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?

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 come so far and overcome so much to achieve a place in life that exceeded my wildest dreams. I had developed confidence, self-love, a sense of connection, support, love, success and a belief that things could work out. However, things were about to change and the impact of how I lost everything would destroy the qualities I would need to face increasingly challenging situations.

There was a villain in the story. Someone named John F. He was like a guru who had not gained any relevant college education, training, supervision, or experience to act as a therapist. He had called himself a therapist but people caught onto him and so he said he was just a support person.

He had started diagnosing people with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) - a condition where people have different personalities or alters. This is a very rare condition. The way he told it, he happened to notice at a 12-step alcohol and drug online community that some people might have this condition.

He found me because as president of the local chapter of Clinical Social Workers, I organized a workshop for clinicians to learn about this condition and how to treat others. I contacted the local newspaper to announce the training but the newspaper wanted to do a full story on this.

Although, I was new in the field compared to other therapists, I got the attention of two local people who wanted a therapist. In addition, John F. referred someone that he thought might have this condition - a Mrs. D. Actually, he had been communicating with these various alter personalities that Mrs. D. had. She had not been diagnosed by any professional when she first came to my office after I told John that I would meet with her.

Before long, John would move down to Wilmington from Pennsylvania or Virginia, bringing a few other women who he diagnosed with DID and who he was “supporting.”

He had decided to move in with the first person that he referred to me – Mrs. D. I started to learn that he was providing treatment to the same clients that he referred to me. Most importantly, they were getting so much worse. 

I had eventually heard that people had made allegations against him for falsely claiming to be a therapist and there were other allegations. From confidential therapy sessions with clients, I learned more about what he was doing. I was shocked and alarmed.

We had a falling out in early 2000 when I realized that the worst claims about him were likely true. I had tried to help a client named Tracy who had come down to Wilmington, NC from New Jersey with John and she started to meet with me for therapy.

She had been afraid after she turned down sexual advances that John made. I thought I could straighten things out and help Tracy. He had admitted on the phone his lack of conscience or remorse. Tracy had left an abusive husband thinking she would be able to get help and now she was being hurt by John.

Tracy did end up escaping and returning back north to enter a shelter for women who are victims of domestic violence.

I had not studied psychopaths or others like John who harm people because they don’t generally come for therapy.

I soon learned that John had composed a grievance letter to my licensure board and had five of my clients sign the identity complaint letter or statement. While Tracy and one other client of mine with DID did not sign that grievance letter, one of my clients who had successfully completed therapy with me had signed onto the same letter!

I also learned that they had filed a civil suit for malpractice. They had a reason to be frustrated because they were getting worse. I had not known how many people were receiving treatment from John.

Everything that I had worked to create as far as a career going back to Georgia Tech in 1984, some 16 years later, was about to be taken away from me! 

This was so overwhelmingly disturbing for me. My greatest passion was to help others cope with mental illness, and this had been rewarding.

I never saw it coming. I was in shock.

On top of that, at the same time, Lynn became very sick and had to be taken to the hospital for inpatient treatment. 

Lynn Becomes Very Sick

From the moment I met Lynn, I knew her life would be cut short by a cruel genetic illness. Cystic Fibrosis – a chronic and terminal condition that used to claim lives before adulthood. Despite advances in treatment, her lifespan was still limited. But I refused to face this reality, clinging onto hope for a miracle cure that never came.

We built a home together, formed a family. Lynn had dreams of pursuing her education in writing. She had hopes beyond her illness.

And then it happened. She was hospitalized for a few days, but this time it was serious. Our newlywed bliss shattered as we faced the harsh truth of her deteriorating health. Memories of our passionate and joyful moments together flooded my mind as I watched her suffer. Our "normal" life had changed, and I couldn't bear to see her in pain.

Now, things were more dire. She couldn’t keep much weight on her, which was a signal that her health was beginning to take a different direction than ever before. Her oxygen saturation was very low. She went into the hospital initially in late July. It had happened so suddenly, and it seemed to be unexpected. 

And when she was finally released after a week, it was only temporary relief before she would have to return again. 

By now, she couldn't even function without being hooked up to an oxygen tank. The sensation of suffocating consumed her every moment, leaving her helpless and unable to care for herself.

There was nothing I could do to stop the unthinkable idea that she might die. As she lay in the hospital for the second time, receiving IV antibiotics to fight the infections, she made the decision to move in with her mother for a cleaner and safer environment. But as I sat by her bedside, I received news of grievances filed against me and a looming malpractice suit, all claiming that I was not skilled enough and that it was my fault that they were getting worse. My efforts to steer them away from John F., who only worsened their condition, fell on deaf ears.

Every moment spent at home or outside felt like a distorted reality, a nightmare that I had not been prepared to face, despite having known from the beginning that Lynn had a serious illness. I knew deep down that these were symptoms of dissociation, my mind trying to protect itself from the overwhelming terror and perceived threat to the existence I had known. The world around me felt unreal, like an illusion, while I myself felt detached from my own body, floating above it as if observing someone else's life.

Everything I had worked so hard for and achieved was being torn away from me without mercy. Love and all its accompanying emotions were foreign concepts to me, yet now they were being ripped away mercilessly from my grasp. It was a hellish nightmare come to life and there was no escape other than to retreat into my mind further.