After graduating in 1996, I had officially become a therapist. But that alone wasn’t the milestone. The deeper truth is this: I was now helping others with the very issues that once defined me.

I began my post-graduate career at Brynn Marr Psychiatric Hospital, then worked briefly at two public mental health agencies. And while each role had moments of meaning—particularly the work I did directly with clients—it became clear that the settings themselves didn’t always align with my values. Bureaucracy, insurance limitations, and profit motives left little room for the kind of deep, relational work that had drawn me to this field in the first place.

So, I made a leap that once would have seemed impossible: I started a private psychotherapy practice.

Chris Hauge—my longtime mentor—was instrumental in helping me take that step. He offered his office space when he began scaling back toward retirement, allowing me to rent the space affordably by the hour. With his guidance, I took the necessary steps to get credentialed with insurance providers, set up billing systems, and advertise my services to the community.

And people came.

I began seeing clients for anxiety, depression, eating disorders, and relationship struggles. One client paid out of pocket for help with weight loss. Another came to me with questions about communication in his same-sex relationship, wondering whether I’d be comfortable hearing about the details. I was. More than comfortable—I was honored. People were trusting me with their most vulnerable truths. And they were doing so because they could feel that I understood.

Because I did.

What once had been sources of shame—my social phobia, my dating inexperience, my fear of being seen—had now become bridges. Not liabilities. Strengths. I had done the work, and I was continuing to do it. I was in therapy myself, pursuing a form of psychodynamic work rooted in self-awareness, free association, and emotional insight. I didn’t want my past to distort the present—not mine, and certainly not my clients’.

The therapy I offered wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And it mattered.

As my caseload grew, I outgrew the shared office arrangement and moved into my own space. I was fully self-employed, fully licensed, and finally—fully believing in my own capacity to help others heal.

Lynn and I went out to celebrate. It wasn’t just a milestone in my career—it was a moment of quiet triumph. Not flashy. Not loud. Just the two of us, sharing a meal, holding hands across the table, knowing how far we had come.

So much had changed since the days when I thought I had nothing to offer.

Now, I was a therapist with a thriving practice, a deep belief in human healing, and a partner who believed in me even before I did.

And maybe, in helping others become whole, I was continuing to see my value to others.

Preparing an Office for Therapy - A Space of My Own

My private practice had grown faster than I could have imagined. At first, I was renting space by the hour from Chris Hauge—my mentor and supporter—but within a few short months, I was seeing clients nearly full-time. It no longer made sense to rent by the hour. The numbers told the story: I had reached a point where a dedicated space wasn’t just a dream—it was the next step.

With Lynn’s support, I found an office in downtown Wilmington, on Chestnut Street. The rent was $400 a month, which was far less than what I would be paying if I continued renting hourly. Within a month, I had already passed that threshold—and we both knew it was time.

The space was exactly what I needed. It was part of a long hallway of offices in a building shared with other professionals, including a lawyer and a few other therapists. It came with a receptionist, a quiet waiting room, and access to a shared conference room I could book when needed.

Lynn and I jumped right into setting it up. We scoured yard sales for a comfortable couch, picked up pillows to make the space inviting, and bought a desk and chair from Office Depot. It was a whirlwind of practical and emotional preparation. I had never cared much about how things looked, but Lynn did—and thanks to her, the space felt warm, welcoming, and professional. Without her help, I would have been self-conscious, worrying if the space felt right for my clients.

We added a whiteboard for diagrams and notes. I framed my degree, licensure, and hypnosis certification. These weren’t just decorations—they were symbols of a journey that had once felt out of reach. From a young man too anxious to speak in class, I had become someone clients sought out for healing and support.

We also prepared for the full range of needs. I added chairs for potential group sessions and stocked a small toy box for play therapy with children. I didn’t expect a large number of child clients, but I wanted to be ready. I remembered how lost I’d felt during my first internship with kids—and I had since studied play therapy with more intention.

The receptionist was helpful with greeting clients, answering the phone, and handling basic tasks during regular business hours. I kept the more personal aspects—like therapy notes, billing conversations, and scheduling—between me and my clients to maintain confidentiality and control. After hours, I had a key and alarm code, and I often stayed late to see clients who couldn’t come during the day.

And then, suddenly, I was here: practicing full-time in my own space. Not as a student, not as a paraprofessional, not as someone tagging along on someone else’s license.

I was the therapist. The space was mine.

It’s hard to describe what that felt like. Euphoric. Surreal. Joyful. And above all, deeply earned.

Lynn and I celebrated the way we often did: with a quiet dinner out, holding hands across the table, hearts full. I felt like I wanted to hang a metaphorical plaque on the wall of my life—“Here. Here is where it all became real.”

Not long before, I could barely imagine a life like this. Now I was living it.

And it was beautiful.

When I accepted a six-month contract as a technical writer at Corning Glass in Wilmington, North Carolina, I felt a mix of excitement and uncertainty. My engineering degree and experience as a software engineer had landed me the job, but I couldn't shake the question: What happens after six months?

The past year had been one of the most challenging periods of my life. Living with my parents had eroded my confidence in my ability to pursue my dreams. I had spent over two years weighed down by the belief that I was never good enough, never meeting their expectations. I questioned so much about myself.

But deep down, I realized that the biggest obstacle in my life wasn't my abilities—it was my environment. Moving to Wilmington wasn't just a career move; it was an opportunity to put my life back on course away from the toxic environment of my parent’s home.

A New Chapter Begins

Before arriving in Wilmington, I found a roommate named Donna. Despite our different backgrounds, we shared a sense of starting over and seeking something new. I shared some social experiences with Donna. But she was not at the center of a larger social circle that I was building. I knew she had experienced domestic violence and she was part of the effort to address this in society, in the lives of others and for herself.

In my first week, I attended a poetry reading event after being encouraged by my mentor Martin Kirby. It was held at the Coastline Convention Center and marked a turning point in my life.

The Poetry Reading That Changed Everything

The event took place on the fourth floor of the Convention Center, a high perch that overlooked the Cape Fear River. Outside, the setting sun splashed red, orange, and blue reflections over the water, these same colors spilling into a dim, intimate room, illuminating it with a strange mix of warmth and melancholy. As I stepped inside, I noticed a small group—around 10 to 15 individuals—each taking a turn to bare their souls through poetry. Dusty, the emcee, exuded a serene, almost maternal presence that was both comforting and unnerving. Although she was about a generation older than many of the regulars, there was something both grounding and disconcerting about her calm authority.

The lounge welcomed both regulars staying at the Coastline Convention Center and members of the general public. Dusty maneuvered effortlessly between serving customers and guiding the event, embodying the motherly figure I had longed for yet never truly had. Even as her gentle confidence calmed me, it clashed with my inner turmoil.

I had never read my own writing aloud before. The very idea of standing in front of strangers and exposing my innermost thoughts was both a courageous leap and a paralyzing challenge. Memories of my college years at Georgia Tech, where I was more comfortable in the shadows of large groups, bubbled up in my mind. Knowing that my future in group therapy demanded performance, I forced myself towards the microphone. I had resolved before stepping into that room: I had to face this fear. The decision to do this was a driving force that took on its own life. I didn’t let myself think about backing out.

I chose to share my writing for two conflicting reasons. On one hand, I genuinely wanted to connect with others through the raw, unfiltered experiences I had endured. On the other, I craved recognition—wanted people to know me in both a literal and figurative embrace, even as the thought of opening up left me torn between vulnerability and self-protection.

When my voice, amplified for the very first time, filled the space, it felt both surreal and jarring. As I recited a few of my poems, my hands trembled uncontrollably and my voice wavered under the weight of exposure. Yet, when I finished and was met with applause—and when Dusty’s reassuring smile met my eyes—I felt a flicker of validation amidst the storm of my inner conflict. In that bittersweet moment, she was the maternal presence I needed, her approval mingling with my lingering doubts, hinting that perhaps, just maybe, I belonged.

That night, laden with conflicting emotions, marked the beginning of a transformation I wasn’t sure I deserved. Dusty described our poetry as a “gift,” a sentiment I embraced even as I wrestled with the duality of sharing my poems about Celta and my journey—not just as a means of self-expression, but as an intricate dance of connection shadowed by the fear of being truly seen. I truly embraced and loved the concept of how Dusty called our poems gifts that we were sharing.

Finding My Comfort Zone

Through weekly readings, I made lifelong friends like poet Jean Jones and confidant Thomas Childs. Sharing my poem "The Swing" with Jean, who had an MFA in poetry, was a turning point. His feedback humbled me, but also fueled my desire to grow as a writer and use poetry for healing and connection.

Building a New Future

Beyond poetry, I had a clear vision for my future in mental health. My volunteering experience at Georgia Regional Hospital solidified this goal. From working with patients to participating in staff meetings, I gained the confidence to pursue social work as my career path. Transitioning from engineering would require more education and practical experience, but volunteering provided me with letters of recommendation for graduate school. Now, becoming a psychotherapist felt within reach as I made the move to Wilmington. Looking back, I see how each experience prepared me for this moment, even the painful ones.

A New Beginning, A New Love

As I settled into life in Wilmington, I continued to build friendships, find my voice, and pursue my goals. And then, amidst it all, I noticed Lynn.

At first, I had hardly noticed her—my heart was still processing the loss of Celta. But slowly, through poetry and shared moments, I found myself opening up to the possibility of love again. Lynn would become a defining presence in my life, a love that was enduring and transformative. It had truly seemed impossible to even think of loving again.

Conclusion: Embracing Change and Growth

Leaving home and moving to Wilmington wasn’t just about escaping a toxic environment; it was about the healing I couldn’t do while living with my parents.

Looking out over the Cape Fear River after that first poetry reading, I realized something profound: I was no longer invisible. I belonged, I had a purpose, and I was on the path to becoming the person I was always meant to be.

I truly should have remembered and made a point of never forgetting just how toxic my parents were. Had I held that fact close to my heart, I would have spared myself so much pain later in life.
 

Preface

I spent twenty-two years learning to be visible, only to discover that becoming real is not the same as staying real.

As a very young child, I hid behind a telephone pole when my mother told me to go play with the other kids. Not because I was playing hide-and-seek, but because without a secure base at home, I didn't know how to reach out to the world. I climbed trees and disappeared into the woods—not to escape the neighborhood, but to escape my parents. From the sudden punch or kick that could come out of nowhere. From parents who built a pool and took us to Disney but never once asked if I was happy, never seemed to notice or care who I actually was. 

Even as a child, I could see the disconnect—the performance of family for the outside world, the indifference behind closed doors. By fourteen, I was asking questions I had no language for yet: Why are you doing these things for us when you don't actually care? The only time I remember being held was around age three or four, in swimming lessons, my arms wrapped around the young instructor's neck, and even then I felt certain I didn't deserve it.

By high school, I had perfected invisibility. I sat silent in classrooms, never called upon, a ghost among my peers. I went away to college and immediately started counseling—not because I believed I could change, but because I couldn't keep living this way. I set goals: speak in class, ask someone out. 

For most of my undergraduate years, I remained the third person with every couple—best friend to both the boyfriend and girlfriend, even best man at a wedding, but never part of a couple myself. I finally got two dates my senior year—one date each with two different people. I never spoke in class. I'd come so far, but something fundamental was still missing.

Then, in 1990, after graduating from Georgia Tech, I was seen through the eyes of love. For the first time in my life, I had proof that I was special, that I mattered, that I was real. It was the missing piece—the experiential knowledge that no amount of therapy alone could provide. She died at the end of that same year, and for a time I wondered: what good is it to find this love and have it taken away so suddenly? But something had awakened in me that couldn't be undone.

In April of 1992, I took a microphone and read poetry, choosing to be the center of attention for the first time in my life. Three months later, I met Lynn. What followed over the next eight years—from 1992 through 2000—were years of success and joy beyond my wildest dreams. Graduate school in 1993, becoming a therapist in 1996, full licensure in 1998. Leading therapy groups and counseling couples despite having gotten only two dates in all of college. Building a life with Lynn—enduring love and earned secure attachment, learning in adulthood what I should have known as an infant. 

I want you to understand what's possible. I could have become like so many others who can only connect with narcissists like their parents because it's familiar. I want to show you that it doesn't have to be that way. That even from a childhood like mine, you can find real connection, meaningful work, genuine love. The kind of success that looked, for all the world, like I'd been cured of my past.

By July of 2000, everything seemed perfect. By September, I'd lost it all.

And that's when I learned what I'm still learning now: psychological wounds don't heal like broken bones or diseases cured by vaccines. You can grow, transform, build a beautiful life—and then lose it and discover that all your old patterns are still there, waiting. Letting my parents back into my life recreated the trauma of childhood. By my mid-fifties, I finally did what I should have done decades earlier: I cut off all contact with my family. This is the story of learning to be real, forgetting I was real, and finding my way back—not to where I was, but to something I'm still discovering. This time, with tools I'm learning to use.

My Invitation

Have you ever felt invisible? Not just shy or like a wallflower, but truly unseen—not noticed, not known for who you really are? Noticed social anxiety in yourself? This book is for you.

You might also recognize yourself here if you grew up in a home where you had many things, but your feelings were never validated or didn't seem to matter. Where everything looked normal from the outside - maybe you even say things were good, you weren't abused—but somehow you became responsible for a parent's happiness or emotional needs. That's called covert narcissism, and it's more common than you might think. And narcissistic patterns don't only show up with parents, they can appear in partners and other relationships throughout our lives.

This isn't about blaming parents. It's about understanding what happened and finding your way forward. As the title states, this book covers Complex-PTSD and/or Developmental Trauma—regardless of where those wounds originated.

You may not relate to everything in these pages—everyone's experiences manifest in different ways. Because we have much to cover, take it slowly. I hope you'll relate and know you are not alone.

I thought I was moving into a role where healing happened.

The unit was called the Crisis Unit, and that sounded right to me—crisis was something I understood. I had worked Mobile Crisis.

I knew how to meet people where they were.

What I didn’t know—what no one told me—was that this wasn’t truly a crisis stabilization unit. It was a detox program, and it operated far more like a correctional facility than a treatment center.

The shift was disorienting. The clients weren’t treated like patients—they were watched, monitored, corrected. Even the language was policed: “addicts,” “noncompliant,” “disruptive.” That’s how staff referred to people in withdrawal, struggling, afraid.

The longer I worked there, the clearer it became: this wasn’t recovery. This was control.

Everyone around me seemed to come from the world of recovery—people who had once shot heroin, who had gone through 12-step programs, who saw themselves in the clients. In theory, that should have fostered compassion.

But instead, it had calcified into something harder. There was excitement in catching people when they were breaking rules, in enforcing consequences. People on the staff thought about how the behavior of one person might interfere with another person’s recovery. Was there no parallel in the mental health field? Of course there was. Yet, one’s symptoms of mental illness were not met with surprise and anger.

I couldn’t reconcile it.

Even within the 12-step model, addiction is seen as a disease. So why were we punishing people for symptoms of the disease we were supposed to treat?

When clients asked about long-term options. I tried to find them places to go, but so many of the referrals led to programs rooted in religious doctrine. 12-step, higher power, surrender.

I was an atheist, shaped not by ideology but by loss. But this wasn’t about me. Some of the clients didn’t want a Christian minister. They didn’t want Bible study. They wanted to recover, not convert.

When I said as much, it didn’t go over well.

The shift lead, Alex, was on a power trip. Controlling. Aggressive. He made snide comments in front of clients, belittled staff, barked orders. When he got sick and I filled in, I thought I’d earn some respect. Instead, I got hostility.

One staff member muttered, “I know it is crazy that I can’t sign this just because I don’t have a degree.”

The respect and admiration for my accomplishments only made her defensive and angry.

What they meant was: you’re not one of us. You haven’t suffered like we have.

But I had. Just in ways they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see.

What made it worse was what happened on the unit where we all worked. I was excluded. No one even tried to get to know me. They showed their shared friendships right in front of me with my obvious exclusion hard to not notice. I had embraced my years of learning social skills, observing social behaviors, body language. This allowed me to observe.

To see that I was excluded from their shared friendships.

I wanted so badly to belong. I tried. I smiled, I joined conversations, I asked about their lives. However, I always felt like I was intruding. I wasn’t part of the club.

Complicating matters further was my need to be knowledgeable about community resources. People who had been in recovery would know these things. Clients would ask me about different options for their discharge plans, but I lacked the necessary knowledge. I needed to know what my colleagues knew.

And when I finally spoke up—when I told them that I use they/them pronouns, that I wanted that identity respected—and when I voiced concerns about how Alex was treating staff and clients—I was fired the very next day.

“Boundary issues with staff,” they said.

No documentation. No prior warning. No opportunity to explain.

I filed an EEOC (Equal Employment Opportunity Commission) complaint. My friend Sarah encouraged me to fight it. And I tried. I filed the report and the EEOC contacted them but they told me that there was not a precedent of other people experiencing the same discrimination as I had - based on disability, religion, gender or age.

I wanted to believe that if I just did everything right, someone would see me. Someone would say, You belong here. We need you.

But instead, I walked out with nothing.

I had been leading a support group on Meetup—Social Anxiety, Shyness, Loneliness and Social Skills—trying to offer something I never had growing up: a safe space to practice being human.

But attendance dropped. People stopped coming. And I started asking myself:

Was it me?

Did I think I had more to give than I really did?

Even the woman I had dated—Codi Renee—knew my story, but I never felt safe with her. I stayed longer than I should have because I thought, maybe this is all I get.

She had hurt me by always making me feel anxious instead of the comfort that love brings. And when it ended, I didn’t feel heartbreak. I felt shame. For staying. For hoping. For still believing in something like love.

So where did that leave me?

Between systems that silenced me and communities that didn’t know what to do with someone like me.

Too peaceful to fight back. Too principled to stay silent. Too broken to fit in.

But still—still—I wasn’t ready to give up.

Because even in this mess, in this loss, there was one thing I had that no one could take:

My voice.

How do you respond
to the absurd?

How do intelligent people—
repeat,
like ditto-heads,
words they heard,
hoping to shut down
those who disagree?

They have forgotten
even the meaning of the word—
truth.

“You don’t like what he says
because you know it’s true?”

What is it?

It is a true opinion—
and so, we each have
true opinions,
containing different
ideas,
preferences,
values,
internal perceptions.

I get truth
from the weather report—
temperature,
cloudiness,
wind or calm.

And yet—

one says,
"it’s too warm."
another,
"it’s too cool."

Those are true perceptions.

But where we disagree—
there is subjectivity:
preferences,
values,
morals.

Are you saying
I am—
immoral?

My response was:

Are you saying—
"I am immoral?"

You can speak—
your beliefs,
your values,
your ideas—
all subjective.

And I can do the same.

We are both—

sharing true opinions,
true values,
true beliefs,
true perceptions.

But that doesn’t make them
Truth.

God—
(or gods, or something else entirely?)—
laughs
at mankind’s folly.

If the sacred
is beyond all things,
could it be reduced
to books,
to ink,
to words?

A few thousand years—
a fleeting breath
in all that is,
or ever was,
or ever will be.

Would it
(or they, or nothing at all?)
try to explain
in ways we could understand?

And would we understand?

Were we right?
Were we wrong?

Or is it both,
or neither,
or something else entirely?

Would the ones
who question—
monks, priests, theologians,
imams, rabbis—
take the truth
and carve it into their own shapes?

Would they listen—
and hear only
what they have always known?

And when the whisper comes,
soft as silence,
it will tell them all—

Yes.

My voice that was mute again in the classrooms growing up had been mute and silent when I found myself standing in front of a judge. Similarly, I hardly said anything to anyone after the devastating events in 2006.

For years, I had carried my shame in silence, believing that no one would ever truly understand. I had wasted time searching for validation from people (my so-called family) who had already shown me who they were—narcissistic, indifferent, incapable of caring. I kept thinking that if I just explained myself the right way, if I just found the perfect words, they would finally see me. They never did.

All that silence had done was bury me deeper in shame. Shame that wasn’t mine to carry. It had never been mine to carry.

Injustice does not resolve itself. It lingers. It poisons. And it does not go away just because the world moves on. I had tried to heal in private, but healing cannot exist in isolation. I could not build a future while hiding from my past. And so, for the first time, I understood—

I had to tell my story.

I dedicate this chapter to my dear friend Thomas Childs, who continues to live in me and in my memories of a very important part of my life. There is a Thomas-sized hole in me that I will never fill in; it's my way of keeping him alive.

I took the photograph of Thomas above in 2008 down by the Cape Fear River near the Battleship.

Sadly, Thomas passed away in 2010, or he would be writing a recommendation for this book. He would recommend this like he recommended my poetry collection, which you can find on Wattpad also - it's called "What Really Matters."

Just like he did for that book, he would say that he is "honored to be asked by me to recommend that you read this.” Trust me. I know my friend.

Some of the most meaningful and lasting relationships of mine were formed beginning in the early 1990s. Second, only to Lynn and Celta, was my friend Thomas Childs and my second wife who hasn’t been introduced yet. Obviously, my connection to Lynn had a romantic component that was lacking in all other types of friendships such as my friendship with Thomas. However, that doesn't exclude him from being considered a part of my family.

As I write this, I am thinking of the song Empty Garden by Elton John. The lines that stand out are "a gardener like that one, no one can replace... and I've been knocking... most of the day...and I've been calling."

This was a time when I felt really connected to a group of people - a social circle. That being said, some of us really clicked. Thomas was one such person in particular with whom I felt really comfortable. We felt a sense of belonging to each other. This was my family. I felt at home in this life that I had. 

It's amazing when you can sit down together and not worry about stilted conversations. Not worry about what you should say. Not worry about if you are okay or not. Not worry about whether you made the grade or are good enough. 

I could talk to Thomas on the phone for hours when we connected sometime after I had been through my own dark time, or dark night of the soul as it were. I wish I had reached out to Thomas during those dark years. We could have supported each other.  

Lynn had wished I kept in touch with our friends when she became ill in 2000. I felt like I had abandoned my friends. For those dark years that began in 2000 and lasted until sometime in 2006, I tried to make it on my own.  

That was the biggest mistake I ever made in life!  

Then in late 2006 or early 2007, I came down to Wilmington from Chapel Hill. I met Jean - a mutual friend - at the bus station and I asked about Thomas.  

We picked up as if no time had passed. I would speak for hours on the phone with my dear friend. We had the same interests of course and so we could find things to share. TV shows or movies that we should watch.  

Current events. Our writing. Things to laugh about together. Commentary on things. Philosophical ideas. Reminiscing.  

"Oh, dear Thomas, I could have used your help, my friend. It was so hard when Lynn got ill in 2000. She said she wished I had kept in touch. I could have just picked up the phone.  

"I was so scared. This wasn't supposed to happen to Lynn at just 34. We had a life planned; it was perfect."

"The biggest mistake was not calling and telling you what was happening, my dear friend." 

Instead, I wallowed in the misery of what was happening. 

Had I called Thomas, I would have discussed the challenges I was facing in my practice and in my career, as well. 

I used to share some of the things I was learning with my friends.  

Let me tell you more about this, dear reader. About this part of my story. It's about the importance of friendship.  

It's so important in times of stress. Emotional support is key.    

We had a social network of friends, as I was saying. This was from the poetry scene. I was part of this group. This was my social life. We felt we were doing something important, together.  

Indeed, we were. Thinking. Writing. Sharing ideas. Creative ideas.  

Our group included in the beginning, Thomas Childs (my friend), Lynn Krupey (girlfriend, fiancée, wife), Dusty (didn't catch her last name), Jean Jones, David Capps, Jeff Wyatt, (David) DJ Ray. I could live within the sanctuary of these people and the scene, as it were.  

There was something comfortable, safe, and meaningful about this reality.  

This was our time to become something. I was going to be defined by all of this and the relationships that I was building. I was growing up and forming a family... a family of choice.  

Arriving on the Scene and Necessary Balance in Life

I could have been afraid and failed to attend that poetry reading at the Coastline Convention Center in April of 1992, and thought to myself, "I can't read my own poetry in front of others." 

What good would it be to show up and be a ghost? What good would it be to sit there and watch others all the while thinking about how I don't fit in?

I can’t imagine how my life would have been if I had not come out for this poetry reading that first week. I might not have met Lynn and shared a life with her. I might not have had the confidence to pursue my dreams. 

That confidence grew out of the events that happened when I did decide to attend that poetry reading. It demonstrated to me that I could speak in front of a group and be the center of attention. I learned that I had something special to offer to others.

Through my relationships and connections with others back then, my life was transformed. I had not been in a good place before that time, when I first arrived in Wilmington. Friendships like I had with Thomas and the relationship I had with Lynn were so valuable and they nurtured something special in me. I was able to give that to others as well. 

That's what shyness can do. It can paralyze you and prevent you from making the connections.  

Yet, I felt a need to share. To give my gifts as Dusty would say. Dusty was the emcee who worked at the Coastline Convention Center.  

Dusty said that we were "sharing our gifts." I thought I was sharing something personal. Lynn wrote for herself; I would grow to learn. But Dusty said these were "our gifts." Wow!

Indeed, sharing something of yourself with another is a gift.     

Some might say that we were a bunch of idealistic artists, but I had come there with a degree in engineering, which would be the springboard for graduate education in Social Work and toward becoming a Clinical Social Worker.  

It might be more accurate to say that I have had values, passions, and interests than to say I was just idealistic.  

The creative side of me might have been somewhat aligned with the values that drive a person to pursue a career in social work.    

To us who work in the field of mental health, we need the support of others. The work can be rather frustrating. The work can also take a toll on you as you support those who have been hurt by life or harmed by others.  

Spending hours with people who are overwhelmed by major depression and anxiety disorders can and does take a toll on you. You need balance and support in life. Emotional support.  

In order to be a social worker, I learned social skills and how to deal with what I called shyness. Those same skills allowed me to share myself with others in my personal and social life outside school, training, the job, and everything else.  

I wrapped myself in the warmth of the friendships I had formed. Back in the 90s, the welcoming nature of Dusty was always a source of comfort. I could show up for drinks at the Coastline Convention Center if I was feeling overwhelmed and alone, and Dusty would make me feel welcome and expected.  

She would seem to have this genuine interest in me and so glad that I showed up. Later, she would ask about Lynn, of course. I would feel less and less alone but occasionally overwhelmed by things in life.    

I remember the warmth of Lynn would envelope me as we sat on the beach at Wrightsville Beach during cold winter nights. That memory would sustain me as well.  

Then it was the comfort of a friendship like I had with Thomas. Again, our conversations were so comfortable, and the time together felt comfortable. Not stilted or desperately searching for something to keep the conversation going.   

In a larger sense, this was a time and place that I knew was something amazing.  Everything seemed so right and comfortable. I knew I was on the right path and that everything was going right.

I had a sense of belonging.

I knew who I was and what I wanted. We as friends would talk about the struggles, challenges, and doubts which existed from time to time in our lives.  

Changes in the Late 90s and Into the Next Century

At some point, I regrettably got over-invested in the job beginning in mid-1999. I only allowed time with Lynn and those times when her family came with their kids which I mentioned earlier in this book.  

So, unfortunately, I allowed myself to stop spending time with my friends, and my social life of writing and attending poetry readings was not happening. It was a crucial missing piece. 

Fast forward to the summer of 2007, and I started visiting the area again. Life in Durham had not been rewarding in any way.  

Anyway, on one of those visits back, Jean was having a poetry reading in celebration of a new chapbook of his poetry being released.  

This was one of those visits back to the place I had called home. I was happy to see my new friend, Ryan. I was thrilled to see my new friend, Ana – obviously not the Ana that attacked me. I was thrilled to see Thomas and Jean. I was happy to see David Capps (he had been part of the scene back in 1992, though he was inscrutable to me).  

Here is a video of Ana Ribeiro reading poetry at the Word Salad Poetry Magazine Event in Wilmington in October of 2009. In the video we are at the lounge where I saw Lynn again as described in the next chapter. This is not the same location where Jean was releasing his new chapbook, so it’s a different evening than what I am describing.

Here is a video of David Capps reading poetry. He was there this evening that I am describing but the video is from a different evening. 

I knew Lynn would be there and so it was a bit surreal. There was no longer a "we" which was what made this surreal. It's hard for me to explain. I felt queasy and I had a knot in my stomach.

This was a reality that I had never envisioned. She had gotten new lungs and so she was still living, but there was no "we."  

The autobiography of my life would need to include this reality. Thomas was that glue in that he had been our mutual friend - a dear friend who had been part of "our" shared life together.  

He had navigated the roads of time maintaining a relationship with us both. Jeff Wyatt had been a mutual friend as well, but I seemed to sense that he was a bit colder than he had been in the past. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.    

Thomas, Lynn, and I had been mutual friends but now there was no "we" that was Lynn and me. This wasn't supposed to happen, and it just felt so uncomfortable for me.

There had been no breakup and things had been so vague and confusing all these years.   

Knowing Lynn was going to be there made me tremble, my heart was racing with anxiety. A good bit of alcohol made this only slightly more bearable. 

I could sense Lynn nearby while I spoke to David Capps. My face was flush not just from the alcohol. My heart racing, pounding. 

I wanted to find something to say to Lynn with every fiber of my being. But I couldn’t do it. I just felt uncomfortable. Lynn and I talked about everything – we even fought and got over it. Thomas and I had not argued nor had Celta and me before that. It seemed to me that being able to get into an argument and get over it, move past was a sign of how much more comfortable I had been with Lynn than anyone else.   

This was frustrating so I stepped outside through the side door as people were milling about. I had noticed Thomas step outside. Ana was there too, talking to Thomas. Ana had not been part of the scene in the 90s.

I tried to bring up the topic of my discomfort with Thomas. This wasn't the first time I brought up the topic with him. What could he do? What could he say? I couldn't make sense of this new reality.

I did remember how in the early 2000s, I had enlisted people I met on Facebook to contact Lynn prior to this evening. They heard the story and were moved to call Lynn. She was polite but we never got anywhere.

I was still carrying the weight of profoundly low self-worth. I had no sense of worth as a person and whether we call it shyness or something else, we have to take action, or nothing will happen. 

Sadly, Lynn might not have known that I still loved her or was in love with her…but she probably did.  

I mean whoever these people were who called her they were moved with such a profound feeling of inspiration to want to connect Lynn and me again.

Life Changes

Later, Thomas had been happy to find out that I met someone else that I was going to marry.  

Her name is Elnaz Rezaei Ghalechi (Elee). We got married in Ankara, Turkey. She had been submitting poetry to Word Salad, which was being published by Jean and me. Word Salad Poetry Magazine was started by Lynn and me in 1995. Later, Jean became the co-editor and co-publisher.

Thomas was a brilliant poet as well. I am sure we published some of his poetry.

Elee and I married in November of 2010 and when I got back, I found the news on a voicemail and on Facebook.  

My dearest friend Thomas had died. He had died of a heart attack.  

When I first heard the news, it didn't register. I had just seen him. I had spoken to him and he was happy for me. We had so much more to discuss!  

No!

Elee responded appropriately. She was on the other side of the world and yet she understood better than my own sister. Elee consoled me as anyone would respond to news of this nature.

I started drinking when I heard the news about Thomas. My mind became a smooth flowing river. I thought this was a way to cope but it wasn't. It just made me sick.  

Whatever was inside me wanted out and I clutched a table to stay alive. I fell to my knees due to a combination of grief and what the alcohol had done to me.

I had not made it to the funeral. I felt such shame for that. Would I have found the strength to speak to the crowds at his funeral? I think I might have done so. I wasn’t the same person I once was but I could and would have had words to say. Or maybe I would have cried and cried.  

Both. 

It's hard to describe the hole that is left by a dear friend. It's hard to describe friendship and the love that we felt.  

For someone like me to be at a loss for words is something in itself! I'm usually rather verbose... but what words can convey the specific things that connect two people and create that comfort among one another?  

Had I made it down there, I would have found the words. I would come to feel great shame for years... To not even make it to the funeral of your dearest friend!

Anything I would have said about his brilliance should have been known by anyone there, but I would gladly repeat and confirm it. I can say that he is not gone! He lives in me and can't be taken away as long as I live and can write.  

That's what I would tell his family!  

That's the point of all these chapters that move between the past and the present... in this single chapter, I've covered events that have spanned eighteen years in this chapter, and each year, month, or day flow around one another in one stream of consciousness full of sound and fury, signifying everything!

What I most wanted to say was something only Thomas would understand. What we had was ours! It was for us and it was epic!  

Dear reader, did you expect something less hyperbolic to come from me? You should know me better by now!  

Writers like me are loath to employ trite statements that just sound like what you are supposed to say when you speak of someone who has passed. No, when I write, I mean it quite literally and explicitly.  

There are so many times in which I have thought, "this reminds me of Thomas," "I would love to talk to Thomas about this" or "I should talk to Thomas about this, he would appreciate it."    

The past is there in me. We are all together in that home that Lynn and I shared on Brucemont Dr. in Wilmington... or at a bookstore... maybe a coffee shop down by the Cape Fear River. I am haunted by the ghosts of the past, but that's a good thing!   

I'm not going to try to summarize a friendship that began in 1992 and lasted nearly two decades until his death. The formality of a funeral has passed. On such occasions we find the necessary strength and words to speak.  

Later, we realize how much was left unsaid and how much cannot be known by anyone besides the one we lost, in this final paragraph of this chapter, that person is Thomas Childs. 

Family life is what makes life meaningful and joyful. Being able to pay attention to maintaining a balanced life is crucial when you’re working in the field of mental health. Some psychiatric disorders impact us as therapists who witness the pain of others.  

You might think I am only talking about the traumatic experiences of clients who have been hurt but anytime one is dealing with negative emotions all day can find that it puts a strain on us as therapists. We listen to the despair, sadness, and negativity of others and it can have an impact on us. 

The responsibility that we bear for the well-being of others requires us to have a life full of joy and peace outside the workweek. We need balance in life.

Wrong Impressions Regarding My Family

Of course, we want those who are part of our family to be proud of us. I was certain that I had the admiration of my brother and sister and that I had made my parents proud. As far as I could tell at the time, it had seemed that they would have been proud of me, finally. Their investment in my education had paid off. I had used it to get another degree, a graduate degree, then to get credentialed/licensed in my field.

They had to be proud. I had not been questioning this at the time. I just assumed they were happy for me as well. I had found love! That would make anyone feel good to know this about a family member. Anyone in any “normal family.”

I was the only one of my siblings who had gone this far in my education. 

While I am not saying I was better than my sister or my brother, but for Carrie, her career landed in her lap somewhat. She had moved back to Connecticut and found a job at Aetna. She learned that by furthering her education she could advance within the company. She shaped herself according to the company’s demands and expectations instead of finding the right career for herself.

Yes, I did it differently than Carrie. I wasn't letting any single company, organization, or agency have a say in where I went in life. I first found the best match for me in terms of a career path and then pursued that goal, overcoming any challenges along the way.  

I used the words "organization" and "agency" as opposed to just using the word "company" because, for my career, people work for agencies and companies.  

Anyway, my career path was carefully and deliberately chosen with the aid of psychology and a psychologist/counselor when I was in college. Then in the many years after that, I pursued employment opportunities based on my aptitudes, interests, and values. While I got advice and support from others, I made all the decisions myself with the insights I was gaining.  

My brother had not excelled in school either nor had he mapped out a specific career direction with ideas about what would be his best career direction. He went into the Marines for a while. He got married and found a job.

I thought that I was the family star and that everyone was proud of me. I have alluded to the fact that sometime later I would learn that this was not the case. To this day, I am baffled by the distance between what I assumed and what was going through their minds… I was shocked to discover just how messed up their thinking had been.

I had told my siblings and my parents why we couldn't have children and why we couldn't have a church wedding or a marriage license - Lynn's medical care could be cut off if she lost health care coverage.  

The fact that my sister worked for a company that sold health insurance was a topic we had to avoid. Lynn had a genetic illness and that disqualified her from insurance coverage. While it is reasonable for private companies to be unable to cover situations like this, I got no sense that Carrie cared at all about this, so the topic was taboo. 

I had been trying to keep the peace and stay cordial with my family of origin.  

Career Success and Friends

My friends were proud of me, as was my wife, Lynn. I had a social circle of like-minded poets who were part of the poetry scene in Wilmington. These friendships continued to grow.  

Sometimes when I was learning experiential therapy techniques that were part of the human potential’s movement, I was able to persuade my friends to participate in encounter sessions. This would be like using these techniques for those of us who are not coming together to work on a psychiatric problem. You don't do therapy with your friends or your wife for that matter.  

I might invite my friends to try something like psychodrama – a fancy word for role playing. Alternatively, I demonstrated guided imagery and visualization techniques. 

It was nice to see that my friends were interested in what I was learning and wanted to try things out with my guidance.

I also demonstrated clinical hypnosis with Lynn. She was receptive to the idea of visualizing her body fighting the symptoms of Cystic Fibrosis… maybe visualizing where the congestion was and directing her body to try to loosen it up.  

Anything to bring healing was worthy of trying.  

Most of the time she kept falling asleep when I did this. This was a bit frustrating to me but amusing.

I guess it reflected the trust and serenity Lynn found when she was with me.  

As I mentioned, Lynn and I couldn’t have a wedding because our combined income might make her ineligible for the insurance that would cover her treatment.

Okay, so this speaks to just how madly in love with Lynn I was. Anything happening to her was terrifying. I had asked her to marry me, given her a ring, and committed myself to her forever. But without a wedding or a “legal” marriage. 

We even tried going to the Catholic church to get married but without a marriage certificate and they would not allow that. The fact that we didn’t have a wedding didn’t change anything.

If you are thinking that I imagined getting married to someone else someday, the answer is NO! I had found the one for me! Lynn. So, my commitment to Lynn was forever.  

Let this all sink in for a moment. We were in a rush with time hoping that they find a cure for Cystic Fibrosis - a genetic illness - so that she would live past her fifties. That's what I needed!  

Treatment can cost several thousand dollars per year during good years. Even her mother could not afford that. 

What do I mean by a “bad year?” And what was it like in general, even during good years?

Occasionally, she would use an inhaler but that didn’t seem to happen very frequently. 

I drove her or we drove together to her clinic appointments in Chapel Hill. From Wilmington, that was a drive of over two hours. It happened for the most part only once a year. 

They would check her oxygen saturation… take X-rays to see the scarring and the buildup of mucus in her chest. 

Lynn was good about letting me sit in on every meeting, such as when she was taken to a room to be examined by first a nurse and then a doctor. 

Most of the time we were very lucky because she was so very healthy for someone with this very serious and debilitating disease. 

I might have turned away or left a room when they wanted to collect a mucus sample. Lynn understood that I had a weak stomach. 

Anyway, so much of this was becoming routine. Most of the time. 

I asked so many questions all the time. “What is that dark spot in her chest area that you described in the X-Ray? Is that mucus or scarring?”

The doctor would answer, “well, here is some excess mucus that needs to be cleared, and here is some scarring?”

“Wait how do we clear that mucus?” I asked.

“Have you learned how to do the tapping?” the doctor asked.

“Yes, we learned about that from the physical therapist.” I answered, adding a question “but it’s still worrisome?”

Then I asked, “What about that device that she is supposed to wear, is that better?” 

“Not necessarily,” the doctor answered. 

Then Lynn said, “it doesn’t clear it out for me, I can tell it’s still there.” Then she turned to me and said, “I told you about the problems and asked for your help the other day.”

I felt so guilty. “Oh, my God, Lynn, I am so sorry.” Adding, “it’s scary for me. I know you need me and I’m trying. I’m scared when you are not well. That makes me feel guilty because I should be there for you… but I get sad and scared about the meaning of these problems.”

I paused and added with tears running down my face, “I want a ‘normal life’ … and if anything happens to you… I just love you so much, you make me feel good and happy. I can’t imagine not having you with me.”

“I know sweetie, I have had more time to deal with this,” she said.

“Okay, so I still have a lot of questions,” I said. 

“Okay, ask away,” answered Lynn with a smile that said she knew I really cared.

Then turning to the doctor, I said, “so, how often and for how long should I do the tapping to clear up the mucus as it builds up?”

“Well, about 15 to 30 minutes at a time in the evening would be good,” answered the doctor. 

“And the scarring, that looks big, what…” I could barely get my words out I was so full of anxiety and sadness… trying hard to be strong for Lynn. 

It is SO MUCH easier to do this with clients or patients at a psych hospital. 

Dear reader, I hope that is somewhat intuitive but maybe I shouldn’t assume. I wasn’t in love with my clients or the patients I served. We weren’t sharing our lives together. They were not in love with me either. At least I hope not – that’s another issue for later.

Also, the big secret that I have been avoiding is that Cystic Fibrosis is a deadly disease! I could lose Lynn forever!

My blood runs cold when I think of this as it did at the time. It’s interesting how similar sensations can feel so different. When we were at the clinic discussing these matters, I could feel chills running through me… not the kind that I felt at the touch of Lynn’s hand or her lips on mine.

I was, for the most part, able to push these issues out of my mind and not think about the reality of it. But on these visits, we had to look at this darkness in our life. Scarring and mucus appeared as dark patches on the X-Ray of her lungs.

In answer to the question I posed about the scarring, the doctor said, “her lungs still have a capacity to breathe and get enough oxygen to function in many normal activities.”

During the visits, I would learn about how the scarring makes the lungs less elastic and that makes it harder for them to expand and get enough air to engage in certain activities that we take for granted… running, hiking, or walking long distances. And scars don’t heal.

So, even if they had a cure that doesn’t mean that everything would be fine.

When her health got worse…

There was a time in late 1996 when Lynn had to go into the hospital. Her lung functioning had gotten poorer or weaker and they wanted to put her on IV antibiotics in the hospital. 

The doctor had explained that they wanted to go after the infections in her lungs. They had to try some of the latest antibiotics that were thought to be more effective in people with Cystic Fibrosis (CF). They were always learning new things about the disease and people were living longer. 

It was scary for both of us. Waiting there in the lobby of the hospital I tried to stay positive and tell myself that things would be okay. 

Then she was brought to an inpatient unit that was used for treating individuals with CF. 

When Lynn asked me to get her something from downstairs – a drink and a candy bar – I was somewhat glad to have that opportunity. I was struggling to stay still. That’s how anxious I was. I had a strong urge to walk. I couldn’t sit still hardly. I was also sick to my stomach. That’s what happens when I am anxious or scared. I felt queasy or nauseous. 

I held her hand as they inserted the IV. I asked the nurse “what is that?” referring to the fluid that was being introduced into her IV. 

“This is just saline solution,” she answered… adding, “the doctor will give us an order to tell us which medications to give her.” 

I was sitting on the bed looking at Lynn. No words were spoken for a few moments.

“Do you want a book, or to play cards?” I asked, “or how can we pass the time?”

Lynn asked for a book by Anne McCaffery, one of her newest books that she had not read.

“I want to stay with you,” I said. 

“I understand,” she answered. “I am glad you are with me.”

“Me too.”

I added, “I can just be reading something too with you.”

“Okay, that sounds good.” 

“You can go meet my friend Carolyn,” she said. This was a friend who also had CF and she lived in Chapel Hill.

“Yes, we will see her when you get out too,” I said. “Before we go home.

Visiting hours don’t usually allow people to stay all night. That night I was in bed next to Lynn, on her left. She was asleep with my arm resting on her stomach or her chest. I just wanted to feel her breathing. We made sure the IV was out of the way.

I heard the door open, and I looked up to see a nurse checking in. She didn’t say anything. 

This finally ended and she came home. Our life went back to normal.