memoir

Talk therapy had never helped.

Too many years of hearing therapists ask:
“How does that make you feel?”
“Have you tried reframing the experience?”
“What would it take for you to move on?”

Move on? From what? From being falsely accused, shackled, humiliated—treated like a danger to society when I had been the one crying out for help? I didn’t know how I felt. Not really.

My emotions were locked behind thick walls. I had spent too many years dissociating from pain. Everything inside me felt numb or vague—a fog I couldn’t clear.

But in late 2018, something shifted.

I searched the Psychology Today directory for “trauma therapist” and filtered by those who took Medicare. It didn’t make sense. I didn’t have the money, barely enough to live. But I needed something to change. I was unraveling.

That’s how I found Andrea Treimel.

A Different Kind of Therapy

Andrea practiced EMDR—Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. I had used trauma-focused methods myself when I was the therapist. But this was different.

Our therapy sessions would last into 2020 - weekly or more often sessions processing a different trauma each time.

Now I was the one sitting in the chair. Now I was the one trying to hold it together. No lectures. No deep conversations.

Andrea barely spoke at all.

Instead, she guided me into memory.

She introduced me to grounding techniques—focusing on a “safe color” in the room, holding small devices that vibrated in alternating hands, watching her hand or a light move from left to right. These were tools. Anchors. Ways to stay present while entering the dark places.
 

Into the Core Wounds

There were so many memories that haunted me.

Each one felt like it had been sealed away, quietly poisoning me from the inside.

The arrest.
The handcuffs.

The interrogation where my truth was dismissed before I could even speak.

The betrayal.

The loss of my career.

The silence of jail.

The feeling of being labeled a threat when I had always lived my life as a pacifist and so gentle I was incapable of violence. In one session, I went back to that moment with Lynn—the moment I felt I had abandoned her.

She had been gasping for air. I couldn’t help.

I left for work, crying as I walked away.

I told Andrea, “I abandoned her.”

In another memory, I held Lynn’s hand as the nurse inserted an IV line near her heart. Her tears matched mine.

I fought back every instinct to stop them from hurting her. I had to let it happen.

She trusted me to protect her—and I couldn’t.

The shame of leaving the hospital room, dizzy, needing a break…

The moment I slid down the wall in our home, after she had left.

Staring into nothing… in the void.

Feeling like the world had ended.

Andrea had me visualize the grief inside me as dark ash, soot rising out of my body and being locked into a freezer. It wasn’t magic. It was practice. But it helped me name what I hadn’t been able to face.
 

Reclaiming My Anger

I had always feared my own anger.

False accusations had taught me that any strong emotion could be used against me.

If I expressed frustration, people might think I was dangerous.

If I cried out, they might say I was unstable.

But in these sessions, I began to access something I hadn’t felt in years:
righteous anger—not destructive, but clean.

Not rage, but grief with force behind it.

EMDR let me feel it without becoming it.

Andrea watched silently, with compassion.

I clenched my hands—not to strike, but to hold in everything I was finally feeling. This wasn’t about being a therapist anymore.
This was about surviving as a human being.

Yet we had begun to speak about me returning to work as a Clinical Social Worker.

The Interrogation

Eventually, I brought in the memory I had tried to avoid the most:
The interrogation.

I described it to Andrea.

The officer just inside the boarding house, just a few feet from my room. I had already dissociated from the reality and was entering a state where I was on autopilot. Then another police officer enters. He told me I would be handcuffed.

I was just outside my room, I had stopped bleeding when the paramedics came following my call to 911 but I was still wearing the bloody shirt, bloody shorts, and bload soaked socks and even my sneekers had blood on them. I was revisiting that state of being in shock.

Later, in the patrol car, my friend called. I put her on speakerphone, desperate for someone—anyone—to hear my side of the story. I told her what had happened, that I was the one attacked. Her voice was soft and kind, filled with disbelief at what I was going through.

Then I was in the interrogation room.

“That’s not what happened,” the detective snapped at me.

His words landed like a punch.

He wasn’t asking questions—he was correcting me.

I had come to them as a victim, wearing bloodstained clothes.

Did they really believe I staged it? That I kept a set of bloody garments ready for moments like this?

They had already decided who I was.

And I couldn’t fight back.

Because in that moment, I was just a man in handcuffs.

A man being stripped of his dignity.

Later, I was placed in a padded suit. Suicidal, they said. But that wasn’t it.

I was terrified. I was broken. Andrea encouraged me to bring in resources. This could be anything. In this case, I needed protectors. I wanted Jessica Jones, the superhero with superpowers. Pusing and throwing aside police officers and forcing them to feel ashamed about how they were treating a victim!

She always did the right thing. She was there tossing and pushing the bad guys who were hurting me. She shouted at them, “Leave Bruce alone! What is wrong with you!”

In the Shadows

Later sessions blurred into each other.

Sometimes I brought in heroes in addition to Jessica Jones, e.g. Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Fictional characters who did what I couldn’t: speak up, fight back, win.

Other times, I relived memories of clients who had confided in me.

Dark, disturbing memories—real or imagined—about abuse, fear, and helplessness.

At one point, I saw John F. in the background of one of my waking dreams.

Not hurting me, just standing there—watching.

It was its own kind of violation.

The Silence of Jail

Jail wasn’t just confinement. It was abandonment. No one visited. No one fought for me.

No one even looked me in the eyes.

I lay awake night after night, thinking:
“This is who I am now. This is how it ends.”

Andrea coached me to find a way to change the way these events shaped the thoughts that I had about myself.

Even now, years later, I can’t fully describe what it felt like to be forgotten.
To know that one’s innocence means nothing to the system.

I Survived

Andrea guided me through all of it.

Session after session.

I called in “resources”—people who had loved me:
Lynn. Celta. My maternal grandparents.

Superheroes. Symbols of strength, protection, nurturance and safety. I learned that I could survive remembering.

I learned that I was still here.

I hadn’t been erased.

And for the first time, I began to believe… maybe I wasn’t lost forever. However, I don’t want to overstate how far I had come in healing. I was still suffering.

What Healing Can—and Can’t—Do

Healing didn’t fix everything. Realistically, that means the healing was not as complete as I needed.

The shame still lived in me.

It always had.

Yes, I was the victim.

But the label of “perpetrator” had been stamped on my life like a brand. And EMDR couldn’t erase that.

I still couldn’t talk about it with most people.

Only a few—Thomas, Elee—had ever heard the full story.

I wanted someone to see me for who I was and to find a lasting relationship. Elee had left and divorce soon followed. I knew I was gentle, calm and loving but I had felt that with the loss of Elee there wasn’t going to be another chance. Regardless of the quality of the relationship, the fact that she believed me, believed in me, and my story, meant the world to me.

But the world still saw someone who had been convicted. And that conviction carried more weight than truth.

EMDR helped me process what had been locked away.

It gave me back parts of myself.

But there were things even healing couldn’t change.

Elee decided to leave, even though she had nowhere to go and no means to support herself. Despite eight years in the U.S., her struggle with English persisted, and that day her departure was unmistakably clear.

I had invited Johnetta over, hoping she might help us untangle our unraveling relationship—even though she wasn’t a therapist or relationship expert. Instead, her presence only deepened the chaos.

For months, silence had settled between Elee and me like an impenetrable fog. I wasn’t sure she still cared about our marriage—perhaps I had grown indifferent too. Then Johnetta’s question shattered the tension: “Do you love her?”

The air cracked. Under the weight of the moment, I admitted, “I don’t think I do.” Elee’s face remained unreadable, as if she already expected it. But Johnetta’s reaction was explosive, and before I could comprehend what was happening, Elee was taken away.

In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. We never talked about our problems. While she was busy studying for the USMLE exams, I would fill up sheets of paper with things to discuss to keep the relationship alive and post them on the wall of the kitchen. Johnetta had no knowledge of how long and hard I had tried to work on our problems. It had gotten to the point where literally every day for the past year and a half I repeated the words that it didn’t seem like Elee cared that the love was dying.

When Elee said she is an alone woman in America Johnetta heard something that suggested that Elee should go to the domestic violence shelter. Elee got the impression that if she took out a Domestic violence protective order she could get into section 8 housing. To Elee’s credit when they pulled up my criminal history she rejected and refused to mention that at all in court. To this day she has remained passionately angry at Ana, the court system, my lawyer, everyone involved.

She had to come up with a reason why she was upset and needed a “domestic violence protection order.” The only thing I remember seeing was that I mentioned the Trump Muslim bans and how her family couldn’t visit. It was almost funny to see that on the document in court. After trying to get Elee to talk I went to a protest gathering in downtown Chapel Hill and spoke about my wife from Iran and how her family can’t visit. She knew I had not voted for this president and I vehemently opposed the ban. It was also strange to realize that she knew where I was but I had no idea where she was.

I was thinking that all she had to do is say that she didn’t want me to visit. That was not what she wanted. She just wanted to pretend for the next 12 or 18 months that we were not seeing each other.

I haven’t discussed it yet but I had begun trauma therapy and I was beginning to look at returning to Clinical Social Work. Elee knew this and supported me. I said, “don’t you see how this makes me look? It looks like I could have done the things that Ana alleged.”

She didn’t seem to be able to appreciate how standing in a court room made me feel. Of course, she invited me to visit. She had no reason to fear me.

“Just pretend for a little while,” she said.

Past Trauma and Marriage

Flashback to the early days of our marriage. Sexuality brought with it reminders of my past. Sometimes as a guy one can feel like one is a willing participant in an event. Things had happened long before I met Elee. In early 2001, someone who I had been dating had jokingly spoke of having a gun and she was a prison guard. I didn’t want anything to happen that night but she came over anyway. It had been easy to forget about this incident in all the chaos of that time. Yet, after I got married to Elee flashbacks began.

I had mentioned Kathy earlier in the book. She had different personalities ( like someone with dissociative identity disorder) and one child-like personality had come out during an intimate moment. Later I moved in with her, her boyfriend and her son. I had to ask the police to show up for me to finally leave and to get my girlfriend, Shonda, to help me move out. I hadn’t had a car since I lost my last car in early 2001. So, in early 2003, before the physical assault by Ana, I had left Cathy’s residence. I had felt trapped and there were sexual overtures to what was happening.

Some of Kathy’s personalities wanted me as a therapist, which wasn’t possible, others were child-like. There was one personality that was seductive and sexual and I had felt threatened.

All this was coming up and had caused problems in our marriage. It was triggered by these flashbacks and nightmares. In some way, this drove me toward starting therapy and eventually I would find the courage to reach out to the Orange County Rape Crisis Center where they supported the idea that any form of non-consensual sexual behavior was sexual violence. I had even been remembering my hernia operation when I was five years old.

It’s strange how so many ideas could come together where any one of them might be overlooked or insignificant. 

Marriage came when I was still clawing my way through the wreckage.

I wasn’t looking for it. I wasn’t ready for it.

But when it came—when she came—I didn’t turn away.

After years of shame, after a justice system that had labeled me something I never was, I had almost no sense of worth left. I was no longer sure I even deserved love. And yet, when Elnaz—Elee—entered my life, something stirred.

She didn’t just see me. She believed me.

And that changed everything.

A Hypothetical That Became Real

We first connected through poetry.

Elee had been submitting to Word Salad, the poetry magazine I ran with Jean Arthur Jones. Her writing caught my attention—vivid, honest, intelligent. I admired her from afar, never expecting anything real to come from it.

One night, I asked her, “Would you ever marry someone like me?”

It wasn’t a proposal. It wasn’t serious. It was hypothetical.

She was in Iran. I was in the U.S. There were oceans, borders, and eight time zones between us. But in her culture, dating didn’t exist the way it does here. A question like that carried weight. A woman didn’t leave Iran unless it was for marriage.

And she took my question literally.

And I didn’t stop her.

Because deep down, I needed to believe that someone could want me—even knowing the truth about my past.

I told her about the false conviction. The injustice. The years of being treated like something less than human.

She believed me.

She didn’t ask me to prove anything.

She just said yes.

Across Oceans for Love

We built a relationship through late-night video calls and early morning chats. I let myself believe we had “match points,” moments of harmony that could hold a marriage together. We had never met in person, never stood side by side. But still, we talked of marriage.

The only place we could both legally enter was Turkey. So we flew to Ankara and got married.

Looking back, I don’t know if I believed in love or if I just needed to believe in something again. But it felt like a second chance. I should not have needed a second choice because I never did anything wrong. I felt hope and believed it was love. Yet we were going to get marrried when we met each other for the first time.

And then I came home to a message that shattered everything.

Grief That Undid Me

Just days after the wedding, I logged onto Facebook and saw the message: Thomas was gone.

A sudden heart attack. Forty-six years old. My best friend for decades.

I had just seen him before I left. He had smiled and told me, “You’re a lucky man.” I wanted Elee to meet him properly, to know the one person who had remained steady in my life.

We had reconnected like no time had passed—no awkward silences, no judgment, just friendship that endured.

Now he was gone. And I didn’t know how to bear it.

I drank that night—not to celebrate, but to escape the excuciating pain of discovering that my dear friend was actually dead. I drank too much. So much that I couldn’t get on the bus to his funeral. My body rebelled with nausea and shame.

I missed his funeral. I missed saying goodbye.

And I’ve never stopped regretting that. It wasn’t the kind of shame that rose out of my fragile abilty to cope with this loss.

This time, the shame was mine. Self-inflicted. Earned. But it still hurt just as much.

This was a turning point for me. The shelter of Wilmington was fading. Jean Arthur Jones would fade out of my life leaving me with no connections. Just memories of connections to that place. Elee would later think I wanted to go there to remember Lynn. In reality, it was much more complicated. As I stated earlier. Wilmington itself had taken on a sense of being an anchor to a better life before loss and injustice. A safe haven without judgment. Yet, I needed people down there who still knew me.

That was basically gone with the passing of Thomas.

Marriage Meets Reality

When Elee finally got her visa, we were hopeful. But reality doesn’t bend to hope.

She had just graduated medical school in Iran and dreamed of becoming a doctor in the U.S. But the path was steep. She would have to pass the USMLE—in English—and she had never lived in an English-speaking country. People who come from other countries where they studied medicine have to take these exams.

I was on Social Security Disability, scraping by on unstable contract work at Measurement, Inc. It was enough to sponsor her visa, but not enough to build a life on. It wasn’t stable employment.

I warned her: “I don’t have much. I’m on disability. I don’t have much.”

She said it didn’t matter. But it did.

Unspoken Resentments

She studied constantly but never took the exam. I encouraged her gently, but encouragement began to sound like pressure. Years passed. She withdrew. I felt invisible.

We lived in the same apartment, but it never felt like we shared a life. Disagreements weren’t resolved; they were buried. And silence became a third presence in our home.

She had expected a provider. I had a therapist and we talked about how she should have known that I had almost nothing and was living on disability. I had expected understanding.

We both found something else.

In 2018, she left.

I didn’t fight her.

There was nothing left to fight for.

Breadcrumbs and Gaslight

After she left, I turned to the only people I had left—my parents. To be honest, I had been reaching out to them for some time. They had reinforced in so many little ways the fact that they saw me as a failure in life. Someone who would be dependent on others to survive.

I had never asked them for help as an adult. But that had changed when tragedy struck a decade before our marriage in 2010. Sometimes I was genuinely worried about how I would pay the rent and not get evicted or pay the electric bill. They gave just enough to keep me from falling, but never enough to help me rise. A part of me had felt that they owed me support because if they had not watched with indifference as my suffering was beyond words could convey… if they had done anything when I was in jail, needing a lawyer and a real chance to live, then I wouldn’t be in this situation.

“You need us,” they said. “You can’t survive without us.”

And then at other times: “You should be ashamed of needing help.”

It might not have occured in one single conversation but over the decades that was what I was hearing.

It was a double-bind—emotional gaslighting dressed as charity.

I had already been labeled disabled. Already endured injustice. Already lost my career, my home, my freedom. And now, even asking for help became another source of shame.

Not guilt. Not regret.

But toxic shame—the kind that whispers you are the problem and that you’ll never be enough. If so much evil was allowed to triumph over me then there must be something cursed about my being. Like I was never meant to rise from the past in the first place.

When I speak of waking up after a suicide attempt, I am referring to the sense of having been detached from truly living life. I would get married to Elnaz Rezaei Ghalechi in 2010 and it is not hard to understand that aspects of this marriage were problematic. 

I didn’t approach this as a true chance at happiness but more of a desperate desire for connection… to share a life with someone else. To find someone who cared about ME.

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

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

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

Marked by Shadows

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

I could verify these beliefs but they were my beliefs.

Another Door Slammed Shut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Breaking Point Was Still Ahead

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

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

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

Before I could discover self-love.

Before I could find self-compassion.

Before I could trust in myself.

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

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

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

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

But the PTSD wasn’t new.

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

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

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

The Web Development business wasn’t paying much but I was working quite often at Measurement Inc. We were hired as readers. All that was required was at least a 4 year degree. It seemed like this was attracting a large number of people. I doubt that many of them were homeless or had been homeless. Some were at retirment age. It seemed like the place to work for anyone who had nowhere else to go. No clear career tragectory.

I saw Bob there. He was the guy who showed up at my home and who was living out of his van. He was quite a character. Highly religious and spiritual. He was someone who appeared completely rational and normal but if you spent any time talking to him, you heard about bizarre spiritual beliefs that even people with schizophrenia did not articulate in such a clear and coherent manner.

That being said, his low soft spoken well articulate voice would sooth me in a hypnotic and peaceful way when I had the opportunity to just listen.

Tragically, the $30,000 had dwindled away as if it was not meant to last. I had not even purchased a car.

With every cent I'd scraped together from work, I made my way back to Wilmington, driven by a longing that gnawed at me day and night. I took the bus. Initially, I got rooms for a night on the weekend at some of the lower cost motels in town. I’d rent a bike and go to Wrightsville Beach.

The beaches called to me, whispering promises of the belonging I'd known once and still craved so desperately, a sanctuary amidst the simmering trauma, dispair and hopelessness of my existence.

In Wilmington, I reunited with Jean Jones and Thomas Childs—two long-time friends from the life I once knew… a life I expected to continue forever with Lynn.

Jean and I were good friends again and in a new way. Lynn and I used to hang out with Jean occasionally. He only remembered the fights that Lynn and I seemed to have all the time. He failed to see the nearly perfect love that we knew. The reality of that part of my life is part of a different story.

Jean was given a normal life like the one I had always expected. Like most people, no one had ever pointed a finger at him and falsely accused him of a violent crime. Ironically, when he spoke about having guns to protect his family, I thought about how with my ultra-pacifist leanings had violently attacked in my own home and then labeled a criminal who couldn’t be trusted. Jean wasn’t always available when I wanted to come to Wilmington and re-connect with people from the poetry scene. So, he helped me to connect with another younger poet named Ryan. He had a couch where I could stay when I wanted to visit the area.

I went with Jean to the aquarium at Fort Pierce, south of Wilmington with his two children. He met me for meals here and there.

There were a few other regulars to the poetry scene that I befriended. I saw David Capps again. He was cool in every way but there was something inscrutible about him that made it hard for me to truly connect with him. I had known him since I first moved to Wilmington back in 1992 but not like I knew Jean, or Jeff and definitely not like I knew Thomas.

Thomas, in particular, felt like a lifeline, as if the years between us had evaporated. Between meeting Thomas down in Wilmington, we spent hours on the phone, our conversations blazing with the intensity of a friendship rekindled, leaving me warmed for the first time in years by the fierce glow of connection.

I ran across Lynn in mid-September, 2008 with the summer still a part of life in Wilmington. She had once been a part of my life that I never imagined losing. I could even argue with her and it never seemed like it would impact the lasting nature of our relationship. With Lynn right there in the same room, I said nothing. Some part of me couldn’t speak even to Lynn. This was unimaginable. I could have spoken to Lynn about anything.

Yet, I froze up, while standing in the same room with her just a few feet apart. Alone in that room as if someone had hoped or arranged for me to take this opportunity to tell her all my feelings. She had known I was going to be there. I should have told her that for what it was worth, I was still in love with her. I guess I couldn’t imagine being rejected by Lynn of all people in the world.

It was my new go-to coping strategy. Silence. In retrospect it was reminiscence of me standing in front of the judge a couple of years earlier in 2006. I had been silent and unable to speak, to protest the way I had been treated by my lawyer.

It wasn’t that I willingly kept silent when standing before the judge in 2006; it was more that I couldn't muster the courage to speak out. But why was silence my default?

Who would have imagined that it wasn't until I began writing this book that I'd uncover a disturbing parallel: the same gripping fear that silenced me from confessing my love to the person who mattered most in my life was the very fear that suffocated my voice two years earlier in the courtroom, preventing me from declaring my objection to the plea deal... from proclaiming that I was the victim?

That is where the parallel somewhat falls apart. While I had lost the earned secure attachment that I once had with Lynn, suddenly and abruptly, I wasn’t concerned about or wearing the shame of a false conviction around Lynn.

The Bigger Picture Here

The most amazing thing about returning to Wilmington was the peace and serenity that came with this and how that materialized. The disability checks and the occasional work with Measurement, Inc. allowed me to come to what was once home to me. I left behind the shame that came with being falsely accused and convicted.

I never had a enough money to buy a car. Not yet. My credit was not very good as one might imagine considering that I had been homeless and my life had been so chaotic.

Yet something amazing was happening down in Wilmington. It didn’t offer me the home I once knew. There are so many things that had happened. There is an entire story that could be written about aspects of my life that had changed beyond the facts discussed in this book on injustice.

What was significant was the sense that I didn’t have to worry about what others would think about me. I told my two best friends down there, Jean and Thomas. We talked a bit about it but I never felt uncomfortable. I never felt the embarrassment that came from wondering if the person hearing my story would doubt my innocence.

I made new friends down there and strengthened other relationships with people from the poetry scene. I might have been shy about the criminal matter but in many ways, while I was down here, in this scene or setting, it seemed irrelevent. This is amazing since I was just getting off supervised probation from the lies told by Ana. Yet, somehow, I managed to place it in a sealed container that wasn’t opened in the Wilmington area.

Speaking of friends and connections, tragically, Dusty had passed away. As the emcee at the poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center going back to 1992 when I first came to Wilmington, Dusty was a warm motherly type that I could have used at this time in my life.

Indeed, a mother was what any injured person needs. Whether revealed in words or actions, Dusty had once filled that role of a mother figure that I never had. There had been Celta and Lynn who had made me feel special. All that was gone and I had no one who was a source of support during the horrifying moments, that turned into days, weeks, months and years.

The comfort of Lynn’s arms or Celta’s arms existed only as tearful memories of something amazing that was gone. I didn’t have a mother figure or a source of deep love that I had once had. I had to face the lies of Ana and the impact of that injustice all alone. Despite the losses and pain, I might have taken for granted the peace and comfort of not having to worry about what others might think about me. Somehow returning to people who had known me was profoundly peace in a way that I failed to appreciate.

I could have used that attitude to help me cope with the challenges I was facing in every aspect of my other life when I was not down in Wilmington. I was even able to make new friends down there wrapped in the warmth of everything this place was offering me in some way that seemed like magic. I was able to make new friends. There was Ryan who I mentioned above. He let me stay with him every time I visited. I also made friends with Ana Ribeiro from the poetry scene down in Wilmington.

So much was missing and could not be recovered from the injustice and what it did to me. Yet, the peace of being in this place around people who had come to know me… there was something magical about this. Wilmington was a haven and refuge. I had once been forced to leave the area due to the first injustice I experienced with John F. He had made sure I couldn’t work down there and that had sent me Durham back in 2001.

Now I was trying to anchor in positive experiences. This is a term from my training in hypnosis and Neuro-Linguistic Programming. From a cognitive behavioral aspect, I could see how certain beliefs about what people would think about me if they found out about the accusations and conviction. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy encourages us to challenge our thoughts and to try to find deeper core beliefs that create very negative feelings - anxiety, trauma responses, depression.

I had resurrected the poetry magazine that Lynn and I started in 1995. Jean became my new co-editor. We had an event down in Wilmington at a new location for the poets in the area - a wine and coffee bar.

I found an outlet in my writing. I wrote a book of poems that was co-authored with Scott Urban who wrote dark, horror poems. I alluded to this book in my earlier discussion of Amanda. In this collaboration, with Scott Urban, I created a collection entitled “Puncture Wounds.” This drew upon the myth of vampires as soulless and without a conscience. Scott’s poems were not based on actual experiences. I was casting the actual villains that I met in my life, including but not limited to John F., Ana (not my new friend Ana but the perpetrator described in this book). I had minimal contact with other sociopaths and psychopaths and was in fact trying to learn about and understand the thinking of these people - these monsters.

I was influenced in part by the series “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” which was created by Josh Whedon. I believe he was an atheist but he still found the symbolism valuable as a literary form. In that series a vampire lacked a soul which meant they lacked a conscience and preyed upon others. Writing was a form of therapy and catharsis. As a professional in the field, I have learned that catharsis might not create healing in itself. However, I am unsure if it doesn’t actually help us deal with emotions and the horrors of life.

Many of these characters depicted in my poems were responsible for my legal problems and my inability to get justice.

Like Josh Whedon, I was becoming an atheist and giving up my “faith.” Yet, I am getting ahead of my story. I was still a Christian during this time period when I was visiting Wilmington up to at least 2010 and for a while after that.

Under normal circumstances, I might have been very concerned that I would reveal a dark side of myself with this publication. I had squelched any expression of what might appear to be a dark side to myself or a delight and fascination for evil or monsters. I was afraid that might make me appear capable of harming someone as Ana had alleged. I was also uncomfortable even being able to express justiable anger and righteous indignation. Again, this was related to the overarching concern in life that no one sees me as capable of violence.

I suppose the visits to Wilmington and being around people who knew me or were getting to know me gave me a new perspective and lowered my inhibitions - I was temporarily, during those excursions to Wilmington, inside a safer mindset. Being seen and accepted, having a connection can certainly make a big difference when dealing with profoundly traumatic events.

Otherwise, in other situations away from that protective bubble of comfort that I felt when I was visiting Wilmington, a painful scarlet letter had been branded into my psyche.

And I didn’t want anyone to see me in that way. I didn’t want to re-experience the taunting and humiliation that had occured when I was stripped down and put inside a padded suicide prevention outfit for the infamous mug shot taken in the early morning hours of October 2, 2004, after the detectives interrogated me, the victim who had been brutally assaulted hours earlier when the day was still October 1st.

Just for a while, and easily forgotten in time, I had an escape.

This confidence did in part carry over into my life overall. It wasn’t entirely limited to my life in Wilmington.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Probation and the Shame That Lingered

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was drowning in shame.

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

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

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

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

The end of things with Amanda

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

I wasn’t just lonely.

I was terrified of being alone.

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

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

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

What the hell was wrong with me?

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

The Break-In

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

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

The front bedroom window was shattered.

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

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

The Setup That Could Have Destroyed Me

Early 2008.

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

A movement outside my window.

I went to the side entrance of my home.

Then I saw them—four police officers.

Guns drawn, pointed down, but ready.

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

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

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

"Look at your Myspace account."

Okay. I can do that.

And what I saw made my blood run cold.

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

Obviously, Amanda had done this.

Fighting Back

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

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

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

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

"How can you represent someone like him?"

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

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

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

I felt like no one saw the real me.

They only saw the conviction.

The label.

The lie.

Insight from this latest villain to cross my path

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

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

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

I needed to understand evil.

It was the middle of 2006.

I was 40 years old, and the last two years had been a brutal fight for survival—homeless, betrayed, falsely accused, and now forever marked as a criminal. Although my status as a homeless person was on the verge of changing, everything else remained a bleak constant.

The Division of Vocational Rehabilitation (VR) had funded my certification in Web Design. This was before Ana's vicious attack… before I was thrown into jail… before I was cornered into accepting a plea deal. I was already crushed, having lost my career, my home, my clinical license, and so I numbly went along with the suggestion we stumbled upon together. I admit I was something of a geek, with a faint curiosity about technology.

Yet, I had no desire to work in that field. That's why I used my engineering degree as a stepping stone to earn a graduate degree, a Master of Social Work. Web design and development felt like a tedious, soul-crushing task of writing code for a lifeless machine. I was too shattered by the harrowing weight of seven torturous months in jail to grasp these realities then.

I had moved forward like a docile child, surrendering my clinical license and following their suggestions. Now, with an indelible stain on my record, a violent crime etched into eternity, I wrestled with the grim reality that no one would ever trust me to work in a helping profession… in a role where trust is essential.

The most agonizing part is that the crime I was wrongfully convicted of can never be erased or expunged—not ever.

I thought you could trust me, no matter who you were. Yet, Ana had spun an entirely different tale, and the detectives bought into her fabrications completely. My life seemed split into two opposing forces—truth and reality. The truth was the essence of who I truly was and had always been. Reality, however, was a social construct, woven from tales told by others. None of the stories about me were penned by anyone who genuinely knew me.

Let's step back a moment. After I was released from jail, I found myself with a web design certificate but nowhere to call home in Chapel Hill. Eric, my VR counselor from Durham, continued to support me. He was still there, alongside a job coach, trying to guide me through the tricky terrain of job applications, where every form demanded whether I had a criminal record. Each application was a harsh reminder, a trigger I never anticipated. I never thought it would end up being a consideration I’d have to face. Eric's advice seemed to imply I should acknowledge guilt while pleading for a second chance. Perhaps he meant well. Maybe he thought it was unrealistic for me to expect every employer to disregard my recent conviction. Yet, I felt torn; I couldn't bring myself to follow his guidance.

I couldn’t do it.

I had already lost so much—my freedom, my reputation, my career, my dignity—but I clung desperately to the truth. Eric's advice mirrored the beliefs of many about the justice system, where pleading guilty equates to committing a crime. However, the plea deal and my courtroom responses had been arranged without my input, as if my lawyer had made all the decisions for me, as you might recall from my earlier account of these events.

It was a tangled mess, and I was caught in the middle, struggling to reconcile the truth I held onto with the reality imposed upon me.

Guilt had never been made concrete and real when I seemed to plead guilty in front of the judge. I literally lacked the ability to summon up air to vocalize my truth.

VR had determined previously, with my input, that a traditional job would be difficult for me. A home-based business was the plan. But what good was a home-based business when you had no home?

Initially, the debate centered on whether VR should purchase equipment for use on Holloway Street in Durham. This particular area had garnered a notorious reputation, known far and wide as a drug-infested, crime-ridden section of town. Eric, though not one to articulate every detail of what he knew about the neighborhood, was acutely aware of its infamy. He didn't need to witness the discarded needles littering the streets or be approached by hookers desperate for their next fix. Nor did he need to experience the fear of being mugged or threatened on Holloway Street firsthand to understand its perilous nature.

Given the well-known facts about Holloway Street, I always wondered why the detectives weren't more suspicious of Ana's story about being there merely to collect rent. The case might have been concluded, but I couldn't help but marvel at the detectives' apparent naivety as they listened to Ana's account.

During the brief period between the plea deal and securing stable housing, I was guided by a job coach and Eric at VR to find any form of employment. However, this situation was on the brink of transformation.

A Chance at Stability

My heart had once blazed with an unquenchable fury for social justice. That was still a part of me even as I found myself ensnared in the very existence I sought to obliterate for millions across the United States. Homelessness and poverty clawed like savage beasts that were unleashed by the indifference of my own family, and all of this was demanding immediate action. I had sought refuge at the IFC (Interfaith Council for Social Services) shelter in Chapel Hil staying at their homeless shelter.

I also participated in meetings to address homelessness. The federal government doled out block grants to the state, and communities gathered putting their heads together to try to do what they could with the limited funds from the federal government.

I attended these gatherings not as the mental health professional and clinical social worker I once was and would have been, but as a homeless individual, stripped bare of the life I had meticulously planned. Since I was not the social worker I had envisioned that I would be at this time in my life, I imagined that I was limited in how much I could contribute. Hopefully my own story would help inspire others to look for solutions.

It was in this time of transformation that I met Vanessa, a formidable representative from the local mental health center. She held a high-ranking position at the agency, a beacon amid the chaos. The early 2000s were a time of violent upheaval in mental health services, with agencies where I had once worked being reduced to mere administrative skeletons. The government heralded this as efficiency.

The social worker within me screamed in silent agony, tormented by the countless people abandoned as society's outcasts. People society had discarded, branded as if they deserved their plight. Patients discharged from psychiatric hospitals were hurled into communities woefully unprepared to support them, with funding grotesquely inadequate to meet the surging tide of needs. I was ensnared in a maelstrom, torn between the seething passion that had driven me to earn my Master of Social Work degree and the visceral urgency to simply survive in a barren, hope-starved reality.

That passion within me was well below the surface. I had been in the habit of dissociating from those things that would cause me pain - such as the realization that I might never work in my field because of the false criminal conviction. My passion for social justice, the life-long drive to make the world a better place, this existed in an exhiled and wounded part of myself. My dissociation was in the form of emotional and psychological numbing - a form of detachment.

And then Vanessa did something no one else had dared—she extended a hand to help! She connected me to a housing program called Shelter Plus Care—a lifeline for those who had been homeless for at least two years and bore a disability diagnosis. Normally, people languished for years waiting for a Section 8 voucher. I had been on Section 8 and had almost abandoned hope of receiving a voucher. At this point in my life, 2 or 3 years felt like an eternity. I could only focus on surviving each relentless day.

Vanessa’s role in my life at this time felt like a strange twist of fate. On one hand, it seemed she could see right through me, recognizing that I wasn't meant for a life on the streets. My vulnerability was obvious to her, and while she couldn't undo the unjust circumstances that had brought me here, she introduced me to a program that sounded promising—Shelter Plus Care. The name suggested I might receive not only housing but also the treatment I desperately needed.

Sure enough, just weeks after that frustrating plea deal, I found myself approved for Shelter Plus Care and a place in Carrboro, an area nearly part of Chapel Hill. Relief washed over me, knowing that at least one person in a position of influence had noticed my struggle and cared enough to help. But even with this glimmer of hope, I couldn't shake the feeling of uncertainty. I knew I needed more than a home.

What hope was there when I had lost my reputation. My name was never cleared. The actual perpetrator had gotten away with everything.

I was understandably scared of something going wrong even with my housing situation. I had a job coach, as I mentioned, and his name was Harold. We rode out to see the place. I said, “I just got convicted of this crime, do you think that is going to affect my chances of getting into this situation?”

Harold said that if he was me, he would “just not mention it. Don’t let anything stop this from happening.”

I felt it was risky and scary. I was afraid to get my hopes up and then to have this taken away from me. Yet, I wasn’t eager to volunteer information about the lies and the false conviction. Did Vanessa know. Probably not. But then again, maybe she did.

Shelter Plus Care seemed to offer a situation where not only was housing provided but there was the care component seemed to imply that the program had additional resources for one to receive treatment for one’s disability - be it physical or a mental illness. The care component was not actually a part of the program. The program didn’t include a grant to fund treatment services. They didn’t create any form of treatment or rehabilitation for the participants in the program. Maybe the original plan had that in mind but the result was something like an expedited form of approval for Section 8 housing.

So, I moved into an unfurnished apartment with very little income. I was able to work at Measurement Inc. again. I was scoring standardized test from students in schools across the US. We were hired as contract employees and for as long as the contract lasted. Often one contract lead directly to the next project without hardly any interruption.

My parents were still a part of my life despite their betrayal when I was in jail. They brought a table with a couple of chairs, along with a few other items.

Declared Disabled by the Federal Government

Cornered and desperate, I found myself thrust into the grueling process of applying for Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI), a journey that had begun even before Ana's brutal assault. The relentless trauma of repeated victimization in Durham, followed by an unjust imprisonment after being preyed upon, shattered me beyond recognition, leaving scars so profound they defied words. The torment of disbelief cut deeper than any knife, amplifying the oppressive shadow that haunted every moment of my existence.

I enlisted the aid of a disability lawyer, acutely aware of the systemic cruelty where initial claims were routinely tossed aside—not out of skepticism about one's disability, but as a perverse test of stamina. Even the most glaringly evident cases were rejected, not just once, but twice, as if enduring this torment was an initiation ritual.

Lawyers thrived on this vicious cycle, claiming 30% of the backpay once the case was finally approved. It was logical—they couldn't be expected to work for free. Yet, the entire ordeal felt like a grotesque performance. If one could withstand the excruciating waiting game, after two soul-crushing denials, the case would eventually reach a judge, who would finally grant approval. Unlike the evasive Section 8 vouchers, limited in number, disability approvals had no cap. But the path to that approval was a battlefield of endless struggles and waiting, a brutal testament to sheer persistence.

I find myself torn, not wanting to dive into a rabbit hole or veer off-topic, yet feeling compelled to address the past. Before the state held me hostage, my friends—those who initially supported me and offered me housing when I first arrived in Durham—believed I didn't deserve disability benefits. This belief was based on our understanding of what I had endured at the time. They themselves were battling for these meager government allowances despite their own harrowing experiences. Both of my roommates suffered from dissociative identity disorder (DID), which was believed to have stemmed from horrific crimes, torture, and abuse in their early years of life.

My application process began in 2004, prior to the traumatic events and unjust imprisonment, and was backdated to 2003. Fast forward to July 2006, I found myself entering a courtroom alongside my disability attorney, facing a judge. I walked out, conflicted, yet knowing I had been approved! Having worked tirelessly since I was 16, by the year 2000, I was earning a six-figure salary—a stark contrast to the $30k salary I had when I graduated from my master's program in 1996. Perhaps my income with an MSW and some clinical training was even higher. In 2025, such roles would easily command $70k, and private practice in North Carolina could reach $200k, not just $100k.

The crux of my internal struggle lies in the fact that I had led a normal life, with significant earnings to show for it, up to a certain point. One might assume that someone retiring or transitioning to SSDI could live comfortably. Yet, the reality is they evaluate the entirety of a person's earnings history. Having done little work after age 34, my monthly benefits would barely keep me above the poverty line. It wasn't as dire as SSI—Social Security Insurance—which is entirely needs-based and reflects true poverty, but my monthly checks would hover just above that threshold. This reality leaves me deeply conflicted, caught between the life I once led and the limitations I now face.

My disability lawyer, distinct from the criminal lawyer who had pressured me into accepting a plea deal, presented my case focusing on Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. However, this approach ignored the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that has defined my condition going all the way back to 2003 or earlier and up to the present day in 2025. At the time, I was relieved to be approved. Yet a nagging feeling told me something was amiss.

In the interest of expediency, he omitted the most significant truth—I wasn't just depressed; I was deeply traumatized. Back then, it never crossed my mind, nor did anyone suggest, that I could reopen the criminal case and challenge the plea deal. In hindsight, doing so right after the plea deal disaster would have carried far more weight. The looming specter of "statutes of limitations" has haunted me for nearly two decades—it’s now 2025, and my friend Sarah still clings to the notion of justice, envisioning a new court proceeding nineteen years after the plea deal in 2006. There are rational, albeit not legal, remedies to this situation. Being declared disabled as far back as 2003 should have nullified the plea deal since there was a government-recognized reason why I couldn't have reasonably entered into it.

Ironic, isn't it? The criminal lawyer I had trusted became a villain in my story due to the threats and pressure he exerted over the plea deal. In hindsight, I am torn, wondering if I should have approached my disability lawyer to see if overturning the recent plea deal was possible based on the circumstances I described. During the plea deal, the judge inquired if any mental health conditions could compromise my ability to agree.

My lawyer must have signaled or somehow prepared me to deny any such conditions, despite my lack of awareness. What I said wasn’t a lie, but rather a reflection of my ignorance. Yet, that ignorance now leaves me questioning every decision made in those fraught moments.

I would continue to question whether there was any way to overturn the plea deal.

I could have called the prosecutor as a witness if any lawyer had been there on my side during this time. Or if I had a family and not the illusion of a family that cared things might have been different. A real family would have cared enough to help me navigate these challenges.

I had been victimized multiple times—first by Ana, then by the police, then by the courts, and finally by a world that refused to believe me.

PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) would be added to my medical records later, but by then, the damage was done.

The federal government ruled that I was 100% disabled.

100% unable to work.
100% discarded by society.

The financial payout came in (the backpay for every month and year since 2003 - around $30,000 - a lump sum for the years I had already suffered. That was just my share. My lawyer would have gotten about $10k. I didn’t begrudge him that payment. After that, I would receive a monthly check which was slightly above the federal poverty level.

This lump sum payment was more than I would ever see again in my life. More than even the share of the inheritance from my mother’s death in the 2020s which would help me get a car for the first time in over two decades.

It was survival money, not a future.

No amount of money could undo what had happened.

A Life I Never Imagined

I possessed not one but two prestigious college degrees. That meant NOTHING.

I had meticulously crafted a life, a thriving career, a profound purpose—only to witness it all obliterated in the blink of an eye. That meant NOTHING. The world, a twisted version of reality, demanded I simply accept it. Swallow it whole and let it work for me. Accept it!

Abandon your hopes, dreams, and aspirations. Here's a paltry $30k, now deal with it! A pathetic farewell token from the US. This is the pinnacle of their generosity towards its citizens! It declared, "Here's $30k, and here’s a home - a parting gift." This is just my reconstruction of events. No apologies were offered. No acknowledgment of mistakes made. Instead, it felt as though reality, woven from deceitful narratives, painted me as a criminal, yet I was still owed something. Yes, reality, built on a foundation of lies, painted me as a violent figure when, in truth, I was as gentle as a butterfly landing softly on your arm in a serene meadow.

To be clear the disability matter did not examine the factors that had caused me to be disabled. No connection was made between the criminal matter and this disability claim. This fact, that the matters were unrelated, explained why there would be no apologies and no admission that mistakes were made.

The fact that I had been suicidal and spent time on a psychiatric ward helped my disability case on the grounds that Major Depression and Generalized Anxiety Disorder were threatening my ability to survive but nothing was done to connect the depression and anxiety to the trauma I had experienced.

In this twisted reality, truth held no weight. Here, the innocent were imprisoned while the violent were shielded! I would relay this statement to my therapist over a decade later, finally confronting my seething anger.

I never envisioned a future where I'd be branded a criminal. Where I'd be labeled as disabled. Where I'd be condemned to live shackled by a lie I could never erase.

A roof over my head was granted, but I remained ensnared.

Still haunted by ghosts that would follow me forever.

Still fettered to a past I never chose or deserved.

I was forced to look for and find any way to cope and to live. But despite having a home, despite receiving a check monthly, despite the illusion of stability, the brutal truth persisted:

I had already lost everything that ever held meaning.

And I had no clue how to reclaim it.

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

But this story doesn’t end that way.

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

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

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

My life was characterized by emptiness.

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

But nothing changed.

Hope was completely gone.

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

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

But I always stopped myself.

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

And so I stayed in the shadows.

Counting the days. Counting the years.

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

The Slow Disintegration

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

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

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

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

Another day of this.

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