Introduction to Part I – When Love Was Still Unimaginable

There was a time in my life when I didn’t even know how to dream.

Not because I lacked imagination, but because I had never known joy - the kind of joy that opens the heart to possibility. Before college, I wasn’t thinking about what I wanted, or what might make me happy. 

When I first sat down with a counselor at Georgia Tech in 1984, I didn’t know that I was beginning a journey that would lead to love, healing, and a life beyond anything I’d known.

I was just trying to survive.

College felt overwhelming. I had no real social skills. I had spent my adolescence in silence, invisible in my classrooms, uncertain in my own skin. I didn’t know how to connect. I didn’t know what it meant to belong. And so I found myself, at age eighteen, walking into a campus counseling office - not because I had a vision for the future, but because I felt I wouldn’t make it on my own.

I had no idea then that this search for support would lead me not just to stability, but to profound transformation.

If I had ever taken the time to dream, I would never have been at Georgia Tech and studying engineering.

I’d like to say that I experienced joy and success beyond my wildest dreams, but the fact is that when I walked into the Counseling and Career Planning building and into the office with my counselor, I had never thought about what I wanted. Nothing could be more meaningless for me than engineering. No career direction could be more inappropriate for me than engineering. 

In addition, what my parents had given me was fear. That was their greatest gift. Initially it was fear of them. I guess they took the verses from the Bible that said that “beginning of wisdom is fear of the Lord” literally and they used that as a template for what they were seeking. Not respect but fear of one’s parents. 

Undoubtedly, there are obviously more disturbing stories of abuse. Stories that would inspire almost anyone to value the role of Child Protective Services, even those who otherwise are hesitant to see the goodness of what Child Protective Services (CPS) is tasked with doing. My second wife would tell me about how much more brutal and violent her father was. Undoubtedly there are arguments about overzealously involving CPS and those who think that a child is just oppositional when it comes to any rules. That wasn’t me. I did wish that CPS would have come to examine the things that were happening to us. 

Let me state that again. I don’t want there to be any confusion or uncertainty. As a child, I wanted CPS to get involved and ask us, as me, if I was a victim of child abuse! If that happened, I would have been talking for hours and hours describing things that were happening, and I would have been put in foster care. It would have been far from ideal, but it was what I desperately needed. 

It wasn’t just fear of them that I learned but fear of the world. I was made to fear all the things that could go wrong if I didn’t do everything right - get into a great college/university. For this to happen I had to get straight A’s. It’s ironic that I didn’t question this wisdom since my brother and sister could not begin to approach my begin to approach the grades I was achieving in much more advanced courses. By high school I was taking advanced placement classes for those on track to enter a prestigious and challenging university and I was getting straight A’s. 

Looking back, I now understand that what I was really searching for was attachment - the kind of secure, mutual, loving connection I had never experienced growing up. My family, though outwardly intact, was emotionally barren. The messages I received from them - explicit and implied - taught me not to trust closeness, not to expect to be wanted, and not to believe I mattered.

But slowly, that would begin to change.

This first part of the memoir traces that journey - from a shy, uncertain person to someone who not only found their voice but found love. First in the brief but life-changing relationship with Celta. Then, more fully and enduringly, with Lynn. It was through these relationships that I came to understand what safety, intimacy, and joy truly felt like.

This is the story of earned secure attachment. Of discovering what I had never known to want. Of realizing that life could be more than survival - it could be beautiful.

I didn’t know, then, that it wouldn’t last forever. And I certainly didn’t know how deeply it would hurt to lose it all.

That part comes later.

However, one cannot know or appreciate loss without first discovering joy, expansiveness, connection, and a life where one is allowed to dream because one has no idea that those dreams can’t come true. So, the first half of this book is a love story. But it doesn’t start that way. I have to tell you where I came from and what life was like from the earliest days of my life. 

She passed me at the market
as I sat there reading...
seemed innocent enough, 
she said nothing,
just smiled to let me know
she saw me.

She didn't want to talk.
We were never even friends.
Certainly never lovers.

So, what did she want?

She was inside my home,
I discovered,
just recently.
There were just a few signs,
but enough
to let me know
she was there.

I suppose she imagines 
I'm afraid.
Perhaps that's what she wants.

How many times
had she been nearby?
Watching? So close and unseen...
like a snake,
in the shadows,
outside my door
that I nearly step on?

What does she want?

This is not what I wanted...
this place is not where I wanted
to be...
this city of desolation.
The land is parched...
The trees are bare -
they stand like burnt skeletons:
dead souless sentinels,
left as markers or
signs, signs of the times.
The sun no longer is seen;
each day brings only gray
flat, formless clouds above.
I cannot bear
this time, this place,
this reality.
Gone are most colors...
all that rmains are dark
shades of gray.
Some say the end is near.
They have more hope than I do.
I think this monotony,
days like this, these days,
will go on and on and on
forever.

There are experiences
we would wish never happened...
memories re-experienced
again and again,
without warning,
like a knock on the door
that you wished you had ignored....
a call that you wish you missed...
a place so dark
it never leaves you....
infinity that cannot be endured -
or so it seems...
you know this will be
a part of you, forever,
Always showing up uninvited.

PS: What we know
is not always true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Call That Changed Everything

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

“Come to court. Now.”

No explanation. No context. Just: Now.

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

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

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

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

The Ambush

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

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

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

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

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

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

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

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

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

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

We hadn’t. That was a lie.

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

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

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

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

My own lawyer was the one making threats.

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

Walking Into a Lie

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

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

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

Everything moved too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Last, Desperate Attempt

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

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

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

"I don’t know."

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

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

Every part of me wanted to say yes.

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

But I didn’t say it.

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

Forced to Speak a Lie

Then came the final question.

“Are you in fact guilty?”

Everything in me screamed No.

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

That was my plea.

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

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

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

Suborning Perjury?

Here’s what I’ve always wondered.

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

But what if it goes the other way?

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

Isn’t that just as wrong?

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

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

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

A Crime That Never Happened

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

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

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

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

And a handshake with the villain who had silenced me.

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

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

All because no one—no one—listened.

Why the Rush?

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

Because letting me think was the last thing anyone wanted.

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

But this—this was by design.

As I was awaiting trial, I could barely process the horrifying thought of what could happen if the trial did not go my way. In a brief encounter with my lawyer that I mentioned previously, after I got out of jail, the only thing he discussed was his sense that no jury would be able to imagine that I was capable of harming anyone. 

I was overwhelmed and traumatized by everything that had happened. I had been homeless or on the verge of homelessness before the assault by Ana that landed me in jail for 7 months. I had been homeless in Durham after my lawyer got me out of jail to “prepare for trial.”

At no point during the one meeting with my lawyer had I discussed the potential prison sentence that I could receive if found guilty of these charges - 2nd degree kidnapping and 2nd degree sexual offense. 

I was existing in a state of trauma. I could have diagnosed myself, if I was thinking clearly, with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I could have recognized that I was using a form of dissociation, that is called derealization, as a coping mechanism. This is the brain's creative way to cope with overwhelming stress or trauma. 

My mind was experiencing life as if I was living in a dream-state. This was a living nightmare! 

Ever since the assault and during the months of captivity or while living homeless in Durham and then Chapel Hill, the topic of spending years in prison never entered my consciousness! It was too overwhelming to imagine.

After spending that month in jail while awaiting trial, I would find and secure a bed at the homeless shelter in Chapel Hill. For a brief moment in time, I experienced a miraculous event where I had a chance to connect with a lady.

It was a rare reprieve, a brief glimpse of something tender before I was thrust back into the cold, both literally and figuratively.

Homeless in Chapel Hill, Holding Onto Hope

At the Interfaith Council (IFC) shelter, I started at the bottom—sleeping on the floor, waiting for a bed to open upstairs. Eventually, I got one, which meant a reserved place to sleep. It also meant I had a small storage space downstairs for my belongings, but the space was barely enough for what little I owned.

During the day, we were forced to leave after breakfast. There was no place to simply be.

I tried to find work. Vocational Rehabilitation had funded Web Design training for me, but what chance did I have of landing a job while living in a shelter, marked by a pending trial that would decide the rest of my life?

And yet, I tried.

I still held onto a shred of self-worth, fragile as it was. I still believed, somehow, that I was more than what the system had labeled me.

A Miracle in the Midst of Chaos

Then something unbelievable happened.

I met someone.

It was November, and I had been on a dating website, though my self-confidence had been shattered. What woman would want a man who was homeless? A man who had been cast as the villain when he was, in fact, the victim?

But she did.

She listened. She believed me.

She invited me to Thanksgiving dinner.

I was stunned. A woman I had only recently started talking to wanted to meet me. She even bought my train tickets to visit her in Sanford, NC.

"I am a respectable lady," she told me. "You should not expect anything sexual to happen."

It didn’t matter. Just being wanted, just being seen, was enough.

I packed a few changes of clothes, enough to look semi-presentable, and boarded the train. Thanks to the shelter, I was able to shower, shave, and brush my teeth before leaving. That, in itself, was a luxury.

A Moment of Connection

We had a wonderful evening and weekend.

Dinner was warm and filling. We watched the Superman movie together. That night, we shared a bed, though nothing sexual happened.

But I still felt close to her.

I remember laying in her lap, my arms wrapped around her.

I remember the softness of her lips. I remember her whispering, "Give me your tongue," as we kissed.

She was beautiful—a stunning black woman—and for that brief moment, I felt lucky.

For a single night, I wasn’t a homeless person. I wasn’t an accused criminal. I was just me, holding someone close, feeling warmth against my skin instead of the cold, cruel world pressing in on me.

But then I ruined it.

A Stupid, Simple Mistake

Some of my clothes had gotten wet on the train, so she kindly washed and dried them for me.

But in my absentmindedness, I had left my return ticket in my pocket.

When I realized my mistake, my stomach dropped.

"Oh my god."

My chest tightened with frustration, anger, self-loathing.

"How could I be so stupid?"

I knew I had just created a situation where she would have to buy me another ticket home. The thought filled me with shame.

I clenched my fists and, without thinking, slammed my hand down on the bed—not out of anger at her, not in any way directed toward her, but in sheer frustration at myself.

But it didn’t matter.

The second my hand hit the bed, I felt it—fear.

It was my fear that she might be afraid of me.

The Shadow of False Accusations

I hadn’t even been near her.

What if she thinks I could be dangerous? What if she wonders about Ana’s accusations?

It didn’t matter that I knew I was the same person who had those soft gentle hands - the only hands and arms that could have been there with Lynn or Celta before her. Celta who had anorexia and was all skin and bones.

The fear of what she might think consumed me.

This wasn’t like with Lynn, where I could wake up from a nightmare and simply ask her, "Did I hit you in my sleep, or was that just in my dream?"

With Lynn, there was trust.

But this was different.

I left the next day, hugging her goodbye. But I felt ashamed. Because of the shame that I began to carry, I didn’t think to ask for another moment with her.

That moment was the beginning of a new fear—the fear that someone might imagine that I could be violent. It would take many years, maybe a decade and a half for that fear to evaporate.

I was so frustrated that I had but one short glimpse of hope, connection, and closeness.

Back Out in the Cold

On my way back to Chapel Hill, it started snowing.

The ice and wind cut through my coat, through my skin, through the fragile layer of my dashed hopes that I had carried with me on that train that first brought me to see a lady.

I arrived in downtown Durham, exhausted, stressed, and desperate to get back to the shelter in Chapel Hill. But the buses that would go to Chapel Hill weren’t running.

I had no choice but to take the Durham bus as far as it would get me to Chapel Hill and then walk.

Carrying my two bags, I took bus 10 to the farthest point it would go on Highway 15-501, then walked for miles, uphill, through the wet, heavy snow.

At some point, another guy was walking in the same direction. He seemed safe, and we walked together, sharing the quiet misery of the storm.

But when we reached the border of Chapel Hill, I saw the Red Roof Inn and made a decision.

I would call my parents.

I would beg for a warm bed.

I entered the motel and asked for phone to call my family.

"Dad, please. I’m soaked, I’m exhausted. I just need a place to sleep tonight."

His response was cold, emotionless, detached.

"No."

I was numb.

Not from the cold outside, but from the realization that nothing I said would ever make him care.

I had no choice but to keep walking.

Blisters formed on my wet feet. My hands were numb.

Every step felt heavier than the last.

When I finally arrived at the shelter, I knocked on the door, praying they would let me in.

They did.

For a few precious hours, I had a warm bed.

But as dawn came and breakfast ended, I was back out in the cold.

Alone. Again.

Despair weighed upon me as I wandered the dark Durham night. The shelter was full, so I tried to sleep on the grounds of Duke West Campus. No signs warned against trespassing. I didn’t feel comfortable so I left and taking a shortcut I scaled a 4-foot rock wall, unaware of doing anything wrong.

Then, as if summoned by fate, a police car appeared.

A block down the road, its lights flickered in the night. The car slowed, then stopped. My stomach clenched as the officer stepped out, approaching me with a cold authority.

“License."

The request made no sense. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Why were they stopping me?

And then, those dreaded words. Words that had already shattered my life once before.

"Warrant for your arrest."

Time collapsed. My thoughts spiraled. A warrant? For what?

Then came the explanation—something about using someone’s credit card without permission.

I couldn’t breathe.

A credit card?

Panic surged through me. How? I hadn’t even had the chance to meet anyone with a credit card since my release from jail. How could I have committed a felony without even knowing it?

I barely had time to process the accusation before cold metal closed around my wrists. Handcuffs. Again.

As they led me away, my mind raced to make sense of the impossible.

How the hell did this happen?

A Rabbit Hole of Betrayal

To understand this new nightmare, we have to go back—back to a time before Ana, before jail, before my life unraveled.

I had once been part of therapy groups in Durham, trying to build a community, trying to heal. That’s where I met Kathy.

She knew I had worked with people diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID)—once called Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD)—a condition made infamous by movies like Sybil. It was rare, misunderstood, and yet, here it was, again, threading itself into my story.

Before my time on Holloway Street, before the assault that would alter my life, I had briefly lived in a spare room offered by a friend, Elaine. During that time, Kathy and I became intimate.

Then, one night, everything changed.

In an instant, she transformed—her voice, her body language—childlike.

It was as if I was suddenly in the presence of a child in an adult’s body.

I freaked out. I pulled away and got dressed immediately.

It didn’t matter that she was an adult. It felt like I was with a child.

Kathy soon returned to her boyfriend and Elaine wanted to live alone. I moved into the home of Kathy and her boyfriend —sleeping in the same room as her son, on the bottom bunk. But our relationship had become twisted, toxic.

She demanded my attention, needed me to play the role of therapist. I had already explained how inappropriate that would be after what had happened and I wasn’t licensed and practicing at that point.

Some of her other personalities were angry at me.

Some were obsessed with me.

Some were jealous—especially when I spent time with my girlfriend, Shonda.

The situation was untenable.

And then came Christmas.

The Credit Card That Would Ruin Me

December 2003—less than a year before Ana’s attack.

Kathy wanted to give me a gift.

She offered to pay for my website domain renewal—the same poetry website I had started with Lynn back in 1995.

The life I had shared with Lynn felt so close, and yet, like an entirely different lifetime.

We sat together as she entered her credit card details into my GoDaddy account. It was her choice.

Neither of us thought much about the card being saved on file.

At the time, it meant nothing. But that decision—the smallest, most mundane act—would later become my undoing.

A Dangerous Shift

Tensions escalated.

Kathy became more unpredictable, more hostile.

One night, things turned dangerous.

I felt threatened—physically and sexually.

I ran.

Outside, hands shaking, I called Shonda. She offered me a place to stay, a bed in the back of her family’s store.

Then, I called the police.

The authorities came. They didn’t arrest Kathy, but the report was on record—a crime of a sexual nature, with me as the victim.

I should have seen the warning signs then. But I didn’t.

And now, here I was—being arrested. Because of her.

The Forgotten Charge

Fast-forward to 2005, after Ana, after my release from jail.

I had forgotten about the GoDaddy domain.

My cards on file had no funds, so Kathy’s was automatically charged.

Instead of asking for her card to be removed, instead of seeing this for what it was—a mistake—she pressed charges.

The charge? Felony credit card fraud.

The amount? $15.

Fifteen dollars.

And I was back in a cell.

Trapped in the System Again

This time, I spent a month in jail, mostly in protective custody.

The same lawyer—the one handling my pending trial—was assigned to this nonsense case.

"I’ll enter a plea to misdemeanor larceny," he told me when he got around to contacting me at all, after I had been there almost a month!

"You’ll be released right away. No court appearance necessary."

I should have been furious but I was in such a state of shock during this period of time. I was detached from feelings and living life as if in a bad dream.

Misdemeanor larceny? Over a clerical error?

A System That Doesn't Care

I was too numb and detached to feel the anger that I feel as I write this almost 20 years later.

I was too beaten down, too traumatized to feel the full weight of my indignation.

But looking back?

This shouldn’t have happened.

A competent lawyer—one who actually cared—would have had this dismissed immediately. Instead, my public defender took the path of least resistance, pushing me through a legal system that wasn’t about justice, only efficiency.

I just wanted out.

So, I did not protest when he told me what he was going to do. As soon as I was free, I left Durham—straight for Chapel Hill.

Because even in homelessness, I had learned: some places were safer than others and Chapel Hill was safer.

Some people have questions like what happened to my first wife, Lynn. She died in 2015, I found out. From cancer. There had been no "we" for all these years. Merely talking about her and what happened has been so painful.

Before I met Elee, my second wife, I had tried to get back with Lynn, but it never worked out. As I said in the last chapter, the times when I saw her down in Wilmington were very awkward and surreal. What could my friend Thomas do? Other than understanding what I must have been feeling.

 I couldn't say anything when she was right next to me. I’ll get to that scene below.

I had been more comfortable with her than with anyone else in my life. We had trusted each other implicitly. We had such a connection. I had stated the fact that I would have done anything imaginable to hold onto a relationship with Lynn. That fact cannot be understated.

I should have said something when she was right next to me. I had previously tried so hard. I didn't want to call her after a certain point about three years after we had started living our own lives - she with her mother and me in another city.

I had asked others to contact her and convey how much I felt for her. Obviously, those who heard my story were moved to call her and to convey this information. I had hoped to get some information that might lift my spirits.

I believe it was too painful for her to have to move on without me. I didn't want to cause her more pain. I don't know how she dealt with the memories of when we were in love. 

 I am so sorry!

Lynn had this survivalist instinct due to her illness. After we watched "Titanic" we were discussing the movie with a friend of hers who had cystic fibrosis like her. Her friend and I had agreed that we would jump back into the boat as the girl did to be with the guy.

Lynn disagreed. We had been living together for years at that point. So, I guess she was saying that she would not jump back into the boat to be with me. I know with one hundred percent certainty that I would jump back to be with her if she was in peril instead of getting into the rescue boats that would result in my near-certain survival.

I would NEVER be able to go to safety on a rescue boat with Lynn in a sinking ship. She would not find any justification in dying on a sinking boat just to be with me a bit longer. She might have found it senseless to stay on a sinking ship. I would have done anything to be with her, to help and protect her, no matter what.

So, there was a combination of factors that kept me paralyzed from contacting her from 2003 until her death in 2015. I had not wanted to make her life more painful. What I was going through was extremely traumatic for me and she was in survival mode.

There was another occasion when I almost spoke to Lynn during another awkward moment, years after we had been apart.

It was in late 2009.

Jean had invited me to come to a lounge on a Saturday evening in downtown Wilmington. He told me he was having a workshop for poets. We would share a poem to be workshopped. We would read it and ask for support or feedback from the group.

I had called him earlier that afternoon from Wrightsville Beach near Johnny Mercer’s Pier.

I had been here at this location not long ago… up at the front area is where they have the poetry readings and music. I don’t think this place existed in the 90s.

I heard Lynn would be there.

My mind had been racing with ideas about what I would or should say to Lynn if I said anything. This would be an interactive event… My heart raced throughout the next few hours as I headed in that direction.

What would I say?

I didn't feel the need to explain what had happened to me regarding the false accusations and conviction. I knew that she would not have wondered about that. She knew the kind of person I was.

Recently, I figured out in my mind that I had been a good person - always. So, the idea that I was undeserving of her was a false belief I had back then. It's sad that I figured this out after she died!

I had gotten so close to saying something on another occasion.

That evening came… I was told to go to the room in the back by Jean. 

A few people were talking and then they left the room. Lynn was standing there - alone. I was right nearby.

Had others planned this? Left us in a dark, quiet, private room.

I was thinking and at the same time, my mind was trying to muster the willpower to do or say something. I was thinking of something to say. My heart pounded hard in my chest. I felt frozen – not cold but motionless. I was composing thoughts "I... I what?"

I imagined myself saying "I love you." and her answer would be "I know."

Wow! I just realized what a cliché that would be. It's right out of "The Empire Strikes Back" when Han Solo is being frozen in carbonite and Lea tells him. "I love you."

I'm sure I would have broken down, falling to my knees, weeping bitterly, crying "I love you so much. I NEVER stopped being in love with you."

My mind’s a bit blank as I think back to what happened after that uncomfortable moment when I was there alone, close enough to touch Lynn. 

Others filed into that room from the front. They took seats. Four to my right. Jean is the “leader” – he sat on the right. Three on my left. And then Lynn. My hands and arms were trembling. My breathing was fast and shallow. I’m sure others could hear me nearly hyperventilating.

The rotation was coming around toward me. I had selected a poem that I wrote called “Fugue State.” A fugue state is a symptom of some dissociative disorders. I said they are caused by “trauma”, but I could have just said extreme stress or distress. I had written this about the dark times I had known not too long ago.

Sometimes I don’t know what I want to say until I say it. Below is the poem that I wrote. It’s in free verse. 

(I realized later that it was the imagery of dreams, disorientation, desolation, and despair are that I was trying to convey. I didn’t know how to do this with rhyme or metered verse.)

Holding the poem in my hand I begin to read.

Fugue State:

In the dream…
I think it’s a dream -
I’m not sure how I got
here or where I was going.

It’s dark.
I look at the street signs
that I walk past,
and for a time I’m
not finding any that I recognize.

Then I begin to think
that things look a bit
familiar but I’m…
uncertain.
I want to run
but I’m tired
and unsure how far
I have to go.

I try to remember
but nothing comes to mind
to explain
how I got here…
where I am going…
where I live -
where my home is -
or if I have a home.

I don’t seem to be injured.
I want to remember…
I begin to question
whether I even know
for certain
who I am?

The people I pass
look unfriendly - 
not dangerous;
they just don’t convey
anything resembling kindness
or friendship.
They don’t know me.
They don’t pay much attention.

What should I say anyway?
Ask them to tell me who I am?
Or ask where I am?
I cannot ask how to get
where I am going
because I do not know that.

I don’t know if I am afraid of the ridicule
or convinced of the futility
in even trying to get help.

I want to fall down on my knees
and cry… cry out to someone, 
“Please help me!”

But I’m paralyzed by my fear
and all I can do
is keep walking
and hoping that somehow
things will become clear
and make sense.

--------------

I can’t remember the feedback that I got. 

When it came around to her, to offer feedback on my poem, she said "I pass."

I got up moments later, the feelings were overwhelming me. I walked out into the night, moving fast. I stopped into a bookstore and looked at some books. I got a call from Thomas, who was on the way. 

“Okay, I’m heading back there, I’ll see you in a little while,” I said.

I returned and took a seat near Jeff Wyatt in that front room near the bar. He had been friends with Lynn and me just like Thomas had been. He went into massage therapy at some point. 

I suppose that my last words to Lynn were "Fugue State." My life had been a trance since I had to go on living without her being a part of me and me being a part of her.

I wasn't even mentioned in her obituary.

To this day that hurts so much to think about it.

I mean it really hurts. My tears blur my eyes and roll down my cheeks as I write this in 2021. It feels wrong that I didn't try harder when she was right next to me. 

There was no closure. I had failed to just say those words. I love you!

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.