trauma

It’s May 2005.

I stepped out of the jail into the late morning light, wearing only the dark green shirt, shorts, and socks I had on the night Ana attacked me. These were the same clothes, still stained with my own dried blood. The moment I crossed that threshold, I felt exposed—marked. I pulled my book bag close to my body and tried to move quickly, avoiding the gaze of anyone who might see me leaving the jail, as if shame itself were chasing me down the street.

The first thing I needed was clothing and a meal. My only option was Urban Ministries, the homeless shelter. I knew if I was lucky, I’d get a bed, but space was never guaranteed.

A Lawyer Who Didn’t Fight

I met with my lawyer briefly after my release and I may have seen him or one of his representatives only two times during the entire seven months I spent in jail. He looked me over, taking stock of me, and said something that left me reeling:

"I’m going to have to put you on the stand. No one will believe you’re capable of anything violent."

I had expected that he would have known that I could only be a victim in this matter but I was terrified. We all know how well the first time I told those detectives what happened. What had he done for me all these months?

I wanted him to prepare me but he said “no.” I was thinking, “really, the last time I tried telling the truth, we know how that went?”

I brought up the bloody clothes, explaining that they would prove I was the victim. The evidence was right there—the blood was mine, no one else’s.

Surely, that mattered?

"We can’t use them," he said, dismissively. "You wore them after leaving jail."

My stomach dropped. Of course I had worn them—I had nothing else! He had seven months to secure the clothes, to preserve them as evidence, to do something that would have helped me. I had written to him over and over, desperate for help. He had failed me. Everyone had failed me.

Survival on the Streets

The shelter wasn’t always available. On the nights I couldn’t get in, I wandered the streets, noting where small groups of homeless people settled.

One night, some of us found a quiet space near a church, though I wasn’t sure we were even allowed to be there. It didn’t matter—I just needed a place to disappear, to sleep, though sleep rarely came.

The shame weighed on me constantly. Some days, I couldn’t even get a shower or a shave. I felt like my humiliation was written across my face for the world to see. To escape, I started spending my days at Duke University’s libraries, hiding among the students.

I rode the campus buses between Duke East and West Campus, hoping I didn’t look too out of place. I found odd jobs that helped me get small amounts of money—just enough to eat. Sometimes, my parents and sister sent me a little money, though what I really needed was for them to step up and help me find a real lawyer. But I accepted what little they sent, because

I had no choice.

I had yet to reclaim the most minimal self-love that would have caused me to be outraged by the breadcrumbs that my family was offering.

At night, I noticed that some of Duke’s libraries stayed open 24 hours. One of them had a computer lab next to a quiet room with couches. I started sneaking in, napping there when I could. But it was never real sleep—just a restless, uneasy dozing, my body always tense. What if someone found me?

What if I was thrown out? I was in my 30s, but I wasn’t a student. I was homeless.

The uncertainty of the trial loomed over me, a shadow stretching into every part of my life. I was terrified.

Wearing a Lifetime of Toxic Shame

What I was experiencing wasn’t just about this moment—it was about a lifetime of being made to feel wrong.

I had grown up in a toxic family, where I was cast as the scapegoat. No matter what I did, I was the problem, the burden. The one who was too sensitive. The one who made things difficult.

It was only later, after everything, that I came across a book that made me understand: Adult Survivors of Toxic Family Members by Sherrie Campbell. It described exactly what I had lived through. The way narcissistic families paint themselves as saints while blaming the scapegoat for everything wrong. How they turn the victim into the villain. How they make sure the scapegoat never truly feels like they belong.

I had escaped it for a time. First, in college, where I built friendships that gave me my first taste of real validation. Then, with Celta and Lynn, I had found love—love that made me feel worthwhile.

But then I lost Lynn. And the world took everything away from me. And now, I was back in the role they had always cast me in.

I was the scapegoat. And this time, the world wasn’t just shaming me—it was trying to destroy me.

I carried that shame everywhere, like a second skin or a shroud.

A Family That Left Me to Rot

I was angry—so angry.

Because I knew. I knew that if something serious happened to my brother or my sister, the family would rally. They always had. I had seen it firsthand.

But when it came to me?

I was an afterthought.

It was a cruel, maddening contradiction—the source of my deepest confusion and my deepest pain. On one hand, I was fed the words, We love you.

You’re part of the family. On the other, they stood by and watched me drown, offering nothing but silence.

I didn’t want to see it for what it was. I couldn’t. So I gaslit myself, twisting their indifference into something that resembled care. I clung to the scraps of their attention, desperate to believe that they loved me, that I mattered to them. Because facing the truth—that I was truly alone—was a horror I wasn’t ready for.

But the cracks had been there for years. I just hadn’t wanted to look.

The Call That Changed Everything

My brother. John.

There was a time when he was my best friend. The bond between us felt solid—something that would never break. We laughed together, celebrated holidays together, shared memories that felt unshakable. I had no reason to believe anything had changed.

But it had.

One Christmas visit home, I met my niece Emily for the first time. She was shy at first, peeking at me from behind the couch. But as the night went on, she began to warm up, her tiny hand finding its way into mine.

I was charmed by her innocence—until she said something that sent a chill through me.

I noticed a mark near her eye. Gently, I asked, “What happened?”

Without hesitation, she answered. “Your brother did that.”

Not Dad. Not my father. She said, Your brother.

It was so small—a detail that might have slipped past me. But it didn’t. And then, I saw it with my own eyes.

Later that night, I witnessed my brother’s temper erupt. He grabbed Emily Whealton, my neice, lifted her off the floor, and shoved her against the wall. The thud, her small cry—it’s burned into me.

My blood ran cold. I had to report the suspected abuse of Emily Whealton by John Stephen Whealton. It was up to the people at Child Protective Services to determine whether John Stephen Whealton was abusing his children or not. It was not my job to make that determination.

The Consequence of Doing the Right Thing

I made the call.

Child Protective Services. Because that’s what you do. That’s what we swore to do as social workers—err on the side of the child. Report suspected abuse. Not judge, not decide—just report.

I wasn’t the enemy. I was the protector.

But to my family, I became something else entirely.

The police came. And with them, the family’s mask slipped. They closed ranks—not around Emily, but around John. It was a “private family matter,” they said. I was a traitor. The police, failing to uphold my anonymity, let everyone know who had made the call.

And just like that, I was cut off. 

John Stephen Whealton, my own brother, didn't want to clear his name in my eyes. So, it seemed that he was fine with the label of child abuser.

Gaslight and Silence

John at least had the decency to make his feelings clear—We’re done. And we were. Forever.

But my parents and my sister? They never said those words. There was no confrontation. No fallout. Just… nothing.

And that was worse.

Because everything they did—or rather, everything they didn’t do—was cloaked in this cruel ambiguity. There were no accusations. No fights. Just a quiet, chilling absence where care should have been.

And through it all, they still sent mixed signals—birthday cards, the occasional phone call, just enough to keep me doubting myself. I told myself, If they hated me, they wouldn’t reach out at all, right?

But when disaster struck me—when I was brutalized, arrested, thrown into a nightmare—I discovered the truth.

There was no rallying around me.

No lifeline.

No questions. No concern.

The Disaster They Ignored

When I lost Lynn—my wife in every way that mattered—it felt like my world had collapsed. My career had been ripped from me. I was drowning in grief, homelessness, and injustice.

But it wasn’t just hardship. It was catastrophe. The kind that levels a life.

The kind where you reach out—not for a handout, but for human connection. For family.

And I had none.

They could have done so much. It didn’t even have to be money—though my grandparents' house, sitting unused and empty nearby, could have been a refuge from homelessness. Of course, I was not thinking about that at the time.

I needed to believe that they cared because I had no one else. I also didn’t have any self-worth or self-love. Not yet.

But no.

No visit. No phone call. No lawyer. No belief.

No love.

The True Face of Gaslighting

And here’s where the madness of it all becomes clear.

I never once heard, We’re angry at you for what you did to John. They never connected their betrayal to anything I had done.

On the surface, everything seemed fine—We love you, we care about you, you’re family.

But their actions—or their silence—told the truth.

That’s the thing about gaslighting: it doesn’t have to be words. Sometimes, it’s the absence of words. The void. The unbearable dissonance between what you’re told and what you live.

And when you live in that space long enough, you lose yourself. You question every instinct. You start to believe that maybe you’re the problem.

The Hardest Truth

It wasn’t the abandonment that shattered me the most. It was the coldness.

Because even if they had said:
“You broke our trust.”
“You hurt the family.”
“We can’t forgive you.”

At least that would have been real.

But there was no anger. Just absence.

I wasn’t even worth hating.

And when you’re left with that, how can you not believe—deep in your bones—that you are worthless?

The Final Question

I was left to rot.

Not because they couldn’t help.

But because they chose not to.

So tell me…

If your own family won’t stand by you—who will?

The Trial That Hung Over Me Like a Death Sentence

Every second outside of jail was spent in the waiting. Waiting for my name to be called in court. Waiting to find out if my life would be destroyed.

I spent my days playing mental chess, reliving every moment, trying to understand how this had happened. How Ana had set this trap so perfectly.

How she knew that all she had to do was say something, and the system would make it true.

And I wondered—how much more of my life would they take? Would I ever get a job again? Would anyone ever love me again? Would I ever get to be me again?

Or had the system already decided that I didn’t matter?

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. 

Way back in the Introduction to this book, I mentioned that I had been suicidal. It would take that experience in 2019 to allow me to tell this story. 

I kept thinking about the loss of hope for me. It was December 11, 2019, when suicide became the only idea that was on my mind. As Anne Sexton said in 'Wanting to Die,' 

"But suicides speak in a special language
Like carpenters, they want to know which tools
They never ask why build." 

I was no longer asking why build. I had the clearest sense of purpose in my life. I didn't want anyone to know what I was going to do. The tools were pills... either that or a slip noose that I would have to hang somewhere. On this particular night, my planning was not clear. I had started drinking rum, a good enough alcoholic beverage to help me get the nerve up to do this. 

I had spoken to lawyers from the Pre-Paid Legal law firm about how there was a story on the web that showed up at the top of the results when you googled my name. John Freifeld, who had it in for me and who was described in another book by me, had reposted the article in the paper that characterized me as the perpetrator of a violent crime. 

"There is nothing that can be done now," they said. It seemed like they were speaking about my fate and all my hopes and dreams. My thinking wasn't entirely clear but I heard that there was nothing that could be done. I was looking for a way to challenge the conviction but the way I was coerced into letting my lawyer enter a plea deal and the statute of limitations stood in the way of everything.

Dear reader, do you care to know what it is for which nothing can be done? Do you care? As I write this my mind drifts back to these moments on December 11, 2019. I have not met some of my current friends. So, my perception of the world during this time is that it is exceedingly dark, cold, and devoid of human compassion. 

This is the true story that an editor for a horror magazine didn't want me to write. The editor thought I was giving a green light to suicide and so I was encouraged to write something different. 

To be honest, people are still wanting me to write something different. Or they want me to think and do things differently. They make arguments that they cannot defend because they are not me and they have not seen what I have seen. It seems that they would prefer not to look and that is fine. Yet, do you want to cheer me up or persuade me without listening to me?

Anyway, it's December 11 and I am now taking the pills. 

Oh, I need to tell my ex-wife how sorry I am for inviting her to come to America. She was going to be a doctor and would have been a doctor and perhaps living a happy life in Iran. 

Let's see if I can explain to Elee how bad I feel. I begin the text with an apology for what she gave up to be with me.  I am explaining how she will find out that I am not alive any longer. 

She won't find this out until after I am dead. 

My planning was not so good as I did this. Before I knew it I heard a knock at the door. It was the police. I rambled on a bit about what had happened to me many years ago and how it wasn't possible now that anything can be done to remedy this problem. This isn't the best strategy if one really wants to die. Maybe I was ambivalent. 

Maybe part of me wanted to believe that something could be done. 

This was before I saw the TV movie about Ted Bundy entitled "Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile." Maybe you, dear reader, will understand in the reading of this story that what Ana did to me was extremely wicked, shockingly evil, and vile. For to destroy the life, the hopes and dreams of someone for as long as they will live is an act that is evil beyond imagination. 

I had been victimized by Ana who physically attacked me in a brutal and bloody assault years ago but her greatest and most vile deed was to lie and tell the police that I attacked her. My belief was that no one understood this deed to be vile and shockingly evil and that is why I was suicidal. I also was terrified of the very notion that anyone would EVER make a connection between violence/attack as an action I would ever do... and that others wouldn't trust me. 

[As an aside, after working for over a year on the Mobile Crisis Unit at Freedom House, in 2023, when my supervisor suggested that I might consider opportunities at a specific local company. I asked if she knew about what I had to disclose in getting this job and how it affected my employment at that company, 16 years after the fact. When she heard about me being accused and charged with a violent crime, she was shocked and could not believe it, saying, "you and violence do not go together." ... adding that she would fight before she would imagine me doing so. 

[Getting back to the narrative of my despair and suicidal thoughts in 2019...]

The feeling of not being understood made me want to die. That might seem strange but a child will experience a failure to thrive and can die if there is no human connection. I was feeling these same things before and for a while after my failed suicide attempt. 

I sat in the Emergency Department thinking of things that I would tell the people from the psychiatry department when they come. I had worked in this capacity myself years ago. I had been asked to evaluate if a person is indeed an ongoing suicide risk. So, I knew how to persuade them that I was not suicidal. 

If people keep finding out that I am suicidal they will keep trying to stop me. That won't work so well. Hanging myself would have been more certain to achieve my goal. I wasn't sure how to pull that off, though. 

When the lady spoke to me, a psychiatric resident, I said that what I took would not kill me. It wasn't a lethal dose. I wasn't explaining the part that I hadn't yet gotten to that point. I was reasoning that someone like me would know what a lethal dose was and that she would know that what they discovered in my blood was not a lethal dose. 

So, we can just send me home, right?

Nope. She announced the words I had used years earlier. I hadn't wanted anyone I met in the Emergency Room to die. I had believed that there was always hope and that I could help with emotional distress. 

This was before the entire incident in 2004 when I was victimized and then told year after year for the next 15 years that nothing could be done.

Nothing can be done. Deal with it! That's what I was doing. Part of me wanted to ask someone if they would understand why I was doing this and wouldn't it be an act of mercy to let me die? 

I understand this is a hard sell. But if nothing can be done? Don't you get it? Injustice affects every aspect of my life. And it's not I that will bring up the topic. Should I seek volunteer opportunities and jobs, they will do a background check, and it will appear that I was the perpetrator when in fact I was the victim.

And nothing can be done. 

By Friday evening, I was being checked into the Neuroscience Unit of the University of North Carolina Hospital in Chapel Hill. 

I had a mixture of feelings. I remember restlessness. I was pacing constantly. I was shy and didn't want to stand out and get the attention of others or to be noticed. It was just embarrassing to be walking past the nursing station or using the hallways on the unit for pacing/exercise to try to cope with the anxiety and restlessness that I was feeling.

No, exercise was not a sign that I had hopes and plans for a healthy future. It was the weekend and not much in the way of activities were ongoing over the weekend. They had some groups and there were times when all the patients came out and socialized. 

I would come to realize later that I was more sociable than I had imagined. 

When I met with the doctors over the weekend, I didn't try to offer them an excuse as to why I should be released right away. 

The darkness of my mind began to take hold of my thoughts. I couldn't sleep. I was too restless. I was sitting in front of the nurse's station at one of the tables where the people sit for any of the three daily meals. 

Whatever flicker of hope might have crossed my mind over the weekend was fading. I was thinking "no one can change my situation." 

No one can help me. 

My ex-wife, Elee was the one who called 911. She didn't want me to die and she had been angry that I did what I did. She understood why I did it, though, or why I was feeling the way that I was feeling. I had explained that a lawyer had conveyed that no lawyer could possibly help me. That nothing could be done. 

Nothing could be done. This is why I was there! This is why I was suicidal. Because nothing could be done and very few people understood what this meant to me and for me. Some have had the gall to suggest that there are more evil forms of injustice and those people don't ever get justice. To this day some people will make that same argument that demonstrates a lack of understanding about how I got to where I was in the first place. 

Getting back to my story, it's Monday morning as the hour has just past midnight. I am contemplating suicide. 

Someone Saved My Life

Something amazing happened to make it possible for me to bring this story to you. It was Monday, December 16, 2019, and someone saved my life tonight. Let me tell you how someone saved my life. Then we will see how that relates to love, kindness, nurturance, compassion, and empathy.

I was in the hospital at the University of North Carolina Medical Center in the psychiatric unit. I had meant to end my life a few days ago. My ex-wife found out because I told her. I had expected that it would be too late when she got the message.

On this Monday morning just after midnight, I was absolutely convinced that nothing can be done to change my circumstances and that there is no hope. I knew that I would be released soon and then I wouldn’t fail in my next suicide attempt. Visions of a slip noose swings in my mind along with other ideas – pills.

I can’t sleep. I’m restless… sitting in a large, darkened room just past midnight – a common room. The hospital is quiet. 

My ex-wife had been angry that I considered suicide, but she understood why I had been that desperately depressed. Yes, I have been through hell but that was in the past. This is not about past pain. That doesn’t matter. No one can help remedy the situation because no one understands. 

This is what was going through my mind when this girl came out. 

“You can’t sleep either?” she asks and takes a seat next to me to talk. A simple question that started a process that made this book possible!

This is interesting… because for some reason, I am thinking that I should tell her my story. I have no idea where that idea arose. I am listening to her. I remember her name is Kirra. No, I’m not going to tell you her last name or why she was there. Confidentiality is important. 

She seemed at the time to be drawing a story out of me. I felt compassion and empathy for her situation as well. There is something about the problems she has been facing that reminds me of someone who was very special in my life in the past. I can’t say what that is because it would reveal something about her that should not be made public with this book.     

I felt an overwhelming need to tell her how I had been harmed in the past. I told her how I had been victimized by a woman who brutally attacked me and then lied and said that I attacked her!  And if that lie was not bad enough, she said I tried to undress her which meant that I was charged with a sexual offense! 

I explained how I would NEVER do anything to hurt someone. I was a therapist who understood how traumatic events affect people. And in fact, dear reader, you will see this when I show it to you throughout this book. 

She said, “I believe you, one hundred percent.” She had demonstrated understanding of what I had been feeling – empathy.

My first reaction was a thought that floated through my mind, “of course you do… what person who has spent any time at all with me would think I would harm a person.”  That is what I was thinking.   

I had held the weight of this pain for more than a decade and a half. I held it almost all alone. I asked questions about how it is that we come to know these things about a person. Indeed, there are subtle cues or clues that we pick up that tell us about danger. She used the word “vibes.” 

She seemed like she wanted to help me and to be my friend. She was much younger than me, so I wasn’t thinking in romantic terms about this friendship. She just said she wanted me to join her and sit with her at breakfast in the morning and at other meals. Love takes many forms.

She also understood why events from the past did have a tremendous impact on my life in the present. I had described my passion for helping others and working as a therapist… and working in the mental health/psychiatric field. 

I wondered why this wasn’t so clear to everyone. 

My plans to end my life suddenly evaporated. I had hungered for this as truly as we can be starving for food or air! 

I came alive. So much more was offered to the patients on the unit during the week. I arrived on Friday night and there were not many therapy groups over the weekend. I started connecting with others during therapy groups, at meals, and as we, the patients, socialized.

 It was a transformative experience. The world had seemed like a very dark and cold place devoid of human compassion, but I was observing how caring people here were. I’m talking about the other patients that I was meeting. 

A couple of days later, we were asked to pick a feeling word to describe how we feel or what we were experiencing. For some reason, I chose to use words like “outsider,” “alone,” “unnoticed,” and “invisible.”

The response from the group caused my jaw to drop. I was told that I was actually like a “social butterfly.”  That I had been at the center of all the action. Another person said I persuaded and encouraged him to come to the group. 

Indeed, this was a transformative experience. I had been noticing others and listening to them. I had encouraged someone to come to the “group” because I was concerned and also, I felt that it works better if we can be there together for each other.

There was one other important and memorable event. Some of us were watching Law & Order: SVU. There was an episode that portrayed a teacher who loved teaching children who were falsely accused of sexually molesting one or more children. The visceral pain of this was exquisite. As someone who worked as a clinical social worker, I could recognize that pain from the way it was portrayed to the way we think about having that happen to us or another person.

I wanted to tell some others the experience I had and how I had been harmed by a lie of this nature. I approached two people who stepped out during a commercial break, and I said I wanted to share something with them.

I explained how I had been falsely accused and falsely convicted. By that time, they knew that I had worked as a therapist. They knew how much I loved that kind of work or those kinds of activities and experiences. 

Beginning with Kirra and then with others I was telling my story and finding the support that I had needed for so long. I had tried to carry this burden all alone and now I was finding opportunities to unburden myself of this exquisite pain. They and others in the hospital, patients, and staff showed love, compassion, and empathy which is precisely what motivated me to go into psychiatric social work.

So, many people would tell me that the terrible events were in the past and that I shouldn’t let it bother me now. I shouldn’t dwell on the past.

Excuse my language dear reader, but that is such bullshit! The lies of that woman who attacked me in 2004 – the false accusations, the false conviction – affect every aspect of my life in the here and now. Those lies are etched into stone metaphorically speaking. Before we talk more about love and empathy let me add a few points. Bear with me just a moment.

The pernicious lie suggests that people should worry about did or might do in the future. It’s on a North Carolina Public Safety website. This is the modern equivalent of something being etched in stone.

The criminal record presents me as the perpetrator of the crime, but it has no basis in reality. I had been the victim! It’s still out there and I had been told by a law firm that there was no hope for me that I would ever get justice… When I heard that cold statement from a lawyer that no one could do anything, I didn’t hear the full story. I just heard no one can do anything – there was no hope!

You may disagree strongly with my choice to try to end my life in 2019 but ironically that was the only way that I was able to have this transformative experience. The world had seemed to be dark, cold, and devoid of caring people… devoid of compassion and empathy. The empathy, love, compassion, I developed over a lifetime would not be available to anyone were it not for what started with “a story.”

So, that’s what I am giving to you as a gift – a story.

Over the next year I continued to write “my story” and this is what you are reading now. I hope you understand, dear reader, why abstract ideas and platitudes are not every helpful to me. When I hear “things are going to be okay” said to me without first acknowledging the pain and without pragmatic statements about how things are going to be okay, I just think you are not offering empathy and compassion. 

In my life experience, I have learned how to specifically figure out what a person needs or desires. I have learned to understand how that changes from moment to moment. I have learned how to recognize needs, things that we hunger for and desires almost instantly. 

This is how I act from a place of love!

As a psychotherapist, I have developed certain instincts that are almost like common sense for me now. I would NEVER imagine telling a client or a patient what I think is good or a good life. I learned about active listening.

I would argue that love can be a quality that is the foundation of all societies and all people everywhere in one form or another. A psychotherapist or psychologist might use the word unconditional positive regard.

Certain social workers will speak of social justice because we recognize what happens to people and how they feel, how they experience life when it is lacking. That’s empathy.

True empathy, true love, and true compassion reject ideas like “nothing can be done” or “that’s just the way it is.” That’s injustice. 

Love comes in many forms though. A mother and father's love are demonstrated in the way they nurture a child. I know I didn’t have that growing up. So, I hungered for it. 

I found love either from my cousins and my aunt growing up or later from friends and those in which I fell in love. 

Love was never something I knew from my family of origin. Neither did they know empathy or compassion. My effort to find it in them nearly cost me my life. I was only looking for love, empathy and compassion from my sister Carrie and my parents Bruce Whealton Sr. and Kathleen Whealton. 

So, if not from my family of origin…

I found love through Celta first, a friend and more. Then I found love in my relationship with Lynn – we lived as husband and wife for many years. I found love from my dear friend Thomas Childs Jr. 

I had been victimized and didn't even defend myself. Yet, I was the one convicted of a violent crime. I was the victim of a brutal and bloody assault where I did no wrong.

That was the end of my normal life and all the hope that I had ever had in life. I believed that my life was over, and I would only live a wretched existence with no hope of any future.  

It was Edmund Burke who said at the time the US was being formed into a nation that the only thing required for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.  

I would argue that a person who doesn’t respond to the pleas of a victim is not good. That is so much eviler when it involves your own family!

To have maintained a relationship with them after this was a sign of my inability to act with love for myself or with self-compassion. By maintaining a relationship with my parents and siblings after this, I disrespected and dishonored myself. 

I would NEVER forgive anyone who did such a thing to anyone else. It was evil, pure and simple. They had known the nature of my character and had admitted later that I am a good person and that they never thought I was guilty of what I was accused of doing.

It was evil, pure, and simple as far as I am concerned!

They had been doing me wrong repeatedly over and over for going on six years when this plea deal went into effect. They also didn't speak up and say "oh, you should appeal it, let's get you a lawyer." I have heard of parents who make it their mission to save their adult children who are falsely accused of crimes.  

My so-called family, my now ex-family, did nothing! That sickens me and a quote I heard somewhere comes to mind, “I hate them with the burning hot passion of a thousand suns!”

Until I found I could be indifferent toward them. I have gone “no contact” which is a strategy I heard for dealing with narcissists.

I would be hard-pressed to find anything good or redeeming about them, now.  

I was struggling with this and my finances in March of 2020 when I called the Catholic Social Ministries. I needed help with rent, and they were listed as a community resource for this.

I spoke to the lady who ran the social ministries there, Mary Ellen McGuire, and she said, "Can I pray for something for you?"  

I didn't really answer because I wasn't much of a believer after everything I had experienced. I had once believed. I had prayed so desperately when I was in such desperate need of comfort. From the depths of my soul, I had prayed repeatedly over and over many times per day when I was in jail for seven months. I had said, "My God, you know I am the victim and I need help. Please help me!"  But I got no aid.  

This was going through my mind.

I heard Mary Ellen ask again, "Is there something I could mention in prayer for you?"

I said, "You know, I was raised Catholic. I used to go to church until recently. I always lived my life according to the highest morals. I NEVER harmed anyone, ever! Yet, I had everything taken from me and every hope of happiness."

"I loved helping others and I worked as a psychotherapist. It was so amazing to be able to help others who were suffering from emotional pain. In a world that makes sense, I would be of great value. But years ago, there was something bad that happened. I was falsely accused and convicted of a violent crime. Me! I have NEVER acted even remotely aggressive in my entire lifetime. Now, they say it's too late to get justice or to clear my name."

I continued, "You know, I studied the Bible and the book of Job. Job had it better than me. In that story, it is revealed in the end that he wasn't being punished for some wrong that he did. You could say his innocence had been revealed. He was vindicated."

"For me, there is something called a statute of limitations. I was supposed to have appealed the plea arrangement back when I was in a very dark place and all alone."

I added, "and my own family abandoned me and didn't do anything."  

She then said, "well, Jesus never got justice. He was never vindicated. He died yet he did no wrong."

Wow, I could agree with that from a historical perspective. I could relate too. Jesus went around healing people. 

I said, "I actually had thought about that before. Thank you for reminding me."

The imagery of the cross is about the idea of someone who has done no wrong facing a shameful crucifixion.   

The first books of the "New Testament" - the gospels - end with a good person being executed. There was no stay of execution at the last moment with the truth setting Jesus free.  

The friends of Jesus faced execution if they were associated with him when he was arrested. Those who abandoned me, the woman who gave birth to me, the sister who claimed to love me, faced no such threat to their well-being.  

My entire future was on the line and I was thrown out into the cold streets and without a home. They didn't even give me warmth or shelter during those years.  

I met someone who was assigned to be a peer support person in my recovery from mental illness last year. He kept insisting I needed to find a "higher power." I protested saying that I do not believe in such foolish ideas.  

I said it would be a miracle if I got justice for a crime that happened sixteen years ago way past the statute of limitations. "If that happens, I'll believe," I said to shut him up.  

He was insisting that God would or could not do anything for me now. What? Your god can reanimate a dead body, bring someone back from the dead but that same God cannot inspire and touch the hearts and minds of people. That god cannot persuade people.

That makes no sense to me. Why would you believe that the God of Easter can raise a person from the dead and all it takes for justice is to persuade others to recognize the truth and embrace justice. 

When I was a believer, I heard that God is all about justice. This would be the most obvious and pertinent thing on the list of things that God would want to do.  

It doesn't matter how much time has passed or other difficulties. For God, all things are possible. This is certainly less complicated than creating a universe and raising a man from the dead.

This individual who said I should believe in a higher power was part of Alcoholics Anonymous or Narcotics Anonymous. I asked for a different peer support person to be assigned to me.

Mary Ellen McGuire sent me a book called "Everyone Has Someone to Forgive."  She understood how seemingly impossible it was for me to forgive my family. In sending this book to me she respected and recognized that a great wrong had been done on their part by their betrayal.

I have a takeaway from my present insights. We do not contemplate forgiving those people who mean nothing to us. We just don’t think about them because other things are on our minds.

That is where we are as I am about to wrap up my autobiography.

Dear reader, if you are feeling overwhelmed by everything that has happened over the past dozen or more chapters then you know what it was like for me. There seemed to be no end and no limit to the depths of suffering I was experiencing.  

I had lost the love of my life. I had lost my home. I had lost my career. Most of that happened in one month - August of 2000. Then in March of 2001, I had to surrender my clinical Social Work license.  

I saved for this chapter the details about how the case of the false allegation by John Freifeld that I had made harassing phone calls was resolved. The lawyer who appealed the case was able to get the phone records for one of the two days that I was alleged to have called Freifeld on five separate times. He got the records for the day before and after just for good measure. It proved that I had never called Freifeld. I knew that was what would be found. So, we could prove that it was a lie. Right?

 Wrong. For some reason, my lawyer couldn't get phone records for the other day that I was supposed to have called Freifeld. It was within a week of the other day so that made no sense. While it was a minor misdemeanor, it's the principle of the matter. It was wrong. 

My lawyer said the infamous words "the truth doesn't matter, only what you can prove." I had thought that we were innocent until proven guilty.

Can you believe that? Someone can make stuff up about you and force you to spend a month of your life in jail on a lie. You will recall the humiliating way in which I was brought to Wilmington from Durham. In a cage with chains on me! Like I was a wild and dangerous animal!  If you have read this far into this book you probably know that I am about as dangerous as a fluffy bunny or a butterfly.  

Then I was back in Durham trying to put my life back together, little by little, and this happened in October of 2004. This was the kidnapping of Bruce Whealton by the state. The name of my attacker was Ana, she was the landlord's wife, Jimmy's wife.  

This was a form of prolonged and seemingly never-ending suffering of biblical proportions. 

I felt like I was experiencing shell shock. Literally.  

If you are wondering what else happened during these four years from late 2000 through my victimization at the hands of Ana, there is not much to tell other than what I said. A bad nightmare of being profoundly depressed, without hope, poor and homeless. It was just a blur. I am not saying I have amnesia, but it is now very much a blur.

I cannot even remember 9/11 as a significant day! That is how overwhelmed I was.  

It was October of 2004, and despite having done no wrong to anyone and having led a good life, always treating others with kindness and compassion, I found myself abandoned and in jail. Also, it should have been obvious that I was the victim here. My victimization was written in blood on the clothes that were still down in a locker room at the jailhouse – they would stay there from the day of my arrest until May when I got out.

When you get assigned a court-appointed lawyer, they take their sweet time coming to visit you. My lawyer didn't seem to care about me at all or how I was doing. I would write to him frequently, but it was close to impossible to get an appointment with him. I saw him over the next few months once and I saw someone else from the public defender's office just once. Each time it was for not more than fifteen minutes.  

This was extremely terrifying for me. I was placed for a while in the general population. I met people who were guilty of real crimes, violent crimes. I met someone who had been on death row. I didn't feel safe. The guards seemed to have no compassion for individuals who might be innocent and are supposed to be considered innocent until proven guilty.  

My body was reacting in strange ways to this captivity. I was having panic attacks where I would feel overwhelmed by surges of adrenaline. Thinking I was going to die. Feeling short of breath. I would push the button in my cell as a way to cry out to see a doctor or nurse, but no one cared. At least no one cared for a good long time until they put me into protective custody.  

I also discovered new things about my gender and how we think of gender. The first signs of that were in jail. I met a very effeminate person who went by the name Lulu. She was born male but identified as female.

She was an African American woman who was born a man. I am sure she had male genitalia. I didn't care.

She was very kind and sweet to me. I needed to be close to someone. No, you don't get that much privacy in the Durham County jail... nothing remotely intimate happened. Not physically intimate.

I thought she was attractive though. I only remember noticing her legs and her face.

While I did find some comfort and humanity from Lulu, there was no way to change the reality of what was happening to me. My entire life hung in the balance. I was terrified every moment of every day.

I had reached out to my so-called family from the depths of my pain and desperation. Surely, a mother would be moved by the unjust suffering of her firstborn son. For reasons I will never understand, nor can I forgive, both parents abandoned their own flesh and blood - they abandoned the son who shared the same name as his father - I am Bruce Martin Whealton Jr and he is Sr. 

I spent seven months in jail! Seven nightmarish months.

Despite my desperate pleas, my family lacked human compassion and empathy. What little capacity they once had for somewhat normal human emotions had died. My sister also could have done something. They all had the means to rescue me. They knew just how horrifying this was, and yet they did NOTHING! 

It would be literally impossible for me to not act to hire a lawyer and free my siblings or a parent, or even a son or daughter if I had one.

They didn't even come to visit me! That is an act of evil in the faith in which they raised me. It is a mortal sin!

Their capacity for ignoring the pain of someone they were supposed to love knew no limits or bounds. 

I don't know why I expected them to act like real human beings. They had been demonstrating their inhumanity for a long time now - since Lynn got sick in August of 2000.  

Years later, my second wife said that you don't treat your enemies that way! That's true. Their actions were evil!

The faith in which I was raised does not allow for us to act this way. Everything about how they acted over these years goes against everything I was taught as a Christian. I have since metaphorically divorced myself from them. They are my ex-family. 

I had kept in touch from time to time with my sister. She said she and our parents (my ex-parents) knew I was innocent of everything I was ever accused of doing. That wasn’t surprising, actually.

I know that I did not deserve this to happen to me. 

My so-called family could not even be bothered to bring me clothes to wear when I was released from jail.  

I was released finally, in May, to await the trial.

I moved to Chapel Hill where it was safer. I was staying in the homeless shelter.  After my release, I met with my lawyer for thirty minutes, if that. My lawyer had told me that I would sit on the stand and tell my story and that no one in the jury would believe that I was capable of doing what I was accused of doing. That was the plan.

He said he knew I was innocent. He should have known I was the victim too. I had asked him if he could test the bloody clothing that I had been wearing. He said that since I wore it outside of jail after I was released this could not be done to help my case. 

He had seven months to do something like this! I had written to him countless times when I was in jail.

A Guilty Plea for the Victim

I called my lawyer on a day in March of 2006 and he told me to come to court immediately. He didn't say why. I got on a bus and rushed there. I didn't want to make my case any worse than it was.  

My attacker should be the one going to prison. Ana should be in prison for what she did. 

I was out of breath when I arrived in front of the courtroom. My lawyer was there, and the prosecutor saw me for the first time. You might think she would look at me and drop the whole case, laughing - I looked so pitiful and small.

My lawyer scared me, telling me that I would spend 10 years in jail if I didn't take a plea. I was in total shock. What was the big rush? Why was he telling me this in the hall outside the courtroom? 

He could have at least told me something before I headed to court!

My lawyer insisted that I knew this was coming and that I knew what I was looking at if I was found guilty. That is patently false. He had never discussed anything like that.  

He previously had told me to expect a trial. He also never hinted at the punishment that might come out of the matter. NEVER! It remained as some abstract idea that hung over me like a shroud for nearly two years.

He had promised that a jury of my peers would see the truth and free me. Then I would pursue justice against Ana - the perpetrator!

He knew that I was not only innocent but a victim according to his own prior statement to me. 

One usually thinks that a person chooses to take a plea. This implies some time to think about the matter and contemplate the decision. I was still winded. I was hardly in my right mind. The last thing they wanted was for me to think about anything.

I walked down the aisle to stand in front of the judge. He began to speak. He asked if I was satisfied with my legal representation. This was my chance to protest this farce. I began to talk but my soft voice only managed to say, "I don't know."

The reality of what was happening began to settle in and I wanted out of this. I don't think the judge was picking up on what I was trying to tell him. My voice was soft as a mouse. I was scared, I had no allies. I couldn't get enough air to vocalize my words clear enough to be heard and understood.

I have seen on TV shows and movies where they ask the defendant if they are on drugs that might impair one's judgment when entering into a plea deal or if a person had a mental illness that would impair that ability to enter into a plea deal.

I would have answered that "yes I am on mind-altering drugs" though they were prescribed and "yes, I am suffering from a mental illness that would impair my judgment."  I was suffering from anxiety, major depression, and post-traumatic stress disorder. “So, I am not competent to be entering into a plea deal.”

That’s what I would have said.

I had been traumatized by the entire matter that resulted in me standing in front of a judge on this particular day in my life history up to this point. 

The judge asked if I was in fact guilty. I said, "Well, that's what my lawyer told me to say for the purpose of this plea deal but... " I was trying to explain. 

Sometimes on courtroom shows, they depict a person elocuting to the “crime.” That means they say what happened. 

Had anyone asked me to say what happened on that October day in 2004, this would not be the culmination of a plea deal. I would have described how I had been brutally attacked in my home resulting in every item of clothing being soaked in blood all the way down to my socks and sneakers. It would have been a statement of my victimization and my inability to even defend myself.

But no one was concerned about what really happened. They wanted this wrapped up before the real victim, who was being treated like the perpetrator had a chance to think about what is happening and what he is doing.  

Guilt was an abstract term. No one in that courtroom heard anything resembling the truth as to what happened back in October of 2004. What I mean is that in no way did we talk about the events in question.

No one cared what really happened.  

My fate and future were sealed. All hope is gone.

Please, dear reader, let me imagine you are with me as I tell my horror story and try to imagine the comfort that I need when I am so scared like now.

Within just more than an hour, with the sun getting low now, the police showed up again. The most disturbing nightmare of my life was about to begin. My attacker had done a larger and far more sinister evil than brutally attacking me and leaving me literally covered in blood. 

I noticed lights outside.

Then there was a female police officer in the doorway next to the stairway that led to the second floor. It was a warm day, this October 15th of 2004.  

I heard something repeated on the police radio that a woman had been sexually assaulted out here!

What! Oh, my God!

This is not happening!  No, no, no.no.  

The police were just here. They knew what happened. They witnessed the extensive nature of my injuries.  

It had not occurred to me that this would be hard to believe.

Time moved at an excruciatingly slow pace. I was waiting to speak to someone and clear all this up. Surely, they would know what had really happened. They had been out here just an hour earlier.  

The Inquisition, Torture, And Humiliation

Before I knew it, I was being put in a handcuff and put into a police car. I struggled to speak. My mouth was dry, and I could barely draw a breath. I wasn't sure my words were being heard when I said, "no, I was attacked."  

I was terrified beyond belief. I wasn't shaking but I was frozen. I felt dazed and confused. It seemed impossible.

Then I started to move from the frozen reaction of a trauma victim to the fight or flight stress response - a misnomer since neither fight nor flight was on my mind.

On the ride with the policeman next to me, my female friend called me. My hands were shaking as I tried to pick up the phone. My heart was beating so fast, and I was fumbling with the phone. My voice was shaking as I said “Hello,”

I began to explain what happened to me. I wanted the police officer to hear me and the sincerity of my words.  

I told her that I wanted to see her soon and that this will get all straightened out, but I didn't know about tomorrow. 

She was shocked herself. I can imagine her desperately out of words to say to comfort me. 

Choking on my tears I said, "I'm scared. I don't know how this happened to me."   

She knew a little about me and so she recognized the concern in my voice. I heard compassion in her voice as she said how sorry she was that this was happening to me.  

I then hung up the phone. I registered the fact that someone had said that she was the landlord's wife. The landlord who had evicted me recently.

The police officer had handcuffs on me and took me inside a police station. I saw the woman who attacked me inside the doorway, and I said, "she's the one who attacked me." 

I was still holding onto reality.

They sat me down outside a room somewhere. I was asked to wait. It didn't seem like anything was happening. I tried calling the pre-paid legal provider firm as I had maintained an account with them. I never imagined I would need it for a criminal matter.

They were not very much help. I couldn't process what was being explained to me.  

I had never imagined a scenario even remotely like this in my worst nightmares.  

I was naïve enough to still think that the police wanted to find out the truth.

We sat down in a room with them across a table from me. I re-enacted exactly what had happened with me going to the door of the room where I was with the police detectives and opening it to demonstrate what I had done and how said "I'm Bruce," and how before I knew what was happening, she was entering the room or apartment.

They didn't like that and so I tried to re-enact it again. I was confused as to what I had left out that they didn't like or wanted to hear.

They still didn't like what I explained.

I had no idea what they wanted to hear. I couldn't process the questions or make sense of anything. I was sitting in front of them covered in blood from face to feet and shoes. Every piece of clothing was soaked in blood. How is it even remotely possible that they didn't recognize this? Why were they treating me like a criminal in this matter? I was the victim.

Then they said that she was the landlord's wife and that her name was Ana.

I stated that I had briefly seen her with her husband in a pickup truck but that she had not left enough of an impression on me for me to recognize her when she showed up. 

One of the police officers was saying that I would not forget someone that attractive. I thought "what are you talking about? That woman we saw on the way in. You think she is pretty?"

She was like a frightening psychopath who had just brutalized me, and I doubted that at any time anyone would call her attractive. What they said made no sense to me.  

None of what they were saying made any sense. It wasn't like they were giving me any clues as to what she had said or what they thought happened. So, I could not possibly make them satisfied.

The time went on and on and I lost track of how much time had passed. It felt like something from a book by Franz Kafka - bizarre, surreal, and nightmarish. Why? Mainly because I was sitting in front of them clearly appearing as the victim. What could be more obvious? And they wouldn't tell me what they wanted to hear from me.

If you wanted a photograph of a victim, you could have photographed me at that moment.

I wondered what kind of people am I dealing with? Why are they doing this to me?

I had never even been in a fight in my entire life! I had NEVER done anything remotely aggressive. NOT EVER!  Can't they tell things like this? Doesn't their gut tell them when something is so obvious? Couldn't they contact someone to find out who I was?

I looked to them as authority figures who had control of everything so I wasn’t saying much of what was on my mind.

They then suggested that she was there and maybe things got out of hand. That made no sense. Got out of hand? What were they talking about? She had entered my home and brutalized me.

They should be going after building a case against the real perpetrator.  

I was still hoping against hope that they would see the light and realize that I was the victim. I naïvely believed they wanted to know the truth.

I had always seen the police are authority figures and protectors... people you could trust... To get it right. These two didn't seem to care at all about the truth or getting to know me at all.

I had been a therapist who helped victims. I would NEVER harm another person!  Wouldn't these facts about me show up somewhere when they look into my background?  

To make it even worse, now they were talking about something sexual happening. I just repeated that she attacked me, and I pulled her outside the room and called 911. 

I should have pointed out that their fellow officers had witness statements that supported everything I was saying… but I wasn’t thinking clearly now.

More time had passed but I was losing track of how much time had passed.

Then I heard one of them ask to speak to "Brucie."

I was speechless at first. This was a well thought out intricate plan. I had spoken to Jimmy, the landlord, and husband of my attacker. I remembered how I had discussed Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) and used the example where if I had DID, maybe one of my personalities might be named Brucie.

No, I don't have multiple personalities. I just had used that name as an example in a discussion with Jimmy, her husband. 

Logic and rational thinking had seemed to have left this interaction at some point – how long had passed, I don’t know. With the police, seeing them as authority figures you try to do whatever they want. I was thinking about what to do. By this point, I was so exhausted and overwhelmed that I would have pretended to be Mickey Mouse if they asked me.

I said "I'm Brucie" in a soft voice that a personality that was a child might have. It was just a last-ditch effort to make them happy.

I was still thinking that I could convince them to recognize that I was the victim and this entire game that they were playing was not worth it. I had no idea what they were getting out of this. My initial impression that the truth would emerge had evaporated. They weren't here for the truth. This was a bizarre game for them it seemed.  

When that didn't satisfy them, they showed me a statement that they wanted me to sign. I looked at what one of the police officers had written and I was shocked. He was asking me to sign a confession. I asked, "that's what you think happened?"

"I'm not signing that," I answered. "That didn't happen."

First, they brought me in front of a magistrate. I felt a feeling of horror, unlike anything I had ever experienced.

I think Stephen King once described terror as something akin to what one might feel running from danger. Horror was a feeling you get when your mind is taken to places that are unknown when the hair on the back of your neck rises and a chill runs up your spine.

I was the victim who was being put into jail!

I thought I would state that I was suicidal as a desperate cry for help. I wasn’t planning anything at this point nor was I processing these horrors.

I was stripped down and put into a strange outfit that I guess is for people who are suicidal. Then they took photos of me. I thought I was being taunted like Jesus had been before he was crucified.

I was being charged with second-degree kidnapping and second-degree sexual offense. This was so terrifying that I could not process the events that were transpiring.

The next day I saw what she had told them and what she had written in her "statement." 

Her claim was that I tried to undress her or pull off her pants. That's why I was charged with 2nd Degree Sexual Offense.

I was put into jail. 

The way she described it, I would have had to have been standing over her, which would have meant I would have gotten my blood all over her. That was clearly a lie. How could these so-called detectives have overlooked these details?

She also said "he kept switching" in her statement. Hence the question that they had for me - they had asked if they could speak to "Brucie."

What the heck does that even me, “he kept switching?” I can’t even imagine what that might look like. Even those with DID do not do things like that.

It was clear that this was a well-thought-out and planned scheme, but why had they done this?

They had drawn my blood at the hospital, and I thought it would be helpful to demonstrate that only my blood would be found anywhere. This would prove that I was the victim. Right?

The next day I was brought to court for the arraignment. I tried to tell the lawyer that was supposed to represent me that I was the victim and could she fix this NOW! She just said I should talk to the lawyer who will be assigned to the case later. 

Why couldn't SHE do something?

I desperately needed help and NOW!

I could not find a friendly and/or a safe face or voice for months after that.

I was alone and abandoned! I desperately prayed every day asking God to help me because God knows I was the victim, and I didn't deserve this.  

I felt utter desolation. This was the definition of hell on earth.

This is a very traumatic and disturbing story to tell. I want to imagine that you, dear reader, are with me and supportive of me as I tell this. This chapter is only the beginning of a terrifying event in my life. 

Victimization

As I said, there were things that were irreplaceable and of infinite value to me. I was scared by the sudden eviction and not yet having any arrangements for what to do with those things. 

Things like this happen and there are resources in the community to help people when they get behind on rent.  

What was about to happen to me was the darkest and most evil thing that any person could do to another person. The first part of the story may not seem like the most evil thing you have ever read because that will be revealed in the next chapter. 

It was Friday, October 15, 2004. I believe the date is October 15, 2004. I was planning for a yard sale the next day. I had lots of books. Someone I met at the homeless shelter was going to join me. She was a new friend. It's important to note that she was a black woman - this will be relevant in a moment.   

Books were stacked up all over the apartment - the single room apartment.

You couldn't get pizza delivered there because it was known to be a bad part of town. The only females that showed up there unaccompanied by someone good like me were prosecutes willing to sell their body for $10, which must have been the cost of a fix on crack.  

I had been mugged more than once walking down the street after dark. More than once. There were other times when the police had to come out there. Someone in the apartment across from mine almost got shot by another tenant.  

At about 5 PM, I was expecting my new friend to show up to prepare for tomorrow's yard sale. She was a very sweet person. I had met her at the homeless shelter but that doesn't mean she wasn't very intelligent, talented, or educated. I had been in the shelter, myself, or I was there for meals so one should not look down on anyone who finds themselves down and out. She was just a friend, though. I was still seeing Shonda. I wasn't in love with Shonda, but we were dating.

Because I was expecting someone, I left my door partially open so I could hear if anyone knocked on the front door to the building.  

I then heard someone say, "where's Bruce?"

I instantly turned in the direction of where I heard this and looked at the stairway that went toward the upstairs. A woman had walked partly up the stairs and was looking at Danny, one of the tenants. I had no idea who this woman was. She was white and about my height, perhaps in her mid-twenties.

Immediately after she heard me say "I'm Bruce," she moved without pausing and entered my apartment room. This happened so fast that I had no time to react and say, "who are you?" or to not let her enter my home. 

I stepped into the room behind her, and she then closed the door and locked it. This happened in a few split seconds. She then turned around and started to brutally and violently punch me in the face repeatedly. 

I was dazed and shocked. I staggered backward. There wasn't much room between the door and the couch where I fell.  

She shouted, "why do you keep calling me?"

I answered, "who are you?" with genuine shock in my voice. I was wondering who the heck was attacking me. And why was this happening? She was a total stranger. Everything happened so fast.  

I was hurting badly. Blood was pouring out of my nose and across my face almost immediately. Less than sixty seconds had passed.  

Was she high on drugs? I did not think that I had ever seen her before.  

She had invaded my home; my apartment and I had no idea why.  

Somehow, I managed to pull her toward the door. I had brought my hand to my face and noticed it was smeared with blood. As I pulled her toward the door, I left a blood-smeared thumbprint on the door frame. I then unlocked the door and got her outside. I wanted to establish safety from this crazy person so I could call 911.  

As I tried to shut the door, she was pushing to get back inside. I couldn't close the door. So, I reached my hand through to try to get her away from the door so I could call for help.

Finally, I got the door closed and locked. I picked up my phone and dialed 911.

Some of the guys who lived in the house were coming back from work at that time. 

I emerged from the room after realizing she was gone. There were three people in the hallway or on the stairs who looked with shock at just how badly I was bleeding.  

Someone asked if I knew her, and I said I had no idea who she was. I was told to go look in the bathroom at how bloody I was. I was shocked at how profusely I was bleeding all across my face. I wondered why I was not bruised as opposed to seeing my face sliced up like this.

Joachim, one of the other tenants asked me, "so, you don't know her from Adam?"

"No, I have no idea who she was," I answered.    

I didn't think to ask if any of them recognized her. I assumed they would have said so if they did.  

Someone asked me why I let her into my apartment. I said, "It happened so fast. I didn't have time to think. She just walked right into my room and then locked the door. What could I do? After she came down the stairs, she entered the apartment in a split second. I had the door open because I was expecting someone."  

I was wearing a fairly dark striped, green short sleeve shirt. It was covered in blood. I was wearing shorts and those were covered in blood as well. Even my socks and shoes were bloody.  

Within a few minutes, the police arrived in response to my 911 call. They were let in the front door to the building which is right next to my apartment. I heard them and stepped out to greet them.  

The first police officer held out his hand saying, "don't come too close."  I knew he didn't want to get my blood on him. I was still bleeding. Blood was all over the apartment.  

The police officers started taking witness statements. No one had any idea who she was nor had they seen her previously. I stated the same thing, that I had no idea who she was. I described exactly what happened and how it happened. At least they weren't chastising me for letting her enter my apartment. They seemed to understand that I was shocked and that everything happened too fast for me to react.   

I was asked if I wanted paramedics. I was in such a state of shock but even I knew that my injuries should be photographed. Surely, they had cameras to do this. Surely it was going to be necessary for the court to prosecute her for her crime.  

Then I heard a phone ringing in my room. I had not noticed previously that she was carrying a phone. I gave the phone to the police officers saying that this might help them find the perpetrator of this crime.  

I had not noticed anything that would indicate why she was able to slice open my face and cause me to bleed so profusely.  

The police left shortly after that.    

I thought that I would not find anything more out about this for some time. That calculation would prove to be wrong. This nightmare was about to get even more terrifying than you can imagine.  

As I mentioned previously, I had no sense of support and/or options for where to go. My income and funds were very limited. I saw a listing for a one-room apartment in Durham. It seemed like a good choice because, unlike most rentals situations you need to come up with two month's rent and a security deposit, this apartment only required an upfront payment of one week.

I soon learned that the location was not somewhere where I should have been living. It was located on Holloway Street in Durham which is not far from downtown and the main library. I was learning that this area was known to be a drug-infested, crime-ridden part of Durham – not a place for someone like me.

I could sense as someone who should not be walking alone especially at night on those streets. Few people should be walking alone down that street if they wanted to stay safe.

There was actually a bed and breakfast up the street from the apartment that catered to a more affluent person, but it was behind a gate. Still, it seemed strangely out of place. 

On the street, you could see needles that had been discarded. These obviously were used for illicit drug use.  

The house had two floors. Each room was a separate Single Room Occupancy (SRO) apartment. There were five rooms upstairs and five rooms downstairs. The stairs were the first thing you see when you open the front door. Each tenant received a key to their room. My apartment was the first one on the right as you enter the front door. Down the hall, there was a soda machine and a snack machine. Then at the end of the hall, to the right, there was another hall with a shared bathroom and shower. To the left was the kitchen area with a stove and microwave for the tenants to prepare their meals.  

Next to the kitchen was another door that leads outside to the driveway. Around the back was an apartment where Scott was living. Scott was the one who collected the rent each week and gave us a receipt. I believe he was getting free rent in exchange for this service and a few other small responsibilities that he had.  

The landlord was named Jimmy, but he never collected the rent. We always paid Scott. Jimmy sometimes came to visit and to stock the soda and snack machines. He seemed nice enough for a while. 

He introduced me to a very nice woman named Grace who I befriended. She was very attractive. She was a single mother with two children. From time to time, she would take me to the Durham Bulls to see a baseball game. Other times she had me come to her place to work on her computer.  

Beginning in June, Jimmy contracted with me to build a dating website. He understood that it would take a while to do this. We could buy profiles that would make the site look like there were members and that hopefully would encourage people to want to join the website - for a free trial that would convert to a paid subscription. This arrangement was in exchange for my weekly rent.  

At this same point, the Division of Vocational Rehabilitation (VR) had funded my training to get a certificate in web design from North Carolina State University in Raleigh. Following the completion of that, they were funding the startup costs for me to start a home-based web design business. 

The fact that I had discovered years earlier that computer or other technical jobs were not for me did not seem to matter with my counselor.  

I felt so little self-esteem or self-confidence and my sense of hope and identity was non-existent. So, I went along with this idea.  

Working with VR, we developed a business plan with a list of start-up expenses that VR would fund. My counselor at VR, Eric Peters, asked me "where are you going to run the business?"

That seemed like an unusual question since we knew it was going to be a home-based business. He pointed out that the neighborhood was known to be a drug-infested crime-ridden area in Durham. That's obviously problematic for having people come to the business which might happen from time to time. In addition, they were concerned about the possible theft of property that was owned by VR. As part of the plan, VR would maintain ownership of the computer equipment for a few years.   

They also maintained ownership of the software that was purchased. At that time, software was distributed on DVDs which were kept in the office area of the room.  

The room was about fifteen feet by twenty feet. There was a wall that was about 8 feet from the door to the apartment which hid the bed that was behind that. A couch came with the room and a desk with a couple of chairs and a mattress that was on the floor. My computer was on the desk that was to the right as you enter the room.  

At one point, VR was willing to pay the rent for a couple of weeks, and on another occasion, the Department of Social Services paid the rent. This was before I had the arrangement with Jimmy to work on his website in exchange for the cost of my rent, which was $90 per week. 

Somehow VR agreed to let me set up my home-based business at this location.   

A number of weeks after the dating website project had been underway, Jimmy became overly disappointed that he wasn't making money yet. So, he pulled the plug on that and demanded that I go back to paying rent. I wasn't prepared to pay rent when this demand was placed upon me. I had not seen it coming. I thought he understood that it would take time.  

I had some options because there are resources in the community to prevent a person from being evicted from their home. VR might be able to help me as well. Maybe I could turn to my family for help as well.  

I received an eviction order and was given a hearing. 

He even cut the cable line to my apartment.  

During the court hearing, I appealed the eviction. I was merely asking for some time to make arrangements for where I could store the items that could not be replaced, as well as clothing and the computer equipment. I also felt I could find a way to pay the back rent. The judge agreed that my request was reasonable and allowed me to be given two more weeks. It looked like VR would help me with the rent to get caught up.  

Before we move forward, I want to mention a discussion that I had with Jimmy as he was stocking the soda and snack machine. This was before the work for rent arrangement had broken down. This will be important to know in a later chapter.

I had commented upon some aspects of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) because the treatment of DID had played a role in my current situation.  

As an example, I said that if I had the disorder, which I did not, I might have a different personality that might take control of my body. That other personality might have a different name. I might have amnesia for the time when the other personality was "out." 

[In consideration of future events for which I could not know yet, I want to add something that I had not shared with Jimmy. I couldn't have explained the "switching" to him because there's no specific way that happens. It's unique each time. Certainly, a layperson would not recognize it, right away. A person doesn't repeatedly cycle through various personalities or identities. Again, the switch might not be noticed by the average person. It's not obvious.] 

Also, I explained to Jimmy that if a person switched to a different personality, that other personality would or could be out for an extended period of time. 

In my example, I said that if I had different personalities, one of them might be named "Brucie."  I was thinking about how grandpa had called me Brucie as a kid.  

Getting back to the eviction situation, I did have ideas for work and to catch up on rent. Jimmy had multiple properties and each one had multiple tenants. It is reasonable to assume that landlords have to be aware that they will have empty rooms or apartments from time to time. The same is true for hotels and motels.  

It's important to realize that at this time, so many aspects of photography are based on actual film. The film gets developed at a photo lab like the one where I was working at Eckerd. We gave people the negatives of the photographs so they can print them in different sizes later.

All my memories of the life I had known for the past decade were on photographic prints, the film negatives, and I had many photographs that I had scanned and stored on CDs, DVDs. This included all the photographs that I had taken growing up in Connecticut or as a young adult.

All my memories of a lifetime were stored in these ways. So, it was precious and irreplaceable. That included photographs of Celta and then of Lynn.

 All the letters that Celta wrote to me were also things that I wanted to preserve. 

My life had fallen apart but I wanted to hold onto what had sentimental value to me. I certainly had drawn a great deal of strength from the experience I had with Celta even after she died. Lynn always knew about this and she understood that I wasn’t clinging to the past or someone more special than her.

As I was saying, I had plans for catching up on the rent, or I would find a place to store my most precious things that could not be replaced. I planned to do that before it was too late. I had to figure something out. There had to be some options. Maybe I could ask some friends to hold onto these items that were not large and did not take up much space, but which had value to me.

Later, as the nightmare got worse, I would lose everything that I had in this apartment. The landlord would end up just throwing it all away. I would be devastated when I learned this. I would have nothing physical to hold unto in terms of the memories, mementos, keepsakes, and photographs. 

What happens next would be one of the most bizarre and horrifying events in my life.  

I had been going to the mental health center for treatment. In my mind I still envisioned myself returning to working as a psychiatric social worker. That was my passion in life. I had helped so many people. 

I now know that I have a rational mind and can objectively review the entirety of my professional experience from start to finish. I know that the conclusions of Dr. Ziff that I lacked social skills and empathy were totally and completely false. It was irrational to imagine all the success that I had over the years would have been possible without empathy, communication skills, and compassion.  

I knew at the time that I had to go through therapy first. Life had taken a toll on my mental health and I needed to build back. There were doubts that I felt. How had I gotten to a point where anyone would want to file a grievance about my actions? I had felt "out of it" in August of 2000 and I had not been at my best, to put it mildly.  

The work of psychotherapists is so serious that I felt I needed to find out if and when I would be ready to begin again.  

Let’s skip ahead a few years now.

We are into 2002. 

I tried dating some. I used online dating services. I guess I wanted the connection I once had with Lynn and the same feelings. 

Was I ready to date or love someone?

In looking back, I had not started loving myself completely yet. I think that to fully love another one must love, value, and respect oneself. One must love oneself and have self-compassion.

One such intimate experience was very unusual. It wasn’t with someone I met through a dating service though.

I had been a participant in a therapy group at the mental health center and I may have mentioned that I had worked, in the past, with people who have Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) and that this experience had caused me some problems. 

Sometime later I was staying with Elaine, a friend I made in Durham, and I made friends with someone else from that therapy group named Cathy. She had seemed "normal" for the most part. I wasn't so sure I was into her or attracted to her, but I let things develop in that direction.  

At one point, we were in my room and we were becoming sexually intimate. Suddenly she changed. Her demeanor and expression were that of a child. I felt like I was with a child. I got up and put clothes on and asked her to cover up. It was like she had become a little girl. 

She was like a child in an adult body. This reminded me of those times when people with different personalities will switch to another personality or identity. Technically she was an adult, but it still felt weird and uncomfortable.  

I would find out that this had never happened previously in the presence of another person to the best of her knowledge. 

Later, she seemed to want my help in dealing with this. I explained that it is not possible for me to do this. For one thing, I wasn't credentialed at the time. Secondly, I had been her friend and the nature of the relationship was such that it would be inappropriate for me to be her therapist.  

This was strange because I had never said to anyone that I was looking for people I could help with their psychiatric issues. I could not imagine why she would have gotten the impression that I would be able to help her.  

DID is supposed to be rare but here I was miles away from my private practice in Wilmington, years later, and without even looking I seemed to have found another person with this rare condition.  

I thought she understood that I could not treat her. I thought we could be friends still. She got back together with her boyfriend and invited me to move into a spare room in their apartment. That didn't go over too well. I had noticed she was expecting me to be there for her at certain times. I couldn't live my own life. Cathy was acting like she was jealous of the girlfriend that I had named Shonda. What was strange is that she was back with her boyfriend.

I wasn't in a serious relationship, but Cathy was jealous of the time I spent elsewhere.  

I began to feel increasingly uncomfortable ANY time I returned to the apartment and it wasn’t just that she was jealous of me dating. She was mad that I had not been there for her. 

I had to involve the police to move out because of how uncomfortable I felt. I was hiding outside until the police arrived. My girlfriend Shonda helped me move out of there and temporarily stay on the bed in the area behind the store that she was renting for her business. It was behind the area where customers would come into the store.  

I moved around a few times before I found a place to stay that was advertised as a male boarding house in Durham. The upfront move-in cost seemed like the most affordable option for me and therefore the best choice. That would prove to be a very bad decision with painful consequences.

This would lead to the next nightmare. As I mentioned, you might imagine that things couldn't get any worse than they have been described. 

At this point in the story, we are into the first part of 2004. 

I don't think it is worth it to describe each and every place where I laid my head each night during this time period of several years... I was either in a homeless shelter or staying with a friend temporarily.