The summer flowed into fall and colder months, with colder nights.

In November, we went to the beach dressed in warm coats... the sun had set and it was dark. We climbed a lifeguard's platform. We were standing. The wind blew across the dark beach making it even colder.

"It's cold," she said as she turned in the direction of the ocean. I was behind her looking in the same direction. I wrapped my arms around her from behind her.

I was confused about my physical arousal. This had not been the first time I noticed this happening. I was still haunted by religious brainwashing but everything that was happening was so right. I'm not just talking about this night. Our feelings, passions, desires spoke making everything seem so inevitable.

Don't imagine, dear reader, that during this time period I am leaving out details about what happened. You don't have to wonder if I left out details about whether we went further than kissing or holding each other. I'll get more specific, in a moment, about what was happing during this time period.

I felt a sense of peace in my life. As winter moved into Wilmington, I found work in the human services field working with individuals with developmental disabilities and other similar problems. It's amazing how we can find solutions that match our career trajectory when we are psychologically healthy.

Lynn and I would kiss so passionately at my place when the roommates were out and at her place on Wrightsville Beach. My roommate Donna had rented a second room to a nice girl named Terri.
 

It was awkward when I showed up to see Lynn at her place and her stepfather, Bob, was there because he was not much into making conversation. He spent almost one week every month at the house. He was a pilot for one of the big airlines and so he made good money. I felt like I had to make some conversation with him because technically it was his house along with Diane, Lynn's mother. My parents would have made it known if this was their home.

At one point, I had to ask Lynn, "should I be more polite to him and think of things to say?" I asked her.

She said "no, he's just like that. If he doesn't talk, you don't have to talk to him."

This is what I mean by Lynn having a strong sense of self-esteem. No one was going to control her or disrespect her! I wish I had maintained that attitude with my own family as preparation for how I should insist that everyone treat me. There was nothing shy about Lynn when it came to her life, what she wanted, how she expected to be treated.

It was just awkward from time to time when he was there. If he answered the door, he would just say "come on in" and then shout "Lynn."

I would then hear, "coming" from Lynn.

Bob didn't try to make conversation. He acted as if I wasn't there. So, I didn't say anything either. There was no "thank you for inviting me in." "How are you today, Bob?" Still, if we were hanging out together in a common room and Bob was there, I didn't like Lynn to walk away because if Bob came walking by it felt awkward because he didn't speak.

I didn't need his approval though. It also was clear that what we did together was none of Bob's business!

Lynn's Character & Intimacy at Her Place

Lynn was quiet at the poetry readings or elsewhere. She wasn't looking for recognition or attention in those settings. She wasn't trying to achieve something. I remembered going canoeing with some of the regulars at the poetry readings. I thought I was the newbie at the readings much more than Lynn was. But then I remember this guy named Will referring to Lynn as "the girl in the canoe with Bruce."

Lynn had been coming to these readings longer than I had. She even had a degree in English like most of the other regulars. To me, it had seemed that she would be the one who fits in more naturally with this crowd.

Anyway, Lynn knew I felt a bit awkward with Bob in the house so we would go to her room and shut the door. We talked for hours - when we talked.

It was so refreshing to have this privacy. Her mother would stay for a week every once in a while, but she completely respected Lynn's privacy.

Most of the time we were alone.

I was confused about my body's reaction when I was kissing Lynn so passionately on her bed. I wasn't trying to get aroused sexually but it was happening.

I have to talk about Lynn's medical condition. Lynn was born with Cystic Fibrosis (CF) which affects breathing. Her frequent cough made that obvious. CF causes excess mucus to build up in her body and that causes problems with the lungs and her digestive system. She had to take pills when we went out to eat to help with digestion.

So, as we were getting passionate, on her bed, from time to time, she seemed to want or welcome me being on top of her when we were kissing. I was careful to support my weight to be sure that I wasn't creating problems for her breathing.

I asked "am I heavy? can you breathe okay?"

This scene was somewhat common. You will note that I haven't mentioned getting undressed during this.

There we were... I was on top of her, and I was trying to support myself. I asked, "Am I too heavy?"

She paused for a moment to answer "No" and then drew me closer to continue kissing me - yeah, French kissing as they say. I was surprised that she didn't need to come up for air more often. Anyway, our mouths would part, and our tongues were intertwined. It seemed natural as if it was instinctual. It was mutual... and inescapable. 

I could feel her arms wrapped around me holding me as we kissed. I didn't have to worry about her breathing because she held me so tightly. It seemed like she was telling me to stop interrupting and asking this question.

Of course, she would tell me if I was heavy, and we would shift positions.

On one such occasion, I was on top of her kissing her passionately, my hand underneath her back, sliding down toward her waist. Her arms were wrapped around me. I could feel our hearts beating against each other, her breasts pressed against me. Her shirt was loose-fitting.

My hand first slid under her shirt and against her back. It seemed like my fingers were erogenous zones. I felt her soft skin, as my hand caressed her back and then her arms.

As I supported my weight with my left arm, my right hand moved across her stomach and up the side of her body. She squeezed more tightly. I could feel my heart beating against her - fast and loud. I could hear it beating.

She didn't seem to notice that I was aroused as our waists pressed against each other.

Her arms slid under my shirt and she held tight. She preferred to squeeze me tight, and I preferred moving my hands against her body, caressing her. I didn't stop to tell her to do the same to me, caress me. I didn't want to interrupt what was happening. She seemed to be holding me tight to tell me not to stop. It was a signal of "don't interrupt." 

It would require an interruption for her to actually say that.

I slid a bit to my left and moved my hand toward her breasts. I was so excited as I reached under her bra and caressed her breasts. I was concerned that my hand pressing against her left breast would be uncomfortable, so I moved my hand over to reach under the top of her bra toward her right breast.

This was frustrating for her too. She sat up and loosened her bra and let it drop off. She was still wearing her shirt at that point. I moved toward her and she met me. Her body seemed to be telling me she wanted, needed, or hungered for this to happen.

As we resumed, I caressed her breasts feeling waves of excitement.

I hated to pause because that allowed intrusive ideas to interfere with what was happening and to create confusion... religious ideas (brainwashing) that had filled my head from childhood.

I was reacting sexually even though we were not having sex. This wasn't genital contact... yet.

I felt embarrassed and confused when I had to clean myself secretly in the bathroom right next to her bed. It reminded me of being a child and discovering how it felt and what happened when I rubbed my genitalia. The release of fluid had seemed like something that needed to be kept secret – hidden. So, that instinct was still there, unwanted and just confusing.

The idea of hiding my reaction from Lynn made me feel ashamed like I regretted what was happening. This was a foreshadowing of what would happen later when we were living together. My head had been filled with all these religious ideas that were just so confusing and messed with my mind. To imply that I regretted making us feel good and physically demonstrating my feelings would be wrong and hurtful to Lynn.

In these earliest moments of passion, during this first year together, everything seemed so right  - our bodies were speaking to one another each time we were intimate, not sexual but intimate. My body was responding as if it was sexual.

This scenario could describe more than one such occasion when we were together.

I was not thinking about the depth of our intimacy and how far we had gone in terms of sexual or sensual intimacy. What I mean is that while I felt that annoying instinctual shame about how my body was reacting, I didn't think that we did anything wrong. This was the most physically intimate I had been in my life.

Yes, dear reader, if it's not obvious, I was still a virgin like Lynn. I was so amazed that Lynn had been available when I met her in 92 because she looked so beautiful to me. But she wasn't like other women who needed to be in a relationship.

If you are wondering as to why we didn't go further, why we didn't remove our clothing when we were alone in her room at her home with no one else in the home... it was more of a problem with me. Lynn was aware that I was Catholic and that I went to church on Sundays or Saturday evenings. Fondling and sensual caressing was one thing, but she understood that one thing would lead to another if she had started to undress. 

I know this in light of how she acted after we were living together. She knew that sex was a hangup that I had as a Christain and not something that bothered her as much.

Lynn wasn't shy about asking for what she wanted or acting upon her desires. Neither one of us was coercive but there are ways to act that signal a desire for closeness. I've always seen in TV shows and movies where it is the female in a relationship that wants to wait.

I suppose she was looking for signs as to how far I wanted to go. 

The Christmas holiday approached, and I was talking to my roommates about taking some photographs of a neighborhood that really went all out in decorating their homes around Christmas. 

That's when my roommates, Donna and Terri said they wanted pictures of Lynn and me together. We decorated a tree and they asked us to pose together in different ways. It felt good to know that this somehow meant something to my roommates.

I noticed how comfortable I was now with Lynn. 

The best gift that Christmas for me was what Lynn told me. I was telling her how uncertain I had been about whether she was interested in me early on in our relationship. She laughed and said, "I'm glad you were so persistent."

Okay, so I was right. At first, she wasn't invested as much in the relationship as I was.

I thought I can't imagine anything better than hearing what I was hearing now. To know that she was glad that I was so persistent. This said so much to me. We had both in our own ways found that this relationship happened to us in ways that were unexpected.  

I'm definitely going to embrace this life with Lynn.

Lynn and I were "an item" and that felt so right. I never took things for granted. I would savor every little thing as if my mind was taking snapshots to populate an imaginary photo album within my mind.

Remember Dusty, the emcee for the poetry readings? She worked at the Coastline Convention Center as I mentioned. Because she was so welcoming, I would go there alone sometimes or arrive alone before Lynn joined me. Dusty would ask about Lynn and what was happening with her... how she was doing.

So, among our social circle, people saw us as a couple. Still, there were some formalities to be discussed.  
 

In the last chapter, I spoke about attending the poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center. It was April of 1992 when I arrived in Wilmington, North Carolina. I started attending the poetry readings on Sundays.

This was part of my new identity that I was discovering.

Somehow, at these poetry readings, I felt a sense of belonging. Everyone was so welcoming, and the atmosphere was serene and accepting. However, I was aware of the fact that most of these other poets had a degree in English.

I wanted to understand a poet and the ideas that poets have - these poets. I wanted to connect with people who express themselves through the written word.

Martin, my poetry mentor, gave me enough courage to believe that I could be a poet. As a reminder, I had been visiting him and his wife (I might have left her out of the story earlier) for coffee, tea, and reading poetry – his, mine, and that of famous poets. He was a professor of English.

Some of the craft of poetry would allude me, such as meter and rhyme, but I learned that there is a form of poetry called "free verse" that doesn't require as much effort to be expended in the craft and I could get to the point of communicating ideas and sharing ideas, which was the most important aspect of what I wanted or needed.

I'm only saying these things because I have always had some insecurities about my talents.

At this point, as I started this phase of my life, I noticed that for the first time, those insecurities were virtually gone. I know this because I was making friends and connecting with others. I was a part of something that was important. Something special was happening on those evenings and at those poetry readings and other events.

There was something serene about the setting that made it easier for me to get up in front of a group of people and read my poetry. The sun would reflect across the Cape Fear River casting the soft rays of sunlight into the room.

My ability to get up in front of a room of people every week was an amazing accomplishment for me. Again, I have always been shy, fearful, quiet. I NEVER put myself at the center of attention anywhere EVER... until I started coming to the poetry readings.

This ability to be the center of attention would have a profound impact on my choices and my future as I built a career for myself. I would reflect upon the struggles and accomplishments that brought me to this point.

Dusty, the emcee for the poetry readings, made it easier too. She worked at the lounge on the fourth floor of the Coastline Convention Center, where we had the readings. She had a magical quality of attending to the guests of the Convention Center whether they were there for the poetry or not.

Something about Dusty made you feel welcome and comfortable. She was a motherly figure in a way because she was older than some of the other regulars who were like me in our twenties.

I also had noticed this other girl that was coming every week for the poetry readings. There was something about her that got my attention. Her name was Lynn.

She was very thin. She had a cough and that's related to her condition, Cystic Fibrosis - a genetic illness. I must have overheard Lynn talking about that. It's not the kind of thing that you ask someone about... like "why are you coughing all the time?"

Lynn was quiet but I didn't think she was as shy as I was.

She did share her own writing and she would share or read "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot. I'm not sure when I first noticed this.

There are so many little things that you observe when someone intrigues you.

Lynn definitely intrigued me.

What was it about her? Did I already think that she was the most beautiful girl imaginable? Do I dare admit to myself that I am entertaining such irrational thoughts? I don't think it was love at first sight but something about her intrigued me. I was a bit surprised that I was thinking about finding a girlfriend after the loss of Celta.

When I had previously "dated" someone in 1991, the year following the death of Celta it was at a time when I was still in shock – something akin to what a heavyweight boxer must feel right after he has just been hit with a few blows to the head, he staggers, trying to stay on his feet, stumbling about, dazed, confused, disoriented, not thinking clearly at all, on the verge of passing out. That was me for most of 1991 and into 1992 in the wake of the loss of Celta.

Back then, if you had asked me if I was ready to date or find someone meaningful to love, I would have said that the question makes about as much sense as it would to the boxer in that state of mind.

I had not been thinking or feeling for so long ... until sometime in May or June of 1992.

This was different. Undoubtedly, being on my own and living as an adult had allowed me to grieve normally and heal.

I wish I had known about my weakness and vulnerability around losing someone important. That would have been helpful later in life. But at this point in 1992, I was blissfully unaware of this coming darkness.

I should add that it wasn't only Lynn's looks that made her attractive to me. There was something that united all of us who were regulars that came to the readings and I held everyone in high regard. There was a connection that I felt to the people I was meeting.

That being said, Lynn was stunningly beautiful. Her voice was hypnotic and alluring. She had all the things that one considers in feminine beauty and shape or so it seemed to me very early on. She seemed perfect.

I loved her voice both when she was at the microphone and when I was close to her. And her face, her skin, her legs seemed like gentle features I might have created in my own mind if I had the imagination to do such a thing.

Yet, I noticed she was alone.

I would come to the readings and try to get a sense of whether or not Lynn had a boyfriend. I didn't want to risk rejection.

Asking a girl out was a very difficult thing for me to do. I would calculate the possibility of rejection.

To avoid that I was trying to come up with a plan for seeing her outside these readings that would be something easy and without the burden of her having to size me up to determine my value as a male companion when she heard the question that I was trying to pose or the request. 

I was wanting to see if she would want to spend some time with me - as in just me.

I was like a shy person in recovery. That's a phrase I just made up. It's the best way to describe the way I thought of myself and my fear - my concerns, my judgments about how to proceed.

We were coming up on July 4th and nearly 3 months after I started going to these readings. My social life involved going out a few times with my roommate, Donna, who was nice, but we were not making a connection like I was making at the readings. Plus, I wasn't into Donna romantically.

A big poetry reading was coming up this Sunday the day after the 4th of July. I thought of Fort Fischer where Jean Jones works. Fort Fischer is a historical place. There's also the aquarium nearby. And there is this jetty that goes out to some tiny island which is a mini-animal conservation spot of sorts.

Anyway, the poetry reading was a big deal. Flyers were everywhere it seemed. Maybe I just noticed them in town because I was into that kind of thing.

Yeah, we (Lynn and I) could go together. I was pretty sure she wasn't seeing anyone else.

How it was possible that she didn't already have a boyfriend, I didn't know.

On the last Sunday before the 4th, I found myself at a table by the window at the lounge where the readings were held. She seemed receptive to me. Sure, why not. At some point, I found the courage to ask her "do you want to go to the poetry reading next Sunday with me?"

"Sure," she said.

"Oh, my God," I thought. "It worked. Okay, I need to do more."

"Can I call you?"

Before long I was getting her phone number. 

The sun was still above the Cape Fear River and reflecting back into the room a kaleidoscope of orange and blue. It seemed that my awareness of a room full of people had departed and I was only aware of us.

While this was happening, I added, "We could go down to Carolina Beach on Saturday too. There are things to see down there."

"Okay," she said in a voice that was soft and warm.

I was surprised too... not because I expected to be rejected but because of how much I wanted this. I wasn't reflecting on matters at this point. I was just acting on instinct.

In the back of my mind during the next week, I was thinking about what to do. I wanted to have lots of suggestions to offer Lynn. I wasn't sure what she would like.

I had called her and said that I knew of a peaceful and scenic spot where we could go. Maybe we could go to Fort Fischer and see if Jean was working there, or to the aquarium.

So, now, it was July 4th of 1992. I picked her up at her home on Wrightsville Beach. We drove through Wilmington and continued toward Carolina Beach. It was somehow amazing just how easy the conversation was going for both of us. I would have expected that I would have been nervous.

There is a jetty that runs out to a tiny island south of Carolina Beach where the Cape Fear River meets the ocean. It's the farthest point south if you drive down Highway 421/Carolina Beach Road from Wilmington, North Carolina.

We decided that we would go to this spot.

This is our first date. I think it's a "date." I don't have much experience dating and so if you are wondering, dear reader, what I mean by saying I was shy, these are just a few examples of what it is like. I don't think Lynn had a great deal of experience with these kinds of things either.

Since I was driving, I double-checked to see if this was where we wanted to stop first. She agreed.

So, I parked the car near the beach near that jetty that I mentioned.

The jetty is not on the open ocean, so the waves only gently lap against the beach and the rocks that form the jetty. It's just a bunch of rocks that have been stacked against one another to make a bridge of sorts. On top of the rocks, they put pavement to make it into a bridge that could be crossed.

We walked out there toward the jetty together, but we were both shy a bit about the nature of the relationship that was developing.

As we started walking onto the jetty, I noticed it was a bit slippery because the saltwater had washed over the bridge recently.

I had not expected this to be slippery. I could not let her slip and risk anything bruising or scratching her perfect skin... not to mention the fear I would feel if I saw her fall.

But I was so nervous.

I had to do something. I reached out my hand to her.

"Wow!" I thought, "She took my hand. Wow! And why am I repeating this thought?"

My fingers crossed over her palm between the thumb and the first finger on her hand. I felt a tingling sensation beginning in my fingers and rising up my arm, like the small soft waves beside us. The sensation came to rest in the center of my chest.

I took a breath as if I needed air. It was a lightness that I felt in my chest as if a weight had been taken off me – as if my own weight was pressing down with less force than previously.

I wasn't expecting to feel anything like this. I was just catching her to keep her from falling.

"Do you want to keep going?" I asked.

"Sure," she said, pausing to take in the scene with me. Her straight blonde hair swayed in the gentle wind. The gentle waves washed against the rocks below us. It was peaceful.

There was something interesting that I was feeling. Holding her hand was "exciting" - like I had never felt excited before (which isn't true) ... AND this moment was also relaxed and peaceful. It might not make sense because being excited and relaxed are usually different feelings.

We walked for a bit further but then decided that this was getting too slippery.

"What's next," I thought. Then I said "Jean works at Fort Fischer and they have a tour of the historic site. We could go there."

She agreed.

I guess I was eager to spend as much time as I could with Lynn. I didn't want the day to end. I didn't want to drop her off and leave.

We let the windows down and Lynn eased back into her seat, letting the wind blow softly – we weren't going fast. She looked comfortable and dreamy. I wasn't sure what that meant other than that she was "comfortable" or relaxed as she sat back in her seat looking out the window. I didn't have much time to see if she was looking at me at this moment.

That same feeling continued as we walked the grounds at Fort Fischer – a Civil War historic site. We spoke to Jean for a bit.

It's hard to recount everything that we did that day, but I wanted to say that while I was coming up with things to do, Lynn was contributing to the conversation and helping come up with ideas. She wasn't just saying "sure" or "okay." For one, that would have been discouraging to me and secondly, Lynn didn't seem like the type who went along with things.

I was desperate to find out that Lynn wanted to spend time with me and was therefore an equal participant in these decisions about what we were doing together. 

I had a feeling then and later that the reason she didn't already have a boyfriend was that she didn't need a guy to complete her nor was she looking to be in a relationship. That would happen to both of us but perhaps neither of us was looking - to be honest, I was more inclined to desire a relationship with a girl than she was... but I am getting ahead of my story.

The day faded into the night and we made our way to downtown Wilmington.

We saw the fireworks that night, over the Cape Fear River and near the Battleship.

After the fireworks, we were walking back to the car and we walked by the place where she worked at a historic home that had been converted into a shelter for youth runaways. A co-worker of hers asked her if I was her boyfriend. I heard her say "No, we are just friends."

Darn. I thought this was a date. Actually, even if it was an all-day date, we were still just friends.

I could wait.

The next day I picked her up again and we went to the poetry reading down in Carolina Beach.

There must have been a few dozen people when I read my poetry. This was a major accomplishment. I had an awareness of being nervous and I wondered if others picked up on the shakiness in my voice. There could have been a hundred or more people and I would have felt equally anxious.

Lynn took a seat on the side of the stage facing where I was standing after I read. She took the microphone and read "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot.

I was taking photographs, including photographs of her.

As I reflect on these two dates or days spent together, I realize that I cannot fill in any more details. Decades have passed.

Looking back at the nearly three months when I was sharing my poetry, it's interesting to note the subject matter of my poetry... It had been about grief and a special friend named Celta. Yet here I was totally focused on this new girl named Lynn. It's hard to overstate the meaning and importance of this.  

In the last chapter, I ended with the announcement that I was moving to Wilmington, North Carolina. I had a six-month contract to work at Corning Glass. I was working as a technical writer. They needed someone who had a technical background, and I was told that my engineering degree and experience working as a software engineer met the requirements.

I was a bit nervous or had some uncertainty since this was just a six-month contract. What would happen after the contract ended in six months? The past year and a few months had been extremely difficult. I was not doing well, and my self-esteem had plummeted or so I thought.

As it turns out, I only had to move out on my own and get my life back on track. I had to resume my quest and continue with my career journey. 

It also is obvious that the only problem I had had was that I chose to live in an environment that had become toxic in terms of my relationship with my parents. 

I had spent over two years thinking about how unacceptable I was in the eyes of my parents. I could NOT make them happy for me to save my life.

What do I mean when I state that I was living in a toxic environment? I constantly worried that I wasn't good enough... I wasn't making my mother happy... My mother had made it known that she believed that I was stubbornly unwilling to work as an engineer. That nearly constant psychological and emotional abuse hung over me like a dark cloud... Other than when I was with Celta.

When I was with Celta, I felt acceptable... loved... special. I felt good enough. I could just be.

Prior to coming to Wilmington, I had been writing poetry and sharing poetry with a friend of mine named Martin Kirby. I give my mother credit for introducing me to him. It was interesting that she noticed that I might like poetry.

At any one time in life, there are things that stand in stark contrast to everything else that was going on. I mean, my parents had seemed to be completely unaware of everything meaningful that was going on in my life at that time. They were not at all interested in knowing that Celta existed and had played a role in my life. They didn't care to know why I had been so sad for the past year. My family showed no interest at all in my career plans or what I had done to move forward with those plans.

None of that ever seemed to matter at all. That was so exasperating but then my mother introduced me to a poet and English Literature professor because she knew that poetry was interesting to me. Yes, I am grateful that she noticed that but why could they not notice all of the other things that mattered to me?

The subject of the writing that I shared with Martin, my poetry mentor, was not something that either parent cared to know about. So, I'm grateful that my mother cared enough to introduce me to this talented professor of English literature but that was the extent to which either parent demonstrated an interest in anything that interested me or that would make me happy.

Anyway, this new interest of mine in poetry would prove to be important as I started to build a life as a young adult.

Before I moved to Wilmington, I had found a roommate who had a room for rent and her name was Donna Bender.  She was a thin pretty woman who had been in a domestic violence relationship and had been involved in the domestic violence community.

When I moved to Wilmington, I obviously didn't know anyone, other than my roommate. I did socialize a bit with my roommate. I remember going downtown to a gay bar with her once. Apparently, a guy was interested in me and I remember Donna telling that person that I was straight. It was interesting.

This wasn't my main source of entertainment or enjoyment after work and on the weekends.

When I first arrived, that first week, I had in mind that I needed to make friends. I thought I would see what activities are available in the city. So I picked up an entertainment weekly paper. I had in mind looking into the poetry reading scene in the area. I believe my poetry mentor Martin had suggested this to me.

This is how I would build a social network and a social life.

That first week when I arrived, I decided to call the contact person from the announcement in the newspaper. That person's name was Jean Jones. He would go on to be an important friend of mine for many, many years.

I had asked Jean on the phone if people read their own writing and he confirmed that this was the reason we gathered for the poetry readings. Yes, people read their own poetry.

So, I made a decision to attend, and I had in mind that I would share my poetry with the group. This was something for which I had to prepare mentally before showing up. The choice to share my own writing was based on two factors. One was the fact that I truly wanted to share my experiences with others. I had been through an amazing series of experiences and I wanted to make a connection with my stories. The other reason was the fact that I wanted people to know me.

Somehow, I found the courage that very same first poetry reading that I attended to share my poetry. I cannot overstate the courage, effort, and conviction that was required to do this. I had been a very shy person as you know, dear reader. The mere concept of being the center of attention in any group had never occurred in my life. I had avoided that.

I had tried to speak in class at Georgia Tech but never found the courage to do that. 

So, if I did find the courage to read my poetry at the poetry reading, this would be a first for me.

I can only imagine that my experiences with Celta were so very transformative. There was one other thing that was very important to consider which I haven't mentioned yet. I had done volunteer work at Georgia Regional Hospital in Augusta, Georgia. 

The experience as a volunteer at Georgia Regional Hospital was important because I had a specific plan for my career and the rest of my life. I knew I was meant to work as a social worker but that would require that I go to graduate school. The undergraduate degree was in engineering which would allow me to enter graduate school in social work. However, I figured I was going to need experience in an area that is closer to my field of interest.

I knew I wanted to be a mental health professional and more specifically a psychotherapist. Georgia Regional Hospital was a state psychiatric hospital and so that was perfect for me to get experience. I volunteered with the social work team. I also knew that I would need letters of recommendation to get into graduate school in social work.

So, volunteering at Georiga Regional Hospital helped me to advance my social and communication skills as well as give me the experience that I would need to make the transition to social work. 

In addition, this experience was very helpful in my ability to gain a great deal of self-confidence. I did interact occasionally at some staff meetings with perhaps 8 or so people there. They included social workers, a psychiatrist, and some medical students.

None of that involved being the center of attention. However, I did feel like I had been helpful to others. I knew that I had a great sense of empathy and respect for others. People opened up to me without any hesitation for the most part. Some patients had problems that made it hard for them to communicate - this was related to their being admitted to the hospital.

Still, it seemed that so many people were happy to share their stories with me. I was able to get them to open up. I got a sense that I was helping them. Sometimes people just want someone to listen to them and to try to understand them and what they are experiencing.

While those experiences were helpful in increasing my self-esteem and self-confidence, I have also described the painful experiences that were so destructive to me and my sense of self-worth and self-confidence which only increased following the death of Celta.

With that background, I found myself in a different place emotionally and psychologically having moved to Wilmington and out of the situation in which I was living. It truly was like magic and it was like night and day when you consider just how different everything was when I settled into that first week in a new city.

There was another theme that exists in this book. First, when I went off to Georgia Tech as an adult and lived on my own away from my home, I found that experience to be transformative. Now, I moved away from living with my parents, and again almost like magic life is different, better... more healthy.

I don't mean to call my parents bad people, it's just that I needed to be an adult and make my own decisions. 

That is the situation that describes me when I showed up at the Coastline Convention Center at 7 PM Sunday, the first Sunday I had in a new city. Shortly after 7 pm, the sun was setting on the Cape Fear River with the red, orange, and then blue light reflecting into a room with the lights turned low to create a peaceful atmosphere. Large windows lined an entire wall from the ceiling down to nearly the floor. We were on the fourth floor.

A small group of people was there... perhaps 10 to 15 people moving about quietly, each taking their turn to read. A woman named Dusty was the emcee. She was such a special person and that probably had a factor in my choice to summon the courage to do something I had never previously contemplated.

I somehow found the courage to walk to the front of the room after getting some directions from Dusty. She had an air about her that was motherly and serene. Peaceful. Welcoming.

I heard my voice on the microphone and it was an unusual experience. I had never heard my voice amplified. "Is that what I sound like?" I wondered. If you had asked me a few years earlier, when I was in my first two years or more at Georgia Tech if I would ever do this, I would have said it was impossible.

During my last two years at Georgia Tech, I knew I would have to do this - put myself at the center of attention in a group setting - but I also knew that finding the courage and self-confidence to do so was something that would take a tremendous amount of work and effort. 

I had NEVER done what I did this first night at the poetry reading!

Something special was happening that evening. This was the beginning of my life as an adult. This was my becoming. My greatest accomplishment! Finally! I did it. It almost seemed like a test. This was a very, very different test for me. And I passed. I did what I had wanted to accomplish.

I recited a few of the poems that I had selected. I was nervous and I hoped that it wasn't too obvious. I liked the applause and the recognition. Dusty was standing to the side of me as I was finishing up. Her smile was comforting. It said, "thank you for sharing." "You did well." It was accepting. She was about a generation older than me and I realized that this acceptance from a mother figure was something that I had wanted for so long.

The feeling from the experience overall, as I stepped away, from the group was, "you belong." "You did well." I felt like the nervousness that I felt could be contained within the warmth of the room and the welcoming nature of the setting. I belonged. Yeah, I felt like I did belong. This soothed my nervousness and helped me relax.

There would be more Sunday nights just like this. Dusty called this sharing of our personal poetry a sharing of a gift to the group. I liked that idea. I had personal poems about Celta that I had wanted to share.

On the second night that I attended I approached Jean. I knew he had a Master of Fine Arts (MFA) degree with a specialization in poetry. He was the contact person that I found in the weekly paper announcing the group. I shared with him a poem I had been working on about a memory I had with Celta. I called it "The Swing."

The poem was about a memory I had with Celta when I had gone to the park in the summer of 1990, less than two years ago. She was on a swing.  I had been pushing her away knowing she would swing back to me. First, she would pause at the farthest point from me, her brown hair backlit against the early afternoon sun. 

She had asked me to take her to meet a male friend of hers. I left that out. I noticed how her look had been transfixed upon me. Her friend's voice had faded as if whatever he was saying didn't matter at that point. I could tell he was looking at us. Out of my periphery, I noticed his movement that said he felt awkward and maybe intrusive. Yet at that moment despite the fact that I am incredibly sensitive to the feelings of others, I felt mesmerized.

As I write this in 2021, decades later, there are aspects of this memory that are new along with my ideas for the poem. Back then I was using words like the undulating motion of the swing and I had the notion of pushing Celta knowing she would come back to my arms. 

Jean was friendly and helpful, crossing out large parts of the poem.

It's funny how memories flow back to us like waves when we least expect them to do so. Celta's movement on the swing was wave-like in nature. I had mentioned that in the poem. But my poetry mentor, Martin Kirby, had said that it would take ten years for me to write truly good poems about Celta and our experiences.

Somehow, I would find a way to move on with my life. I was going to meet another special girl named Lynn. I had hardly noticed Lynn, yet. I had still been processing the loss of Celta... and when I shared poems about these things, which was such a challenge, Dusty called our poems gifts! 

So, sharing our hearts and memories with someone or a group is a gift! Nice. I liked that! I liked that very much!

This was the beginning of a quest to pursue a set of goals, dreams, and aspirations. I knew I was going to be tested again in the career I had chosen. I would have to rely upon skills like this and courage like this.

Friendships and Family...

There were a number of regulars that came to the poetry readings. This was where I would build friendships that would last a lifetime. I am about to describe one of those individuals, Lynn Denise Krupey who will figure prominently in this book.

Another important friend who was coming to these readings is Thomas Childs. I have considered him to be part of my family of choice. Thomas, along with Celta, Lynn and my second wife Elee are the four most important people to me – those individuals who have been most dear to me in my life.

This section of my book covers building a family as an adult. Beginning in April of 1992, I would move out on my own leaving the life I had living with my parents. You will notice that the "problems" that I had described when I was living with my parents and dealing with grief will almost magically disappear. 

The environment in which I was living with my parents had become unhealthy because of a misunderstanding. It would take me decades to find out that my mother and perhaps my father had expected me to work as an engineer. I knew they were encouraging me to do so with arguments about how much better off I would be financially and how it would allow me to pay part of my graduate school costs but I didn't know that they expected me to do this. 

I didn't know that they felt I had wasted the investment they made. I had honestly thought they knew and understood my plans to go into social work and that engineering was as wrong for me as anything can be wrong for any job seeker. 

For a brief moment, before I moved out on my own, I worried about my own mental health and whether my "problems" would have an impact on my career plans. In many ways, this was caused by the death of Celta and the impact that had on me. That was where things were left at the end of the last section.  Never again would I wonder about this.
 

In this section, I am writing stories that read like a love story when taken together. When I speak of starting a family, I mean sharing my life with another person, eventually as husband and wife. So, this is about falling in love. I had dated a little but no one other than Celta played a role in my history. 

There was a moment when Celta and I almost kissed – do you remember what I described?

I suppose some of it can be confusing. Nothing "sexual" happened. That being said, I never held hands with my male friends, or cuddled with them, or stared into their eyes, felt the need to repeatedly tell them "I love you." You get the idea.

This section of the book will begin to focus on Lynn who is the subject of this book and who is mentioned in the book's title.

It's important to note that the same efforts involved in overcoming shyness in order to be able to find someone to love were helpful in my career journey. So, this section is a very important part of my overall autobiographical story.

Regarding shyness, I would say that I was a "shy person in recovery." I made up that term and you will come upon this later in this section of the book. I use that phrase to indicate that I had accomplished so much with regard to overcoming the paralyzing effects of shyness, but it has been an enduring aspect of my life story.

Cystic Fibrosis and My Life with Lynn Denise Krupey

It's also important to note that the girl of my dreams, the love of my life, the one person I would fall madly and passionately, totally and completely, in love with, had a chronic illness called Cystic Fibrosis. 

This would have an impact on the decisions we made about life together.

The Role of Religion As A Toxic Influence

For the longest time, I was still a believer in religious ideas – the ones I had been exposed to growing up. God, spirituality, heaven, and sin of course. We can't leave that out. I would come to feel such great shame for things I said to Lynn when we were living together. 

Normally, I would have chosen to get married before moving in with a girl. Things were more complicated by the genetic illness with which Lynn was born.

Where the Story Begins and Where it Leads

I pick up the story when I turn twenty-six and move to Wilmington, North Carolina - my home. Things are much different than when I arrived in Atlanta Georgia for college. It's true that I didn't know anyone in Wilmington when I first move there. However, I am not paralyzed by shyness and social anxiety – I had developed social skills as well.

The experience of being in love was more amazing than I had imagined. I could not have known what it is like to be in love until it happened. I suppose no one does... but no one tried to convey the happiness and serenity that comes from being loved and being in love.

Please join me... this promises to be exciting. 

In the last chapter, I told you about the joy I found in finding someone to love and someone who loved me. I told you about the experiences I had, and I hope it was clear just how meaningful this was in my life's trajectory. It was so important to present the profound and positive impact this had on my life.

This was life-altering.

The experiences I had growing up, in my home environment were toxic to the development of the kind of self-confidence and self-worth that I would need to achieve my career goals. Something had been missing despite all the improvements I had made in my sense of worth.

It's hard to know what you need to overcome a problem that has existed throughout your life. My therapist or counselor in college was very talented, competent, and profoundly helpful. However, we failed to fully appreciate all the negative impacts of abuse and devaluation that I had experienced in my home life from my parents.

Then I met Celta, and something happened. She seemed to delight in me. She was so interested in my experiences. She also was concerned about my well-being and happiness. I knew she was thinking about me for most of the day each and every day! Her diary-style, stream of consciousness letters told me this.

I knew she was thinking about me for so much of her day, each and every day, because of the letters she wrote to me - her diary of sorts composed with me in mind as someone she wanted to share her life with. I had realized that I previously thought that I was not that important to anyone. This is what I meant by seeking a relationship with some aspect of exclusivity or the idea that I could be the most important person to someone.

I knew that I was the only one that Celta loved the way she loved me. Previously, I had friends, but they all had a boyfriend/girlfriend or spouse or the relationship wasn't as close.

After I was with Celta, I felt like I was ten feet tall... confident... worthwhile, and deserving. My self-esteem was higher than it had ever been in my life. I also felt safe trying new things. This idea might seem unexpected. She was just a small girl (woman). I sensed that she deeply cared about me and thought about me and that was transformative.

It's important to underscore these important points before I move on with this story.

When I say that our relationship was platonic, I mean that we were not boyfriend and girlfriend. We didn't have a physical relationship. That being said, we did exchange "I love you" on a daily basis or whenever we talked on the phone or saw each other. We were close and perhaps somewhat intimate and physical but not in a sexual way.

Late in December, something happened. I had moved to kiss her as I was leaving. It was impulsive. Her lips were so thin that I didn't feel what I imagined I would feel. This was my first kiss. I felt confused. She had not turned away or signaled in any way that she didn't want me to proceed. So, why was I uncertain? I didn't have to be shy with Celta. But I didn't want to use her for my own personal "experience."

I would play this back in my mind as I drove away. Yes, I wanted to kiss her. Having decided now for sure what I wanted, next time I would kiss her.

Sometime later I pictured my face turning to the right and moving closer to her as she moved toward me. I had been in sync with her and felt so comfortable. I knew that she might have said that one time that she was not in love but when we were together there were so many times when she had that look of someone who was so happy, comfortable and it sure looked like she was in love. Well, she definitely had "romantic" feelings.

Also, when I was with her, I could see myself and my feelings. You just know those things. There were so many subtle behavioral cues that told me what she was feeling and how she was responding to my touches... how I held her... where I touched her. Everything had been welcomed. I played back memories of how when I touched her she moved closer to me.

As I replayed the imagined kiss – next time - I would begin to tilt my head to the right, bend down, she would be acting on instinct, without taking the time to over-think it – that's what I would do, and she was my mirror. Sometimes we do things as if the moment is such that it is inevitable. She would move to meet my lips... she would be transfixed upon my eyes and I hers. I felt excited as I replayed this in my mind.

It was as if it had happened already, almost.

It would never happen.

On New Year's Day of 1991, I got the worst news of my life. A phone call. I was in my room on the second floor of the house owned by my parents. "Celta died last night," I was told.

"How?" I asked as if this wasn't possible or real. I was stunned. I wanted my willpower to make it not real!

"There was a fire... she died from smoke inhalation." It started from an exposed electrical cord on a TV.

My mind registered information about the funeral, its location, and time but I could not find the words to begin to convey any sense of what I was feeling. I had spoken a few times to the man previously. He was a friend of the family. Tears were flooding my eyes. I just said, "Okay, I'll be there but I can't talk..." my voice breaking. I needed the family to expect me.

I dropped the phone and began to cry so bitterly.

I hurt so much!

I cried so much as I drove the way to the funeral. Just before the funeral, I looked at the closed casket and was overcome. Someone was standing by it and for a brief second, some part of me wanted to open the casket and find out that it wasn't Celta that was inside.

At the funeral, I cried more than everyone else combined. I didn't care how I looked.

It was at the Episcopalian church where I went with Celta and where I would sit down next to Celta's mother and Celta. I was still Christian, meaning I went to church on a regular basis.

Standing outside after the funeral people were talking. I was looking at the closed casket unable to believe this was real. I was still crying. Celta's mother instructed me not to come to the burial. She could tell that I was not going to make it through that event. My state of mind was such that I needed to be told what I should do now.

At the burial the one person who loved Celta most, who felt a visceral sense of grief above and beyond that felt by the others... that one person would be missing. I would not be there. I had followed the directions of Celta's mother and left Athens (Athens Georgia).

I certainly felt betrayed and abandoned by God. However, I did go to grief counseling at the Catholic hospital in Augusta, Georgia. A nun was leading a grief counseling group – spiritual counseling. She was using guided imagery, relaxation techniques, prayer, and biblical references. I met with her a few times and asked for tape recordings of the sessions.

In the group sessions, she spoke about the stages of grief. We were encouraged to bring in things that were mementos of our experience with our loved ones. I listened intently as others spoke. I was by far the youngest. I had studied the grief process in a psychology class at Georgia Tech. I read some more about this from a "clinical" standpoint. I was keeping reality at a distance.

I was in denial at times and at other times I would be overwhelmed with the idea of not being able to see Celta ever again and I would cry and cry.

So much is strange about this time period. The struggles with my parents were never intentionally instigated by me out of anger for anything. They just seemed uninterested in me and my life, other than to tell me what I ought to do.

I suppose I wanted to share the fact that someone had loved me to explain what had changed. It was surreal that there was such denial that anything had happened or changed. I might be in denial as a symptom of grief but I wanted to celebrate the relationship that I had. Where would I begin?

To cope with the tragic loss, I started drinking. A lot.
 

I was put on a tricyclic anti-depressant by a psychiatrist. I had developed panic attacks as well. The anti-depressant had the effect of creating a sense of positive feelings even with my mother standing there one morning ironing something for work with my father getting ready too. Those fake feelings were only transitory. It is reminiscent of the song by REM titled "It's the end of the world as we know it."... and I feel fine. I guess I felt "high."

The days flowed around me like a mystical experience in which I flowed in and out of my body. I wasn't fully alive or so it seemed... betrayed even by God.

It was all a blur. My entire existence.

Somehow, I did get a job finally that could have made my parents satisfied. Everything was always about them. They never asked about anything that was happening to me. So, they never inquired about why I was going for grief counseling because they had no knowledge of this.

Anyway, I got a job at the National Science Foundation as a contractor. I was developing a network for the museum and that involved network programming in the C programming language. I was a software engineer. I did accomplish a great deal in that job capacity and my supervisor was very impressed with my talents.

Again, this was not at all interesting to me. Yet, I was making sure that I successfully met all deadlines and deliverables.

I vaguely remember a summer trip to Las Vegas. The company paid for this to cover some training related to my work. It was amazing. I had this incredible per-diem rate where I was paid my salary plus extra money for expenses that exceeded the cost of the hotel room.

Vegas was probably the worst place for me to go with so much free cash and free drinks in the casinos. Somehow, I made all the presentations for the training that I was sent there to attend. In the evenings and free time, I hit the casinos and made some decent money. Nothing to write home about. Gin or vodka was an escape but somehow, I didn't drink so much so as to get sick at night or even the next day.

As I try to write this now, I have only momentary snapshots with no full-running narrative memory. Just random disconnected sensations. My hands were unable to touch the leather inside a car. The sun shimmers on the pavement. Casinos. Drinks. Sitting at a poker table. Pulling a lever on a slot machine.

I must have done what was expected of me. I don't remember any complaints from my boss.

Yeah, I moved through time like a robot.

The job was going well, as I said. I was proud of how well I was doing.

I was drinking more and more during this time period after the trip to Las Vegas. Everything except beer. Vodka with tonic or orange juice. Gin and tonic. Whiskey with ice, water, or coke. Not so much wine.

I was passing out and once or twice I would puke. I really hated throwing up, always.

I did meet this girl from the home office of the company that was paying me. She lived in Alabama and I was in Augusta, Georgia and we decided to meet in Atlanta, Georgia where I had graduated not long before that.

My supervisor was joking that I had "jungle fever" because I was a white guy who was going to date a black woman. He was black, as well. I didn't let that bother me. Spike Lee's film "Jungle Fever" had been out, and it was an important film. I have always been fine with having a conversation about race if that was something that was desired.

My mother actually asked about my date. I suppose her name sounded ethnic and my mother asked about that guessing that she might be Italian. I said, "no, she's black."

I remember that this was the first time I kissed anyone other than a brief kiss that Celta and I shared back in December of the last year. I mentioned that above.

This was extremely passionate. She brought her kid and left him in the car and parked near the Student Center - the same building where I worked on the bottom floor in the post office.

We were looking for someplace to sit or be as private as possible outside after dark. I remember making out at a few locations here and there. I could feel her large breasts against me, and I was aroused.

My first passionate kiss. Before Lynn. We'll get to that later.

Did I feel guilty about dating so soon after Celta? Maybe. But I wasn't actually feeling nor was I "aware" during this time period. I was so numb that I needed to feel something. To wake up! I was trying so hard to wake up. The tricyclic antidepressant made me feel good for a few moments. That didn't make it a meaningful experience.

Then later there was the fact that she said in December that she loved me but wasn't in love with me. I had only known her for one year, from January through December 31 or 1990. I do know that countless times she had that look like someone in love when she looked in my eyes. I was fairly certain she was trying to protect me from being hurt. But I never got a chance to ask her.

And that kiss? I had stopped, not her. It was my first time kissing anyone and I should have been aware that her lips were so small that if I didn't feel anything at first I should wait or stay there. I was always comfortable with Celta. She had never rejected any of my touches.

My mother had made me feel so not okay and so had my father somewhat. This "date" was a way to get out of the home and to appear normal to my mother. If I was going out with someone from the company that employed my services, it made me appear less worthy of the criticism I had been getting from my parents. That's how I figured it. It was an escape.

Some people with Borderline Personality Disorder or trauma disorders will cut their own skin with razors or something sharp just to feel something. The date was something like that.

There wasn't a second date. I had expressed my concerns about pre-marital sex. We weren't even in a committed relationship. I drove to Atlanta to meet her for a second date, but she never showed. I was frustrated out of embarrassment. Then I just forgot the entire matter by the next day and never thought about the matter further.

The various medications and the alcohol impeded grieving and dare I say reality testing. People who are grieving are in such a state of denial that it is almost like a temporary psychosis. From what I was reading and hearing in the stories of grief that I studied, "normal," healthy people did for a while embrace denial to such an extent that it bordered on delusional thinking.

The loss of Celta could not be washed away with alcohol, grief counseling, or an intimate date.

Poetry as an outlet...

I can thank my mother for introducing me to Martin Kirby, who went to our church and he was a professor of English Literature and related subjects at a college in Augusta, Georgia. He would become my writing/poetry mentor.
 

I would show up on a regular basis for poetry readings where I shared my poetry and got feedback, advice, and guidance on writing good poetry. He also heard me write about my experiences with Celta and listened to my experiences. This was very helpful because I had no other outlet for this or place to talk about Celta and my relationship with her.

He said he thought it would take about 10 years for me to be able to write good poetry about Celta because the feelings were too raw.

I was living in a difficult environment with my parents. I was dealing with a major tragedy and yet the name Celta wasn't even being mentioned.

Between drinking, the different medications I was put on, and the panic attacks, I had to go to the Emergency Room (ER) on two occasions.

The psychiatrist tried me on a major tranquilizer, and I had these horrifying muscle spasms that twisted my body up into contortions that made me think my bones were going to be broken in my neck and elsewhere. The doctor said that in higher doses the drug is used for psychotic disorders but somehow it would help with my depression, I guess. That was the reason I was taken to the ER once. My father took me.

Another time I had a panic attack and again my father took me to the ER. It's strange that they weren't asking why all this was happening. Nothing like this had ever happened to me. NEVER!

The only ones listening to my stories about Celta were Martin Kirby and his wife as well as the attendees at the grief support group. Again, my parents were not interested to learn anything about this matter. They never seemed to have any awareness that I was even going to grief counseling.

This is so utterly astonishing! I had not deliberately been trying to keep everything a secret about what was going on with me. On the contrary, I looked for an opening to discuss the matter. I wanted to repair and improve the relationship. I wanted to share the fact that I had found someone who loved me.

With all this going on, all the problems I was having, I began to doubt that I could achieve my goals in life, my career goals. I wondered how I could help others when I had so many problems myself.

It should be noted that while I was put on a major tranquilizer, my psychiatrist NEVER said he thought I was psychotic. We knew I had problems coping with overwhelming stressors.

After the job with the National Science Foundation ended, another opportunity presented itself in March of 1992. I was offered a job in Wilmington, North Carolina, to work with Corning as a Technical Writer. They wanted someone with a technical background.

This would change everything. I was about to be on my own again. Finally!

My perception that I had long-term "problems" would disappear as if by magic, literally - it was unbelievable. My problem had been living in a toxic environment and that was complicated by the grief and the effort I had made to ignore, suppress, or deny the natural process.

My own doubts about my ability to achieve my career goals in life were contributing to the problems I was having.

It's hard to believe that I had only known Celta for one year – the year 1990 and when that year ended, so had Celta's life.

The tragic loss of Celta did not erase the positive impact she had on my life. There were other positive experiences during this time. I had become more confident.

I had been writing poetry about the experiences I had with Celta and I wanted to share that with others. I had been sharing that with Martin Kirby my poetry mentor but now I wanted to share this with others. It was so important and meaningful!