This section of the book is about the life Lynn and I built together in Wilmington, North Carolina—not in some idealized, picture-perfect sense, but in the daily, soulful way that love takes root. We were a family. That’s what mattered most.

Lynn was a poet and a potter. I was on my way to becoming a psychotherapist. We met through poetry—through words that tried to make sense of the world—and found ourselves surrounded by a creative, passionate community. The artists she knew through pottery, the poets I met at the Coastline readings—they became our extended circle. But she was my home.

We dreamed out loud together. Lynn wanted to pursue a Master of Fine Arts in poetry. I was preparing for graduate school in the mental health field. We supported each other, not just practically, but with awe and belief in each other's potential.

And we got engaged—not to prove something, but to honor what already was. We were building a life together. Like any two people in love, we wanted a future shaped by shared joy, comfort, creativity, and care.  

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.

A photo of one such jetty/bridge is shown below.

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 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 because 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 inclinded to desire a relationship with a girl than vice versa.

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.  

Introduction to Part I – When Love Was Still Unimaginable

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

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

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

I was just trying to survive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But slowly, that would begin to change.

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

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

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

That part comes later.

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

Preface

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Invitation

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

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

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

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

This section of the book covers the time period in which I was held like kidnapping victim. I was kidnapped by the state under the false belief that I was the perpetrator when in fact, I was the victim.

It was horrifying. The guards were like inhuman robots not unlike the police officers that arrested me.

I was desperately needing to trust my lawyer to fight for me. I should have known he was doing nothing at all to show he cared about my case. This would become very obvious when I discovered that despite knowing that I was innocent, despite knowing that I was the victim, he threatens me to accept a plea deal as if I had done something wrong.

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

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

Someone Saved My Life

I might never have written this book if that conversation hadn’t shattered my isolation and made me question what I thought I knew—that I was alone, unworthy, unlovable.

It was a Sunday night in the hospital, but time meant nothing. The hours blurred together as I paced the dimly lit hallway outside the nurses’ station, sleepless and invisible. I moved in and out of shadows, unnoticed by the staff, wrapped in a quiet desperation.

The suicidal thoughts had returned—not loud or dramatic, but like a slow leak in a sinking ship. The kind of thoughts that whisper, This will never change. You will never be free. Not truly.

In 2006, I had come to this same hospital in crisis—a cry for help, more impulse than intent. But this time had been colder. Calmer. More like surrender.

I had survived, but I didn’t know if I wanted to.

Then came a voice. Soft, tentative.

"You can't sleep either?"

It was Kira—21, sharp-eyed, and clear-souled. She had seen through my silence in a way few had before. I don’t remember exactly what I told her first. Maybe it started with fragments: a false accusation, a life torn away. But she looked at me and said what I never expected:

"Oh, I believe you. 100%."

Those words were like water in the desert.

She didn’t ask for proof. She didn’t shrink away. She believed me.

And something inside me exhaled for the first time in years.

Maybe she just said the right thing at the right moment. Maybe I was finally ready to hear it. But that moment cracked something open—a space I had sealed off long ago.

It made me wonder: What if I wasn’t destined to carry this in silence forever?

A few days later, I found myself in the tv room with a few others. At this point, I was joining others. I had enjoyed Law & Order: SVU but the topic of this episode could not have come at a more appropriate time.

This episode was different. The plot mirrored my own life: a teacher, falsely accused of a heinous crime, his life dismantled by lies. I sat frozen. Every scene struck me like a nerve. The disbelief, the humiliation of a false accusation, these were experiences I knew very well. The story was powerful. The police had soon realized that the teacher was innocent but the damage had been done. He didn’t know if he would be able to work in his field. The character was in tears - doing an excellent job of portraying the intense pain of this accusation.

While it was fictional, I felt like the authors who wrote this story had known of an incident like this. I had to share what I was noticing and how I could relate to this story.

During the commercial break, I stepped out to tell two ladies that I wanted to share something when they returned. I was making it inevitable that I would share my own experience. People by now knew that I had been a therapist and cared about others.

As everyone returned to the room, there were now about 5 or 6 of us.

"I can relate to all of this," I said. I then added, “I was falsely accused of a violent crime many years ago. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to work in the field again; it destroyed my life. That is why I am here.”

Then someone spoke. "I’m so sorry that happened to you, Bruce."

It seemed like it would be easy to understand how this would harm someone.

Those words, so simple, so human, broke something loose. Not because they erased the past—but because they reminded me I wasn’t beyond compassion.

Later that week, I joined a group activity. I encouraged another patient to attend. We were given words to represent our feelings and paints to express them visually.

I chose words like misfit, outcast, invisible, and outsider. I wanted to amplify the negative feelings and the cold and isolated feelings that go along with these words.

When it was my turn to share, I don’t know what I expected.

Instead, the man I had convinced to come said, "You’re not invisible. You got me here. You’re everywhere. You’re like the social butterfly of this place."

Others chimed in. They spoke of my presence. My kindness.

My jaw dropped.

Was that really me? How had I not noticed this myself?

They saw someone I didn’t know existed anymore. Maybe had never met.

And for the first time in years, I believed that healing might be possible—not because I was cured, but because I was no longer alone.

Kira and I spoke again. She said I should meet her family for Christmas. We never did, but Elee—my ex-wife, still so compassionate—paid for us to go to a movie together.

It was a simple gesture. But it felt like life nudging me forward.

I left the hospital not healed, but opened. I had stepped out of the shadow of suicide into something like possibility.

And for the first time in a long, long time, I wasn’t just surviving.

I was beginning to live.

I should have thought of reaching out and trying to connect with others sooner than this. To be clear, my problems had been trying to get my own family to understand my pain and what I had experienced. I had been telling myself, as I stated earlier, that if my own family didn’t care than who would? This had created a sense of a world without caring or connection.

The hospital doors had closed behind me, but their weight still pressed against my shoulders. I had become extremely anxious for my ride to take me home from the hospital. I was no longer suicidal. I felt a new found sense of hope.

Elee paid for me to meet with a friend that I met in the hospital named Kira and for us three to see a movie. It was amazing how much this cost and how invested Elee was in my healing. This was right after Christmas. Kira had intended to have me visit her family for Christmas but she was promising things without getting an okay from her family.

I stepped out of the hospital on the 23rd of December, 2019. I was not healed but I was different. I wasn’t carrying the weight of the past alone. I had shared it with others. I had told my story - admittedly it was a very abridged version of the story… but the simple concept that a false conviction can destroy a human life was something others could understand. The full story is this book.

Star Wars IX reached the theaters at that time and Elee wanted me to make a new friend and so she offered to pay for movie tickets for me, Kira and herself. This was Saturday December 28, 2019. Kira’s father brought her and then picked her up after the movie. It would turn out that Kira was dealing with serious issues of her own and this meant that her interest in trying to help me or be a friend to me would not last long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Past Trauma and Marriage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that changed everything.

A Hypothetical That Became Real

We first connected through poetry.

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

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

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

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

And she took my question literally.

And I didn’t stop her.

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

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

She believed me.

She didn’t ask me to prove anything.

She just said yes.

Across Oceans for Love

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

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

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

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

Grief That Undid Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

I missed his funeral. I missed saying goodbye.

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

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

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

That was basically gone with the passing of Thomas.

Marriage Meets Reality

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

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

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

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

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

Unspoken Resentments

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

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

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

We both found something else.

In 2018, she left.

I didn’t fight her.

There was nothing left to fight for.

Breadcrumbs and Gaslight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not guilt. Not regret.

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

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

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

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

Marked by Shadows

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

I could verify these beliefs but they were my beliefs.

Another Door Slammed Shut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Breaking Point Was Still Ahead

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

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

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

Before I could discover self-love.

Before I could find self-compassion.

Before I could trust in myself.

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

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

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

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

But the PTSD wasn’t new.

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

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

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