true story

If this was a normal story about victimization, I would not be telling a story about this twenty years after the fact.

This story is far more complicated, and the nightmare was only beginning. It seemed obvious to everyone so far - me, the police, the witnesses. I was the victim of a violent crime, and with the perpetrator leaving behind her phone, the police would find the perpetrator.

That is how this story should have proceeded.

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

Within just more than an hour, with the sun getting low now, the police showed up again. The most disturbing nightmare of my life was about to begin. It wasn't enough to violently assault me. The perpetrator of this crime had done something far worse, and I was about to find out about that.

I noticed lights outside. The police were back.

Then in my next memory, there was a female police officer in the doorway of the building next to the stairway that led to the second floor.

It was a warm day, October 1, 2004, so I had not changed out of the bloody shorts and t-shirt. The door to my apartment was about 8 feet away from where this officer was standing.

I heard something repeated on the police radio that this police officer was wearing. The words I heard were that a woman had been sexually assaulted out here!

What! Oh, my God!

On any normal day in my life I would not have considered that they could possibly be talking about me… not in the context of hurting another person.

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

The police were just here. They knew what had happened. They witnessed the extensive nature of my injuries… my cuts. How badly I was bleeding.

I was thinking, your fellow police officers were just here. They know what happened.

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

Part of me wanted to talk and get this cleared up immediately.

Another part of me was utterly terrified. I had already seen how the justice system works when John F. had claimed that I called and threatened him. That was characterized in this book earlier as harassing phone calls. I left out of this book that he falsely claimed that I threatened him. It was not relevant. It never happened. There were no recordings and no phone records.

I may have left out of this narrative that when my public defender got the phone records, he had proof – according to him – that John had fabricated the story for one of the two days when I was alleged to have called John. He never could explain why he couldn’t get the phone records for one of the days, including the day prior and after, but he couldn’t get the records for the other day which was just within the same week.

So, part of me wanted to talk to this police officer in the hallway watching over me, but most of me was dissociating from the reality of this. When I said, “This is not happening” to myself, I was being literal.

The physical assault was experienced as less of a threat to my survival than the notion of what it would mean to be falsely accused of a crime of this nature - my freedom and my sense of self as a person in a social world were threatened.

I had known about derealization and depersonalization. When Lynn was suddenly at risk of dying, I had experienced both derealization and depersonalization. I had entered a dream-like state (derealization) and as I remembered those events, I was at times floating outside my body and looking down at Lynn (depersonalization). More specifically, in my memory, I am talking to Lynn in the doorway to our bedroom and I am looking down at Lynn as if from somewhere near the top of the door and the ceiling.

To be clear, I had NEVER fully taken on the symptoms of dissociative identity disorder, where I would have amnesia and another personality would take control of me. This is relevant to the events that occur next. I NEVER had a dissociative disorder of any type but briefly during traumatic events, I did dissociate.

At this point and for some time after, I was not feeling anything. I was detached. I was not angry at Ana for making this up, nor was I angry at the police for ignoring evidence from their own fellow police officers who had just been out here.

It seemed like time was frozen. I was desperately waiting for some opportunity to clear this up. However, I was simultaneously frozen and shut down like a zombie, and the zombie part of me was more in control.

I was repeating the words in my mind "this is not happening." "This is not happening."

I remember another police officer who entered the building.

I struggled to speak. My mouth was dry, and I could barely draw a breath. I wasn't sure my words were being said out loud, “No, I was attacked, I am the victim.” I don’t think that was vocalized.

The male police officer explained that he was going to have to put me in handcuffs.

I was terrified beyond belief. I wasn't shaking, but I was frozen. I felt dazed and confused. Aware and not aware of the shame of walking to the police car in front of the house while in handcuffs.

This public humiliation, even in this neighborhood, of being in handcuffs required that I detach from the reality of what was occurring.

I walked as if somehow on autopilot.

I noticed that I was shaking as I was led into the police car. He placed me in the front seat.

I was thinking about the last time I was in handcuffs, which at that time involved chains in addition to handcuffs, when I was taken from Durham to Wilmington – which had once been home, which had once been only associated with good things… falling in love… being the president of the local society of clinical social workers… being recognized at the mental health center as that person worthy of respect.

Could life get any worse? These events proved that there were no limits to how bad life could get.

It was hard to believe that I was on top of the world just four years ago. I had a sense of being part of a family with Lynn. Her cousin had two little girls, and I was like a big brother or uncle to them… All excited, taking the younger girl in my arms out into the ocean… because “of course, why would you not trust me” to take care of the little girl. That is what I still remember at this very moment while walking out to the police car and being led into the police car.

I was still in a fog as I had been for the past few years. I could recall the wife of the couple I moved in with when I first moved to Durham. She was offended that I was considering getting onto Social Security Disability Insurance when I had never been brutally tortured as a child as she and others with dissociative identity disorder had been.

On the ride with the policeman beside me, I noticed my phone ringing.

It was the friend I had been expecting that afternoon or early evening.

My hands were shaking as I tried to pick up the phone, which had bounced out of my pocket onto the floor of the police car. My heart was beating so fast, and I was fumbling with the phone. My voice was shaking as I said, "Hello."

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

I told my friend on the phone, "Earlier today, just a few hours ago, I heard a woman ask where Bruce is, and I thought that was you, but when I looked outside my door, I saw a white woman."

I continued talking to her, “I said, I am Bruce, even though I knew it was not you.” I then described how she walked right into my room, locking the door behind her, and then she started punching me in the face.”

I told her I wanted to see her soon and that this would get all straightened out, but I didn't know about tomorrow. Part of me held onto the hope and belief that this would get straightened out once I explained things. Another part of me remembered the many hours that turned into days and weeks while I waited for things to get cleared up in the past when that never happened.

My friend was shocked. I can imagine that she was desperately out of words to say to comfort me.

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

She knew some things about me, so she recognized the concern in my voice. I heard compassion in her voice as she said how sorry she was that this was happening to me. I would never see or hear from her again, but the moment of comfort she offered me was unforgettable.

I then hung up the phone.

She had heard the utter desperation in my voice, which the police officer should have heard and understood as well. Yet he was inhumanly unresponsive… seemingly devoid of humanity, like a robot programmed with pre-existing instructions.

The police officer was a large white man who seemed incapable of emotions. Humans are not perfect but this guy driving the car was especially lacking in human reactivity. The police officers that took me down to Wilmington a couple of years ago seemed to lack a capacity to understand that they didn’t need to treat me like an animal as I was offering no threat when they put me in the back of their metal cage.

The inhuman police officer, who I would soon learn was a detective, parked his car and led me into the building - the police station.

Immediately upon entering the doorway, I saw the woman who had attacked me, and I said in a matter-of-fact tone, "She's the one who attacked me."

I was still holding onto reality or rather I was holding onto the truth and verbalizing it.

He led me down into the building, and we turned left. Then, I was directed to sit down in a chair outside a room.

I was asked to wait and wait and wait.

I did try to call a lawyer. I had a subscription to pre-paid legal which I NEVER imagined needing for a criminal matter. I couldn’t process what the person who answered the phone was saying and ended up not asking to speak to a lawyer.

Anyway, this was still October 1, 2004.

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

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

I was directed to sit at a table with one police detective on the left and one on the right. The room was rather dark.

After that fact, one might ask me if I was aware of a camera or a two-way mirror. At this moment, I didn’t register the existence of a camera or if there was a two-way mirror.

“Let’s talk about what happened,” I heard.

Fine, I thought, finally. I not only described what happened with my apartment room door open but I re-enacted this. The door to the room was not locked, so I could re-enact precisely what happened.

One of them said, “That is not what happened.”

I wanted to argue because I was there, and they were not there.

Instead, as if we were not speaking the same language, I repeated the same exact statement as if they had not heard what I said. I even re-enacted everything precisely as it happened. I opened the door to the room with the police officers with my face looking in the direction of the woman on the stairs and said, “I’m Bruce.” … just as it had happened.

Again, I heard those words, “That is not what happened.”

I was so frustrated that I wanted to scream, “Why are you saying that? You were not there!”

At this point, I was not thinking that they wanted me to confess to a crime. It honestly felt like I was leaving out some details about the crime that had been committed against me.

One might think that I should be aware that I was believed to have sexually assaulted a woman, but my mind didn’t go there. I knew precisely what happened. I was there. It had just happened. They were not there, so how could they possibly know what had happened better than I?

This was beyond bizarre. I was still wearing the bloody clothing from earlier, from the assault. Did they think I kept blood-stained clothes around for moments when I wanted to claim to be a victim?

Their questioning continued. At no point did anything they said seem to get us to a point where I would be brought down here in handcuffs.

At some point, I had briefly seen her in Jimmy’s pickup truck, but when she showed up and attacked me, I didn’t recognize her, I told them. To which one of them said that he would not forget someone who looked like her. In my mind, I thought about Grace who was a friend of the family, or I thought Grace was a friend of Jimmy, and Grace was someone that a person would not forget – she was attractive. I couldn’t figure out why they thought Jimmy’s wife, Ana, was attractive.

It is many years after the fact as I write this but honestly, I don’t think my mind ever was consciously able to process what was happening. I had been in jail and the shame it caused was so memorable. This was experienced as traumatic, and my mind was doing what so many clients of mine had described. I was not consciously aware at that moment or consciously choosing to do this, but I was using derealization. This means that I was not overly responsive.

I did not feel anything either.

Police officers asking me questions in a dark room after hearing the words about a woman being sexually assaulted when I was at the house… Nothing in life had prepared me to offer an intelligent response to such a line of questioning.

The only possible reaction for me was derealization – to experience this like a dream, or a nightmare might be more accurate.

However much it might seem to not be happening and just a dream, I was simultaneously awake and so not everything slipped by without conscious awareness. I was aware of feeling a profound sense of shame that would go along with anyone accused of a heinous crime.

I was aware of how much I did not want to spend another second in jail. Symbolically, these were both the antithesis of all the reasons and events that had led me to experience the courage to be noticed, to gain name recognition in Wilmington.

All the countless times I wrote down answers to the question of what was the worst thing that could happen if I left my proverbial shell as a shy person..., I suddenly was being smacked in the face with the worst possible answer to what was the worst possible thing that could happen - the most shameful type of event that someone like me could not have dreamed up if I had tried.

At some point, I registered the words “and things got out of control?”

I responded with a bewildered look while thinking, “yes, when she suddenly entered the room, locked the door behind her, and started punching me in the face, things were out of control, but what are you talking about?” I didn’t say that, but I was thinking about it.

After I told them what had happened, it became increasingly clear that the truth did not matter.

This would have characterized the hours that passed with the two detectives trying to get me to tell them something they wanted to hear but since I had no idea what they thought happened, I could NOT satisfy them. My responses were characterized by me despondently shaking my head “no” or saying nothing more than “no.”

It was like some surreal game of “guess what we want you to say?”

My initial impression that the truth would emerge when I got a chance to talk, that the police were genuinely interested in finding the truth — that belief had evaporated at some point.

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

I was speechless at first.

Now, I knew that Jimmy and his wife, Ana, had devised an intricate plan that was well thought out.

I suddenly remembered how I had spoken to Jimmy, the landlord and husband of my attacker, just a few weeks ago. I remembered how I had discussed dissociative identity disorder (DID) and used the example where if I had DID, maybe one of my personalities might be named "Brucie."

In my conversation with Jimmy, I used the name my grandpa called me as a child. In this interaction with police, logic and rational thinking were absent and it felt like a disturbing game. The detectives were not benevolent like my deceased grandparents, but playing out a sick and perverted game at my expense.

Therefore, I said, "I'm Brucie" in a soft voice that a personality that was a child might have. I was not trying to be play games. It was just a last-ditch effort to make these two detectives happy. At this point, I would have done whatever these authority figures were asking me to do.

When that didn't satisfy them, they showed me a statement that one of them on the left had created. They wanted me to sign this.

I looked at what was written, and I was shocked. He was asking me to sign a confession.

I asked both of them, and I was sincerely incredulous when I asked them, "That is what you think happened?"

"I'm not signing that," I answered. "That did NOT happen."

I could easily rebut everything and explain how it was impossible… I could direct them to their fellow officers, who would have known that what they thought happened could not possibly have happened. Now, we were getting somewhere.

Unfortunately, it was too late, or so it seemed. Why didn’t they just tell me what she had said and what they thought happened hours ago? The only thing that frustrated them now was the fact that I would not sign the statement.

The statement of confession did explain why they were so frustrated throughout the questioning. Since I had no idea what they wanted me to say or what they thought happened, I could not have said anything that came close to what they thought happened. This statement was a giant leap from anything that they asked me or anywhere the questioning had gone.

Any account of any interrogation by the police will point out the hours that police detectives are willing to go at the alleged perpetrator trying to get a confession. I write this fact as someone who has had 20 years to listen to stories about the ways police detectives conduct themselves. However, in almost every other interrogation, it seemed like the person being questioned would have a better understanding of what the police thought happened.

It was just after midnight and now Saturday, October 2, 2004, when I was handed the statement by one of the detectives that they wanted me to sign.

They could not have considered any other evidence. I don’t remember where they left the room, but this questioning had been going on for a long time, so I might not have noticed, nor would I have remembered every tiny detail.

I had assumed that their fellow police officers who initially responded to my 911 call would have spoken to them. However, if they had spoken to the police who first responded to the call, that I made after Ana assaulted me, the questioning would have had to go differently.

I learned what they thought happened, and then the discussion was over.

The next thing I remember was that they brought me in front of a magistrate. I felt a feeling of horror unlike anything I had ever experienced. Do I need to remind you, dear reader, of every experience from trying to overcome shyness to the shame that went with being in jail to the sense of how unending that had seemed, and now this was so much more serious?

I was taken in front of the magistrate, and I learned what the charges were. I was being charged with second-degree kidnapping and second-degree sexual offense. This was so terrifying that I could not process the events that were transpiring.

I was the innocent victim, and now they were charging the victim with a crime - no two different crimes!

I still didn't know the extent of Ana's lies.

They were arresting, charging, and jailing the victim of a brutal crime!

These two detectives surely had ignored every single iota of evidence collected by their fellow police officers who arrived in response to my 911 call because one could not square what the first responding police officers saw with what these two detectives thought happened.

This was serious! Second-degree kidnapping and second-degree sexual offense.

I was barely processing how strange this was. Doesn’t kidnapping involve seizing a person and bringing the person somewhere else?

Now, I was thinking about how long I would be held captive. I had seen fights the last time I was in jail for missing a court date in Wilmington after I had demanded that my lawyer appeal the ruling where John F. falsely claimed that I made harassing phone calls. This was Durham, with gangs, and I had already been robbed, as I mentioned earlier.

I wanted help, so I couldn’t think of anything other than declaring that I was suicidal. However, stating this didn’t help me at all.

They only heaped on more humiliation.

I was stripped down and put into a strange, padded outfit that I guess is for people who are suicidal, which barely covered my underwear. This seemed like a purposeful effort to shame and humiliate me. The only thing missing was a chance to taunt me.

This was like a crucifixion. The Romans had designed this method of punishment as a form of humilitation to add to the punishment of the condemned.

The next thing I remember was being taken to the hospital, where they drew blood. I wasn't worried about that. However, I was deeply and profoundly filled with shame because I was in the garb of a person coming from the jail in handcuffs.

However, I was thinking that the blood evidence would have confirmed and supported my account of being the victim. She had left without a scratch. The lack of blood evidence on her would mean that I was NEVER standing over her. It seemed like they would have to account for that.

I didn’t know all the evidence that they were considering or how long it would take. If they had investigated the crime scene, they would not have found any of her blood in there. So, having my blood should have only helped my case.

I had not asked for an ambulance to come. What was on my mind was being able to show the police just how badly I had been attacked.

I also was worried that I might have gotten some of her body fluids on me. I had not hit her in any way that would cause her to bleed, but I had no idea who she was and what diseases someone in this neighborhood might have.

I lived near the Durham police station, so the police arrived quickly.

Within about 20 or 30 minutes, the police arrived in response to my 911 call.

I heard sounds outside my room and realized that the police were entering from the front door to the building.

The first police officer held out his hand, saying, "Don't come too close." I understood what he was concerned about. He didn't want my blood on him.

There were two police officers that arrived.

At this point, I was not considering how bizarre this event might seem to the police because quite frankly, the police didn’t show any sense that they didn’t believe what I had said.

The police officers started taking my statement about what happened to me. I did recall hearing a question by a police officer about why I let her inside. I could only say that it happened so fast, and I was taken by surprise.

Next, the police officers started taking witness statements. They were all consistent in stating that everything happened very fast. No, no one had any idea who this person was.

In my account of what happened, I said that I had been expecting someone who might not know which room I was in. I had heard the words “where’s Bruce?” and came out to see a stranger.

No, I had no idea why anyone would do this to me.

I could hear the witnesses speaking to the police officers and no one had suggested that they had any idea who this person was. While they didn’t see what happened inside my room, at least one person noted that she had left without a scratch.

I explained to the police that she had said something bizarre that made no sense. She had nearly yelled "why do you keep calling me?"

I explained that my immediate reaction was to ask her, "who are you?" but she never answered that question.

I was confused that they had not done this on their own. Why were the police not taking photographs of me and the room where I was assaulted?

Before I knew it, the ambulance had arrived and they were attending to my cuts and injuries before the police had taken photographs. The police had NEVER taken any photographs during the entire time they were there.

I had little hope for justice since we had no idea who attacked me or how to find the person.

Then I heard a phone ringing in my room. I had not noticed previously that she was carrying a phone. She must have dropped it or accidentally thrown it while assaulting me. That was why she had been trying to get back into the room.

The phone was behind a pile of books on the floor. My phone was in my hand. This had to be the perpetrator’s phone.

I gave the phone to the police officers saying, "this might help you to find who did this to me."

Having given the police her phone there was hope that maybe I could get some justice. Maybe they would find her.

There would not be anything else with which to identify her! She was the attacker and left without a scratch. The only bloody markers in my apartment room were from me - it was my blood. It was my bloody thumbprint on the door frame.

She had not fallen and tripped herself leaving her own blood anywhere.

I felt a deep sense of confusion; this was beyond bizarre. I figured this was just another very bad experience in a bad neighborhood. The lack of curiosity by the police could be explained by the notion that they must have heard and seen people do crazy things in this part of town.

I didn’t expect these police officers to answer a question like, “What woman locks themselves inside a room with a guy and then attacks that person? Repeatedly punching the person?”

I had not noticed anything that would indicate why she was able to slice open my face and cause me to bleed so profusely. On the one hand, she was acting like she was high on drugs which might explain the sudden eruption of violence, but why would she ask for me in particular? Plus, a woman who is in the habit of using drugs would not have had a ring on her fingers.

The paramedics were able to get the bleeding to stop, and then they left at about the same time as the police left.

The story is about to get much stranger, though.

This is a deeply traumatic and disturbing story, one that is both painful to relive and challenging to put into words. As I write, I imagine you, dear reader, sitting beside me—offering quiet support as I share this chapter of my life. What you’re about to read marks the beginning of the most terrifying, unexpected, and surreal events I have ever faced.

Losing Lynn rivals the pain of these events, but it was not beyond my imagination of things that can happen in life. Lynn had been born with a genetic and terminal disease and therefore, while it still surprised me how suddenly things took a turn for the worse with her health, it was not beyond my imagination.

The date was October 1, 2004. I had been evicted and appealed the decision. I just wanted a place to put my belongings. I also was aware of ways in which I could get financial assistance to pay the landlord, Jimmy, what he was due. Back then, everything was not up there in the cloud.

Every written and drawn item from Celta was priceless to me. Every photograph of her and of Lynn and the life we shared... all these things were on film and on CDs. All I had were memories.

I was teetering on the edge of homelessness once again.. My search for shelter led me to what was referred to as a “boarding house” at 721 Holloway Street in Durham, NC. The area had a reputation-it was known as a drug-infested, crime-ridden part of town.

Even Eric Peters, my Vocational Rehabilitation counselor, had reservations about the move. He cautioned against starting a home-based business there, but I had no other options. The boarding house was affordable: we paid weekly, and little to no security deposit was required. That was all I could manage at the time.

Living there quickly proved as precarious as its reputation suggested. The building lacked basic security—doors to the outside were rarely locked, leaving everyone vulnerable. One evening, I made the mistake of allowing a woman into my room. She crossed a line immediately, behaving inappropriately and bending over to expose herself. Snapping to my senses, I asked her to leave.

What followed was surreal and frightening. As I walked to the store, she followed, shouting threats and warning me about someone who would come after me if I didn’t pay her. Pay her for what? I had nothing to pay for.

Discarded needles were on the street in front of the building. I knew it was some form of drug paraphernalia. I have NEVER used illicit substances myself.

I had to run for safety when getting off the bus when I was being harassed on a recent occasion. I was robbed at knifepoint while living there. I had someone indicate they had a gun in their pocket at night on a different occasion.

I had confided in my sister about needing help after being robbed multiple times, but she didn't seem to understand. It would have been difficult to explain to her the concept of not having a car and living in a dangerous city like New Britain, which was closest to our hometown in Connecticut.

She had only experienced leaving work and walking to her car; she couldn't comprehend the struggle of living in a high-crime area because it was all I could afford. Like my sister, I never imagined myself living in such conditions, relying on public transportation instead of owning a car. Mentally, I was in unfamiliar territory and completely unprepared for the challenges I faced.

Despite all the threats I faced and the repeatedly frightening experiences, I had not been physically assaulted, yet.

Not yet!

Jimmy, The Landlord Wants to Know About Dissociative Identity Disorder

There are a few other important facts to know. One is that I had a conversation with Jimmy, the landlord, in which he was asking about my experience treating people with dissociative identity disorder (DID). This used to be called Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD). He, Jimmy, didn’t want to know about the incredibly disturbing trauma that people with this disorder experienced or how emotional and traumatic it was for me to help any victim to cope with this because of my capacity for empathy.

I just mentioned that people with DID have personalities that have different names. I recalled that as a child, my grandpa called me Brucie. Using that example, I said that if I had DID, which I don’t, I might name a child personality or have a child personality named Brucie.

I had the opportunity to see Jimmy’s wife partially when she was inside his pickup truck. It’s important to note that I did not recognize her as the attacker, but I am getting ahead of the story.

This detail is very important - the conversation about what DID (pronounced D, I, D) is all about. I would hear about this conversation later.

I did meet a friend of the family named Grace. I would join her and her two children at Durham Bulls baseball games, and I helped her with her computer. She was a safe and decent person. I once thought Jimmy was decent. She was very attractive, far more so than anyone directly associated with the landlord, which is only relevant to her later encounter with the police.

I had been dumpster diving near the library up the street and had acquired many books, which other homeless people appreciated.

I had books in piles all over the room. My apartment was just a room in the house.

The room is about 18 feet wide by 18 feet from the front door to the back of the room. A wall is set back about eight or nine feet from the door to the apartment room. The wall has an opening on the right and the left as you investigate the room from the door. Behind the wall is a mattress on the floor where I slept.

There was barely enough room in the apartment today. My computer was set up on a desk against the wall, to the right as you entered the room.

About six to eight feet from the door, there is a couch.

I was waiting for a friend to arrive today. She was a black woman, and the woman I was seeing romantically was also black. Let me describe the apartment building better before I explain what is about to happen. Looking at the house from the street, there is a front door and a driveway to the left. Around the back, there is an apartment. Scott stayed there. He got a discount on rent, just like I was getting free rent for working on Jimmy's website. We paid our rent weekly to Scott, and he gave us a receipt.

There is a door on the side of the building that leads inside from the driveway. If you go through that door, you will see the kitchen, which is a common area for cooking meals. Past the kitchen is the bathroom with a shower. An apartment was also down that hallway.

Turning right, you would come to the vending machines that Jimmy kept stocked with sodas and snacks. Before you came to my apartment room, there was an apartment on the right and another two apartments on the left.

Across from my room was the stairway that leads to four apartments upstairs. Next to the foot of the stairs was another apartment.

It was an all-male boarding house, but females were there offering sex for money. I mentioned an unsuccessful attempt by one woman to get me to accept her service(s).

I had come to feel like the perfect victim. It’s not untrue that people can sense vulnerability. The urban scowl is something a more confident person might use during the day to walk quickly and with purpose if they found themselves in a potentially dangerous part of town. I had sensed danger at night and had run as fast as I could to my “home” - imagining that getting inside this boarding house at 721 Holloway Street would be safe.

However, getting inside was not always safe. In addition to the encounter with the prostitute, I had seen the police use tear gas to get a gun from a resident.

My door was open as I expected my new friend to arrive.

I learned about a phenomenon called the "cocktail party phenomenon" years ago. When you hear your name, it can penetrate the cacophony of other sounds. We can hear our name if it is called out, even in a busy and somewhat loud room full of people talking. Something causes us to immediately turn in the direction where we heard it.

I noticed this instant attention-grabbing effect years ago after I first learned about it. I was walking to class, deep in thought, when I heard "Bruce." Immediately, my attention was caught, and my head turned in the direction of where someone had called out my name. The person must have been a couple of football fields away.

That is what happened next. With my door partially open, I heard the words, “where’s Bruce?” coming from outside my room.

Without thinking, I opened my door, stepped into the hallway, and said, "I'm Bruce."

A woman stood a few steps up the stairway leading to the second floor. She was NOT the person I was expecting. She was standing half-way up the stairs, asking Danny who was just another tenant that lived on the second floor. Other than her being white and not who I was expecting, there was nothing distinctive about her, and I had no idea who she was or why she was looking for me.

Time froze for about one second… enough for me to register my confusion and to wonder who is this person that seems to know me?

Her eyes locked onto mine and she charged at me, coming down the stairs and around a corner as if propelled by a ferocious determination. I was frozen in shock, unable to react before she burst past me, entering my apartment.

I stumbled after her, walking past her and into the room just as she slammed the door shut and turned the lock, trapping us both inside. Before I could assess the situation, her fist collided with my cheek in a brutal punch that sent me reeling.

The blows kept coming, one after another in a flurry of violence that sent my glasses flying across the room. I could feel blood beginning to flow down my face as she continued to unleash a relentless assault on my face, leaving me battered and disoriented.

I was dazed and shocked. I staggered backward with each blow. There wasn't much room between the door and the couch where I fell. I was shocked by the fact that a woman would lock herself in the room with me, then attack me (someone who I didn’t even know), and I was shocked by the blows to the face.

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

I answered, immediately, "Who are you?" with genuine shock in my voice. I was wondering who the heck was attacking me. And why?

I was hurt badly. Blood was pouring out of my nose and across my face almost immediately.

Was she high on drugs?

I managed to get to my feet and noticed that there was a distance between us. I used the opportunity to move forward and unlocked the door that she had just locked. Then, I pulled her toward the door, trying to get her out of the room.

At some point, I brought my hand to my face and noticed my hand was smeared with blood. As I pulled her toward the door and outside, I touched the door frame for balance and I left a blood-smeared thumbprint on the door frame with my right thumb.

She didn’t have a scratch on her. I had not even hit her at all or defended myself in any way. I had always been non-violent, peaceful. I had never been attacked at all much less in such a bloody way.

One might ask why I didn’t fight back? There was something instinctual in me about not hitting girls or women. I never had to consider a moment like this.

At this point, I had no idea that it would be crucial to know that she was not bleeding at all. She was all perpetrator and attacker. I couldn’t defend myself if I wanted to do so.

I had no idea that none of her blood being anywhere in the room or on the property would be important.

In fact, as I was trying to get her outside, I was worried about hurting her!

This happened so incredibly fast and could not have taken more than 60 seconds. I wanted to establish safety from this crazy person so I could call 911.

As I tried to shut the door, she was pushing the door to get back inside!

I couldn't close the door.

I couldn't believe it. What more did she want to do to me?

I reached my hand to try to push her away. My hand connected with her face, and it might have been partially closed into almost a fist.

This was the closest thing to acting in self-defense. It seemed like all I had accomplished was pushing her away from the door so that I could lock it and finally feel safe inside my apartment room. Here I was worrying about worrying about hurting her because she was female! Those rules were probably not meant for situations like this.

I had not used anywhere near enough force for it to be considered self-defense.

Like every victim, I immediately picked up my phone and dialed 911. I then waited for the police… still bleeding profusely.

My mind flashed back to what had just happened. The door had been open partially in case my friend had shown up and didn’t know what room I was in. But she was black. My girlfriend sometimes showed up to see me. She was black as well.

The person I encountered halfway up the stairs was white. Who was she? Who was this attacker and why did she do this? Was she high and had she mistaken me for someone else?

Some of the guys who lived in the house had been returning from work. The voices outside must have given me the sense that she had left. Some had witnessed the commotion from outside my apartment room. Unfortunately, they would not have seen what happened after she locked the door.

There were several people in the hallway or on the stairs who looked with shock at me. These would be witnesses. Someone advised me to look in the bathroom to see how badly I was bleeding.

Another tenant, Joachim, told me to go look in the mirror. He was the most friendly guy I knew at that residence along with Danny.

I was shocked at how profusely I was bleeding across my face. I wondered why I was not bruised as opposed to seeing my face sliced up like this. I was trying to stop the bleeding.

The lacerations were not deep. The cuts were more like the way one gets cut up when shaving… I was not getting nauseous or feeling faint like after being accidentally cut with a knife in the past or on a glass window - occasions which had made me feel faint.

Joachim asked me, "So, you don't know her from Adam?"

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

I registered some comments by the residents. I heard the words, “Why would you let her inside your apartment if you didn’t know her?”

I was pacing between the bathroom to look at my cuts, the hallway to talk to the tenants and my room. In the room I saw my blood on the floor and another place where my hand had smeared blood from my face onto the wall, in addition to my own bloody thumbprint on the door frame.

Obviously, she didn’t leave any bloody marks or any evidence to help the police find her! She had done all the violence. She had left without a cut or scratch!

Joachim and Danny could see my blood in my apartment room, places where my blood was on the floor, my bloody thumbprint on the door frame.

Looking in the mirror, down the hallway, in the bathroom, I was shocked by the extent to which I was cut. I was still bleeding from cuts on the left and right sides of my face. I had never been assaulted in this manner in my life. I had never known any violence in my life, only threats of violence.

Blood was also coming from my nose and mouth. I believe I was in such a state of shock that I was not aware of feeling any pain. I knew that the mind had dissociated from feeling anything at all physically or emotionally.

It was hard to stop the bleeding with so many cuts. I was wearing a dark-striped, green short-sleeved shirt; it was covered in blood. I was wearing shorts, and those were covered in blood as well. Even my socks and shoes were bloody. Within just a few minutes, my shirt, shorts, socks, and shoes had soaked up blood that had drained off my face.

In the early months of my captivity, I fiercely rejected any suggestion of being taken to a psychiatric hospital for evaluation. The mere thought of using mental illness as a defense for my actions made me sick. I wasn’t going to allow it to be said that there was validity to what Ana claimed but there was an explanation.

Despite Ana's accusations, I stood firm in declaring my complete innocence and victimhood. I refused to succumb to her manipulative tactics and never wavered in my claims of being mentally sound and guiltless. To even consider entertaining such an idea would be to admit defeat and give Ana exactly what she wanted – power over me.

No, I would not allow her or the detectives who questioned me to strip me of my agency and reduce me to a mere pawn in their twisted game.

I wrote in a letter to my lawyer that I did not have a dissociative disorder. I told him that I had not been trying to play a game with the detectives. With Ana’s lies they were the writers and directors of a sick game.

My landlord, with a sinister smile on his face, had taken away all of my possessions, leaving me with nothing… as if I had never existed, never collected anything that I might want to keep forever.

My precious memories in the form of photographs and letters from those I loved were now lost forever, buried under the weight of my shattered identity. Every cherished reminder of the life of joy and success was gone!

I was left with nothing - no clothes, no mementos, no sense of self. It was as if my very being had been erased.

Alone, Abandoned and Scared

When I was in my cell, I would desperately try to catch the attention of the guards to be taken to see a nurse or doctor. But I was just another inmate in a sea of faces, drowning in my own extreme anxiety. Every moment felt like an overwhelming wave crashing over me, suffocating me with its intensity.

The guards, cold and unfeeling as machines, would pass by our cells without a hint of empathy or compassion. In their eyes, I was nothing but a number, a nameless entity locked away in this hellish prison. They didn't see me as a person, let alone an innocent one who was suffering in distress.

Their robotic footsteps echoed through the halls, sending chills down my spine. It was as if they were inhuman creatures, devoid of any shred of humanity. And trapped in this environment, my body began to react in strange ways. Panic attacks would grip me with such force that I thought I was going to die. My heart raced and my breaths came in short, labored gasps.

I would frantically push the button in my cell, pleading for someone, anyone to come and help me. But my cries fell on deaf ears. The guards saw me as nothing more than a nuisance, an inconvenience to be ignored and dismissed.

My captivity was slowly breaking me down, piece by piece. But no one seemed to care about my suffering. To them, I was just another prisoner in a cell, forgotten and discarded by society.

Moving to Protective Custody

After two or three months, I was transferred to a different part of the jail called protective custody. I wasn't entirely clear why.

There were three inmates who were not only in this area called protective custody but they only left their cells for about an hour to shower and never when anyone else was out. They were going to testify against fellow gang members.

During my stay in protective custody, I met an older man who was also being held there. He had been caught printing photographs of young children, possibly both boys and girls, in various stages of undress – perhaps even nude. The crime was heinous and unforgivable. I couldn't bring myself to feel any sympathy for him.

What kind of person does this to innocent children? I was curious about the details of his crime, but I knew better than to ask him directly. Unlike me, he was not adamant and ready to explain how he would never harm anyone.

I also crossed paths with a man whose intellect was severely lacking. He had strangled his wife or girlfriend to death. His parents were very supportive. He always had money in his canteen, and he would share something if I didn’t have anything. His family kept his canteen stocked with cash, unlike the indifference offered by my family.

I thought they would offer me a place to stay when I was released. Who knows if that was a good idea, but it never panned out. 

I remained in this section of the prison for several months until I was finally released in May 2003. The Protective Custody unit was smaller than the general population area and most cells housed only one person, making it a safer environment.

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

She was a striking African American woman, born into a man's body. While I couldn't help but know that she must be male, it was her soft and feminine legs and face that caught my attention. In one particular moment, none of my prior beliefs about sexual orientation mattered. I just needed human contact, someone to be close to. And she was kind, so sweet and understanding as I sat next to her on a couch in the shared open area.

As our hands touched, fingers intertwining and arms pressed together, I couldn't deny the comfort and connection that I felt. But this was no secret encounter - we were in plain view of anyone who happened to pass by. Despite the comfort she provided me in such an unbearable situation, there was no escaping the harsh reality of what was going on. Every second felt like an eternity as my entire life hung in the balance, consumed by fear and desperation.

Lulu may have been a small flicker of light amidst the darkness, but there was no changing the fact that I was trapped in this hellish place with no end in sight. My pleas for help to my "family" went unanswered, leaving me to wonder how long they would have left me here to rot. It became clear that they had no intention of coming to my aid - I was completely alone in this fight for survival.

Toxic shame had been an outfit I began to wear four years ago. It began with losing Lynn, the love of my life, and continued as I lost my career, my license, and ultimately my home. Being alone in the world for so long only compounded this toxic shame, making me feel like I was fundamentally flawed.

I felt like I had been turned into a creature deemed unworthy of basic human treatment. My situation was degrading and dehumanizing.

I had prayed without ceasing (still a believer back then). I repeated the plea to God, “you know I did no wrong. Please do something. Show me something today.”

The fact that my sister sent me books was a source of support but deep-down parts of me wanted her to do more. Convince Mom and Dad to act like parents.

I didn’t even get visits from my family at all! No words of comfort. Never did I feel a sense that I had a family that was in any way concerned with my circumstances nor did they seem to care about my chances for a normal life later.

If they were not going to act out of concern for me, I knew that appearances mattered in my family. I carried the same exact name as my father. This name would now be emblazoned in stone for historical reference and associated with a heinous crime!

They had acknowledged that I could not possibly have done what I was accused of doing.

Despite that, their silence, their lack of support, could not help but make me feel worthless, a pathetic person who deserved to experience shame.

I was not now, nor would I ever be in a position where I could forgive or forget the decision made by my parents not to pay bail to get me out and to pay for a good lawyer. This experience would always remain in my mind as something so shockingly painful that it would never be possible for me to excuse the inaction of my family.

I spent seven months in jail! Seven nightmarish months.

I was released finally, in May, to await the trial. My lawyer got the bond or bail removed so that I could be released without having to pay anything but with an expectation to return for trial and other court appearances. 

Of course, my so-called family had not even tried to get any clothes at all for me to wear when I got out. They had known that every single item of my own was gone other than the bloody clothing I wore when I was assaulted seven months earlier.

This section dives into one of the most harrowing experiences of my life: not only surviving a violent assault in my own home but also the devastating aftermath of being disbelieved by the very people sworn to protect me. Here, I recount the assault by Ana—a sudden, unprovoked attack while I was simply minding my own business—and the surreal nightmare that followed when I found myself treated as a suspect rather than a victim.

That night, instead of feeling reassured by the presence of law enforcement, I faced an interrogation that felt more accusatory than investigative. It was a disorienting experience, one I could barely process as it unfolded. In my naivety, I assumed the detectives were simply gathering information to understand what had happened. I believed they would approach the situation logically, with an open mind. Instead, I quickly learned how skewed their perspective could be.

Adding to my confusion and frustration, there were witnesses—people who saw Ana enter my home and leave just moments later, unscathed. They weren’t in the room when she locked the door behind her, but they saw enough to corroborate my account. Still, their testimony did little to alter the course of events that night.

It had been months since I had any contact with John F. As mentioned previously, he moved in with Mrs. D who spoke to me following that initial conversation that I had with John when he said he thought she might have dissociative identity disorder (DID). It had seemed from the reports I heard from clients who went to that residence that he was setting up a treatment room and was providing therapy. I had a therapy group for people with DID at one meeting Mrs. D brought him.

Somehow he had connected with those clients of mine who had come to that therapy group.

I had last spoken to him when I called on behalf of Tracy who had come down to Wilmington from New Jersey, where she was hoping to find safety from an abusive spouse. John had made her life miserable, and she felt unsafe after rejecting his sexual advances. The way it transpired demonstrated to me that those things that I was hearing about him and reading about him online were true.

With the complaints to the licensure board, the malpractice claims, and everything else that had happened with Lynn, I was forced to suddenly and unexpectedly close down my practice. Lynn’s mother had been selling the house after Lynn had said, “I am not coming back.” There was never any closure. I just knew what was meant by what she said. Neither of us talked about breaking up, or the relationship being over. It was just surreal.

It began with John Freifeld, a wannabee therapist doing bad therapy. He was a psychopath.

After harming vulnerable people, for some reason he became obsessed with me, an actual therapist.

He had written a complaint statement and had five of my clients sign it… alleging things like how I had planted memories of Satanic Ritual Abuse. And how my clients with a serious condition – dissociative identity disorder – were not getting better. Of course, not, with his treatment, they were getting worse.

Much worse!

They forced me to get a psychological evaluation.

Decades later, a psychologist would tell me I should have sued the psychologists who conducted the evaluation for malpractice. But at the time, I just wanted to survive.

I was overwhelmed. The shame was crushing. I was being sued for medical malpractice too.

Being so overwhelmed with everything that was happening, with Lynn staring down death at 34, I even let the claim that I lacked empathy stand when I signed a Consent Decree.

Then as if that was not enough, I was given a citation by the police for court as John F. had accused me and making harassing phone calls - a totally fabricated lie. He just made it up! How crazy is that?

I was ordered to get a psychological evaluation. Decades later, I was told by a psychologist that I should have sued the psychologists for destroying my life and malpractice. They went into the assessment with confirmation biases about the claims that were made. They also NEVER inquired about whether anything at all had happened in my life. I knew enough to ask a question like that long before I started graduate school and only had an engineering degree.

I was overwhelmed with everything happening in my life. I was assigned a lawyer by the company that provided malpractice insurance. My malpractice lawyer encouraged me to sign a Consent Decree where I would surrender my license while explaining that I could present evidence in the future to defend myself against the claims and concerns.

I can’t believe I let the document include the words that I might lack empathy for others. That is not something that I ever doubted – my capacity for empathy. I knew I had seen evidence that I had a tremendous amount of empathy. If anything, I might have had too much empathy because I was too overwhelmed to use the skills I had learned.

Then as if that was not enough, I was given a citation by the police for court as John F. had accused me and making harassing phone calls - a totally fabricated lie. He just made it up! How crazy is that?

I hadn’t even been worried because I knew there was no evidence—no phone records, no recordings. I assumed the case would be dismissed outright. I went along with a public defender who was ready to go to trial right away.

But then, without a shred of evidence, the judge found me guilty.

I was livid when speaking to my court-appointed lawyer. Listening to him speak about getting the phone records…

He hadn’t thought of that? He should have been the one to know that without a shred of evidence, someone could just make stuff up and the victim of a false accusation like this could be found guilty!

When my public defender, unprepared and careless, asked if I wanted him to appeal, I said “Yes,” emphatically. There was no mention of a penalty for being found guilty but it was the principle of the matter.

Why do we even have lawyers when simple things like getting the phone records occur as an afterthought?

He also claimed that I had engaged in something called cyberstalking. The definition of cyberstalking would be something I had to look up. It was broadly defined. The things others had posted about John might possibly have met a broad definition but I wasn’t posting things about him. This accusation had been dismissed.

I was given a public defender for the “trial” in front of a judge. John seemed to represent his story on his own. My lawyer was eager to go to trial right away – he was overly eager and unprepared.

Leaving the Area

I had met some people online - a couple. One of them was one of the victims of John F. They invited me to move up to Durham, NC from Wilmington. This was my home and I didn’t want to leave.

When I lost another job as a result of John calling my employer and mentioning the issues with my clinical license (which was not required for that job), the company had to dismiss me. So, reluctantly, I decided to pack everything I had and drive up to Durham to stay with my new friends.

Feeling so overwhelmed by everything, I moved to Durham with my new friends.

I had previously tried dating, using online sites, but I was still in love with Lynn, and I was in such shock, still traumatized, and not able to connect with others in any real way.

When I moved in with those friends up in Durham, I kept doing the same thing – using dating apps to try to find dates.

I applied to the Division of Vocational Rehabilitation (VR) soon after moving to Durham. They encouraged me to pursue a different career direction. It seemed like my mind was in a fog, and I was not in touch with thoughts about who I knew myself to be and what type of career would be a good match for me. If that were not the case, I would have remembered that Web Design and Development was not a good match for me. If it was all about creativity alone, it might be a match.

In the meantime, I started working at Eckerd’s in the photo lab. One day, I was asked to work at the main register. Based on everything that I had experienced, I was dealing with extreme anxiety. I had been traumatized.

On one occasion, I could not focus my eyes very well and thought that the license shown to me indicated that a customer was old enough to buy alcohol. I was wrong and I was given a citation and asked to come to court. The charge makes one think that I was corrupting a minor by buying this person alcohol when I just read the customer’s driver’s license wrong.

It was easy for mail to get lost, and my mind was not focused so I missed court. A warrant was issued for my arrest. I was terified and desperate to avoid going to jail.

There was nothing that could be done.

I was put in jail. I cannot overstate how traumatic that was for me. As a shy person, I carried a great deal of shame, which I will describe in more detail in the next book, which will be part two of this story.

I had reached out to my family for help. They had to understand that I could not cope with this. I had forgotten again just how uncaring they were... how little empathy and compassion they were capable of feeling. My pleas to my parents for help to get me out of jail were met with icy-cold responses.

They had not been there emotionally or psychologically to offer anything resembling support. I didn’t understand why I was the scapegoat of the family. It had felt like if my own family doesn’t care about me, who would care.

I had needed compassion and support like anyone else.

It seemed like my parents had a rudimentary sense of understanding how a person might feel if one loses someone that one loves. I won’t go into details in this book, but it just seemed to me in my mind that they would understand that after all I had experienced, being in jail would be too much for me to cope with.

Beginning with the times when Lynn got sick, they started acting like what seemed like the application of tough love as opposed to understanding how a person in love would naturally feel when an illness threatens the life of the one that you love.

I had been put in jail for failure to appear and the bond was not very high.

I had learned that the appeal that I had asked my lawyer down in Wilmington to file had appeared before the court.

A reasonable person might understand that with all the changes, problems getting in touch with me, I deserved a bit of understanding. It would seem like my lawyer could have found a way to explain how he had not been able to inform me about the case – the appeal – coming before the court and made sure that I was not arrested.

Instead, I was extradited to Wilmington... which had been my home. Now, I was put in chains and put into the back of a vehicle with a metal frame. I was crying the whole way down there. I felt such shame growing and growing in me.

Once I had been the president of the local chapter of the Society of Clinical Social Workers, with name recognition, a successful career with many clients. My colleagues knew me. Now, I was being brought down to Wilmington in chains.

I didn’t have to stay in jail long, but when I was released I had nowhere to go. The days and the skies looked like winter had come far too early this year. I looked up my friend Jean Jones, a mutual friend of Lynn’s whom we both met at poetry readings so long ago.

He guided me toward finding a place to sleep at night in downtown Wilmington. I still reached out to my family for help, hoping that, at some point, they would care. However, nothing that happened to me could arouse parental instincts to protect me from things that were outside my control.

Jean also invited me to join him and his family for dinner on Thanksgiving 2002. I was carrying all my belongings in a bag. I was ashamed of this look. So, I hid the bag and my belongings in the bushes as I joined them. Snow had been falling so very early this year.

I finally decided some days later to get help at the Mental Health Center who referred me to the Department of Social Services to get a ticket back to Durham. I didn’t have a home there, but I had a relationship with VR.

Maybe I should have just stayed down in Wilmington. I think I was just running away from reminders of the joy that I had once known. A few days ago, a police officer, trying to help me, gave me a street sheet. It was the one I had developed during my first graduate internship with the homeless program at the Mental Health Center.

The weight of sorrow, shame, loss, grief, emotional pain, abandonment, isolation, loneliness, trauma, had literally weighed down on me and brought me to my knees.

It was awkward at the Mental Health Center. The worker had recognized me from when I was the president of the local chapter of the Society of Clinical Social Workers. She did acknowledge that fact. There was a sense of me wanting to explain how I could have arrived at this place, this situation. We just exchanged a few words about how I had arranged some workshops for continuing education credit for clinical social workers.

I was then on my way to Durham.

Beginning in late 2002, I moved from one friend’s apartment or house to another, staying temporarily. These were people I met in the therapy group that I was attending through the local mental health center.

I wanted to heal and be able to return to a career that was so rewarding... helping others who had mental illness or emotional problems.

I did date a few women who I met on dating sites. Eventually, I started seeing Shonda, a black lady, on and off. I was not able to connect with anyone in any real sense. I just didn’t feel a connection. We were intimate, and I helped her children with math.

Shonda continued to see me when I was living at 721 Holloway Street in Durham. The place was described as a boarding house. I moved in there because the rent was only week to week, as opposed to monthly rent, where one must come up with the first month’s rent, and potentially a deposit on top of that to move in.

It was early 2004 or late 2003 when I moved in there. Rent was paid to Scott, who lived around the back of the place.

We rented rooms in that building. The front door was not locked much of the time. Only guys lived there. Prostitutes were seen in the building. I had to reject them as they were assertive about selling their bodies. I had never purchased street drugs, but I got the impression that crack cocaine could be purchased for $10, as that was what the prostitutes were requesting.

I had been mugged more than once while walking from the bus stop to the building at night. I saw needles on the side of the street that must have been discarded. More than once, I had to run as fast as I could to get away from someone threatening me.

The landlord was James Vecchione, Jimmy. He had me working on an adult dating website in exchange for not charging me the weekly $100 for rent. It was not earning money fast enough. I had been working at various jobs doing the best I could. I had applied for Social Security Disability Insurance which would be backdated to cover this period. I wasn’t just being lazy.

VR had paid for me to get a certificate in Web Design, and they were paying for computer equipment for me to start my own business because that seemed like it would work better than a traditional job.

Jimmy decided that the adult dating site was not coming together fast enough so he dropped the entire idea. He took me to court when I couldn’t pay the rent. I appealed the decision. I was hoping to get financial assistance from various sources that existed including VR.

I mentioned that Shonda was black because we were getting close to the time when I would be victimized by a woman. The woman who would attack me was clearly white.

I had been homeless on and off in every sense of the word from 2001 up until now. I had even slept outside or spent many a night awake outside.

My paternal grandparents were not living in their home. I am sure they would have wanted me to have a place to stay as they had paid off the mortgage. That was in Burlington, which was very close. I would have never imagined that I would find myself living so close to where they lived, having grown up in Connecticut.

Any kind of support to ease my suffering would have helped prevent so many things from happening. It would have taken away the stress of living as a homeless person with no stability.

Anyway, about the rent and the eviction... Jimmy would have gotten paid. There are resources to get a person caught up. VR was offering to help me out. I point this out because I would come to learn that his wife was the one who would attack me on October 1st, 2004. I am getting ahead of the story.

As someone who was homeless and dealing with very low financial resources, I got to know other people who came to the Urban Ministries to stay overnight, for financial assistance, or for meals. I made friends with several people that I met there.

Sadly, twenty years later, I don’t remember their names.

I was expecting one of my friends to meet me the next day, October 1, 2004. I couldn’t imagine things could get any worse for me but I was about to find out that things could get more terrifying and nightmarish.

I had come so far and overcome so much to achieve a place in life that exceeded my wildest dreams. I had developed confidence, self-love, a sense of connection, support, love, success and a belief that things could work out. However, things were about to change and the impact of how I lost everything would destroy the qualities I would need to face increasingly challenging situations.

There was a villain in the story. Someone named John F. He was like a guru who had not gained any relevant college education, training, supervision, or experience to act as a therapist. He had called himself a therapist but people caught onto him and so he said he was just a support person.

He had started diagnosing people with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) - a condition where people have different personalities or alters. This is a very rare condition. The way he told it, he happened to notice at a 12-step alcohol and drug online community that some people might have this condition.

He found me because as president of the local chapter of Clinical Social Workers, I organized a workshop for clinicians to learn about this condition and how to treat others. I contacted the local newspaper to announce the training but the newspaper wanted to do a full story on this.

Although, I was new in the field compared to other therapists, I got the attention of two local people who wanted a therapist. In addition, John F. referred someone that he thought might have this condition - a Mrs. D. Actually, he had been communicating with these various alter personalities that Mrs. D. had. She had not been diagnosed by any professional when she first came to my office after I told John that I would meet with her.

Before long, John would move down to Wilmington from Pennsylvania or Virginia, bringing a few other women who he diagnosed with DID and who he was “supporting.”

He had decided to move in with the first person that he referred to me – Mrs. D. I started to learn that he was providing treatment to the same clients that he referred to me. Most importantly, they were getting so much worse. 

I had eventually heard that people had made allegations against him for falsely claiming to be a therapist and there were other allegations. From confidential therapy sessions with clients, I learned more about what he was doing. I was shocked and alarmed.

We had a falling out in early 2000 when I realized that the worst claims about him were likely true. I had tried to help a client named Tracy who had come down to Wilmington, NC from New Jersey with John and she started to meet with me for therapy.

She had been afraid after she turned down sexual advances that John made. I thought I could straighten things out and help Tracy. He had admitted on the phone his lack of conscience or remorse. Tracy had left an abusive husband thinking she would be able to get help and now she was being hurt by John.

Tracy did end up escaping and returning back north to enter a shelter for women who are victims of domestic violence.

I had not studied psychopaths or others like John who harm people because they don’t generally come for therapy.

I soon learned that John had composed a grievance letter to my licensure board and had five of my clients sign the identity complaint letter or statement. While Tracy and one other client of mine with DID did not sign that grievance letter, one of my clients who had successfully completed therapy with me had signed onto the same letter!

I also learned that they had filed a civil suit for malpractice. They had a reason to be frustrated because they were getting worse. I had not known how many people were receiving treatment from John.

Everything that I had worked to create as far as a career going back to Georgia Tech in 1984, some 16 years later, was about to be taken away from me! 

This was so overwhelmingly disturbing for me. My greatest passion was to help others cope with mental illness, and this had been rewarding.

I never saw it coming. I was in shock.

On top of that, at the same time, Lynn became very sick and had to be taken to the hospital for inpatient treatment. 

Lynn Becomes Very Sick

From the moment I met Lynn, I knew her life would be cut short by a cruel genetic illness. Cystic Fibrosis – a chronic and terminal condition that used to claim lives before adulthood. Despite advances in treatment, her lifespan was still limited. But I refused to face this reality, clinging onto hope for a miracle cure that never came.

We built a home together, formed a family. Lynn had dreams of pursuing her education in writing. She had hopes beyond her illness.

And then it happened. She was hospitalized for a few days, but this time it was serious. Our newlywed bliss shattered as we faced the harsh truth of her deteriorating health. Memories of our passionate and joyful moments together flooded my mind as I watched her suffer. Our "normal" life had changed, and I couldn't bear to see her in pain.

Now, things were more dire. She couldn’t keep much weight on her, which was a signal that her health was beginning to take a different direction than ever before. Her oxygen saturation was very low. She went into the hospital initially in late July. It had happened so suddenly, and it seemed to be unexpected. 

And when she was finally released after a week, it was only temporary relief before she would have to return again. 

By now, she couldn't even function without being hooked up to an oxygen tank. The sensation of suffocating consumed her every moment, leaving her helpless and unable to care for herself.

There was nothing I could do to stop the unthinkable idea that she might die. As she lay in the hospital for the second time, receiving IV antibiotics to fight the infections, she made the decision to move in with her mother for a cleaner and safer environment. But as I sat by her bedside, I received news of grievances filed against me and a looming malpractice suit, all claiming that I was not skilled enough and that it was my fault that they were getting worse. My efforts to steer them away from John F., who only worsened their condition, fell on deaf ears.

Every moment spent at home or outside felt like a distorted reality, a nightmare that I had not been prepared to face, despite having known from the beginning that Lynn had a serious illness. I knew deep down that these were symptoms of dissociation, my mind trying to protect itself from the overwhelming terror and perceived threat to the existence I had known. The world around me felt unreal, like an illusion, while I myself felt detached from my own body, floating above it as if observing someone else's life.

Everything I had worked so hard for and achieved was being torn away from me without mercy. Love and all its accompanying emotions were foreign concepts to me, yet now they were being ripped away mercilessly from my grasp. It was a hellish nightmare come to life and there was no escape other than to retreat into my mind further.

It never made sense to me that those who victimize others were themselves victims. Others like me can empathize with what others have experienced and feel motivated to help them.

Things had changed when I moved to Wilmington, not just in that I found love again but I got my life back on track. I started graduate school at the University of South Carolina - pursuing the Master of Social Work degree.

Upon my graduation, I almost immediately had a job as a Therapist at Brynn Marr Psychiatric Hospital.

I had the first experience of providing a direct intervention for a survivor of rape, who I will call Karen. She looked literally dead when I began the intervention, and at the end of the session, she was smiling. It was the most amazing thing imaginable.

This would not be the last time that I provided treatment for someone who had been traumatized in many ways, including sexual assault and rape.

Eventually, I got what I needed to be credentialed as a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) and I could open my own private practice as a therapist.

I had been able to grow my practice fast despite having been in a “saturated market.”

This was success and joy, beyond my wildest dreams. I had gained name recognition in the field. I had truly come a long way. People were paying me to help them with a wide range of disorders and couples came for my therapeutic support.

This wasn’t just about success in a career but it was rewarding to be able to help others as I had healed so much.

Who could have imagined that the person with no social skills when starting college would some day be doing these things. More importantly, I had discovered love.

After the loss of Celta, I doubted my ability to love again or succeed as a social worker because I had my own problems so how could I help others. What I couldn’t predict was that I wound fall in love and discover just how amazing it would be to live as husband and wife, to love and be loved.

Moving to Wilmington for a technical writing job was what I needed to get back on track.

I was sacrificing the chance for a higher salary as an engineer because I felt compelled to assist others. Engineering held no real value for me, no matter how much money it could bring. The satisfaction of helping people through my work was more important to me than any salary or title. Plus, I would never get hired because I wasn’t an actor and couldn’t convince a would be employer that I was interested in any engineering job.

Because of my increased confidence in my ability to write poetry, I forced myself to attend the first of many open mic poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center and committed myself that first evening to getting in front of others and sharing my poetry. I was aware that therapists have to lead therapy groups, so I better get used to being the center of attention.

The emcee was Dusty who was like a mother figure to me - kind and welcoming - this might have made it easier. After that first event, I started attending the readings and sharing my poetry every Sunday.

I started reading poems about the grief and loss of Celta and didn’t think I would ever find love again. I wrapped myself in the warmth and comfort that was created on these Sundays. This reflected my personality and desire to nurture experiences like this for myself and others.

Life should be like that for everyone - welcoming and nurturing.

While attending these events, I felt a new breath of confidence that was new. I wondered if it had to do with the experience of being loved by Celta. Despite the loss, the memory of someone seeing me as that special was transformative.

I met someone who interested me. I somehow found the courage to ask her out to attend a large poetry reading that was going to be held on Carolina Beach. This was a bigger event than the regular open mic events where I met Lynn. To my amazement she accepted my invitation and gave me her number.

On that first weekend together, at the close of a vibrant 4th of July, when someone she knew casually inquired if I was her boyfriend, she replied, “no, we are just friends.” I swallowed the sting of her words, convincing myself it had to be enough, for fear of upsetting the uncertain nature of this relationship. I let the currents of our connection carry us where they may.

But soon, the tide would turn. Before I even needed to label the relationship as more than friendship, I relentlessly demonstrated my devotion by making myself perpetually available, every single day. She was acutely aware that she was the sole focus of my affections.

Lynn was breathtakingly beautiful, a beacon of light that emerged from the shadows of loss and pain. In the wake of heartache, something extraordinary began to blossom.

Each moment with her was a testament to a life filled with joy, excitement, pleasure, and tranquility. I believed that this profound happiness and serene peace would be mine for ... forever in so much as I could think about that concept. Each moment was like eternity.

The first kiss was electric, searing itself into my memory with a force I could never have anticipated. It happened on the beach, where I had commanded my restless thoughts to silence, urging myself to exist solely in that moment. The crashing waves harmonized with the tranquility we shared, and suddenly, as if conjured by some unseen force, everything changed. There was no need to dissect our relationship status or analyze our feelings; the moment simply unfolded like a spell.

Our faces instinctively turned towards each other, eyes locking in a gaze that spoke volumes, a silent invitation to close the space between us. My face angled slightly to the right, and hers mirrored mine. We inched closer, drawn together by an undeniable force.

Our lips met, and remained pressed together, taking me somewhere I had never been previously. Her arms wrapped around my back, pulling me into an embrace that made the world fade away. If there were others nearby, they ceased to exist in my awareness. This public display of affection felt destined, intensely right.

A year had passed since a forgettable kiss on a date, one devoid of the magic and meaning that Lynn and I discovered in that fleeting moment on the beach. Our kiss was shorter in duration, yet it surged with an intensity that eclipsed anything I had known.

Her mother's retirement home, a sanctuary that was often empty, became our refuge. Even when her mother or stepfather were present, it didn't matter; our connection transcended their presence. Each day was punctuated by intimate and fervent kisses on her bed, an exploration that was both exhilarating and tender, yet never ventured further.

Then came the pivotal moment when I handed her the engagement ring. We had selected it together, a symbol etched into our future. The lady at the jewelry shop, with a knowing smile, mentioned, "Your fiancé can pick this up Monday."

She was already aware that I would have it in my possession when I arrived on Monday. Yet, before I could utter a single word or orchestrate the cherished moment every woman dreams of, I witnessed her face transform, tears of sheer joy cascading down her cheeks. The sight was so breathtaking that it stole the air from my lungs. I was overwhelmed with profound elation, knowing that I had the power to bring HER such unparalleled happiness.

In that heartbeat of a moment, I believed with every fiber of my being that our shared joy and tranquility would reverberate through eternity.

Peace and joy were what I had found. It was as if those two different things (joy with excitement) and peace could coexist at the same moment.

Helping people to heal as a therapist was another dream of mine that I was awaiting. It was obviously different than an exclusive relationship with a life partner but playing a transformative role in the lives of others was part of my dream and part of what I knew I wanted.

After getting engaged, Lynn's mother offered to buy us a house where we could live as husband and wife.

During our years together, it was amazing. I loved giving gifts and sharing my love for Lynn with others, even complete strangers. It felt spiritual. Even though I am shy, I still wanted to share details about my life as if I had discovered something full of awe and wonder and I wanted others to know about how good life could be.

We argued quite often but that was ironically what made this relationship healthy and I had developed a stable attachment style. If I said something hurtful, I would make amends right away.

For years we lived as husband and wife. I never took what I had for granted. I certainly never did anything that could cause Lynn to love me any less than what we were sharing. It never made sense to me the way some people do things to their spouses because they think that they have them and they won’t leave.

This experience of love is a story in itself. I truly couldn’t imagine it ending.

As I talk about my goals in life and my plans it occurs to me that I should talk about what Lynn might have wanted out of life. I certainly don't mean to imply that she lacked ambition.

First, let's consider my observations of our other friends who were poets and/writers. Many of them had a four-year degree in English. Some of those who were part of the poetry scene had degrees in other fields. By and large, though, most of them had a Bachelor of Arts in English.

If you are thinking as the world thinks or as people think in America, you might think that this degree is not very practical. That's because people only think about how they are going to make money with their degrees. They might say "what can you do with an English degree?"

By this time, I would have found that offensive and would have told anyone that I found it offensive. 

I know that my siblings and parents never made such statements to me or around us during this time period that were critical of people who don't get more "practical" degrees. That would have crossed a line and been obviously offensive to me based on who I was with - who I loved.

Dear reader, Did I say I loved Lynn? I'll get to that.

Anyway, yes, I had conversations with my siblings and parents during this time period. 

Lynn's self-esteem and assertiveness were contagious. That is one of the things I found so attractive about her. One of her statements that she commonly used was "that's unacceptable." I really wish I could think of a context where I heard this statement. I'm sure it might have been in relationship to something I said. The point is that I had become much more assertive too. I was no longer taking any kind of abuse from anyone.

I know my parents were very critical and judgmental of others and so I didn't talk about Celta that much because, at the time, I was not in a position to be assertive and say that I am profoundly offended by anyone saying anything critical or judgemental about Celta and the problems that she had. 

Things had changed when I was with Lynn. 

In many little ways, I would have made it evident that I would have rebuked any statement that was insulting or critical of something like the choice Lynn made to get a four-year degree in English. 

Anyway, I grew up in a household where the man is the head of the household and he supports his wife. This was not what I wanted nor would that have been acceptable to Lynn.

The next relevant fact is that Lynn had to qualify for an insurance program for people with Cystic Fibrosis. It was a state program that had income requirements. People with Cystic Fibrosis require medical care on an ongoing basis to maintain their health. In addition, she had medications to take. There was equipment that she needed for her health needs. The point is that she couldn't take a chance of not having medical coverage. Therefore, she had to limit her work hours and her income.

So, now, what were her dreams, or what did she want out of life? She had discussed with me the idea of getting a Master of Fine Arts (MFA) degree in poetry as our mutual friend Jean Jones had done. With his MFA he wasn't using it directly for employment purposes. 

Therefore, from a certain point of view, Jean wasn't using his degree, per se. This is relevant to the fact that I mentioned earlier that there was a misunderstanding about me not using my engineering degree. I had stated previously in this book that I definitely should have gotten a degree in English or Psychology to avoid the expectation that I would get a job as an engineer.

Jean had been published in academic press publications and had quite a publication history.

Lynn wasn't seeking that kind of recognition. She said her poetry was initially just for herself. Obviously, she was sharing it at the readings but that's it.

We both valued having someone in our lives that admired and respected us. So many people seem to instinctually look for a relationship as something they feel they ought to do. 

Lynn and I did value the relationship itself. If it had not been "right" or if there had been "problems" it would not have lasted. It seems like between Lynn and me, I was the only one who dreamed of a relationship and getting married as an important goal in life. That being said, our relationship just happened and it was surprising and unexpected. 

Of course, we argued. We were constantly talking about every little thing... the meaning of life for us... debating topics. I know how I felt when I said something mean or blurted out something. I didn't let much time pass before I apologized. I just don't remember anything that stuck in my mind as worthy of including in this narrative. I guess the reason is that we moved past any problem.

Gift-giving...

You think of holidays... Remember from the last chapter, how Donna and Kerri were so excited to get photos of the cute couple? Yeah, it was all magical and fun - delightful.

This was the first time I had thought about wanting to buy gifts for someone I loved. Yes, loved. After that evening around our one-year anniversary, when Lynn brought up the topic that we needed to declare that we were boyfriend and girlfriend, I had said "I love you" and she responded, "I love you too..." after that it was common and comfortable for us to say, "I love you."

She might have conceded that I was the more impulsive in the area of romance. I would be the first to say "I love you" many times - not always. She was more likely to call me "sweetie" or "honey" and I tended to just call her Lynn. It is only in retrospect that I realize how wrong I was not to use such terms of endearment. 

I did tell her those words "I love you" so extremely frequently. I wasn't shy about saying what I was feeling.

We both liked public displays of affection too. This would not diminish over time. I didn't have to be the one to take her hand. She was somewhat playful and mischievous. It wasn't corny like playing "footsy." She had a sense of what felt good to me. If we were out somewhere, she might take my hands and sit in my lap... caress my legs, or face and arms.

I remember Valentine's Day the February after we declared that we were boyfriend and girlfriend. I felt so good walking into a shopping center and looking at the roses. I asked someone for help because I had never done that before. We had discussed going for dinner. I must have hinted at what my plans were, and she was thinking that she would pay for dinner. We were going to go to a sushi place.

I wanted to be seen or noticed as I picked out the roses. Remember, I am a shy person, and yet here I was seeking to draw attention to myself.  It might have been at a grocery store, but it was just magical to me because I had wanted to be seen. Before my time with Lynn, I didn't bring attention to myself. I felt chills it felt so good. I felt like I was ten feet tall!

In the past, buying gifts for me was a quiet matter. But today, I just wanted to be noticed and I spoke up. "Hi, I need roses for my girlfriend" I declared so the employee would hear me and the other customer. "Yes, for the card, something decorative maybe? It should say 'I love you,' obviously. I guess I will write Lynn and sign Bruce." I wanted to be saying this out loud.

"Oh, you can pay at the register when you leave the store," she said. And I thought, "great, more people will see me carrying flowers for Lynn. They'll know I have someone special and someone who thinks I am special."

It was like the second Christmas. We both had ideas about what we wanted but I went to a jewelry store. I had no idea what to buy. I walked in and waited for the lady behind the counter to come.

"I need a gift for someone I love – my girlfriend." It seemed important to say more than just 'my girlfriend." I wanted to say "for someone I love" and for that to be heard by anyone and everyone. Yes, I, the shy person, wanted to be seen and noticed. 

"Okay, do you know what she prefers – silver or gold?"

"Silver," I declared. I wasn't being cheap, but I just knew she preferred silver. We looked and looked. I had to admit what my budget was, but I was thinking of Lynn and not trying to win the approval of a store clerk. She could tell that I was thrilled to find something that we thought was pretty. I had asked her opinion and another girl there who was a little younger. My dream-like smile must have given away my feelings, plus, there was the declaration that this was for "someone I love."

When we were together, everything about us said that there was no one else in our lives. Two creative types falling in love know what they feel. I guess. I mean we had not needed to say to each other that we aren't seeing anyone else.

I thought about everything that was happening in my mind, turning over the events. I didn't take anything for granted or think about it as a routine thing that happens in life. In other words, finding a girlfriend wasn't just a stage in my life that I had expected.

I know from my own observations that becoming a couple can be seen as an event that happens quite often. It could have been that way if I just followed the guidance of the future that was laid out for me when I was still growing up. You might get a sense of what is supposed to happen in life. At some point, boys will be into girls as the most important thing to them and vice versa.

Have you ever heard the song "That's the Way I've Always Heard It Should Be?" by Carly Simon? 

It's peaceful and sweet but there is a sense that there is a bit of melancholy as she sings:
"My friends from college they're all married now
They have their houses and their lawns
They have their silent noons
Tearful nights, angry dawns
Their children hate them for the things they're not
They hate themselves for what they are
And yet they drink, they laugh
Close the wound, hide the scar"

This was not like that. I had seen "love" in my family and elsewhere and this wasn't that. What I had seen was routine. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, we weren't boyfriend and girlfriend because that was the way I always heard it should be. 

This was our own experience.

Also, Carly Simon seems to overuse the word "hate" regarding children hating their parents. Do any children hate their parents really? Hate is a feeling and not a choice in some instances and that feeling was something that I have felt but that's another story. 

Getting back to Lynn and our love...

A touch, a look, a smile, was a declaration of our love. We were two poets sharing our love publicly like reciting a poem.

The same could be said if someone saw us kiss. I'm not saying we kissed passionately in public and made others uncomfortable, but it was slower and more expressive – a slight pause to make sure our eyes met, a smile first, then a gentle meeting of our lips.

Some of the substance of this chapter includes things that I thought about holding back for later to avoid being repetitive. Our relationship would grow in intensity and I might want to describe a slightly similar scenario again.

If we had argued and she got upset, for me, I felt bad about us being mad. I would approach her, smile, say "I really love you and I'm really sorry." She would smile with amusement because she couldn't stay mad no matter how much she wanted to.

I hope it is obvious that it would not be acceptable for us to lose our temper and slap or hit. I just don't remember the substance of the arguments. That should be obvious and a given fact in every single relationship... but I have heard from females who were hit by their husbands. 

Let me jump ahead a bit to present how an argument might play out. I don't even know what we were fighting about but it got to the point that we were going out together for a book signing event in which our friend Jean Jones was releasing a chapbook of his at a coffee shop downtown. I was driving.

I think my brother and his girlfriend were with us. Note that the fight was not enough to keep us from our plans. Anyway, we took a seat upstairs. We sat down together without saying anything. I announced, "I'm going downstairs, I'll be back."

I walked downstairs and then approached Jean. "Let me get two copies, Jean," I said. Can you sign one to or for Lynn, please?"

I then ordered an iced tea and walked upstairs. Lynn had a sullen look on her face as I rounded the table. I guess she had not noticed the iced tea or maybe she didn't notice that it was prepared the way she liked it with a lemon.

I first handed her the chapbook and said, "This for you, Jean signed one for you, too."

Lynn looked at me and a smile spread across her face – an amused smile as she briefly looked at our guests and then back at me. "How can I stay mad at you when you do this?" She said with amusement.

I responded, "well, it doesn't mean that I don't love you just because we are fighting."

Anyway, that night my brother left soon after that either because he was bored or because he sensed that Lynn and I wanted time alone. I hesitate to give him too much credit for sensing such things. The ice had broken between Lynn and me and we wanted to make up for the lost time that evening.

What attracted me and what I shared with Lynn...

One of the things I mentioned above, in this chapter and earlier, was about her dreams, goals, interests in life. Perhaps she would get a Master of Fine Arts (MFA) degree. Oh, she also spoke of getting her own kiln – it's used for baking pottery (after you shape the pottery it must be put in the kiln). Anyway, I had not talked about my goals and plans.

Lynn was very practical, I noticed, and this was attractive to me. When I spoke about my plans or ideas for the future – e.g., my graduate education plans or job opportunities – she would ask questions, let me bounce ideas off her. I would be thinking out loud in a way. 

I would think out loud to her, saying "So, this is what I need to learn as I move into a career in the helping professions or the psychiatric field...." and I would discuss how I was thinking of paying for graduate school – yes, there are loans specifically for this purpose.

It was refreshing to have someone again who would hold my desires for success as I defined it in such high regard.

A deepening of the relationship...

As the relationship grew and we approached the second year the topic of marriage was being discussed by both of us. This was a conversation that emerged naturally, organically. It wasn't something that should or ought to happen. It just happened.