true story

I noticed that during this first year we didn't have "dates" in a traditional sense. We didn't say "let's go on a date." After I no longer had to persuade her to do something with me after my day at work or on the weekend, we just did everything together.

She was working but not full-time. I'll explain why later. I was working at least forty hours per week. So, we came to know each other's schedule and we discussed together, "what do you want to do today?"

Sundays we went to the poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center. Sometimes we would show up there on other days to just visit Dusty. We also attended different events in downtown Wilmington by the Cape Fear River.

Our social circle was almost the same. I had gone to the poetry readings to meet people and among them was Lynn. In addition, I was making other friends and most of them were mutual friends. One of our longest and best friends was my dear friend Thomas Childs. He was a mutual friend. Like Lynn, he had a degree in English.

There were other poetry events that we attended besides the Sunday poetry readings and the big poetry reading in Carolina Beach that I mentioned earlier.

For me, I was making professional connections – technically I was still a paraprofessional. I was meeting people who work in the mental health and developmental disabilities fields. This was leading to new job opportunities.

Lynn made friends through her pottery which was a hobby of hers. She made colorful jewelry and other objects like plates, bowls, cups, and plant holders and so much else. Through that work, she got to meet people and socialize with them.

The Azalea Festival was in August. The Art Center had a booth there. It was at a park that is situated between downtown Wilmington, Wrightsville Beach, and Highway 421 that heads down to Carolina Beach.

At the Azalea Festival, Lynn was there with the Art Center's pottery exhibition and that occupied most of Lynn's time. So, I could only show up to see what she was doing and then try to occupy myself somewhat alone at the other exhibits. The first two years when I attended this, I didn't have anyone to join me at the festival and I felt a bit frustrated because it looked like fun and I wanted to see everything, but Lynn was busy. I was making friends but I still felt a bit lonely at times like this.

Around Halloween time we went on a tour of haunted Wilmington. No, I didn't believe in ghosts, but it was still fun. It was just Lynn and me, but I think we ran into some friends. It felt mysterious. Wilmington is a historic town, and they try to make the historic district entertaining during this time.

We had a few favorite restaurants depending on the occasion. For lunch or dinner, we could go to a place that had awesome fries with special seasoning and burgers. We had nicer places that we frequented for special occasions like Valentine's Day.

Each year, I started going to a Christmas party that was at one of the homes of some folks in her pottery class. I didn't know any of them, but it was nice to go with Lynn all the same. It felt really good to be seen with Lynn. I thought she was so incredibly beautiful. Plus, I was feeling comfortable with her. I don't know if I went the first year that I was with Lynn. I don't know how she would have introduced me.

By the second year, I was her boyfriend, of course. That felt good.

It gives me the same chills now that I felt at the time running up my back and neck. 

I'm not even holding her hand now as I write this. I remember though. I remember her speaking to someone or a couple of people and my arms were wrapped around her. I could tell she liked it. She would take my hand or place her hand over mine as I wrapped my arm around her waist.

She was good about recognizing me and sensing that I felt out of place. So, she would try to mention something about me to whomever she is speaking to. Maybe bragging about my career plans, my current job, where I was going.

I can see a similar scene that was some event with her pottery group during our second summer together. 

In the memory, we walk in together hand-in-hand. I am being only clingy enough to signal that I feel a little out of place. We had discussed this already. I said I don't know the people, nor do I know pottery.

We were outside on a porch. I said "here sit on my lap and you can talk to your friends" taking one of her hands and allowing her to face her fellow pottery classmate/friend as she sat down.

I could not help but notice how shapely her legs were. It was strange how she had not gotten a tan despite living across the street from the beach. I felt a bit excited or aroused and shifted in my seat. She hardly noticed. She was sitting with her right leg over her left and I also noticed her small sexy feet moving ever so slightly. My hand was high up on her leg because her shorts were not too long. It was nothing obvious though. 

It didn't strike me that she was showing off her figure at all.

It just seemed comfortable to her... for me, it was comfortable too. The "excitement" I felt subsided, and I just felt peaceful.

She was so considerate too. She turned to me with a smile and said, "are you doing okay, sweetie?"

"I'm fine," I said with a smile that was intended to reassure her.

Yeah, it felt good to be with Lynn. I could feel chills up my back and on my neck. I caressed her leg in a more provocative way when no one was looking. She just smiled, amused and I could tell she wanted more. I had seen the look. This wasn't the time.

At moments like this, I also caught my breath. It was strange that sensation and the best description of it - "take my breath away." One might imagine that this would signal fear or a feeling of shortness of breath. No, this was different. It felt good.

It feels good. The memory.

We were doing almost everything together, at least by the time we were officially boyfriend and girlfriend. It was comfortable and serene. My thoughts were wrapped up in her. The next chapter expands on this concept.

It was almost July, and this would mark the fact that a year had passed since we started seeing each other.

It would be an understatement to say that I was a feminist and that this was something that was attractive to Lynn. I suppose if I had thought about it, I would have said that I was very feminine.

Anyway, the obvious fact that occurred to Lynn was that nothing was said about the nature of our relationship. I mean when we first went out, she had answered at the end of the first day, when asked if I was her boyfriend, that we were "just friends."

I had not pushed the matter. It's also important to realize that if Lynn thought I was seeing someone else she would not be doing with me what we were doing. She had a very strong sense of her own self-worth. She knew that she deserved to be treated like she was special.

It was Friday, July 2, 1993. The sun had set and we were outside at my place. We could hear my roommates from time to time inside and the TV. The sliding glass door was open except for the screen door to keep the bugs out. The light was just fading from the sky.

With just enough light still in the sky, we found a spot that was outside the lights from the sliding glass doors that lead into the living room where my roommates were watching TV. This says something about how much Lynn wanted to be intimate with me.

No, we were not undressed but it would have been awkward if either of my roommates walked out and came upon us. I think they knew this much. Maybe Lynn did too. Yeah, they had a good idea of what we were likely to be doing.

I guess we could have just been talking. As I mentioned earlier, having someone to share my dreams with was so valuable to me. I wanted and needed that confirmation that I was on the right path in life. I knew I was, but it still mattered that this was confirmed for me.

After a while, we took a seat on a lounge chair and another chair outside. I sensed something was on Lynn's mind.

Lynn said, "Are we more than friends... do you want to be more? Do you want to be boyfriend and girlfriend?"

I was taken by surprise because I had realized that of course, we were so much more than "just friends."

I did feel comfortable and understood enough about Lynn to know that this was not a question that I had to fear. It wasn't like we were going to surprise one another with our feelings. Lynn had already told me she was glad that I had been so persistent. So, why had this not come up?

I said, "Yes, definitely."

I commented with almost a bit of amusement in my voice, upon the passionate moment we had shared sitting on the lawn just moments ago.

I said that I don't kiss my friends like that. So, we are boyfriend and girlfriend or vice versa... does it matter? I guess we both realized that we wanted to make this official.

"We are boyfriend and girlfriend, right?" I asked her.

She said, "yes, I wanted to ask, though."

I said "I am so glad you asked this. It's important. You are so important to me. I feel so amazing. I want to say something more, but I guess you know... but I want to say something more."

I caught her smile as I looked up. That only made this more special. I mean the idea that I could make Lynn feel special and happy was a wonderful feeling for me.

"I love you," I said without thinking and her eyes lit up like something amazing.

She answered, "I love you too."

I felt butterflies in my stomach. I don't mean the kind of feeling that I get when I am nervous. This was real and yet I almost thought I was dreaming.

"We should tell my roommates," I said. "They will like hearing about this. I like how they add to the moment. Do you know what I mean? It's like they are genuinely excited when they see us together."

So, we joined hands and walked inside. Donna was sitting down near the TV and then looked up and said, "Hi."

Terri walked into the room also.

I said, "This is my girlfriend, I mean, Lynn and I are boyfriend and girlfriend."

"Yes, we know that," Donna said looking at Kelli with a curious and amused look on her face.

"We were just talking about this, just now."

"We knew that already," they said laughing. I noticed that there was something pretty about the way Donna smiled and laughed.

"Well, we just were talking and decided this now... or we made it official."

It's so great when others are happy for you. When other people in your life rejoice at your happiness.

I was discussing this with a female friend recently and she was thinking and observing things from the perspective of how things generally work out in relationships. Please understand that what Lynn found attractive about me were those traits that are more commonly associated with females – my feminine character traits. 

At the time, back then, things like this were not discussed or put into words. Gender identity was not being discussed back then and so there were no words for what I was noticing or feeling about myself. But I don't mean to make this all about me. 

On the contrary, this is about us both. 

I cared deeply about the relationship and she knew that even if I didn't come out and say it. That's a guess. Like the guess that I didn't have to worry about how the conversation would go when she asked if we were more than just friends or if I wanted to be more than just friends.

I told my roommates that I had worried about the fact that I had to try so hard during the first month or two to get Lynn to want to spend time with me every day.

Lynn said, "luckily Bruce had been very persistent."

I said to my roommates, "it's great that you were both here for us to mark this occasion."

Terri looked surprised. "This is the first time that you have called each other boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"Well, yes, but I guess everyone knew... Knew we were seeing each other," I said.

Even I was a bit amused at this point.

I admitted to everyone that I was so glad that I had the courage to be persistent.

From roughly this time forward, I wasn't feeling shy around her and she had never been shy about speaking her mind and saying what she wanted.

Everything was comfortable and serene. We were in sync. We were best friends. And more. In the next chapter, I will fill in some details about both of us and how we spent our time during this period. I will later expand on the work/career aspect of my life.

My life took a sharp turn when I met Celta, a person who would change everything. With no job prospects, I had no choice but to move in with my parents after graduating from Georgia Tech, a decision that almost immediately seemed like a big mistake.

My mother's relentless pressure to find employment weighed heavily on me, her constant reminder that I could go to school at night if only I had a job as an engineer. But it wasn't just her words that stung - for the first time, she actually wanted to spend time with me, only to use it as an opportunity to criticize and belittle me. The toxic atmosphere that pervaded our home left me feeling ashamed and unworthy. No wonder I avoided spending time with my own mother.

I didn’t eat too much food and so I was not a major extra burden on my parents. I wasn’t asking them to pay for graduate school.

I thought I would have a chance to prepare for the next phase of my life. Despite having 6 psychology classes, I knew I had much more to learn, more growth was necessary, and experience in something close to psychiatric social work.

I graduated in 1989 from Georgia Tech, moved in with my parents in North Augusta, South Carolina near Augusta, Georgia. I found out that there was a state psychiatric hospital called Georgia Regional Hospital in the nearby town of Augusta, Georgia. I approached the volunteer department and told them I was planning to get a Master of Social Work degree and wanted to get relevant experience and was willing to volunteer.

I was connected with the lead social worker on the intake unit and I explained that I wanted to get some experience in the field because I was coming from an engineering program which was a radically different type of background.

By the first part of January of 1990, I was a volunteer at Georgia Regional Hospital on the intake unit working for the social work team. I wasn’t just observing or doing busy work. I was doing the psychosocial intake assessments that the social work team did. I was learning what social workers did in a setting like this and I was learning about how diagnoses are made.

I continued to develop my capacity for empathy, my active listening skills, and I noticed that people were opening up to me. This setting created even greater challenges due to the nature of various mental illnesses.

I had met Celta early in 1990 in this same setting. She was in hospital due to her health. She had anorexia. One of the medical school interns had suggested that I could maybe talk to her to understand about anorexia because I had a cousin with that.

Later in my career I might have known and worried more about boundaries. I had not been assigned to do a psychosocial assessment or anything related to my role on the staff as a volunteer.

When I met Celta I explained that I was not approaching her as part of the staff or as part of my role on the social work team. The moment I approached her, she smiled before I could even explain these facts.

Celta and I never talked about her health. She was in the hospital for just over the first three months that I knew her. She would write diary entries of all her observations and she would share these inner personal thoughts with me when I saw her or she mailed them to me.

After her release from the hospital she stayed for a short while in Augusta but then I took her to stay with her mother in Athens, Georgia - an hour and a half away from me. Her father then put her up in an apartment.

I would see her every weekend. I also spoke to her everyday on the phone. It was almost like magic because I couldn’t imagine that love could develop so quickly and in such an unlikely way.

It was not long before I was telling her “I love you” and hearing those words back on every phone call, everyday. I felt such a sense of joy. Something that had always been missing was being fulfilled.

During my Georgia Tech days, I had friends who were couples. I would be friends with both partners. My best friends were Thomas and JoLee who got married to each other. With each of them, I knew I was not the most important person in their lives nor was I their top priority. I suppose there are echoes of the words from my mother speaking about my cousins and saying that “they have their own lives” and that idea existed with every friend I made while I was away at Georgia Tech.

I had still carried the beliefs from childhood when I was growing up. The truth was, I didn't know what love really was. I had experienced some degree of connection or validation from my friends. In my family, I was an inconvenience—something to be tolerated, not cherished. My world had been shaped by emotional deprivation, shame, and the belief that I was fundamentally unworthy of being seen, let alone loved.

Things were different with Celta. I had not told anyone before her those words “I love you” or heard those words from anyone. Not in the way I was experiencing things with Celta.

Celta and I would have a relationship that was just slightly more than platonic with so much time cuddling together, holding each other, walking hand-in-hand. Looking into each other's eyes. 

With this transformative experience, one event stands out. There was a moment where we were having a picnic at the Botanical Gardens. I was talking about something that I didn't think was very interesting but looking up, I saw that she was smiling with delight as she looked at me, transfixed upon me, hypnotized. 

This was just one of many moments… Moments like this transformed my sense of my value and worth to a person. I felt special finally.

As we took pictures in the park, I couldn't help but notice how delicate she seemed. Her mother suggested a pose where I would kneel and she would sit on my knee. But as we got lost in each other's eyes, she started to sway and almost fell into position, her tiny arms and body barely giving me any sense of how to catch her.

I was only 5’7” tall but with her 4'11" stature and her weight of only 70-80 pounds made me worry about how to catch her. Luckily she didn’t fall far, coming to sit on my leg with my soft gentle arms around her side and back. Luckily, I was instinctually very gentle and using instincts alone, faster than concrete thoughts, was able to find a soft way to catch her.

My friend had recently confided in me about the physical abuse she endured from her husband, even though he was not very big but as a guy he was stronger, she said. Indeed, this difference in size and strength was most profound between Celta and me. I was always a gentle person by nature and the idea of causing harm to someone I supposedly loved was unthinkable, as was harming anyone.

Despite the toxic environment at home, all those moments spent with Celta still allowed me to experience something amazing. She brought me immense joy and a sense of the possibility of love which I had never experienced before, and eventually this would open up opportunities for me.

But at home, I was constantly belittled and pushed into mundane jobs, with my hard-earned degree from Georgia Tech being dismissed as insignificant. The pressure to conform to their expectations and take any job available left me feeling small and ashamed because of my education. I would not judge others the way I was made to feel about myself.

In Celta's presence, however, I felt like a giant towering over the negative voices and expectations from my family.

At no time did my parents ask who was making me happy… What I might want for the future… How might I achieve my goals and plans? They were utterly disinterested in anything that mattered to me or made me happy.

I learned about the death of Celta on New Year’s Day, 1991. I cried more than everyone else at the funeral combined.

For the next year and just over 3 months, I lived with my parents. This time without the support of Celta. I did go to a grief recovery group. I turned 25 in 1991, and the other members of the group were older people, mainly ladies past retirement age.

I had various jobs, with only one related to my software engineering degree.

I questioned how I could help others while dealing with my own problems and how I dealt with the loss of Celta.

My mother introduced me to a professor and poet named Martin Kirby, who became my mentor in writing. Through a temporary job offer, I moved away from my parents for the last time.

These experiences with Celta and working at Georgia Regional Hospital helped me continue to make advances made at Georgia Tech in overcoming social anxiety and would be useful for leading therapy groups as a clinical social worker/therapist in the future. Despite the tragic loss of Celta, I gained valuable personal growth.

As I packed my bags for college, the weight of leaving everything familiar behind weighed heavily on me. I felt a sense of dread in my chest as I thought about leaving behind the only family I truly connected with - my aunt and cousins. But what choice did I have? My high school offered no guidance or insight into potential careers, leaving me to blindly choose my path.

The idea of engineering seemed like a safe choice, but deep down I had no idea what it truly entailed. Yet, when acceptance letters from prestigious engineering programs arrived in the mail, I got the impression from my father that Georgia Tech was the most renowned among them all. UConn had an engineering program but I got the impression probably from my father, an engineer, that it was insignificant in comparison.

Perhaps, part of me believed that I could earn their respect and pride.

My parents always preached about the impact of every decision, but little could anyone know just how transformative my life at Georgia Tech would be.

As my parents drove away from Georgia Tech in Atlanta, Georgia, leaving me behind in the unfamiliar campus, I realized that I felt free from their presence - both physically and emotionally. My parents had been indifferent, limiting contact, but what little contact I had made me always want to get away.

My mother’s explosive anger had been hard to predict. That had forced me to climb tall trees for the freedom of being hidden or I had hiked or hung out in the woods if I was not with friends.

What I missed now were my cousins, Barbara, Dan, the younger cousins, my aunt, my aunt’s daughters (my first cousins).

When I first came to Georgia Tech and started to engage in the orientation progress, I became radically aware of my loneliness. It’s not like I had left behind close friends. There was Paul. But he had moved away and we had not being hanging out like in the past.

Somehow the loneliness was oppressive. Frightening. Was it because I couldn’t hide in the woods?

I had an inner dialogue of thoughts, trying to make sense of things, trying to figure out what I was feeling. This inner dialogue was forced upon me. I was curious to figure out what I was feeling or experiencing.

With what I know now, I could say that I had been engaging in dissociation. I was detaching from thoughts and feelings. I couldn’t figure out what had prompted the sudden reflection and examination of my thoughts and feelings.

I wrestled with the fact that I had been alone quite often. It was partially true that I didn’t have the comfortable escape into the woods. College would be much more complicated and challenging than high school.

Right? Yes, Georgia Tech accepted only the best of the best from high schools across the US. It was easier for residents of Georgia to get into Georgia Tech but staying and graduating was another matter.

I needed to have some connections. People I could talk to. Plus, I was an adult now. If I wanted a normal life with my own family, I needed others.

Why had I been more aware of not being able to find anything to say to others during orientation? Wasn’t I used to that?

After the thoughts about how people must have thought I was weird during the orientation rafting adventure, I had similar thoughts about how weird I was walking alone through the quiet dorm. This wasn’t a big spread out neighborhood like where I grew up in a town with people spread out. People were right outside hanging out together.

People hung out together naturally, or so it seemed, at the end of the day when the scheduled activities ended. What if someone came back into the door or walked downstairs to the empty TV room and other empty activity rooms. What would they think of me, the weirdo, all alone?

Ironically, it was good that I felt so uncomfortable. This would push me to join a fraternity and to seek counseling.

I didn’t have to look far, I immediately sought help at the Counseling and Career Planning Center.

I had a sense of purpose and determination. The urge was inescapable. I had been comfortable being alone in the past. But now, I was determined to change that.

However, it took enormous courage for me to make that first step towards counseling. I didn’t believe I deserved or needed help - a belief instilled in me by my family who constantly shamed and scapegoated me. The counselor gave me the MMPI test to assess my mental health and it revealed a distorted result due to my upbringing.

I had always been made to feel like there was something wrong with me, so if the test showed no abnormalities, I would have dismissed my own struggles as insignificant compared to those with "real" problems seeking help and I projected my own beliefs onto this psychologist that I was just getting to know.

I moved from one engineering program to another as I learned more about each of the different engineering majors and then landed in electrical engineering, with a specialization in computer engineering and a minor in psychology.

While I did remain in counseling with the same psychologist for the full five years, it didn’t take long before I noticed radical changes in my ability to communicate, connect with others, make friends.

I had joined a fraternity thinking that this would help me fit in with a group and create opportunities to make friends - connections.

Nearly a year and a half into my program at Georgia Tech, I was walking with David, deep in conversation with a friend who lived in the room across from mine. We talked about our future goals and aspirations, and he revealed a hidden desire to work in restaurant management. Though he had been told that an engineering degree from Georgia Tech was more prestigious, his heart longed for something else.

As we continued to talk, I suddenly had an epiphany dawning on me like a beam of light. In a moment of clarity, I asked him a simple yet profound question: "Do you truly want to do engineering for the rest of your life?" It was the first time I had actively thought about choosing a career based on personal passion and fulfillment rather than societal expectations or financial stability.

Through this conversation, I came to realize that our professions and occupations didn't have to be just a means to an end. They could bring us joy and fulfillment on their own. My friend's response showed me that he wasn't truly happy with his career in engineering. He made the courageous choice to leave Georgia Tech and chase his dream of managing restaurants. This experience taught me that it's possible to be in the "wrong" job or career if it doesn't bring you satisfaction and purpose in your daily work life.

Halfway through my engineering program, after having come a very long way in developing social skills, learning to communicate, building self-esteem, and in overcoming my social anxiety, I told my psychologist/counselor (I would have that same psychologist for the entire five years at the University), that I didn’t think I was in the right field.

Growing up, my father had told me that childhood was the best time of our lives because we had none of the stressors he faced. So, I had no idea that one could enjoy what one was learning and what one would do in their career. Why had this never occurred to me that the actual activities that people do on their job could be enjoyable and could be matched to our interests.

So, my counselor gave me a career interest inventory. This matches one’s interests with those in various fields. This considers how one might enjoy spending their time, the activities that we find or might find interesting.

I scored highest with careers in two themed areas: first Social careers, and the second highest theme area based on my scores was Creative. Engineering, I noticed was grouped in “Realistic” themed careers, which made sense. The “design” aspect of engineering was not reflected in the actual tasks of an engineer.

The experience of therapy while attending university was both transformative and eye-opening for me. The psychology courses I took only deepened my fascination with the human mind and behavior. I was amazed at how much understanding psychology had provided during my sessions with my psychologist, and I felt a strong desire to use this knowledge and my empathetic nature to assist others.

My passion for social work went beyond just the academic aspect. It aligned perfectly with my personal values and desire to help those in need. Growing up in Atlanta, I couldn't ignore the poverty and homelessness that plagued our city, and I saw social workers as the ones making real change in these communities. It was more than just a career choice, it was my calling.

But I was already deep into my studies and changing my major or transferring schools seemed impossible. My parents were funding my education and switching to an English degree, while enticing for my love of creativity, would extend the time and cost of my education which my parents did not support. Plus, I knew a Master's in Social Work could be pursued with any undergraduate degree. I felt torn between following my heart and sticking with what was practical.

The improvements I made were massive. I was becoming an extrovert in many ways. Yet I hadn’t been able to find a girlfriend, just like everyone else seemed to effortlessly do. But instead, I had only been on two ambiguous dates with young women, unsure if they were even “dates.”

The most profound transformation I experienced at Georgia Tech was not through engineering or academic success. It was clawing my way out of paralyzing social anxiety and building essential social skills. Though some may argue I still suffered from selective mutism, unable to speak in large groups like classrooms, and I only had two “dates” - if that is what they were. This perpetuated the notion that everyone had someone more important in their lives than I was.

The lingering feeling of inadequacy haunted me and made me feel that I would never be good enough - good enough to be the first choice for someone. I still felt like it was true what my parents had said about my cousins, that they had their own lives - lives that were more important than what I could offer.

I also discovered a profound capacity for empathy. I would have to learn to control that. During the last year that my best friend was at Georgia Tech (a friend that graduated before I did) he had mononucleosis (aka mono). Towards the end of the quarter, I started developing the symptoms of mono. I was certain of this and just laid down to sleep on the couch in our room. I woke up a few hours later and I was symptom free.

I had developed an empathic reaction and taken on the symptoms that my friend had been experiencing throughout the quarter.

I didn’t have a job upon graduation, and I thought it was understood that I was going to go to graduate school for social work. My father had said that he understood that engineering was not a good match for me. I imagined that he would have understood that it would be very unlikely that I would get a job as an engineer upon graduation but their support in paying for my undergraduate education was helpful.

I didn’t expect my parents to pay for graduate school but they had a large home with a free room upstairs, and I didn’t eat too much. I somehow had not fully appreciated how toxic my family was.

My earliest memory is of water. Learning to swim.

I am four or five. The indoor pool at the Y. The warmth of the water against my skin. The vastness of it—stretching beyond my reach.

I remember floating near the wall, small and weightless.

Then, a moment of panic. I lost my grip.

The deep end swallowed me whole. My arms flailed, my breath caught in my throat. Then, I saw her.

She was close—my instructor, a girl in her late teens or early twenties, afloat in the deep end.

I don’t know what gave me the courage, but I leapt.

I wrapped my arms around her, clinging to her like my life depended on it. She steadied me, her arms firm, unshaken.

My heart pounded against her shoulder, but she didn’t let go.

I was safe.

But something else lingered. Not just relief. Something deeper.

Something I wasn’t meant to have. I wasn’t supposed to know what it felt like to be held. To be protected. To be cared for.

And even at four or five years old, I knew that.

That is the birth of shame.

The First Lessons in Isolation

When I was a toddler, I was terrified of firetruck sirens on the firetruck that my parents bought me. My parents told the story often—laughing as they described my panic. I don’t remember them ever soothing me.

I have no memory of them saying, "It’s okay, you’re safe." I suspect they didn’t.

Now, decades later, I find myself instinctively comforting my own cat when he startles at a loud noise. I kneel down, stroke his fur, whisper, "It’s okay, everything is okay."

Something in me knows what I never received. I give to a pet what was never given to me.

The House of Unspoken Rules and Child Abuse

I don’t remember my parents ever holding me like that.

I was abused, physically. I was assaulted. That didn’t start right away when I was very young.

In my family, affection was something distant, implied rather than given. Love was duty. Gratitude was expected. Respect was mandatory and not earned.

My father, Bruce Sr., was a man of unshakable silence. He believed actions spoke louder than words, but his actions were cold efficiency—he provided, and that was enough. My mother, Kathy, was a storm you learned to anticipate, never knowing when lightning would strike.

But there was a chill in the air, a tension that wrapped around me like a vice. It was the kind of silence that demanded submission, not understanding.

I never looked directly at my father’s face. I kept my gaze down, or slightly averted, as if instinctually avoiding something dangerous. The thought going through my mind was that I should not expect an easy explanation of what I did wrong. I was wrong.

I felt that I was being met with a general sense of disapproval for being.

Later in life, I would become incredibly skilled at reading people’s body language. I had so much to learn because I was purposefully choosing to avoid observing the looks of general disapproval.

Our maternal grandparents were our refuge, our shield.

I remember Grandma standing up for me—her frail voice telling my parents, “Don’t hurt Bruce.”

That small moment, that whisper of resistance, was the only time someone tried to intervene.

Grandpa would worry about me lifting too much when I joined him to take out the garbage once a week and stack the garbage pails in a way that would ensure that dogs couldn’t get into them.

And then they died.

With them went the thin barrier between us and our parents’ unchecked cruelty.

What haunts me more than any specific moment of cruelty is the void—the absence of tenderness.

We went on vacations to Disney World. We had an in-ground pool. Yet, I have no memories of joy with my parents. They did things for us, but never with us.

It was not love. It was obligation. And obligation demanded respect, not warmth.

The First Vow: To Never Be Like Them

With no one left to shield us, the full weight of their anger fell upon me. Each harsh word, each slap, each moment of being made to feel small carved deeper into me.

I made a vow in the quiet of my childhood bedroom:

• I will never become like them.
• I will never lose my temper.
• I will never let anyone feel unsafe because of me.

I would spend my whole life keeping that promise.

The arrival of a protector

Paul and his family moved into the neighborhood in 3rd grade. He and I became friends. And I saw him increasingly as a protector. I had come out of my shell for a while in school during 3rd grade. Laughing and joking.

When Donna said she liked me in 3rd grade and kissed me, I felt like I had to put on a show that I didn’t like girls. Obviously, these rules change later.

By junior high, I didn’t have Paul in my classes but I hung out with him in the neighborhood.

I did have another protector in junior high school. Thomas from the neighborhood where we lived earlier said that the 9th graders might pick on the 7th graders and I should tell him if that happens.

No one really did pick on me. There were a few minor incidents that were handled by Paul. I didn’t have to go to any great effort to convince him to help me.

It might have been a few years later but Paul even sensed my fear when a dog came out to chase us on our bikes as we were going riding and peddling up a hill, moving slowly. I must have appeared frozen with fear. Paul got off his bike and chased the dog across the yard that was the dogs home! This was the dogs territory and yet it was running away in fear.

The Arrival of Family – And A Deeper Shame

In junior high, something changed.

My mother and her estranged sister suddenly reconciled, and a world I had never known opened up: extended family.

I met my first cousins—Linda, Sharon, and Karen. They were adults, but their children, Barbara and Dan, were my age.

I was drawn to Barbara.

I told myself it was because I preferred talking over roughhousing.

Dan played tackle football—a game of brute force. I didn’t want to tackle or dominate or crush someone to win. Winning had never felt good to me.

Even in childhood games of kickball, I remember the uneasy feeling in my stomach when my team won, because it meant another had lost.

The elation of victory never came.

Yet, I wondered: was something wrong with me?

The world told boys to compete, to fight, to dominate. But I wanted connection—not conquest.

And so I gravitated toward Barbara. We talked. We laughed. We hugged.

And then, shame crept in.

It came in the form of my mother’s jealousy.

"Do you think they’re going to let you live with them?" she snapped, her voice dripping with scorn. She was referring to Karen or Sharon who were the only cousins who could have taken me into their home.

I had never thought about it before, but now the thought seemed… wrong.

She planted a seed—a toxic, gnawing thought that I was a burden.  That I was wanting too much.

I had already learned that needing comfort was shameful. The pool memory had taught me that.

Now, I learned that even wanting closeness with my own cousins was wrong.

And so I learned to doubt every warm moment, to question every innocent connection, to second-guess every embrace.

Another aspect of the family get togethers that I truly enjoyed was the opportunity to spend time with the kids. Dan and Barbara were the first cousins once removed that were about my age but Tracy, Jaime and Wayne were little kids, relative to my age. I would be available to watch them and spend time with them… somehow I gravitated into this role. If the kids needed or wanted to go outside (maybe go for a walk or go somewhere nearby) and no one else was available to go with them or watch them.

I suppose I was always meant to be a parent. Even while I was just a teenager, a child myself, it was evident.

Had the events of this book not come to pass the way they did, I would have surely found a way to be a parent. This was on my mind later in this story.

An Invisible Shell: The Complete Silence of Selective Mutism

By junior high, my selective mutism was complete.

At school, I couldn’t speak. Who knows what I feared. Perhaps the scared part of me that hid behind my chair in Kindergarten instead of walking up front with the milk money. What was it that I feared?

That part of me that was hidden in my unconscious knew. Later in studying psychology, I would learn ideas like the wounded inner child, ego states, and parts that were frozen in time. Growing up, I just didn’t speak.

The silence was suffocating.

Speaking felt like exposure. Like a spotlight on shame itself. And so I withdrew.

I wandered the woods, hiked Ragged Mountain, disappeared into nature.

I was aware of the yearning for contact when I saw my cousins..

And yet, in the neighborhood, I had a paper route. I could talk to customers. I worked at the Medical Mart for my neighbor, where I had to speak to strangers.

Outside of school, my voice existed.

Inside school, it was buried beneath layers of shame.

As I grew, I became aware of the power I had—the power to hurt. When I fought with my sister, I would raise my hand or my foot to strike her—but something always stopped me.

Then later, I saw her fear. And that changed everything.

I made another vow:

• No one will ever fear me.

In a home where fear was a weapon, I rejected it.

With my mother’s jealously over my desire to prefer my cousins and aunt over my parents, this created a toxic sense of shame in which I had to second guess how things might look.

But it wasn't just physical touch that I craved. I relished in playing with our youngest cousins, dreaming of being the loving parent that I never had.

After my elementary school years with Paul in the same class with me all day, I existed inside an invisible shell. My selective mutism was complete at school. I often retreated into the woods, spending so many hours alone, hiking, enjoying the view from Ragged Mountain, throughout my childhood through age 18.

Despite this, I did gain a degree of limited confidence in the neighborhood.

I had a paper route and had to collect payments from customers in the large and extended neighborhood. I shared this with my friend Paul and my sister Carrie. I developed a confidence that allowed me to do this.

I also got a job working for the Medical Mart - a store owned by my neighbor Jack Donlon - it was a family business. He and his wife lived directly across the street from us.

I did come out of my shell as required for this job. I had to meet with customers and deliver products to them.

I also nurtured a very strong bond with my cousins.

This was the opposite of what my family created for me. I had been coming out of my shell.

I also learned that I didn’t want to be like my parents. I knew that fear of a parent is different from respect.

My mother revealed her jealousy over my preference for my cousins and aunt then my parents. She asked if I thought they were going to let me live with them. Kathy would also say, “they have their own lives” making me feel less valuable or less worthy of being included in the lives of my cousins and aunt.

This would have been occurring in my later teenage years.

The Final Realization

My mother called me a house devil and a street angel.

She meant it as an insult, but she was right. At home, I was silent, tense, wary.

Outside, I was kind. I saved my kindness for those who deserved it.

Because I had wanted parents.

Just not mine.

The sun had already begun to set when I heard the voice outside my door. I had been expecting someone, a new friend. So, I had my door open a bit.

"Where’s Bruce?"

I stepped out into the dim hallway to find a woman on the stairway leading to the second floor staring up one of the fellow tenants named Danny who lived upstairs.

Without hesitation, I answered, "I’m Bruce."… instantly realizing that this was not the person I was expecting. This was a white woman and my friend that I was expecting was black as was my girlfriend who might not have known which apartment I had been in - I had changed apartment rooms.

Before I could process what was happening, she stormed past me, into my room, slamming the door behind her and locking it.

We were alone.

Then she attacked.

Her fists crashed into my face with terrifying speed and force. My glasses flew off. I stumbled backward onto the couch, blood pouring from my nose and from cuts to my cheeks, filling my mouth with the sharp taste of iron.

For a brief moment we were separated and then she screamed, "Why do you keep calling me?!"

Through the haze of pain and shock, I managed to ask with utter incredulity : "Who are you?"

Outside, I could hear muffled voices—other tenants, witnesses. Yet, the violence continued. I didn’t fight back. I just wanted to survive. Plus, I was programmed not to not hit females… but then again, I had NEVER been physically attacked in my entire life by anyone of any gender.

Adrenaline took over as I dragged her to the door, my hands slick with blood. I had a few brief moments in the chaos to wipe my hand across my face. My hand smeared blood on the door and I left a bloody thumbprint on the doorframe as I tried to steady myself.

I fumbled with the lock, forcing the door open, pulling her out. I was actually worried about hurting her!

But she tried to force her way back in.

I slammed the door shut. Locked it. My heart pounded. What the hell just happened?

With shaking hands, I dialed 911.

"We are sending the police."

I refused paramedics—I needed the police to see my injuries, to understand the brutality of what had just happened… to get photographs of just how brutal this attack was.

Joachim, just another tenant, told me to go look at myself in the mirror.

Looking in the mirror, I had in utter disbelief at the extent to which I had been bleeding. Not only was I bleeding from my nose but I could long cuts across both cheeks and a bloody swollen mouth.

It was October 1, 2004 and a warm day. I had blood on my face, blood covered my dark green shirt, my light colored shorts, my socks and my sneakers.

As I spoke to others, Joachim asked, “So you don’t know her from Adam?”

“No, I have no idea who she  is.” Looking around, no one seemed to have any idea as to her identity.

When the officers arrived, I was still covered in blood. They listened as I described the bizarre incident that had just occurred. They questioned the witnesses.

I insisted they take photos of my injuries before treating me.

Then just as they were about to leave and I was resigned to the idea that they would probably never find out who had done this to me, I heard a phone ringing. It was not my phone. Behind a pile of books, I noticed a phone—her phone. She must have lost it during the assault.

I handed it to the officers.

"Maybe this will tell you who she is."

They left and I was still in shock.

That should have been the end of it.

But then, maybe an hour later and near sunset, more police cars arrived.

A female officer appeared in the doorway, watching me.

Over their radios, I heard the words that would change my life forever.

"A woman was sexually assaulted here."

Prior to this moment in life, I NEVER would have imagined such a scenario… but it was clear that they were talking about me.

The victim was now the accused.

The nightmare had only just begun.

Injustice and the Burden of Toxic Shame

The woman who attacked me was Ana Ensaf Amador-Rizo, the wife of my landlord. This was beyond bizarre! She had turned from perpetrator to victim in the eyes of the police.

I had lived my life with integrity, dedicated my career to helping others recover from trauma, only to become the target of false allegations.

But it wasn’t just the legal system that turned against me.

I had spent years battling toxic shame, social anxiety, and self-doubt—struggling to overcome the fear of how people saw me. All these struggles had occurred prior to being falsely accused of a violent crime.

If life had been difficult before, how much harder would it be now, with the weight of an accusation I could never escape?

This book is not just about what happened that night.

It’s about how injustice follows you. It’s about the prison that exists beyond the walls of a jail cell—a life sentence of stigma and suspicion.

It’s about the fight to rebuild after the world has destroyed you… to find self-esteem and overcome toxic shame without justice.

And it’s about what happens when the truth doesn’t matter.

I met Lynn and started seeing her around the 4th of July of 1992. I had been grieving the loss of Celta when I came to Wilmington in April of 1992.

I found love briefly with Celta and yet she died so suddenly and at such a young age. I was devastated. I didn't think I would feel, or experience love again. Then I met Lynn in 1992. We fell madly, and passionately in love. The poems that follow are about that love. I wanted to tell the story to all those who would ever follow me in the later generations about some epic love to rival any husband and wife or any couple.

We lived as husband and wife and were married in every way that mattered. As a Catholic at the time, I sought the sacrament of Holy Matrimony from the Church, but they denied us—the disgusting attitude that someone born with a debilitating illness should be denied access to the sacred! This treatment of Lynn, among many other harmful attitudes, pushed me away from religion.

Lynn was willing to embrace any way of symbolically representing our everlasting devotion, even though she wasn't Christian. We both wanted to formally move from engagement to the next stage of formal commitment to one another forever. Now, no longer religious, I can see that if the sacred exists at all, no secular piece of paper could make our bond more holy than it already was.

For years we had a normal relationship, and the fact that she had a chronic genetic illness did not define our relationship.

Our love created a sense of tranquility and serenity at its core—a deep peace and contentment that existed at all times, even when I was depressed, which was merely a transitory feeling that would pass.

In its purest form, love is distinguished from addiction, which is momentary and transitory. We do not pursue a high that we once had and cannot reach again—that would be like implying that once we discover an awe-inspiring sunrise we need a more beautiful sunrise to feel that same sense of awe.

Love is also like beauty in the sense that it's best experienced as opposed to merely being stated like some universal truth. Creative people express these experiences of awe and wonder in many forms.

These poems capture more than fleeting moments—they hold experiences where physical sensations became markers of something profound, eternal, and awe-inspiring. Each moment contained vastness, pointing to the spiritual that even non-believers in the supernatural can embrace. They are signifiers of what endures and give ultimate meaning to what really matters.

An Infinite Beach

On some beach
that never ends
I'm with her
and just for a moment
I pretend
that things never change
that sometimes,
in moments like this
we walk hand-in-hand
forever.
This is my greatest desire -
to stop time
like this...
when there is just this place,
just these beach sounds
and just
she and I.

What Really Matters

Moments
frozen in time.

That is what love
seems to be...
these moments you remember
something in these moments
(takes my breath away)
has a certain meaning
that endures -

a feeling...
an image...
something said...
or shared...
certain sounds
in the background...
whatever it is that
you remember
is all that really matters.

Introduction: We walked into the Coastline Convention Center that Sunday evening in 1995, hand-in-hand as usual, overlooking the Cape Fear River where the weekly poetry readings were held. Lynn had no idea I had a surprise for her.

We took our seats at a table with other regulars—all friends and acquaintances who knew us as the couple we were, always like newlyweds, never afraid of public displays of affection. The sun was sinking low, and the room was getting slightly dark with just a dim light up front near the podium.

When my time came, I stepped boldly to the microphone. As I read this new poem, I could sense the knowing glances from people in the room—casual looks toward Lynn as everyone understood what was happening. I wonder if she noticed those glances, waiting for her reaction to this declaration of love.

Dreamlike Visions

In this dreamlike vision 
I lay in her lap,
while her golden hair
flows in the gentle wind,
On the beach.

Is this real?
I reach up to touch her
but she is gone... gone... gone
and I am laying on the sand.

Looking skyward I see her
in a vision.
She searches for me,
calling my name, saying,
"I am his and he is mine."

I try to get back
to find her
and that infinite beach
where we would walk hand-in-hand
or lay on the sand
holding each other
together
forever.

The vision -
the dream -
(incomplete)
the love
never ends...
The dream never
ends.

Follow-up to the poem: I sat back down next to Lynn as someone else prepared to read. I noticed she was doodling. One of our mutual friends commented on how much he liked the poem. I turned to Lynn and asked, "So, what do you think?"

"What?" she said, looking up confused. "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening."

I shook my head and smiled. She was embarrassed, her face blushing. "I thought you were only reading poems I already heard," she said. "Oh, I'm so sorry sweetie. Let me read it."

I handed her the poem and leaned in close, my arms resting on her chair. I tilted my head and slowly brought my lips to hers. She held my lips there with her hands on both sides of my face—just for a moment, mindful of the others around us.

"It's okay," I said with a smile. "You know what... I really love you."

"I love you too, honey."

She read the poem, visibly moved by this surprise declaration of love.

This became an inside joke for us. I would tease her: "If I share a poem about our love, I hope Lynn is listening?" Her way of making up for it was to read this poem at future poetry events when she didn't have anything else to share. I can't count the number of times that happened, it demonstrated her appreciation and recognition of the value of our love.

I explained that the poem was inspired by the Song of Songs from the Old Testament and a song by the Electric Prunes called "I Had Too Much To Dream (Last Night)." I was drawn to the sensual imagery in both—the biblical celebration of love between two people committed to each other, and the dreamlike quality of the song that captured something both beautiful and haunting about love and longing.

In Love

Some would say they understand 
that it is not that uncommon... 
a word that is overused 
because I can't find another word.

People walking past us 
might have seen us holding hands 
they might have known 
there was love.

Yet they would not understand... 
the miraculous experience 
of her hand in mine 
as we walked by the ocean. 
They would not understand 
the experiences – physical and emotional 
signifiers of something worthy 
of belief.

When we sat side by side 
facing the ocean waves, 
hearing them in the background 
seeing them - 
moved by something unseen - 
our bodies were touching 
and the best analogy for what I experienced 
was electrical signals moving 
at each point where our bodies 
our legs, arms, thighs 
were in contact.

This was not merely something 
physically pleasurable, 
not merely biological 
emotional, chemical.

No, I knew that. 
I have felt passion 
but rarely have I felt 
love – though I have been 
mistaken more times than I can count... 
Meaningless encounters 
where the emptiness remained.

That core Self within me 
ready for connection was not 
fulfilled like it was now.

Waves of excitement, peace, 
serenity, joy, clarity 
flowed through moments 
pregnant with meaning. 
Each moment was vast in duration 
each moment held eternity.

I had an epiphany and knew 
what mattered, what gave life meaning 
what filled that emptiness within 
that brought forth the fullness of the 
Self.

The feelings, moving in waves 
were markers of the profound - 
physical sensations that pointed beyond 
themselves to something transcendent, 
something that could not be reduced 
to chemistry or biology alone.

I have known alcoholics that look 
to a higher power. 
I have known the religious who 
speak of a God who alone 
can fill that emptiness 
within.

Everyone is looking 
for what will complete them, 
searching for transcendence 
in substances, in faith, 
in achievement, in escape.

But I have found something - 
I believe in something - 
I believe in love.

I can't prove it exists 
beyond hormonal desires 
beyond biological drives 
beyond what science can measure.

But I know what I experienced: 
love that is true 
and real 
and right...

Love that transforms 
without diminishing, 
that changes you 
without erasing who you are, 
that asks you to grow 
but never to disappear, 
that leads toward transcendence 
while keeping you whole. 
It shows you eternity 
in peaceful moments 
yet never asks you to sacrifice 
the fire of excitement, 
the expansion of joy, 
the sharp clarity of being fully alive, 
the creative force that moves through 
two people connected 
in the deepest way possible - 
embodying what it means 
to be complete 
while remaining yourself.

I Wrote a Love Poem Once

I wrote a love poem once...
I felt it was good -
I remember how good it felt -
the love...
to write the love poem,
to share it,
to dedicate it.
I felt the poem was good.

It was many years ago...
lost - lost in the fire,
as it were,
the love...
the love poem.

I forget how it goes
the love...
the love poem.

 

I just cannot remember
the words I wrote...
but I know I wrote
a love poem,
once...
or twice or more...

I can't quite remember
how it goes -
that feeling,
that certainty,
that desire to feel
that again.

Introduction to Poem “The Whole Story”

Our mutual friend Jean once observed that he saw us argue often, and I was shocked by his concern. Years later, after experiencing a relationship where disagreements felt threatening, where conversations could end with hang-ups, where love itself seemed in jeopardy over differences of opinion - I finally understood what Jean had missed.

With Lynn, I never hung up the phone. When she said, 'I'm not done talking,' I never said we couldn't keep talking. The cognitive dissonance I felt when Lynn challenged my beliefs didn't threaten our bond—it transformed my thinking, because I respected her completely and knew she respected me. Isn't it strange and amazing when you can become so frustrated and irritated in a relationship with someone special but still maintain that pervasive sense of happiness and contentment! Even despite all the fights and arguments, there was always an underlying joy. That is the ineffable nature of what we had—something taken out of context might look like conflict, but within the whole story, it was actually love expressing itself freely.

The Whole Story

Our love is now like an epic novel,
thousands of pages in length, 
with most pages torn 
others burned - in the tragic fire.

 I tried to save what I could 
believing it was worth saving
or worth holding onto - 
believing that nothing dies 
but in the end, 
what do I have? 

 

Just scraps of the book...

Even the ring that symbolized 
the bond of husband and wife 
is gone.

We wrote the book together - 
I remember how it was, 
page after page, 
chapter after chapter, 
lie scattered around a room 
in a forgotten home 
in a forgotten place 
like dark shadows 
under a hazy sky.

Page after page, 
written with a purpose 
written with love.

Sure, there were chapters 
that didn't seem to belong 
or have any purpose that could be understood 
but every part of the story 
had a purpose and place, 
whether good or bad 
within the larger narrative.

This was a story to be told 
for generations to come - 
passed down within the family 
and as part of a cultural tradition.

Looking back, 
at the whole book 
and not just a chapter here 
or there, 
taken out of context, 
you see a theme 
which emerges out of the many 
unplanned chapters.

It was always about love 
and that matters 
more than the quality of the narrative... 
it matters more than 
how things might have seemed 
at any one moment in time.

Before I met Celta, I was 23 —
out of a childhood of emotional deprivation,
past undergrad where I somehow believed
I was becoming confident —
an extrovert on campus,
but not at parties,
not in groups of more than six,
still too shy to speak in class,
still escaping to the movies alone
on Friday afternoons.

I thought I was becoming someone.
Still, I was mostly surviving.
Still needing to grow.

Then there was her.

She was the first
to see me in a way
that made everything before
feel like a long, dim dream —
a story I try to tell
about life before 23,
but it’s mostly devoid of detail.

It’s not that I have a bad memory.
Some things are still vivid —
like being four years old,
floating in the YMCA pool,
held in someone’s arms,
and feeling certain
I didn’t deserve to be held.

But most of those years
blur together.

Maybe because I hadn’t really begun
to live yet.

Another Place, Another Time, Another Life

We used to walk
hand-in-hand
at the Botanical Gardens —
in Athens, Georgia,
following the paths.

This was my escape,
my other life.

And what I felt
is hard to put into words,
but I can say
that this...
        this sustained me.

(The feelings remained
and echoed throughout the upcoming week) —
until I could see her again
a week later.

We lived in different cities.
I lived with abusive parents —
I suppose I chose this.
I was an adult.

What I felt
            not just holding her hand,
or wrapping my arms around her —
but the way she held me,
chose to be close to me...

 

Perhaps there’s something else
I am leaving out...

Maybe it has something to do
with love.

Her love?
Mine?
Both.

I don’t know...
maybe because I had not known love —
from anyone, at all, ever,
before I was 24.

The Swing

Three of us are walking
in a small field—
the girl I loved,
myself, and her friend,
whom we had come to visit.

We came upon a swing,
and as I remember it,
I am in front of her
pushing her gently—
away, knowing she would return.

It wasn’t the way her hair
was caught in the sunlight
before me,
nor the smooth,
calming, undulating motion
of the swing.

It was what happened
in the quiet that fell—
a pause in time—
when our eyes locked,
and everything else faded
from our awareness.

David’s voice grew distant,
his presence dissolved.
She saw only me.
And I saw only her.

In that moment,
there was no one else.
No labels.
No explanations.
Only knowing.

After so many years—
decades—
I still remember this moment.

That’s what love is.
The kind you feel
in the body,
in the silence,
in the return
of the swing.

Where the Love Was

They said you were an angry woman —
but where was your anger at me?
Could you be so angry at the whole world
but not at me?
Not ever?
(We had only a year.)

I guess that has something to do
with love — our love.
I kept waiting for that anger
to turn on me,
for me to do
something
to provoke it —
yet I only saw
your smiles at me.

That’s where the love was.

And what about the
I love you’ s
we exchanged?
I’d never heard those words
or said them
so many times.
I never felt so moved
to say “I love you”
until then.

That’s where the love was.

Or maybe it was in certain
snapshot memories...
Like that day in the park —
I was telling a story from my past,
not even a remarkable one.
But when I looked up,
your eyes were on me —
captivated, hypnotized,
transfixed.

I still remember it
decades later,
along with so much more.

That’s where the love was.
Or is.

And finally,
it was in all the tears
I shed when I heard you died.
I never cried before that.

The love,
it’s in the memories —
in the knowing
that you are always a part
of me,
and I, a part of you.
There’s comfort in that.

I guess love isn’t
just a place
long ago.

Maybe I really didn’t believe
that someone could love me —
or be so deeply interested
in me.

These days,
or in the past few years,
I seem to have needed something
more
than just a touch
to feel anything as intense.

And most importantly —
it’s not the intensity
that matters,

but the overall mood,
the mindset of the relationship —
that is what matters.