Chapter 19: Homecoming to Wilmington

Finding Solace in the Only Place That Still Felt Like Home

With every cent I'd scraped together from work, I made my way back to Wilmington, driven by a longing that gnawed at me day and night. The beaches called to me, whispering promises of the belonging I'd known once and still craved so desperately, a sanctuary amidst the chaos of my fractured life.

In Wilmington, I reunited with Jean Jones and Thomas Childs—two steadfast anchors from a time before everything crumbled to dust.

Thomas, in particular, felt like a lifeline, as if the years between us had evaporated. Between meeting Thomas down in Wilmington, we spent hours on the phone, our conversations blazing with the intensity of a friendship rekindled, leaving me warmed for the first time in years by the fierce glow of connection.

Yet, amidst this rediscovered warmth, there loomed the shadow of Lynn. Lynn was still there.

Still haunting me and Wilmington. I was still tethered to a past that remained excruciatingly out of reach.

And that… was a different kind of pain altogether.

I was still in love with Lynn, and that truth haunted me. Over the years, I tried reaching out through people I met on social media, hoping to bridge the chasm that had grown between us. I had poured out my heart with each telling of the story of the life and joy I had known with Lynn.

My story was moving enough for at least two people to agree to reach out to Lynn and call her.

Each attempt left me more tangled in a web of memories—memories of a life I never thought would unravel.

Our mutual friend had only noticed the fights that Lynn and I had. He failed to recognize the ability to disagree with someone and not let it change one iota of the love we shared. Jean hadn’t noticed how quickly I made up with Lynn when I had said something that was completely inaccurate about the depth of my love for Lynn and devotion to the relationship.

In 2009, a chance to be near her again loomed like a thunderstorm on the horizon as I spoke to our mutual friend, Jean, gazing at the beach sands where Lynn and I fell in love. Jean had whispered about a writing workshop where Lynn would be present. My heart clenched with a violent mix of shame and longing. I had abandoned her—or so I believed—and the guilt was a suffocating shroud wrapped around my entire being. The relationship had crumbled, and the gnawing certainty that it was my fault devoured me from within.

It was my fault, or so it seemed, a dark truth etched into the narrative of our lives. I must have become someone unrecognizable, someone who signaled to Lynn that I was unreliable, unworthy of being her pillar of strength.

Flashback to 2000, when Lynn's health spiraled into chaos, and I faltered. She needed to battle for her life, and I should have been her unwavering support. Instead, the terror of losing her consumed me like a raging inferno, transforming everything I thought I was.

Driven by the fear of losing Lynn, I sought refuge in another's arms for a fleeting, desperate encounter. Lynn had signaled her absence from our home, and in a twisted, surreal betrayal, I did the unthinkable - a sexual encounter.

To state that I was not in my right mind is the greatest understatement. This was unthinkable. Unimaginable. I would never even imagine mentioning this. It was something that should only exist in my darkest nightmares.

I had never hidden anything from her. Yet, while still ensnared by love, I stumbled into the arms of another, seeking solace as one might turn to a drug to numb the pain.

It was an unfathomable deviation from my profound commitment to Lynn, a betrayal of the unspoken trust that had bound us from the very beginning. From our first weekend, our first date, I had pledged my growing devotion to Lynn.

Now, nine years later, standing next to the woman who had once been my confidante, I was paralyzed by an overwhelming tide of emotion. I ached to tell her I still loved her, but my shame sealed my lips in a suffocating silence.

I said nothing.

During the workshop, when it was Lynn's turn to respond to my poem, her silence was a piercing scream. I was caught in a maelstrom of anxiety, her lack of words slicing into the heart of my being.

Those in the room may not have noticed the overwhelming anxiety that I was experiencing.

Finally, I couldn't bear it. I stood abruptly, leaving the room, and the familiar comfort of that wine bar behind. The streets outside were once my home, now they felt foreign.

Thomas called, saying he was on his way to meet me. I waited, caught between the past and present. Lynn was there, a constant calling.

I couldn’t let her go but still I said nothing!

Jeff, a mutual friend, tried to engage me, but my attention drifted back to Lynn. She was once my anchor, yet now she seemed as unreachable as the life I had envisioned with her.

The most significant realization from this incident was the unsettling reminder of my tangled interactions with the justice system, from the detectives scrutinizing every detail to my own defense attorney, the one thread of hope I clung to.

Facing the public defender, who essentially held my future in his hands, I remained silent. Even when he betrayed my trust and pushed me toward a plea deal that felt like an admission of guilt, I stayed quiet.

It wasn’t that I willingly kept silent when standing before the judge in 2006; it was more that I couldn't muster the courage to speak out. But why was silence my default?

Who would have imagined that it wasn't until I began writing this book that I'd uncover a disturbing parallel: the same gripping fear that silenced me from confessing my love to the person who mattered most in my life was the very fear that suffocated my voice three years earlier in the courtroom, preventing me from declaring my objection to the plea deal... from proclaiming that I was the victim?

The Bigger Picture Here

The most amazing thing about returning to Wilmington was the peace and serenity that came with this and how that materialized. I was still on disability and barely making any money from the Web Design and Development business. I had been working at Measurement Inc. which hires anyone with at least a bachelor’s degree. I earned only enough to afford a visit down to Wilmington by bus.

I never had a enough money to buy a car. Not yet. My credit was not very good as one might imagine considering that I had been homeless and my life had been so chaotic.

Yet something amazing was happening down in Wilmington. It didn’t offer me the home I once knew. There are so many things that had happened. There is an entire story that could be written about aspects of my life that had changed beyond the facts discussed in this book on injustice.

What was significant was the sense that I didn’t have to worry about what others would think about me. I told my two best friends down there, Jean and Thomas. We talked a bit about it but I never felt uncomfortable. I never felt the embarrassment that came from wondering if the person hearing my story would doubt my innocence.

I made new friends down there and strengthened other relationships with people from the poetry scene. I might have been shy about the criminal matter but in many ways, while I was down here, in this scene or setting, it seemed irrelevent. This is amazing since I was just getting off supervised probation from the lies told by Ana. Yet, somehow, I managed to place it in a sealed container that wasn’t opened in the Wilmington area.

Speaking of friends and connections, tragically, Dusty had passed away. As the emcee at the poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center, she was a warm motherly type that I could have used at this time in my life.

Indeed, a mother was what any injured person needs. A mother figure to tell them that they are special. There had been others that made me feel special but I could have used that during the horrifying moments, that turned into days, weeks, months and years.

The comfort of Lynn’s arms or Celta’s arms existed only as tearful memories of something amazing that was gone.

All the loss and pain, the aspects of why Wilmington wasn’t a home any longer are part of another story, as I alluded to earlier. This is about those aspects of life that had been impacted by the injustice.

Despite the losses and pain, I might have overlooked the peace and comfort of not having to worry about what others might think about me.

So much was missing and could not be recovered. Yet, the peace of being around people who knew me was something so easy to overlook.

From a cognitive behavioral aspect, I could see how I was focusing on the negative and somehow blocked from holding onto the positive and using it to anchor me to positive thoughts, imagines, ideas and feelings about myself.

I had resurrected the poetry magazine that Lynn and I started in 1995. Jean became my new co-editor. We had an event down in Wilmington at a new location for the poets in the area - a wine and coffee bar.

I found an outlet in my writing. I wrote a book of poems that was co-authored with Scott Urban who wrote dark, horror poems. I had run across a number of villains and psychopaths. One was John F. and the other was Ana. What else would one call a person who could forever alter the life of someone?

When I had been so desperate to find shelter, hoping it would shield me from danger, I let people into my life who were the inspiration for the book we co-authored called “Puncture Wounds.” I liked the imagery and symbolism of the souless vampire which signified someone without a conscience.

I was influenced in part by the series “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” which was created by Josh Whedon. I believe he was an atheist but he still found the symbolism important and a story about vampires isn’t based on reality anyway. It might have been refreshing to depict these individuals as souless vampires and use writing to perform an exhorcism to rid myself from them even if temporarily.

However, under other circumstances, I might have been very concerned that I would reveal a dark side of myself with this publication. I was in the habit of avoiding actions and feelings that could evoke anger in me out of fear that someone might somehow make a connection between the accusation of a violent crime and this dark fascination of mine.

I suppose the visits to Wilmington and being around people who knew me or were getting to know me gave me a new perspective and lowered my inhibitions - I was temporarily inside a safer mindset. That is the best way to describe it. It wasn’t the place but the anchor I had to friends who truly knew me.

Otherwise, in other situations away from that protective bubble of comfort, a painful scarlet letter had been branded into my psyche.

And I didn’t want anyone to see me in that way… like the focus of taunting and humilitation.

Yet, just for a while, and easily forgotten in time, I had an escape.