Chapter 20: Trying to Build a Normal Life

I tried to build something that resembled a normal life.

As described in the last chapter, I returned to Wilmington, attending poetry readings and visiting the beaches—Wrightsville Beach, where Lynn and I had spent countless days when we were falling in love. It was familiar, yet distant, like watching an old home movie of a life that no longer felt like my own.

I was just visiting the area.

But I wasn’t just looking for nostalgia.

I needed meaning.

In Carrboro, I threw myself into church activities, hoping my faith

could hold me up where everything else had collapsed.

I was a Christian, most specifically, a Roman Catholic.

I wanted belonging.

I attended Bible study, reached out to make friends, tried to create a social network, but there was something I could never bring myself to reveal.

My past.

Even as I write this now, in 2025, the reality still stuns me.

That I have a criminal record, while the true villain walks free.

I was too ashamed to let anyone associate me with a violent crime, too afraid of what they might see in their minds the moment they heard the words.

So, I carried the weight alone.

Marked by Shadows

I knew I was different.

I wasn’t working. I was living on disability.

I had spent years trying to understand why my life had shattered the way it did. The diagnosis of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) now gave me a framework for what I had been enduring. My mind and body were still trapped in the moment of trauma, replaying it in cycles I couldn’t escape.

But the PTSD wasn’t new.

The assault by Ana had only been the breaking point—the moment where all the pain I had carried from a childhood of emotional deprivation, of isolation, of fighting to be seen and then after I thought I had overcome all that, I lost the love of my life, my home, my career and everything… until finally the weight of everything had crushed me completely.

The Major Depression and Generalized Anxiety Disorder were just passengers on a train that had been set in motion probably four years prior to being assaulted by Ana.

I had lived with pain for so long I barely knew how to exist without it.

Another Door Slammed Shut

In the midst of trying to rebuild my life, I considered teaching religion to children at the church.

It was something that once would have felt natural.

I loved working with kids. I always had, ever since my teenage years.

I thought it would make me feel alive.

But then the background check.

I had forgotten about it until reality hit me like a slow-moving wrecking ball.

The church was extra cautious, understandably so—too many scandals had erupted over the years, too many stories of priests abusing children.

I hesitated.

Would they even let me in such a role?

I forced myself to explain to someone associated with the church —not everything, but enough. Enough to see if there was hope, if maybe someone could see past the accusation to the person I really was.

I needed someone to say, We believe you. We’ll give you a chance.

Instead, I got doubt, avoidance, hesitation.

It was too soon. Much of this is my own conjecture. I had not been told anything nor had I gotten to the point of letting them do a background check.

I wasn’t sure when it wouldn’t be too soon after the criminal matter.

Would there ever be a day when I could exist in the world without this shadow following me?

"You Can’t Expect People to Take Your Word for It"

At the Carrboro poetry open mic, I confided in someone—someone I had hoped was a friend.

I told him about my past. About the false accusation, the injustice, the stigma.

I wanted understanding. I wanted someone to say, That’s awful. I believe you. That must be so hard.

Instead, he said something that sliced me open:

"You can’t expect people to take your word for it."

The words hit like a slap.

I knew, logically, that this was how the world worked.

But hearing it aloud—having it confirmed—was like being sentenced all over again.

The world had already made up its mind about me. And it was not based on the truth at all.

It didn’t matter that I had never been violent. That in 38 years I had never been accused of hurting anyone before Ana.

Now, as I write this, it should be obvious but I will say it anyway. In the 20 years since, I have lived without a single accusation by anyone. For me that is just a reflection of the true nature of who I am.

I had spent my life helping people, working as a therapist, guiding others through their trauma—and now I was the one people feared.

It was unbearable.

I gave up.

I couldn’t bear to hear the official rejection from the church, so I simply stopped trying.

The Casualties of a False Accusation

This was one more thing Ana had taken from me.

My future. My work. My reputation.

And now, my ability to be with children.

What made it worse was that I knew—I had always known—that I would have been great at it.

I loved seeing kids with their playful carefree spirit.

I had always been patient, kind, easy for kids to relate to.

I would have given anything to be able to mentor, to teach, to give something good back to the world.

But the world had decided I had nothing to give.

And so I lost that part of myself, too.

The Breaking Point Was Still Ahead

I had been drowning for years, but I didn’t know yet that I was heading toward a final, brutal moment of reckoning.

I would have to break completely before I could rebuild.

It would take standing at the edge of my own life, contemplating the ultimate decision, before I could begin to fight back.

Before I could find self-love.
 

Before I could find self-compassion.
 

Before I could believe in myself.

I didn’t choose to deny myself these things.

But for years, I had believed that I didn’t deserve them.

That belief was in part due to my continued efforts to get my family of origin to understand me and my struggles. To care. To show compassion and empathy. I believed that if my own family doesn’t care then who would?