Chapter 25: Rising from near death

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

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

Where do you go after reaching the edge? I had a tentative sense of hope. I had an appointment at the STEP clinic and HomeLink HomeLink became my first step - both were part of the UNC Center for Excellence in Community Mental Health.

Referring to HomeLink, the program was meant to pick up where the hospital left off, offering a fragile thread of continuity. A case manager, group therapy—somewhere to begin piecing myself together. It wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about trying to live.

The same area that housed the STEP clinic had other rooms that were used for various therapy groups. I attended at least two and one was Art Therapy. I met some people who became new friends that I still know now. The name STEP is for Schizophrenia Treatment and Evaluation Program but one did not have to have schizophrenia to receive services there.

I was provided with a therapist - a UNC graduate student studying in a psychology based counseling program, not unlike my Master of Social Work program. I had been finishing up my trauma therapy with Andrea. She was the therapist who had been using Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR). Andrea was getting ready to retire from her placement at the practice where I had been going.

The student therapist was named Becky (or Rebecca). It was her empathy and compassion that made a big difference for me.

Numerous changes were happening in the providers that were serving me but the groups, the therapy with Becky and having a case manager would endure for an extended period of time, perhaps up to 6 months.

But then came COVID-19. Some of the groups that were either at the Farm at Penny Lane or at the clinic in Carrboro, in the same area as the STEP clinic.

The groups that had become my anchor shifted to an online format, leaving me alone in my home, staring at a screen that flickered with the faces of people I barely knew. It wasn’t the same. I had spent years swallowed by isolation, and now, even as I sought help, the world itself was shutting down.

Even before COVID moved everyone inside and into virtual connections, I knew I needed something more. More than a caseworker, more than a screen of distant faces.

That was how I found myself walking through the doors of Community Empowerment Fund (CEF)—the place that, for the first time in years, forced me to tell my story - not that they were going to force me to tell my story. I just knew that to really get help I would have to tell my story. Elee had told me about CEF.

I began with orientation. It was a breath of fresh air to learn about the attitudes and dedication of the students who served as advocates. They were volunteers. There was some paid staff. The person leading the orientation was someone who had been a success story of having received help and benefitted from the assistance of CEF.

It is tragically true that the political attitudes of people in Chapel Hill, including the students, were directly related to the empathy and compassion that I could expect from this organization. I learned that this program - CEF - was started by students who saw homelessness in Chapel Hill and wanted to do something about this. Those who assume that there are simple explanations for homelessness, poverty, emotional and psychological problems would not be able to appreciate my complicated story.

I next got an appointment to meet with two of the advocates.

The office area was warm with a waiting area that revealed the open area with stations where student advocates were typing on laptops and meeting with members.

I sat across from two UNC student advocates, their faces open, expectant. They wanted to help. They were waiting for me to tell them how.

But how do you condense a lifetime of devastation into a conversation?

I cleared my throat, trying to find my way in.

"I realized a long time ago that I’m an extrovert. But I’ve been isolated for so long… and it’s been unhealthy for me.”

One of them nodded. “We hear that a lot. Isolation can really—”

“I used to be a therapist,” I interrupted, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. “My last therapist encouraged me to go back into the field.”

I didn’t know why I started there. Maybe because my work had once been my identity. Maybe because everything else was too raw.

But I couldn’t stop the dam from breaking.

“I lost everything. My career. My licensure. My home. My life fell apart when a man named John F. manipulated my clients into filing false grievances against me.” I paused, “It’s complicated.”

Their expressions shifted—leaning forward now. I would need time to fully appreciate the warmth and compassion of the advocates. I had been too isolated. The hospital stay was transformative but it didn’t erase years of isolation.

The initial suggestion was for me to get a Certified Peer Support Specialist. I was told that they meet with people in the community, including in their own homes, for a number of hours each week. That sounded like an amazing idea. I was invited to return to have a referral to Caramore filled out with one of the regular staff.

I continued talking. “I was encouraged to work as a Web Developer and start my own business with the help of the Division of Vocational Rehabilitation Services (VR).” … I paused, “that isn’t a good match for me.

I took a breath, the words coming faster. “Getting back to the part about my therapist encouraging me to get my licensure back, I want to see what kind of work I could do that would involve helping others.”

“That could be challenging… Because later, after I lost my licensure, something bad happened to me.”

I had to tell them. I had to let this information be known if I was going to get help.

“In 2004, I was the victim of a violent assault… but when I called for help, what started with a few first responding officers later lead to me being falsely accused of a violent crime. I have never done anything remotely violent or forceful in my life.”

I added, “I never even defended myself. I have never done anything remotely violent.”

“Still, the police arrested me instead.” I was choking back tears.

My voice trembled. I looked down, as if the floor could hold me up. I had knots in my stomach and was shaking.

“Now, I have a criminal record,” I whispered. “And the craziest thing is that it is a violent felony.”

One of the advocates exhaled, shaking their head. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

I had only heard those words for the first time in the hospital a few weeks ago. I’m so sorry that happened to you.

What had we accomplished on this visit? A plan to return to apply for a Peer Support Specialist. A little help with my resume. Suggestions for how to look for work.

The obvious suggestion was to see if there was a legal remedy like getting things expunged so that I could work in the mental health field or something where I could help others. We spoke about the legal clinic that happens on certain upcoming days. It made sense that UNC would have students that were studying Law and could be of assistance.

I kept going back to CEF, meeting with different advocates, repeating my story too many times, reliving it, feeling it crawl under my skin like a wound that wouldn’t close.

One of the students, a young woman, finally said what had been circling in the back of my mind for years.

“I believe in karma. I hope Ana—whoever she is—gets what she deserves.”

It was the first time someone had spoken of justice on my behalf. Not in legal terms. Not in dismissive that’s how the system works rhetoric. But real, raw, human outrage.

I mentioned that in my therapy sessions with Andrea, I had discussed telling my side of the story and sharing it.

An advocate at CEF suggested Wattpad, a platform for storytelling.

“You should write about this,” they said.

The idea sat with me, twisting into something bigger than I expected. Indeed, I should write about this.

I felt bad that so much time was spent explaining the same details to different people. I tried to get regular advocates to meet with me so I wouldn’t have to repeat myself.

There were many times in which I came for help from the advocates.

The atmosphere at CEF was very warm and welcoming. It was empowering.

As you enter the office area there is a statement on the wall about the exploitation of various members of society by the wealthy and elite. I felt like the embodiment of this like so many others.

I had never been lazy or unmotivated in life. I had not become homeless because of an addiction. I had put myself through graduate school. Worked several jobs to do this.

Motivated by a passion to help the most vulnerable in society. That is why I had gained a graduate degree in social work. I was well aware of all the resources that if they existed might help someone rise up out of a setback or tragedy.

Who could be more qualified to help themselves if that was possible.

Of course, I had never anticipated the toxic shame that comes from being falsely accused of a violent crime. Of all the potential challenges that life might present, I had never imagined the experiences that I had faced in life. And all without the support that I needed!

I had come from a very toxic and dysfunctional family. My trauma therapy had brought me to a point of nearly completely breaking all ties with that family.

Places like CEF were a refuge - a place where I could find support among students who truly cared.

It was here that I met the first person I knew that used the pronouns they/them/their. One of the regular staff told me that we shouldn’t use the pronouns he or she but they. This would open up new ways to think about myself.

A New Friend

I had not been ready to go on a speaking tour yet, I was still shy about the story. However, I did attempt to post some information online, on Wattpad and announcing it on Facebook.

That was when Sarah entered my life—a ghost from my past, a classmate from a high school I had long since left behind.

She messaged me on Facebook, commenting on my writing. We had walked the same halls once, both of us top students, expected to succeed, to thrive. And yet, somehow, life had led us both somewhere else entirely.

We talked. For hours. From morning to night. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like an interrogation—it felt like someone was truly listening.

I started cautiously. I told her about John F., about how I lost my career.

“Maybe John was jealous of you,” she said.

I talked about how I had fallen in love and about Lynn. I talked about the life Lynn and I shared. I described Cystic Fibrosis (CF) and how despite having a terminal illness, we had a normal relationship … I was in love and never thought it would end."

“Lynn was relatively healthy for someone with this disease,” I explained.

I was not just doing all the talking, Sarah was asking questions… to learn more, for clarification and understanding.

“Despite living the life that would make a beautiful love story, Lynn’s disease caught up with her.”

“At the same time that Lynn got sick, that was when I found out about the grievances filed by five of my clients. It was John F. who composed a grievance statement and had five of my clients sign it.”

“He didn’t have any training. He had once falsely claimed to be a therapist but someone called him out on that and so he would then say that he was ‘just a support person.’ He was doing therapy and people were getting worse.”

“I ended up losing everything. My home, the love of my life, my career, my licensure, everything I built over a period of 16 years. My years of homelessness began.”

“This John also exposed me to the first instance of injustice. He falsely claimed that I made harassing phone calls. No phone records. No proof. No evidence! Just his word against mine. The judge found me guilty!”

It probably would not have resulted in any penalties. Yet, my lawyer had failed me. So, I demanded that he appeal the matter and get the phone records.

There is more. 

It was easier to say this part first, about the harassing phone calls. Safer.

But soon, the truth of Ana came tumbling out. The night in 2004. The lies. The wrongful conviction.

Suzanne wasn’t just passively sympathetic—she was energized with ideas, ideas about justice. She believed that justice was necessary and possible.

“That’s insane,” she said. “They just took her word for it? No evidence?”

She started asking the questions no one else had asked.

And for the first time, I started really thinking about the justice system—not just about what happened to me, but why it happened.

Suzanne believed I could still fight. That I could still prove my innocence.

And maybe—just maybe—she was right.

We ended up talking from the morning, throughout the day and into the night - online, using Facebook. This was the first conversation ever with Sarah.

I described the experience in detail. I mentioned how I was covered in blood.

Sarah speculated that she might have been wearing brass knuckles or something sharp, or used her nails.

The Facebook chat soon led to exchanging phone numbers and texting or long phone conversations.

It is interesting that to this day she still believes that I can get justice for what happened to me, despite everything I was told by lawyers. It has been refreshing to have someone invested in my right to justice.

I listened to the story of Sarah’s life and there were some parallels - not exact parallels.

She had never known abject poverty like me. She had lived in a house that she owned. She had children. A regular bank account. When she needed a lawyer, she had to pay for it. In her case, it was for civil matters - e.g. a divorce. She had not known criminal charges, though on one occasion she said things got close to that.

I wished I could have told her that I had arisen or had at one time known a “normal life” from the perspective of what I knew growing up. I had not known about being in love. I had expected to get married, have a family, own a house. Those things had seemed normal for someone who graduated near the top of our class.

How could I describe the house that I had been renting which had been subsidized (financially)? Rent had never been for me what she was paying - the going rate for apartments. How could I describe the spider webs in the windows?

There were things that had been missing from my life. Yet, I did describe the joy and the success that I once knew. I described all my accomplishments.

Beyond Shame, Toward Something New

For years, I had buried my pain in silence, hidden behind shame that didn’t belong to me.

But now, for the first time since my world collapsed, I was seeing it through someone else’s eyes—and they weren’t filled with judgment.

They were filled with outrage.

With belief in my innocence.

With a demand for justice that I had long since stopped believing in.

Something shifted inside me.

Maybe I wasn’t just meant to survive.

Maybe I was meant to fight.