Chapter 29: Continued Job Challenges and Shyness

Month after agonizing month dragged on after I was abruptly dismissed from my position at Freedom House for reasons that remained a mystery. I clung desperately to my uninsurance payments until they dried up like a parched riverbed. In a last-ditch effort, I clawed my way back onto SSDI - social security disability insurance.

Any progress I had imagined in my interactions with people, convincing myself that I wouldn't be haunted by past false accusations of violence, was slipping away like sand through my fingers.

Nothing substantial materialized, and the gnawing void of loneliness grew more oppressive with each passing day.

I continued to endure countless interviews, even as the lifeline of unemployment benefits evaporated completely. Then, out of the blue, in the early days of September last year, 2024, Yanique's call shattered the bleak silence. She announced that I was their choice, the one who stood out among all the candidates they had scrutinized. An epiphany struck me about the intricate, often merciless process employers undergo when choosing candidates.

I left an indelible mark on them, a blazing impression that couldn't be ignored. It was early September 2024. I received the written offer, complete with the all-too-familiar disclaimer that it hinged on a background check.

Of course, the same tiresome routine. But I had endured so long in a position where past criminal charges were irrelevant. I was untainted, innocent, and it never even crossed my mind that a client I met—referred by the staff at the Mobile Crisis Unit—would need to know about Ana's false claims from 2004.

I provided the standard letter from the OCRCC (the Orange County Rape Crisis Center), exposing the biases in victimhood and how manipulators like Ana exploit the legal system to inflict further harm.

Summer clung fiercely to October in North Carolina, and after receiving that offer letter, Rodney Daniel from RHD reached out. He acknowledged the importance of my transparency about the background check findings.

Despite never having any other accusations of aggression or violence before or after that incident, the legal department and Human Resources were adamant about speaking to previous employers and coworkers before they could finalize everything and let me begin.

I was walking along Wrightsville Beach in September, the intense summer sun pouring down, the psychologically soothing beach wrapping me in warmth, as I discussed this with Rodney Daniel, the supervisor of Yanique—the one who first reached out to me.

Anyone who followed the so-called "normal" path would have simply assumed they had a secure job and a well-defined future. Yet here I was, caught between the life my parents envisioned for me and the unpredictable path I took for my own reasons.

My parents had warned me about the challenges that awaited in adulthood—challenges I only turned to them for when everything spiraled out of my control, when something completely unforeseeable shattered my illusions of preparedness.

In the 90s, career changes, knowing that my parents couldn’t fund my graduate studies, which I NEVER expected, were considered ordinary adult hurdles. Still, I took it all on as an adult, juggling several jobs to support myself through graduate school while living in Wilmington with Lynn. I had been proud of what I accomplished.

They might have believed, in their own narrative, that getting a graduate degree in social work—a far cry from everything they knew about me, especially given my painfully shy nature—was simply out of character.

And yet, there was this ironic parallel: as a kid, I had been hired by my neighbor in Southington to deliver medical supplies to people in New Britain. The offer was met like a shared joke. I had gotten lost driving my brother and his friend home from the movies but I was being asked to deliver to people in another city.

It's almost laughable, yet deeply painful. The same painfully shy person who entered Georgia Tech with no social skills was going to pursue a graduate degree in social work and become a therapist—a transformation that should have inspired pride in my parents. Instead, it only deepened the rift between us.

I can’t help but feel torn. Shouldn’t this have been a new chapter in our story? Why couldn’t they celebrate what I had accomplished, why couldn’t they stand by me when I lost Lynn? And why weren’t they roaring with anger when someone like Ana tried to erase all I had achieved as a therapist and clinical social worker? They knew I was the victim, the innocent party in a sea of betrayal.

Sure, maybe our differences—my liberal leanings as a social worker versus their conservative roots—made such celebrations and confrontations difficult, almost impossible. But I never imagined that these differences could lead our entire family to become so toxic toward me. Yet here I am having long ago chosen to break off all contact with my siblings and my parents - no longer seeking their recognition.

My mind was a swirling with thoughts as I peacefully walked along the beach in September 2024, grappling with the legal labyrinth Rodney needed to navigate for the RHD requirements. I was 58, a solitary figure amidst the endless stretch of sand. The warmth of September marked the typical summer season in southern North Carolina - at the beach.

I wasn't shackled to the past; I was fighting fiercely to inhabit the present, clawing for a semblance of normalcy.

The specter of my past loomed large, casting doubt on my employability despite my skills. Twenty years had passed since the charges, yet here I was, scrutinized again. Rodney assured me of his support, along with Yanique's, and I read his statement—an argument for my redemption. But the mention of my age, nearing 60, struck a raw nerve.

The thought of that milestone unsettled me. My ambitions lay unfulfilled, dreams languishing in the shadow of a life that could have been. Each passing year seemed to steal time, whispering of a future slipping through my fingers.

Desperation tinged my voice as I insisted, "If it helps, know that I was the victim, truly. Justice eluded me."

In my correspondence later I referenced this book I was penning, a relentless expose of my entanglement with a flawed criminal justice system.

Doubt gnawed at me—how receptive would people be to the notion of a justice system gone astray? In the crucible of potential employment, could my story sway them? A tale where the perceived victim was the actual perpetrator masquerading as wronged?

A flicker of hope lingered from my recent work history, a glimmer of stability. I'd endured over 18 months at a company, bolstering my resume with a role as a Certified Peer Support Specialist for over two years. Yet, uncertainty loomed, a relentless specter haunting my quest for a second chance.

This kicked off an unyielding, tormenting quest to reach my supervisor and colleagues at Freedom House Recovery Center—the place where I had been so successful before this chaos at RHD. Unemployed for five brutal months, I was plunged into a nightmarish existence that obliterated every childhood dream of stability. I had NEVER managed to save a dime for that harrowing moment of being jobless.

Unlike my father—who epitomized the dream of a college-educated professional enjoying the safety net of extended employer support during tough times, between jobs—I was left to fend for myself. I was quite literally by myself!

Alone.

My life had morphed into a living nightmare far worse than the catastrophic scenarios I once feared in my teenage nightmares where a few missteps would send things spiraling out of control from perhaps a failed course, leading to a spiral of “things that could happen in a dangerous world.” Yet, I had never envisioned facing the unthinkable: being accused of a violent crime, a stigma that shattered any needle of hope.

The job offer I was slated to begin on September 23, 2024, was abruptly frozen as the legal department’s insatiable demands took over. They insisted on grilling everyone from my previous position.

I was living on the edge.

The final blow was the logistical nightmare of reconnecting with my Mobile Crisis Unit coworkers. We were all handed company phones that were confiscated once our assignments ended. In my frantic state, I neglected to save any team member’s number, and to add insult to injury, the recruiter had sourced a bogus number for Freedom House from some online scrap, ignoring the one I had provided. That number wasn’t even affiliated with Freedom House. He reported that the number he called had no record of me working there!

The whole situation was utterly disturbing.

Rodney eventually reached out, his tone conflicted as he delivered what he called both good news and bad news. I learned I was being shifted to a different unit—one under tighter supervision—named CTRP. I was originally hired to help people with mental health diagnoses who were transitioning from prison, and suddenly, I wondered if I even belonged in the role I had envisioned.

My past with the justice system was riddled with the sting of injustice, leaving me to grapple with the irony of working with former inmates. I felt torn between empathizing with those who had genuinely erred and carrying the burden of a past where I had once been wrongfully accused. How could I connect with people who might have been truly dangerous, when my own heart still ached for the victims of such injustices?

At least, I tried to reassure myself by focusing on the CTRP—the Community Transitions Residential Program—a place meant to support individuals with severe mental illnesses before they could stand alone. In theory, it was something I could manage well. Yet the uncertainty gnawed at me, especially since I'd never met the new supervisors.

Every time I tried to focus on one issue, echoes from my past swirled around, mingling with the present in a maze of doubt, just as I feel now while recounting these events. I was reassigned to a unit that I had never interviewed for, to work with people who’d never chosen me. They knew nothing of who I was, and it soon became painfully apparent that perhaps I wasn’t even the kind of fit they’d wanted.

Barely had I begun when I found myself on unpaid administrative leave. I was lost, trying to understand why this was happening when I barely said a word out of fear of making a mistake. Yet even on the rare occasions I did speak up, it felt like everything I said was twisted into something wrong. Before long, HR called, and I spoke with Debra, who shockingly asked if I’d once claimed to have been charged with kidnapping and a sexual crime.

Rodney and Yanique knew that part of my past and had been all right with it—at least, I thought they were. I assumed that maybe there’d been a discussion with the new team, an explanation behind my constant need to be accompanied. They cited it as a precaution for training. In a way, Rodney had even mentioned that it was better I had come clean about what a background check might reveal.

I remembered my time on the Crisis Unit at Freedom House, surrounded by colleagues who bore their criminal records as undeniable parts of their identities. When I had shared my true story—that I had been falsely accused of assault, a mistake that inverted my role as victim—they had offered sympathetic words that made me feel, if only momentarily, understood. I had once belonged to a team that embraced the full spectrum of our pasts.

Of course, on the Crisis Unit, they had said the sympathetic words of understanding that I had never done anything wrong. So, there was still tension on that unit with people who had committed crimes related to their drug use.

So when I was placed in this new unit and ordered to always be accompanied during client meetings, a part of me resolved to open up and break the ice with my entire truth. Instead, it felt as if only half of my story was being heard—a focus on the allegation of a sexual offense, leaving out the context, twisting the narrative into something unrecognizable and deeply uncomfortable.

This was everything I had feared—a selective hearing of my past that betrayed who I truly was. Here I was, writing this book in an attempt to set the record straight, to let others experience the injustice, pain, fear, and lingering toxic shame of my journey. And yet, nearly twenty years after that fateful incident, my past resurfaced in fragments, a relentless reminder of the parts of me that I was desperate to leave behind, but which clashed violently with the person I was trying so hard to be.

I was on paid administrative leave while people were questioned and things were being decided. When I returned it was under the shadow of embarrassment. The story of why I was asked to work on this particular unit had not been conveyed to the team. Yet, people could have figured out that something was wrong.

My supervisor Wendy was repeatedly involved in disciplinary write-ups for things like insubordination and other matters where I couldn’t seem to follow the protocol and policies. Things were spiraling and getting only worse. I couldn’t escape weekly meetings where I was written up repeatedly for different matters.

My coworker, Don, had told me how he shouldn’t even be working here. He told me how he had a whole stack of write-ups! This was somewhat good to know that I wasn’t alone in having challenges working for Wendy. And Wendy’s supervisor Andrae was always supportive of Wendy. His interactions with me were more frightening for me. I described the interactions as chilling when I spoke to Human Resources.

I had heard about the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) and special accommodations that could be offered to people with an ADA defined disability.

The job involved working with people. I had thought I had good skills in this area. This was definitely questionable now. It was obvious that when working with supervisors I could be triggered. It felt like when I had been questioned by the detectives 20 years earlier. We know how that worked out.

I ended up being sent to jail for seven months.

After my return from administrative leave, Wendy said she knew about what I had said, but it was only the partial truth. I would have tried to explain how I was the victim and yet despite that, I was the one that was harmed by the system.

I wasn’t supposed to include Wendy and her supervisor Andrae in discussions with HR. I needed a way to get the truth out. Wendy had cut me off when I tried to explain about what “happened to me.” So, in an email to HR, I included both Wendy and Andrae and explained that I was seeking “reasonable accommodations” based on the ADA because I had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) from being victimized and not believed by the police which was traumatic.

I wanted it to go on record that I was the victim who had been traumatized and that I had done no wrong.

Just recently, I was eventually allowed to go into the apartments of clients without being supervised or accompanied by someone else. That had contributed to a great deal of shyness. I had not been trusted to even meet with clients alone.

At one time, I had provided guidance on how to develop social skills and to deal with social anxiety in the support group. Now I was doubting myself. I doubted whether I had overcome social anxiety.

I was not receiving validation that would give me self-confidence, a sense of self-worth or value.

I didn’t feel like I was helping others. In this role as a Peer Support Specialist, I was not to do “therapy” - this is something being measured and evaluated to ensure that I didn’t do that.

Overall, my sense of loneliness was the most pervasive thing that I felt. This has made me less motivated to want to help others.

This job was extremely toxic. It literally was having a direct impact on my health - emotionally, psychologically and physically. It was making me sick. Not the clients. It was the interactions with my supervisors.

The job ended on March 14, 2025. I was terminated from the job. I should have quit myself but it wasn’t such a bad result overall.

For the first time in my life that I could remember, I didn’t want to be supportive of others. I wanted support myself. I wanted nurturing and comfort.

This is what I am working on now. I need to overcome this to be healthy in the world and in my life.

I have returned to Community Empowerment Fund (CEF) to find help in finding a different job either with the same company or elsewhere. When I sat down with the advocates at CEF, I again offered the disclaimer about how I was actually the victim and had never even been in a fight. I was uncomfortable when the topic came up.

Discussing the issue felt like opening a tightly sealed wound. It wasn't the fault of the advocates; they genuinely seemed to understand my perspective, showing empathy and a desire to stand by my side. They seemed to truly believe me. Yet, despite their support, the initial act of speaking about the matter felt like pushing against a towering wall of resistance - self-imposed resistance that comes from the same toxic shame that I have known since the victimization.

As I contemplate the idea of sharing parts of this story at the Open Mic, a place where I usually feel at ease, a wave of discomfort crashes over me at the thought of mentioning the allegations to a room full of strangers. The mere idea of associating violence with myself, even if others can empathize and see me as a victim, conjures an image that makes my skin crawl.

This topic remains a volatile trigger that leaves me feeling vulnerable and exposed.

Social Life

When it comes to social connections, I find myself torn between longing for the deep bonds I once had with Celta and Lynn and the barriers that keep me isolated. I’m in therapy, trying to navigate the complex maze within me, hoping to dismantle the walls that my wounded, victimized, and fearful self has built—fortified with layers of chronic shame and shyness. Yet, moving forward feels like a daunting task.

Part of me yearns for the warmth of a healthy, loving relationship, hating the solitude that surrounds me. Yet, paradoxically, there are moments when I revel in the solitude, immersed in my writing, imagining my words reaching out to readers across the world. This solitary pursuit is both a refuge and a reminder of my isolation.

I used to feel like a pariah, imagining the scorn of others if they knew about the allegations, the charges, the conviction. Now, I find myself caught between the fear of judgment and the desire to share my story, seeking understanding but fearing rejection.

I plunged headfirst into a relationship, desperately trying to convince myself that love was what I was feeling for this girlfriend I had in 2023. She was breathtakingly beautiful, a vision so surreal that I struggled to believe she was real. I felt an overwhelming sense of fortune that she would even entertain the idea of a romantic connection with me. Yet, as I chased this bond with relentless fervor, she consistently kept me at arm’s length, never allowing me to truly enter her world. We were worlds apart in countless ways; my intense craving for physical closeness clashed sharply with her urgent need for space.

It was her stunning beauty that held me captive in the relationship, not the substance or quality of what we shared.

I was caught in a whirlwind of unhappiness, never finding the calm and contentment I once knew with Lynn or Celta. My dating life before marrying Elee had been a series of failed attempts at connection. Already weighed down by pain, loss, grief, loneliness, and a sense of shame for losing Lynn, I found myself torn, questioning whether this was what I truly wanted or just another attempt to fill the void.

I was already drowning in darkness after losing Lynn, my career, my home—everything that gave my life meaning. Then, as if that wasn't enough, being wrongly accused when I was the actual victim heaped a crushing weight of stigma and toxic, undeserved shame onto my already burdened self. It was unbearable.

For years, I stood isolated, abandoned by my family. If my own blood couldn't muster an ounce of care, who in this world would?

I realized I had to sever my reliance on them for connection or compassion. Yet for so long, I had desperately sought understanding from my parents and sister. It took waking up in a hospital after a suicide attempt to finally see that others existed who could fathom the agony of losing Lynn—an agony that would have shattered anyone - and the crushing pain of injustice and what it would do to a person.

Even after twenty-five years, memories of Lynn haunt me because what we shared was extraordinary—an earned secure attachment, comfort, and unbridled joy.

I recall our first kiss and pit it against a fiery kiss with someone before Lynn—a passionate moment that marked the end of a day. But that first kiss with Lynn was a seismic shift, intense and deeply meaningful. It was profound. How could I have known that in that moment, I would spiral into a mad, all-consuming love?

The memory of Lynn's tears of joy as I opened the box with her engagement ring is etched into my mind. Seeing her happiness filled me with an overwhelming joy. I was so taken back that there was no time to get down on a knee and propose.

She had known that I was picking up the ring that day and brining it. We picked it out together and the lady at the jewelry store said, “Your fiancé can pick it up on Monday. Yet, just as I was pulling out the ring, I noticed her reaction and it took my breath away… such joy to see her tears of joy!

The victimization and the resulting injustice don't account for all the fractures in my social life and my struggle to connect with others, but they are undeniably among the most profound sources of my turmoil and shyness.

There are so many wounded parts of me.