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 forcibly placed on administrative leave, while HR investigated the matter. When I finally was invited to return to work, I was cloaked in a suffocating sense of shame.

No one had been told why I was assigned to that particular unit, yet the truth… I wasn’t allowed to be alone at the residents homes where we met clients — a stark signal that something was dreadfully off.

For a month, I was exiled from my work, only to return under the crushing weight of additional "training." The awkwardness of that return was palpable, a bitter reminder of how the status quo had shifted.

But nothing was more excruciating than the torment inflicted by my supervisor, Wendy, and her superior, Andrae. Wendy, with a decade of hard-earned experience in the mental health field, and Andrae, on the accelerated path to becoming a Licensed Clinical Social Worker, were devoid of any empathy or compassion. Their very presence made me question what in the world drove them to choose such a path.

Every encounter with Andrae sent shivers down my spine, dredging up buried memories of the abuse of my childhood. Back then, my only escape was flight—either by mentally retreating or physically fleeing into the woods, clambering up trees to momentarily leave my tormentors behind.

Wendy, relentless in her condemnation, pounced on every perceived misstep. Insubordination, minor deviations, any slight breach of protocol—each led to a barrage of disciplinary write-ups. The pressure was relentless, spiraling out of control into weekly meetings where I was systematically attacked on every front.

My coworker Don confided in me that he, too, had been drowning under a mountain of write-ups, as if he never belonged there in the first place. It provided a grim sort of validation that I wasn’t alone in this hellish dynamic. Meanwhile, Andrae’s unwavering support for Wendy only deepened my terror. His chilling interactions left me cold and fearful—a sensation I later described in harrowing detail to Human Resources.

I used the word “chilling” to describe my experience with Andrae. Anyone seeking him as a therapist would have to be masochistic as the last thing you would find from Andrae would be any hint of concern, compassion, or caring.

I had been aware, at least in passing, of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) and the promise of accommodations for those defined as disabled. I had always prided myself on my ability to work with people; now that confidence was shattered. Being around my supervisors triggered a response as visceral as the nerve-wracking interrogations I endured two decades earlier—with disastrously familiar consequences.

That chain of events, when police, who are also authority figures, didn’t believe me when I told the truth, culminated in my incarceration for seven brutal months.

Upon my return from leave, Wendy coldly remarked that she knew about the things I had said, though she twisted them into a half-truth. I had been desperate to explain that I was the true victim—a casualty of an indifferent and oppressive system that had harmed me instead of protecting me.

Andrae had bluntly dictated that I was forbidden from speaking to Debra Stone in HR or anyone at RHD except for Wendy or himself if I had even the slightest concern. They assumed they could control every conversation, yet the private exchanges with coworkers on the job when no one else was around refused to be and could not be silenced. Still, when I reached out desperately for support, my supervisor’s icy threat of disciplinary action cut through any hope of relief.

This was raw, unrelenting emotional torture.

After Wendy consistently drowned out every attempt I made to share my trauma, I gathered every remnant of courage and fought back: in a searing email to HR, I ensured both Wendy and Andrae would have no escape, outlining my urgent need for “reasonable accommodations” under the ADA. I bared the brutal truth of my severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—a direct result of months of systematic victimization and brutal dismissal by those in power—a trauma so deep and unhealed it burned with every word.

I needed it carved into the record: I was a broken victim, betrayed and suffering, undeserving of such relentless torment.

I made it clear that I had never before sought such accommodations because most supervisors, with even a semblance of compassion and understanding, did not inflict such abuse and relentless torment on their staff and clients.

I witnessed firsthand that the same cruelty I endured was raining down on the clients under Wendy’s purview.

Since PTSD is recognized by the ADA, all that was necessary was a letter from my doctor—a letter that confirmed my shattered reality.

Only recently had I been grudgingly allowed inside the apartments of clients without supervision—a permission that painfully underscored my isolation. I had been so distrusted that even meeting with a client alone felt like walking into a trap.

Once, I had provided guidance on mastering social skills and conquering social anxiety in support groups. Now, under the crushing weight of my experiences, I doubted whether I had ever truly defeated my own inner demons of social anxiety.

I was starved for the validation that could rebuild my self-confidence, restore my intrinsic self-worth, and affirm that I truly mattered.

I felt utterly inept at helping others. In my role, on this particular job, as a Peer Support Specialist, I wasn’t allowed to offer “therapy”—every word was scrutinized and measured, a constant reminder of how powerless I had become.

Ultimately, a suffocating loneliness overtook me—a pervasive emptiness that rotted any motivation I once had to help others.

This job was a toxic abyss, draining my health emotionally, psychologically, and physically. It was poisoning me—not the clients—but through every venomous interaction with my supervisors.

The nightmare finally ended on March 14, 2025, when I was terminated. I should have escaped sooner, yet even this drastic outcome was a relief—a bitter release before any “reasonable accommodations” could take shape.

For the first time in my entire life, I no longer felt the drive to support others. I craved support, nurturance, and the comforting warmth of genuine care.

That is the battle I face now. I must conquer this inner darkness to reclaim a semblance of health and balance in my life. I understand the deep rewards of working in mental health, yet I know that without self-care, a solid support network, and a sanctuary of safety and peace, true healing remains out of reach.

I do know how rewarding helping others can be from my work in the mental health field. It has brought me many positive experiences. That is why I must repair myself. Find someone to nurture me and someone with whom I can connect for moments when I will find the peace and joy that comes from secure relating.