Chapter 30 - Shyness, Complex-PTSD and Connection
I had returned to the Community Empowerment Fund (CEF) with a desperate need to find a different job, whether with the same company or elsewhere. My first visit back was while I was still trapped in the clutches of RHD. Sitting down with the advocates at CEF, I once again laid bare the cold, hard facts of my life—a criminal record that felt like a scarlet letter. I had to issue the disclaimer, the truth that I was the victim, never once involved in a fight. Every time the topic arose, it was like a raw nerve being exposed to the elements.
Discussing the issue was akin to ripping open a wound that refused to heal. It wasn't the advocates’ fault; their empathy was genuine, their belief in my story unwavering. They stood with me, ready to support. Yet, despite their backing, speaking about it was like slamming against an impenetrable wall of resistance—a wall I had built from layers of toxic shame, a familiar companion since the day of my victimization.
As I wrestle with the idea of sharing parts of this story at the Open Mic—a place where I usually find solace—a tidal wave of dread engulfs me at the thought of laying bare the allegations before a room full of strangers. The mere notion of linking my identity to violence, even when others might empathize and see through to my victimhood, conjures a grotesque image that makes my skin crawl.
Yet, I'm seriously contemplating this as a plan, hoping to orchestrate an event to share this book with others.
This topic remains a volatile trigger, leaving me feeling raw, vulnerable, and utterly exposed.
Social Life
When it comes to social connections, I am ripped apart by the intense longing for the profound bonds I once shared with Celta and Lynn, and the impenetrable barriers that keep me imprisoned in isolation. Therapy is my battleground, where I grapple with the intricate maze of my psyche, desperately trying to tear down the walls erected by a self tormented by wounds, victimization, and a paralyzing fear—walls fortified with the thick armor of chronic shame and crippling shyness. Yet, every step forward feels like an overwhelming and exhausting task.
A part of me aches with an insatiable desire for the warmth of a healthy, loving relationship, loathing the oppressive solitude that engulfs me. And yet, in a twisted paradox, there are moments when I luxuriate in isolation, lost in the fervor of my writing, envisioning my words as lifelines reaching out to readers across the globe. This solitary pursuit is both a sanctuary and a stark reminder of my seclusion.
I once felt like a pariah, haunted by the imagined disdain of others who might learn of the allegations, the charges, the conviction. Now, I am ensnared in a relentless struggle between the terror of judgment and the burning desire to bare true self, craving understanding yet dreading the sting of rejection.
I dove headlong into the abyss of a relationship, desperately clinging to the delusion that love was the emotion burning within me for this girlfriend in 2023. She was amazingly beautiful, an ethereal vision so otherworldly that her very existence seemed like a cruel mirage. An overwhelming sense of disbelief consumed me at the notion that such a radiant being would even consider the possibility of romance with someone like me. Yet, as I pursued this elusive connection with an almost maniacal intensity, she continuously held me at a distance, never permitting me to truly breach the fortress of her world. We were galaxies apart in every conceivable way; my fervent hunger for physical closeness violently clashed with her insatiable need for solitude.
It was her arresting beauty that ensnared me in the shackles of this relationship, not the depth or essence of what we shared.
Caught in a tempest of despair, I was never able to reclaim the serenity and satisfaction I had once reveled in with Lynn or Celta. My romantic endeavors before marrying Elee were nothing but a string of disastrous attempts at forging connections. Already bearing the heavy load of pain, loss, grief, and solitude, not to mention the shame of losing Lynn, I was pulled under water, questioning whether this was what I truly desired or merely yet another futile effort to patch the gaping void within me.
I was already submerged in a void of darkness after losing Lynn, my career, my home—everything that infused my life with purpose. And then, as if the the world was imbued with some malevolent intelligent being that sought to break me further, being unjustly accused when I was the true victim layered an unbearable weight of stigma and seething, undeserved shame onto my already burdened core self. It was excruciating, beyond the limits of human endurance.
For years, I stood as an abandoned specter, cast aside by my own blood. If those bound to me by nature could not summon even a flicker of care, what hope was there for anyone in this world to offer solace?
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, the memories of Lynn relentlessly haunt me, for what we shared transcended the ordinary—an earned, unbreakable bond, a sanctuary of comfort, and an unrestrained joy that knew no bounds.
I recall that first kiss with Lynn, standing as a towering monument against a fiery kiss I had shared with someone before her—a passionate, fleeting moment that closed a chapter. But that first kiss with Lynn was nothing short of cataclysmic, a seismic upheaval that was as intense as it was deeply meaningful. It was earth-shattering. How could I have foreseen that in that moment, I would be catapulted into a mad, all-consuming love that would devour me whole?
The image of Lynn's tears of joy, cascading down her face as I unveiled the engagement ring, is indelibly etched into my consciousness. Witnessing her euphoria filled me with an overwhelming, almost suffocating joy. I was so utterly taken aback that there was no time for formalities, no time for sterotypical engagement proposals.
She knew I was collecting the ring that day. We had chosen it together, and the lady at the jewelry store had casually remarked, “Your fiancé can pick it up on Monday.” Yet, just as I was about to present the ring, her reaction struck me like a bolt of lightning and stole my breath away… the sheer ecstasy of witnessing her tears of joy!
The victimization I endured and the resulting injustice are only pieces of the shattered puzzle of my social life, contributing profoundly to my turmoil and crippling shyness. There are countless wounded fragments within me.
Working on the Mobile Crisis Unit, immersed in helping others, once brought me immense joy and a sense of peace that now seems like a distant memory. That was even after the criminal accusations tore through my life. Yet, the roots of my Complex-PTSD extend beyond the injustice of being a gentle victim, condemned as if I were the perpetrator.
Those other issues could unfurl into an entirely different epic story in the form of another memoir, one that demands its own telling. I have a torrent of unstoppable thoughts … there is so much more to share. But perhaps, for now, this story is complete.