John Stephen Whealton

After my grandparents died, the house grew colder. Not in temperature, but in spirit. The small sense of safety I’d known vanished, and in its place was silence—mine. By junior high, I was no longer just a shy boy. I had become a ghost in my own story. I sat in classrooms for years without speaking. Not once. I learned to disappear so well that I even convinced myself I had chosen it. But I hadn’t. What I had chosen—without knowing—was survival. Because silence was safer than wanting, and wanting something—friendship, affection, love—meant risking the confirmation that I didn’t matter.

Family and Friends

I had Paul as my best friend in the neighborhood, and that gave me immense confidence. I could stand my ground and know that he would rescue me if anyone dared to try to mess with me. As I mentioned, Paul moved into the neighborhood in 3rd grade, giving me confidence at school for at least one year; perhaps it carried over into 4th grade.

The problem was that it was obvious to my mother that I preferred my cousins and my aunt to them. It should not have been surprising. My mother had such a temper.

Kathy, my mother, would punch, slap, kick, push, and throw things at me when she lost her temper. Her rage was a physical force which somehow didn’t leave obvious bruises that would have gained the attention of our extended family. .

I made a vow in the quiet of I I ddmy childhood bedroom:

• I will never become like them.
• I will never lose my temper.
• I will never let anyone feel unsafe because of me.

I would spend my whole life keeping that promise, even when it meant swallowing my own pain.

I did share the stories about the abuse with my aunt, my cousins - Sharon and Karen - and with Barbara, the daughter of Karen. Barbara was about my age. And it wasn’t like it was normalized. Barbara never suggested that her mother, Karen, ever hit her. Sharon worked at the Department of Social Services and so it seems like she would have been obligated to report suspected abuse.

I spent my time trying to predict whether there was a pattern to when my mother, Kathleen Whealton, would lose control and become violent. Was it PMS?

No. It was strange that as an early teenager I was having to think about things like this!

I had wanted to be removed from this family and placed in foster care. I wanted out. I wanted to escape. I wasn’t as brave as my friend Paul who chose to leave his parents and move into our fort in the woods.

Anyway, getting back to the extended family…

At every family gathering, I was thrust into the role of entertainer for my younger cousins who demanded supervision—if they were to wander off to the park down the street or venture into the woods to climb trees, I had to be there. In those charged moments, every laugh and every small adventure ignited a fierce yearning within me. I was beginning to understand a burning truth: I wanted to be a parent well before adulthood when such things would be possible. With every tiny life I looked after, I felt an almost desperate surge of being needed, of being significant—of finally being seen.

The child in me was also set free. I could see a child wanting that from their parents - a chance to connect in a real way with one’s adult parents.

I did spend time with Dan from time to time, though those encounters came with conflicting emotions. I vividly remember one time when he invited me to join a brutal game of tackle football—a violent, raw display of physical contact that tore open memories of my mother’s explosive anger, mirroring her harshness in every potential collusion with another person. I couldn’t really tackle anyone and I hoped no one noticed that.

But what truly consumed me was the time I spent with Barbara. We would simply be together, wandering the stark, fluorescent halls of the mall or just lingering in the sanctuary of her downstairs bedroom. There, as she prepared herself—dabbing on makeup or trying on outfits—I would sit silently, yearning for the quiet validation that came from merely sharing the same space. In that unspoken communion, every blink of her attention made me feel less like an invisible shadow and more like a living, breathing presence.

Deep down, an undercurrent of anxious shame stirred—a twisted fear that someone might misconstrue my longing for validation as something else, something forbidden. She was very pretty, and though I sometimes wondered if my feelings were misread, the truth was far simpler: she saw me, she acknowledged me, and for a moment, I could believe I mattered.

Then there was the overwhelming salvation of my extended family—a lifeline in a world that had been frozen by the callous indifference of my parents. The stark isolation that left even my sister distant was suddenly broken by the warmth of my cousins and aunt. I craved human contact with an intensity that bordered on desperation, and even the slightest gestures—a hug from Aunt Maureen, Karen, Sharon, Linda, or Barbara—filled that cavernous void within, feeding my hunger for connection in ways I could barely articulate.

Yet the bitter taste of validation was always accompanied by the sting of neglect. When Barbara canceled plans—perhaps to be with someone else, someone not bound by familial ties—the cold, cutting voice of my mother echoed in my mind: "They have their own lives." Those words were like a knife to my heart, reinforcing the painful notion that my existence was barely worth a moment's consideration. It was a brand of rejection that threatened to shatter my fragile sense of self, feeding the seeds of an ambivalent attachment that scarred me deeply.

And then there was that haunting moment when my mother, tangled in jealousy and bitterness, suggested that I was naïve to expect refuge from my cousins—perhaps she meant Sharon, Karen, or Aunt Maureen. "Do you think they are going to let you live with them?" she snapped, her words dripping with disdain. In that moment, a brutal reality cut through me: I was stranded in a barren wilderness with no sanctuary for the wounded parts of my inner and true self.

I wasn't wanted. Yet, a part of me hoped I could still find my way to belonging.

Caught in that unwantedness, I began to see the foundation of who I might become—a person yearning to matter, to be noticed, to be chosen. Yet, I was conflicted, wondering if I would ever truly unlearn the painful lessons of my childhood, find a voice that had been silenced, and emerge visible after years of being unseen.

Breaking Free from My Shell

In the neighborhood and after school, unmistakable signs emerged that I was shattering the confines of my shell. I hurled myself into the whirlwind of sports like kickball, soccer, and hockey, playing in the streets, our yard, or on our driveway. Kickball, our most frequent game, awakened a softer side within me. A revelation struck me like a bolt: when my team clinched victory, the opposing team tasted bitter defeat, a blow that could crush their spirits. This empathetic insight, one that psychologist Carol Gilligan notes as typically more feminine, struck me profoundly even before I had ever read her work and resonated even more deeply later in life.

I also embarked on a relentless paper route, delivering newspapers to over 50 houses every single day. Each morning, I'd venture out, sometimes before the first light of dawn. Later, collecting payments from countless clients with Paul by my side, I unearthed a flair for humor and a daring streak to entertain. On a scorching summer day, when temperatures soared past 100 degrees, we pulled a wild stunt—donning winter coats, hopping on our bikes, and approaching doors to collect payments. The real kicker was when someone didn't even blink at our outrageous attire.

An uproarious tale from my life is about landing my first job at 16. Just prior to that, I drove my brother and his friends to the movies in a nearby town, only to end up hopelessly lost on the way back. Hours slipped by before I finally stumbled home, a comic misadventure in its own right.

Even more ironic was the nature of the job being offered to me by Jack Donlon, the owner of the Medical Mart living right across from us, who wanted to hire me. The job? Delivering supplies to customers in New Britain—a task demanding navigation skills I had yet to master. Yet, it wasn't long before I became adept at wielding maps, pinpointing every house with precision. When the deliveries were cumbersome, there were two of us, giving me a chance to connect, socialize, and indulge in mischief.

Thus, there existed vibrant exceptions in my life that defied the confines of my proverbial shell.

Boy Doesn't Meet Girl

By the time high school rolled around, I had long accepted that I wasn't one of the guys who got noticed. The idea of dating was so far removed from my reality that I didn't even consider it.

But I did watch movies.

One movie in particular haunted me—Carrie.

I watched it repeatedly, but I always halted just before the notorious prom scene, before the blood spilled, before the terror erupted.

Because to me, it wasn't a horror film.

It was a vision.

Carrie was my mirror. She was silent. She was invisible. She was abused, not only by her peers but by her own mother, though, in my case, my peers never abused me - I was just invisible.

My own mother had been venomous in a myriad of ways. This inevitably instilled a deep, corrosive shame that gnawed at the very essence of my being.

And then Tommy saw her.

It didn't matter that he had a girlfriend. That wasn't the point. The point was that he noticed Carrie. He saw something in her that no one else did. And not only that, but he was kind. He asked her to accompany him to the prom, not as a joke, but because he wanted to make things right. And for one night, Carrie was part of something. She was wanted. She was special.

I wanted that.

Not the prom, necessarily, and definitely not the supernatural revenge. But I wanted to be seen. I wanted someone to look at me the way Tommy looked at Carrie—like I mattered. In that dream, there would be a girl who would fill a role like Tommy did for Carrie.

I also wanted to be held close in the warm arms of someone just like Tommy did for Carrie when she was on the dance floor. I would have felt so profoundly uncomfortable on any dance floor because I NEVER had anyone wrap their arms around me and hold me... then look at me and kiss me. This very thought made my heart race with equal parts longing and terror.

I was not bullied in school. No one stuffed me in lockers or tripped me in the hall. I wasn't tormented, I was just ignored.

But even that stung like salt in an invisible wound.

I didn't go to prom. I didn't go to parties. I didn't go out on dates. I watched from the sidelines as other people lived those moments, and I wondered what they have that I didn't?

I knew the answer, of course.

Confidence.

They knew how to talk to people. They knew how to ask a girl out without their voice catching in their throat. They knew how to dance without feeling like every eye in the room was watching, judging.

For me, that wasn't an option. I couldn't even raise my hand in class. How could I approach someone and ask them to spend time with me?

Even the kids who were teased more than I was had girlfriends. Even they had found someone who saw them.

I waited.

Maybe someone like Tommy would come along—a girl who saw something in me that others didn't, a girl who would notice me first.

That didn't happen.

Maybe I had a phobia of rejection. Maybe the preverbal script I followed unconsciously held me back. I would have to wait until college to figure this out.

I know that social skills are important, and I could not have learned any social skills when I was growing up. I didn't know it, but my life and career direction would require social skills—but I am getting way ahead of this story.

And so, high school passed, and I left it the same way I entered—unnoticed.

For some, high school is where they meet their first love.

For me, it was where I realized I was invisible.

Despair weighed upon me as I wandered the dark Durham night. The shelter was full, so I tried to sleep on the grounds of Duke West Campus. No signs warned against trespassing. I didn’t feel comfortable so I left and taking a shortcut I scaled a 4-foot rock wall, unaware of doing anything wrong.

Then, as if summoned by fate, a police car appeared.

A block down the road, its lights flickered in the night. The car slowed, then stopped. My stomach clenched as the officer stepped out, approaching me with a cold authority.

“License."

The request made no sense. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Why were they stopping me?

And then, those dreaded words. Words that had already shattered my life once before.

"Warrant for your arrest."

Time collapsed. My thoughts spiraled. A warrant? For what?

Then came the explanation—something about using someone’s credit card without permission.

I couldn’t breathe.

A credit card?

Panic surged through me. How? I hadn’t even had the chance to meet anyone with a credit card since my release from jail. How could I have committed a felony without even knowing it?

I barely had time to process the accusation before cold metal closed around my wrists. Handcuffs. Again.

As they led me away, my mind raced to make sense of the impossible.

How the hell did this happen?

A Rabbit Hole of Betrayal

To understand this new nightmare, we have to go back—back to a time before Ana, before jail, before my life unraveled.

I had once been part of therapy groups in Durham, trying to build a community, trying to heal. That’s where I met Kathy.

She knew I had worked with people diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID)—once called Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD)—a condition made infamous by movies like Sybil. It was rare, misunderstood, and yet, here it was, again, threading itself into my story.

Before my time on Holloway Street, before the assault that would alter my life, I had briefly lived in a spare room offered by a friend, Elaine. During that time, Kathy and I became intimate.

Then, one night, everything changed.

In an instant, she transformed—her voice, her body language—childlike.

It was as if I was suddenly in the presence of a child in an adult’s body.

I freaked out. I pulled away and got dressed immediately.

It didn’t matter that she was an adult. It felt like I was with a child.

Kathy soon returned to her boyfriend and Elaine wanted to live alone. I moved into the home of Kathy and her boyfriend —sleeping in the same room as her son, on the bottom bunk. But our relationship had become twisted, toxic.

She demanded my attention, needed me to play the role of therapist. I had already explained how inappropriate that would be after what had happened and I wasn’t licensed and practicing at that point.

Some of her other personalities were angry at me.

Some were obsessed with me.

Some were jealous—especially when I spent time with my girlfriend, Shonda.

The situation was untenable.

And then came Christmas.

The Credit Card That Would Ruin Me

December 2003—less than a year before Ana’s attack.

Kathy wanted to give me a gift.

She offered to pay for my website domain renewal—the same poetry website I had started with Lynn back in 1995.

The life I had shared with Lynn felt so close, and yet, like an entirely different lifetime.

We sat together as she entered her credit card details into my GoDaddy account. It was her choice.

Neither of us thought much about the card being saved on file.

At the time, it meant nothing. But that decision—the smallest, most mundane act—would later become my undoing.

A Dangerous Shift

Tensions escalated.

Kathy became more unpredictable, more hostile.

One night, things turned dangerous.

I felt threatened—physically and sexually.

I ran.

Outside, hands shaking, I called Shonda. She offered me a place to stay, a bed in the back of her family’s store.

Then, I called the police.

The authorities came. They didn’t arrest Kathy, but the report was on record—a crime of a sexual nature, with me as the victim.

I should have seen the warning signs then. But I didn’t.

And now, here I was—being arrested. Because of her.

The Forgotten Charge

Fast-forward to 2005, after Ana, after my release from jail.

I had forgotten about the GoDaddy domain.

My cards on file had no funds, so Kathy’s was automatically charged.

Instead of asking for her card to be removed, instead of seeing this for what it was—a mistake—she pressed charges.

The charge? Felony credit card fraud.

The amount? $15.

Fifteen dollars.

And I was back in a cell.

Trapped in the System Again

This time, I spent a month in jail, mostly in protective custody.

The same lawyer—the one handling my pending trial—was assigned to this nonsense case.

"I’ll enter a plea to misdemeanor larceny," he told me when he got around to contacting me at all, after I had been there almost a month!

"You’ll be released right away. No court appearance necessary."

I should have been furious but I was in such a state of shock during this period of time. I was detached from feelings and living life as if in a bad dream.

Misdemeanor larceny? Over a clerical error?

A System That Doesn't Care

I was too numb and detached to feel the anger that I feel as I write this almost 20 years later.

I was too beaten down, too traumatized to feel the full weight of my indignation.

But looking back?

This shouldn’t have happened.

A competent lawyer—one who actually cared—would have had this dismissed immediately. Instead, my public defender took the path of least resistance, pushing me through a legal system that wasn’t about justice, only efficiency.

I just wanted out.

So, I did not protest when he told me what he was going to do. As soon as I was free, I left Durham—straight for Chapel Hill.

Because even in homelessness, I had learned: some places were safer than others and Chapel Hill was safer.

It’s May 2005.

I stepped out of the jail into the late morning light, wearing only the dark green shirt, shorts, and socks I had on the night Ana attacked me. These were the same clothes, still stained with my own dried blood. The moment I crossed that threshold, I felt exposed—marked. I pulled my book bag close to my body and tried to move quickly, avoiding the gaze of anyone who might see me leaving the jail, as if shame itself were chasing me down the street.

The first thing I needed was clothing and a meal. My only option was Urban Ministries, the homeless shelter. I knew if I was lucky, I’d get a bed, but space was never guaranteed.

A Lawyer Who Didn’t Fight

I met with my lawyer briefly after my release and I may have seen him or one of his representatives only two times during the entire seven months I spent in jail. He looked me over, taking stock of me, and said something that left me reeling:

"I’m going to have to put you on the stand. No one will believe you’re capable of anything violent."

I had expected that he would have known that I could only be a victim in this matter but I was terrified. We all know how well the first time I told those detectives what happened. What had he done for me all these months?

I wanted him to prepare me but he said “no.” I was thinking, “really, the last time I tried telling the truth, we know how that went?”

I brought up the bloody clothes, explaining that they would prove I was the victim. The evidence was right there—the blood was mine, no one else’s.

Surely, that mattered?

"We can’t use them," he said, dismissively. "You wore them after leaving jail."

My stomach dropped. Of course I had worn them—I had nothing else! He had seven months to secure the clothes, to preserve them as evidence, to do something that would have helped me. I had written to him over and over, desperate for help. He had failed me. Everyone had failed me.

Survival on the Streets

The shelter wasn’t always available. On the nights I couldn’t get in, I wandered the streets, noting where small groups of homeless people settled.

One night, some of us found a quiet space near a church, though I wasn’t sure we were even allowed to be there. It didn’t matter—I just needed a place to disappear, to sleep, though sleep rarely came.

The shame weighed on me constantly. Some days, I couldn’t even get a shower or a shave. I felt like my humiliation was written across my face for the world to see. To escape, I started spending my days at Duke University’s libraries, hiding among the students.

I rode the campus buses between Duke East and West Campus, hoping I didn’t look too out of place. I found odd jobs that helped me get small amounts of money—just enough to eat. Sometimes, my parents and sister sent me a little money, though what I really needed was for them to step up and help me find a real lawyer. But I accepted what little they sent, because

I had no choice.

I had yet to reclaim the most minimal self-love that would have caused me to be outraged by the breadcrumbs that my family was offering.

At night, I noticed that some of Duke’s libraries stayed open 24 hours. One of them had a computer lab next to a quiet room with couches. I started sneaking in, napping there when I could. But it was never real sleep—just a restless, uneasy dozing, my body always tense. What if someone found me?

What if I was thrown out? I was in my 30s, but I wasn’t a student. I was homeless.

The uncertainty of the trial loomed over me, a shadow stretching into every part of my life. I was terrified.

Wearing a Lifetime of Toxic Shame

What I was experiencing wasn’t just about this moment—it was about a lifetime of being made to feel wrong.

I had grown up in a toxic family, where I was cast as the scapegoat. No matter what I did, I was the problem, the burden. The one who was too sensitive. The one who made things difficult.

It was only later, after everything, that I came across a book that made me understand: Adult Survivors of Toxic Family Members by Sherrie Campbell. It described exactly what I had lived through. The way narcissistic families paint themselves as saints while blaming the scapegoat for everything wrong. How they turn the victim into the villain. How they make sure the scapegoat never truly feels like they belong.

I had escaped it for a time. First, in college, where I built friendships that gave me my first taste of real validation. Then, with Celta and Lynn, I had found love—love that made me feel worthwhile.

But then I lost Lynn. And the world took everything away from me. And now, I was back in the role they had always cast me in.

I was the scapegoat. And this time, the world wasn’t just shaming me—it was trying to destroy me.

I carried that shame everywhere, like a second skin or a shroud.

A Family That Left Me to Rot

I was angry—so angry.

Because I knew. I knew that if something serious happened to my brother or my sister, the family would rally. They always had. I had seen it firsthand.

But when it came to me?

I was an afterthought.

It was a cruel, maddening contradiction—the source of my deepest confusion and my deepest pain. On one hand, I was fed the words, We love you.

You’re part of the family. On the other, they stood by and watched me drown, offering nothing but silence.

I didn’t want to see it for what it was. I couldn’t. So I gaslit myself, twisting their indifference into something that resembled care. I clung to the scraps of their attention, desperate to believe that they loved me, that I mattered to them. Because facing the truth—that I was truly alone—was a horror I wasn’t ready for.

But the cracks had been there for years. I just hadn’t wanted to look.

The Call That Changed Everything

My brother. John.

There was a time when he was my best friend. The bond between us felt solid—something that would never break. We laughed together, celebrated holidays together, shared memories that felt unshakable. I had no reason to believe anything had changed.

But it had.

One Christmas visit home, I met my niece Emily for the first time. She was shy at first, peeking at me from behind the couch. But as the night went on, she began to warm up, her tiny hand finding its way into mine.

I was charmed by her innocence—until she said something that sent a chill through me.

I noticed a mark near her eye. Gently, I asked, “What happened?”

Without hesitation, she answered. “Your brother did that.”

Not Dad. Not my father. She said, Your brother.

It was so small—a detail that might have slipped past me. But it didn’t. And then, I saw it with my own eyes.

Later that night, I witnessed my brother’s temper erupt. He grabbed Emily Whealton, my neice, lifted her off the floor, and shoved her against the wall. The thud, her small cry—it’s burned into me.

My blood ran cold. I had to report the suspected abuse of Emily Whealton by John Stephen Whealton. It was up to the people at Child Protective Services to determine whether John Stephen Whealton was abusing his children or not. It was not my job to make that determination.

The Consequence of Doing the Right Thing

I made the call.

Child Protective Services. Because that’s what you do. That’s what we swore to do as social workers—err on the side of the child. Report suspected abuse. Not judge, not decide—just report.

I wasn’t the enemy. I was the protector.

But to my family, I became something else entirely.

The police came. And with them, the family’s mask slipped. They closed ranks—not around Emily, but around John. It was a “private family matter,” they said. I was a traitor. The police, failing to uphold my anonymity, let everyone know who had made the call.

And just like that, I was cut off. 

John Stephen Whealton, my own brother, didn't want to clear his name in my eyes. So, it seemed that he was fine with the label of child abuser.

Gaslight and Silence

John at least had the decency to make his feelings clear—We’re done. And we were. Forever.

But my parents and my sister? They never said those words. There was no confrontation. No fallout. Just… nothing.

And that was worse.

Because everything they did—or rather, everything they didn’t do—was cloaked in this cruel ambiguity. There were no accusations. No fights. Just a quiet, chilling absence where care should have been.

And through it all, they still sent mixed signals—birthday cards, the occasional phone call, just enough to keep me doubting myself. I told myself, If they hated me, they wouldn’t reach out at all, right?

But when disaster struck me—when I was brutalized, arrested, thrown into a nightmare—I discovered the truth.

There was no rallying around me.

No lifeline.

No questions. No concern.

The Disaster They Ignored

When I lost Lynn—my wife in every way that mattered—it felt like my world had collapsed. My career had been ripped from me. I was drowning in grief, homelessness, and injustice.

But it wasn’t just hardship. It was catastrophe. The kind that levels a life.

The kind where you reach out—not for a handout, but for human connection. For family.

And I had none.

They could have done so much. It didn’t even have to be money—though my grandparents' house, sitting unused and empty nearby, could have been a refuge from homelessness. Of course, I was not thinking about that at the time.

I needed to believe that they cared because I had no one else. I also didn’t have any self-worth or self-love. Not yet.

But no.

No visit. No phone call. No lawyer. No belief.

No love.

The True Face of Gaslighting

And here’s where the madness of it all becomes clear.

I never once heard, We’re angry at you for what you did to John. They never connected their betrayal to anything I had done.

On the surface, everything seemed fine—We love you, we care about you, you’re family.

But their actions—or their silence—told the truth.

That’s the thing about gaslighting: it doesn’t have to be words. Sometimes, it’s the absence of words. The void. The unbearable dissonance between what you’re told and what you live.

And when you live in that space long enough, you lose yourself. You question every instinct. You start to believe that maybe you’re the problem.

The Hardest Truth

It wasn’t the abandonment that shattered me the most. It was the coldness.

Because even if they had said:
“You broke our trust.”
“You hurt the family.”
“We can’t forgive you.”

At least that would have been real.

But there was no anger. Just absence.

I wasn’t even worth hating.

And when you’re left with that, how can you not believe—deep in your bones—that you are worthless?

The Final Question

I was left to rot.

Not because they couldn’t help.

But because they chose not to.

So tell me…

If your own family won’t stand by you—who will?

The Trial That Hung Over Me Like a Death Sentence

Every second outside of jail was spent in the waiting. Waiting for my name to be called in court. Waiting to find out if my life would be destroyed.

I spent my days playing mental chess, reliving every moment, trying to understand how this had happened. How Ana had set this trap so perfectly.

How she knew that all she had to do was say something, and the system would make it true.

And I wondered—how much more of my life would they take? Would I ever get a job again? Would anyone ever love me again? Would I ever get to be me again?

Or had the system already decided that I didn’t matter?

In the last chapter, I told you about the joy I found in finding someone to love and someone who loved me. I told you about the experiences I had, and I hope it was clear just how meaningful this was in my life's trajectory. It was so important to present the profound and positive impact this had on my life.  

This was life-altering.   

The experiences I had growing up, in my home environment, were toxic to the development of the kind of self-confidence and self-worth that I would need to achieve my career goals. Something had been missing despite all the improvements I had made in my sense of worth.

It's hard to know what you need to overcome a problem that has existed throughout your life. My therapist or counselor in college was very talented, competent, and profoundly helpful. However, we failed to fully appreciate all the negative impacts of abuse and devaluation that I had experienced in my home life from my parents.  

Then I met Celta, and something happened. She seemed to be delighted in me. She was so interested in my experiences. She also was concerned about my well-being and happiness. I knew she was thinking about me for most of the day each and every day! Her diary-style, stream of consciousness letters told me this.

I knew she was thinking about me for so much of her day, each and every day, because of the letters she wrote to me - her diary of sorts composed with me in mind as someone she wanted to share her life with. I had realized that I previously thought that I was not that important to anyone. This is what I meant by seeking a relationship with some aspect of exclusivity or the idea that I could be the most important person to someone.

I knew that I was the only one that Celta loved the way she loved me. Previously, I had friends, but they all had a boyfriend/girlfriend or spouse, or the relationship wasn’t as close.

After I was with Celta, I felt like I was ten feet tall... confident... worthwhile, and deserving. My self-esteem was higher than it had ever been in my life. I also felt safe trying new things. This idea might seem unexpected. She was just a small girl (woman). I sensed that she deeply cared about me and thought about me and that was transformative.

It's important to underscore these important points before I move on with this story.       

When I say that our relationship was platonic, I mean that we were not boyfriend and girlfriend. We didn't have a physical relationship. That being said, we did exchange "I love you" on a daily basis or whenever we talked on the phone or saw each other. We were close and perhaps somewhat intimate and physical but not in a sexual way.

Late in December, something happened. I had moved to kiss her as I was leaving. It was impulsive. Her lips were so thin that I didn’t feel what I imagined I would feel. This was my first kiss. I felt confused. She had not turned away or signaled in any way that she didn’t want me to proceed. So, why was I uncertain? I didn’t have to be shy with Celta. But I didn’t want to use her for my own personal “experience.”

I would play this back in my mind as I drove away. Yes, I wanted to kiss her. Having decided now for sure what I wanted, next time I would kiss her. 

Sometime later I pictured my face turning to the right and moving closer to her as she moved toward me. I had been in sync with her and felt so comfortable. I knew that she might have said that one time that she was not in love but when we were together there were so many times when she had that look of someone who was so happy, comfortable and it sure looked like she was in love. Well, she definitely had “romantic” feelings. 

Also, when I was with her, I could see myself and my feelings. You just know those things. There were so many subtle behavioral cues that told me what she was feeling and how she was responding to my touches… how I held her… where I touched her. Everything had been welcomed. I played back memories of how when I touched her she moved closer to me.

As I replayed the imagined kiss – next time - I would begin to tilt my head to the right, bend down, she would be acting on instinct, without taking the time to over-think it – that’s what I would do, and she was my mirror. Sometimes we do things as if the moment is such that it is inevitable. She would move to meet my lips… she would be transfixed upon my eyes and I hers. I felt excited as I replayed this in my mind. 

It was as if it had happened already, almost. 

It would never happen. 

On New Year's Day of 1991, I got the worst news of my life. A phone call. I was in my room on the second floor of the house owned by my parents. "Celta died last night," I was told.  

"How?"  I asked as if this wasn't possible or real. I was stunned. I wanted my willpower to make it not real!

"There was a fire... she died from smoke inhalation."  It started from an exposed electrical cord on a TV. 

My mind registered information about the funeral, its location, and time but I could not find the words to begin to convey any sense of what I was feeling. I had spoken a few times to the man previously. He was friends of the family. Tears were flooding my eyes. I just said, “Okay, I’ll be there but I can’t talk…” my voice breaking. I needed the family to expect me.

I dropped the phone and began to cry so bitterly.

I hurt so much! 

I cried so much as I drove the way to the funeral. Just before the funeral, I looked at the closed casket and was overcome. Someone was standing by it and for a brief second, some part of me wanted to open the casket and find out that it wasn't Celta that was inside.

At the funeral, I cried more than everyone else combined. I didn't care how I looked.

It was at the Episcopalian church where I went with Celta and where I would sit down next to Celta's mother and Celta. I was still Christian, meaning I went to church on a regular basis.  

Standing outside after the funeral people were talking. I was looking at the closed casket unable to believe this was real. I was still crying. Celta's mother instructed me not to come to the burial. She could tell that I was not going to make it through that event. My state of mind was such that I needed to be told what I should do now.  

At the burial the one person who loved Celta most, who felt a visceral sense of grief above and beyond that felt by the others... that one person would be missing. I would not be there. I had followed the directions of Celta's mother and left Athens (Athens Georgia).

I certainly felt betrayed and abandoned by God. However, I did go to grief counseling at the Catholic hospital in Augusta, Georgia. A nun was leading a grief counseling group – spiritual counseling. She was using guided imagery, relaxation techniques, prayer, and biblical references. I met with her a few times and asked for tape recordings of the sessions. 

In the group sessions, she spoke about the stages of grief. We were encouraged to bring in things that were mementos of our experience with our loved ones. I listened intently as the others spoke. I was by far the youngest. I had studied the grief process in a psychology class at Georgia Tech. I read some more about this from a “clinical” standpoint. I was keeping reality at a distance.

I was in denial at times and at other times I would be overwhelmed with the idea of not being able to see Celta ever again and I would cry and cry. 

So much is strange about this time period. The struggles with my parents were never intentionally instigated by me out of anger for anything. They just seemed uninterested in me and my life, other than to tell me what I ought to do. 

I suppose I wanted to share the fact that someone had loved me to explain what had changed. It was surreal that there was such denial that anything had happened or changed. I might be in denial as a symptom of grief but I wanted to celebrate the relationship that I had. Where would I begin?    

Child Abuse by My Brother John Whealton...

I expected them to be discreet and assumed they would not reveal who called. I wasn’t trying to hurt him and wondered if anything would come of the matter. 

My brother found out and never spoke to me again. 

 I was asked by the agency that looked into the matter to write a piece about the cycle of abuse.

That was in 2002. 

It’s bizarre how things happen. He was the only one in the family who got aggressive in response to our parents' physical abuse or threats of violence, but they chose to invite him and his wife to visit on holidays and disinvite me ever since. Our family is so dysfunctional! I have an adult niece who doesn’t know anything about me.

Anyway, getting back to 1991, to cope with the tragic loss, I started drinking. A lot.

I was put on a tricyclic anti-depressant by a psychiatrist. I had developed panic attacks as well. The anti-depressant had the effect of creating a sense of positive feelings even with my mother standing there one morning ironing something for work with my father getting ready too. Those fake feelings were only transitory. It is reminiscent of the song by REM titled "It's the end of the world as we know it."... and I feel fine. I guess I felt “high.”

The days flowed around me like a mystical experience in which I flowed in and out of my body. I wasn't fully alive or so it seemed... betrayed even by God.  

It was all a blur. My entire existence. 

Somehow, I did get a job finally that could have made my parents satisfied. Everything was always about them. They never asked about anything that was happening to me. So, they never inquired about why I was going for grief counseling because they had no knowledge of this.  

Anyway, I got a job at the National Science Foundation as a contractor. I was developing a network for the museum and that involved network programming in the C programming language. I was a software engineer. I did accomplish a great deal in that job capacity and my supervisor was very impressed with my talents.  

Again, this was not at all interesting to me. Yet, I was making sure that I successfully met all deadlines and deliverables. 

I vaguely remember a summer trip to Las Vegas. The company paid for this to cover some training related to my work. It was amazing. I had this incredible per-diem rate where I was paid my salary plus extra money for expenses that exceeded the cost of the hotel room.  

Vegas was probably the worst place for me to go with so much free cash and free drinks in the casinos. Somehow, I made all the presentations for the training that I was sent there to attend. In the evenings and free time, I hit the casinos and made some decent money. Nothing to write home about. Gin or vodka was an escape but somehow, I didn’t drink so much so as to get sick at night or even the next day.

As I try to write this now, I have only momentary snapshots with no full running narrative memory. Just random disconnected sensations. My hands were unable to touch the leather inside a car. The sun shimmering on the pavement. Casinos. Drinks. Sitting at a poker table. Pulling a lever on a slot machine.

I must have done what was expected of me. I don’t remember any complaints from my boss.

Yeah, I moved through time like a robot.

The job was going well, as I said. I was proud of how well I was doing.

I was drinking more and more during this time period after the trip to Las Vegas. Everything except beer. Vodka with tonic or orange juice. Gin and tonic. Whiskey with ice, water, or coke. Not so much wine.

I was passing out and once or twice I would puke. I really hated throwing up, always.

I did meet this girl from the home office of the company that was paying me. She lived in Alabama and I was in Augusta, Georgia and we decided to meet in Atlanta, Georgia where I had graduated not long before that.         

My supervisor was joking that I had "jungle fever" because I was a white guy who was going to date a black woman. He was black, as well. I didn't let that bother me. Spike Lee's film "Jungle Fever" had been out, and it was an important film. I have always been fine with having a conversation about race if that was something that was desired.  

My mother actually asked about my date. I suppose her name sounded ethnic and my mother asked about that guessing that she might be Italian. I said, "no, she's black.”   

I remember that this was the first time I kissed anyone other than a brief kiss that Celta and I shared back in December of the last year. I mentioned that above. 

This was extremely passionate. She brought her kid and left him in the car and parked near the Student Center - the same building where I worked on the bottom floor in the post office.  

We were looking for someplace to sit or be as private as possible outside after dark. I remember making out at a few locations here and there. I could feel her large breasts against me, and I was aroused.  

My first passionate kiss. Before Lynn. We'll get to that later.

Did I feel guilty about dating so soon after Celta? Maybe. But I wasn’t actually feeling nor was I “aware” during this time period. I was so numb that I needed to feel something. To wake up! I was trying so hard to wake up. The tricyclic antidepressant made me feel good for a few moments. That didn’t make it a meaningful experience. 

Then later there was the fact that she said in December that she loved me but wasn’t in love with me. I had only known her for one year, from January through December 31 or 1990. I do know that countless times she had that look like someone in love when she looked in my eyes. I was fairly certain she was trying to protect me from being hurt. But I never got a chance to ask her.

And that kiss? I had stopped, not her. It was my first time kissing anyone and I should have been aware that her lips were so small that if I didn’t feel anything at first I should wait or stay there. I was always comfortable with Celta. She had never rejected any of my touches. 

My mother had made me feel so not okay and so had my father somewhat. This “date” was a way to get out of the home and to appear normal to my mother. If I was going out with someone from the company that employed my services, it made me appear less worthy of the criticism I had been getting from my parents. That’s how I figured it. It was an escape.

Some people with Borderline Personality Disorder or trauma disorders will cut their own skin with razors or something sharp just to feel something. The date was something like that. 

There wasn't a second date. I had expressed my concerns about pre-marital sex. We weren't even in a committed relationship. I drove to Atlanta to meet her for a second date, but she never showed. I was frustrated out of embarrassment. Then I just forgot the entire matter by the next day and never thought about the matter further.  

The various medications and the alcohol impeded grieving and dare I say reality testing. People who are grieving are in such a state of denial that it is almost like a temporary psychosis. From what I was reading and hearing in the stories of grief that I studied, “normal,” healthy people did for a while embrace denial to such an extent that it bordered on delusional thinking.

The loss of Celta could not be washed away with alcohol, grief counseling, or an intimate date. 

Poetry as an outlet…

I can thank my mother for introducing me to Martin Kirby, who went to our church and he was a professor of English Literature and related subjects at a college in Augusta, Georgia. He would become my writing/poetry mentor.  

I would show up on a regular basis for poetry readings where I shared my poetry and got feedback, advice, and guidance on writing good poetry. He also heard me write about my experiences with Celta and listened to my experiences. This was very helpful because I had no other outlet for this or place to talk about Celta and my relationship with her.

He said he thought it would take about 10 years for me to be able to write good poetry about Celta because the feelings were too raw.

I was living in a difficult environment with my parents.  I was dealing with a major tragedy and yet the name Celta wasn't even being mentioned.  

Between drinking, the different medications I was put on, and the panic attacks, I had to go to the Emergency Room (ER) on two occasions.  

The psychiatrist tried me on a major tranquilizer, and I had these horrifying muscle spasms that twisted my body up into contortions that made me think my bones were going to be broken in my neck and elsewhere. The doctor said that in higher doses the drug is used for psychotic disorders but somehow it would help with my depression, I guess. That was the reason I was taken to the ER once. My father took me.  

Another time I had a panic attack and again my father took me to the ER. It's strange that they weren't asking why all this was happening. Nothing like this had ever happened to me. NEVER!

The only ones listening to my stories about Celta were Martin Kirby and his wife as well as the attendees at the grief support group. Again, my parents were not interested to learn anything about this matter. They never seemed to have any awareness that I was even going to grief counseling.  

This is so utterly astonishing! I had not deliberately been trying to keep everything a secret about what was going on with me. On the contrary, I looked for an opening to discuss the matter. I wanted to repair and improve the relationship. I wanted to share the fact that I had found someone who loved me.  

With all this going on, all the problems I was having, I began to doubt that I could achieve my goals in life, my career goals. I wondered how I could help others when I had so many problems myself.  

It should be noted that while I was put on a major tranquilizer, my psychiatrist NEVER said he thought I was psychotic. We knew I had problems coping with overwhelming stressors.  

There is a positive aspect of this time period of 1990 to 1992 that I did not mention. My parents had friends that had adopted a young girl who was about 12. I have always been great with kids. I love kids and enjoy the chance to be like a big brother.  

I was so impressed that she wasn't shy at all when I first met her. I went to visit with my parents, and they invited us to come swim. It was either 1990 or 1991 when I met her. I was like a big brother and I had a great time doing so many things with her.  

After the job with the National Science Foundation ended, another opportunity presented itself in March of 1992.  I was offered a job in Wilmington, North Carolina, to work with Corning as a Technical Writer. They wanted someone with a technical background. 

This would change everything. I was about to be on my own again. Finally!  

My perception that I had long-term "problems” would disappear as if by magic, literally - it was unbelievable. My problem had been living in a toxic environment and that was complicated by the grief and the effort I had made to ignore, suppress, or deny the natural process.

My own doubts about my ability to achieve my career goals in life were contributing to the problems I was having.

It’s hard to believe that I had only known Celta for one year – the year 1990 and when that year ended, so had Celta’s life.

The tragic loss of Celta did not erase the positive impact she had on my life. There were other positive experiences during this time. I had become more confident.

I had been writing poetry about the experiences I had with Celta and I wanted to share that with others. I had been sharing that with Martin Kirby my poetry mentor but now I wanted to share this with others. It was so important and meaningful!

In the early months of my captivity, I fiercely rejected any suggestion of being taken to a psychiatric hospital for evaluation. The mere thought of using mental illness as a defense for my actions made me sick. I wasn’t going to allow it to be said that there was validity to what Ana claimed but there was an explanation.

Despite Ana's accusations, I stood firm in declaring my complete innocence and victimhood. I refused to succumb to her manipulative tactics and never wavered in my claims of being mentally sound and guiltless. To even consider entertaining such an idea would be to admit defeat and give Ana exactly what she wanted – power over me.

No, I would not allow her or the detectives who questioned me to strip me of my agency and reduce me to a mere pawn in their twisted game.

I wrote in a letter to my lawyer that I did not have a dissociative disorder. I told him that I had not been trying to play a game with the detectives. With Ana’s lies they were the writers and directors of a sick game.

My landlord, with a sinister smile on his face, had taken away all of my possessions, leaving me with nothing… as if I had never existed, never collected anything that I might want to keep forever.

My precious memories in the form of photographs and letters from those I loved were now lost forever, buried under the weight of my shattered identity. Every cherished reminder of the life of joy and success was gone!

I was left with nothing - no clothes, no mementos, no sense of self. It was as if my very being had been erased.

Alone, Abandoned and Scared

When I was in my cell, I would desperately try to catch the attention of the guards to be taken to see a nurse or doctor. But I was just another inmate in a sea of faces, drowning in my own extreme anxiety. Every moment felt like an overwhelming wave crashing over me, suffocating me with its intensity.

The guards, cold and unfeeling as machines, would pass by our cells without a hint of empathy or compassion. In their eyes, I was nothing but a number, a nameless entity locked away in this hellish prison. They didn't see me as a person, let alone an innocent one who was suffering in distress.

Their robotic footsteps echoed through the halls, sending chills down my spine. It was as if they were inhuman creatures, devoid of any shred of humanity. And trapped in this environment, my body began to react in strange ways. Panic attacks would grip me with such force that I thought I was going to die. My heart raced and my breaths came in short, labored gasps.

I would frantically push the button in my cell, pleading for someone, anyone to come and help me. But my cries fell on deaf ears. The guards saw me as nothing more than a nuisance, an inconvenience to be ignored and dismissed.

My captivity was slowly breaking me down, piece by piece. But no one seemed to care about my suffering. To them, I was just another prisoner in a cell, forgotten and discarded by society.

Moving to Protective Custody

After two or three months, I was transferred to a different part of the jail called protective custody. I wasn't entirely clear why.

There were three inmates who were not only in this area called protective custody but they only left their cells for about an hour to shower and never when anyone else was out. They were going to testify against fellow gang members.

During my stay in protective custody, I met an older man who was also being held there. He had been caught printing photographs of young children, possibly both boys and girls, in various stages of undress – perhaps even nude. The crime was heinous and unforgivable. I couldn't bring myself to feel any sympathy for him.

What kind of person does this to innocent children? I was curious about the details of his crime, but I knew better than to ask him directly. Unlike me, he was not adamant and ready to explain how he would never harm anyone.

I also crossed paths with a man whose intellect was severely lacking. He had strangled his wife or girlfriend to death. His parents were very supportive. He always had money in his canteen, and he would share something if I didn’t have anything. His family kept his canteen stocked with cash, unlike the indifference offered by my family.

I thought they would offer me a place to stay when I was released. Who knows if that was a good idea, but it never panned out. 

I remained in this section of the prison for several months until I was finally released in May 2003. The Protective Custody unit was smaller than the general population area and most cells housed only one person, making it a safer environment.

I also discovered new things about my gender and how we think of gender. I met a very effeminate person who went by the name Lulu. She was born male but identified as female.

She was a striking African American woman, born into a man's body. While I couldn't help but know that she must be male, it was her soft and feminine legs and face that caught my attention. In one particular moment, none of my prior beliefs about sexual orientation mattered. I just needed human contact, someone to be close to. And she was kind, so sweet and understanding as I sat next to her on a couch in the shared open area.

As our hands touched, fingers intertwining and arms pressed together, I couldn't deny the comfort and connection that I felt. But this was no secret encounter - we were in plain view of anyone who happened to pass by. Despite the comfort she provided me in such an unbearable situation, there was no escaping the harsh reality of what was going on. Every second felt like an eternity as my entire life hung in the balance, consumed by fear and desperation.

Lulu may have been a small flicker of light amidst the darkness, but there was no changing the fact that I was trapped in this hellish place with no end in sight. My pleas for help to my "family" went unanswered, leaving me to wonder how long they would have left me here to rot. It became clear that they had no intention of coming to my aid - I was completely alone in this fight for survival.

Toxic shame had been an outfit I began to wear four years ago. It began with losing Lynn, the love of my life, and continued as I lost my career, my license, and ultimately my home. Being alone in the world for so long only compounded this toxic shame, making me feel like I was fundamentally flawed.

I felt like I had been turned into a creature deemed unworthy of basic human treatment. My situation was degrading and dehumanizing.

I had prayed without ceasing (still a believer back then). I repeated the plea to God, “you know I did no wrong. Please do something. Show me something today.”

The fact that my sister sent me books was a source of support but deep-down parts of me wanted her to do more. Convince Mom and Dad to act like parents.

I didn’t even get visits from my family at all! No words of comfort. Never did I feel a sense that I had a family that was in any way concerned with my circumstances nor did they seem to care about my chances for a normal life later.

If they were not going to act out of concern for me, I knew that appearances mattered in my family. I carried the same exact name as my father. This name would now be emblazoned in stone for historical reference and associated with a heinous crime!

They had acknowledged that I could not possibly have done what I was accused of doing.

Despite that, their silence, their lack of support, could not help but make me feel worthless, a pathetic person who deserved to experience shame.

I was not now, nor would I ever be in a position where I could forgive or forget the decision made by my parents not to pay bail to get me out and to pay for a good lawyer. This experience would always remain in my mind as something so shockingly painful that it would never be possible for me to excuse the inaction of my family.

I spent seven months in jail! Seven nightmarish months.

I was released finally, in May, to await the trial. My lawyer got the bond or bail removed so that I could be released without having to pay anything but with an expectation to return for trial and other court appearances. 

Of course, my so-called family had not even tried to get any clothes at all for me to wear when I got out. They had known that every single item of my own was gone other than the bloody clothing I wore when I was assaulted seven months earlier.