As I was awaiting trial, I could barely process the horrifying thought of what could happen if the trial did not go my way. In a brief encounter with my lawyer that I mentioned previously, after I got out of jail, the only thing he discussed was his sense that no jury would be able to imagine that I was capable of harming anyone.
I was overwhelmed and traumatized by everything that had happened. I had been homeless or on the verge of homelessness before the assault by Ana that landed me in jail for 7 months. I had been homeless in Durham after my lawyer got me out of jail to “prepare for trial.”
At no point during the one meeting with my lawyer had I discussed the potential prison sentence that I could receive if found guilty of these charges - 2nd degree kidnapping and 2nd degree sexual offense.
I was existing in a state of trauma. I could have diagnosed myself, if I was thinking clearly, with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I could have recognized that I was using a form of dissociation, that is called derealization, as a coping mechanism. This is the brain's creative way to cope with overwhelming stress or trauma.
My mind was experiencing life as if I was living in a dream-state. This was a living nightmare!
Ever since the assault and during the months of captivity or while living homeless in Durham and then Chapel Hill, the topic of spending years in prison never entered my consciousness! It was too overwhelming to imagine.
After spending that month in jail while awaiting trial, I would find and secure a bed at the homeless shelter in Chapel Hill. For a brief moment in time, I experienced a miraculous event where I had a chance to connect with a lady.
It was a rare reprieve, a brief glimpse of something tender before I was thrust back into the cold, both literally and figuratively.
Homeless in Chapel Hill, Holding Onto Hope
At the Interfaith Council (IFC) shelter, I started at the bottom—sleeping on the floor, waiting for a bed to open upstairs. Eventually, I got one, which meant a reserved place to sleep. It also meant I had a small storage space downstairs for my belongings, but the space was barely enough for what little I owned.
During the day, we were forced to leave after breakfast. There was no place to simply be.
I tried to find work. Vocational Rehabilitation had funded Web Design training for me, but what chance did I have of landing a job while living in a shelter, marked by a pending trial that would decide the rest of my life?
And yet, I tried.
I still held onto a shred of self-worth, fragile as it was. I still believed, somehow, that I was more than what the system had labeled me.
A Miracle in the Midst of Chaos
Then something unbelievable happened.
I met someone.
It was November, and I had been on a dating website, though my self-confidence had been shattered. What woman would want a man who was homeless? A man who had been cast as the villain when he was, in fact, the victim?
But she did.
She listened. She believed me.
She invited me to Thanksgiving dinner.
I was stunned. A woman I had only recently started talking to wanted to meet me. She even bought my train tickets to visit her in Sanford, NC.
"I am a respectable lady," she told me. "You should not expect anything sexual to happen."
It didn’t matter. Just being wanted, just being seen, was enough.
I packed a few changes of clothes, enough to look semi-presentable, and boarded the train. Thanks to the shelter, I was able to shower, shave, and brush my teeth before leaving. That, in itself, was a luxury.
A Moment of Connection
We had a wonderful evening and weekend.
Dinner was warm and filling. We watched the Superman movie together. That night, we shared a bed, though nothing sexual happened.
But I still felt close to her.
I remember laying in her lap, my arms wrapped around her.
I remember the softness of her lips. I remember her whispering, "Give me your tongue," as we kissed.
She was beautiful—a stunning black woman—and for that brief moment, I felt lucky.
For a single night, I wasn’t a homeless person. I wasn’t an accused criminal. I was just me, holding someone close, feeling warmth against my skin instead of the cold, cruel world pressing in on me.
But then I ruined it.
A Stupid, Simple Mistake
Some of my clothes had gotten wet on the train, so she kindly washed and dried them for me.
But in my absentmindedness, I had left my return ticket in my pocket.
When I realized my mistake, my stomach dropped.
"Oh my god."
My chest tightened with frustration, anger, self-loathing.
"How could I be so stupid?"
I knew I had just created a situation where she would have to buy me another ticket home. The thought filled me with shame.
I clenched my fists and, without thinking, slammed my hand down on the bed—not out of anger at her, not in any way directed toward her, but in sheer frustration at myself.
But it didn’t matter.
The second my hand hit the bed, I felt it—fear.
It was my fear that she might be afraid of me.
The Shadow of False Accusations
I hadn’t even been near her.
What if she thinks I could be dangerous? What if she wonders about Ana’s accusations?
It didn’t matter that I knew I was the same person who had those soft gentle hands - the only hands and arms that could have been there with Lynn or Celta before her. Celta who had anorexia and was all skin and bones.
The fear of what she might think consumed me.
This wasn’t like with Lynn, where I could wake up from a nightmare and simply ask her, "Did I hit you in my sleep, or was that just in my dream?"
With Lynn, there was trust.
But this was different.
I left the next day, hugging her goodbye. But I felt ashamed. Because of the shame that I began to carry, I didn’t think to ask for another moment with her.
That moment was the beginning of a new fear—the fear that someone might imagine that I could be violent. It would take many years, maybe a decade and a half for that fear to evaporate.
I was so frustrated that I had but one short glimpse of hope, connection, and closeness.
Back Out in the Cold
On my way back to Chapel Hill, it started snowing.
The ice and wind cut through my coat, through my skin, through the fragile layer of my dashed hopes that I had carried with me on that train that first brought me to see a lady.
I arrived in downtown Durham, exhausted, stressed, and desperate to get back to the shelter in Chapel Hill. But the buses that would go to Chapel Hill weren’t running.
I had no choice but to take the Durham bus as far as it would get me to Chapel Hill and then walk.
Carrying my two bags, I took bus 10 to the farthest point it would go on Highway 15-501, then walked for miles, uphill, through the wet, heavy snow.
At some point, another guy was walking in the same direction. He seemed safe, and we walked together, sharing the quiet misery of the storm.
But when we reached the border of Chapel Hill, I saw the Red Roof Inn and made a decision.
I would call my parents.
I would beg for a warm bed.
I entered the motel and asked for phone to call my family.
"Dad, please. I’m soaked, I’m exhausted. I just need a place to sleep tonight."
His response was cold, emotionless, detached.
"No."
I was numb.
Not from the cold outside, but from the realization that nothing I said would ever make him care.
I had no choice but to keep walking.
Blisters formed on my wet feet. My hands were numb.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
When I finally arrived at the shelter, I knocked on the door, praying they would let me in.
They did.
For a few precious hours, I had a warm bed.
But as dawn came and breakfast ended, I was back out in the cold.
Alone. Again.