This chapter is going to cover a great deal. The main focus of this book will be those years between 1990 and 2000. This was a time of great career and personal success and happiness for me. This is a book that is about Lynn Denise Krupey, my first wife, as much as it is about me. Without Lynn's support, I would never have accomplished any of what I accomplished in my life when I was successful.

This chapter begins with me in a psychiatric hospital and then I will take you back in time to that first date with Lynn on July 4, 1992. There is more to tell than just that but this is a framework for the book overall.

So, it was approaching midnight on December 11, 2019.

Suicide became the only idea that was on my mind. As Anne Sexton said in 'Wanting to Die,'

"But suicides speak in a special language

Like carpenters, they want to know which tools

They never ask why build."

I was no longer asking "why build?" I had the clearest sense of purpose in my life. I didn't want anyone to know what I was going to do. The tools were pills... either that or a noose that I would have to hang somewhere. I had started drinking rum, a good enough alcoholic beverage to help me get the nerve up to do this.

My cousin Karen had hanged herself. That's how she ended her life. Hmm. I wondered how I would do that.

"There is nothing that can be done now," they said. It seemed like they were speaking about my fate and all my hopes and dreams. My thinking wasn't entirely clear but I heard that there was nothing that could be done.

Dear reader, do you care to know what it is that brought me to this point? Do you care?

This wasn't a cry for help. I had no hope or expectation that things could get better.

My perception of the world during this time was that it was exceedingly dark, cold, and devoid of human compassion.

This is the true story that an editor for a horror magazine didn't want me to write. The editor thought I was giving a green light to suicide and so I was encouraged to write something different. The editor wanted a story that had some sense of hope in it. However, at the time of these events back in December of 2019, I felt no hope.

Obviously, I didn't succeed or you wouldn't be reading this right now.

Anyway, it was December 11, 2019. I had been drinking lots of rum and taking some pills. My mind was blurry and the hours were unclear to me.

At some point, I decided to pass on an apology to my ex-wife Elee for inviting her to come to America. She could have been a doctor in Iran and would have been successful. Instead, she came here for love and things never worked out for me or for us.

I started to text her a message.

I thought, "she won't find this out until after I am dead."

Before I knew it I heard a knock at the door. It was the police. It was some time early in the morning on Thursday the 12th. Elee had gotten the message sooner than I expected and/or I was unaware of the time when I was texting her.

I was crying and extremely distraught. The police seemed nice now as they spoke to me. It wasn't always like this. The entire reason for my suicidal preoccupation was due to an injustice that happened many years ago.

For all practical purposes, I was still living in a virtual prison. I haven't been free since those events. It wasn't an event that happened long ago and ended. The shroud of injustice hung over me and it seemed there was no escape.

I had come to believe that those things that made life meaningful for me could not be obtained with the (false) criminal record... because not everyone knows that the criminal record, the accusations, were false.

My dream had been realized long ago. It was a dream of being a psychotherapist and I believed that in order to have that dream and live that dream, people need to trust you. I had been falsely convicted of a violent felony and so I couldn't imagine anyone would trust me to be their psychotherapist.

I couldn't imagine anyone would trust me to work with people at all. not even as a volunteer. That scenario was intolerable. And there was nothing that could be done. That's what the lawyers with Pre-Paid legal services told me... not that they couldn't help but nothing could be done by anyone, ever.

This unbearable reality seemed inescapable other than by death.

Ana had victimized me on October 1, 2004, and following that she drove to the police station and falsely claimed that I attacked her. I had been the victim of a brutal and bloody assault.

I had called 911 as every victim does and while the first responders from the police department had treated me like the victim that I was, I would later end up being interrogated for hours by detectives at the same police station. Then they put me, the victim, in jail, and let the perpetrator go free.

This was before I saw the TV movie about Ted Bundy entitled "Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile." Maybe you, dear reader, will understand in the reading of this story that what Ana did to me was extremely wicked, shockingly evil, and vile. For to destroy the life, the hopes and dreams of someone for as long as they will live is an act that is evil beyond imagination.

I know that some people are currently in a physical and literal prison and their fate might seem worse. This is where I ask you to open your hearts and listen to this story with empathy and compassion.

The feeling of not being understood added to my sense of isolation and desolation. It was another trigger that made me want to end my life, to escape from this existence.

I had carried this weight for so long and I couldn't do that any longer. It was unbearable. I was so alone.

Hours later, I had tried to convince the doctors at the Emergency Department that I was not really suicidal... that the number of drugs that I had taken was not a lethal dose.

So, I could go home, right?

No. To be honest, if that had happened, if they had let me go, this book would never have been written.

You might wonder what would drive a person to become suicidal. Part of it was alluded to above. I said I had a career that meant a great deal to me and it seemed to me that I would NEVER get to pursue those activities that made life so meaningful to me. However, there is another reason why I was so desperately depressed.

You see I was in love. I had the love of a girl. That had seemed miraculous.

Her name was Lynn. This book is as much about Lynn as it is about me - other than the parts of the book that occur before Lynn was in the picture and after she was no longer in the picture.

Again, nothing that I accomplished would have been possible without the support and nurturance that Lynn offered. I must have helped hundreds.

I arrived on the scene, the poetry scene, in Wilmington in April of 1992. I was sharing poems about a love that I had and the grief that I felt following the tragic loss of that love. Celta was my first love and she had died within a year of entering my life.

It was on New Year's day of 1991 that I learned that Celta had died the previous night.

I arrived on the scene as it were with poems about Celta, my love for Celta, and the loss.

In the back of my mind, I still had plans for becoming a psychotherapist by getting a Master of Social Work (MSW) degree.

So, bear with me, dear reader, we are jumping around a bit but there is a purpose to this. We started with me being suicidal in December of 2019. I said that the reason for that was partly because of a great injustice.

Now I want to tell you about a scene where things are about to go really well for me in my career and life journey.

As I mentioned, this book is also about Lynn Denise Krupey.

Let's jump back in time now...

July 4, 1992. Nearly three months since I moved to Wilmington, North Carolina.

I was with Lynn.

There is a jetty that runs out to a tiny island south of Carolina Beach where the Cape Fear River meets the ocean. It is the farthest point south if you drive down Highway 421/Carolina Beach Road from Wilmington, North Carolina.

It was our first date. Sort of. If you can call it that way.

Since I was driving, I asked if she wanted to go to this scenic spot that I had selected and suggested. I had suggested that we could walk out on this jetty toward a tiny little island. I believed I had heard it was an animal conservatory.

She agreed.

So, I parked the car near the beach and near that jetty.

The water gently washes against and over the rocks but if the tide is low, like today, we could walk out to the island.

The jetty is not on the open ocean, so the waves only gently lap against the beach and the rocks that form the jetty. It is just a bunch of rocks that have been stacked against one another to make a bridge of sorts. There is pavement that is layered on top of the stack of rocks that makes this a jetty.

A photo of one such jetty/bridge is shown below.

I had just moved to Wilmington in April and I wanted to get to know the people there. So, I started attending poetry reading sessions. They were held at the lounge on the fourth floor of the convention center which overlooks Cape Fear River.

There was something serene about the setting that made it comfortable for me to get up in front of a group of people and read my poetry. The sun would reflect across the Cape Fear River casting the soft rays into the room. Dusty, the emcee for the poetry reading sessions who works at the center, made it easier too. She had that magical quality of attending to the guests of the Convention Center whether they were there for the poetry or not. Her caring way was equivalent to that of a loving mother who always made me feel welcomed and comfortable.

Sharing my poetry in front of a group was an impossible accomplishment. As a psychotherapist, I would have to lead therapy groups so being able to read my poetry to a group was perfect evidence of my ability to accomplish something that had seemed impossible. My ability to get up in front of a room of people every week was an amazing feat. This was something I never had the guts to do when I was younger. I never wanted to place myself at the center of attention.

I would see Lynn every Sunday at the poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center. For me, she stood out among all the attendees that were present there. She was thin but shapely.

Cystic Fibrosis – a genetic disease. I overheard her talking about that. That was why she was coughing all the time.

I had come sharing poems about Celta, someone I had loved, and lost. I wasn't expecting to make a romantic connection. Something about Lynn caught my attention.

What was it about her? Did I already think that she was the most beautiful girl imaginable? Do I dare admit to myself that I am entertaining such irrational thoughts? I never thought of it as some kind of love-at-first-sight but there was something about her that intrigued me.

Her voice was hypnotic and alluring. She had all the things that one considers in feminine beauty and shape or so it seemed to me early on. She seemed perfect. I loved her voice - both when she was at the microphone and when I was close to her. And her face, her skin, her legs seemed like gentle features I might have created in my own mind if I had the imagination to do such a thing.

Yet, I noticed she was alone. I guess that was one of the reasons why I was so lucky.

It took me some three months to find the courage and the right words to ask her out. I waited to see if she already had someone else. I wanted to avoid being rejected. I can still feel the fear now as I write this some three decades later. I guess that was a sign of how much I wanted this to work out. It was scary.

Asking Lynn if she would spend time with me was an accomplishment.

So, here we are, at this gentle beach on July 4th.

I did not expect the pavement to be this slippery. It was a cause of concern for me but not because I was afraid of falling. It was imperative that I must not let Lynn slip and risk bruising or scratching her perfect skin. Putting my nervousness aside, I offered my hand.

She took my hand.

She took my hand!

Wow!

You must be thinking that I am exaggerating but this was amazing! Her gentle hand around mine!

"Do you want to keep going?" I asked.

"Sure," she said, pausing to take in the scene with me. Her straight blonde hair swayed in the gentle wind.

We walked a little further but then decided that this was getting too slippery. And dangerous.

What's next, I thought. Jean works at Fort Fischer, a Civil War museum site, and they have a tour around the historic site. We could go there.

It was an amazing day. The first of an amazing weekend that we would spend together.

We saw the fireworks in downtown Wilmington that night, over the Cape Fear River and near the Battleship. My friends regarded me as a pacifist. I suppose Lynn was too.

After the fireworks, we were walking back to the car, passing by the place where she worked along the way. Some co-worker asked her if I was her boyfriend. "No, we are just friends," she said.

Darn. I thought this was a date. Nevertheless, we were still just friends.

I can wait.

It was the 4th of July 1992, and everything would change from this day forward.

Time has a way of changing fates. We became more than just friends. Over time, we fell madly and passionately in love. Two years after this day in July of 1992, we were picking out an engagement ring for her.

Oh, and I was in graduate school in Social Work. Everything was falling into place. It was perfect.

More than that, I felt things I never knew I would or could feel. It is impossible to comprehend what I felt that day when she first held my hand.

The world was full of hope for me. Anything seemed possible. I had clear ideas about what I wanted and where I was going. So, while it might seem that this was just about my social life and making friends, it was also a vision of life for me in some sense of the bigger picture of what really matters to me.

We would get a home together north of Wilmington on Brucemont Drive. Her mother bought the home and we rented it from her.

I became successful in social work. I became a Licensed Clinical Social Worker - a psychotherapist. I opened my own private practice. I gained respect from my colleagues who told me that Wilmington was a saturated market, meaning there was no need for an additional therapist in the area. The person who warned me that Wilmington was a saturated market and that an additional therapist is not needed had the best of intentions, but it was so great to know that despite all the challenges I found success.

I saw a life with Lynn Denise Krupey. I proved to myself that I could accomplish my dreams. It was all built around me and my family - meaning around Lynn and me; we were a family - the two of us.

I dedicated my life to helping others.

I could not imagine anything different or anything better than this other than more of the same.

Halfway through 2000, a meteor would come crashing down on this life I had tirelessly built upon. The shocking events that began to transpire that year would incinerate everything in my world leaving ashes to blot out the sky. I saw only darkness, the fog of ashes blowing fragments of the familiar home, the furnishings, the words, and dreams.

I was in desperate need of compassion, empathy, kindness, and love but I wasn't thinking too clearly about where to look for these things and where to find them.