File No State Of North Carolina: Fill & Download for Free

I’m writing this answer because I assume a few hundred people a year find themselves in this situation and they won’t know what to do. I’m writing a long answer giving all the details so if they search for similar stories using Google they might find this and be heartened by it.Super hard? Yes, I’m afraid so. But sometimes it’s the only option. Thanks, self, for asking! I did it, and it felt like I went through all nine circles of hell in the process. But if it absolutely must be done, here’s the drill:If only I knew then in 2008 what I know now in 2019, what tales my past self would whisper to my future self. Ghostly tales told with a flashlight shining up under my chin in dark of night. Chilling tales. Getting a bond title in North Carolina is scary.My story isn’t even all that weird—it’s just a hair too weird to get a free and clear title in North Carolina, so that’s why the bonded title. I bought a cheap used car in 2008 on finance in a debt shared by my ex and me, in Augusta, Georgia. A 2005 Scion.[1] Nothing to write home about, but it’ll probably run trouble free for years. About 6 months later in the fall of that year, my first marriage became irretrievably broken and I moved out and filed for divorce, stipulating that the Scion went to me and the Korean hatchback went to my ex husband, because even at that time our bank accounts were relatively separate and that’s who was paying for (and driving) what. Seemed fair.For reasons too complicated to get thoroughly into, a 500 dollar friendly divorce turned into a 3,000 dollar ex parte affair. If I had a single dollar for every time I said “ex parte” to some paeon on the phone in the course of trying to title this car, I could’ve bought at least a used Forester free and clear from the salvage lot on Patton Ave in Asheville. Or at least a moped.So the ex parte divorce was granted in Georgia in February, 2009, but at that time I was TDY in DC, preparing to PCS to Africa indefinitely, and the registration was still current in mine and my ex husband’s name in Georgia.I remained overseas for a long time. Years, actually. Pay was good. I paid off the car lickety split. If there ever was a release of lien, though, the bank sent from the bank to a dead mailbox in a suburb of Augusta, outside of Ft. Gordon. My ex husband and I both long gone, and purposefully not talking.After a period of time, life overseas started to feel more and more untenable to me and I quit my job and moved nearby family in North Carolina. Problem was that even though I had perfectly valid divorce papers that had the car transfer in writing, I’d have needed to remain in Georgia with a good lien release to actually transfer the car to me. I had neither.And at this point, driving this stupid car to Georgia (risking arrest along the way for a long-dead plate in the process) and hiring a lawyer to explain why I had Georgia title but no Georgia residency, then getting the title and filling out additional paperwork to transfer the title to North Carolina for a car registration was going to cost literally more than the car was worth.I had a large piece of metal in my driveway that I couldn’t get rid of. I couldn’t sell it. I couldn’t donate it for a tax deduction. Most junkyards wouldn’t take it. I was worried that if I left it unlocked on the bad side of town the police might find it and try to return it to me. No good!So I asked some questions on Quora:How do you register a car without a title in North Carolina?Why is it so hard to register your car if you don't have the title?If you were deeded a car in a divorce, how do you get a copy of the title?Can you donate a car without a title to a charity such as the Salvation Army or Goodwill in the United States?Is there any state where I can register my car in a single day without a title?What happens if you abandon a vehicle in North Carolina and do not attempt to retrieve it?In the process I found out (for the very first time) that “bond” titles were thing that you could do if you weren’t able to get a regular title for a car due to extraordinary circumstances. Sounds good. So I decided to take a week off of work (paid vacation) and see if I couldn’t figure out how to pull this off at my leisure.I also happen to be privy to some locals-only information that the NC DMV Tag office at Marshall, NC is simply superb and worth the trip if you live within an hour of there. You’ll never have a nicer, cozier experience at a DMV everywhere. 10/10 would go again! Seriously they’re super sweet. Any indictment of the system forthcoming comes with only the very nicest things to say about its frontline support team. Let’s give underappreciated bureaucrats and civil servants a well-deserved ovation!This is an image from their facebook page, to give you an idea about how small-town Pinteresty cute these Marshall DMV folks are.Day 1 of my week off work. Research required documents from the DMV.First thing I did was definitively rule out getting a “straight” title. Based on the cost of the required steps and the resale value of the car (1500–2000) it was out of the question.Second thing I did was look up what a “bond” title would require (mind you I’m not a used car salesperson and I don’t do this for a living)You need a affidavit of facts as to how you found yourself in this ridiculous situation. This has to be notarized. The license and theft inspector will need to see it filled out before they do their report (more on this later)You will need a licence and theft inspection certificate from the law enforcement arm of the DMV.To get this, I showed them my divorce decree putting the car in my name and a replacement “release of lien” letter notarized from my former lienholder, USAA. The also accepted a (non-notarized) version of the affidavit of facts for a missing title document.I scheduled a visit ahead of time for the License and Tag office to come to my house to inspect the car since it was technically inoperable due to a long-expired Georgia tag. They seem to operate on a first-come first-serve schedule. This visit took me 2 weeks to set up. I had to say “ex parte” and “overseas” and “I have all the papers” many times over the phone to make it happen.Day 2 of my week:Contact Marshall DMV via facebook to find out the tax value of my car ($2470) so I can ask my insurer for a surety bond that covers 1.5 times that.FYI: in North carolina basically all surety bonds are $100 dollars.Meet with the license and theft inspector at my home and get him to fill out a form saying he saw my car and didn’t think it seemed to be stolen (based on documents I gave him proving definitively it was mine)Day 3 of my week:Call my auto insurers (also USAA—the GREATEST BANK EVER) to see about getting a surety or indemnity bond as required by the State of NC.End up getting routed to the financial investment office at USAA due to my saying “bond” over the automated phone systemGet routed back to insurance. Talk to a nice lady who asks me to write a bunch of “holographic” affidavits and scan them to her explaining what happened to the original title.Scanning documents is freakin’ hard. Be smart and get u a cam scanner or similar smartphone app on Google Play, or just do what I ended up doing (later) and fax them. Scanning is bullshit. Oy.Scan the same divorce and DMV documents 5–6 times and email them again and again, and again, and………again. Because “the edges look cut off on Page 6”Find out that the MVR-92 H form has to be filled out in front of a notary in order for the bond to be effective.Tell the representative “no, I can’t get my ex husband to handwrite an affidavit saying he let me have the car. It’s in the dang divorce decree already and as much as I’m fond of the poor guy, it’s not like he’s in my rolodex these days. That ship has sailed. (ex parte, ex parte, ex parte, ex parte)”The bond is 100 bucks and I’ve just spent 6.5 hours on the phone with an insurance salesman (saleswoman already went home for the night—just keep saying “ex parte, ex parte, ex parte” stick to your guns) trying to sort this out. Poor guy probably works on commission and is learning less than the saddest, shittiest Quora Partner from my business with him. I actually feel bad for him. But this simply has to be done. I can’t afford to keep this car unregistered anymore.Day 4Wake up at 7:00 AM. Futz around the house for a bit. Drive to the Marshall DMV to get the MVR-92 H notarized, per instructions.Field several further requests from bonding agency to resend different pdfs and JPGs of relevant documents. It’s a few hundred emails and photographs of documents, literally. It takes hours.Pay 5 dollars per notarized signature (total: 15 dollars)Pay 100 dollars for bond title as expected (after spending an additional 20 dollars at the UPS store to actually FAX documents in since the scans and photos weren’t cutting it)Get fax receipt at 4:30 PM from UPS store.Drive to the nearest tag office. Find out that the bond on tax value should not have been issued on a conversation “over the phone” smile real nice. It’s 4:59. The office closes at 5. The lady takes it easy on you for once.Correct your notarized affidavit because you messed it up a bit (another 5 bucks for renotarization)Show them all your other collected documents.Choose a plate—”In God We Trust”, “First in Freedom”, or “First in Flight”. As an abstaining nontheist Quaker I went with “First in Flight,” natch, and wondered if the license plate lady was judging me the whole time for not saying “In God We Trust”.I asked about a “Partially Disabled Veteran” plate and got told “yes, but we don’t keep those in stock”. I plan on going back in a bit and changing out for one, though, just in case my partial disability is relevant to anyone who would otherwise wish to pull me over for bad driving. We take what we can get! Every little bit helps!Pay another 199 dollars and a few cents for a legit NC plate (handed to me literally over the effing counter) with a year to get my car emissions inspection in order (inshallah).Get let out of the DMV office by a security guard, long after the doors were finally locked for the evening.Day 5–7Go camping and drink a fuck ton of cheap bourbon and a dude who enjoys hanging out with me sometimes. Woo hoo!In conclusion: an experience I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, made brighter by a few kind souls. Good learning and preparation for when I plan to bring the famed Toyota Tacoma from California, NC side. Thanks for reading!Footnotes[1] http://Annika Peacock's answer to What type of car do you drive and what does that say about you? (https://www.quora.com/What-type-of-car-do-you-drive-and-what-does-that-say-about-you/answer/Annika-Peacock#)

Depends. This is a complicated situation, and you need an attorney familiar with the testacy and intestacy laws in your jurisdiction. DO NOT take the word of people on Quora, several of the answers I have seen here, in a bare perusal of a just a few answers, are flat wrong. GET AN ATTORNEY.Everything from here on out assumes you are in the US. Nothing here is to be construed as legal advice or solicitation for the provision of professional services. I am not your attorney. You are not my client. I am a rando on the internet, and this discussion is for entertainment purposes only. I’m going to talk a lot about attorneys in this answer, but there’s some practical non-attorney advice too. However, you need to talk to an attorney.[Edit 03/25/2021: I just reread the question, and want to clarify: if OP just wants to sue your aunt “for keeping you in the dark,” and not because you believe you might have an inheritance, the answer is NO. Hell No. Don’t abuse the system or waste an attorney’s time because you have hurt feelings. End edit.]GET A PROFESSIONAL OPINION from a qualified licensed attorney in the jurisdiction where the estate would have been/was probated. If your grandmother lived in Florida, and you live in North Carolina, you’ll need an attorney in Florida, preferably in the same county where she lived. If, on the other hand, you both lived in the same state, an attorney close to you can at least give you the low-down in your state.Lawyers aren’t free, and you shouldn’t expect them to be. However, usually the first hour is relatively inexpensive, or in some cases, free. You should expect to pay somewhere between $0 and $150 for a one hour interview/consult, more on the coasts or in large firms. The interview can be conducted over zoom if necessary. If you believe the estates are substantial, and you may be entitled to a quite a bit, pay the money for a good, qualified, attorney’s opinion, which can be $500 or more. You can do some legwork to move things along.Vetting the attorney. You want someone who does probate litigation, not just your standard probate. You generally do not want an trust and estates attorney, unless that attorney litigates. Ask when you are calling for appointments. In a small town, you may not have much choice, but in larger adjacent towns, you will. You do not have to go with a big firm to get a good attorney. Most attorneys who do estate work work for fairly small firms (however, if you genuinely believe it may be multi-millions of dollars, consider a larger firm). You can interview with multiple attorneys before choosing one, however, litigating an estate is somewhat specialized, and depending where you are, there may not be many choices.Some common fallacies: I mention these because I barely looked at the answers and saw several incorrect statements:Just because your parent/grandparent may be deceased does not mean you (and/or your siblings and/or cousins) are not entitled to some part of the estate, will or no will.Just because you are not named in the will does not mean you cannot/should not inherit.Even if your aunt had many siblings, and all of them are deceased, does not mean your aunt takes everything—a common fallacy which she may herself believe. She might take everything under a will, but that’s actually pretty rare. If there is no will, she does not take everything.If your parent/grandparent who would be the “natural” object of your grandmother/great-grandmother’s bounty is still living, it is more likely that person would inherit than you. Not always though. My unmarried aunt decided to leave her estate to the first born child of the first born child of the first born child of each of her siblings, which caused all kinds of headaches.Do it yourself probate. It is not uncommon, at least in my state, for people to probate wills or deal with an intestate situation (no will) without the help of an attorney. If your aunt did not get proper help, it is possible she did things incorrectly without knowing, it happens a lot, especially in states with complicated inheritance and probate laws.Do not assume without more that your aunt is intentionally trying to disinherit you. Although that is certainly possible, it happens more than you would believe (for a well-known example, the most recent ex-president attempted to defraud both his brother, possibly other siblings, and multiple nieces/nephews of their substantial inheritances from his/their parents, and did a pretty good job of it, too). My point is, your aunt may believe she has done everything correctly, especially if she didn’t get any legal advice. Do-it-yourselfers keep lawyers in business, frankly. Go talk to an attorney.Some basic legwork you can do yourself. Some attorneys will do this for you for free or just the cost of the paper, before you come to the appointment, ask. They are far more likely to get everything that they need than you are. You are not required to have any of the paperwork mentioned below, but it will make it easier for the attorney to tell you what you [don’t] want to know during the initial session.Testate. If either your grandmother or great-grandmother or both left wills, those wills were (probably) probated. It will make it easier for your attorney to give you advice if he has copies in front of him, and you can probably get copies cheaper than he will charge. (however, trust me when I say this, it’s generally a huge hassle, and if you can afford to have the attorney do it, do that). You can get copies of the wills, as probated, and any other paperwork from the case, at the county courthouse where your deceased relative lived. You do not need to be named in the will to get a copy, these are public records.Call and ask if the records are available electronically, they are in most cities of any size. If yes, you can print an uncertified copy off for a few dollars at most. You will want copies of both wills, and any other paperwork in the file.If you must go in person or by mail, ask for instructions. Take or provide a credit card or take cash. There will be a per page charge, and you may as well pony up for a certified copy up front if you are in person or by mail. A certified copy will be between $3 and $10 a page, depending on where you live. You don’t need certified copies of anything but the wills, all the rest of the copies can be uncertified, but will still likely be between fifty cents and a dollar per page, more in some jurisdictions (yes, it’s highway robbery).Intestate. If your grandmother/great grandmother did not leave wills (which will be part of the probate paperwork at the court), then go see an attorney and ask about the line of succession, and if you are entitled to any part of the estate. As noted above, just because your parent/grandparent may be deceased does not mean you are not entitled to some part of the estate. And in fact, without a will, it is more likely that you (or your still living grandparent/parent) should get some portion of the estate.Real estate. You can usually go on-line (at least in my state) at the county level and see what happened to the real estate (granny’s house, etc). In some states, you may be able to see what happened to the cars, as well. It is possible that your aunt inherited automatically at your grandmother’s death, this may or may not be fraudulent. See an attorney. The point here isn’t to do the attorney’s work for him, the point here is to be as informed as possible when you go to the appointment. If you can’t or don’t know how to find out, don’t worry about it, the attorney can.Bank accounts and life insurance. You probably won’t be able to get copies of this stuff without filing a lawsuit. These go to the named beneficiaries, or in joint accounts, to the joint holder. Wills are (nearly) irrelevant. So if your aunt was named alone, she takes it all. It is really common for people to unintentionally disinherit their intended inheritors by not updating signature cards, or putting one sibling (in this case your aunt) on the signature card to help take care of bills or some such. That sibling (or step-parent or non-family caretaker) inherits the checking account. There are almost no exceptions to this. This can happen with ANY kind of bank account, insurance account, stock account, retirement account, etc. In these events, you have to show fraud (which is possible, but difficult).A trust. If your grandmother/great-grandmother/grandfather(s) left things in a trust, it’s harder. There will be very little paperwork publicly available. However, it is possible to force things, and for this you will probably have to hire an attorney (although sometimes the trustee and/or trustee’s attorney will cooperate, which makes things easier).The ugly truth. I want to make clear I am not discouraging you, because property and heirlooms should be distributed either according to the law, or according to the wishes of the deceased. Furthermore, it is possible to find out quite a bit through an attorney without ever letting your aunt or other family members know that you are investigating.But you should be aware that once you decide to go down the litigation path, and take the steps to empower an attorney to actually bring suit, things will get ugly. This is true especially if she is trying to defraud you, but there are No. Exceptions. This will get ugly.Your other family members (cousins, siblings, whatever) will take sides. Her children will definitely take her side. A permanent and irreparable rift in the family can occur (which arguably, your aunt—or even your great-grandmother—created, not you, but you’re going to get the blame).I’m not saying don’t do it. I’m saying, you need to be emotionally prepared to fully sever ties with family. This kind of litigation never ends happily. Law school textbooks are full of sister vs. brother, grandkids vs. uncles, dad’s kids from second marriage vs. dad’s kids from the first marriage, step-mother vs. dad’s kids, etc. It rips families apart. It’s generally worse than an acrimonious divorce. And the more money there is, the worse it is.Again, I believe that if you are entitled to part of a substantial (to you) inheritance, you should at least go forward with a basic investigation. Just a warning. Be prepared for the acrimonious fallout, or don’t do it. Just saying.There are going to be people who tell you to save money and just do it yourself. These people are idiots. Do not listen to them. Get an attorney.AND DISCLAIMER: Nothing here is to be construed as legal advice or solicitation for the provision of professional services. I am not your attorney. You are not my client. I am just a rando on the internet, and this discussion is for entertainment purposes only. GET A PROFESSIONAL OPINION from a qualified licensed attorney in the appropriate jurisdiction.

Everything written here is true. Some details are left out because they are ‘identifiers’ . . . This is answer is also rather long so, please bear with me.I feel that I am the cause of someone I loved (and still do love) wasting their life and could have prevented their death. What I am about to write answers many of the questions that I see here on Quora. It answers, “What is an example of one wasting their life?”, not so much as a set of examples of one wasting their life but, for me, it is an example of a life wasted. It is a ‘tale’ of two lives wasted and thus answering, “Do you think that you have lived up to your life’s potential?” For me this answers, “What is your life’s biggest regret?” Everything here has made me cry the hardest, feel a bitter rage and a hatred that I never thought emotionally possible. It looks at all my ‘what ifs’? I am also a recovering anorexic. At one point at the age of 30, I stood 5′10″ and 118 pounds. I saw nothing wrong when I looked in the mirror. Even now, If I get emotionally stressed, I can lose 12 pounds within a one week period.I do not know if the family of the man mentioned prominently at the end of this account are a part of the Quora family but, I do know that they utilize Facebook. It is with much trepidation that this is written so, in order to not potentially cause pain for his family, his initials will be used only. Trying to keep this brief so as to not bore any who may wish to read this is difficult. Adding what I call ‘the backstory’ is important for showing how a few poor decisions on my part has led to the answer at hand. ‘The Backstory’ sort of shows how ‘wasting one’s life can become another’s ‘life isn’t fair’, leading to ‘a biggest regret’ culminating in an interpersonal tangency of two ‘lost souls’; one being mine.THE BACKSTORY - A Little About MeThe majority of my formative years were spent growing up in Hawaii. Truly life was perfect. I was well liked and considered to be ‘cute’. Had lots of friends and virtually no problems. I was very shy but, very happy. People reached out to me at school and in my faith for friendship. Fast forward, my family moved to the mainland. Paula, my older sister, became a substitute for the friends that I had left in Hawaii. She took me everywhere with her. She was the poster child for gregarious and made friends easily. My associations at school and at our religious services was due to her popularity. Unfortunately for me, she was no fan of the mainland and she also too, wanted to graduate with her high school class so, she moved back to Hawaii. Overnight, there were few to no friends, I was not considered to be attractive or friend worthy, my big sister was gone and I was too young (a freshman) to move back to what was familiar and kind. thank God for Paula Jo Hamm, Gina Holmes, Patti Hammer, Melissa Sharp and my baby sister, who was 8 years younger than me. Those were 4 girls who were willing to eat lunch with me and never made a disparaging remark. 43 years later, I remember their names and kindness. This was high school. Then we moved again to the San Diego area . . .People who shared my faith did not reach out to me and actually said horrible things to me about my dark skin coloring. Imagine being an already self conscious 15 year old girl and an adult male sitting down next to you during a religious service and saying for whatever reason, “I wouldn’t marry someone as black as you.” I was stunned, hurt and wondered what I had done to provoke this cruel comment. I did not even know this person. My very crazy mom almost ‘lost her religion’. She said, “I want to beat his ass”. Her whispered comment made me laugh hysterically. I had to walk out of the services. I truly believed that God would help this man see ‘the light’ (or else my mom’s threatened throttling would make him see ‘stars’).Attitudes and comments like this male’s was displayed toward me not too infrequently. I retreated more into my shy nature and lost weight. I was always thin but, became even thinner and very, very sad. My long, below the shoulder length hair fell out. I was no longer smiling and happy. Back in the 70’s, not a lot was known about the ‘thinness’ that I was experiencing and therefore went virtually ignored. I started out being 5′10 and 160 pounds at the age of 15 and was now 150. I found solace in that I was scholastically, a very good student. I ran track, participated in my high school speech and debate teams and won college scholarships.Yes, I was raised in a faith based family. My mother was Christian, my father was not. I embraced both of their ideologies out of both respect and love, accompanied by the knowledge that they would never steer me wrong. I did not smoke, drink, do drugs or engage in premarital sexual relations. My plan was to use my lifestyle and collegiate education to become a missionary. I had plans!By the age of 25, I had only been on two dates (partly due to my ethnicity and probably also due to my slender, non-curvy build) I was down to 140 pounds. I could not have imagined being married to someone who did not share my beliefs or my goals. Yet, I tried to be kind, generous and loving to everyone whether they shared my faith or not. I took on responsibilities within my faith. How naive I was. This naivety caused me problems at times and I recognized that. Naivety can also lead to poor choices in one’s life but, yet for the most part, my choices and decisions were fairly well placed.What I did not recognize was how my naivety could be used against me by people who claimed to believe and worship as me. The emotional pain inflicted on me by the ‘leaders’ in my faith is still felt in my being, my very soul today. I was lied on by the wife of one of these leaders, was never allowed to confront her and scripturally ‘crucified’ for trying to help others (folks who came to me for help on matters that on the surface seemed innocent enough). I for the life of me to this day cannot figure out what I did wrong. I truly thought that I was doing everything right.My chances of becoming a missionary were now gone. I had been stripped of the responsibilities that I taken on for my faith. These leaders were telling my mother how horrible I was and that I should be kicked out the house because of my unrepentant attitude( I cry as I write this). My mother stood up for me and said that I had done nothing wrong and it was they that needed the attitude adjustment. Wanting to spare my mother spiritual grief, as-well-as trying to escape the verbal abuse from these truly evil, racist men, I moved out. I moved to Orange County, California. I was so unprepared for life on my own. I prayed daily, sometimes hourly for help but, help never came. I was now feeling bitter rage toward these men. I made a conscious decision to NEVER marry a man that shared my religion. I felt if a Christian man can do this to me, what worse could a non-Christian man do?In the OC, I met a very nice Radiologist. He would seek me out to have conversations. Mind you, I did not work in Radiology. He felt familiar and comforting at the same time. I soon discovered that he was a senior when I was a junior at the same high school. He had recognized me when I started working at the hospital and had started seeking me out to get to know me. On one occasion, he stated that he liked the way I took care of the children and that I would make a great mom (ultimate compliment to me). He then nonchalantly mentioned that he had noticed me in high school but, that he didn’t think that I would be interested in him because we were of different hues and our faiths were different.Well, at this point of my life the different faiths defense on my end had lost the war. I proceeded to enjoy activities that I had never experienced before. Went to the opera for the first time. Loved it! Went to the Orange County Amphitheatre for probably what was the last time the Rat Pack would perform together. It was wonderful. Rode in a BMW for the first time. My fellow nurses were ‘jealous’. He was kind, non-judgmental and respectful of my desire to remain chaste until I married. He enjoyed my cooking (and for some reason kept encouraging me to eat more :). Life was good.But, now his residency was ending. He had a job lined up. He accepted a position in the very town that I had left. I cried. I could not envision myself ever going back to that place, not even to visit, much less to live there. And then, oh my God, what would happen to me? Now, I would be married to someone outside of my faith which is considered to be just as bad as blasphemy. While he genuinely respected my faith, he could not understand my fears related to my faith. He thought that I was being irrational and literally told me, “____ them. No one in any religion would be causing me this type of anxiety.” I did not ask him, nor did I expect him to try to get another job elsewhere. He just didn’t understand. Once again, I ran as fast as I could. I bolted, and I mean bolted from him as fast as possible. He eventually married someone that he is still married to till this day.At another facility, I met someone whom I eventually became engaged to. He was unfortunately, horribly abusive. He converted to my faith and became even more abusive. He destroyed things in my apartment, things that could never be replaced. He would come on my in-patient nursing unit and physically drag me off the floor. What’s worse, he was destroying my self esteem. I started once again to lose weight. I was 5′10 and 132 pounds. After several, very distasteful scenes, my manager, Linda, pulled me into her office and said she recognized that I was being verbally and physically abused. That if I was not strong enough to break off my relationship with him that the next time he came on the floor, she would have the hospital police haul him out. I honestly thought that all of what I was dealing with now was my pay-back for leaving the Radiologist the way I did; I felt this was my punishment.After he was confronted by security, he said that he had to re-think marrying me because I had not once but, twice disobeyed the tenets of our newly shared faith by dating non-believers. He told me that I was ugly and that no one else would want me. I made the decision for him. I gave him back everything he had ever given me, including what was left of a bar of soap. I put everything in two boxes and threw it on his mother’s front yard. Yeah, he was in his 40’s and living with his mother. She came outside and begged me not to leave him - that I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. I told her too late and that he was not the best thing that had ever happened to me. On that very day, I was moving to Los Angeles to work at UCLA. And yes, I was still praying that God would rescue me from all that was painful.I had now become the penultimate escape artist. I learned to run from my problems instead of staying and fighting. Working at UCLA brought me a semblance of peace and belonging; something that I had not felt for years . . .THE REAL STORY:Several years ago, a paper was written about codependent nurses and how a high percentage of us have a tendency to marry substance abusers, people abusers, just abusers period. I was and still am very co-dependant and ridiculously long-suffering. That is how I ended up in nursing. I really love taking care of people, giving attention to those who are ignored, loving those who are deemed unlovable. It is a struggle at times not to be an enabler. I do not think that there is a lot of literature about codependent physicians.Walking into UCLA was a tall, dangerously slender, woman with an ‘unconventional’ ethnic look. Feeling safe made me a tad happier and this led me to becoming a smiling, well-liked co-worker. I was developing friendships, taking pride in my appearance and developing a strong work ethic and performance. My manager, Suzanne Lawrence, MSN, told me that I could run circles around about half of the RN’s she knew. As an LVN, this truly boosted my self esteem and I threw myself into this newfound world, trying to be helpful and useful to all of the staff on the floor. The attending physicians let me go on rounds with them, the lab let me train with them, I got to take classes, was encouraged to go back to school to become an RN, got asked to speak at university classes, received recognition for outstanding care by patients and their families and started getting smiles from a certain neurology fellow named SCH. SCH was a bit of a brooder, a loner much like myself . . . I fell ‘in love’ with working psychiatry and neurology. I was positively known to administration, the UCLA police (have always loved cops and would take the officer’s food that I had cooked, I would often spend my lunch breaks with the campus police) , other academic departments on campus and just having a grand old time. I was even used for a segment of UCLA’s recruitment tape.:) The only negative was an occasional comment that I could use a few more calories in my diet.I mused that if I couldn’t save the world as a missionary, that I could save the world as a nurse. I could still help but, in a different way. I gained weight, I was now 145 pounds and my hair was growing back in. I wore a short bob and a perpetual smile. One of the psychiatry residents named James said, “You are really cute but, you could stand to eat a couple of burgers. How about I take you to ‘In-n-Out’ after your shift?” I had a great time. We developed a tenuous friendship. I did not want to seem presumptuous but, I questioned his marital status; I had seen him on campus with a woman and children. Turned out, what he wanted was to get to know me in order to introduce me to his brother. I told him that I was flattered but, that I had too many ‘issues’ to overcome before I could think about any serious relationships. It would not be fair to his brother to have to deal with my baggage. He made me laugh by saying, “My brother is an attorney; he is the poster child for baggage”.Over time, James broached the subject of me possibly having an eating disorder. As you can imagine, that did not go over well. I know that he sincerely cared about my well being, he trusted me and I trusted him. He and his wife let me babysit their boys. Then disaster struck again, a chance meeting with a couple of strangers brought to my attention that now, 5 years after I had left San Diego, these religious leaders were still talking about me in a negative way.I felt sick. I tried to call in to work and as fate would have it, James picked up the phone. He asked me if I was safe. I said yes. He asked me where I was at. I said at my apartment. He asked me if I felt comfortable coming to the campus. I said yes and that on foot it would take about 10 minutes. When I got to his office he made a quick phone call and then listened to my tearful rendition of my life story. He did not take any notes and softly said that because of our friendship that he really needed another person to hear what I had to say and that I should consider that I was anorexic due to psychological and physical trauma. I became hysterical. I ran out of his office only to be stopped by the UCLA police. They were waiting for me in the hallway. Because they knew me I think it was emotionally difficult for them to physically take me down to the ground to keep me from leaving. so, I somehow slipped by these two officers and got out to Westwood Blvd. only to see more armed UCLA cops waiting for me once again. I did not slip past this group. I couldn’t I was out-numbered. Everything was so surreal; I just could not believe this was actually happening to me. How humiliating it was to be physically taken, by people that I have talked to and eaten with, to a room with a one way mirror and no escape.And then it happened that bitter rage that I felt turned to hate. Having worked in the department, I knew the way psychiatrists worked. Nevertheless, I was not cooperative,would not talk, and would not look at James. He kept apologizing and left. In came Karen. She said that she had been watching me on the other side of the mirror. That she was disturbed by what she saw and that she was placing me on a 24 hour hold. All I remember was screaming, “No” and falling to the ground. After awakening on a locked unit, I was told that only my immediate family and designated workmates could visit me, that I was experiencing a psychogenic fugue state. It was only one day, what difference would it make? right? wrong. Horrible to now be an inpatient on a unit where the staff knows you and works with you. They knew the pain that I had had in San Diego. I had talked with some about it. And now I was stripped of all my personal belongings and what little self esteem that I had. All that was left were the socks on my feet, the panties I was wearing and a flimsy patient gown. I could not even have a pen without staff supervision.A Los Angeles County judge physically came to the hospital to see me as a 72 hour hold was coming to an end. Wait how had I gone from 24 - 72 hours and not even known it? She expressed concern that I would not talk with the psychiatrist Karen. She was able to almost verbatim relay to me what I had been dealing with emotionally since 1985. She decreed that my hold was now extended to two weeks and that No One, and I mean no one from my faith would be allowed within the NPI and H (the Neuropsychiatric Institute and Hospital) building. She said that she felt sorry for me that I was being held captive by the doctrine of a draconian religious group. She briefly relayed instances of others who had suffered as I was and they too shared my faith. She stated that she also knew that what I had suffered was not just emotional abuse but, physical abuse . . . how she knew, I do not know. She said that she was within her right to bring charges against these men. I told her that I could not live with that. So, my choices were laid before me: start cooperating with the psychiatrists or be declared incompetent and go to court. I chose the former. I broke down crying and was sedated with an injection of ativan.I figured that the whole hospital must know that I was on an in-patient locked unit by now. Then I knew it after a team of neurologists came on the unit and was looking at just one chart. The man I eventually married (Robert) was on that team. Later on that day, SCH strolled onto the unit and picked up the same colored chart and sat down and read it. Mind you, Robert and SCH did not get along. Robert continuously had negative things to say about SCH but, SCH never criticized Robert. To this day, I do not know what the animosity was about. I felt that Robert was jealous of SCH because of his looks, lifestyle, youth and wealth. SCH was two years old than me; Robert is 11. Anyhows, I watched and prayed (to no avail) that this was not my chart. I sat pensively watching his face as he put the chart back. He looked up and saw me watching him. He smiled, waved, put the chart down and had a staff member unlock the doors so he could exit the floor. My heart sank. The 2 week hold turned into a voluntary admission of 1 month. I knew that I had to cooperate or risk a permanent commitment to a county or state institution. I had to be watched at all my meals. I was not allowed to choose my diet. I had to eat these fattening snacks in order to gain privileges such as t.v. time. I could not use the bathroom for 2 hours after eating. If I had an emergency, the bathroom door had to stay open with two staff members in the bathroom with me. I became worried about paying my bills. The staff charted my concerns and said that social work would be in to see me. Days went by. Once again I couldn’t eat.Meanwhile, SCH was coming to the floor daily and picking up this different colored chart to read. Sometimes he would talk with the nurse assigned as my caregiver. I never saw him go to examine a patient so, I really became suspicious and anxious that he was examining my chart. Eventually, the social worker came to see me. Once again I was hysterical, my rent was overdue, my credit card bill was due and I had no idea what I had in checking and savings to cover my bills. I did not even have access to my checkbook. She told me to calm down and to concentrate on getting better; that an anonymous co-worker had paid up my rent and utilities for the next two months. I felt relieved but, was curious as to who had generously paid my bills. All I had to pay was my credit card bill. What a relief.After 1 month of a humiliating hell, I was finally allowed to leave the unit to go to work on the neurology unit. I had to weigh in on the floor that I worked on. The charge nurse was responsible for relaying my weight to the in-patient psych unit. Why psychiatry did not weigh me I do not know. Probably just another way to torture me. I had to eat lunch or dinner on the psych unit; not with my workmates. I had to return to the psych unit to use the restroom. At least I could leave the unit. I went from about 118? pounds to 124? pounds to a steady 135. After a total of two months of treatment, I was discharged. I had twice a week scheduled, outpatient visits with Karen and daily weigh ins at work. SCH was on the neurology floor daily and really went out of his way to say ‘hi’ and ask how I was feeling. I point blank asked him who the patient was that took him to the adult psych unit everyday; especially since he never went to a patient room. He sheepishly answered, “You”. I was not expecting that answer. Then I instinctively knew who had paid my rent and utilities.I was grateful and a friendship began to develop. As I healed, more of the professional male staff began to ‘chat’ with me. My nervousness and anxiety as being seen as The Anorexic slowly began to fade. I was now seeing Karen once a week, with every other day weigh ins. I saw James in the hallways a couple of times; it was awkward. He did try to talk with me but, on my end anyway, things were not the same. I moved, changed my number and avoided him. Then, it seemed like all of a sudden once again I was being invited to parties, football games, basketball games just all sorts of venues. An attending psychiatrist made me an offer that I had to refuse, an adorable medevac pilot turned out to be married, a neurosurgeon - well, I just have this unfounded prejudice and bias against neurosurgeons. But, the neurologists. The attendings and residents and fellows. Simpatico! Nirvana!SCH in particular was drooled over by the entire female staff (yep, entire) of our unit. Alas, he asked me out. He was tall (about 6′3″), very masculine (he played sports like golf and baseball so, was in great shape), sort of stilted and wooden at times, a man of few words but, a deep resonating southern drawl of a voice, with handsome movie star looks - think a cross between actor Peter Breck of the Big Valley and Keanu Reeves. He truly was the most handsome man I had ever seen. I was happy.One of the EEG techs asked me if he was ‘getting anything’ from me because she would be more than happy to have his baby. Well, I was sort of disgusted with her question but, was pleased that finally I had met a truly nice man. He was ‘okay’ with all my baggage (subtly found ways to push me to eat) and as time wore on, found out we had some superficial, odd things in common. His fellowship was in Epileptology. That was (and still is my thing) taking care of people with seizure disorders. He moved a lot too. He had a spiritual side (but, was wary of organized religion). He got tickets to see the Dalai Lama when he was in LA and had somehow been granted a private audience with him. We shared the same birthday. He nicknamed me his Island Girl. He introduced me to his grandparents. Just watching him with these two made me realize that I had truly hit the genetic jackpot. He was so loving, kind and patient with them - they were truly fussbudgets. I wondered where his appearance came from. He was tanned, with chiseled features, was much taller than me and yet, his grandparents were pale, tiny, petite people of about 5′3″?Anyhows, the more I got to know him the more I respected him. With his help and Karens, I had come to the point that I could go to San Diego to visit. I had not been there in a little over five years. My family no longer had to drive to Los Angeles to visit me because now I could go to see them. I could finally return home. I no longer felt the need to run. He was protective and had a backbone; which made what happened next so difficult to understand. Some of this is a blur because it all happened so fast. Perhaps, I still had vestiges of a fugue state? But, how could that be, nearly a year had passed. I continued helping others. I still continued to pray.I went to San Diego with Susan Bamber, RN my closest buddy on the floor, her husband, a couple of the residents and their wives, another RN buddy. We all camped at my parents house in Oceanside. Then, we went horseback riding and down to Tijuana to go dancing. I think I spoiled everyone’s fun because I kept wanting to get back to Oceanside to call SCH. He was the covering fellow on the Neuro/Epilepsy Unit and could not go with us. After we got back to San Diego, I tried in vain to reach him. I did not think much about it. We would be getting back to Los Angeles late and I would see him in the morning.I got to the floor on Monday and Pat (one of the EEG techs) said, “I can’t believe SCH quit his fellowship.” There were only two Epilepsy fellows and SCH was one of them. I was stunned. Who quits a prestigious UCLA Neuro Fellowship? I could not believe my ears. I said, “What?”. She apologized stating that she realized that I probably didn’t know because I had been out of town. Then she said that Pete shouldn’t piss off people who really don’t need to work. I knew SCH had a couple of pennies to rub together because he drove a brand new Jaguar. Most residents/fellows are in Toyotas, Nissans and Hondas. But, I had no idea that he was independently wealthy. I tried to regroup because I had patients to take care of. I tried to page him but, he did not answer his page. I kept praying.My appetite was gone and by the end of my shift I was a wreck. Just as I was about to page him again, he appeared on the unit wanting to talk. I became anxious and tearful. I can remember very little about our conversation other than that he was planning to return to Virginia and he wanted me to go with him. I needed time. How could I possibly move with a man that I wasn’t married to, much less engaged to? I was worried about being in an interracial relationship and living in a southern community. He basically told me that he was free, white and over 21 and could do whatever he damned well please. This was not reassuring and not a side of him that I had seen before. He said, “You know how to reach me when you come to your senses and change your mind.” He turned and walked away. I was confused and was beginning to feel like I was losing control. Perhaps SCH sensed this because he turned around and came back to where I was standing and said, “You are still fragile. I do not want to hurt you like others have because I love you but, I am fragile too”. I went home and could not sleep, still could not eat and knew that I was going to get into trouble. The following day, I called Karen just to see if I could see her after work, instead of on our usual every other weekday. I contined helping others. And I prayed.I never saw or heard from him again. I married Robert and we moved to Chapel Hill, North Carolina. What a karmic twist, I ended up in the south anyway. We had a little boy so, I decided not to work on an inpatient unit. I wanted a more structured schedule. I started working the ‘sleep’ side of Neurology. Started a support group for patients with sleep apnea. Folks came from as far away as Charlotte to hear the lectures and network with other patients. Some friends came out from UCLA to visit. Somewhere, somehow, SCH came up. He was now living in North Carolina. Practicing sleep medicine. In Charlotte. Had gotten married and moved into a country club. I was happy to hear he was doing well. Robert was not. We got into a horrible argument. To this day Robert denies that he told me about him moving to North Carolina and knew his whereabouts but, he did not ever want to hear that I had contacted him in anyway.I had another baby and missed taking care of inpatients. So, I got a part-time job at Duke Children’s Hospital in Hem-Onc. Perfect. I had little boys, a terrific part-time job and was slowly making friends with the pediatric residents. They would babysit for me at times and I would babysit for them. We went to movies, dinners, parties and I slowly started reliving my fun days at UCLA. One of the attendings offered to pay for me to go to school to be a PA. I was thrilled. Robert was not. He wanted to move to New York. I was going to stay in North Carolina and go to school. There was daycare at work and one of the attendings said that my children and I could live with her and her husband until I finished school. I would have a guaranteed job and could go to NY on the weekends. Wrong. Robert did not want me staying behind with SCH so close by. But why? SCH was married with 2 kids of his own at this point. So, in 1999, without becoming a PA, I reluctantly moved to Syracuse. I started working part-time in a pediatric office; love helping the little ones and their parents.Every once and a while, I would hear a tidbit about SCH at AAN conferences that I would attend with Robert. SCH was not at the epilepsy conferences; he had not finished his fellowship and was practicing sleep medicine anyway. I heard he had moved multiple times while living in the Charlotte and as of 2004 was getting a divorce. He also gave up his license to practice medicine. He was having problems with alcohol and substance abuse. I felt so sad for him. All of those years of college gone. His marriage gone. I knew he felt like a failure. 2 years later, he managed to get his medical license back with some limitations. He had to give urine and hair samples regularly. He embarked on writing a book and assisting patients with substance abuse issues. Then, his grandparents died. His mother and father died. An aunt died. I wanted to seek him out but, Robert did not want me to have any contact with him. I stopped eating and had to go in the hospital for a week. It is hard to help others when you can’t help yourself. But, I continued to help others. I continued to pray.I tried not to think about him and immersed myself in my children, home and work. But, still I heard that he had started a couple of businesses and was still moving. I made up my mind to contact him whether Robert liked it or not. But by this time, in February of 2011, my baby sister, Michelle, had died under mysterious circumstances probably murdered by her husband. I could not eat and was struggling to stay out of the hospital. My children needed me whole. I continued to pray. I started to Cazenovia College in the fall of 2011, to earn a business degree in Health Care Administration. We were encouraged to create a Linkedin account. While scrolling through the listings guess whose account was listed? Yep, SCHs who also started to school in 2011 to earn a . . . wait for it . . . a business degree in Health Care Administration. Being that he already had an MD and PhD, he only had to complete a few classes to earn the degree. I was not going to graduate until the fall of 2015. I thought ‘great’, finally a legitimate reason to connect with him. My goal was to contact him via Facebook and Linkedin to network and offer him any assistance that I could. I continued to help others. I prayed.He died in October of 2015. I cried. I have never cried this hard about anything. The man that saved my life, I couldn’t save. His obituary in the Charlotte Observer said that he developed vascular problems, drugs and alcohol will do that. I do not know why his marriage ended but, me,this long-suffering fool would not have filed for divorce. I probably would have done what I always do, stop eating.My gut feeling is that SCH was a co-dependent as myself. I was someone he could help for a lifetime. I also think that when we met, he was struggling with substance abuse but, my presence gave him something else to focus on; to detract from his own issues. Nancy Kelleher, and RN that I worked with, perhaps alluded to this. SCH had called the floor to see if I would come over after my 12 hour shift. In passing, I said, “He should come get me. I am tired.” Nancy said, “Maybe he can’t. I used to work drug rehab you know and . . . do you really know him?” I just remember laughing and calling SCH back to say that I had taken the bus to the campus, did not have a change of clothes blah, blah blah.” It is difficult to recall that time period, not because of time elapsed but, because of the pain that I was feeling for so many years. All I know is that when I was with him, the pain faded away . . .who knows . . .The one person that I could have helped, that I should have helped, I did not. I failed him. I spent 25 years helping everyone but, him. I continue to cry as I write this but, not pray. Robert does not understand and still has nothing positive to say about SCH. Hopefully, before I die, I will be able to set up a scholarship in his name to be used to help others who want to help those whose lives have led them to substance abuse and depression. I would offer the Medical College of Virginia and the UCLA NPI & H to use the funds to train any healthcare provider who wishes to specialize in the treatment of those with substance abuse issues.Karen, the resident who treated my eating disorder, is still at UCLA. She is now a professor specializing in the treatment of substance abuse.will add typo, grammar corrections later.