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July 10, 2005

1994

This is not a funny story. This is not a pretty story. Most people don't know this story, not even some of my closest friends. But it is a real story. And it is mine.

I have a wonderful life: Great partner to share it with. Awesome friends. A loving family. Nice home. Life is very, very good to me. However, it has not always been this way. I hit rock bottom in 1994. And I hit it hard.

I've been analyzing a lot of my life lately. I've been talking more honestly about things that have happened to me; exploring new things I thought I would never do; I've also been looking at some of my behaviors throughout my life and trying to figure out how they might have looked from someone else's perspective. This has actually been a good thing and a cathartic thing. Not sure why it's been happening now. Maybe it's a midlife crisis; maybe I'm just getting a better perspective from experience; maybe I just need to get it out there.

I grew up like most people who tend to be somewhat sheltered; never visited any big cities; never explored different cultures; never traveled far; I went to church every Sunday; I went to bible school every Sunday; I went to vacation bible school every summer; I made jokes about gay people; and I eventually registered as a republican.

SIDENOTE: I also thought Red Lobster was a 4-star restaurant (I seriously did. I still like it, people. It's a guilty pleasure so if you want to take me, I'm game. But don't tell anyone). That was catty to say. Whatever.

We think black or we think white. Churches teach us to think this way; family members teach us to think this way; politicians teach us to think this way; we do so because that's what we only know.

My parents both come from huge, deeply religious, conservative families and have a large amount of conservative friends. Here a republican, there a republican, everywhere a re-pub-li-can. We did tons of family trips to see these people, or they were always over visiting. Most of these people were so sweet and friendly, but the way some of them talked about certain things was not so loving or sweet. I kept getting mixed messages about everything. I was confused. Some of my uncles are ministers and they would throw the "N" word around left and right. This seemed a wee bit odd to me.

Don't get me wrong; my parents were wonderful to me and are very loving and accepting people. They even had a gay friend (a quick shout out to the "Kinny"). I think it's cuz they escaped the hills of West Virginia and moved to a somewhat more progressive place. They were the exception, not the rule. However, the environment (and I'm not just talking about family life; I'm also talking about school life) I was raised in was not always that way. I was surrounded by homophobia as, I think, most sheltered people are.

I was this guy growing up in an environment that I totally did not fit into-- a square peg, if you will. I knew I was different but had no idea what to do about it.

In 1991, my hormones were raging. I was 20 so I thought it was about time I did something about my true sexuality. I was gonna see if I could secretly meet some guys for dating. This was such a taboo and dangerous thing for me to do. No one knew my secret. This caused me severe anxiety and panic attacks. I had trouble getting through class. I couldn't work. I didn't want to get out of bed. I decided I needed some serious help.

I told my mom I wanted to see a psychiatrist. Sorry, no psychologists, no social workers. I wanted the top of the heap. This was really hard for her to hear, but I assumed it was better than her hearing, "Hey Mom, I kinda like guys' butts!" The stigma attached to the word "shrink" was devastating to her because of what she was taught. This was a black and white issue and it was definitely on the negative side.

Since my mom is so amazing and always wants me to be happy she found one for me (recommended by a co-worker who had a son who was also in therapy).

I went to see him one time. And ONE time only. I explained my panic attacks. Of course, I never said the word "gay" through the whole session. Outing myself this early on would be too scary. I would be judged badly and that would be just too hard to handle. He recommended I try breathing exercises. Umm, okay. If that doesn't work then we'll try medication.

I gave the huffing and puffing a try. Hmm, this doesn't seem to be working. I tried again. Nope. Not gonna work. I called the guy back.

"Not gonna work, doc." Okay, I'll mail you a prescription. I get it in the mail the next day. Perfect. 40 milligrams of Valium a day. I get it filled and suddenly I am mellower for the next two years. I would get a month's worth and call the doc when I ran out. Next day I would get it in the mail. We had a great system.

I came out to a few close friends (first to my amazing friend Pam) and even went out to some bars.

I moved to DC in the summer of '93. I knew virtually no one. I had only a couple friends. I was such a naive, inexperienced kid from suburbia but knew that if I didn't make a big change in my life I would not live a happy life. I was close to graduating back in Rochester but threw all my credits away and started over at AU. But it was something I had to do.

I was moving to a new world where I was about to get a huge perspective change. I only had one perspective on things -- black or white. There were no gray areas except that huge gray area of my sexuality. I remember hearing how bad being gay was in church so I always thought to myself, Hmmm, I don't think I'm a bad person. I think I'm pretty good actually. Maybe some of what I'm hearing is bullshit because people think only in terms of black or white. They don't see the gray area or another perspective. Some people don't want to listen to facts or see someone else's point of view based on THEIR life experiences.

Anyway, I moved to DC and immediately got into a relationship. A very, very, bad relationship. Since I had never truly dated before I was a complete basket case. Again, so naive and inexperienced AND ignorant.

While this new relationship was happening, my 40 mg/day drug habit was about to end. Badly.

I didn't realize what a gross amount of the drug I was taking until I ran out. I called my doc on my Thanksgiving break while I was back home to refill the prescription. He said, "No." I'm like, "Why not?" "Because you live out of state and I don't feel comfortable prescribing this to you. You need to find someone down there." Umm, okay Dr. Dickhead. You've totally got me addicted and we've only had ONE session in TWO fucking years and now you want to be ethical?

40 mgs of Valium is just insane I have since learned. I remember doing a school paper on a biography of Truman Capote (much later) where in the book it said something like, He had taken 40 mgs of Valium, which to the average person you could blast a car horn in their ear and they wouldn't flinch. And I had been taking the shit for two years every single day.

Obviously, I went through severe withdrawal. I had awful shaking, sweating, crying. I wanted to die. Feelings of hopelessness. The works. I had it all.

I went to a school counselor (cuz it was free) during one of my less than happy days and told her I was having suicidal thoughts. I told her I was gay but not out to my family and a lot of other friends. Only my close friends knew. She told me I should speak to someone who is gay. Thanks, lady. I left.

Now I'm no expert on school counselors but if a student is talking about ending their life, you might want to, oh, I don't know, call them later to see how they are doing. I got nothing. Bitch.

I spoke to my primary physician in DC to see if he could recommend a shrink in DC. My insurance did not cover "mental illnesses" so I was very reluctant to go to one. Even though it was life or death. He referred me to someone. Somehow I found some money and went to see him.

Keep in mind, at this point, I still did not know that the drug I was taking every single day was a huge amount. However, he did know after I spoke with him. I was heavily addicted. He also mentioned the gross negligence on my doctor's part back home.

How wonderful I thought. I go on a drug to help me deal with one problem (my dirty little secret) and now I have TWO fucking problems. He put me on some new anti-depressant to counter the awful feelings I was experiencing. It was none of the popular drugs we see advertised all the time now. Some weird name. I was to take four pills a day for the next few months. It would take about two months for me to start feeling better. Great, two whole months before I feel better. Tick. Tock. This new shrink actually seemed to care though. He gave me his card and deliberately wrote an emergency number on the back.

I was already on a downward spiral. I didn't seem to care or really take notice. If I missed a dose, I would double it up. I also continued the extremely toxic relationship. I couldn't speak to my parents about it because they didn't know my deal. It was a very, very, very, very lonely time.

January 14, 1994 is a bit hazy but it did happen. I woke up that morning and had sex with my ex on his twin bed we both slept in. Well, I wouldn't really call it sex. It involved him dry humping my leg to ejaculation. I know what you're thinking. Ew. So am I. In fact, I want to barf. He then would look down on me as if to say, "Do I really have to finish you off now that I'm done?" I looked at him and said, "Don't worry about me." He hopped up and went to take a shower. I got up too as I had to leave for school. It was a few metro stops away and a shuttle bus ride.

I got on the metro. The metro stop for AU was coming up. The metro stopped at the station. I did not get off. I don't know why. I don't recall having ANY other thoughts. I felt okay. I lived at the next metro stop in Friendship Heights. I went home.

My apartment in Friendship Heights was such a shit hole. I lived in a basement studio apartment. It was awful. Very dark. Full of bugs. Antique appliances. Brady Bunch colors. But it was cheap and close to school so I lived there.

I went into my apartment and grabbed my full container of anti-depressants (oh, the irony) and got a glass of water. I had a full bottle of Jim Beam on the counter and I thought about using that instead. I stared at it for awhile and decided against it. I used the water. I also got out my shrink's business card with the emergency number on the back.

The rest is a bit hazy. But I realized I had done something so fucking stupid.

I called my only real close friend in DC at the time, Cristina. She was so good to me. She was/is an angel. If anyone knew what I was going through at that time, it was her. She saw things firsthand. Whenever my ex and I would go through one of our 20 breakups within the eight months we dated she was there for me. I would call her at 2 am to explain the latest breakup and she would cab over in the middle of the night and just hold me on my bed while I cried like a baby. I love this woman so much for all she did for me. I still talk to her. I don't get to see her much anymore but we share an unconditional love and bond I will never forget.

Anyway, she picked up the phone and I just said, "Something's wrong" and hung up. I immediately dialed the emergency number on the back of the doctor's card. That's all I remember.

My poor parents had been notified by phone that I was in the hospital. My parents got in their car and drove 7 hours to see me. My mom would stop at a gas station pay phone to check on my status. She asked them, "Is he going to make it?" The doctor told her, "It's too soon to tell." They finally arrived to see their son lying in a hospital bed filled with tubes and wires surrounded by 6 doctors and nurses trying to save his life.

I woke up in the hospital the next day. My ex was there. And my ex's roommates (one of them being Cristina). They explained to me that I had been on life support. The surgeon told my parents she had never seen someone recover from something like this. She worked so hard to save my life and did. And I am so grateful.

SIDENOTE: The doctor also said they found large amounts of Ibuprofen in my system. So I guess I grabbed a bunch of those while inhaling the other bottle. Guess I really wanted to finish the job. Sarcasm, people.

The hospital would not release me until they felt I was no longer a danger to myself. They assigned me to a shrink on staff and put me "upstairs" with the other loons. I was mortified. The people up there had severe mental problems. Psychotic problems. Schizophrenia. Hurting Others. It was terrifying. I thought, I'm not like these people. I'm just, like, gay and anxious about it. Please release me.

I had to attend group therapy and I recall some psychotic woman (I think she had a "shit throwing at other people" problem) telling me that I have a chip on my shoulder cuz I wasn't very friendly to the others. The nerve. I told her, "Look, Sybil. I don't belong here. I am fine now. I did something very stupid but I will get better if I get out of this hell hole so shut up. Someone please sedate her." Hospitals should have purgatory-like places for people in my condition to go to rather than the hell that is the loonie bin. I realize that is insensitive. You stay there for a week and then tell me I am insensitive. It was making me feel worse.

My new shrink was really good to me. My ex was really good to me as well. The sick thing is this was the only time we were so close. He genuinely seemed to care (at least in front of me) and I thank him for that. Because he was around so much and affectionate, people knew we were together.

The new doc knew this "area" of my life was part of my downward spiral and anxiety and, more importantly, my cry for help. He told me I had to come out to my parents. So I did. From my hospital bed. They were wonderful as usual. And, of course, told me they already knew. My dad said, "Are you sure you're not bi?" Only in his southern accent it sounded more like, "Are you sure you're not bah?" I'm sure this was his one glimmer of hope. I said, "Sorry, Dad. No."

I'm sure this news was devastating to my parents. They took it very well in front of me and I love them for that. The guilt I felt for putting my family and friends through this ordeal could have led me back to the hospital but I knew I had to move on if I was ever going to get better.

I was released from hell a couple days later. I continued my toxic relationship for a few more months and finally broke it off.

Coming out to my family was the healthiest thing that came from this. In some sick way, maybe this was meant to happen. It was a huge weight lifted off my shoulders. I do realize, however, that my parents' reaction is far from what most gay people get in return.

I'm not proud of what happened at all and take full responsibility for my actions. I do think though that it happened for some reason (and I'm really not a superstitious person at all). It's just too weird. I also think that my story is not all that uncommon. I just think those people are not around anymore to speak about what happened.

I was at rock bottom and turned my life completely around. Will there be bumps once in a while? Sure. Have there been? Absolutely. But I can handle them better.

Now all you scientologists out there don't get a woody from what I've written. As I've said before, there are some bad doctors out there BUT, more importantly, there are very good doctors who are responsible with prescriptions and help save lives. I wouldn't be here today without their help.

Oh yeah, I'm also no longer a registered republican. I'm a registered independent so I can see all perspectives of an issue -- black, white, and even gray.

Posted by durban bud at July 10, 2005 7:14 AM