There was something different about my drinking in D.C. For the first time I was experiencing blackouts. I didn’t consider the Chicago incident when the guy stole my clothes a true blackout, because I remembered some of what happened. I told myself that I had just fallen asleep on a date. Now there were some mornings when I didn’t remember the night before. The few friends I had would call me the next day and mention something that had occurred, and I would have no recollection of the event. Once I got upset with a friend because I hadn’t heard from him, only to find out that he had broken his leg and I had been there when it happened.
While I lived on N Street there were periods when I would forget vital information. Once, while filling out an application for a check-cashing card, I couldn’t remember my Social Security number. I left in embarrassment without completing the application.
The only time I even thought about pulling myself together was the spring of 1990, when my fraternity invited me to be the guest speaker at the annual Founders’ Day Program. Butch was the only member of my fraternity whom I kept in contact with, and he had shared with me that he was HIV positive, and encouraged me to accept the invitation, even though he knew I was having a hard time dealing with Richard’s and Randy’s deaths. He told me there was no way of knowing if this would be our last chance to spend a weekend in Fayetteville. Emotionally I hadn’t dealt with the death of my friends, because deep down I expected them to give me some sign to let me know they were safe. There were many nights I sat up in my bedroom in darkness, waiting for Randy or Richie to return and let me know they were okay and offer me some direction.
I began to think that a trip to a place where I had some fond memories would help. Then I felt I might be a big disappointment to my fraternity brothers who expected so much from their former president. What would they think if they knew of my alcohol-induced zombielike existence?
A month before the event, I cut down my drinking substantially to only a couple of glasses of wine a day and started working out at a gym at least two hours each day. When I arrived in Fayetteville, I felt confident. I had updated my résumé; it now stated that I had my own consulting company, which wasn’t a total untruth. Several small computer companies had contacted me about representing them in Washington, D.C., but I really hadn’t pursued the leads with much vigor.
The weekend of Founders’ Day coincided with the first Annual Black Student Reunion at the University of Arkansas, an event designed to bring back black alumni who had never returned to the Fayetteville campus.
It turned out to be a nice weekend. I was able to put on a good front. I embellished my dating life with women, even telling fraternity brothers how I had been close to getting married a couple of times. I envied my fraternity brothers who were married with children, because they seemed to have it all together. Many times during the weekend I would have given anything in the world to change places with them. All I thought about was that they had someone to wake up with each morning and someone to talk with late at night. It was during times like this when I prayed for a magic pill that would render me straight so that I could get married, have children, and never feel lonely.
I was of little support to Butch, who was dealing with his HIV status. Butch, always cheerful like he was leading songs with an Up With People group, told me he was determined to beat the disease and was pursuing his lifelong dream of becoming a lawyer. He had been accepted to the University of Oklahoma Law School and suggested that since my HIV/AIDS tests had come back negative it was a signal from God for me to pursue my dreams as well. I just didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing besides drinking and looking for love.
I left Fayetteville that weekend determined to get my act together and make some of my lies become truths. I thought if I didn’t owe it to myself, I at least owed it to my family and friends.
My resolve was short-lived. I returned to D.C., and within a week I was drinking even more because I realized there would never be a magic pill to cure my loneliness. I was drinking alone most times, and I never waited until sunset to have my first drink.
I STRUGGLED THROUGH several more months of uncertainty when the shadows of deathlike depression loomed heavy, like a slab of concrete. I locked myself in my apartment and took up permanent residence on my black leather sofa in front of my television, which was usually on mute. I would get up from time to time for another drink, and sometimes brought the bottle near the sofa.
I left my apartment only to get more liquor, and all that I seemed to relate to was the closing time of the local liquor store. I didn’t want to have to think about going through the night without a drink.
One Sunday I was gazing at the television, not really paying attention to what was on. I could tell that it was some kind of awards show, from the parade of people going to the podium to accept tiny statues. There wasn’t anything unusual about this, because I had loved awards shows since I was a kid. Halfway through the program, a bespectacled, frail-looking white man caught my attention. I think I noticed him because he reminded me of Dr. Willer. I was thinking about the time when he warned me about discontinuing my therapy too soon and how I missed our sessions. He had been one person who I felt could help me, who had helped me.
When they displayed the name of this funny-looking man, I sat up from my prone position and turned up the volume. The name that scrolled across the screen was Michael Jeter. His last name was spelled the same way as my father’s. Even though he was white, I felt strangely connected to this man.
Michael Jeter had just won a Tony Award for best featured actor for his role in the musical The Grand Hotel. In his acceptance speech I felt as though he were talking directly to me. I don’t recall word for word what he said, but the gist of it was about kicking drugs and alcohol. He looked right into the camera and said something like, “I know that there is someone out there tonight battling these demons, and I want to tell you tonight that you can beat them. I’m living proof of that.” Tears started to stream down my face. For the first time I realized that alcohol had truly taken control of my life and that I needed help.
I DIDN’T STOP DRINKING, but the actor’s face and words never left me. I attempted to call Dr. Willer to see if he could prescribe some type of sleeping pills. I felt that if I had something to help me sleep, then I could stop using alcohol. Since I was blacking out even more during this period, I doubt I would have known if Dr. Willer ever returned my calls.
I was able to get a prescription for sleeping pills from a gay doctor friend I had met at the club Tracks. He warned me that the pills could be dangerous with alcohol. I picked up the pills from the pharmacy, but for days they sat on my bathroom counter. I was still using liquor to put me to sleep.
When I had been in therapy, one of the things Dr. Willer used to tell me all the time was that when depression became too much, try and think of the things that made me happy. I couldn’t think of anything. My beloved Razorbacks had one of the top basketball teams in the country, but I wouldn’t realize that until much later.
I felt my family and friends could survive without me. I didn’t want to share this part of my life when I was so miserable, because I wanted them to remember me in happier times, or when I at least appeared happy.
I knew that being gay and not accepting it was going to destroy me. I was still driving around the dangerous streets of Washington, D.C., looking for companionship, if only for a few hours. Most nights I would come home alone. The couple of times I found takers, they became the new owners of some of my personal items like my leather jacket or part of my CD collection. Looking back, I’m still astounded that I wasn’t harmed.
I’ve heard that people who take pills in suicide attempts really don’t want to die, but just want attention. All I know is that taking pills was the only way I knew how to kill myself, since I had never held a real gun in my hands. I wanted to die. I was curious about what was on the other side, and I felt that being there was the only thing that could ease my pain. No matter what I tried
to do, I just couldn’t bring myself out of my ocean-deep depression.
Nothing mattered. My bank account had dwindled to almost nothing. It didn’t matter that my landlord was threatening me with eviction or that the Illinois bank that had financed my Mercedes was looking for the car. In her messages, the bank loan officer reminded me that if I was sick or not working, I had insurance that would cover the monthly payment if I would fill out some forms. I had forgotten about the insurance, and when she sent me the forms via FedEx, I couldn’t even fill them out, partly because I still couldn’t remember my Social Security number. So my car ended up being repossessed. One day when I went to the parking lot and didn’t see the car, I assumed it had been stolen. The police informed me that was not the case, that the bank had taken it back. I really didn’t care, and in many ways I was relieved.
I wouldn’t need a car in heaven.
I HAD SEEN THIS LOOK BEFORE; it basically said that if you don’t start no shit, there won’t be none.
I was in a session with a new doctor, whom I had been referred to by another doctor friend after the night of my suicide attempt.
Dr. Dove was a big black man with a stern face that at times looked gentle. During our first session, I told him I didn’t think a black straight male doctor could understand why I no longer wanted to live. Briefly, I told him about Ben, Mason, Andre, and Mario, and that being black and gay had become too much for me to bear.
He responded with a deep-voiced presence, speaking in carefully chosen words, using pauses and peering over his glasses to emphasize his seriousness. Dr. Dove told me what doctors had told me before, that there really wasn’t a cure for homosexuality. But he also told me something that no other doctor had ever said. Dr. Dove said my depression could be related to a chemical imbalance that could be cured with drugs. I had always assumed that my depression was related to my childhood, failed relationships, and wanting romantic love so desperately.
I started to see Dr. Dove every day, just as I’d done with Dr. Willer, but he refused to give me any drugs until he had completed his evaluation and was certain that I wasn’t going to drink again. He threatened to check me into the hospital if I wasn’t willing to get my life in order.
I told him how I needed the liquor to sleep. He suggested Alcoholics Anonymous or a possible drug-treatment stay. I told him I had never taken drugs and I couldn’t afford rehab. Plus, I didn’t want a whole bunch of strangers in my business. I couldn’t admit to myself that I might be an alcoholic. I understood that alcoholism was linked to heredity. My mother and grandmother never drank, and since Ben wasn’t my biological father his drinking didn’t count. I didn’t really know about my father. The few times I saw him I couldn’t recall him drinking. I was willing to admit that I used alcohol to make myself feel better, knowing full well that when I stopped I would feel dangerously depressed.
My sessions with Dr. Dove were proving to be helpful. He was tough, and that’s what I needed. He wasn’t willing to let me go on with my drama of the tragic gay man. He made it clear that my life was totally up to me. He was just there to get me started on the journey.
I started looking forward to my daily visits at Howard University Hospital with Dr. Dove. In my mind I was still living in a let-me-make-it-through-the-next-minute-hour-day mode.
I was gaining confidence in Dr. Dove, and he in me. After a physical, it was determined that I was suffering from a chemical imbalance. The news gave me hope. I had cut my drinking down drastically and I had no desire for sex of any kind. Still, I was having trouble sleeping. I left my apartment only for my sessions with Dr. Dove. The ringer on my phone remained off.
Dr. Dove was still not going to give me medication until I stopped drinking. I know I could have told him I had stopped, but I felt this was my last chance and I wanted to start being truthful with myself. One night I got on my knees and prayed like I had never prayed before. It was like I was challenging God. I told Him since He wasn’t ready for me but hadn’t answered my prayers to change my sexuality, I was going to give Him one more chance. If He was God and so powerful, I wanted Him to take my desire for vodka away because I couldn’t do it alone. That was August 27, 1990, and I have not had a drink of hard alcohol since. That experience alone has convinced me of the power of prayer. When I finally looked Dr. Dove in the eyes and told him I wasn’t drinking, he gave me the prescription for the drug Trazodone.
I was starting to feel better, even though my surroundings were crumbling. Days away from being evicted, I was depending on public transportation, which made finding a suitable job almost impossible. Still, I felt that I couldn’t let anything get in the way of my recovery.
For the first time in my adult life I became aware that I had choices. I always felt that I didn’t have a choice in my attraction to men, but I did have a choice when it came to living a life I felt uncomfortable with. There was a huge difference between being gay and living a gay lifestyle. I realized that maybe it was the way I was living my life that was causing me the pain, not my sexuality.
I was also learning to respect the power and pain of depression. In Chicago and New York I had convinced myself that my depression had more to do with Mario than a chemical imbalance. There were times when I had wished for some type of physical ailment that would justify the pain I was feeling in my heart. It seemed impossible to remove the thoughts of hopelessness.
A DAY BEFORE THE SHERIFF showed up to evict me, some of my new friends, Tim Douglas and Bruce Fuller, who had remained my friends despite my depression, helped me pack up my belongings and put them in a storage bin. I had met them at the Rail and later at church. They offered me their pullout sofa. I didn’t know Bruce and Tim that well or why they would offer me a place to stay, but I was in no position to question their kindness. During this period it wasn’t that I had no friends; I simply kept them at a distance as I did with my family and longtime friends, like Lencola, Robin, Vanessa, and even Troy.
I knew I couldn’t spend every moment with Dr. Dove, even though he had mentioned that a hospital stay might not be such a bad idea. I didn’t know how to explain depression to Bruce and Tim, or if they would understand my prolonged silences. All I know is that they were doing everything in their power to make me feel at home. I thought briefly about going back to Arkansas or Atlanta, but I felt that with Dr. Dove I was on my way to recovery and I couldn’t give that up.
I slowly began to manage my affairs, or what was left of them. The medication seemed to help, and I started to plan for the future. I checked out my insurance policy and learned I still had disability insurance. I was broke except for some money from my mother, Aunt Gee, and a good friend from Chicago, Regina Brown. I didn’t realize that I could be getting paid since depression was one of the illnesses covered in my insurance policy.
When I contacted my insurance agent, he assured me everything would be fine and I would get the forms right away. I completed the forms, but a couple of weeks later my agent called me and said my policy had lapsed but he thought there was some type of clause that would cover the period when the automatic transfer I had set up didn’t pay. A couple of days later, he called and said they were still trying to deny payment. He told me he thought it was because of the amount of money they would be required to pay and because my doctor could not give them a date as to when I would be able to return to work full-time.
Normally this information would have made my depression grow deeper. I kept Dr. Dove informed as to what was happening, and he assured me he wouldn’t stop my treatment. I was worried about how I would pay him, even though he never mentioned costs.
During this time I started to talk with my family on a regular basis and realized how much I had missed them, how much I loved them. It was wonderful to reconnect. I’d had to cut them off during the height of my illness. When I did talk to them on birthdays and holidays, I assured them I was fine but I kept the calls short.
One night while talking with my Uncle Charles, an Atlanta attorney, I mentioned the pr
oblems I was having with my insurance policy and how the agent had said the company was trying to get out of paying me. He told me that if my agent had actually said that, it would constitute bad faith on their part and could be grounds for a lawsuit. He asked me if there was any way I could prove he had in fact said that. I told him my new roommates had been there when I had the conversation, but he said that might not be good enough. He suggested I try to get the agent to repeat his statement, and this time have a witness present.
Well, let’s just say my uncle is a brilliant lawyer. The next day, I called my agent and brought up our previous conversation. Again, he stated that the company he represented was trying to avoid payment, but this time I recorded the conversation on the answering machine. When I got a rejection letter on my appeal for benefits, I took the letter and tape to the insurance commission.
Two weeks later, a representative of the company flew to Washington, D.C., met me at the Howard Hospital cafeteria, and offered me $25,000 to give up my battle. While I’m certain I could have gotten more, I was concerned about maintaining the progress I was making with Dr. Dove and I didn’t want to be tied up in litigation. Besides, I was broke and tired of depending on the kindness of family and friends.
I was feeling a bit better and started to think about returning to work, even though I had burned several of the computer contacts I’d built early in my career.
Still, there were days when it seemed I was powerless over my depression and that no amount of money or therapy would make me feel better. I felt a strong desire to be around family, but I didn’t want to go to Little Rock and have my mother worry about me.
Again, that old faith thing happened. I guess God was trying to show me that He was hanging around. During my depression I dreamed a lot, but I never remembered them. One night I had a dream about Randy and it was as if he were still alive. There were still several questions concerning his death, questions I one day hoped to pursue.
What Becomes of the Brokenhearted Page 21
