The Personal Pages of
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Journal
Monday December 21, 1998 Just after midnight In the wee hours of Sunday morning, our hero limps into his one-room apartment, dead-tired, wet and chilled to the bone from four hours of walking the city streets in the rain. Shedding his sodden clothing, he towels-off in the bathroom and decides that since the apartment is toasty warm, the lights low and the blinds closed, he’ll warm up soon enough. He fills his hand with Extra-Strength Tylenol and still naked, limps to the kitchen for a glass of water. He downs the painkillers, and retrieves a casserole from the fridge, warming it in the microwave. The bed is still on the floor from the two days and nights before. He props his pillows against the couch, straightens the sheets and comforters, then searches the ashtrays for the leftover half a joint from earlier in the day. Finding it, he settles into bed and takes three tokes, holding each until his body reflexively gasps for air. Putting out the joint, he neatly arranges the ashtray, his cigarettes, lighter and water glass on the floor within a comfortable arm’s reach. Locating the remote, he selects the dance music station on the Music Choice receiver and adjusts the volume, equalization and surround sound to just below the "annoy the neighbors" settings. On cue, the microwave announces it’s work is done. Partway through his meal, he realizes how much easier it is to eat in bed when one is alone. It’s just so convenient to place things like napkins, salt and pepper, and unused flatware in the space where one’s partner’s chest usually resides. This brings a smile. In remarkably short order, everything begins to kick in and he feels better. The Tylenols have reduced the screaming in his hips and knees to a whimper, and the combined hypnotic effects of the dance music and the pot have relaxed him. Warmth flows through him, both from the heat of the casserole dish seeping thorough the bedding to his belly, and the warmth from having eaten just over half of it. Warm, relaxed and feeling more physically, mentally and emotionally comfortable than he has in a long time, he begins to giggle as he realizes he has an enormous throbbing erection, and doesn’t really want to do anything about it. His thoughts coalesce around events of earlier in the evening, and how the preceding months had led up to it. The giggling grows to laughter, full-blown rolling belly laughs. Regaining a certain amount of composure, he wraps the remains of the casserole and returns it to the fridge. So much for the recipe, he thinks. Feeds four to six people. Perhaps four to six bulimic people. The giggling returns. He makes it back to bed, and as hits him that he’s just a classic ROFL episode, he has another. As the heaving gales of laughter subside, he wonders if he’s the only one who can see the comedy in it all. Lighting a cigarette he thinks of how everyone he knows disapproves of his situation and sees it as a tragic decline to an unknown abyss. Even in a book or a screenplay he’d be cast as a tragic character, without even examining a plot line. He imagines the pitch:
He puts out the cigarette, removes his glasses, and leaving the lights and the music on, snuggles under the covers and drifts off to sleep, a smile upon his lips. Tragedy or comedy. Decide for yourself. I have. Over the course of the day Saturday December 26, 1998 Over the course of the day The mail generated in the past few days by Monday’s entry has been incredibly interesting. Some missed the point entirely, for others it was clear as a bell. For most, it was somewhere in between. And michael, who I’ve come to regard as one of my closest friends wrote:
(To my recollection, it also represents his first use of a capital letter. J ) I can’t speak for other journalists. The impression I get from many of them is "This is mine, I only write what I want to, and you can take a flying leap." In my case, I find the questions and comments I get in the mail are as influential to what I write as the original events and thoughts are. And so, this becomes almost an interative process as I consider what each writer has said, look inside for answers to the questions he may have asked, write about them, then wait to see what comes back. It’s a process with input from both sides of the screen. The bottom line is, keep the mail coming. I reply to each note personally, and each note inspires what I write next, sometimes in small ways, sometimes in large ones. One of my stated goals has been to give you, the reader, something to take with you to think a bit about. The mail is my only confirmation that I’ve met that goal. And truth be told, it’s a nice little ego boost besides. J Perhaps the most provocative note I’ve received in the past few days came Christmas morning from someone who has never written me before. Here is his note, repinted in it’s entirety:
Sometimes, the quantity of words has no relation to their meaning. But as I am prone to do, he got a e-novel in return. I worked as long and as hard on that reply as I do with any posting here. What follows is a mixture of some of the reply I wrote N, stuff that I started writing earlier this week, and some fresh material. One of the things that struck me as I wrote back to N, was that I’ve become as "out" with my mental health as I am with my sexuality, although I’ve yet to find the functional equivalent of the rainbow flag sticker on my car. J Most "normal" people have at least a general idea of what is meant by depression, Attention Deficit Disorder, Bi-polar Disorder (a.k.a. manic-depressive illness), drug addiction, and others I’ve mentioned.One of my diagnoses most people haven’t heard of is Borderline Personality Disorder. It, in fact, comes closest to describing both my feelings and behaviors, and is perhaps the dominating factor of my life as it stands right now. Follow this link for a general description of BPD. For more specifics, including causative factors and treatment options, follow the link at the top of that page. It’s probably more than you ever care to know, but it may help you understand me and what follows.In a one-on-one with my MICA program counselor two weeks ago this past Wednesday, she said, "I don’t see you getting out of this program what you need. It’s really a shame that you’re working because I’d like to see you in our semi-inpatient program, or another more intensive program." For several days I thought about that meeting long and hard. And I decided I had to agree with her, although my reasons are probably much different. So, I dropped the program. It’s not at all because I intend to abuse drugs for the rest of my life, I don’t. It’s not because the program was too hard, it isn’t. It’s because the program wasn’t meeting my needs and expectations. I had hoped there would be more focus on the mental illness part of MICA. There was very little that was different than any other program I’ve seen or been a part of. And the three hours of open discussion each week were really no different than any AA or NA meeting I’ve ever been to. Except of course it wasn’t held in a church basement and bracketed by prayers to a God who, organized religion tells me, thinks I’m beneath contempt and will burn for eternity in hell because I’m gay. Ooops, that’s for another posting for another time. Anyway, the promised weekly one-on-one meetings with a drug counselor totaled two in the entire eight weeks I was there, and I never once had a meeting with a psychiatrist, and the pharmacologist associated with the program kept breaking appointments. Basically, I felt that the program was designed to satisfy insurance companies, welfare and the courts, and extract the greatest possible revenue from them, not to provide any real treatment or services to those enrolled in the program. Given $45 of co-pays a week, and $120 per week in lost wages, I felt I wasn’t getting my money’s worth. Coupled with the $50 per week co-pay for my psychologist and the co-pays for all my meds, it’s probably cheaper to smoke crack! Which of course runs counter to my intentions. So it looks like my drug treatment program this time around will be just like the last time, tell the money-grubbing "professionals" to stick it where the sun don’t shine, and just do it. If you’ve read about BPD, you’ll recognize why I ask this question: Rationalization, true change, or expression of symptoms? Decide for yourself. I’m remaining undecided. End of diatribe.
So, how did I come to find myself walking the streets of Rochester for hours in the rain on a Saturday night? Two unrelated intersecting elements. First, was a clerical error of all things. When I first bailed Jeff out in August, there were two charges in the town of Brighton which were rolled into one for the plea. Only one of the two charges was recorded on the bail receipt. The other was not. So unbeknownst to us, there has been a warrant on this second charge. Second, at 10:00 we needed a break from playing gin rummy. I needed to go to the pharmacy to pick up a refill, and Jeff wanted to go to 7-11 for another 40oz. While I stopped off at the ATM, Jeff went around the corner to see who was using "his" spot. I came out of the bank, crossed the street and handed Jeff a $20, then crossed the other street. As he headed up the street, a bicycle patrolman came up behind him for a "routine" stop, thinking I was a trick who had just paid. Thinking nothing would come of it, I went into the pharmacy, got my ‘scrip, and when I came out, they had Jeff in the back of a patrol car. It seems, that since he was doing, and had done, nothing illegal, his highness said, "Hey, if you don’t believe me, check my wants and warrants." They did, and the one from Brighton popped up. Knowing they’d seen me give him money on the street, and not knowing why they put him in the car, I didn’t really think it would be a good idea to hang too close lest I be charged with patronizing a prostitute. (In retrospect, since we live together, that charge wouldn’t hold water.) I spent about an hour lurking behind buildings and around corners while they decided what to do with Jeffrey. During one of my movements, the car and the bike officer disappeared. I spent another 45 minutes walking around looking for where he might be. I knew there were no new charges, and that he had no drugs on him, and that he’d waited on the corner for me for only two or three minutes. And I knew it wasn’t the first time recently that they’d kept him in a car for questioning for over an hour, then released him. So, thinking they didn’t have anything to take him away for, I figured he was out and about, maybe looking for me. I looked around for a while, then came home and waited. Then I went back out to check a couple of other haunts I hadn’t thought about the first time. Within a minute of my returning home a second time, the phone rang. He’d just been arraigned on the bench warrant for the charge I’d already posted bail on. They were taking him downtown, I was to meet him to post more bail. Another trip to the ATM, and the walk downtown. The deputies have the jail decorated nicely for Christmas, by the way. They weren’t really in the Christmas spirit however, and didn’t believe Jeffrey when he told them his bail was forthcoming. So although I arrived perhaps ten or fifteen minutes after he did, they did the strip search, checked all his clothes and stuff into Property, and issued the uniform. Remarkably quick work on a Saturday night. Jeff later reported that Central Booking was dead, and it was too bad he wasn’t staying because he’d have a bunk this time instead of having to sleep on the floor. Had I known that, I may actually have left him there. J Don’t tell him, but I actually joked with the deputies about that, asking if since they had their criminal back, could I have my bail back for Christmas shopping? Apparently the process doesn't quite work like returning bottles to the store. The bail had emptied my bank account, my pockets and Jeffrey's pockets. The day after payday, two weeks until the next, we had under a dollar in change between us, and no Christmas shopping done either. But his already scheduled sentencing date in Brighton was for Monday, and we thought we’d get at least one of the two bails back no later than Tuesday. It was still about a half hour to closing time, he hadn’t gotten his 40oz, and he was feeling the need for a drink after the frustration of the experience. One thing I don’t know if I’ll ever understand, is the sheer enjoyment he gets out of dealing with the criminal justice system. He was positively giddy from getting to talk with all the deputies, the city cops, the Brighton cops, even to daffy Judge Karen, who by the way, is the same one who turned him away back on November 18th when he tried to turn himself in.In any event, he went off in search of another dollar for a 40oz, I went home, and you know what I did then. Following a thread rather than the timeline, let’s jump ahead to Monday. Two and a half hour walk to the Brighton courthouse, in the rain (again), because we didn’t have bus fare for one, one-way, let alone for two round-trip. Since Jeff had kept his end of the plea bargain, the other Brighton Judge, Jim, kept his end of it, and sentenced Jeff to 90 days, not concurrent with any other sentences, and was gracious enough to schedule the sentence to begin at 5:00PM on Tuesday the 29th. His honor asked if the bailor was present, I was, and I approached the bench. He apologized for the clerical error and instructed the court clerk to return all the bail. Yippie! Or so we thought. They’ll issue a check in about two weeks, maybe a little bit longer on account of the holidays. L Taking the thread just a bit further, this is why Uncle Bruce showed up at Christmas empty-handed.
I never got back to finishing yesterday or today. I wanted to post what I had so far, just so you didn’t think I’d dropped of the edge of the planet or something. The next three days promise to be quite busy. Monday is Jeffrey’s last full day of freedom, he’s got to be in jail by 5:00 on Tuesday, there’s sentencing on the city charge Wednesday, and Thursday of course is New Year’s Eve. And N has written back with more questions, which means more thinking. But in that reply he’s given me permission to post my original response here. I had hoped to have time to rework it a bit, but right now, time is a commodity I don’t have very much of. So a bit of cut and paste action here. Noah Grey's December 10th entry. In it he describes how he's tried for the past several months to go without his meds, and the consequences. It's the only thing Jeffrey's asked me to print for him twice, and he wants me to mail it to him after he's been in jail for a month or so. I sure hope it convinces him that the bulk of his troubles for the past 20 years have been due not to a criminal nature, but to untreated bi-polar disorder and borderline personality disorder. I've been able to show him a life he's never really experienced before. He's attracted to it, and wants to own up to his responsibilities so he can move his life in that direction. And he's said, "Maybe that means going back on my meds." One can only hope. And so, it's not without some trepidation that I embark on the next episode. I have nothing but highest hopes for both of us. Those hopes notwithstanding, I know the feelings of grief, pain and loneliness that are yet to come. The depression and grieving have already started. If we are to make the most of our last few days of his freedom, we each have to set those feelings aside a bit, for dwelling on them now will only make it worse. And if the past few days are any indication, we'll experience a richness of feelings we can hold on to for as long as it takes. N, I've worked on this in three sessions today in between holiday obligations. I thank you again for writing, and I'm very glad you asked the questions you did. It's given me the opportunity to begin the next entry. It will draw extensively from this note. I hope you don't mind, or feel that because I'll recycle it to the journal that it's any less personal. It isn't. And you get to read it first. Yours, B Stay tuned for the next episode, right after this break …
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