George & Jim - 5. Chapter 5

I had known George for seven years when things fell apart for him. We had met at our favorite place the Friday before, and things were normal. He was still seeing Larry off and on but hadn't had any new partners lately.

I was at work the following Monday when I got a call from a mutual friend we both knew that George worked with wanting to see if I knew what was up with George. I had no idea. I had seen George the Friday before. What I got from him was that the guy that George carpooled with waited outside of George's apartment for him that Monday morning just like always, but George never came out. He called him wondering why he was late but got no answer on either his home phone or cell phone, which was strange since George was all ways very punctual and always answered his phone.

He went up to the apartment door and knocked on it but got no response. I think he was going a little overboard, but he found the manager and asked him if he knew why George wasn't around. The apartment manager didn't know but had heard a screaming fight Saturday afternoon around the pool between George and some other residents.

He got the manager to open up George's apartment to check on him and was floored by what they found. George was lying on the floor with an empty bottle of some liquor next to him and several empty pill bottles scattered around. They called 911, and the medics worked on him for a bit, then they took George away.

That was all he knew and was wondering if I knew anything more. I was in shock and didn't know what to do. I had no idea what was going on. I called the local hospital where they would have taken him, but they wouldn’t release any information or even acknowledge if he was there or not.

In a panic, I called everyone that we knew together, and no one had any information. One of George’s co-workers suggested that I call his sister. He gave me her number, and in desperation, I called her. She had been named as a next of kin on the hospital forms and knew he was on a suicide watch in the hospital mental health wing but that no non-family members could see him. She had always been cold to me the times I had met her and her kids. I understood that she didn't approve of gays. She wasn’t homophobic but wasn’t going to waste her time with them and didn't want that kind of person around her kids.

I had known that George's siblings were aware of his being gay and knew his sister was this way, but I was beside myself with what was going on.

I asked her, “Please let George know how I felt and that I wanted him out of there as soon as he could.”

She curtly told me that if she talked to George, she would let him know. When we hung up, I thought to myself, what a self-righteous bitch to not even care about her brother.

I did some checking with a friend in the local police and found out that there had been some altercation around the pool on Saturday evening or late afternoon and that while in the hospital, he wouldn't be allowed any visitors for at least 72 hours because it was a psych hold. They couldn't give me any more information. I was so sick I left work and went over to his apartment to try and see if I could find out anything further. I know I shouldn't have, but George was my best friend, and I couldn't just stand by and not know what was going on or what happened.

I talked to his upstairs neighbor with whom I had made acquaintance before at one of the pool functions held in his complex. She was quite the complete know it all. Evidently, he had another couple who were residents of the apartment complex over for dinner or drinks or something, they had started shouting about how he was going to hell, and they hoped he would die. It was quite vocal between them all. The upstairs neighbor suspected he was gay but didn't know for sure until I told her she was right. She also related that this couple who in her words were so "So religious they hated everyone, not like them" had found out and had been harassing George all weekend by pounding on and shouting outside of his door.

The next three days were hell for me, and I'm sure George was in bad shape as well. To have control of your life ripped from your hands and not be able to make any decisions would have been like being in prison.

Eventually, they called me as a local contact for him, and I was able to meet with a social worker. She couldn't tell me anything but was wondering if I knew of anyone he could stay with since they didn't want him to be alone for the next week or so. His sister was not willing, and his brother lived out of town, so they were out.

I quickly said, “He can stay with me.”

She brightened up. The process was going to be tough for a short while but was manageable.

Because George had tried to harm himself, they could keep him from everyone for 72 hours, and as it turned out would eventually keep him there for the rest of the week. They would then need to release him to a responsible adult. I guess I fit the bill. They said they wanted him observed for two weeks after release and wanted him in an outpatient support group during the day and supervised at night. He also needs to have psych appointments with a local Dr. who would recommend any long-term medications and treatments. All of which were voluntary but highly recommended.

I did get to see him once while in the psych ward. He looked like no one loved him, and I tried to tell him he was wrong, but I don't think he got it. He did agree to stay with me when he got out. Once we had a release date, I was terrified of how I could help him. I have no experience dealing with something like this and didn't know what to do.

The 24 hours before he was released were rough as I prepared my spare bedroom room for him. I got his apartment manager to let me back in his place to collect some of his things. That was one of the hardest things I have ever done. They hadn't done any cleanup in his apartment, and seeing the spot where he had laid possibly to die was so hard. There was even medical waste stuff all over the place from where the EMT's had worked on him. I collected his things from the bathroom and some clothes and rushed out. I couldn't stand to be there.

I tried to make my spare room as bright as I could. It's just a futon, desk, set of drawers, and an overstuffed chair. I cleaned it up and even got some flowers, kind of silly, but I didn't know what else to do.

When I picked up George from the mental wing, he looked depressed and unhappy. But he did smile when he saw me. He apologized for me having to do this, and I almost broke down and cried. I felt so helpless. We got the paperwork signed and instructions for where to go for outpatient and Dr. stuff, and we left.

On the way back to my place, George was quiet. I tried to engage him in light conversation, not talking about anything, but the conversation was strained, and eventually, I stopped.

Once we were back, at my place, I showed him his room, he smiled and again thanked me. I told him to get cleaned up, and we'd sit outside on the patio and have some wine. It was a quiet afternoon, and I didn't ask him any questions about what was going on even though I was dying to know.

We settled into a routine of getting up, showering, getting ready for the day, and having breakfast. Then I'd drop him off at the out-patient center where he had two-morning group sessions, meet with a Dr. and another afternoon session. Then I'd pick him up on my way home after work. We did this for four days, and then I couldn't stand it anymore.

As we were having dinner, I put my hand on his and said, "I'm here for you, George, you can tell me anything you want or nothing. I'll always care deeply for you."

He looked up at me, tears coming to his eyes with that hurt puppy dog look, and said, "I don't know how to tell you. You have helped me so much I can't explain it."

We both started crying. It was as if a dam had burst. George had been holding it all in afraid that I was taking pity on him because no one else had cared, and I had been afraid of hurting him with too much caring and being nosey.

He told me everything; this couple that lived across the common area from him were members of a local church known for its homophobic slant. They didn't know he was gay, and he wasn't going to tell them. They kept trying to get him to go to church with them, but he kept politely saying no thanks. George is not at all religious, and his family life growing up had no real spiritual experience.

They kept after him, and sometimes they would get together at one or the other places for dinner or to play games. For George, it was all just keeping things on an even keel and not wanting to upset them or call attention to himself.

They were at his apartment on Saturday afternoon, going to have dinner with each other and play some board games. George went into the kitchen to get fresh drinks for everyone, and this guy opened up George's laptop. I don't know why, either he was going to look something up, or he was snooping. I guess it was like an atom bomb going off from thereon. George had been using his laptop to watch some gay porn, and the site was still open, and when the lid was raised, the porn video started up again.

That's when the yelling and screaming started. “How could you look at that filth, what kind of a deviant were you? You are going straight to hell, and we hope you die.”

They went on and on about what a filthy piece of shit he was. How could he even have them in his place what kind of pervert was he?

If I had been there, I would have thrown them out and probably ended up in jail for assault. The verbal abuse heaped on George was enormous. Even after they left slamming the door behind them, they were vocally very abusive, yelling in the common area so everyone in the complex could hear they had a sexual deviate faggot living there among them.

This abuse went on for the rest of the evening and throughout the day on Sunday.

George was utterly overwhelmed. He shut down and just sat there on his couch, fearing his life was over. Everyone would know he was a pervert and a sexual deviant looking to rape every man around him, his life filled with lust for other men.

Sunday afternoon, he started drinking, the more he drank, the more he hated himself for what he thought he was. His sister hated him, and his brother could care less; no one would miss him if he were gone. People at work would shun him; his career was over, how anybody could even stand to be in the same room as him. The best thing he could do was to go away and not bother anyone with his depraved longings. But he couldn't just leave. He had nowhere to go. The problem was him, and it would better off just ending it for everyone. After all, they wanted him to die, and although he didn't believe in hell, he knew he deserved whatever happened to him.

George had slipped on some stairs a couple of months ago, and the Dr. had prescribed some pain medication and some sleeping pills for his injuries. He didn't like taking pills and had just muscled through most of it, so he still had quite a few remaining.

He thought, “What a better way to go, I will fall asleep. All this evil inside of me will end. The world will be safer, and I won’t hurt anymore. Those neighbors across from me will be happy that another sinner has removed from their world.”

As I listened to George, I was becoming so angry that I just wanted to HURT THEM SO BADLY!!! I was gripping the edge of the table to keep me from slamming my fists down on it and trying not to let it show on my face. But I couldn't allow it to show, no matter what I wanted or how I felt I needed to be there for George. If I had done to them what they did to my friend, I would be locked up forever. All I could do was sit there with him and listen, try to be supportive and understanding. Hold him and cry with him.

I've had anger issues as a child and went through several years of therapy to learn how to control it, but hearing of all the abuse that was being heaped on poor sweet Georges pushed me right to the limit.

Evidently, George drank most of the bottle of booze, he didn't know how much he started with, but I imagine it was pretty full since he rarely drank at home and never alone. I’m sure he pretty much was alcohol poisoning himself, and then he started taking the pills by the handful. I guess it wasn't long before he either passed out or the pills took effect. The next thing George knew, he was in the hospital, and they had him hooked up to all kinds of tubes and wires. I guess he passed out again because his next memory was of being in the psych ward in the hospital strapped to a bed.

He said they let him up pretty quickly once he was awake, but there were a lot of people around asking him questions about how did you feel and why did you want to do what you did.

I've never asked him what went on in the psych ward. I can surmise that there were group sessions with other patients and lots of Dr. consultations going on. They worked with him to come up with a treatment plan, and I think he agreed to everything they wanted to get away from them.

This revelation was kind of a watershed moment for both of us. We had been walking around each other on eggshells, worried what the other one was thinking. I know he was afraid that I might dump him when what I had signed up to do was over, and I was concerned he try something again, and how could I stop him.

We both relaxed a lot after that. I think he realized that I genuinely cared for him, and I knew that he wasn't going to go off the deep end again. We both felt so much better afterward. That was the first night George spent the night in my bed instead of being alone. There was no sex involved, just holding and caring.