Pure, naked fear. That’s what made me ask Justin if he needed to go to the hospital. I don’t love feeling like I can’t help him. I honestly thought about just keeping him under my watch for as long as it took until he stopped having these thoughts. But I immediately saw that plan was full of fucking holes. First, what was going to change? Justin said that he was trying to get rid of the thoughts. I saw it in the fear and desperation written all over his face. And that boy can do anything he fucking sets his mind to. So this was bigger than him. How was I supposed to fix it if he couldn’t? Something had to change for these thoughts to change. Second, my mind flashed to the night of prom. To seeing Hobbs walk up behind him with that bat, of shouting out, and of being too late to save him. The abject fear when I didn’t know if he would live or die. The consuming guilt that I could have, should have, done something to stop him. If anything was going to come out of that experience it was that I would never stand by and see harm come to Justin if I could do anyfuckingthing to prevent it. I had no ego in this fight. And I couldn’t put Justin on a suicide watch. And if he took his own life when my back was turned or I was out of the room? I may as well die with him.

Justin has described to me the feeling of relief in giving this responsibility of staying alive to someone else. As much as I hated the idea of bringing someone else - or a whole lot of someone elses - into his, our, business, I’m inclined to agree.

He was obviously ill. Depression is an illness that kills. If he were sick with something else that could kill him, and that could be treated, we would seek medical care. Simple as that.

Justin asked if we had to go in that night and my mind flashed to waking up tomorrow to find him… Yeah, we had to go in that night.

This is not at all what I expected when I confronted him that night. What I had thought? It just reveals what a fucking selfish bastard I am. Justin was withdrawing from me and from our life. What was once one of my favorite non-sexual images of Justin - him wrapped up in the duvet, with just the top of his blonde hair sticking out - was now something I saw most evenings when I came home from work, and I began to dread it. He never wanted to go out. He had stopped tricking. I had jumped to the conclusion that, when I asked him to move in with me and when he returned from LA, he assumed that our relationship was taking some “next step” following some heterosexual course toward Being Partners and going out less and being, ya know, monogamous.

When I began to hear concerns from everyone else - Deb worrying that her Sunshine wasn’t his sunshiney self and was showing up late or missing his shifts at the diner, Mikey complaining that Justin kept putting him off with excuses about being too busy to work on Rage, Jennifer mentioning that Justin hadn’t yet contacted her to tour studio spaces, which I had offered to help pay for… Why they were coming to me rather than to Justin I don’t know except that he seemed in a permanently foul mood. I…nope, didn’t reconsider my initial assumptions. I assumed further that Justin was withdrawing from all parts of our life in preparation for leaving me, probably for someone else that he had met. Another fucker wooing him with promises of monogamy. Look, I’m not proud that I assumed that what was going on with Justin was really all about me. Not proud at all that I was missing the actual pain he was in, that he was confused and terrified. But the anger I felt that, once again, he wasn’t being honest with me, when all I’ve ever asked of him is honesty, is what got me to actually confront him. If I had truly seen what was going on, I don’t know that I would have said anything. I’m also not proud of that. My self-centered assumption is what helped us finally talk and for Justin to finally get some help.

Since then, I’ve learned a lot about mental illness and I can retrospectively recognize all the signs of textbook depression. But hindsight’s 20 fucking 20.

We took a shower before leaving. I remember realizing how thin he had gotten. How I had not noticed? You could see each fucking rib. I slid my hands up and down those ribs and washed his hair. And just generally held him close and tried not the think too much about what he had shared. We got ready mostly in silence, but the silence felt comfortable, at least to me. It felt like there was some shared relief we were feeling. The drive over to the hospital was also pretty quiet. I was thinking through the possibilities of what might happen. Justin has told me that when we finally talked about the thoughts he had been having, he half-hoped that I would think he was overreacting, that the thoughts weren’t so bad. I guess I was hoping for the same when we got to the hospital. That we would talk to..whomever it is that you talk to…and they would tell us everything was okay and, maybe not normal, but easily fixed with a pill or something like that and we would find a pharmacy, and be on our way. Spoiler alert: That’s not what happened.

Some people in advertising are just mediocre. It’s just a fact of the business. Some people are stellar, some mediocre, and a few suck. Some of those mediocre folks are mediocre because it’s an average of being stellar at some things and awful at others. There’s Kyle Ross & Associates. Kyle’s a former colleague who was let go in the Vanguard takeover of Ryder and went on to start his own firm. Not much competition for me since they specialize in pharmaceutical advertising. I have a few pharma clients, mostly Remson. Kyle could sell Viagra to…well…me. He’s a genius but only in this certain way. Give him a laundry detergent or a toilet paper, and he’s flailing like a fish out of water. But he knows his limits and has built a successful empire on catering to his niche.

We assume doctors know and excel at everything, or at least in everything their specialty. I assume dermatologists know all about the skin and rashes, I assume obstetricians know all about birthing babies, I assume plastic surgeons know all about beautiful vain assholes like me, and I assume psychiatrists know all about mental illness. But, really, doctors are just like the rest of us sad shits. Usually, like Kyle, they focus on the stuff they’re best at. What I’m saying is that there was no way to know that that psychiatrists on-call in emergency departments are really good at assessing for suicide, psychosis, and panic. The things that generally bring people into emergency rooms. What I’m saying is there was no way to know that they don’t know everything.

I’ve never figured out if going to the hospital and Justin’s experiences there were a mistake and took us further away from where we had to be or ultimately helped get us there. As bad as it was, maybe it had to happen. Maybe you change this one thing and as bad as things got, they get worse or don’t get better. Or maybe we could have spared Justin a lot of unnecessary pain. Because there was a lot of fucking pain and, although he’s reassured me otherwise, I can’t help but feel like once again my stupid decisions hurt him.

In case you’ve never taken someone to the hospital because they are suicidal, here’s how it goes. You go to the emergency room. You check in with the charge nurse, tell him what’s up, he makes sure you haven’t already tried to hurt or kill yourself, and he takes your vitals. Then you’re sent to wait. You really really hope that it’s a quiet night because risk of suicide ranks pretty low on the triage list. They kinda figure that as long as you’re sitting on their uncomfortable chairs right where they can fucking see you, you’re alive and therefore ok to wait. I would say sitting there for hours would make anyone want to die but I don’t joke about that shit anymore.

When it’s finally your turn, you get called back to a smaller room, vitals are taken again, and then you wait some more. Another nurse comes in, asks a bunch of questions about the thoughts you’re having, whether you’ve taken anything, drug and alcohol use, current medications, and past suicide attempts. She nods and says, “Okay, I’m going to page the psychiatrist on-call” and you don’t say, “That fucker wasn’t paged when we were first sent to wait or when we were brought back here? What the fuck have you been doing all this time?” because you don’t want to get kicked out. So you wait some more.

Fun fact, it’s freezing in hospitals. Something about heat being a breeding ground for germs. If you have a face like Sunshine’s here, you get offered some warm blankets. Those warm blankets are nice.

Finally finally finally the psychiatrist shows up. Except you know it’s not the attending psychiatrist because it has to be a resident because it’s a fucking kid, and you are definitely not old enough to think that doctors look like kids. And then you’re asked to step out. And I’m not going to pretend that I don’t have some need for privacy that might just a bit beyond what is fucking normal, but I’m also not going to pretend that it didn’t sting just a little, either. I’m also not going to pretend that I have any type of consistency, because one could point out that leaving Justin in hospitals is something I actually have done. But I’m trying for some character development here. And yeah, I get it. A doctor can’t assume that a person wants their partner to be privy to every little detail of what’s going on in their mind. So I stepped out while the psychiatrist-who-I-fucking-knew-was-in-training asked Justin all sorts of questions to help determine how much risk Justin posed to himself. If he needed to be held in the hospital to keep himself safe. All sorts of questions, just not the one or two that would have made all the difference.

I paced the hallway because I was having feelings but I couldn’t smoke or drink or fuck to try to distract myself or numb myself. And because it was fucking freezing.

I finally got waved back in and the psychiatrist looked at Justin and then at me. And spoke to both of us. “It appears that Justin is suffering from severe, Major Depressive Disorder. Probably recurrent. As well as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder…”

“Can I ask a question?” I interrupted.

“Sure.”

“Is that okay with you?” I asked Justin. I really wasn’t asking the doctor, obviously it’s her job to fucking answer questions.

“Yeah, knock yourself out.”

“Does this…does this have to do with…the trauma? There was a brain injury. Is this because of that? He was treated here, do you have his records from that?”

“I did obtain his previous hospital records and I’ve briefly reviewed them. The PTSD is obviously secondary to the attack. As for…the depression? There’s a lot we don’t know about the brain and what causes what. TBI can cause mood changes, usually not years after the trauma, but again we don’t know 100%. However, treatment for depression would be the same no matter the cause.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“My concern tonight is that Justin is a risk to himself and to others. I’m going to write a hold to keep him here for observation and treatment.”

Justin is a risk to himself and to others.

Justin is a risk to himself and to others.

Justin is a risk to himself …and to others.

To others.

What the fuck?

“To..? Wait doc,” I interrupted her as she was explaining what a “hold” means. “What do you mean Justin is a risk to others?”

“Justin is having suicidal thoughts that I’m afraid put him at imminent risk to himself.”

“Yeah, I get that. What do you mean by ‘and to others?’”

“Brian…” Justin whispered. “Please…”

“Sunshine, I’m just trying to understand.”

“Justin has disclosed that he is also having violent ideation towards others in addition to himself. When considering how imminent the risk is, we consider whether a patient has a plan, access to the means to carry out that plan, how lethal the plan is, and to what extent they feel able to keep themselves from acting on that plan. Based on what Justin has told me, I’m concerned that he is unable to keep himself from acting on these thoughts. So I’m going to write a hold, which is a legal order that keeps Justin in the hospital for 72 hours and renewable until such time that he is deemed to no longer be a risk.”

To others.

Fuck.

“So I’m going to step out, consult with my attending (AHA I knew she was a resident!), and write the hold. I’ll be back shortly.” And with that, she left.

“Brian. Brian?” I looked down at Justin. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

“Sunshine, what do you have to be sorry for? Sorry’s bullshit.”

“I’m sorry that I’m putting you through this, again.”

Putting me through…this…again? What the fuck was he talking about?

“I don’t understand. What are you putting me through?”

“Just more…like with Ethan.” Ethan? Huh? “I’m always causing you pain. You should see your face. I’m sorry, please go home. Just don’t worry about me.”

Are you as confused as I was? Yeah. Now I know that “inappropriate guilt” is a symptom of depression. But at the time? So fucking confused. I also, at that point, didn’t know that Justin was having violent thoughts about me and Gus. For obvious reasons, he hadn’t told me and that’s what the psychiatrist was referring to when she said “risk to others.” It all makes sense now, but I wasn’t playing with a full deck at that moment. Either way, I knew the guilt he was feeling was misplaced and unnecessary.

“Justin, I’m not leaving until I’m forced to. You have nothing to feel sorry for. I don’t know why you’re thinking of Ian, but don’t, you don’t have to. Forget my face. I’m here and I’m going to stay. Stop apologizing.”

“Okay, sorry.” I didn’t comment. Character growth, see? “Can you please…not tell anyone about this?”

“You’re going to be here for three days, someone’s going to notice you’re missing. They’re going to think I forgot to water you.”

“Please, Brian, I don’t want anyone knowing.”

I really didn’t have a leg, or a ball if you will, to stand on in this situation. But I really didn’t want Justin feeling embarrassed because this was an emotional problem rather than a physical illness.

“You know there’s nothing to feel embarrassed about. No one is going to judge you. Everyone will be worried, but happy you’re getting help.”

“I’ll tell them. I will. Just…not now?”

“What about your mom and Daphne? They’ll kill me dead if I hide this from them.”

“I’ll explain you were just doing what I asked.”

“Since when do I do what you ask?”

“Brian.”

“Fine, fine, okay. Your secret is safe with me. I’ll tell everyone you’re sick at home and…tell Debbie to bring the fucking chicken soup to Kinnetik.”

“Thank you.”

The psychiatrist returned then. “Okay, we’re ready to bring you upstairs to admit you. Let’s go through your belongings here. There’s a lot that’s not allowed on the unit - for your safety. Also, you may not want to keep any valuables on the unit. We can send anything you can’t have back with your friend here.”

“Boyfriend.”

“Partner.”

Justin and I spoke at the same time. He looked at me with more light in his eyes than I had seen in a long fucking time, even though it wasn’t much, surprised that I had called him my boyfriend. Look, I’m not a big fan of putting labels on shit, but I’m not getting fucking erased being called his friend. I’m not his fucking roommate. And if it made Justin light up, even a little, fucking worth it.

“Boyfriend,” she corrected herself.

She went through his pockets and handed me his cell and wallet. He was wearing sweats so he didn’t have a belt. She asked him to remove the drawstring, I guess that’s a hanging hazard. Without the drawstring, the pants were nearly falling off him, he had lost so much weight. And I felt badly all over again that I had not noticed sooner.

“You can bring him some more clothes and toiletries tomorrow. No belts, drawstrings, razors, or mouthwash.”

“Mouthwash?”

“Due to the alcohol. If it’s alcohol-free, he may have it on the unit. Nothing sharp either - no tweezers, nail scissors, etc.”

“What about his allergy meds?”

“He will be provided any necessary medications by the hospital. Please do not bring any medications or vitamins. We don’t allow patients to take anything not provided by us or to have medications in their possession… Okay, Justin, are you ready to say goodbye to…ah Brian and go on up?”

“Can Brian come with me?”

“No, it’s a locked unit. Brian can come during visiting hours tomorrow - 7 AM to 10 AM and 3 PM to 6 PM.”

“Why such limited hours?”

“Patients need to be available for treatment during the day. There’s group and individual therapy and psychiatry appointments. Justin, you will probably spend some time tomorrow being assessed more thoroughly so that we can determine a treatment plan. If there are no other questions, I’ll give you a few minutes to say goodbye, I’ll be right outside the door.”
Justin and I looked at each other. We’re not good with this shit. I’m not good with this shit.

“Brian?”

“It’s going to be okay,” I wrapped him in a hug and kissed the top of his head. “You’re going to spend some time here. Get all sorted and be good as new.”

“I’ve never been good, I thought that’s what you liked about me.”

“Right you are, Sunshine, right you are.” I buried my nose in his hair and tried to inhale as much of his scent as I could, as though I could store it up. “Is there anything you want me to bring?”

“Can you bring my sketchbook? And my iPod? And some clothes? Your CMU hoodie?” He had brought that with him to LA.

“Sure thing.”

“Thank you…for everything.”

“No need to thank me, Sunshine.” I kissed him. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

We walked out of the small room and the psychiatrist smiled tightly at us. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” He reached up and kissed me, hard, and I pulled him close and kissed him back. “Later.”

“Later.”

Look, I don’t walk away from Justin. I just don’t. So I stood there in the hallway of the emergency room and watched him walk down the hallway with the psychiatrist, to the elevators, and get on. And then I turned and walked out of the hospital.