On Mental Health

Mental health is a topic people still find difficult to discuss, even with their closest circle of friends. If you ask us gays, we are all fabulous. “Depressed, me? Struggling? Never!” Which is ironic, considering the staggering amount of data proving otherwise. In fact, sexual minorities suffer worse mental health than the sexual majority. 

Yes, you can have a body to die for, a perfect job, bathe in money, and be in the perfect relationship. In fact, you can have it all, and still be a mental mess. You shouldn’t feel guilty for feeling ‘low’ when out there a hell of a lot of people apparently seem to be doing much worse than you do. Who knows what it took to get you where you are right now? 

Our private life is an intricate labyrinth. You can easily lose your way in there, especially if your story is not as straightforward as it appears to be, or if this is simply the way you are, from birth. Believe me; if you find life an uphill struggle, you are not alone, and it is ok, it is fine to talk about it. 

There is a shelf in my heart where a single container stands, in isolation. It is made of see-through glass and its label reads simply “do not open” in capital letters. Years ago, when at my lowest, somehow I had managed to find the strength to compress and bottle up the darkness within myself and virtually seal it away in what I eventually filed in my brain as ‘Jar of hearts’. I have always identified my condition with the ability to FEEL life, and the world, in ways only people who experience depression can understand.

I remember crying the first time I saw a clown in a circus. I was eleven years old. Seeing the man behind the make-up and immediately identifying with him and his concealed desperation gave me nightmares for weeks. Even at that age, I had a subconscious understanding of the way we all try to hide hellish realities behind the mask we are all very likely to wear as soon as we wake up in the morning. 

Perhaps, pre-puberty attraction to my male friends played a part in this. Having realized I was gay, I considered the environment around and decided to not only hide, but also that something was wrong with me, something unspeakable, a curse, in fact. This is not surprising. Research suggests that young gay and bisexual men are at a significantly greater risk of poor mental health than older men because the young experience more homophobic abuse and assault. Research also suggests that the network of social support interventions for young LGBTQ people in the UK is insufficient.

Nine years ago, I underwent an initial training for a new job. After six weeks, my fellow classmates elected me the “funniest” of the group. I won easily, without even trying. I actually thought I was keeping a low profile. As it turns out, stand-up comedy would be my talent if I ever decide to enter a beauty pageant and embrace love & world peace. It is telling that creative people in general and comedians, in particular, are very likely to dive into depression. In a way, Robin Williams death, back in 2014, did not surprise me at all. The man was a genius in his field. As such, he was bound to question more than your average Joe his mission in life and, as I know too well, questions can be deadly.

To keep the darkness at bay there is only so much you can do, so many projects you can take on and strategically place between yourself and the moment you come to realize that waking up in the morning no longer holds any meaning.

Human beings who take their life do not do it lightly. If you are one of those people, who perceive suicide as a selfish act, you should reconsider your angle. The thinking process, the weighing up of the pros and cons takes place over a very long period. The anguish and guilt often involved during this time, shows that individuals who commit suicide have not one single selfish bone in their bodies. In truth, committing suicide is an extremely intimate and lonely act, devastatingly tragic and hopeless in its finality.

Selfish is what we do to soothe the pain generated by something inconceivable. We cannot imagine that someone we love dearly may commit such an act and then leave us to deal with the horror left behind. Therefore, we blame it on selfishness. As always, acceptance is an elusive concept, when it comes to feelings and matters of the heart.

I have lost count of the times I have debated the impact of my unnatural death on the important people in my life. Above all, I picture my mum by my coffin, her face reduced to stone, crazed with unimaginable pain. All I feel is remorse for considering such atrocity, coupled with the awareness of not knowing how dark tomorrow could be, and the day after tomorrow, and then the next, on repeat for the foreseeable future, as the shadows stretch and cover my heart.

Although for the time being green grass covers my land of reason, the “Jar of Hearts” is still there, stored deep inside me, a reminder that I will be forever a work in progress, and that sanity is as fragile as a jar of glass.

This is not a call for help. I am in a place where I cherish my good days, which at times stretch into good months, even good years. Yes, I experience strings of bad days. Yes, at times, I find it difficult to get out of bed, but I do get up, because I make a conscious effort to keep living, one day at a time, doing the things that ultimately make me feel alive and worthy. Above all, I do not hold any shame in admitting I am not perfect. In a way, this is what gives me strength.

#WorldMentalHealthDay

Fatigue: A Cabin Crew old companion

I didn’t realise I was permanently fatigued until a fellow cabin crew who recognised the signs pointed it out to me somewhere across the Atlantic, during a harmless chat in the back galley at 4am: “Any plans for your days off?” Someone asked.  “To sleep.” I replied, as matter of fact, without not even a hint of irony. Then I added: “Lately I don’t seem to be able to do anything else but sleeping or staying in bed. This and feeling sorry for myself, for months at time. Even deciding what to buy for lunch, or if I should go to the supermarket at all, can throw me into a state of panic!”

I guess, over the years, I had grown so used to feeling a little more tired on every flight over a long period, that I missed the tipping point altogether. As result, sometimes during my fifth year of operating a long-haul, full-time roster as flight attendant, I went from practicing sports, planning my holidays and living life to its fullest to a moody, social recluse who had no interest in life and whose only priority was to rest and try to keep mentally alert. 

At my worst, I remember being down-route, waiting for the ‘wake-up call’ in my hotel room, sitting in bed in silence, petrified at the idea of having to wear my uniform and face the flight back home. By now, I was also using my annual leave to stay home and rest.

Sounds familiar? Please read on.

Most people experience different degrees of fatigue after landing back home from a transatlantic flight. Symptoms can go from light vertigo and a feeling of being spaced out to the inability to concentrate. This can lead to a confuse state of mind, where retaining any information becomes impossible. Some people become very forgetful and distracted, others are unable to articulate their thoughts. You may feel so exhausted that you may not even be able to drive back home, or worse still, you may fall asleep while driving. 

You may also feel emotionally drained, or extremely emotional in a way that anything could reduce you to tears. Above all, you may feel empty and generally unable to function and deal with everyday chores.

A good night’s sleep should be able to help you go back to your normal self. However, as the time goes by, especially if you are employed full-time, these side effects can become more severe or drag on until your next shift, becoming latently permanent. This is the time when fatigue starts to affect your personal life, firstly physically, and then mentally, in a domino effect able to knock down your whole self. Luckily, your employer can help you get better.

The first step to regain control of your life is to ask for a referral for Occupational Health. You can simply email your coordinator, who would sort this out for you. Some can find this daunting. It doesn’t have to be. You are not in trouble. What you need is help.

REMEMBER: no one can help you unless you talk about it and make the right people aware of your struggle.

Besides your need to have a meeting with OH, you don’t have to explain at this stage the reasons for your referral.

Understand that OH is an independent body, hired by your employer to give a factual and independent assessment. They are NOT there to catch you out. They are not there to judge you either. They are there to make sure you are ok and, if needs be, to take care of you and put you back on the path of recovery.

On the day of the assessment be candid about how you are doing. BE GENUINE. Tell them exactly how you feel and what you do, day in, day out. Ask yourself how the physical side of what you are experiencing is affecting your mental health and discuss this too. Honesty is key to this process, which is why you shouldn’t feel embarrassed to discuss things in detail.

Above all, embrace the whole process, because once you’ve talked about it with the right people you won’t feel alone and helpless anymore.

Right after the meeting, your assessor will write a factual report and a recommendation based on the findings. This will be done in front of you and then emailed jointly to yourself and your manager. Your manager will contact you in due course to arrange a meeting, preferably in person, and to discuss a course of action based on the recommendation given.

Almost three years ago, I admitted to myself that I wasn’t ok, I took actions and spoke about it. In hindsight, I now cherish the day I acknowledged and accepted that there is no shame in being vulnerable and in seeking help. If I hadn’t done so, I dread to think where I’d be by now. It takes guts to be honest about how we truly feel. 

Therefore, TAKE PRIDE in doing so. My advice is to never forget who you are; to love, respect and be kind to yourself in a way that will allow you not to lose sight of how relevant you truly are to the people who care for you. Above all, cut yourself some slack. After all, you can save lives, and that’s the simple, factual truth!

Mario Forgione


PS: Whilst the procedures described in this piece are pertinent to my employer, I believe that any airline operating a long-haul schedule has in place a similar point of contacts and structure.

A matter of chemistry. A chemsex snapshot.

“I wish I was able to say no”, he muttered, while he hesitantly handed his pipe to me, the moment I said I wasn’t in the mood for drugs and that I had no desire to get high. I only wanted to meet him in person to establish if the connection we had was only virtual, or could translate into the real world. After all, we had been talking on and off for days and we appeared to have things in common. Meeting up was the natural thing to do.

Unconvinced, he looked at me with a lone sadness in his eyes that I couldn’t quite define. Then, he lit up again. We were in my living room, sitting at opposite ends of the sofa. I stared at the pipe, held in mid-air just a metre away from me. There I was, not for the first time, taking another alchemy’s class that I hadn’t signed up for. The chemistry of fire has always fascinated me. In fact, fire is something I have played with all my life, as my many scars would prove. I saw the smoke developing from a crystallised rock the moment the flame from his ‘crème brùlèe’ torch hit the glass, transforming its contents. I stared at the oily, white smoke, a fog for the senses, circling and speeding erratically inside the confined space of the pipe, the promise of oblivion so close I could taste it.

Years ago, I would have given in. A few days off ahead to recover, coupled with ‘that’ feeling of loneliness that I associate with the winter season and the idea of cozy nights in with someone special, who always seems to desert me. That would be too much to resist. These are powerful ingredients, able to brew a perfect storm and the days of stillness and misery that always follow a chemical high. 

Thankfully, these days I have acquired the ability to break down the whole, tempting picture into single individual frames and see them for what they truly are, a cover for self-loathing, a denial of my weakness and needs as a human being. I want company, therefore I compromise everything to get it or at least, I used to.

Now, I simply breathe in, deeply, allowing the oxygen to clear my head as the moment passes: detachment is a powerful instrument when used accordingly.

Marcelo stood by my side, facing me, his pipe loaded with smoke, still gesturing and offering with increased urgency. He was aware the drug would escape the pipe and dissolve in seconds. “No thanks. I am good as I am,” I said, without moving a muscle. Then I saw him take a deep inhale as he cleared the pipe of its contents. 

As his high kicked in and his inhibitions left the room, he offered me some GHB, in case I only had a problem with smoking Crystal Meth. I declined, for the third time: “I don’t think this is going to work; the sex or whatever we were both hoping for. We can talk for a little if you like, but then I will need you to go. I’d rather have dinner and an early night. You are probably not hungry, which is a shame. I can cook.”

Then I smiled. I looked outside the window, as the night was closing in, wondering if my Latino dream, morphed into a sad nightmare, was going to waste his high on me. We spoke a little. As it turned out, he had spent the night before with a MATE, which in ‘gay-land high’ means he hooked up with someone he’d never met before, someone whose name he couldn’t remember. He had moved from place to place for the last three days, until he finally landed in my living room, where he was hoping to ‘self-medicate’ some more with me. The longer he sat in close proximity to me, the more I could smell his chemical sweat. He was beautiful and lost, in an indefensible kind of way.

As I looked at him, I remembered the words of someone I know, someone who doesn’t believe that the gay community has a problem with drugs and chemsex. “It’s only a very small percentage of people who can’t handle it, spoiling it for ALL the others, who simply enjoy getting high over the weekend. It’s the gay media who is creating the hype,” he told me then, with contempt of the ones who can’t handle it.

I wished he was here now. Here it was, his alleged living ‘spoiler’. A human being; someone’s son, brother, friend or lover. Are we so jaded with ourselves that we don’t care anymore?

“I was able to control things, now not so much. I am always late for work,” Marcelo informed me, while standing up and reaching for his coat. As I led him to the door, I suggested that perhaps he should consider seeking help, if he was ready to admit he needed help, of course: “Go to 56 Dean Street in Soho. They won’t judge you, they won’t turn you away, and they won’t report you, regardless of your immigration status and personal circumstances.”

“Perhaps I will,” he said, as he walked out of my flat. Then, he disappeared down the stairs, in hyperactive speed. By the time he had made it down and out into the street, he was on Grindr again.

Ex gay porn star Matthew Rush, social media trolls and our uncomfortable truths

Former gay porn star Matthew Rush is in jail. His charge is possession/use of drug paraphernalia and possession of methamphetamine. Considering that acting as a bitter, bitchy queen is IN and compassion is OUT, many of us saw the news on social media, some ridiculing his appearance, along with his life.  

Does it matter that up to last year Matthew Rush used his fame to raise money for HIV research? Does it matter that he has joined a very long list of people working in the adult industry who ended up in jail, with a drug problem, or worse, dead? Does it matter that in private, many people still masturbate over them, unaware of their fate?

It should. Perhaps, it doesn’t anymore. Facebook and Twitter are generically turning all of us into a hoard of barbaric and judgemental arseholes, with no sense of decency, morality or respect for the human condition.

I looked at the customary before/ after shot, buff and sexy on one side, lost and skinny on the other, (two photos obviously stuck together to add the appropriate amount of drama) and I wondered what it took to lead Matthew Rush to the devastation of this present moment. One can only speculate.

All I know, from personal experience, is that self-destruction develops over a long period. It goes undetected for years as it chips away at the edges of your soul, while you get on with your life. Don’t be fooled by the photo taken when he looked gigantic. Possibly, he was already battling with his own version of hell, the way many of us homosexuals struggle daily with issues regarding personal appearance, self-worth and acceptance of who we are. We are all underdogs grasping for air. Matthew Rush is exactly like us, vulnerable like us, which should make his fall from grace a personal tragedy we all share.

I stared at the red, bloodshot gaze I know so well and felt great sadness. Matthew’s eyes reminded me of one of my closest friends, someone who lived less than a mile away from me and who had been battling crystal meth addiction on and off for sometimes. In the process, my friend lost his job, his health and his dignity. He also literally disappeared before my eyes, physically and mentally, every day a little more. Eventually, I realized that I didn't have the strength or the heart to be there for him, to give him the support he needed without expecting anything back. Therefore, I stopped looking out for him. The shame is all on me.

As Gay Star News website (GSN) has stated on numerous occasions in their special features of September 2017, the gay community has a problem with drugs/chemsex, which is spiralling out of control and possibly into 'epidemic' territory. Like GSN, I too feel this is something that could define our generation and we need to cease pretending otherwise. Above all, we should stop trivialising the issue. In fact, we must come together as a community and truly start looking after one another, and actually care, because if we won’t, no one else will.

Imagine my anger when I came across the post/screen-shot I am publishing at the top of this piece while flicking through social media in the morning. Two factors contributed to my dismay: one, the complete lack of empathy for a fellow gay man going through a publicly documented fall from grace. The second factor: the editor of an internationally renowned gay magazine ridiculing another human being's torment. This person woke up in the morning and decided to come up with a ‘caption competition’ to make a mockery of a personal tragedy. This editor didn’t write something in the heat of the moment. No, he thought about it and then he carefully listed seven (7) possible captions.

Well, let me add an extra one, straight at him: “SHAME ON YOU”

Not for the post in itself, which one can dismiss as a perfect combination of wrong timing and poor judgement, but for what this person did after he published it. He left it hanging there on his wall for two painful hours before deleting it without saying a word, once he realised how inappropriate it was and when he saw the negative comments piling up.

The editor of a gay magazine has a moral responsibility towards the gay community in general and his audience in particular. Therefore, if he screws up he should take responsibility for his words. He doesn’t click DELETE in order to brush his words under the social media carpet, pretending that they never saw the light of day. He should be held accountable for his actions, take ownership and make amends. Someone who earns a living out of working in the gay community doesn’t get to disparage its members, especially when their only fault is to be troubled human beings.

On a personal note, I am disappointed. Even though we are not friends, I’ve known this person for twenty years. I’ve even contributed to his magazine in the past. In the light of this piece, I doubt it will happen again. The publishing world is a very unforgiving environment and I don’t care. There is more to life than exposure. My choice is to stand up and speak out.

After all, I have no desire to write for someone whose moral compass seems to be pointing directly towards the antithesis of goodness.

Mario Forgione