Former Advocate Editor Describes Spiral into Psychosis

Few people on the street believed me during homelessness that I had been a journalist my whole life. I even had some big jobs, like managing editor of Glendale-Burbank-Foothills at Los Angeles Times, deputy news editor at Detroit News, and executive news editor of Long Beach Press-Telegram.

But the “biggest” job I ever had in terms of prestige and impact had to be serving as executive news editor of Advocate magazine, the national LGBTQ publication that sparked the queer rights movement. Back in 1997 and 98, when I worked there, the Advocate had fabulous offices on the 10th floor of the Friess Entertainment building in Hollywood. The Screen Actor Guild credit union was in the building, and occasionally you’d see a celebrity or two.

Of course, the Advocate back in those days was all about celebrities. We wanted to get Ellen on the cover so bad. We ended up settling for Ellen’s future girlfriend, Anne Heche.

Sharing an Office with Chaz Bono

I remember occasionally sharing an office with Chaz Bono, who also worked now and then for the Advocate. Lavish lunches with big-wigs such as Lorri Jean from the L.A. Gay and Lesbian Center were common. I edited columns from playwright Tony Kushner and journalist Andrew Sullivan. I hobnobbed with leaders in the queer civil rights movement and loved it.

At night, I’d hit the clubs, dancing until dawn with my shirt off and tucked into the back of my jeans. I seldom went home alone, home being a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment in West Hollywood with a swimming pool. I lived next door to Simon Sabato, Antonio Sabato Jr.’s sister, who managed Antonio.

Once, he showed up at a Halloween party at her house dressed as a pirate. My Halloween party guests swooned over Antonio hanging out at the pool.

Back in those days, I never would have thought I could become homeless. I had too many friends, too many connections. I was living large.

Father’s Dementia Brings Me Back to Illinois

Fast-forward 20-plus years. So much had changed. I had left Los Angeles to care for my father with dementia in Illinois. While there, I plunged into a deep depression and developed a drinking problem. I got sober before dad died, but when he passed away, it hit me extremely hard.

A doctor had taken me off Risperdal, an antipsychotic I had taken for several years, and instead put me on Xanax. I developed an addiction to the Xanax. But worse, off my Risperdal, I underwent a metamorphosis I never could have imagined.

I isolated myself from everyone I knew. I began to follow conspiracy theories. For a long time, I aligned my views with those of conservative groups, even though I had been a die-hard Democrat my whole life.

I sold my house, which was paid for, and moved to Denver on a whim in August 2018. I continued to spiral into deep psychosis. I no longer knew what was true and what was false. I was hearing voices almost constantly.

I blew through tens of thousands of dollars between August and December. And with the exception of marijuana, for which I hold a medical card, I used no drugs, prescription or otherwise. But certainly, I spent a fortune on marijuana.

Drug-Free and Psychotic as Hell

When my neighbors and I began to clash in the throes of my psychosis, I fled my apartment and everything in it. I began staying in luxury hotels downtown Denver. I’d eat out for every meal. And I’d eat at places like Hard Rock Café and Sam’s No. 3.

One day, I simply ran out of money. I had nowhere to go. I had nowhere to sleep. I had no idea what to do, so I began to ride the light rail all night. Eventually I made Union Station home base.

Never did I ever tell anyone I was gay during homelessness. A couple of times, peoples suspected it, and we ended up fighting. Once, on Free Mall Ride, a drag queen cold-cocked me, and lip was badly split. I walked more than two miles to Denver Health. When I walked into the emergency department, I was covered in blood and treated immediately.

To be gay and homeless in Denver is extremely dangerous. I saw gay people get pimped out, beaten up, verbally harassed, and badgered terribly in homeless shelters. I remember a transgender woman who showered at St. Francis Day Center with all the homeless men. She used to cover herself as best she could. This poor woman clearly was uncomfortable, and my heart used to break for her.

Losing Sight of My Identity

My mental illness during homelessness was severe. I actually lost sense of my identity and decided for a short time that I was not gay. I began to subscribe to conservative beliefs that I could be “fixed.” I even used to pray to God that if he would get me out of homelessness, I never would have gay sex again.

This phase caused extreme damage to my self-esteem and my gay friendships. People did not know how to respond to the homophobic things I began to say. To this day, I have not spoken with dozens of former friends who no doubt were offended by my behavior. I don’t know what to say other than I was completely out of my mind.

But please know that homelessness is even more dangerous for people who are gay. The ones who are out and proud and homeless have a lot of intestinal fortitude.

But there are more homeless gay people than at first glance. At least three men who called me a “faggot” while homeless later made sexual advances toward me. While the hypocrisy of that reality is nauseating, sadly, it’s understandable why some homeless gay people remain closeted.