I was raised with faith – Roman Catholicism that is. When I was figuring out my sexuality, I was lead to believe I was going to burn in hell before I even got out of bed for having desires. Back then, they weren’t even desires – hell, I was 8 or 9 years old. Do you even have urges at that age? I just knew I was different from the rest of the small pack of students I was allowed to play with. The boys played their sports games with the other boys at recess, whereas I choose to play with the girls. What games we played, I do not recall. I just knew I was more comfortable with them than I was with the boys who seemed (forgive me Sister Eileen) hell bent on winning.

My eighth grade graduation was a turning point of sorts. No more nuns, no more priests, no more going to church every Sunday to go through the motions of an hour-long Mass of sitting, standing and kneeling. It was June and in 1986 fashion (before I appreciated what fashion was), I didn’t want to graduate in the typical blue blazer and plaid tie. I forced my Mother’s hand and picked out a suit more appropriate for the day – a la Don Johnson on Miami Vice. White pants, white lace up Capezio shoes, pastel colored shirt, and a stop sign red jacket to tie it all together. I had been to my Mother’s hairdresser that day and he Aqua-Netted my hair into a pre-Donald Trump do guaranteed not to move even through a hurricane.

Suffice it to say, I stood out like a Pink Flamingo at a Pigeon contest receiving my diploma. The girls thought I was awesome, the boys were jealous, and I couldn’t see any of it because I refused to where my Coke-bottle glasses as they would ruin my new look.

To the dismay of the Nuns, curious looks from other parents and stares from my school mates, I proudly walked up to receive my graduation certificate.

High school began in June of that year as was the custom and I found myself in a completely different world. My parents, long since divorced, could not agree to send me to another private school, so I found myself among the masses of teenagers who weren’t sure what was going on or where they were supposed to be, myself among them.  Gym class proved my breaking point.

We were supposed to choose what we wanted to take, and there was quite a variety. But no matter which I choose, I still ended up in a locker room with the other boys changing and showering. I felt extremely uncomfortable, yet I still wasn’t completely sure why. I just knew that I should not be in a room full of naked and half-naked boys bantering about who was the best hitter or kicker or whatever, when all my eyes seemed to do was glance towards their mid-sections and feel embarrassed because of it. Shortly thereafter, I ditched gym class altogether, having a family friend who happened to be a doctor write notes for me, excusing me from the rest of the classes. This same doctor, along with the help of an over worked secretary
in the Principal’s office, kept me out of gym class through the remainder of my years in high school. They offered me swimming; I quickly produced a note saying I was allergic to chlorine. They offered me softball; I got a note from Dr. Magic saying it was bad for my back.  The secretary I worked for loved it, I did her job in place of gym class and she got to take lots of coffee breaks. In doing so, I was able to divert my (I then thought) misplaced feeling for certain boys whom, shall we say, exceeded the others in the locker room and not necessarily in gym class.

This went on until graduation, (which I achieved with honors), and it wasn’t until years later, I began to question the FAITH I had been reared to know. If I was GAY, I’d burn in hell before I woke up. Had I chosen the path that had been laid before me, I probably would have married the one girl who had given me a “hickey” before I was 14. As the sands drift down to 40, I find myself wondering which path would have been better… a life of perfect lies, or my life of imperfect appearances.

Which path would you have chosen?

Until we meet again, Christian

Since I was a child, I have always been intrigued with the visions that were presented before me on television and in the movies. The actors portraying their parts were more than merely reading lines. They were embodying the persona of the part they were playing.

Some convincingly; others, not so much. However, to an impressionable youth they were all people, fictional or not. The one thing television most definitely had become, for me, was perhaps too good a friend. I felt as though I were part of the presentation. That, I somehow fit into this plot or that episode.

For many years throughout the late 70s and early 80s, I was infatuated with “The Bionic Woman.” Jamie Summers – now there was a woman; school teacher, international spy and in possession of super strength to boot.

She was wholesome, pretty, honest, and could do some really cool stuff.   Thanks to syndication, I got to be with her every day after school. There was, of course, “The Bionic Man” as well, but I suppose, even before I knew what it was to be gay, he just wasn’t my type.

Not that Jamie Summers was either.

However, I didn’t just have a mere crush on Jamie. I wanted to be her! So much
so that, I used to run in slow motion and try and mimic that bionic sound. I once even attempted to jump from my back porch into the yard, resulting in a few scrapes, bruises and some curious looks from my mother.

Then, there were the movie characters. My first (and last) camping trip was a weekend of sheer terror, for at night, I was sure that every twig breaking, every leaf falling, was “Jason” behind his hockey mask lying in wait to kill us all. I have to confess, that even at my age, when I’m at my mother’s country house, I still have trouble sleeping even with a pharmacy at my disposal.

With the advent of YouTube, I was rejoined with the screen “friends” of my youth. Jamie Summers was no longer selling mattresses to the middle aged masses, she was just as young and pretty and able to jump over large objects with ease. Sometime later, I discovered the “blooper reels” from some other shows I had once enjoyed and decided to see if there were any for the “Bionic Woman.” That’s just before the walls between fiction and reality began to crumble.

I had always admired Jamie’s soft-spoken nature, kindness and the certain fragility she displayed despite her super strength. Then I saw my first “blooper” reel of the show. For the first time, I separated the actress, Lindsey Wagner, from the character, Jamie Summers, due mostly to the fact that when off screen, Lindsey had the mouth of a sailor. Just about every scene that she flubbed was followed by words I won’t mention here, but one in particular, starting with F set the tone.

I then began to put together in my mind the “roles” we allow ourselves to play, be they intentional or not. I remember watching with awe as my mother went through her morning routine of “putting her face on” while I ate my bowl of Captain Crunch. It seemed to me that she too was getting ready to play a part she perhaps didn’t want to play, but had been cast into. Many of my friends seemed to fit into this mold as well. They didn’t necessarily become who they wanted to be, they became what they were expected to be by society, “Nazi nuns,” heavy-handed parents and so on.

I was forged into a polite, non-violent, obedient child by the nuns and teachers at my school, while the “real” me lurked under the surface, wrecking havoc every chance I had. I have yet to shed all those vestiges of youth or the appearances I wish others to see, but that I know aren’t completely real. Trouble is, I haven’t completely figured out how to separate the two, though I am working on it.

What would I have turned out to be had I zigged when told to zag or turned left when ordered right? I suppose I’ll never know, but I leave you with the same question. Where would you be right now without the shell of the character into which you were molded?

Until next time, Christian

It’s just another Thursday in an otherwise unremarkable week. As per my routine, I’m wearing a pair of sweat pants complete with bleach stains and a drawstring waist sans the string, a ratty T-shirt with a hole in it and I have my pink rubber gloves on that I wear when cleaning the bathroom. I have a bandana wrapped on my head ala some 50s housewife in curlers. My face is covered with a clay masque, which followed an exfoliating masque and which itself will be followed by a soothing green tea masque.

Why am I sharing the mundane details of my cleaning and grooming habits? Because I’ve often wondered if anyone else’s weekend routine started the day before the actual night out and if it were as complex as mine. After the house has been vacuumed, dusted and scrubbed and my face has been plucked, sucked and sandblasted, it’s time for wardrobe selection. I can’t just throw on any old thing. Wardrobe needs to be appropriate for the venue, with whom you are going, mood and so forth.

I spent my formative early gay years with the lesser celebrity “jet set” in New York City. Every night was a party, a fundraiser, or some new club and there was an unspoken dress code.

The velvet ropes carefully keeping the crowds out of certain night spots were not just there to hold people back and let the “right” people in. Those ropes and the guards behind them were centurions with a flair for fashion and an eye for the “it” people. There they stood, ear pieces in, clip-boards in hand practically motionless except for their eyes which were constantly scanning the crowd to make sure who shouldn’t be waiting wasn’t. I’m not ashamed to say that, way back when, I myself was in with the “right” crowd. It may seem shallow and superficial, but damned if I didn’t have some fabulous times.

When I moved to my beloved Fort Liquordale, wardrobe proved to be just as important. The right clothes for the right clubs and, I’ll admit, also I needed to plan the “right” substances I’d be doing that evening (I no longer use or  approve of the use of illicit drugs, As my readers know, I’ve made some mistakes in the past and I’ve paid very dearly for them).

South Beach, Oy! Now that was always crazy. I’d have to start prepping on a Wednesday because a new outfit had to be bought. When surrounded by men built like Abercrombie and Fitch models, who you knew would be shirtless in 12 minutes and when you’re pretty much a thin, average boy – you just had to have a designer on your ass.

Now, every time I get ready, I find myself staring blankly the same rack of  clothing, hoping something I haven’t worn before would magically appear, unless of course I’d been shopping, and naturally I can never decide what to wear on the first try.

Could I squeeze into those jeans that I haven’t worn in two years but used to look so good?  After a struggle of epic proportions, I find that horray, they fit well as long as I don’t breath, put anything in my pockets or have to bend over. So off they come.
After several failed attempts and growing tired of looking in the mirror, I decide on the basic black suit that I was thinking about wearing in the first place anyway. Having accomplished what I had to do, I bring my essentials (tranquilizer, my teddy bear and the remote control) to bed.

I lie in my bed and stare at the television, my thoughts ranging from should I repaint the living room to whether or not I should wear a little eyeliner tomorrow.

Yet as tomorrow arrives, and after all the work of bearing the production of going out, I decide I am too tired, instead I settle for an evening with the TV and go to bed! “Welcome to middle age.”  Maybe now, I’ll buy different pairs of “designer” sheets!

I was in desperate need of some time off. But where to go on the spur of the moment? The Parliament House in Orlando sprang to mind (as did Tahiti, but I’m on a budget now) to take in the shows, do a little dance, make a little love and basically “get down” all weekend seemed to be in order.

I informed the front desk that I would be doing a story for the Florida Agenda and had the good fortune to be given
the name of the man who could facilitate my needs, Mr. Michael Wanzie, the Theatrical Producer/Sales and Events Coordinater. He is the wizard behind the curtain that helps make the Foot Light Theatre more enjoyable than a trip to Oz.

I was given the full “red-carpet” treatment. Michael took time out of his whirlwind schedule to give me a guided tour of all the amenities and was just an all-around pleasure to meet. I came to refer to him as the “go to guy.” He also, in his capacity of Event’s Coordinator, is in the process of putting together his very own spoof of “A Christmas Carol.” If you have a free weekend, I highly recommend it.

Everyone at the Parliament House is friendly and welcoming, I am, however, going to focus on three people who made my stay just a little more extraordinary.  I would like to thank the entire staff for an incredible weekend – with a special note to theFootLight Players, all of whom are an absolute inspiration. The cast has all been there several years and work together with the efficiency of a Broadway production.

It was my misfortune to have missed the legendary talent of Darcel Stevens, the usual Mistress of Ceremonies, but my great pleasure to witness the tornado of talent that embodies the form of Carol Lee. It bears mentioning that both Darcel and Carol Lee have been with the theatre for approximately 12 years and yet I still noticed something of a family environment backstage, which I believe helps set them apart from other shows.

Now unto Carol Lee and myself. At some point between shows, Carol Lee took the time with me to sit down and talk, and I grew more fond of her as we spoke.

Having grown up in the small town of Fort Wayne, Indiana, she knew that she always “marched to the beat of a different drummer” as she graciously put it,from an early age. We chatted about this and that, her incredibly hectic schedule of seven different shows (I still can’t even imagine that) each weekend as well as her day job (which I will not mention here, but is quite impressive).  When I inquired as to what made her do it all, she simply stated (with a somewhat sly look on her face), “a girl’s got to eat and it’s not like I’m out digging ditches. I’m playing with make-up and putting on a dress.”

When I asked her what her inspiration for entertaining was, we had a bit of an “Oprah” moment. She tried holding back some tears and told me the story of her Grandmother. This amazing woman was apparently the strength from whom Carol Lee draws her and she told me her Grandmother had a favorite quote. “If I had made it to Hollywood first, no one would have ever heard of Ethel Merman.” After having sat down with Carol Lee, I believe that to be absolutely true.

And then there is that Master of Mixology, Derek. At some point during the blissful madness of the weekend, I chanced upon yet another heart of gold.  I’ll admit, I was first drawn to his looks. But as we conversed, I found him to be intelligent, witty and especially kind.  He works in the Bear Den–not my usual choice, but hey, it was a vacation and it was right next door to the antique shop (which, is an absolute MUST).

My best friend and I quickly laid claim to the pool table and I would go up to chat with Derek between games and order more cocktails. We actually got to know each other a little bit, and he was absolutely amazing! He has been with the Parliament House for about 2½ years and had nothing but good things to say about it. He pours a mean cocktail once he knows what you like. A word of caution: look, but don’t touch, girls. He’s off limits for the time being!

When all was said and done, I had the most exquisite time that’s allowed by law and I suggest you treat yourself to a good time as well by venturing up to the Parliament House. Between the live entertainment and the more than delicious staff, a good time is had by all – guaranteed.

Photo: Jamie Lee Curtis in “Halloween”

Inspiration is a flash of lightening. If you don’t catch it at just the right time, you don’t get the energy from it. As a writer, that charge sometimes comes in all encompassing waves of joy, hope, love, pride, fulfillment, and all sorts of physical and mental delights at once. It is, in fact, a feeling that rivals really good sex with someone you toy with planning a future. OK, so maybe sex is better, but feeling waves of inspiration certainly beats living alone in a big empty house full of memories of better times.

I am supposed to be sharing a completely different story with you right now, but I caught a bolt of that aforementioned lightening from someone I hope will become a new friend, whom I shall simply identify as “A,” However unwittingly, “A” caused inspiration to strike me like an 18-wheeler rear-ending a VW “Bug.” So here I sit in my home-office typing whatever letters my fingers lead to the keyboard thanks to a person who “rolled the dice” on a nut like me.

Maybe you will enjoy it, and catch some of that lightening as well. Maybe you’ll think I’m some sort of “whack job” (which I freely admit to). You want to know something? I can honestly say for the first time in my life that I could not possibly care less what negative feelings anyone may have towards me.

My “former” life, if you will, seemed as though it was all about me. Now, I’m not that emotionally needy adolescent anymore. Not the 20 year with

the 29 inch waist and big blue eyes, being pampered while standing before cameras all day either. I don’t have to have Giorgio Armani’s name on my ass (although his jeans tend to make it look better) to advertise to the world that I am somebody. I am somebody right now, sitting here, typing in my pajamas.

I’ve placed all the outer trappings aside – along with the bar drama and the cliques that flock from bar to bar to bar like migrating flamingoes. Simply knowing the “right” bartender or being acquainted with the DJ du jour doesn’t amount to anything in the real world. What happens when the club closes and there isn’t another party to go to?

A series of torrid circumstances mixed with bad investments had led me down a dark road no one should ever traverse alone. I, personally, was completely taken by shock. It was the kind of terror I imagine Jamie Lee Curtis felt with Michael Myers just outside the closet door in the 1st “Halloween” movie.

Who was I really? I had lived my life by day getting my nails done, sitting behind a desk, counting other people’s money, schmoozing with the ladies- who-lunch set for so long, I thought I belonged. But, I was the token gay man that all the wealthy housewives loved because I fawned over them and gave them the attention that their consistently absent husbands didn’t. We could discuss things from the latest celebrity sex scandal to the “must do’s” in the Hampton’s with ease, for we had all been there and done that, more than once.

Then I found myself in a most uncomfortable situation. I could no longer keep up the lifestyle I had lived in my self-created, safe little bubble for so long. All I really got out of it were fading photographs, some dusty old catalogues with out-of-date fashions, and a person whom I once resembled but have had little to do with since.

It was time to figure out what would get me back into the security of my own, personal little “bubble” once again. The difference this time was I found myself older, supposedly wiser, and didn’t want to cry to my parents. I desperately needed a new start, but kept coming up with excuses not to try, because I felt I was destined to fail anyway. Great logic, don’t you think?

At this phase of my life, I truly can’t say where I see myself as of yet. Hell, I never expected to live this long after 17 plus years as an HIV+ man. I never expected to find pleasure in the little, sometimes silly, and occasionally even frightening things. Yet, being real has enabled me to feel!

What’s next? I am making plans again.  I’ve traded in my remote control in order to make something happen. I have hope that the future will unfold as it should, good or bad. I intend to just try and enjoy the ride.

May your dreams be beautiful.

May your realities outshine your dreams.

The stars at night really are big and bright, deep in the now-wounded heart of Texas.

So I could see why upwardly mobile gay couples would want to make a home there. Minus a small populous of narrow minded, backward cowboys, it could be a very nice place to set up a home. Not anymore.

Not if you happen to be a gay couple.

Unlike Massachusetts, Connecticut, Iowa, Vermont, the District of Columbia, New Hampshire and New York, gay marriage is illegal in Texas.  Very, very illegal in fact. In 2005, Texas voters passed a Constitutional Ban on same-sex marriage, even though State law already prohibited it. Talk about over-kill. Why not just post a sign at every entrance to the State saying “NO FAGS ALLOWED.”

Oh but wait, there’s more. I know of a couple who had been legally married in Massachusetts, had adopted a baby, and decided to start their little family in “The Great State of Texas.” Mom, Mom and baby makes three, and they were like every other married couple in the United States. The first few years were good ones – and then they weren’t so good anymore. They were so bad, in fact, that Mom and Mom decided to obtain a divorce and work out joint custody of the toddler.

The couple, Angelique Naylor and Sabina Daly, sought a judge in Austin, who granted the divorce.

Unfortunately for them (and the baby) the Texas Attorney General, Greg Abbott, appealed the decision. His reason?  Because he was protecting the “traditional definition of marriage,” which he interpreted to mean the same for divorce. Therefore, since they shouldn’t have been married in the first place, they could not legally be divorced. A Dallas appeal’s court three-judge panel also agreed that the State’s same-sex marriage ban WAS Constitutional. I can almost smell the logic, but the scent is very similar to cow manure.

Angelique and Sabina tried to stick it out, but finally separated in 2007 as the arguments between them continued to mount. They eventually were able to get a higher court to dissolve the marriage amid escalating animosity between them, but that decision too is being appealed. Here it is, 2011, and as far as I was able to find out, while the couple remain happily separated, the state of their marriage is in limbo. I am forced to wonder what box they have to check on a form that asks about your marital status, Yes? No? or Undecided!

Enter J.B and his husband H.B. They too were legally married in Mass-achusetts and decided to move to Dallas. Neither man would comment on the reasons, but they decided to file for a divorce in Dallas County in 2009. A district judge, Tena Callahan (Democrat), said that she did have jurisdiction to hear the case, saying that Texas’s ban on same-sex marriage was unconstitional.  Once again, the same Texas Attorney General swooped in and appealed to the 5th District court which overturned Callahan’s ruling to allow the divorce.  Shortly thereafter, an attorney for J.B. filed a Petition for Review of the 5th District’s ruling by the Texas Supreme Court. As I am writing this, I remain unaware whether J.B and H.B. are still considered married or not, but I’ll put good money on not.

As for the rest of us? Gay couples seeking divorce are getting mixed results across country. A Pennsylvania judge refused to divorce two other women who also were married in Massachusetts while at the same time, New York grants divorces without so much as a peep.

As for me, I’ve been single for over 10 years now and have no plans of marriage. However, if there are any attractive, successful men in their early 30’s reading this, drop me a line. I’ve always wanted to go to Iowa!

Think happy thoughts–just not about most Texan officials!

Photo: A wall covered in graffiti and a painted sign in Portugal. “Mais Amor Por Favor” means “More Love Please” in Portuguese.

Most of us awake to begin our day in our beds, safe under our sheets. Some start the day arising from the living room couch, remote control still in hand with an empty pizza box nearby. Others regain some sense of the new day’s dawning, lying on the kitchen floor, still wearing the carefully considered outfit from the night before, somewhere in the vicinity of an empty bottle of alcohol, or perhaps something else which I won’t mention, but you can guess. In all of these events, most of us wake up safe surrounded by walls. Walls made of brick or mortar, or concrete or wood, walls that protect us from the outside world and keep what goes on in our own little worlds from getting out.

Me? I arise to find myself restricted by walls of my own construction. Not just the walls that built some mansion, townhouse or crack-den. I am speaking of psychological walls that are more restrictive than those of the most secure prison in the country. Walls that took years, decades to build. Built with guilt, remorse, regret, shame, insecurity, fear, pain and a plethora of other emotions that have led my therapist to get therapy.

There came a point when I just stared straight at my neatly stacked pile of a concrete past, knowing what it was made of, and didn’t even make the attempt to penetrate it.

My pain, loss, sorrow etc. had become like an old partner. We don’t really talk much anymore, but we’ve been together so long we’re just used to each other. My walls were there to keep those pesky emotions out.

Then I began to think of all the other things that lay on the other side of my walls as well. My emotions were easily buried in large quantities of alcohol and drugs, which were used as material to make my emotional wall higher. All the meaningless encounters with dozens (a gross under-estimation, if ever there was one) of men to fill some hole in my soul that the death of my first love had left.

I could remember clearly, for the first time in years, the innocence I once had.

The child that got lost in all the bright lights and pretty faces and promises of a future that wouldn’t come. I was a person who cared about people and had people who cared about me.

I just got hurt maybe a few too many times, I think my heart just shut down.

Am I bitter? Damned right. Jaded?  Most definitely. A Bitch? When the occasion calls for it.

I’ve lied, cheated, stolen and done things I don’t even want to contemplate to keep up appearances. I rationalized it was okay as long as everyone believed I was that “perfect” person I portrayed myself to be. I thought I could buy happiness or love or meaning by wearing designer jeans and tipping well. I was a fraud.

Would I change it all? At this particular moment in time, I honestly can not say. I know all too well who I was.  I’m just now starting to figure out who I am or rather will be. Not to sound religious, but I’ve been through a re-birth of sorts.  I had the chance to look at what my life revolved around for over 20 years, how others actually perceived me compared to how I thought they did.

Now, the only people’s opinion’s who matter are the rare few that are still around. I have a handful of true friends and family that never, ever gave up on me. For them, I am grateful more than words can express. I wish I could repair the damage I’ve caused, but what’s done is done and it’s now part of the rubble of a wall that once defined me.

To uncharted waters…

I may have sounded more than a bit cynical when it comes to medication, the doctor’s who prescribe them and the pharmacies that distribute them, but I have reason to be. I have been told by more than one doctor that if I didn’t take their medications for my HIV, I wouldn’t live long enough to follow any of my dreams. These were and are doctors – people I was raised to trust in and believe without question.

For a very long time, I played the good little patient and took their concoctions, all the while feeling worse on them than I did off. After an unscheduled “treatment holiday,” I just stopped taking my meds when my lover was dying. As distraught as I was over what I was going through and my up-coming nervous breakdown, physically I started feeling better. Then, my partner died. I spent more than a few days “resting” at a nearby hospital, all the while denying the HIV medication they wanted to shove down my throat.

When I got out of the hospital, I began drinking … heavily … and often. You know those miniature bottles of booze they serve on airlines? I had them stashed everywhere-around my apartment, in the glove box of the car, in the trunk of the car, hidden in my closets, stashed in my desk at work, hidden all around the spa that I ran. I mean everywhere. Breakfast, lunch and dinner for years.

Somehow I managed to keep up appearances, made it to work, didn’t have any car accidents and kept my quarterly doctor’s appointments for blood work. I had been mostly on and sometimes off my medications since my diagnosis in 1994. My number’s (T-Cells and later viral load) tests were never great, but they were never that bad.

Oddly enough, when I began to disregard my doctor’s orders and got to the stage where I could drink Karen Walker under the table, my numbers actually improved. For over four years, I’d get checked every three months and for four years, I was “ok.” Even though I didn’t feel I needed to be on the meds, the doctor’s spiel was always the same.” You need to be on medication,” and because I had learned a thing or two and argued with them, they never took me seriously.

When I destroyed my life in 2001, I went through detox and rehab. I stayed sober for nearly a year, then I got sick.  Very sick. Several days and two spinal taps, sick. I joked with my doctor that if this was sobriety, I was going back to the bar. He disregarded me, gave me new medication to take. After the scare I had in the hospital, I was inclined to take them. Long story short, it got a lot worse before it got better.

Having been on one of the meds, I was on led to my tranquilizer addiction. I always thought it rather ironic that they would give a known alcoholic heavy duty tranquilizers, but back then, I didn’t know what it was and wasn’t about to question the doctor.

The more I have thought about it, the pharmaceutical companies are greedy. That’s business in America. They are out to make a buck just like everyone else. But, it seems now, we also have more disorders, depression, aches and pains and anxiety than we ever did in the past. Is it that society is under so much stress that our minds and bodies create problems that need to be fixed?  Or is it that the drug companies are creating the need through seeing these trends and are quickly coming up with medications to placate us.

Of course, there are drugs out there that do wonderful things for people. Cancer patients are living longer, although I am forced to question the price for that time. I’ve seen people go through chemo, it’s a literal hell with no guarantee that it will work.

I have no doubt that there will always be a real need for newer and better drugs, but I don’t see anything other than greed by changing a formula on a proven medication just to pad their pockets more.  Sure, an extended release tablet is more convenient, but what is this convenience worth when the older one is available generically for a tenth of the price?  Which do you choose:

convenience or cost? Especially with some insurance companies cutting off paying for the “older” drug in favor of funding the “newest” formula.

Stay healthy, but if you do fall ill, ASK QUESTIONS!!!

As I mentioned previously, if you are watching television for any length of time, some sort of new pharmaceutical product will appear on screen, touting how much better your life will be if you take this drug or that.

The thing is you don’t even have to own a television to learn of these new pills. One trip to your doctor’s office, after he or she has been wined and dined by a representative from the drug companies, and he or she will be telling you how wonderful they are too.
Pharmacists are not immune either. I have a close friend who works for one of the biggest pharmacies in the country. He informed me that a pharmaceutical representative took not only the pharmacist, but the entire department out to a posh restaurant for dinner where just about the only topic was the new pill he was selling.

Doctors and pharmacists aside for a moment, let me take one more journey back to television land. Since every other commercial on TV these days is for some sort of pill, I tend to tune them out or change the channel. On this particular occasion, I had misplaced the remote and since I’ve forgotten how to change the channel manually, I watched the commercials.

After learning how to make my whites even brighter, I was pleased to see a very attractive, muscular man climbing up a mountain. I was equally charmed by the next man, also attractive, jumping off a cliff to go hang gliding. I was infatuated with these fine specimens of manhood until I realized what the commercial was about. A drug commercial, to be sure, but a whole new class of drug commercial. This one told me that HIV/AIDS was no longer a death sentence. It had become a “manageable condition.” I would really like to know when exactly that change in thinking happened and who proposed it? That way, I could call a guy who knows a guy in Jersey to give them a “manageable condition.”

Fine, there are new treatment options out there for those who are just joining the ranks of the HIV community. But, there are a lot more old dogs like me, who have lost too many friends and loved ones, and perhaps wasted their lives because they were all but told they were dying. For this group, these new medications don’t work.

As I’ve done before, I decided to play detective again and do some research on  this new pill that had in one felt swoop changed HIV from a death sentence to a (I love this term) “manageable condition.” I passed over pages and pages of information and the more I read, the more distraught I became.

At one point, mid-way through, I had to take one of my tranquilizers again because what I was reading I just refused to accept. This HIV medication that they were advertising as “brand new” was, in fact, just a combination of three older drugs that have expired patents.

The average patent life, by FDA guidelines, is seven years. In combining them, they technically had come up with a new drug and therefore could renew the patent. Oh, but wait, there’s more!  Even though the usual patent life is seven years, a manufacturer can tie up the rights to the patent for years after it has expired in litigation. If they don’t want to deal with the lawyers at that point, all they need do is tweak the formula for their drug a little.

And this applies to all drugs: anti-depressants, heart medication, blood sugar medication, you name it. The most common way of doing this is by taking a drug that, let’s say, you have to take two or three times a day. By taking the exact same pill and making it an extended release formula that need only be taken once, the pharmaceutical company can get a new patent for another several years. So, in theory, as long as the industry has a lot of good lawyers and a lot of good chemists, they can keep charging as much as they please for medication.

Moral of the story: Always be sure you know what you’re putting in your mouth!

If you are watching television for any length of time, eventually you will come across the obligatory drug commercial.  These advertisements seem to offer a needed answer to any medical or mental problem you can think of. Depressed?  Take this new pill! High blood sugar … we’ve got you covered … hell, we’ll even deliver it to your door if you have the right insurance. Child a little too hyper active in class? He’s not just rambunctious, he’s probably got ADD, and guess what? There’s a pill for that too.

There’s even some new “Miracle” one-a-day HIV meds for those who suffer with that affliction. I won’t get into further detail just yet, because it angers me and I just may break something.

I have always been, and try to remain, a person who believes ignorance is bliss.  I realize that sounds naive in this world in which we now live, but it seems the less I know about what goes on in the world around me, the happier I am.  Maintaining this philosophy was very easy for me for well over a decade because I was so stoned and/or high throughout the day, I had no clue what was going on around me. Now, that I’ve managed to stay sober, it’s getting harder and harder to watch the news or venture outside and see what is really going on in the world.

Then, on a day like any other, I was flipping channels trying to find something worth watching on television, when I accidentally paused on a commercial. Here was this woman on the screen. The poor woman was depressed.  It seemed no matter what she did or where she went, her depression just encompassed her. I felt sorry for this woman until I saw that all she had to do to rid herself of this depression was take a pill. After a certain time period, the woman on TV would be happy again, and by the end of the commercial, she was.

This got me thinking, could the woman in the commercial hear what the announcer was saying about this incredible new happy pill? He spoke for roughly 10 to 15 seconds saying how wonderful it was and then in a slightly quieter voice, began to list some of the possible side effects, not the least of which was DEPRESSION and suicidal thoughts.  How is it that a drug, marketed solely as an ANTI-depressant could cause depression, let alone suicidal thoughts?

As I currently take two anti-depressants myself, I decided to do a little research on the topic. The two pills I currently take had similar side effects.  This, excuse my language, really pissed me off. I’ve never had a complete trust in doctors, but this was beyond all limits.

Granted, they say these side-effects only occur in a small number of patients, but how do they reach this conclusion. I wonder if they base it on the belief that hundreds of thousands of people are taking these pills, but only a few of them died or got sick. I researched this extensively and, surprise, could find nothing resembling an answer.
As for the drug in the commercial I saw, when I looked up the rest of the side effects, I was dumbfounded. Here are just a few of the “possible” side effects of this “wonderful” anti-depressant:

Dizziness, Lightheadedness, Nausea, Vomiting, Loss of Energy, Blurred Vision, Weight Gain, Drowsiness, Constipation, Irregular/Fast Heartbeat, Fainting, Mental or Mood Changes, Increased Anxiety, Restlessness, Tremors, and of course Depression and Suicidal Thoughts.

There are actually quite a few more, but I only have so much space.

After finding this out, I looked through my own medications just to see if there was anything that I should know. Suffice it to say, I am now a raging hypochondriac. Some things should indeed be left to my “ignorance is bliss” philosophy I have been taking some of these drugs for years. My doctors gave them to me, my pharmacist filled them; they must be safe.

Admittedly, so far, nothing horrible has happened since I’ve been on these, except my addiction (which has been cleared by my therapist, psychiatrist and primary Doctor as long as I stay on the recommended doses) to a certain tranquilizer (which I took after reading all the possible things that my other medications could do to me). The addiction itself was a very large problem until I received help, I didn’t know it was addictive when I started it, and didn’t realize it until it was too late.

But, this isn’t my story. It’s a story of deception and greed which I shall continue next week.

Till then, Read your labels!