From Pride to pain, addiction and overdose are silently killing us

Standing in line at a popular gym in West Hollywood waiting to check in for a workout class, the instructor, hunched over and leaning against the desk, looked at me almost painfully and said, "I'm still recovering from the weekend."

That past weekend was Pride, and he told me about how many "overpriced" $20 vodka sodas he drank while celebrating.

A girl nearby laughingly responded, "Well, you just have to do it—I mean, come on, it's Pride."

For about five minutes before our workout began, people all around me recounted their alcohol-infused Pride weekend festivities. It made me think about a session with a client earlier in the day and how he talked about his experience at the festivities, feeling alone and not "part of the community" because he doesn't drink or party.

Since living in Los Angeles and working closely with my community for more than twenty years, I've known far too many LGBTQ+ individuals who struggled with addiction or overdosed on drugs or alcohol. Among them was a young man I worked with who died of an overdose, someone who worked at a bar before the pandemic. Even in sharing his death, everyone I spoke to said, "He was so handsome." This young man embodied what most people, especially those living in West Hollywood, would consider ideal: external beauty and strength.

But each of us has an inner world more than what appears outside.

I used to think that getting a drink -- or drunk -- was part of celebrating, well, anything. After working at a popular gay bar in West Hollywood for 11 years, alcohol-infused Pride weekend festivities were the rule rather than the exception.

That's no longer true for me, and for the past nine years, I've found freedom in sobriety.

As we approach National Overdose Awareness Day, it's essential to be mindful of those who struggle with addiction or who have overdosed. I would venture to say that every person in the LGBTQ+ community has known someone who has struggled with addiction or whose life has been affected by an overdose. Making National Overdose Awareness Day all the more important to shine a light on, especially for members of the LGBTQ community—many of whom seek social connection inside of bars.

Recently, I heard an interview on NPR with the lead singer of a local band. The singer is newly sober and discussed how sobriety influenced his music. What struck me most was when he said that if we've ever had the thought that our drinking or drug use might be a problem, chances are it is.

He noted, "It's your subconscious mind speaking to you and trying to send you a message."

The subconscious SOS applies to everyone. However, as a gay man who has navigated religious trauma, shame, addiction, and HIV, I often think about the level of self-acceptance among gay men. Currently, the highest level of risk for HIV belongs to gay men between the ages of 17 and 29. What's more, gay men continue to report higher levels of drug and alcohol addiction than their heterosexual counterparts. Crystal meth, specifically, is a silent epidemic among gay men throughout communities across the United States.

It's one thing to be out of the closet, but another to fully accept and embrace ourselves wholeheartedly and unconditionally for who we are.

Over the past few months, a common theme among many of my therapy clients is a reactivation of familial homophobic trauma. Many of my new clients are seeking support to help them heal from unprocessed religious trauma that the surge of anti-LGBTQ legislation in the United States has triggered, affecting their mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being. Recently, a newly sober client told me there was "no room" for him to be gay at home growing up, and it felt like he could never fully breathe. While he's a 35-year-old adult man, we're only just beginning to process the shame that he internalized from the adults around him in his childhood about his sexuality.

The experience, I told him, is like having a thousand paper cuts and not realizing how painful they feel until you jump in the ocean.

For that reason, increased rates of gay men turn to drugs and alcohol to anesthetize the pain of growing up and not being fully seen. There is a distinct difference between tolerance and genuine acceptance. I can be openly gay and attend all the Pride festivals I want, but if I don't accept myself on the inside, my paper cuts still hurt.

Since coming out of the closet nearly twenty years ago, I've been privileged to meet people worldwide at various stages of their coming-out process. This has been a reminder of the connectedness of our human condition. It has also reminded me that although the LGBTQ community has made tremendous progress, there is still more for us to do.

With nearly 15 years of anesthetizing my pain with drugs and alcohol and nine years of sobriety, I've come to learn from my path that connecting with our spirituality, loving ourselves from the inside out, and taking full responsibility for our lives and choices is where pride lies at the deepest level.

Chris Tompkins is an LGBTQ-affirming therapist who specializes in gay men’s identity and religious trauma. He’s also author of the book, Raising LGBTQ Allies: A Parent’s Guide to Changing the Messages from the Playground. His work has been featured on TEDx, NBC, HuffPost, Psychology Today, Healthline, and more. www.aroadtriptolove.com

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