Over the next several weeks, I will endeavor to share with you the stories and lives of Black gay men, some who are HIV positive and some who are not, as they tell of their depression.

This story forms part of the narrative or personal section of a book, which is underway, and which examines depression as a mental illness affecting Black gay men and Black gay HIV positive men. It is intended as a resource for Black gay men. Names have been changed and situations altered to protect the identities of those who are mentioned in all the stories.

The No.1 at 34th Street

There was nothing remarkable about this day just after Thanksgiving Day in 1999. Everything was in order and physically Mark was feeling okay, and even though there was a slight chill in the air, he was well dressed, feeling warm and not hungry. No aches or immediate feelings of physical pain, his mental self, on the other hand, was a cauldron of swirling ghostly memories of wraiths writhing in agony.

Standing on the uptown platform of the Number 1 train in at the 34th Street/Pennsylvania Station in the early evening, Mark suddenly felt the urge, not just simply to jump, but as if he is propelled, unwillingly, in front of the train as it roared into the station. Yet, whenever he speaks of this memory 10 years later the feelings he had then come rushing back, threatening to overwhelm him once again. But as if to clearly identify a time why Mark wanted to jump, goes back to a day in March 1999 when his sister called to tell him she had been to see her doctor who had given her six more months to live. Immediately, Mark and his family gathered around, and on her final day at her bedside in the hospital when, in September, with a trembling which began from her feet and moved up to her chest, she inhaled and exhaled for the last time, and with a slight shudder she died. Looking at his mother across the room and seeing on her face an imperturbable mask and up to the time that she died, Mark recalled that his mother had, at least in front of any of her remaining children or grandchild, not shed a tear for her daughter.

Over the next several weeks, I will endeavor to share with you the stories and lives of Black gay men, some who are HIV positive and some who are not, as they tell of their depression.

This story forms part of the narrative or personal section of a book, which is underway, and which examines depression as a mental illness affecting Black gay men and Black gay HIV positive men. It is intended as a resource for Black gay men. Names have been changed and situations altered to protect the identities of those who are mentioned in all the stories.

The No.1 at 34th Street

There was nothing remarkable about this day just after Thanksgiving Day in 1999. Everything was in order and physically Mark was feeling okay, and even though there was a slight chill in the air, he was well dressed, feeling warm and not hungry. No aches or immediate feelings of physical pain, his mental self, on the other hand, was a cauldron of swirling ghostly memories of wraiths writhing in agony.

Standing on the uptown platform of the Number 1 train in at the 34th Street/Pennsylvania Station in the early evening, Mark suddenly felt the urge, not just simply to jump, but as if he is propelled, unwillingly, in front of the train as it roared into the station. Yet, whenever he speaks of this memory 10 years later the feelings he had then come rushing back, threatening to overwhelm him once again. But as if to clearly identify a time why Mark wanted to jump, goes back to a day in March 1999 when his sister called to tell him she had been to see her doctor who had given her six more months to live. Immediately, Mark and his family gathered around, and on her final day at her bedside in the hospital when, in September, with a trembling which began from her feet and moved up to her chest, she inhaled and exhaled for the last time, and with a slight shudder she died. Looking at his mother across the room and seeing on her face an imperturbable mask and up to the time that she died, Mark recalled that his mother had, at least in front of any of her remaining children or grandchild, not shed a tear for her daughter.

The days following the death were a blur of funeral arrangements and acknowledging the consolations from the many people who stopped by the house. It was also filled with contacting extended family and friends to inform them of the death and pass on funeral details. A week later, after the funeral, Mark returned to work. The next week, on the Monday following his return, the phone on his desk rang and his boss called him to her office. When he arrived in the usually darkened office - she hated bright lights - he saw that the head of human resources was also present. Sensing something about to happen, he took a seat in the guest chair. He was told that his position as administrative manager with the company had been eliminated. He was being laid off.
Even before his sister's illness and death, Mark had been reduced to crying at his desk - he often felt alone, tremendously sad, and very tired. And, even though losing his job was in some ways a relief - he had had enough of the pettiness, demands and often being made the scapegoat for a boss who was weak- he was faced with the reality of being unemployed.

The Thursday evening of that same week, some friends invited him to a Broadway play to cheer him up. While on the way he was attacked and beaten up by a man on the subway who later told the police that he thought Mark was looking at him. The ensuing police investigations and court orders of protection were a distraction from the overpowering feeling of tiredness that seemed to envelope him, and for a moment he felt a false sense of energy, as if he had something about which to fight.

Toward the end of November, realizing that the feelings of lethargy and tiredness were not going away, Mark went to see his doctor, who ordered a battery of blood tests, one of which included an HIV test. Not thinking anything was amiss Mark began making preparations for Thanksgiving dinner at his parent's Brooklyn, NY home. The day before Thanksgiving, he received a call from the doctor who said that he had sero-converted and had become HIV-positive. Instantly, Mark felt as though he had entered into another dimension, another reality, and as if through a fog, he heard the doctor explaining what sero-converting meant, which was that while Mark's body had manufactured antibodies to fight HIV, which had been present in his blood for some time, the levels of the virus had reached a point where it had overwhelmed his immune system, causing him to convert over to being HIV infected.

He stood in the kitchen at his parent's home, paralyzed, the phone to his ear in the crook between his head and his shoulder, his hands slathered in seasonings and resting on an uncooked turkey. Feeling as if the bottom of his world had fallen out from under him, nothing seemed to matter anymore. When the call from the doctor ended, Mark washed his hands, turned off the stove and went to lie down on a couch, not talking to anyone. His family, suspecting something was wrong and not asking took over the cooking. Devastating as the news was, Mark felt numb, his mind reeling, running through the list and faces in his memory of those from whom he could have contracted the virus, like a spool of film that had come to the end of its showing and was spinning endlessly; but no one face remained on the screen in his mind. Realizing that he had had sex with many people over the years, he asked himself: who could he have contracted it from, why blame that person for his own negligence and refusal to be safe in the heat of passion? He knew that he sometimes had sex without condoms: did he get it on one of those times? He couldn't be sure who, and if he could blame anyone. He felt that there was no one he could speak with to share his pain, to understand who he is, and what was happening with him. Coming from a masculine and heavily homophobic society where displays of emotion were more than frowned on, Mark was afraid of being seen as weak and less than a man, and this made him feel more alone than ever. He felt locked and trapped within himself.

It was returning from a job interview in the Penn Station area that Mark stood on the uptown platform of the No.1 train. Watching the two headlamps on the front of the train, hearing the wheels hum on the tracks, and feeling the rush of wind as it emerged from the darkness of the tunnel into the stark fluorescent light of the station, he stood on the three inch piece of yellow material that marked a no-venture area, precariously perched at the very edge of the platform - the ball and most of his inner instep hung over the side - and any slight movement, an involuntary action would tip him forward into the path of the oncoming train. As the train approached, looking into its eyes, those two headlamps, a thought flashed in his mind, "how hurt and pained Mommy would be if I did this. She would wonder why didn't I go to her?" His mind recoiled from the thought of causing her any more pain, especially after losing a daughter, and now if he jumped, she would loose a son.

As if an unseen force pulled him back from the edge, Mark took a step backward, both feet firmly planted on the platform, away from certain death, and in a flash, the train roared past, its silver texture speeding perpendicular to his body, its on-rushing wind whipping his body from left to right, the fluorescent lights in the carriages a streak of white merging with the silver. As the front of the train passed, the operator, for a moment took his eyes off the signals in front of him and looked over at Mark, who saw the white of his eyes through the windshield following him through his side window; for a quick moment Mark and the operator's eyes locked and he saw in a moment a look of recognition, of understanding, of knowing, and of admonishment, as he said, "you'd better not!"
Before this all happened, Mark had been seeing a psychotherapist to help him understand and deal with other issues in his life. The next day, awakened to a new reality, the closeness of death, Mark called his therapist and told him that he needed to see him urgently, outside the scheduled appointment. Recognizing that something was not right, probably from hearing it in his voice, his therapist agreed to meet him that same day.