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I am a drug addict. Even without the drugs, my mind still behaves in erratic and self-destructive ways.

The Compassion I Feel for My Drugged-Out Gay Bar Patrons

I have spent years learning how to deal with my brand of insanity. And I try to remember that life is full of suffering and joy, it is full of loss and love, and the only way to survive it with any dignity is with the help of others, together. A few years before I got sober, I was at a rooftop party in fuck LA, high out of my mind.

We danced as the sun rose. Toward the end of the night, I stood at the edge of the roof, the Hollywood sign in the distance, as I got my dick sucked. I felt like we were all flying and free—I felt the music and the rising sun, I felt like the guy sucking my dick and I gay connected.

Like everything was intimately one. But nights like that are at the core of who I am. Nights of intimate connection and dancing, music and city lights. This job has reminded me of the importance of tolerance and acceptance and compassion. On those nights, we talk.

I go to work and to the gym. I meet guys on the apps, and we fuck, but no one ever stays the night—everyone always goes home. I just have to get to them. Bar night, after work, walking back to my car, I found him screaming, howling at the sky. He had tears running thailand his face.

His hands kept reaching out in front of him, fingers grabbing at things only he could see, trying to pull them toward him. We walked around that block for over an hour. He kept stopping and howling, reaching for the sky or turning and wrapping me in his arms. He told me how embarrassed he was for getting so fucked up.

I thought about telling him I was sober, but decided not to. Sometimes all it takes is being kind, and allowing people to be who they are. Later that night, I found him passed out on the sidewalk, sex head hanging into the gutter. I pulled him back and propped him up against a building. He woke up briefly and told me he was just tired.

He needed to sleep.