Note: this chapter contains mention of suicide and poor mental health.

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"Hello again, George." The warm welcome of his therapist, Julie, instantly makes George feel a little more at ease. "It's good to see you again. How have you been?"

"Well," George sighs, settling himself down in his chair. "It's been a bit of a mad week, to say the least."

"Would you like to talk about it with me today?" Julie asks. "Because if it helps you, then that's the most important thing, of course."

"It's kind of relevant anyway," George explains. "My husband and I had a meeting with my son's school during the week. I don't remember if I mentioned it last time, but basically, our son was getting bullied by a girl in his class. About having two fathers."

"Oh, the poor thing," Julie frowns, jotting down what George has said in case it's important in future conversation. "So what was the outcome of this meeting?"

"Do you want the short version, or the long version?" George challenges, choosing to make light of the topic rather than take it too seriously. "Because if you want this therapy session to be kept short, I wouldn't go for the long version."

"Whichever is comfortable for you, George." Julie offers a sincere smile, to encourage her patient to talk as much as he would like to.

"Okay, well ... " He crosses one leg over the other, to make himself comfortable, ready to tell the story. "To keep it as simple as possible, this girl in my son's class was bullying him because he has two fathers. But what we found out, is that it was her mother feeding her these negative opinions. So her mother is a psychopath — and I don't say that lightly — and she attacked me during the meeting, and got escorted out by security. This girl's dad was at the meeting too. He told us he'd split with the mum because they were arguing all the time. So there was a lot of stuff going on at home. Anyway, his views on the LGBT community are the complete opposite to his missus' views. But here's where it really gets crazy."

"What could possibly be more hectic than that?" Julie asks playfully.

"This girl's dad was sent to prison back in the eighties because him and his mates attacked my husband and I when we were still seeing each other in secret. It was all over the news at the time. It was a homophobic attack."

"Wow," Julie acknowledges. "It's a small world, isn't it?"

"You can say that again," George chuckles. "I was apprehensive about talking to him once I found out who he was. But he seems to have changed for the better since he got put in prison."

"At least he learned from his mistakes," Julie comments. "But I assume the attack back in the eighties must have had a big affect on you and your husband."

"Oh, of course," George agrees. "Um, it's a bit of a touchy subject really. But I was knocked unconscious for a good few hours. Levi was unconscious for about four days." He hesitates a moment, unsure if he feels comfortable with discussing such a sensitive topic. With a shaky exhalation, he decides to go ahead, his voice softened. "I woke up and my ex-girlfriend was there waiting for me. She didn't even know Levi existed at the time. And nobody knew it was a homophobic attack either. We made it seem as if it was just a regular attack. The wait for Levi to wake up was agony, honestly." His expression mellows, as he recalls the vivid memories of those four long days. "Deep down, I knew he was going to be alright ... but the longer he was unconscious, the less hope I had. Part of me did think I could lose him. And that would have destroyed me. B-But—But I didn't. And I'm so fortunate for it."

"It sounds absolutely horrific," Julie utters. "Your sexuality seems to be a source of great pain for you. Or, at least, it used to be."

"It was worse back then," George divulges. "When I was still closeted. It was the eighties — HIV was rampant, and people were closed-minded. There was less freedom back then. I'd already hidden my sexuality for almost a decade by the time I did start coming out to people. It was a very difficult time."

"Were the people you came out to, supportive of you?"

"For the most part, yes. Some of the more distant family such as cousins tormented me for a bit, but I disowned them anyway. I knew I didn't need them in my life. But my friends and my immediate family were all great, luckily. In the end, the issue wasn't so much the being gay part ... it was more the cheating with Levi and lying part people took issue with."

"Surely that's understandable though." There is no malicious tone present whatsoever in Julie's response. "Infidelity is rather frowned upon."

"It was a hard situation to be in," George confesses. "I was stuck in a heterosexual relationship and expecting a baby — or so I thought — and had hidden who I was for my entire life. And simultaneously, I got a chance at happiness for the first time in my life, with Levi. How was a young man supposed to choose between his son and his soulmate?"

"When you put it that way ... " Julie smiles, writing down what's been said in her notes. "I can see why you kept yourself securely in the closet for as long as you did."

"Exactly," George answers, satisfied that she understands his point of view. "But in the end, Levi left me. He couldn't wait for me to come clean to my girlfriend. I was so heartbroken, I ended up confessing a couple of days later to her. And that's when she told me Alex wasn't my son."

"And you mentioned in the last session that you and your ex are still friends now?"

"Yes," George responds, his eyes unconsciously scanning the room as he talks. "We did eventually make amends and agreed to be friends. I'm now Alex's godfather. So is Levi. Although sometimes, it does hurt to know he wasn't ever my real son."

"I can understand that," Julie assures him. "It's almost like a different kind of grief. Losing what you never actually had to begin with."

"Grief is definitely the right word for it," George admits, furrowing his eyebrows as his focus is put back on the woman before him. "And I grieved like you would not believe. I completely trashed his nursery after I'd kicked her out my home. At the same time, I was grieving the end of my first real relationship with someone I actually loved — Levi, I mean. And all these lies had come to light. It was enough to make me suicidal, truth be told."

"Are you prone to suicidal thoughts?"

"Well ... " To this question, George seems to halt completely. He knows that the best option is to be truthful in his response. However, he is extremely nervous about the idea of talking about his mental state with such vulnerability. "I-I've been known to feel rather hopeless in my time, yes."

"And have you ever attempted to take your own life, George?" Julie observes his body language; without him even uttering a word, she already has an inkling as to what his answer will be. She chooses to take a gentler approach, lowering her voice accordingly as not to talk to harshly. "Could you talk me through the time, or times, when you have attempted to take your own life, George?"

"I can try." George's throat tightens a little, in knowing he finally has to be open about his state of mind. "Um, I tried once before I really knew Levi. Because of the guilt from not feeling able to tell Stephanie I'm gay. I was twenty-three at the time. Some time in late nineteen-eighty-six. I started to overdose, but I stopped because my telephone rang downstairs. It was Levi on the phone. So you could say, he saved my life on that occasion." He inhales deeply through his nostrils, preparing himself to continue talking. "A-And then a second time after I came out to Stephanie and found out Alex wasn't my son. This was midway through nineteen-eighty-seven. I'd just turned twenty-four. It was around the time Levi left me too. I'd planned to overdose again; and I'd filled my bathtub up with the intention of ... I don't know. Perhaps I wanted to drown too. Get the job done quicker. Honestly, I don't know what my intentions were, other than to be dead. But I left Levi a voice message on his answerphone before I went into the bathroom to do it. So his mother called me — just in the nick of time — and kept me talking while Levi drove to my house in London. So again, he saved my life. And so did my mother-in-law. And then ... " He pauses, feeling a pang of guilt and shame override his chest, rendering him speechless for a moment.

"Is there another instance, George?" Julie presses calmly.

The amber flecks in George's irises sparkle, as his eyes glaze over with tears. "Yes," he murmurs. "Last week."

"Can you talk me through that?"

"I was in London with my best friend, Andrew. We were having some drinks in a bar. We hadn't done it in ages. A-And he asked me to talk to him about all my problems. So I did. I told him basically everything. And he suggested I try therapy."

"Well, it seems like you took his advice," Julie points out. "And that's good."

"It was far from good," George corrects her. "Um, I got angry with him — because everyone had been suggesting I get help for weeks, and I was sick of hearing the same thing time and time again. S-So I stormed out the bar, and went to buy a load of alcohol from a corner shop. I didn't really care what it was, as long as it was alcoholic. And I found a back alley; and I just drank ... for two or three hours. And I injured myself a fair bit. I punched a wall, hard. And I knelt in some broken glass. I think I almost got mugged, too."

"So then what happened?"

"I headed to Southwark Bridge in Central London. I was speaking to my mum a bit. And I just lost it completely. I broke, and I started to climb up onto the edge of the bridge. I was still a bit drunk by this point, but I remember it." His eyes move down to the floor as he recounts the fateful night. "But before I got up to the top, Levi and Andrew found me. I'm not sure how they did it, but they found me. And they made me get down."

"Did they contact any emergency services about what you did?"

"No," George answers. "I wouldn't have wanted them to, anyway."

"They probably should have called a service such as Samaritans, for you," Julie says. "And most definitely, they should have called the emergency services. Your life was in immediate danger."

"Well, it's done now." George shrugs, not to dismiss the severity, but rather to emphasise his point. "And I listened to what everyone said. I'm here in therapy, ready to help myself. I'd put it off for a long time."

"Why did you put it off for so long, George?"

"Because I was prejudice in my views," George replies honestly. "My assumption was that you guys would laugh me out the door if I even opened my mouth to start talking."

"What made you think that?" Julie questions.

"B-Because ... " He sighs, realising that his previous opinions may be slightly foolish. "Because I'm some old gay guy who's crying about his life. Most people don't really take men's mental health seriously. Our generation got taught that boys don't cry. I know it's outdated, but it doesn't mean it's stopped applying to this thing we call a society."

"It's my job to hold absolutely no judgement whatsoever about anything you talk to me about," Julie reassures him. "And it would go against several policies if I were to discriminate against you based on your gender, sexual orientation or your age. Not to mention any other "minorities" in society. Everyone is valid in our practice. Everyone deserves to feel heard."

"So you wouldn't judge me for being some old gay guy crying about the fact his mum died?" George asks — although he already knows the answer deep down.

"Of course not, George," Julie chuckles. "Even if there was no policy on equality, it's common courtesy and it's only moral not to judge somebody who has chosen to bravely discuss their innermost, darkest thoughts. You've done really well to open up as much as you have, on only the second session."

"Thank you." George musters a small smile; he wouldn't admit it, but he is proud of himself for telling Julie the amount he has.

"I think it's important to provide you with some leaflets, though," Julie adds, gathering a small pile of pamphlets from a file behind her desk. "I know it sounds like something a typical therapist would do, but I do feel you could benefit from these. They're services for when you're feeling low — you know, when it's not quite worthy of a nine-nine-nine call, but it's not worth keeping to yourself. Services such as Samaritans, as I said earlier. It's a free twenty-four hour service which you can call whenever you need to talk to somebody outside of your friends, family, and myself. I feel like you could potentially put it to some use. There's some other numbers and contact details for you there, too. I think you should give them a read through when you get home, so you know what's what."

"Oh. Right." He leans forward, reaching to grasp at the small selection of leaflets he is being given. "Thank you. I'm sure my husband can make use of these, too."

"That's what they're there for," Julie reminds him. "Of course, these therapy sessions are beneficial in their own way. The other services on those leaflets are for throughout the week, when you aren't able to see me."

"Thank you," George responds graciously, slipping everything into his shirt pocket after folding them messily.

"Next session, we'll get a little more into the nitty-gritty," Julie explains, pushing out her chair so she can stand up. "It isn't going to be pleasant, but this conversation we've had today has made me realise it's necessary. And I do believe addressing it will help you greatly in the long run."

"Oh goodie," George jibes. "I can't wait for that."

"Next time, we'll start talking about your biggest challenges — which, from my observations, seem to be your sexuality and your mother's passing."

"Wonderful," George comments, already internally dreading the conversation that's to come. "Well, thank you anyway. I'll see you next week."

"Thank you, George. See you next week." She follows him to the office door, closing it after him on his way out.

George heads back down the corridor of the building, pulling the papers from his pocket as he goes. He takes a glance at the Samaritans leaflet, and he stares at the green and white colours that adorn it all over. The simple, six-digit phone number stretches across the top and bottom of every individual folded side. Uncertain as to whether he will actually use this number in his lifetime, he exhales out his nose in defeat. He is already anxious about his next therapy session, but he knows there is no avoiding the main reasons he signed up for it in the first place.

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Chapter twenty-seven! Hope you enjoyed. xx