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But my parents were in denial. My mom said he'd "come to his senses" and "regret it. His mother cried, "Not another one! The fact that I had wasted my fertile years with a gay man didn't bother me too much because having kids wasn't really a priority for me. I was most pissed that he had been cheating and lying for years, and putting my sexual health at risk. He also allowed us to buy an apartment and tell my grandma we were getting married—all the while screwing men.

Dating Diaries: Am I Dating a Gay Guy or Just a Commitment Phobe?

At the time, I was a reporter, and I had to tell my boss what was going on because I lost a lot of weight and always had red, swollen eyes. For a while I was a zombie. I'd walk onto the street in a daze and almost get hit by taxis. Freshly single, you say you "self-medicated with sex. I became addicted to sex. It gave me a dopamine rush in the same way that drugs and alcohol affect your brain. Soon, I couldn't just sit home on a Sunday night and read. I would claw my skin in physical withdrawal. The only solution was to get dressed and go to a bar to find a guy.

How does Aaron feel about your book—no pun intended—coming out? He's OK with it. Strangely, the person who helped me through the breakup was Aaron.

6 Signs Your Husband Is Not Gay

He let me call him and scream, and he got me through it. Ultimately, I respected his honesty—but it could have come a lot sooner. Type keyword s to search. I look at myself naked in the mirror, amazed. I can see it coming. On a crisp September morning I was running late for class, and my father was preparing to leave for a trip east for his final round of interviews to become a federal judge.

Love you! My sister Em had a long, uphill walk home from high school.

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One hot day she bought a cold soda for the journey. When she got home, she put the half-empty bottle in the fridge. Knowing that anything in there would be considered fair game by the rest of us seven kids, she left a note saying, I spit in this. I was in the kitchen later when she went to retrieve her soda. She reached for the bottle, then stopped to look at the note. Beneath her message our brother had written a new one: So did I. In his second year of college my brilliant brother was hired to program computers.

At the age of nineteen he had an office and a secretary. He lost his job, however, when he came to work one day in bare feet and a suit slashed to shreds with razor blades. He gave away everything he owned, then got arrested for stopping traffic and telling people they were going to hell. I brought him home to live with me. He seemed fine.

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He went on and got married, but before long I got a call from his wife, who believed he was plotting to kill her. I flew to California from Texas and found not my brother but a maniac. He was going to call down Jesus to kill us both, he said. We got him to a hospital, where he sweet-talked the doctors into thinking we were crazy. It was at that point that I acquired a book on schizophrenia. My family insisted there was nothing wrong with my brother except for his divorce and his newly acquired marijuana habit.

Then one day he tried methamphetamines. He lost touch with reality and has since been diagnosed as schizophrenic. Despite all of this, my other siblings still believe his brief drug use caused his madness.

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The litter box was just six feet away. I chased her out of the house, yelling obscenities. The veterinarian ruled out a bladder infection. But, no, her behavior continued for months after he left. When I was very young, my parents would ignore my siblings and me at family get-togethers as they drank and laughed and told jokes. My older brother would disappear with our cousins, and my younger sister would fall asleep on a couch, but I would sit there feeling neglected and forgotten, asking my parents in tears if we could please go home.

Sometimes, on the way home, my father ended up in a fight with someone at a convenience store or had to pull over to the side of the road to vomit. My brother canceled nights out with his friends to stay home and comfort her. Then in high school he became a drinker, coming home from parties in the early hours of the morning and throwing up with my mom by his side.

Through my own high-school years I never drank, and I cut ties with any friend who started.

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But at twenty-one I was going through a crisis and began using alcohol to cope. At first I drank to let loose and have fun, then for comfort, then to forget. One night my little sister found me sitting in the darkened kitchen with my forehead flat on the table. She was still in high school and looked up to me.

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Now here I was, drunk and mumbling. I cried myself to sleep and called a therapist the next morning. When I spend evenings sitting on the lakeshore trying to find the comfort that the vastness of the water used to give me, and it never comes. When I fear work on Monday but fear the weekend more, because two days with nothing to look forward to is more unpleasant than five days in the office.

But I always stop myself because I remember how it was when she died, how devastated everyone who knew her was, and I think maybe it should have been me: I was always the depressed one, and she played counselor to all of us in college. Maybe if I had gone first, she would have seen how suicide scars the people who are left behind. Maybe if I had gone first, it would have stopped her the way her death is stopping me now. I laughed at the absurdity of what he had just said. She woke up one morning with a purple spot on the end of her nose.