Beginning when I was 9 years old AIDS entered my consciousness, gleamed from celebrity deaths, bringing the original facts I had about homosexuality to me. I learned of the need to doctor acceptable variations of myself, deferring to others to avoid insult and derision. Receding behind partners’ goals I built up their hopes, while exploring how to play with the truth, creating narcissistic chaos that ultimately resulted in implosion.
I was diagnosed with HIV on 1/25; Marvel Comics had published the death of the human torch. And I was single. I had contracted HIV after a break-up, and I indulged in work and play. Numbed myself with drugs and experimentation. I made a few poor choices. In relationship of my youth I was a chaos creator, which resulted in me contradicting HIV. The behavior was me shouting, Don’t act as if I was just something you accidentally stepped into.
When my ex eventually learned of my HIV-status in February 2011, a month after I did, I was told that ultimately, he felt betrayed. As the summer of 2011 rolled in and out my ex’s cowardice told me he was unsure of being with someone with HIV, with me, because he didn’t want to catch HIV.
What’s horrible about dating with HIV is friends who set up – in their infinite kindness – forget that I have HIV. The friends don’t anticipate the nerves that come with offline dating and having to revel status of a person that is liked and hopes like back. If they do like back who is to say the HIV isn’t a deal-breaker?