Egged on by BlackPool, I recently joined an online forum that was inspired by the barrage of HIV in the news lately. It was actually a good venue for discussion, populated primarily by Filipinos in and around their twenties, the exact demographic that is now said to be most affected by HIV and AIDS. Easier said than done, apparently.
It started out as a healthy discussion. But I think my coming into the thread seemed to stir things up. Initially, it was probably something new to them to have someone who actually was living with HIV to be in the discussion. Some had gone through this blog, and professed how much of an eye-opener it was for them. I was glad to some extent. Hell, some of them even cried. Cried?! I don’t really know why.
But then, all good things come to an end. One of the voices in the thread who wished to stir the pot in more turbulent ways came across one particular entry of mine, Sex After HIV, where I talked about how I had been doing in the sex arena as of around 7 or 8 months after finding out I was HIV-positive.
If you remember, I had been wading through the remaining ripples of my old fuck buddies, alibi-ing out of the unsafe sexers, and limiting myself to the ones who had always practiced safer sex. I was mostly not disclosing my status at the time. That’s when I started getting the flak.
Why wasn’t I disclosing? Considering that condoms are far from completely safe, what would I do if the rubber ripped and I unwittingly infected someone who I didn’t tell of my HIV-status? Would saying sorry make up for it? Interesting questions, indeed. But aside from questions, judgments were also being thrown around.
Their point? People who I was having sex with had the right to know. Ergo, according to them, I owed to disclose my HIV positive status to my sex partners, so they could choose whether they still wanted to have sex with me or not. Otherwise, I was to be robbed of the right to have sex. It was so bad that at some point, one person accused me of being careless with others’ lives because I no longer had any future to look forward to. And then of course there was the one statement that said people like me didn’t deserve to live and should be fed to an incinerator. Okay. A bit low.
The truth of the matter was that that post was made back in January 2009. Having sex with twenty guys in a span of 7 or 8 months was such a low already, compared to the around 100 I had sex with in that same period the year prior, when I had not gotten tested. And right now, I can say that in that same period a year after, I don’t think I’ve even had sex with 5 persons, and I’ve already made it a habit to disclose to most before anything could even happen.
It’s so bad that since dating Papi, I have not had sex. Yes, as in zero. Okay, two, if you include my right hand and a rubber pussy. Hmm. It has all been by choice, and not because of a self-inflicted law that forbids an HIV-positive person to have sex. But I chose not to defend myself in the thread in that way. I chose to take their debate to heart.
Why was I not disclosing? Because I believe that my disclosure of my status is my option. It is my right. And it is your privilege. The truth of the matter is that still many people are more afraid of having protected sex with someone who is known to be HIV-positive, compared to having unprotected sex with someone who does not know his or her HIV status. Analyze it. Yes, it is the wrong mindset to have.
Condoms not being completely fool proof? Well, part of using condoms does entail using it consistently, meaning always, and correctly. I know how to use condoms correctly. Do you? That way, you reduce the risk of condom failure to as little as under 2%.
And if the condom should tear? It is actually we HIV positives who have delved so much into the topic who know all the inside information as to what to do with accidental exposures to further cut down the risk of infection.
And of course, add to that the analysis that the irrational fear of these negatives shows their biases, their penchant to blame, and their need for information. We HIV positives do not merely use condoms to protect others. We use condoms to protect ourselves. We protect ourselves from other STDs that are out there. We actually have long lives ahead to look forward to, and must protect it from further complications.
HIV-positives having sex is a fact of life. And sadly, I cannot say confidently that all of us do confine ourselves to protected sex. And that’s just speaking of those 4,000+ who have been diagnosed already. Remember, we are only the tip of the iceberg. What about the rest of those who are carrying the virus that remain undiagnosed?
Think about it. Even if all 4,000+ of us who’ve been diagnosed stop having sex completely, that would not stop the spread of the virus. Not while possibly an equal or greater number of people are out there getting their freak on, unknowingly carry the virus and not getting tested.
One final attempt to mock and put the blame on HIV positives, specifically me, drove my point across. The same person who wanted to throw me into an incinerator said something to the tune of, “Thanks to people like this pathetic excuse for a human being, we HIV-negatives are now are limited to choosing between abstaining from sex, being mutually faithful with our sex partners, using protection always, or becoming part of the pozzie posse.” Duh?! So, he actually did get my point. Whatever else could I have been trying to say? I rest my case.
I just find it funny how some people don’t get the value of a look into the life of someone with HIV. Granted, based on the Sex After HIV entry, I was far from perfect. But then I’m not here to be perfect. I’m not here to be a saint. I’m here to tell my story, whatever it may be. It will be up to you to find the message that will be of greatest value to you.
It is the kind of a ready-to-incinerate attitude that is most destructive to the cause. It actually made me realize something. No wonder there aren’t more HIV positives coming out and disclosing their HIV statuses as readily. Because there still are self-righteous and judgmental people like these who are just ready to burn us at the stake. It’s sad. It’s really, really sad.
But funnily, these are the same arrogant people who... heaven forbid... if they ever do get diagnosed with HIV, will be flooded with regret and depression for sure. Agh. This stems from nothing else but fear. Irrational fear. And as Master Yoda says, fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering.
My point was really simple. Fine, of course, there is some responsibility on the shoulders of us who are HIV-positive to protect our partners. But we are far from being primarily responsible. The fact will always remain that it is primarily and most importantly every individual’s responsibility to protect themselves.
A lesson learned that I may have been too brutally honest in telling my story here. But hey, since when has being honest been a bad thing? Will I start editing myself to look more perfect as expected? Hell, no. Let those who are without sin cast the first stone. Because as I’ve realized, if my confession of my supposed “sins” scares people into either abstaining from sex or using protection, then I’ve done my job.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Getting Stoned
Friday, August 07, 2009
I Hate Cory
I loved that it was a holiday yesterday. I was able to rest, to do some errands around the house, but really, I spent most of the day watching the funeral of former Philippine president Cory Aquino. But after it all, I was left with just one conclusion...
I hate Cory.
In the wake of her death, Cory has been the headline of every news broadcast lately... quite expected, really, considering she was the eleventh president of our beloved republic.
I confess, I’ve been relegated to such a schmuck with it all. Seeing all the news about her, all the memories of her, all the tears shed for her... it all touches me. Although I do acknowledge she was one hell of a woman who showed what one seemingly lowly housewife could do to change and inspire a whole nation, I’m not necessarily a big Cory fan or anything. But still, seeing how her life is now being celebrated brings a tear to my eye.
If I had things my way, I’d be sobbing my heart out every time I’d watch something about her on TV. Yeah, yeah, call me a faggot, but it’s so damned touching! But, of course, that is not the case. Having my mom beside me forces me to be... discreet. I don’t want her to see me crying.
So what triggers all my emotion? I was just eight years old when the EDSA revolution that won her the presidency took place, so certainly I can hardly relate to the democracy thing that she brought at the time. Certainly, Cory had encountered the "STD" notion during her lifetime, but I seriously doubt if it was as close an encounter as mine. And though the fact that she looks just like my lola could play a part in it all, considering that I may have been the least favorite grandchild of that lola of mine just rips that theory apart.
If it is one particular thing, it’s the death that bothers me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not afraid of dying. I’ve always been ready to go. It just seems that the heavens aren’t ready to take me. Not to mention that I’m not dying just yet either. It’s the prospect of dying alone that saddens me. I’ve always feared dying alone. That I’ll bravely admit.
Even before, I’ve dreamt of it more than a handful of times. Seeing myself lying in a wooden box in an empty church. No one grieving, no one missing me, no one caring, no one even noticing that I’m gone. I hate waking up sobbing like a baby whenever that happens.
One’s family should be there, right? But I seriously doubt I’m going to be anyone’s husband or father. I am a son, a brother, a nephew and a friend... but will they be too ashamed to admit that? I always said I was a loner. I am. But in death, I tend to wonder... will I still be alone?
Cory... she had it all. Children, siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins, friends... A husband saying he fell in love with her three times... Not to mention a whole nation regarding her as their mother. Will I have anything like that when the lights dim on me?
People thanking her. People missing her. People crying for her. People celebrating her life... even after her death. It was just one hell of a way to go.
She was missed. She was thanked. She loved and was loved. She nurtured. She inspired. I can only wish I had such a legacy to leave when my time comes.
I hate Cory because I can only dream of being like her. But I can try. I can certainly try.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Hell Week
With the party and all, I enjoyed last weekend. A lot.
But that being said, you know how after something extremely good happens, there’s nowhere else to go but down? Well, I think that’s what happened to me, as last weekend’s extreme joy ushered in one hell of a week.
I trekked to work Monday morning, recharged and ready to start the week. When I got to the office, early as usual, I was greeted by a handful of visitors seated in the waiting area. Odd... why were there visitors so early in the morning? And then I remembered they had posted an ad in the papers that weekend announcing job vacancies in our company. Today was recruitment day.
It was half an hour before our hours of operation, but fine... as the person up front, I started preparing the application forms and examination papers for the job applicants. I’m not sure how long I turned my back, but the next thing I knew, all twenty seats in the waiting area were occupied, and more people had come in the door.
At that point, I started panicking. I packed as many people as I could into every available chair, as well as the conference room, but still that wasn’t enough. I was overwhelmed. And I was going to be overwhelmed... alone.
So I got thinking, the quicker they got through the application process, the quicker they would leave. I gave out application forms, conducted tests, checked and scored them, and forwarded them for interview, but I just could not do it fast enough alone. It’s like I was running... on a treadmill... getting nowhere. And while I was doing all that, more applicants just kept on pouring in.
At some point, I broke down. I didn’t know who needed what anymore. And I’d like to think I’m a pretty organized guy. But having to do all that, plus having to answer the phones, plus having to issue supplies, plus having to disburse cash, plus having to do everything else that I do... plus having to endure all those eyes staring as I panicked... I just lost it. It was absolutely inhuman. I wanted to cry. I wanted to faint.
I don’t know how attractive an ad they had put out, or if there are just that many people looking for the same job, or if we were the only job opening in the Metro or what... but it was insane. Would it have not been more practical to ask applicants to e-mail their applications and select and schedule them from there?
I was so busy that I didn’t have time to check my e-mail. I didn’t have time get online. I didn’t have time to check the incoming messages on my phone. I didn’t have time to take a snack. I didn’t have time to take a decent lunch. I didn’t even have time to pee, for heaven’s sakes!
If I wasn’t convinced before how badly stress could affect my physical well-being, I am now. I felt nauseous, had a headache, was coughing, was sniffling and developed back pain like I was doing more than a desk job. Trust me, I was just a fever, vomiting, and diarrhea short of all the Influenza A H1N1 symptoms.
Even my brain felt like it was on dimmers. Everything was just a blur. I sort of remember some of my colleagues coming to my desk to give me more things to do, but that’s it. I don’t recall what each of them said nor what I did. I must’ve looked like a deer in headlights.
At the end of the day, which actually went an hour past my regular working hours, the last applicant finally left. Finally, finally, finally. I had gone through almost a hundred applicants... and I was beat. I was both physically and mentally drained. It was miraculous that I could even manage to smile. But I was in a daze. I felt like I was on ARVs already. I felt like I had put in a week’s worth of work. But nooooo... this was just Monday.
Monday’s applicants were enough actually to fill up the six vacancies available. Yep, just six out of a hundred. But I was still told to entertain applicants on the days that followed. Sure, the days that followed weren’t as bad as the first, but by that time, Monday had already taken its toll on me and my body, so it wasn’t any easier.
Recharging just wasn’t as easy as plugging me into an outlet. Sleeping the full eight hours every night didn’t do it for me. I know sex is supposed to be an effective method to release stress, but being in an over a month-long drought, it didn’t seem like an option. I even had to beg the Hotbox team to postpone the Positivism meeting to next week because I was afraid I’d fall unconscious if I had much more of a load to take on. By Thursday, I got the permission from management to turn away applicants. Finally.
Yeah, sure, it was going to be a long weekend ahead, thanks to Friday being a national holiday in the Philippines, but still, it would take every minute of those three days to de-brief and de-stress, assuming of course that I had that luxury. I do have responsibilities at home, too, ya know.
So there, that should explain why I’ve been out of the loop for the past week. I’m assuming... and hoping... that it doesn’t turn out to just be the start of a Hell Month. If that happens, naku, Lord, kunin mo na ako. So for now, I declare... Hell Week is over.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The Explanation
I had a relationship.
That was your explanation. That was the explanation as to why you moved away.
But it explained nothing.
It was just... lame.
That was not an explanation. That didn’t explain anything. It just brought about even more questions.
I had a relationship. That’s not an explanation. That’s a kiss-ass attempt to cover your ass and clear your conscience.
I had a relationship. That’s not even an excuse.
I had a relationship. Was I supposed to feel happy for you?
I was like a fish. A fish on your hook. If I wasn’t the kind you were looking for, or if I wasn’t big enough, or if I wasn’t fresh enough, then the least you could’ve done was take me off the hook and throw me back into the water.
But no. You made sure you kept me on your hook. I had to live through YM statuses that ranged from is working, is busy, to is super busy. I thought I just needed to be understanding, and still made the effort to keep in touch. But at some point it was like you wanted me to take a hint. If you were really that busy, you shouldn’t have had time to log into YM in the first place.
But then every single time I’d feel some slack on your rope, you made sure to reel me back in. You were right to say you had bad timing. And considering I gave you every chance to tell me no, stop, enough or get off my back, you really had very bad timing.
Lines like I’ll see you soon and may inaasikaso lang... what else are they supposed to mean? Well, of course, may inaasikaso ka nga naman. Sino ba’ng hindi? But you could’ve been man enough to say it was a someone, and not a something, that you were making asikaso.
You always said you wanted to be famous. Your ability to do anything and everything and trample over anything in your way without hints of heart nor soul tells me you’ll get there. Ouch. Insert applause here.
I did say the least we could be is friends. But how can I regard you as a friend if you have no respect for me? That’s all I needed. Respect. And I don’t think that’s too much to ask, do you?
I had a relationship. That was anything but an explanation. I led you on. I didn’t really like you. I no longer needed you. I used you. Now those are explanations.
Lesson learned: Before respecting me as a pusit, you have to respect me first as a person. Because over and above being just a pusit, I am a person.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
I'm NOT Okay
I’m depressed. I’m weak.
I’m paranoid. I’m pathetic.
I’m nothing. I'm crap.
I’m not okay.
Everything you said to me has been reduced to crap. Thank you. I no longer know what part of it, if any, was true. The same way you made me believe in myself was the exact same way you tore me apart.
But I was okay. I didn’t need an explanation. I had made sense of it all already. It hurt, but at least it made sense. It needed to make sense. I needed it to make sense. I forced it to make sense.
And then, when I least expected it, just when I was getting over it, you reminded me. You reminded me again. You reminded me of all my self-doubt. You reminded me how badly it hurt.
Why now? You’d walked past me already. You didn’t just walk past me. You walked all over me. Why did you have to turn and look back? Did you enjoy seeing me hurting? Were you dead set on making sure I wouldn’t be able to stand from my fall?
You gave me the explanation I was looking for. But it was too late. You gave it when I no longer needed it. Why did you do it? Why did you have to do it? Was your conscience eating you up? Were you feeling bad about it?
Did it ever strike you that what you were feeling was just a teeny weeny fraction of what hurt you’d already caused me? A teeny weeny fraction of what hurt you were bringing to me yet again?
What is this for you? Washing your hands? Wiping off your feet? And what am I, your doormat? That’s selfish. You never even thought of leaving me with my dignity.
I should have listened to my instincts. My instincts were right. But I gave you the chance. I gave you the chance to hurt me. I gave you the chance to pull me down. I gave you the chance to rub my face in the dirt.
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. I want to cry but I can’t. I need to save face. That’s all I have right now. That’s all you left me with.
I’m not this strong. I’m not. I’m numb. But not numb enough. It hurts. I wish HIV just made me numb. Why couldn’t HIV do that?
Is this my karma? Have I done something bad? What did I do to deserve this?
What I hate most is that I don’t hate you. I just hate myself. Thank you. These are the times when I question the existence of love, respect and humanity. And no. I’m not okay.
Friday, May 02, 2008
The Four-Letter Word
Hate. Yes it's harsh. But I shall use it.
You must understand. I HATE DOCTORS. The only time I'd really been operated on was for circumcision, which is not entirely a free and open choice here in the Philippines. Oh, and I don’t limit my hatred to doctors. It shall extend to nurses, dentists, therapists, pharmacists, and even the guys that do the urine tests required to get a driver’s license. Tsk, tsk, tsk, so much angst. Oddly though, I'd run into more than a handful of doctors and other health professionals during my online dating life. No hate involved there.
One other thing, I HATE NEEDLES. Needlephobia, trypanophobia, aichmophobia, belonephobia, enetophobia or whatever it’s called, I have it. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I've been poked by a needle prior to this test.
There. I said it. So give me some credit, ok? Or at least the right to hate...
