For what’s been almost a year of knowing that I’m HIV positive, I’ve managed to convince myself that I still am capable of living a productive life. And though most of the other pozzies that I know continue living productively as well, I can’t deny the glaring few who I’ve met or heard of that just seem like they’re wallowing in Needy-Ville. Thus, I tend to reassess and question myself. Should I be needier because I’m HIV-positive?
Of the first few pusits I'd encountered, a couple of them did mention about the option of applying for disability from the Social Security System, should the need arise. I was honestly a bit distressed at the suggestion, wondering if that was inevitably where all HIV-positive people would end up – needing to file for disability. In retrospect, I just don’t think it’s one of the first things someone would want to hear upon finding out he is HIV-positive. It will just tend to paint such a grim picture of things to come – a grim picture that just isn’t necessarily the case.
And then there’s the so-called HIV support group that organizes videoke sessions, supposedly to give HIV-positives opportunities to bond. As is, it seems noble. But hearing that they give each person PhP 200.00 or 300.00 as transportation allowance, I just thought it was outrageous. That would be enough to get me to and from Pampanga. And considering that most would just be coming from around the metro, PhP 200.00 or 300.00 just sounded extreme – and a tad belittling. Not to mention a waste of their funds – money provided by external funding – that could be used for more worthy and productive causes than just videoke sessions. Am I wrong?
Okay, fine, maybe there are some HIV-positives that do need the money. But I was particularly pissed off to hear that the reason why Baby Nathan’s mom was never there every time I visited them at the RITM was because she needed to attend the videoke sessions – just so they didn’t miss out on the chance to get the allowance. Hmm. If you really wanted to help this family, maybe you should’ve just given them the money, right? Or maybe you could’ve been the ones to go visit them at the RITM, rather than have her leave her child and her husband for videoke sessions with you? Just a suggestion.
And then there was the time that I was trying to get Baby Nathan’s parents jobs. It would’ve been perfect because they could both be working in the metro, convenient for check-ups and med refills at the RITM, and instantly turning them into a double income family capable of supporting themselves. But then someone from the so-called HIV support groups advised them to apply for support from social welfare instead, which required them to go back to the province. Sure, I tried my best to help them while they waited for approval of the livelihood support. Apparently, whoever advised them to apply for it failed to take into account the fact that it could take more than a month for the support to get approval, leaving them void of any income to support their daily needs.
And even when the support from social welfare came through, I was a bit surprised that they were still asking for help from me. Apparently, they didn’t want to take from the livelihood fund to support their daily needs, as this might disappoint whoever advised them to apply for the support. Disappoint who? Why was this person still part of the equation? Wasn’t this money meant to provide them livelihood precisely in order to support their daily needs? Hmm.
I’ll admit that I did need to step back from helping them out, because the ultimate goal would be for them to become self-supporting. I just figured the best way to help them is to get them to help themselves. I just pray constantly that they’re doing okay.
And then it was during one of my kwentuhans with my psychology students that one of them mentioned how thinking about their interview with the so-called HIV support group made her weak. I wondered why. Apparently, they were being charged – yes, charged – PhP 500.00 for each pusit from the HIV-support group who participated in the interview. Wow, for just a couple of hours talking, that’s higher that what minimum wage earners make in a day.
Honestly, I was shocked. It made me weak, too. I felt ashamed. I felt embarrassed. These were students, for heaven’s sake. Was it really necessary to charge them for an interview? Isn’t the funding you’re getting enough? Should we not be thankful that these students are coming forward, eager to listen to our story? Isn’t awareness part of your advocacy? I just thought you could’ve taken this on as part of your advocacy.
So far, it seems most of this encouraged neediness is coming from one of the so-called HIV support groups. It makes me wonder if this was the reason why they were irked by some of us poz bloggers who were telling our not-so-tragic story. Hmm. And with their observation, that it is we – the allegedly less indigent – who have not been signing up and actively participating in their so-called HIV support group, could it be they themselves who are fostering the self-impression of being needy and underprivileged? Hmm.
So to answer my question, no, I need not be needy just because I am HIV-positive. Granted, I appreciate the medical support that I am getting, but I would like to think I’m giving back by continuing to be productive, and not being a burden on society. I refuse to be a kawawang pusit.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
The Need To Be Needy
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
The TV Virgin
Yesterday was it. The day I was to be interviewed. I was to lose my virginity. Again. I had fled work half an hour early just to make sure I made call time for the interview. Though I did try to make a joke out of it, considering that it would just be the back of my head or my silhouette that would be seen, I thought it pointless to go have my hair and makeup done. Teehee.
Shortly past 8:00 pm, I was out on the corner of so-and-so, waiting for the unmarked vehicle to pick me up. After a few minutes, some flashing lights told me it was them. When the door slid open, I was surprised to see J, one of the poz guys I had met at the RITM Christmas party and who I’d been chatting with since. J had gotten interviewed earlier that afternoon, but I didn’t expect to see him there.
To make a long story short, all I could say was "Oh, you’re here!" I swear I was surprised. And I hate surprises. I know J will kill me when he reads this, but I bit my tongue to keep from running away. I’m sorry if it makes me seem like such a bad friend, I’m just being honest.
On the ride to his place, G, the researcher who had pulled me into this thing, was even more paranoid than I was, pointing out how I could possibly be recognized by the pair of shorts I was wearing, my watch, and even my pinky ring. But really, at this point, having put so much of me out there through this blog, that was really the least of my concerns.
Getting there and waiting a few minutes, GMA host Vicky Morales walked in. After introductions all around, Vicky... naks, first-name basis... okay, Ms. Morales... showered us with a bit of flattery, saying how good J and I both looked. If I wasn’t so dark, they’d probably seen me blushing. Accepting compliments is not one of my strong points. She was also particularly pleased to realize that I was behind this Back In The Closet blog, which she’d apparently read from cover to cover. She praised my writing, and I just recalled what G taught me, and said thank you. I swear I blushed again.
With that out of the way, I was pleased to realize there was no hostility between us. Of course worst case would’ve been that they kidnap me or torture me for the stuff I’ve said here about other shows and people from GMA, or at least some bitch-slapping and hair-grabbing ensue. But really there was none of that sort of thing, and they proved that they were not the enemy. A big Whew! from me.
Being purposely pulled in for being the HIV-positive blogger, the interview commenced, with me seated askew on an ottoman in front of G’s laptop, with Vicky seated on my right side. I didn’t see exactly how the shot was framed, but the camera was behind me, and lights were on the wall in front of me, and on Ms. Morales.
Before starting, Ms. Morales brought up the excellent question of what she should call me. I hadn’t given it prior thought so I fumbled. She suggested I use the alias I use here. But when I posed my question, B.I.T.C.H.?, she jokingly playing out a few questions calling me B.I.T.C.H. and thought otherwise.
It was awkward enough having cameras and lights glaring down on me, bracing myself for what unexpected questions they’d have for me, groping a laptop which was beyond my intellectual capacity, sweating like ice on a hot summer day and practical strangers listening to me tell my story, but honestly having J there to witness it all wasn’t much help. I felt like I was in a beauty pageant, being the last contestant pulled out of the isolation booth, eyes burning holes in the back of my neck. I know, I’m sorry, I’m too transparent.
Anyways, in as much as I wouldn’t want to preempt how exactly the interview went, I really couldn’t, because with all the unease I was feeling, I was half conscious, half unconscious, and half self-conscious. See, there was so much of me I was bursting at the seams! I don’t remember exactly what happened, or maybe I choose not to. But I do hope I got some of my message across.
The interview ended with me as the only hitch. I felt pathetic getting to the part where they were supposed to film me doing things I normally do at home. I don’t normally sketch. I don’t normally play any musical instrument. Yes, I’m that boring. Well maybe not, but home is not exactly the best place to play sports, nor was it the best time. I eat. I work. I sleep. The rest of what I normally do at home might just get shot down by the censors. So what did I end up doing? I washed. Yes, I washed. I washed my hands. I washed my face. And I washed some dishes, to G’s utmost delight, of course. Fine, fine, portray me as the domesticated BITCH.
Finally, it was done. Some pizza arrived for us to chow down on, at which point Ms. Morales chose to be motherly, practically shoving three slices down my gut. She was being nice and she was really nice, don’t get me wrong, but I was stuffed! Before long, she had to go to catch her evening newscast at the GMA Complex, and left us with beso-besos all around.
After being a bit of a cause of delay, struggling to get that last slice down, the rest of us left and got schoolbussed to our respective destinations. Home around midnight, it took me a couple of hours for the adrenaline to die down, and I think I fell asleep at around 1:30 in the morning.
Fine, so maybe confidence isn’t one of my strong points, but I’ll get over whatever embarrassment I caused myself last night. I just need to focus on my advocacy, and on the fact that I’m sharing my story for the greater good. Either that... or I do something more embarrassing to cover it up. Geesh. More updates on the documentary later. Ciao!
