“Yeah, yeah.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “Drink your coffee and shut up.”
4
Jamison
Day 7 (End of Week 1)
I was one with my couch. My couch was my soulmate. We could not be separated. I took another sip of my wine and sagged back into the cushions. Sure, it was only two in the afternoon and I was on my second glass, but I was under a lot of stress, ok? I was still waiting with bated breath for the results of Henry’s HIV test, and my nerves were strained. I kept reminding myself that HIV wouldn’t be the end of my life even if he came back positive, but there was knowing that and there wasknowingit, and I’d only managed one of the two so far.
With my free hand, I mashed buttons on the remote control and flicked through the various queues of shows and movies Netflix was recommending for me. Feel-good comedies? Nope, fuck happy people. Dark paranormals? No, thank you, I had enough darkness hovering over me. Musicals? Probably a decent bet; if nothing else I could bop along and try to forget for a while. But musicals were usually either over-happy or over-dramatic,and I didn’t really want either of those. My emotions were on-edge enough that I’d probably start sobbing at either one.
More wine. Wine would make it better. I sipped. Maybe I should call a friend? But I hadn’t told anyone what was going on, and I really didn’t want to have to explain it to anyone and then listen to the inevitable lecture about safe sex and being responsible. I knew. Iknew, ok? I didn’t need to hear it from anyone else.
It was my body, my life, and my fuck-up, but things happened. I knew things happened. PrEP and PEP were a thing for a reason. But somehow I felt like I was supposed to be better, more perfect, than that. ‘Things’ weren’t supposed to happen to me. And I knew that was societal shame, and probably a little internalized homophobia, talking. I knew that stigma was toxic and acting like I now carried that stigma was just feeding into the toxicity that permeated society, and that shining a light on it was both the adult and the healthy way to deal with things.
Was knowing all that reducing my sense of shame? Not really. Fuck. I took another drink and picked up my phone, scrolling mindlessly through Insta. Cute cat. Friend on vacation (fucking good for him, I’d give anything to be on vacation from my life right now). Makeup guru experiencing beef, shocking exactly no one who paid any attention. Ugh, none of this was going to distract me.
I thought again about calling a friend. Maybe I could just say that I was having a hard time without getting specific? But I knew myself; I’d end up spilling the details and then I’d be back into the shame spiral. Fuuuuck. I thumbed out of Instagram and back to my phone’s home screen, then into my texts, idly flipping from one conversation to the next. No, she’d definitely lecture me. He’d be worried and I’d end up comforting him instead of vice versa. My mom was just a bighell no.Maybe I could message my sister? No, lecture city.
Somehow, I ended up in the thread between me and Hen, re-reading our short conversations to date. Maybe I could…? He at least already knew what was going on and wouldn’t judge me, because he was in the same boat. Before I could think too hard about it, I started typing.
Me:Hey.
Hen:Hey. Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you yet, I don’t understand why my results are taking so much longer than yours.
Privately, I worried that his were taking longer because his results were different, but I couldn’t think of a way to say that that didn’t sound accusatory, so I didn’t. Instead, I said:
Me:No problem. I’m having a quiet Sunday relaxing at home.
Hen:Oh, sounds nice. I’m doing chores. Turns out the laundry won’t do itself, no matter how long I put it off.
Me:Rude of it.
Should I say something about how stressed I was? I didn’t want to make him feel guilty - or, well, more guilty - but I kinda felt like I was going to pop if I didn’t let out some of this stress.
Me:Can I get serious for a minute? Sorry, I know it’s not your problem to deal with me, but I kinda don’t feel like I can talk to anyone else about this without alotof explaining and probably getting yelled at and I just…I can’t with that.
Hen:Hey, no, say what you need to say. It’s my fault we’re in this situation, the least I can do is listen.
Me:It’s my fault as much as it’s yours. But really it’s neither of ours. Shit happens. Mistakes happen. Neither of us did it on purpose. But so yeah I’m just…really stressed. I can’t even really explain why, because I know the odds are in my favor and that even if ‘the worst’ happens, I’ll be fine. Fine. Fiiiiine.
I paused for another sip of wine, draining my glass. Without stopping to think too hard about the wisdom of it, I refilled it from the bottle at my elbow.
Me:But there’s so much stigma still attached to HIV and HIV exposure and I just don’t feel like there’s anyone I can talk to without paying for it in judgment…except maybe you. So sorry, not sorry, you’re kinda stuck with me.
Hen:Hey, it’s fine. Vent away. Hell, I’ll start: I feel like an idiot and I’m scared shitless. I don’t think you could grow up in the 90s, especially suspecting you might be gay, and not be scared shitless by the veryideaof HIV. Death sentence, Ryan White, Rent…
Me:Shit, yeah. And we’re living almost forty years later, and I know it’s different, but it doesn’tfeeldifferent. I just have this overwhelming, low-levelsense of dread. It’s making it hard to focus on anything else, even stuff I usually love sinking into.
Hen:I haven’t been sleeping well. I had lunch yesterday with my best friend and I told him, and I mean, he was really matter-of-fact and understanding about it and didn’t judge me, but fuck, I went home after that and laid in bed and just stared at the ceiling for like two hours that I can never get back. And then I got up and did some work and nearly cut a finger off because I wasn’t paying close enough attention to where I was cutting. I’ve been cutting wood since I was seven, you’d think it would all be automatic at this point, but damn, I’m fucked up.
Hen:Wow ok I didn’t mean to blab that all over you. We were talking about you, not me. Sorry.
Me:S’ok. I know exactly what you mean, I promise you. And there’s no reason you shouldn’t vent to me the same way I can vent to you. Same boat, and all. But yeah sleeping is hard. Talking to people is hard. Like, I was in a work meeting trying to focus on our weekly stand-up and half my brain is going ‘Ok the content removal numbers this week were down, we need to -’ and the other half my brain is going ‘Shout “I SWEAR I’M NEGATIVE” in the middle of your boss’s wrap-up’ and what even thefuck, brain?
Hen:Lol wtf brains. I get it. Not to get all touchy-feely or anything but do you have any copingmechanisms you can deploy? A favorite book to sink into, or a hobby, or…I dunno, heavy drinking lol
Me:[image of half-empty wine glass]
