I've been trying all day to figure out what to text you. Your little message box has been open since 9am. Of everything I want to say, little of it seems worth its weight in flag silks, and every single thought makes me wonder, "Is this ok to send?" So instead of texting you like I want, I'm writing this note. It's the sort of thing a college student might submit to her nonfiction writing workshop or publish on ThoughtCatalog. If you're reading it now, hopefully I sent it straight to you instead of publishing on ThoughtCatalog. (Update 7/23/2015: A personal blog post seemed like a decent compromise.)
So, does it hurt? How many pills do you have to take? How'd you find out? How'd you get it? Will you be ok? For how long? Do I sound like an idiot? Did you regret, even for a second, your very public Facebook post in which you told the world you have HIV? Does your ex and our mutual friend have it too? Do I sound like an asshole?
I imagine the answers are: yes, a lot, annual screening, none of your goddamn business, for now, I don't know, a little, more relieved than regretful, none of your goddamn business, and a little.
Only you know what the answers really are, and the questions hardly matter. They somehow felt more honest than the hundred comments of, "Oh, I'm so sorry," or "We love you, and we'll be praying for you," or "Yeah, screw those guys."
For any outsiders playing catch-up: my friend's announcement was not a typical 2AM "Vague-book" blast of a personal life anecdote no one wants to see in their morning news feeds. It was not a post of hubris. It came from a shocking place of intense frustration and hurt. He snatched his power back from the situation in one fell swoop. (It was a swoop of grammatical chaos, but a mighty swoop no less.)
I am impressed with you and upset for you. It's unthinkable that your close friends or family could use their knowledge as some kind of community gossip, or leverage. It's incredible that you took their unkindness and turned it into an opportunity for openness.
You may have been angry when you wrote your announcement, but in return you're getting an outpouring of love. You still have so many of us in your corner. For you and I, that amounts to yearly text messages and the occasional Facebook tag. Others may speak with you every day, rarely, or not at all. Either way, we all appreciate you letting us show how much we care about you in the face of something this big. We appreciate you letting us talk about it.
You may have been angry when you wrote your announcement, but in return you're getting an outpouring of love. You still have so many of us in your corner. For you and I, that amounts to yearly text messages and the occasional Facebook tag. Others may speak with you every day, rarely, or not at all. Either way, we all appreciate you letting us show how much we care about you in the face of something this big. We appreciate you letting us talk about it.
It used to be the opposite—no one talked about it at all. My uncle had HIV in the 1980s, a time when the musical "Rent" was considered an optimistic outlook. I learned he had HIV when I was 19. He'd lost his battle when I was 7. No one had even told me he was positive, or sick, or special, or however you explain these things to a 7 year-old, and I'll never forgive myself for not being there for him in whatever small way I could have. The chance to show him that extra bit of love was taken out of my hands, but in telling your community that you have HIV now, you gave that chance to every person who truly cares about you. People thrive on that chance. We live for that chance. You've unwittingly handed it to us all, and for your outspokenness we cannot thank you enough.
10 years ago, almost to the date, you entered my life in a small way that grew into an enormity. You teaching that gangly, lonely teenager how to spin a flag wound up having a greater impact than either of us could have guessed.
I love you.
Text you next year.
