I feel guilty when people ask me how I got infected. Not because of the nature of the question but because I am not able to reciprocate an answer.
I guess I could lie. Maybe say that I got it that one time I tried meth (though I’ve never done meth) or I could say that I got a cheap tattoo at an illegal flea market when I was 19 ( I actually did do that)
But if I’m being really honest I think I became infected those many years ago when promiscuity was just part of my character. The truth is always better than I lie but when someone wonders how on earth this could have happen to me, the last thing I want to say is that I was a big whore in my teen years and can’t remember the number of partners I’ve had.
I guess it makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want to have that conversation with anybody. It’s awkward and honestly it’s a part of a life I want to sort of forget.
Don’t get me wrong I’m not saying that I regret doing all those things, because that would be a huge betrayal to what believe. I don’t regret the things I’ve done, or i guess who I’ve done, but I do regret doing them out of bitterness.
I had just broken up with who I consider to be my first love, Max. He like myself, was a mess headed for disaster. He was your typical bad boy- tattoos running up and down his arms. Weed fuming out of his lungs. A long criminal record and a killer smile.
I was the “innocent” only child thirsty for life and hungry for all that was bad. We were a match ready to be set on fire and so we did. We burned intensely for about a year and just like that we were over.
Our relationship blew out and smoked away into oblivion leaving me broken and bitter.
I searched for Max in the many places that reminded me of him. Alcohol, weed, drugs, and ultimately in men that resembled him.
I did this for years and I should admit that after a while it wasn’t about him anymore it had suddenly become a lifestyle. I became numb to the world. So much that in the end it didn’t matter that he had broken my heart but just that I was broken and I couldn’t figure out how to put my pieces back.
So I jumped from one relationship to the other. I cut any feelings and any strands that would tie me to anyone or anything.
Eventually I grew tired of not knowing in depth the person I would wake up next to. The thrill of “the chase” became weak and as I grew older I began to crave what I use to have with Max. A companion. One single companion and nothing more.
He came in the form of a surprise. Like, christmas in July or an unexpected gift from the most unlikely person or circumstance.
He was a very wanted gift and instantly I adored him.
After five years of being single I finally jumped to the other side and tried to become one of those couples I would often see from afar just having dinner.
His name was Ernesto and he quickly took over that vague space in my heart and began to fill it with emotions that had been long gone.
We moved in together. We became the perfect couple and before I knew it I had fallen in love again. Me- the whore, the playboy, the un-attachable human in love.
Ernesto made me very happy and we lasted for three great years.
In the end though, I must confess, the thrill of what once moved mountains could barely move my heart. My desires were gone. It was as if I had drained myself or something and we found ourselves in a two year period without sex.
I had no fire left, no interest in engaging in any sexual activity with him or with anyone. It felt like I i had used all my sex coupons and I no longer had any.
As you can imagine this was a huge dent in our lives and it ultimately ended our relationship,
Three months before I was diagnosed, he moved out. He took his things, he took the little hope I had of being “normal” and he moved on. I can’t blame him nor am I angry with his decision because I think I would have done the same thing. Maybe not in the form that he did, but I understand we are all human and we are complicated creatures.
When I called him after the doctor gave me the news he asked if I had cheated on him. He too was concerned of where it came from. Who had given it to me or if he knew who had passed it on.
The truth of the matter is that in the end it wasn’t about how it got into my body or what I could have done differently to prevent it but that a single moment of heartache could cause all this.
My heart gave me this. My bitterness took over my judgement and I slipped. I gave myself the rudest awakening anyone could have and I am the only person to blame.
I told him I had never cheated on him (which is true) and that the last thing on my mind was trying to investigate the origin of the virus. It would be pointless knowing very well that I’ve had the answers all along. The answer of to who to blame are not in anyone else’s actions but my own. He doesn’t seem to understand. He needs to know what I could careless for. He needs answers while I just want to forget. He doesn’t get it but somehow I do. Somehow it makes sense.
Does it make sensex?