The Greatest Fear of All

This morning I made an appointment to get tested for HIV on Monday evening. I don’t engage in anything particularly unsafe — I’ve always used condoms when I’ve had anal sex, and I’ve rarely let guys come in my mouth — but from time to time I develop a great, overpowering anxiety that I’ve caught the virus. I’ve tested negative twice before, but the anxiety’s still there. (Of course, I’m a worrier anyway.) I try to play mindgames, I try to calculate probabilities, I try to relive in my mind the encounters that could have been the most potentially unsafe, trying to convince myself that there’s no way I could have gotten HIV from them, reminding myself that as far as I know, I’ve never even been with someone who had HIV. I try to convince myself that I’m most likely fine. But the anxiety doesn’t go away. Finally I get to the point where I know that the only way I’ll be able to alleviate my anxiety is to be empirical — to get myself tested so I can put my mind at ease.

(By the way, ever notice how when you see the word “HIV” or “AIDS” in a paragraph, your eyes are drawn to it? All those uppercase letters together, so loud, so blaring, so uncouth and impolite, so disturbing.)

I’m feeling slightly nauseous just writing about this. I don’t even really know if I want to blog about it, because it means that people will want to know the results, and if by some quirk of fate I tested positive, I’d either have to talk about that in the blog, or I’d have to lie. But something is compelling me to write about it here. In a weird way it makes me feel better. The sense of community. I want and need the moral support. So if you have anything inspirational to say, anything that can help alleviate my anxiety, feel free to say it.

Now, I learned recently that it’s harder to get HIV than I’d previously thought. And I read recently that only seven percent of gay white men in the New York City area have HIV. But rational considerations don’t play a part in my anxiety. Rather, I feel that I deserve the disease somehow, because I’ve had gay sex — and especially because I’ve had casual gay sex. Even if it was safe, I feel like I have to be punished. And I worry that if I relax, if I convince myself that I don’t have it, then God or whoever will decide to give me it — retroactively. To spite me. Like the outcome of the test will depend on my emotional state. More mind games. Isn’t that weird?

To a large extent, this is so obviously caused by internalized homophobia.

I would rather die of cancer than of an AIDS-related illness. At least with cancer, there’s no shame. At least with cancer, you’re not stigmatized. If I developed cancer, at least I’d know that it wasn’t because of something I did. At least I’d know that my parents wouldn’t be furious with me. I can’t think of a worse way to die. I mean, there are physically worse ways, but mentally, emotionally — I would feel such incredible shame if I developed HIV. Plus, there’d be the big wait — I’d constantly be wondering when I was going to deteriorate and die. This link from Dean drives it home.

A year and a half ago, after I came out to my parents for the second time (long story), my mom told me that her biggest fear was of someday sitting by my hospital bed, watching me die of AIDS. Her eyes were welling up with tears and her voice was shaking as she said this, and it broke my heart. I wanted to bawl. All I could tell her was that I wasn’t stupid and that I didn’t want to get AIDS either.

And yet the safest way to avoid getting HIV is to not have sex at all, and yet I’ve still had sex. Gay sex, at that.

It’s a cruel irony. Sex is one of the greatest pleasures imaginable; it’s a human instinct. We are biologically programmed to engage in an activity that, at least heterosexually, propagates our species. And yet the same instinct that encourages you to create life can also kill you. Freud would have laughed; how poetic! Western society has always been ashamed about sex, but now we actually have a reason. It’s like being diagnosed as paranoid only to learn that the CIA really is after you.

Sex can kill you. Think about that. Sex can kill you. That’s so fucked up.

A year ago, when I was going through this same anxiety — before I got my beautiful negative test result back — a friend played me a song by Alanis Morisette, That I Would Be Good. I need to remember this song. We all need to. The italics are my own:

that I would be good even if I did nothing
that I would be good even if I got the thumbs down
that I would be good if I got and stayed sick
that I would be good even if I gained ten pounds

that I would be fine even if I went bankrupt
that I would be good if I lost my hair and my youth
that I would be great if I was no longer queen
that I would be grand if I was not all knowing

that I would be loved even when I numb myself
that I would be good even when I am overwhelmed
that I would be loved even when I was fuming
that I would be good even if I was clingy

that I would be good even if I lost sanity
that I would be good
whether with or without you

That I would be good.