I grew up in the bush. Nobody around. People weren’t gay in real life. TV, that’s where those people were. Who was I?… What was I?
Dad was dying. Mouth cancer. Why was I worrying about such unimportant things as sex when dad was dying? What does any of it matter?
Later, I could tell Gavin. Gavin could tell me. We were both… different. But then, with a bang, he was gone. My best friend was gone. He couldn’t live with the cards he was dealt. I was left to live with it. Or die with it.
It doesn’t always get better. At least not right away. It felt a little better, for a time. I lived with grandma. Grandpa had died and she was left alone. Living with her, we had each other. We were busy, but stable. I was studying or I was working or I was at air cadets.
I was at air cadets that Thursday. It ended at 9 and I went home. Grandma was out with her friend. I came home but she never did. Nowhere was home anymore.
I stopped to remember I was gay. The least of my worries. I could hide that problem. At least for now. Life’s other problems weren’t so easily hidden.
For me, problems were easier solved when they’d been laid out. Examined. Picked apart and tackled head-on. So I came out. Stayed out.
Problems keep coming. Is this really life? One problem after the next…. One challenge after the next. And one solution after the next. One success after the next. All the while finding balance: the art of constant correction.
I became strong. Passionate. But still vulnerable. Vulnerable to problems. To challenges. To solutions and successes. And life carried on. Life more than carried on… Being vulnerable adds a richness to the experience of being alive. Living.
Life with HIV. Fuck. Why am I poz? What mistake did I make?
I made no mistake. I was strong. Right? I was human. I was vulnerable. Beautifully, richly vulnerable. Vulnerable to challenges, and vulnerable to success. And alive.