The End of the World, Two Years On

It's been two years since I was diagnosed and I'm not really sure how much longer than that since I got infected. As before, there's not an awful lot to say, which is why this blog's been quiet. After the 300 moment, my counts went back up to 500 and I've just given bloods to get an email in a couple of weeks with where it's all at now. I'm not really sure how much more there is to say about any of it at this point. After diagnosis, I was caught up in the vortex of the breakdown of the relationship I was in and the descent of my then-partner into dark places where I couldn't bear to follow him, then the struggle to come to terms with the infection and the break-up. After that, there was the strange joy of dating someone negative who was utterly freaked out by my status, which left me feeling more diseased than ever. Now, two years on from the end of the world and I'm in a solid, happy relationship with someone who isn't freaked out by my status (and isn't bugchasing either) and a trip to the clinic feels like a trip to the hairdresser's, where it's chats about work, holidays, boyfriends and a quick jab and you're out of there. I'm not sure why there was a point where I thought I was going to need a psychiatrist to help me come to terms with that.

While I was at the clinic last week, I talked to the nurse about how the messages given to my boyfriend about HIV differed so much from the ones I get. He laughed and told me that he thinks it's a bit mental that a doctor told him off for telling a negative client that it wasn't the end of the world if he was diagnosed with HIV.

"Young people don't realise how bad it used to be!" said the doctor.

"Why should they? It isn't that bad any more." said the nurse.

Having grown up in the shadow of THAT tombstone, I can agree. It really isn't all that bad. It's horrible that it's something I have no choice about and it's horrible that it's hassle and some people are horrible about it, but the thing itself? It ain't so bad.