Ann's POZ Blog

I’ve been neglecting a number of things lately, this blog among them.

Weeds are rampant both in my garden and in my personal life. PMs and emails go unanswered. I’ve needed new glasses for about a year now; not only am I unfashionable, but I can’t see more than about ten yards in front of my face. I keep my kitchen and bathroom scrupulously clean, but yet the living room carpet needs attention and my desk is an unruly pile of papers, unpaid bills and books.

Why the neglect? Well, fuck do I know. I’ve neglected to look too deeply into the matter. Or rather I have, but I’ve neglected to acknowledge or act on what I’ve found. Since the beginning of November I’ve gone from the pits of despair, to the height of happiness and back down into the pits. I feel both stupid and silly. Stupid because I knew in my heart of hearts that Charlie would end up being a source of pain, and silly because I know I’ve got it comparatively good.

I also feel frustrated because a combination of Champix and Mirena have caused me to slide into a chemically induced depression – as if Charlie’s antics weren’t enough. If I wanted chemically induced depression, I would have used drugs that I could have had fun with in the meantime. Ah well, shit happens.

Tim Horn and I have recently discussed the inactivity of my blog and what possible directions I might take it in from now on. He suggested I be less autobiographical and focus more on current events - and I like that idea. The problem so far has been that I’ve found I couldn’t move forward into this new direction until I achieved a sense of closure regarding what this blog has been up to now. That’s what I’m doing with this entry in my own cryptic way.

Hey, it’s my blog and I’ll be cryptic if I want to. Cryptic if I want to, cryptic if I want to... oops, singing in my head again. Such is life.

I’ve got an example of the type of “current affairs" I hope to be writing about at a store near you...

On (the UK) C4 this week they’ve had “Embarrassing Bodies week" and one of the case histories involved a woman who presented with large labia minora.

No biggie, if you’ll pardon the pun – but she seemed to think it was a very big deal indeed and thought she was abnormal. She wasn’t. Her labia were completely normal and quite sexy. However, this woman was immediately recommended to a cosmetic surgeon. What??? Why wasn’t she first recommended to a therapist to see if she couldn’t become reconciled with what nature gave her, instead of encouraged to be surgically mutilated? I mean, there are webpages dedicated to ways and means of actively enlarging one’s labia minora - for example through the application of weights. Some men and women regard large labia minora as positively sexy. I do. And why not?

Fair enough, if this woman had a few sessions with a therapist and still didn’t like her large lips, then maybe it was time to go for surgery. But to offer mutilation as a front-line therapy is, to my mind, totally unjustified. Next thing you know, they’ll be recommending African-style clittorectomies just because the darn things tend to stick out a bit when women are sexually excited.

It does my head in. It really does. Why do so many women feel compelled to mutilate their bodies in the name of fashion? I don’t get it. Do you?

I met Foxtrot Charlie* fourteen years ago this past December, while he was home on leave for the holidays. Back then, he was an aid worker under the auspices of the UN, teaching people in Sudan how to fish and dig safe wells.

I was single at the time and thought we’d have little more than a holiday fling – but I fell in love and I fell hard. The feeling seemed to be mutual, but he was a “woman in every port” sort of guy who would be going back to Africa in January and so, even though I was in love, I wasn’t expecting much. In a journal entry dated December 15, 1993, I wrote, “If he does feel something approximately the same as I do, then why not grab the chance for some happiness while we have the opportunity? Isn’t it better to have loved and left the country, than never to have loved at all?”

Over the next three years he stayed with me when he was home from Africa. Each time he arrived my heart would soar and my love would deepen. Each time he left I wondered if I’d ever see him again; aid work in Africa can be a dangerous affair. If the malaria didn’t get him (I nursed him through several malarial fevers over the years), an armed-raid might. It was difficult to let him go but he was doing something he loved. I wasn’t about to stand in his way, no matter how much it hurt to see him go.

In early 1997, he came home from Africa for the last time. Shortly after, I became pregnant by him – accidentally – but lost it within six weeks. The pregnancy put an odd sort of strain on our relationship (even though neither one of us wanted another child, so losing it was a good thing) and we split up in May. Over the next two years we’d meet up and spend the night together now and then. My feelings never diminished. I knew even though we weren’t together as a couple, he’d never leave my heart.

I met someone else in the summer of 1999 and we embarked on a monogamous relationship. I locked Charlie away in a little corner of my heart/mind and got on with my life. In early 2001, Charlie tested HIV positive and I followed suit a few weeks later. The new man in my life tested negative and stuck by me.

Over the next six and a half years (out of eight years total) I avoided Charlie as best I could. The feelings that would well up each time I saw him felt like a betrayal of my new man, even though Charlie and I rarely ever spoke, much less touched. If I’d see him in the street, I’d duck into a shop. I didn’t go to places where he hung out. One time, by pure chance, we ended up flying to Liverpool together and sharing taxis to our clinic. The attraction between us was as strong as ever and I spent the next several weeks mooning over him, dreaming about him and listening to “our” songs. Locking him away again took every shred of respect I had for my new man – and then some.

Fast forward to my last blog entry; “A Brim Full of Ashes When You’re 45”. If you haven’t already guessed, Charlie is the “very dear ex” I cut out of my life. I ran into him a few weeks after the end of my long-term relationship and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t run the other way. We hadn’t talked in years and when I told him how good my numbers were without the meds, he picked me up and spun me around in the middle of the pub. “I though you had aids like me!” he said, with a smile on his face that lit up the whole room – just as it lit up every corner of my being. Even after all the years apart, the connection was still there and as strong as ever.

We’ve spent a lot of time together over the past five weeks and I’m happier than I’ve been in years. I love this man like I’ve never loved before – and I feel loved like I never have before. By anyone. His family and my friends – and my daughter – are all happy we’re back together. I don’t know quite where we’re headed yet but for now, I’m happy just being happy. Tomorrow can take care of itself; I’m living in the moment and enjoying every second of it.

Two month ago I felt as though my entire life had crashed and burned. I rose from the ashes into a fresh start with the love of my life and an exciting hope for a future of passionate love I never thought I’d experience again. I can’t wait to see what 2008 brings!

Wishing all my readers a happy, healthy and prosperous 2008.

Ann

*Foxtrot Charlie comes from the International Radio Operators Alphabet and was his call-sign when using radio communications in remote areas of Sudan.

Ah, Birthdays. My 40th birthday (and the six months either side) disappeared down the black hole of interferon/ribavirin. If I experienced the throes of middle-angst that year, I cannot recall. I guess I feel a little cheated really; a time-honoured, teeth-gnashing, drama-queen rite of passage passed me by. Oh well. Birthdays have never been a huge deal for me anyway and I’ve mainly always celebrated having survived another year. This year felt a little different though; perhaps it was a touch of those middle-aged blues I missed at 40.

Sometime early this summer it began to dawn on me that come November, I’d be 45. I started taking stock of my life and looking at areas that needed work. I got my bicycle out of storage and started exercising. I looked into Champix (aka Chantix) and started taking it a few weeks prior to my birthday. I started cooking more and fast-fooding less. I was slowly building up a healthier life-style all-round; I decided I was going to be the fittest middle-aged woman I could be.

I also took a good look at other areas of my life. I reaffirmed my commitment to activism by agreeing to speak on World AIDS Day here on the Rock, along with a local radio interview the day before. I started looking into ways of managing my time more effectively so I could write more and pursue other creative ideas I’ve been kicking around for years now.

Another area I examined was the relationship with my partner of eight years. I felt it was rock-solid, but maybe could do with a little tweaking and updating. We’d been together eighteen months before I got my HIV diagnosis and not only did he stick by me when he tested negative, but he was my rock at the time and ever since. We’ve had our ups and downs over the years – what couple hasn’t – but through it all we remained best friends. That friendship and some shared spiritual beliefs were the bedrock of our relationship. I called him my partner, not boyfriend, because it felt like a totally equal, adult, life partnership. I thought we’d be together until the day one of us died. We’d been engaged for years and there never seemed to be a rush to get married. For various reasons we never lived together, but as my daughter’s grown up and his parents grew old, the day we’d move in together seemed closer. We were solid; unshakeable.

Well, how wrong can a person be? If any area of our relationship was lacking, I guess it was on the passion front. We’ve both been busy over the past year or so and there were the problems with my back and hips earlier this year, and the move, and my “women’s problems”, but nothing, I thought, that couldn’t be worked through. In fact, the weekend of my birthday fell at a fortunate time in my monthly cycle and I’d planned on taking full advantage on the chance to re-introduce some of the passion that had been missing recently.

Too late. He’d started seeing his ex-wife in early October, behind my back, and a few weeks of “talking” progressed to “shagging” just days before my planned, intimate birthday weekend. What made it so devastating was the fact that years ago we’d made a solemn promise to each other that if we ever became attracted to someone else, we’d either not act on it or not act on it until we’d finished our relationship. We vowed to be honest about this sort of thing and never go behind the other’s back. It was something I took very seriously, to the extent of cutting a very dear ex of my own out of my life completely. It wasn’t easy because I still care about this other person, but I did it because I believed in the relationship I was in and loved my partner too much to hurt him in anyway. It was a sacrifice I made willingly and without regret.

Of all the men I’ve loved in my life, I thought he was the one who loved me too much to hurt me. I thought it was this mutual, partnership thing. I’ve never trusted anyone so completely in my life. I thought my heart, at long last, was safe. It wasn’t though and I feel as though I’ve been eviscerated. There’s absolutely no going back now either.

I’m slowly coming out of the bewildered stupor I’ve been wandering around in the past few weeks. I’ve not been active in the Forums because I felt so totally empty and had nothing at all to give. When I say I’ve felt eviscerated, I mean that literally. It was as though someone took a scoop and cleaned me out totally except for my heart. My heart was screaming in pain while the rest of me was numb and empty. I struggled to find the words to describe what was going on – and for much of it I still cannot find the words even now.

Does any of this have to do with me being HIV positive? Maybe a small bit, yes. I don’t think I’ll ever know quite why he did what he did or what the main contributing factors were. He’s not been very forthcoming with that information and I can’t help but suspect maybe HIV did play a part he doesn’t want to admit to, after years of saying it didn’t matter.

For those of you who may be curious about the title I gave this blog, it’s a play on the song Brim Full of Asha by a band called “Cornershop”. You see, I’m a Scorpio and an alternate symbol for Scorpio is the Phoenix. I’d been thinking about the Phoenix rising from the ashes (as I have in the past when my life has been turned upside-down) when this song came on the radio. I started singing along, but changing the words to “a brim full of ashes when you’re 45”. When I finally sat down to write this blog, it seemed to be an apt title.

I will rise from the ashes yet again. This isn’t the first time life’s given me a brim full of ash and I suppose it probably won’t be the last either. And in a pleasing little twist, I’ve discovered that “asha” means “hope” in Urdu so now I'm singing "a brim full of Asha when you're 45". Yeah, I’ll be ok. “Time…” and all that.

Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow!