I didn’t take my diagnosis very well when the doctor told me I had HIV. I sat there, in stunned silence as the doctor left me alone with my thoughts. I didn’t know what to do. I picked up a few containers of wipes and cotton swabs, smashed them against the wall and left. I had to return a few days later to pay. Driving in the car upset is never a good idea. I’m not sure how many accidents I could have caused or how many lights I blew though, but I didn’t care. Rather die from a car accident than AIDS. I had life insurance, so who cared. I drove right to my favorite bar and, at 2 pm, drunk myself into a three day stooper.
My sister snapped me out of it. For a few weeks I did nothing but feel sorry for myself. But as my sister slapped me awake, she pointed out that I could either spend the rest of my life feeling bad for myself, or spend the rest of my life living and enjoying every moment of it. That happened 10 years ago, and since then I try to go out and live every day, as it is my last, because after all, today could be anyone’s last day, so we might as well make it a good one.
