We travel amongst circles in society; we have circles of friends; we go to circuit parties; get caught in a down-wards spiral and run circles around others. Even the saying “What goes around, comes around” is indicative of circular behavior. Soul-mates circle around each-other for years before finally meeting, ensuring that each person has become a well-rounded individual. And as we mourn the loss of a loved one, we are comforted by the fact that life, once again, has come full circle.

One would think that with that many circles going on more people would start to sway back and forth from dizziness.

I was online earlier this week when I received an email from the last person I ever expected to hear from. And while my first reaction was that of annoyance and anger, it did not take more than one second before I actually had to smile because of the appropriateness in its timing.

I received an email from the person who infected me with HIV.

All he asked me was how I was doing. Nothing more and nothing less than that.

3 years after he told me that it was to be understood that he was HIV+, and had been so for 4 years. 3 years after realizing that along with that “understanding” he also had exposed me to syphilis and Hepatitis. 3 years after his “understanding” became responsible for changing not only every aspect in my life but every aspect of me as a human being.

3 years later, he wants to know how I am doing.

His email could not have been timed better if I had asked for it myself. It came within hours of my attorney starting settlement negotiations with my former employer. Barely one week after my birthday and at a time where I am starting to prepare myself for the day when the last of the big events of these last three years will be wrapped up.

I remember writing not all that long ago about this feeling of appropriateness that I have about loose ends getting tied up and saying my goodbyes. Now that feeling has grown into a reality with a clear and set end date. I have started to make decisions about my future and know that there are many more I still have to make. I have started to set boundaries of what I will and will not accept in my life. I have finished most of my goodbyes and tried to make right what I did wrong whenever I could.

I have circled the date on my calendar. Not as the End Date but as the Start Date.

Right now I cannot even remember what I had envisioned my life to be like while growing up. Somehow I am pretty sure it was a far cry removed from what it ended up being today: an amazingly interesting, intense and pretty damn good life. And a life that I never would have had if it hadn’t been for me becoming HIV+.

To quote a friend of mine, I don’t think I will ever be doing cartwheels over having become HIV+; but I will do a cartwheel every day as gratitude over the life it has given me. Luckily I don’t know how to do cart wheels, so I will just go about my daily routine without breaking a sweat.

When I first tested HIV+ my attitude was that if nobody else seemed to give a shit about me, why should I give a shit about myself?

Nobody else seems to care about my life, so why should I?

Why? Because nobody else HAS to care about my life except me.

It is my life to care for and my life to be responsible for. The same as it is mine to enjoy and mine to live. Nobody else can do that for me, so I better start doing it myself (after all: if you want things done right: you have to do them yourself!)

3 years ago somebody told me it was to be “understood” and I was scared, angry and confused.

3 years later I can tell that same person that now I understand:

I have come full circle.

Life

No corners to cut,

Beginning and End entwine

Like a circle, bend

My name is Sven

Safe-word, a codeword used mostly in SMBD scenes as a way for the bottom/submissive to stop the scene. A safe-word can be any word: yellow, Bush, Goosefaber or Mary Poppins. When the bottom speaks the safe-word, everything stops. Restraints are undone, actions are seized and the nastiest of pig masters turn back into caring partners. Such is the power of a safe-word.

It is almost like speaking magic. One word and poof: pain becomes sensitive, humiliation becomes affirmation, used becomes nurtured and cruelty becomes tenderness.

When we are young that safe-word is mommy. When we have a nightmare, we scream our safe-word as loud as we can and she appears. Our nightmare vanishes, a loving arm holds us and a warm voice comforts us, telling us it was only a dream, a bad dream.

We get married and find ourselves trapped in a situation that is abusive, neglectful or confining; now our safe-word becomes divorce. You no longer have to scream as loud as you can nor do you have to scream it alone anymore; attorneys will scream with you. And like magic, you speak the safe-word and marriage becomes separation, confinement becomes freedom, abuse becomes recovery and commitment becomes individual.

People that get depressed, or find themselves trapped in a corner of life, use the safe-word drugs. They speak the safe-word and depression becomes Zoloft, reality becomes escape, functioning turns into jonesing, loneliness becomes tripping and life becomes lost.

It is like working magic, one word and poof: what then was, now no longer is.

There are safe-words, safe-guards, safe houses, safe harbors, safe havens, safety nets and life savers. All created and meant to achieve just that one, exact thing: to offer security. To make us feel safe, to make us feel secure, whole, unhurt and to keep us out of harm’s way.

You can place safe bets, practice safe sex, play it safe, be on the safe side, you can even give your life savings to a bank for safe keeping. It is even safe to say……… what?

In one way or another, I think that we all are trying to define our individual safe-word.

Marriage, divorce, drugs, money, careers, homes, families, friends, retirement funds, burial plots, tombstones. They are all different variations, different interpretations, of the exact same thing: to be safe. Even when we are dead we seek for a way to be kept safe: buried in a plot with western exposure or cremated and kept in an urn. A grave with a tombstone or an inscription on an urn; both meant to protect, to keep safe, the memory of us.

Lot of magic in that one word: safe.

I have my own safe-word; it is as old as the 10 toes on my feet and as personal as my dreams at night.

The part that worries me though is that when I say my safe-word, there is no magic happening anymore. And that what is, remains to be.

I don’t know if I should trade it in, or if there is a way I can recharge the magic in it, or maybe I somehow managed to kick it in reverse.

You see, every time I say my safe-word; my world seems to lose yet another version of safe for me.

And I am starting to get worried, because there are only a few versions left that make me feel safe and secure from harm,

as if I belong.

My name is Sven 

In a strange kind of way, these last two years have been actually one of the happiest of my life. I mean they were stressful, intense, heart wrenching, over the top and more but you know what, I was also able to find out who I was and what is important to me. To do what I wanted to do. That is pretty awesome, if you think about it.

With that said, I still am of the stand point that there is only a certain amount of crap a person can take before reaching septic tank overload. And I am pretty much there in a way. I will explain more of that in a bit but first let’s talk about this thing I have been observing about people. It is a tat hypocritical, a little self-defeating and a little bit of a two sided mirror.

“Home is where the heart is”
“If there is a will, there is a way”
“You can do anything if you set your mind to it”
“His will to survive conquered the cancer”
“You have to put your heart into it”
“Mind over body”

What is the theme here? That’s right: mind and/or heart tend to be the driving force in our lives. Whether you call it passion, love, willpower or whatever, it is all pretty much the same thing. It is that thing that makes you grind your teeth as you try to open up that lid. It is that thing that makes you finish the marathon. It is that thing that says it is not time to die yet and sends cancers into remission. It is that thing inside that compels you to strive to new heights every day.

Call it the proverbial carrot in front of the donkey. It will pretend to be whatever it has to be to trick the body to do what it wants.

We all agree that it is pretty much the driving force behind us right? I know your heart beats all on its own, but it is your mind that tells you to get your ass out of bed.

For something that is so detrimental to us functioning as humans and to keep us going through life, it is the first thing to get dismissed. With all its power, it is an entity all by itself. You know what your brain looks like as an organ. You know that if you crack your head open, chances are your brain will be damaged right? It would be a physical reaction to a physical action. It then stands to reason the mind/heart/soul would suffer damage from a mental crack of the head. A metaphysical reaction to a metaphysical action.

And that is where we turn the mirror. We will acknowledge physical pain and damage, but not metaphysical. We agree that the body gets run down, but the mind doesn’t. The body gets rejuvenated; the mind apparently gets no refills. We credit it with the most important functions of our lives, yet we give it the least amount of attention or consideration.

Interesting.

Say you worked in retail; you come home after having to work the day after Christmas. (And we ALL know what retail hell that is) What do you do? You sit down, take your shoes off and probably grunt something in the way of “my poor feet, they hurt. I have been on them for 12 freaking hours! God that feels good.” Right? Or say you work in construction and you are one of those lucky SOB’s that has been laying brick all day in the blazing heat. You come home, and with some luck, your wife (or husband) says: “sit down, take a nice long hot bath, you must be exhausted.” Still with me?

Funny, because we seem to recognize and acknowledge that physical suffering requires attention and recovering time but we won’t acknowledge the same for mental exhaustion. Unless of course you are the wife of former Enron CEO Jeffrey Skilling who said to her husband: “my poor guy, they have been questioning you all day and you still haven’t come up with any of the missing millions. Your brain must hurt. Have a bath.” And I am sure Martha Stewart was as chipper as ever after being called in to explain her bouillabaisse of stock fraud. Right? She probably went home after meeting with the FTC and whipped up a chocolate soufflé.

Now, when I say I am tired, I am tired. When I say I have about 30 minutes left before I am turning into a raging bitch, I have 30 minutes left. Not 29 and not 31. I know myself very well. When I say I need to eat, I need to eat now. Not in 3 hours. If you think you know better, you will find out.
When I tell you that I am done, I am not talking about how I just need a break. It means I am done. I am rarely done, but occasionally I get there. It means that that part of my journey is completed and I am ready to move on to the next. I am done with that. Got the t-shirt and moved on.

My hearing with CORPORATE AMERICA is set for November 16. With God’s help, this could be done before Christmas. If so, I will be able to get the 1 thing I want for Christmas: a house, a yard, a German shepherd puppy and solitude. Because I am done. With luck, I should have enough money to not have to worry for a while, to not have to be beholden to anybody anymore and to not have to say no anymore. It means that I can finally just sit in my yard and play with my puppy and be left alone. Because I am done. It means I will finally get my so sought after 1-night and more.

Sincere or not, right or wrong, fate or faith, what happened in August has done me in. I am done. I am not killing myself, blablablabla, but I am done. Garry and I may never know the reason why we collided the way we did. I do know that my bucket is full, the camel doesn’t need any more straw and my belly button indicator just popped. I am done. I have yelled at him, he is angry at me, I am pissed at him. He has issues, I have issues, and you have issues. Those couple of months were great, thank god I had those. I know that he will be with me for a long, long time, even if none of you seem to understand that. But nonetheless, I am 32 years old as of last month and I got told this week by a 48 year old man that I was a meanie and he didn’t want to be my friend any more. So I figured since we are apparently STILL playing in the sandbox on some level, I might as well go play in mine.

I am not whining, bitching, and being dramatic. Although I must say that even if you thought I was all that, who cares. It’s my life and my story. I am telling you as the official ruler of my kingdom, the CEO and CFO of the conglomerate that is Sven Inc., the emperor of Sven land, the crazy mom behind this wheel, that I am done. I haven’t had sex in 14 months and quiet frankly don’t care if I ever get laid again. I haven’t had a date since John and you know what, its fine.

It’s not a bad thing, you know. Even Lucy was done after having played the same character for 20 years. Carol Burnett was done and even our holy saint Cher said recently: “FOLLOW THIS ACT BITCHES, CAUSE I AM DONE.” So I am in pretty good company.

I mean, lets face it: when you are done, you are done. And I hate being overdone because then you just get all mushy and fall apart at the edges. And that is just tacky.

But I am done with explaining myself, my behavior, my reasoning, my principles, my dreams and my vision of myself, you and the world in general. I am done with having people step on my sand castle because they didn’t like the one they build themselves. Thhpppttttttt.

I am done being dismissed and I am done being the only one that is willing to fight for a friendship. I am done writing the same sentence in my emails to friends who couldn’t take the heat; I am done hoping that we will work through things, because so far nobody has. The 7th cavalry is retreating back to Fort Kumbaya for some R&R with the talking stick.

You can like it, you can take it and you can leave it. Not my luggage to carry, that’s yours. All I am saying is that I am done. Sold out, Out of Stock, Empty, No More, Left the Building, Left the Station, Sailed.

Did I mention I was done?

My name is Sven

Then things started to change. I don’t know exactly when, but they did. Not drastically at first, but bit by bit. And as that started to happen, I started to feel more and more like an outsider. Like the kid behind the fence around the playing ground. Bit by bit I no longer felt that I fit in. My belief structure became noticeably different from those around me. Now in my late twenties, I finally started coming into myself as a person. But while I was getting all excited about it, proud of being such a diverse person, I felt ostracized and ridiculed. Jokes about being butch and being a girl stopped being funny a long time ago but still whenever I mentioned something I had achieved, I was met with rolling eyes and a disbelieving snicker.

My sexuality had taken on a life of its own but instead of it being accepted as an integral part of who I am, it became this 3rd person. It is very hard to explain what that feels like. I am a very sexual person; I define a lot of who I am by my sexuality. To have that made into something that is either a joke or something funny only made me feel even more like a freak of nature that just didn’t belong.

Becoming HIV positive added another layer of separation on me. There was an enormous amount of guilt I had to work through. Guilt for having done something that got me sick. Guilt for not living up to my friends’ expectations of me. Guilt for living up to my father’s statements and believing that he might have been right. Guilt for maybe having done this on purpose so that I would finally fit in somewhere. And as I was trying to process my new status in life, my guilt and my belief system, I was fired. Fired because they felt I had abandoned my job. Another place telling me that I didn’t fit in. So I started isolating myself more and more. Sometimes it is easier being alone than being out in the world where people can and will hurt you. I created the most amazing prison for myself, a place I can barely stand to be in but have no other choice but to stay at. It resembles both my fortress as well as my dungeon. In order to find my angels to give me strength, I must fight my demons at the same time, all in the same place.

Over the course of the last year or so, that battle has worn me down considerably. That feeling of innocence is getting harder to hold on to. Some nights, the demons win over the angels and I find myself battling for my sanity just to make it through the night.

And then I met Barry. I called him my savior. For Barry was the man of my dreams. NOT my knight in shining armor, but the man of my dreams. When I looked at Barry, I saw a lot of myself and how I wanted to be or become. Barry was living proof that I wasn’t an outsider. A man who shared my spirituality, my belief system, my sexuality. Barry showed me that it was okay just being me. Actually, it was amazing being me. For the first time in my life, I felt that the puzzle was complete. I could be sensitive and caring at the same time as I could be manly and butch. I looked up to him with such respect and admiration. To receive his gratitude for just being me was one of the most amazing feelings I have ever experienced in my life. I didn’t have to be on guard or pretend; I could just relax and be myself. I felt together. Here was a man who stood for so many of the things I stood for. But while I was still struggling for acceptance and battling feelings of being an outsider, Barry showed me that I wasn’t a freak and I could indeed achieve all I wanted to achieve and to be just what I wanted to be: me.

For every bit of praise and respect I got from him, another layer of guilt and shame would fall away. With every bit of acknowledgement, the voice of my dad telling me I was a mistake become softer and softer. With each and every talk I stopped looking at myself as just a trick and started seeing myself as a whole person. Somebody whose thoughts and ideas are valid and finally started to solidify my self worth. He became my teacher and role model.

For 31 years I have had to structure and build myself without having anyone to compare myself to or to mold after. It has been like operating in a vacuum, hit and miss most of the time, trying to develop an identity, belief system and thought structure that fits me. There has been no father figure in my life that did that, no uncle, no teacher. No blueprint or guideline, I had to create myself from nothing, hoping I was doing it right. Barry became my blueprint. Somebody I could look to and compare my drawings with. Finally, somebody told me after 31 years that I was a beautiful person on every level. Spiritual, sexual, intellectual and physical. And I received confirmation for the first time that I was on the right path.

There has been a lot of talk about how you should be your own rock, your own role model. You shouldn’t need anybody else but you. If that is the case, then show me one person who calls out their own name after having a nightmare. Show me one person who can say that none of their behavior or beliefs stem from other people. Your parents teach your right from wrong, they are supposed to show you what love is and to prepare you with enough self worth to start your journey into this world. Teachers will show you how to add 1 plus 1 and how to drive a car. Lovers will teach you about passion and compassion. God will teach you about forgiveness. Mentors will guide you along your journey and become a voice of confidence when you are unsure what your next step should be.

When Barry told me I was a fake, a fraud and shut me out of his life; my dad told me again that I was a mistake; my job told me I was a quitter and my ex told me I was never anything more than just a trick all at the same time.

And I find myself once again standing behind the fence around the playing ground looking in. Wondering if I will ever get to be let in and belong.

My blueprint gone, I have been on standby for the last 3 weeks. I don’t feel, I don’t know and I don’t belong. I am questioning each and every aspect of my life. I am empty and lost and no longer know what my next step is.

The same question in my head: what if they are right? My dad, my job, my former friends, my ex, Barry. What if I am just that: a fraud, a mistake. How do I justify my existence? What if everything I believe in and stand for is wrong and I somehow created myself as a non-reality.

Where do I go from here?

I lost more than a friend on August 29th.

I lost my innocence.