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Sifting, Sifting

My infamous self-control of my temper is serving me well right now, but I’m really giving it a run for its money. I’m so tense, so wound-up, that I feel like I can't get to the big reaction that’s welling up inside of me. It's ridiculous. I sit around wishing that I could just start bawling or bashing the hell out of something, but I can't seem to start. On the plus side, I’m still able to go to work every day and be somewhat productive, I’m able to be calm when talking to people, and I’m able to pretend that nothing is wrong if I need to. My mind is funny: it's metering out just a few implications of all this every day. It won't let me consider too much at once, won't let me process more than I can handle. I get glimpses of the enormity of this, though, and frankly I’m glad that my pea-brain has put itself on lockdown.

I’m fraying at the seams, though. I’m holding back but the reactions keep popping out when I least expect them to, which is why I crave some big cathartic release. The tension in my shoulders and back is becoming painful. I’m getting weepy at sad TV shows. I’m slamming doors when I only mean to close them normally. I feel temper tantrums (tantra?) well up when the heater turns on ad makes the TV screen get all staticy. A friend on whom I have a harmless, long-distance crush tells me about some boy he likes, and I feel sorrow on a Greek-tragedy scale. I find myself staring at the monitor at work sometimes, unable to order my thoughts enough to figure out what task to tackle next.

Which is a small version of one of the big questions stewing around in my brain. I have a lot of pragmatic things to do: lots of research about drugs and treatment options, lots of research about getting in better shape and eating properly, etc. But I still have the big, cliché issue to confront: just in case I have less time in this mortal coil, what do I want to make damn sure I accomplish before it's too late?

Everyone should think that. Everyone should live every day like it's their last. Yeah, we've all heard it: "I could get hit by a truck..." The thing is, when you get some kind of confirmation that your odds of living are different from most people's, it really stops being a cliché and becomes an alarming question to resolve. It's comforting to me to know that HIV isn't necesarily the death sentence it once was, but I already drew the short straw by getting it, and by not knowing how I got it. I can do everything possible to stay healthy, but I might still be caught off-guard again. I wanna know that if my time comes, I didn't squander the last of it.

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