THE OTHER SIDE OF TENDERNESS (My AIDS Diary) SEVEN: The Razor Edge Of Night

This is a haven
from the razor edge of night
where flames of hell
still burn
but not so bright

Where sorrow is
but sorrow is not felt
where the orbit of the earth
around the sun
has stopped its flight

One moment to sleep
as though in death
to breathe the breath
of life
a dying breath

Not knowing still
in the very stillness
of the dead white walls
what battles rage inside
what mad ravings are stilled
by pills

Carlton’s Diary
Monday, 4th February 1991

I’ve been booked off work with bronchial pneumonia. This makes me feel that AIDS is more than a possibility.

Typical of the last few weeks an afternoon storm is building up with the wind blowing the curtains through the open window and the threat of thunder a low growl in the distance.

Tuesday, 5th February 1991

Do you know what’s wrong with the word AIDS? It’s not just that it doesn’t mean what it should. AIDS are things that are meant to help; to assist; to support; to succour. As you grow older you find that the dictionary has lied about other words and that gay doesn’t always mean joyous and lively; merry; happy, light hearted.

The other thing wrong with the word is that, because it’s an acronym, it’s always printed in capitals. Not like flu or virus or death. This word jumps out at you from any printed page. AIDS.

Wednesday, 6th February 1991

I’ve been writing all morning and have just poured a beer and had a cigarette and that feeling of anxiety and depression is very strong. Could it be something to do with what I’ve written? I feel adrift with no anchor and nothing to hold on to; that deep sadness again. I’ve not bothered to shower, shave or change my clothes. I can’t think of anything I’d like to do this afternoon. I should really go and pay the rent and the lights, practical things, but the thought just makes the anxiety worse.

I can picture setting out all the pills I have, and taking them while drinking as many beers as I can, but I realize that either I don't want to die or this would probably not kill me. I must try to do something. I feel lost.

Friday, 8th February 1991

I went back to work and had a complete breakdown. I couldn’t make decisions. Everything was happening in a daze. When I spoke to people it was as though I was acting a part in a play about myself and that I couldn’t remember my lines. The bit actors weren’t helping and the stars weren’t there to prompt me. I phoned Adrian who advised me to get psychiatric help. Phoned Ross and broke down in tears. He asked me how soon I could see him and I went directly after work.

Sunday, 10th February 1991

I’m riding the rough, razor edge of hell.

I know that after three Reactivans, a Halcion and eleven beers I’m on the edge.

What will it take to communicate that I need help? I’m screaming silently, trying to prevent a runaway or a suicide.

Please help me.

The minister made a point today, “Are you looking at the problem and not the solution.” What happens if there is no solution?

I’ve had two Syndols as well. Short-term memory loss. I can’t remember if I took a Halcion. Think I’ll take another to help me make it though the night.

I need to escape.

Please help me to escape.

I pray; bargaining again with God, insisting that this time I’ll keep my promises if only…I don’t think He believes me.

Monday, 11th February 1991

I’ve been up for an hour. I awoke with familiar feelings of anxiety. I haven’t taken a Reactivan yet. I can feel butterflies in my stomach, my heart is palpitating and I’m short of breath. I’ve got out of facing practical work problems today. I understand that this is avoidance but I don’t care. I just know that I must get the help that I need now. The problems won’t go away but I can face them later.

My worst fear is losing my job because I may be HIV positive.

I saw Cyril, the psychiatrist that Ross had recommended and he’s booked me into the hospital. It was a short visit. There was no time for discussion but he seemed very perceptive. Asked about the age difference between Cathy and I. Asked about being gay, "Why do you think that you’re at risk?" Asked about suicidal thoughts, "Yes but only for attention". Like crashing the car, my old dream of dying from impact.


Tuesday, 12th February 1991

Cyril hadn’t given me a time to book into the hospital and so Cathy and I went out for lunch first. “Although I've been tempted by other men I’ve never betrayed you,” says Cathy. It sounds like an accusation and I feel guilty. It’s as though Cathy has divined the trigger of my depression. She’s always been eerily perceptive.

When we get to the hospital Cathy answers all the questions that are directed at me. I allow her to do it. I feel like a child or an invalid who’s unable to answer for himself.

Wednesday, 13th February 1991

I’ve been taken off all other medication and am now on 40mg of Librium, for anxiety disorders and to help with alcohol withdrawal, 2mg of Rohypnol, an anaesthetic for insomnia and 2mg of Triptanol, an anti-depressant. I feel as though I’m riding a seesaw; one moment flying through the air and the next crashing into the unforgiving ground. The days seem to float by in a haze of nothingness, interrupted by a string of visitors who stay too long.

Friday, 15th February 1991

Cyril arrives while I’m asleep and jolts me from my dreamless slumber. I rise like a somnambulist and follow him into a small, clinical, cluttered room. I’m still in my pyjamas. I sit opposite him and stare at his tiny eyes that blink intermittently behind thick spectacles. I feel intimidated and have nothing to say.

Sunday, 17th February 1991

Days run into days so that to check the date I buy a newspaper. I read a paragraph a number of times and still can’t decipher it.

I’m safe here. I’m scared to leave. How will I manage outside again; home, work?

I’m possessive of my space in this ward. If someone sits between me and the window, in the chair that I consider my property, I’m unreasonably angry.

The pace is slow and as evenly measured as a comforting Baroque fugue. I walk slower. I keep close to the walls in case I feel giddy and fall.

Monday, 18th February 1991

When I fall asleep it’s exactly that; a sensation of falling. I tried to explain this to Cyril, staring at his eyes that look like tiny globe shaped ships built within bottles.

I asked him to prescribe vitamins but he refuses because he says it would be as though he were confirming that I’m HIV positive. I asked him why I wasn’t being given a drip like the other depression patients. He said that he didn’t want to disclose my uncertain HIV status. Even in my confused mind it seems that he’s contradicting himself. In any case I feel unfairly discriminated against.

This was the first day that I forced myself out of bed early and bathed and changed before Cyril arrived. I also made a list of things to discuss but forgot to consult it.

Tuesday, 19th February 1991

The downstairs lounge is like all the hotel and airport lobbies in which I’ve spent so much of my time. Crowds of people passing through for just a visit; checking in or checking out.

I’ve had no visitors today, not even Cathy. I couldn’t help sitting in the lobby hoping for a familiar face. I felt like a wallflower in the ward where all the other beds are surrounded by family and friends, or even enemies. Who knows?

I write another letter to Adrian;

Dear Esmeralda Petalpuss
I’m writing from the confines of a very exclusive clinic where I’m sharing a room with Evita, that bitch from Babetikawhatsit, and she has so many visitors I’ve been forced to retire gracefully to the cocktail lounge to write this letter.

It’s like an airport lounge but instead of announcements for flights to exotic places such as Baghdad (one way only) or Bangkok (which sounds even more exciting) or Wanking (which I’ve always suspected was a town in China) they keep announcing for "A porter with a wheelchair to reception please,” in only one official language and I haven’t decided which one it is yet.

People pass by with flower arrangements that would embarrass Marieka De Klerk at Tuinhuis and I’ve received enough fruit to start a Juicy Lucy.

Regarding Baghdad, I thought for weeks that the headlines proclaiming ‘Baghdad - Another Hit!' simply meant that the movie about the cafe was an enormous success. Then I found out about the war. It’s all so inconvenient; I’ve no khaki outfits to wear for the occasion and searching for a pink gas mask has proven fruitless.

Why am I here at all? I’m being treated for depression and I’m on an intoxicating cocktail of heavy drugs - its heaven. Better than High Rustenburg.

Please drop your sister a line to cheer her up.
Love
Gertrude

Wednesday, 20th February 1991

The old man in the bed next to me prays each night. Sitting on his bed like a Buddha, his head bowed forward, eyes closed, hands making church steeples in reverence. I wonder whom his prayers are for. Whether those little arrows of faith will reach their targets; heal, change, repair, maintain. He works for a mission that sends bibles behind the Iron Curtain. I thought that curtain had been turned to lace by now. Something’s wrong with his ticker; observation, tests, medication.

The doctors tinker with us as though we’re plastic models that can be taken apart and reassembled. They check their indecipherable instructions, which are probably in Japanese. Sometimes I’m sure that they have pieces left over that they don’t know what to do with; or missing parts that didn’t come with the kit, so they have to wait for another model to fall apart to scavenge for missing pieces.

Cyril saw me for five minutes this morning and decided that I needed to stay until Friday. He’d obviously translated his Japanese instructions prior to this consultation; place patient in chair, check the glaze in his eyes, keep him until Friday, calculate your fee for another three visits.

There’s an artificial fountain outside the ward, which I wish they’d turn off at night. It sounds as though it’s continually raining and it makes me want to pee.

Thursday, 21st February 1991

Sometimes I envy the new generation who wear condoms as a matter of course; who practice safe sex as though it were perfectly normal. They’re like people born blind or deaf. Not having known the sight of a sunrise or the sound of a symphony. A whole generation keeping their body fluids to themselves, with no relationships cemented with blood oaths and semen. A new generation where spontaneity is replaced by preparation. They don’t know what it was like not having to stop to fit a piece of rubber.

We have to be content with learning a new code of behaviour. But it’s more difficult for us because we’ve experienced the old. It was better to have loved with gay abandon than never to have loved at all. Or was it?

Friday, 22nd February 1991

My rash has cleared up with the ointment that Cathy brought me. What a simple idea. Why hadn’t I seen to it months ago? I suppose that I was afraid of going to the doctor. Afraid that he may diagnose an AIDS related symptom? But I could’ve just gone to a chemist. Why didn’t I think of that?

Today I rationalized my thoughts of death and the results of tests and have almost convinced myself that I’ll live after all. But I’ll not know until they’ve drawn more blood and tested it again. Uncertainty is worse than knowing the truth. Uncertainty has triggered off hour after hour of self-analysis and introspection. When could I have come in contact with it? How many times had I put myself at risk? How often had I put others at risk? How could I be so stupid?


(From Part Three of Other Voices, a semi-autobiographical novel of triumph over adversity by Carlton Carr)
(Mixed Media: The Judas Tree by Carlton)
© Carlton Carr 2013
http://othervoices.blog.co.uk