I am 53, which is ancient for a gay man these days. At least ancient for a gay man who came out of the closet twenty plus years ago, as ACT-UP was declaring war on the Reagan-Bush Administration. AIDS was already out of the closet, killing off droves of my generation, who suffered immeasurably and died horrible deaths from HIV, while our government looked on and did literally nothing. The emotions I carry with me, as I look back on my life now, have remained an open sore for these past 20-odd years and I rarely, consciously, even acknowledge them these days because they are too personal and painful, and have been so processed, reprocessed and re-reprocessed, over and over again in my mind and my soul that I am now a product of those feelings rather than the other way round. I am HIV negative. I have outlived two partners, who passed away from HIV/AIDS in the early days of the pandemic and I have borne witness to the passing of an entire generation of gay men, my friends, our greatest generation, as they've succumbed and died from this horrible virus. The virus hasn't killed me, but has hallowed me out emotionally. And while I'm not technically a "long-term survivor", I sort of am.
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