Four years ago today I thought my world had ended and I was going to die. Four years ago this hour is when I sat sobbing on my kitchen floor, trying to somehow comprehend the meaning of those three words I had heard earlier that day.

On July 5, 2001 at 10 am I found out I was HIV+. Four years ago today.

And every year that followed that date, for every celebration of Independence Day, I reflected on how that news affected my life, how it had changed the very core of me and how it altered every aspect around me. Four years ago today I was scared, angry, confused and lost.

Today I am empowered, confident, secure and joyful about all that has changed in my life because of those exact same three words. Today I am employed because of those three words. Today I am packing up my life and moving to a new city. Today I celebrate my anniversary as the day that created a whole new dream for me. A dream I actually get to live out and not die for. A lot has changed since that morning of July 5th 2001.

Today I know that no matter where I end up or what happens to me, there is a place I can go to where I know I am loved, wanted and respected. Today I know that if I should ever need to escape the insanity of the world or find an understanding ear, all I have to do is to go home. Home to Tarzana Treatment Centers. A place that taught me not only how to survive these last 4 years, it also taught me how to start living again. The people I have met through TTC are friends that love me for who I am now, faults and all. The love, friendship, support, guidance and encouragement I received each time I walked into the lobby is what, at first, kept me alive and then gave me the courage to grow as a person.

In those first years, whenever I looked at how my life was before this date I would sigh and wishfully dream I had it all back. I wondered what my life would be like now, where I would be now, if I had never heard those three words.

Today, four years later, I look back at that same old life and am thankful that it is no longer my life. I am grateful for all I have learned in these last 4 years. I am grateful and blessed to have made such amazing new friends. I am lucky to be where I am, to have the opportunities I have available to me, today, because of those same three words.

Independence Day is past, so is my old life. Maybe that is why this year; I waited until the day after to write. Because I write for my future, not my past.

My name is Sven.

For a group of people who are trying so hard to be considered part of normal society, gays excel at class segregation amongst themselves.

We have lipstick lesbians and dykes; there are queens, twinks, chickens, leather daddies; masters; subs; boys; slaves; pigs; gym bunnies and alternatives. If you are not this, then you must be that. If not that, then surely you are this. And each group looks at the other with a certain amount of disdain, attitude or envy.

The Silverlake crowd laughs at the queens in West Hollywood; the San Francisco gay snickers at the Los Angeles homo. Adamantly pointing their finger at the attitude the other exhibits, they are convinced they are “above” all of that, “better” than that. Just as surely as old money always thought it was “above” and “better” than the nouveau riche.

So caught up in proving that they do not have an attitude, determined they are beyond all that, they fail to see that their “non-attitude” has become their own fully definable attitude.

We so define our own identity by our surroundings; our gym membership; the car we own; where we live; what magazines we read; where we work; our abundance (or lack of) of class, culture and intellect. We make it such a point to prove how uniquely different we are from “them,” we fail to see we are just like “them.” We only use different names for different labels.

It is funny to hear how somebody can read most of the 236 pages I have written these last three years and then tell me that they are not sure how familiar or understanding I am with the typical American idioms. I can have an entire dialogue about the definition of submissive and dominant, yet apparently still leave doubt as to whether or not I know what tuna casserole is.

And the attempt of wanting to appear understanding and aware of any cultural differences still comes across as condescending and belittling.

It may be a meltdown up north or a drama down south; whether you read about the fortress of Los Angeles or actually live outside the walls of it; you can write the HOPWA grant or apply for HOPWA assistance; in the end it’s all good.

Because you still put your pants on one leg at the time and you still use toilet paper to wipe your ass. Just like the rest of us. Just like me.

Then again, I am from the Old Country.

We gave birth to Art Nouveau, Nouvelle Cuisine, and Nouvelle Vague; we witnessed the Nouveau Riche of the last 150 years as they came to be in the “New World.”

It is not about attitude or being better than; it is not about you getting to feel good at my expense.

It is about us both getting to feel good at our allowance.

It is about being the same, despite our differences.

Everything else, quiet honestly, is just très gauche.

People who survive a plane crash often suffer from survival guilt asking themselves why they continue to live when others died. Holocaust survivors are another group of people that deal with this kind of guilt, being the only remaining member of their entire family or town to survive the concentration camps.

People who survived a house fire that killed others in their family may suffer as do people involved in a car accident. The list is long, very long. And somewhere close to the bottom of the list, barely even noticeable, is the lost survivor.

Imagine being 30 years old and being told that you have contracted a virus for which there is no known cure. There is barely even a name for it. Most likely you will die before turning 35. Imagine having to tell your parents that in all likelihood they may see your return to heaven as they saw your arrival to earth. Imagine watching your friends, who also were dealt the same virus, die sometimes 5 months after they found out.

Imagine that.

Now fast forward 22 years and you are still alive. Imagine having spent every last dollar you had tucked away, thinking the clock was ticking, only to live long enough to start collecting Social Security. Without any kind of financial resources left, you are left to truly live of Social Security alone.

You have outlived your parents and most, if not all, of your friends. Yet you are still standing. The last time you caught the flu, you were convinced that was it: last call before check out. Imagine recovering from that flu but having it given to your elderly father who was too weak to fight it and died because of the complications YOUR flu caused.

Imagine being a person that does not belong to any kind of statistic because your statistic was never expected to have occurred.

Imagine that.

You have beaten the highest of odds and are still standing. If you would have placed a $5 bet that you would live this long, your pay out would have made you a very rich person. That is how high the odds were that you DIDN’T make it to this point.

A truly amazing accomplishment, congratulations on surviving! In exchange for staying alive this long, you are now allowed to live a phantom existence. A phantom existence in a society that never really counted on you still being here.

There are no long term benefits calculated or allotted for you. There is no support system organized; there are no studies, seminars, groups or any other kind of reference you can turn to. After all: you were supposed to be dead. You don’t know how to deal with old age; you weren’t SUPPOSED to have to deal with old age. Here you are, being forced to deal with issues that you had not accounted or planned for: retirement benefits; health issues due to aging; you are about to enter your “Golden Years.”

So you try to look for something, someone that can validate your existence; someone who was there when you first found out you were going to die. Yet there is no one left, no point of reference to go by.

No validation for your existence, no matter where you look or whom you talk to. They all have that same look in their eyes. That look of surprise and horror: YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE HERE! HERE, TODAY.

You are supposed to be dead! Why aren’t you dead??

Imagine all that.

Talk about survivor’s guilt.

Ask the lost survivors: the 20 year survivors of HIV.

My name is Sven

Until the age of 6, when we moved out of the city I was born in, I had the most horrifying recurring nightmare. It was always the same one: this man hiding inside our home, who wanted to kill me. The dreams were so vivid and so real that at times I would wake up and be afraid to open my eyes, knowing he was standing right next to my bed. I could feel his breath, sense his body heat and I would pretend to still be asleep. Praying he would go away. There were times I would sit in the back of the car and look back to our living room window and see him standing there, staring right at me.

When we moved, the nightmare stopped and he never found me again.

Three weeks ago, the nightmares started again.

This time, nobody is trying to kill me. This time, there is no man hiding in my home nor am I being chased by the boogey man. This time, I land in a place where nobody knows me. I am still in Los Angeles but there is nobody left who knows me or with whom I have any kind of history with. I am as much a stranger to them as they are to me. And all my memories, all my history is contained just within me; without anyone to validate it or even collaborate with. I walk by an apartment building, remembering how I once visited a friend who lived there. When I go up to the lobby, his name is not on the directory. Nobody has even heard of him and I just stand there. Crying, scared, alone.

I start running down the street, trying to find something, somebody who can validate that I even exist. To prove that I am here, as a person, with a life and a past. Something. Anything. Somebody. Anybody.

With my heart racing, it feels like I am choking as I continue to run……

And then I wake up.

As much as I want to go home and visit my mother, I still haven’t booked my ticket. I talk about it with my mom; about how great it will be to come home and visit. I still haven’t booked my ticket.

Because I am afraid to go home and visit.

Because my mother will be 61 years old this year. My father was 55 when he died.

Because I found out 3 weeks ago that somebody I knew died and I was reminded how precious life truly is.

Because I am afraid that this visit back home might be my last visit back home.

Because I am afraid of what will happen when I become an orphan.

Because I am afraid of who I will be when I lose my roots; my history.

Because I am afraid of nobody knowing who I really am.

When I wake up, there are tears rolling down my face and I stare at the ceiling. Reminding myself, convincing myself, that it was just a bad dream.

My eyes closing again, I let myself get lost in the emptiness of my bed.

Once, I used to be too high to cry…..

My name is Sven.