Fullness

For years after I came out

my mother would ask me if I was sick.

"You're too skinny," she would say.

It was an accusation more than an observation.

But my gaunt appearance

was not due to the sickness she imagined.

And while my gay drove me to be lean,

as if my self-doubt consumed all of the nourishment my body needed,

it would be years before the virus she feared I had contracted

would appear

unexpected

in my no-longer gaunt body.

Self-doubt had been replaced by comfort.

Fullness of parenting

Fullness of relationship.

Comfort opened up new vulnerabilities.

Unknowingly

I let HIV in,

delivered in a package of kindness and warmth,

an extra ingredient in a meal of validation.

I had eaten too much.

First step: confession.

I bring my husband to get tested.

Negative.

I tell no one else.

Unsure if I could deal with their reaction.

Shame. Pity. Shock. Disgust.

Rejection.

Next step: acknowledgement.

It takes me more than a year to go on meds.

I was not ready to accept my new reality.

I was not ready to have my kids find my pills

and ask what's wrong.

Afraid of

"you look sick,"

the words my mom used to say to me.

Afraid of dying.

Final step: acceptance.

And so now I lift weights

And eat lots

And take my meds with meals as prescribed

And worry about bone density and kidney function

And cholesterol levels.

And worry about my kids.

And while the meds keep the virus in check

Undetectable

I secretly work to keep my illness

Undetectable.

Still afraid perhaps of being too comfortable

Or too full

Because that didn't work out so well last time.