bloody hell

I am not sleeping. Not sleeping. not sleeping. So tired, so deprived, but completely awake, and alone in my apartment, with no one and nothing to calm me down, especially in my bed with the light off, and the cold seeping in. And I know, in my brain, that I have friends outside, I know that my friend R. would have come with me to the biopsy tomorrow, he offered. I know that P. will be here soon, and I think (not feel) that it will be alright, might be awsome even. I know my parents are there, unreachable. I know my bosses care enough, my girl friends care a lot. My brother is there for me. My social worker will see me Wed. I know all this, and yet I am terrified, and all seem like a complete illusion, and the only reality is the darkness, and the hole in the pit of my stomach that grows and grows. Sartre said that hell is the others, but for me hell is inside, it's me, the others can't reach it, they are far away, on the periphery of my vision, like figures on ice. I know I will die alone, I know this in every fiber of my body, and I know I was destined for this, not because I have HIV with all it's very real stigmatizations and limitations, but because that's how you die, alone, neglected, abandoned. A warning voice in my head: this is a public blng, even if few read it, and I have to be careful with such hard content, but I don't know anymore, this is what I feel and writing it on a page in a notebook where it will be buried between me and myself will just increase the certainty (as I have seen with my writing from 1997, in which I was young, pretty, just infected and had no clue, and as desperate as now or more, so if I am ever lazy, I can always copy what I wrote then here, but I won't be lazy, because right now this strange and not even very original project is keeping me afloat), so I write it here, knowing, hoping, I will feel differently soon, the relief will come, the darkest hour is always before the dawn.