Drowning in mud

I have been having an awful time of it at nights. All my anxieties, all the white noise of paranoia and fear tunes in at night so that I can choose between several readily available points on the dial, the "how did I get infected" channel; the blind anger station, directed at whoever mis-crossed me that day (admittedly some pretty fucking annoying twats cross my [online] path on Israely web forums), the "oh God I have infected/will infect P, these doctors don't know what they are talking about" channel, the "early menaupause, no children, die alone" channel, the parents' channels (broadcasting mainly dread of Alzheimer's and heart attack, immense guilt and horror, homesickness), the Israel channel (featuring my parents being tormented by the State, me being tormented by the State, with no help from the AIDS Fund since I have fallen out with them due to dominance of said online wanker, the State bombing Iran and getting nuked back, the State fighting with outher neighbouring countries, residents of the State turning unto each other with bared teeth, and me and my old frail parents caught up in all this. There are also some light entertainment channels in the form of work worries, body worries (where i can choose between side effects, lipo, AIDS and premature aging/disfiguring), and a relationship channels (with the all-time multi-episode hit "P will leave me anytime soon whether he wants (work, circumstances) or not (my disease will prove to much to handle, especially the one in my brain, his commitment phobia will intensify)". Everything and anything torment me, but most things can be categorized under any of said channels. Reading helps, until I switch off the light in the advancing AM and try to sleep. Then the TV (although it is more like a surround sound #D cinema) blares up. And when finally I do sleep, I experience Stokrin haze - lifelike, symbolic, vivid dreams that last throughout the entire following day, especially when I don't get to finish them because I have to wake up fo some appointment. For instance, last night, I was with B. in South Africa, and after much wandering and schemeing we managed to borrowed a car from some wayward crazy neighbours to go look at a strange derelict house, where something sinister was being hinted at, and it all made horrible perfect sense. And the night before, there was another such dream, featuring everyone that I know and love basically. In this way sleep becomes more straining than waking life, although being so fatigued from the lack and quality of it, everytime I have to get up before 12 I feel as though I could slip back into its feverish bosom at any minute.

I hate this, I hate what is happening to me, I hate how trapped and fearful I feel. I hate going for dinner with P's collegues and enduring HIV jokes and anecdotes (I had never realized there were so many until I became aware of my positivity). I hate living in the Netherlands, not because there is something specific to complain about except the usual things foreigners complain about, but because as a foriegner my fears are intensified, although Israel is starting to feel like the kind of place one should literally seek asylum from. I have avoided the groups of HIV+ foreigners here because they are mostly from the 3rd world and I figure their problems are much much bigger than mine, but the way I am feeling I am not so sure anymore. No turning back, no going forward, stuck in the abyss with my face to a moldy dark wall, my feet still moving in place. I have again been fluttered on my physical fitness, and told that I should try to run a marathon, which makes me feel like some deranged organism pumped full of testostorone, instead of just bein plainly and simply happy that I am fit, and strong like a small guy, which shows how my mind has been working lately. I don't think, I feel, and feel in my gut, and men stare at me and I don't know if it is my female charms or my wierdness or just my paranoia that makes me imagine that, and I can't enjoy my many many good moments with P because the voices in my head and worse, the feelings in my gut, are so rampant that they tear me in two, one part which is nodding and joking and sweet and communicative, the other which is lying in an alley somewhere, which considers suicide a comforting option at some point in the future, not now but when I have finished letting my parents down and letting myself down and squandering my life and torturing my soul.