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Description
Sweet Sixteen
by Nikki Brown

I turned sixteen today, which is lucky, I guess. For starters, I think I need to tell you that I don’t need your pity or your sympathy, because I’ll be fine without it. I just need someone to talk to, you know? It’s been hard. No one seems to understand that I didn’t ask for this. Everyone constantly belittles me as if I’m not aware of the choices I have made. I am aware, thanks, and I’ll be aware for the rest of my life.

Well, no, I take that back. You understand. You’re accepting, and I kinda wish I didn’t have to burden you with my story. I should be telling someone who doesn’t understand me, so that perhaps they’ll stop judging me. You don’t have to read this. I just want to let it out to someone, so if you’re okay with being my personal blog for a few minutes, then I guess I’ll just start at the beginning.

For me, the beginning of everything starts just after I turned thirteen. I guess I should just tell you flat out that I’m gay. I wish it were easier to say, because I know some people disagree with it. My dad disagrees, but then again, he never really got to know me. He and my mom were never married, so I usually just traveled between houses. That was all right for a while, but after I came out, my father stopped seeing me. Our relationship became hazy and distant. I mean, what’s worse than a gay son, right? I didn’t fit in his perfect picture. That much was clear.

So, I started high school as the coolest un-cool kid on campus. I got along great with just about everyone who wasn’t popular. I’m too skinny to be a jock, or perhaps I’m too dainty to meet their tough guy standards, but I’m not as fragile as I look. Maybe I just look too childish. Too boyish. I don’t know. Looking so young is a curse, I guess, because in the end, the guys I did hang out with decided they needed to protect me. I had a new boyfriend every few months and everything worked out well for me. It’s nice to matter to people. It’s nice to be cared for. It’s nice to be loved, you know, and I really thought that they all loved me.

I could blame my father for what happened. He would be a good person to pin the blame. I could get away with saying that he wasn’t there for me, because, truthfully, he never was. I wanted a father and I guess, in some ways, I found a bit of a father in the men I slept with. It sounds so stupid to me now, but I really can’t explain it any other way. I was fourteen. I had no idea what I was doing. You can’t know at fourteen. Maybe it’s that you’re just too young or that you think you can live forever. And then, in the blink of an eye, forever gets cut down to an approximation of twenty years. Twenty years of cocktails and pills, hospital visits and life restrictions.

I was diagnosed with HIV in January, about nine months before my fifteenth birthday. God, I was so angry and bitter and hurt and I hated the man that gave it to me. How could he not tell me? I think I know who it was, but I’m not sure. Anyway, if I didn’t think things were bad enough, my father disowned me. I’m never allowed to go to his house again. He calls me sometimes, but we don’t talk long. My mother’s almost worse. She never leaves me alone. Every second of every day, she’s got something new to complain about. She bitches and whines because nothing I do is good enough. I’m tired of being criticized. Some days, I wish she would just disappear. Then I’d be alone.

I turned sixteen today, and I’m lucky, I guess. I’ve got pneumonia, which is not surprising considering how cold it has been here in Pennsylvania. This morning was just as bleak as any other, and I slowly made my way downstairs to dig around in the fridge for some cold pasta. I wanted something to help settle my stomach. I felt sick. My lungs hurt. My mom was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in her hands. She’s not very sympathetic without her coffee. I could tell she must have been on her second cup, because she smiled sweetly and spoke kindly.

“G’morning, hunny. Happy birthday.” She crossed the room lethargically and rested a hand on the top of my head. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fine,” I responded, ducking away from her hand. If I lie, then she won’t worry. The thing is, she knew I was lying. I stifled a coughing fit and attempted to keep a straight face. “I’m feeling just fine.”

“Well, I got your medicine down for you already… It’s right there.” She motioned behind her with her thumb while taking another sip of her coffee. A loud sip, but a small sip. The coffee must have been hot. Sipping coffee gave her an excuse to hide her forced smile. I upset her because I was getting older.

“Thanks.”

There was an awkward four or five minutes of coughing and silence as I took everything I needed to take. Antivirals to prevent things like pneumonia, drugs to get rid of the pneumonia infection that managed to sneak past my antivirals, and a few Advil so my chest would stop hurting so damn much. We stared at one another over the rims of our glasses, sipping coffee and iced tea. Without another word, I returned back upstairs. I’d go back down sometime later to get that pasta.

And that’s it, really. I’ve spent the rest of the day sitting here, in front of my computer, contemplating how to tell you this. Well, no, not this. It’s not important that I’m dying. Not to me. I mean, think about it. When I die, I won’t care. I’ll be dead. It’s the people around me who end up caring and hurting when I die, because they’re selfish or whatever, or they think they have something to prove by my death. “Oh, he was so young,” or, “Oh, how horrible his life must have been.”

“Oh, he never had a chance to live.”

It’s about two thirty in the morning now and I refuse to admit that I’m tired. My rats are helping keep me up, anyway. I can hear them rushing about, nibbling on their pellets and scattering their bedding with scampering little paws. Aside from their nightly noises, the room is silent. I’m all wrapped up in a big, fleece wolf blanket in front of the dim computer display. There’s just enough light for me to see the keyboard, and not enough to see anything else. ‘Course, all I need is the keyboard so I can continue chatting furiously with this guy. Bailey’s his name, and I swear, this time, I’m in love. I’m really serious this time. I can feel it.

Well, I’m talking to you too, but you knew that. You know, you’re one of the only people who knows. I’m afraid. No, no, I’m terrified. I’m terrified of telling people how I feel. I mean, how will they react? What if they don’t care about me the way I can about them? I trust you, you know, and I guess it’s safe to say that I love you too. You’re like the older sibling I never had. I suppose I sound clingy or desperate or something, and I’m sorry. I’m real sorry you had to listen to me, but I had to tell someone, you know? I can’t tell my friends. I can’t tell Bailey. I’m afraid that they’ll think I’m clingy if I was to tell Bailey that I love him, I’m afraid of what he would say. I’m afraid that he wouldn’t have a reaction, or, worse yet, he’d react in a way I don’t know how to deal with.

I guess that’s what this all boils down to. I’m afraid of being so misunderstood and then left to fend for myself. I’m afraid of being so alone. I’m not unique when I say that I don’t want to be alone for my entire life. Who does? I’m terrified of being alone. But what can I do, right? No one wants to love the gay sixteen year old, dying of HIV. Not family, not friends. I guess, in the end, the only person I’ll ever have is you.

Description
Sweet Sixteen
by Nikki Brown

I turned sixteen today, which is lucky, I guess. For starters, I think I need to tell you that I don’t need your pity or your sympathy, because I’ll be fine without it. I just need someone to talk to, you know? It’s been hard. No one seems to understand that I didn’t ask for this. Everyone constantly belittles me as if I’m not aware of the choices I have made. I am aware, thanks, and I’ll be aware for the rest of my life.

Well, no, I take that back. You understand. You’re accepting, and I kinda wish I didn’t have to burden you with my story. I should be telling someone who doesn’t understand me, so that perhaps they’ll stop judging me. You don’t have to read this. I just want to let it out to someone, so if you’re okay with being my personal blog for a few minutes, then I guess I’ll just start at the beginning.

For me, the beginning of everything starts just after I turned thirteen. I guess I should just tell you flat out that I’m gay. I wish it were easier to say, because I know some people disagree with it. My dad disagrees, but then again, he never really got to know me. He and my mom were never married, so I usually just traveled between houses. That was all right for a while, but after I came out, my father stopped seeing me. Our relationship became hazy and distant. I mean, what’s worse than a gay son, right? I didn’t fit in his perfect picture. That much was clear.

So, I started high school as the coolest un-cool kid on campus. I got along great with just about everyone who wasn’t popular. I’m too skinny to be a jock, or perhaps I’m too dainty to meet their tough guy standards, but I’m not as fragile as I look. Maybe I just look too childish. Too boyish. I don’t know. Looking so young is a curse, I guess, because in the end, the guys I did hang out with decided they needed to protect me. I had a new boyfriend every few months and everything worked out well for me. It’s nice to matter to people. It’s nice to be cared for. It’s nice to be loved, you know, and I really thought that they all loved me.

I could blame my father for what happened. He would be a good person to pin the blame. I could get away with saying that he wasn’t there for me, because, truthfully, he never was. I wanted a father and I guess, in some ways, I found a bit of a father in the men I slept with. It sounds so stupid to me now, but I really can’t explain it any other way. I was fourteen. I had no idea what I was doing. You can’t know at fourteen. Maybe it’s that you’re just too young or that you think you can live forever. And then, in the blink of an eye, forever gets cut down to an approximation of twenty years. Twenty years of cocktails and pills, hospital visits and life restrictions.

I was diagnosed with HIV in January, about nine months before my fifteenth birthday. God, I was so angry and bitter and hurt and I hated the man that gave it to me. How could he not tell me? I think I know who it was, but I’m not sure. Anyway, if I didn’t think things were bad enough, my father disowned me. I’m never allowed to go to his house again. He calls me sometimes, but we don’t talk long. My mother’s almost worse. She never leaves me alone. Every second of every day, she’s got something new to complain about. She bitches and whines because nothing I do is good enough. I’m tired of being criticized. Some days, I wish she would just disappear. Then I’d be alone.

I turned sixteen today, and I’m lucky, I guess. I’ve got pneumonia, which is not surprising considering how cold it has been here in Pennsylvania. This morning was just as bleak as any other, and I slowly made my way downstairs to dig around in the fridge for some cold pasta. I wanted something to help settle my stomach. I felt sick. My lungs hurt. My mom was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in her hands. She’s not very sympathetic without her coffee. I could tell she must have been on her second cup, because she smiled sweetly and spoke kindly.

“G’morning, hunny. Happy birthday.” She crossed the room lethargically and rested a hand on the top of my head. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fine,” I responded, ducking away from her hand. If I lie, then she won’t worry. The thing is, she knew I was lying. I stifled a coughing fit and attempted to keep a straight face. “I’m feeling just fine.”

“Well, I got your medicine down for you already… It’s right there.” She motioned behind her with her thumb while taking another sip of her coffee. A loud sip, but a small sip. The coffee must have been hot. Sipping coffee gave her an excuse to hide her forced smile. I upset her because I was getting older.

“Thanks.”

There was an awkward four or five minutes of coughing and silence as I took everything I needed to take. Antivirals to prevent things like pneumonia, drugs to get rid of the pneumonia infection that managed to sneak past my antivirals, and a few Advil so my chest would stop hurting so damn much. We stared at one another over the rims of our glasses, sipping coffee and iced tea. Without another word, I returned back upstairs. I’d go back down sometime later to get that pasta.

And that’s it, really. I’ve spent the rest of the day sitting here, in front of my computer, contemplating how to tell you this. Well, no, not this. It’s not important that I’m dying. Not to me. I mean, think about it. When I die, I won’t care. I’ll be dead. It’s the people around me who end up caring and hurting when I die, because they’re selfish or whatever, or they think they have something to prove by my death. “Oh, he was so young,” or, “Oh, how horrible his life must have been.”

“Oh, he never had a chance to live.”

It’s about two thirty in the morning now and I refuse to admit that I’m tired. My rats are helping keep me up, anyway. I can hear them rushing about, nibbling on their pellets and scattering their bedding with scampering little paws. Aside from their nightly noises, the room is silent. I’m all wrapped up in a big, fleece wolf blanket in front of the dim computer display. There’s just enough light for me to see the keyboard, and not enough to see anything else. ‘Course, all I need is the keyboard so I can continue chatting furiously with this guy. Bailey’s his name, and I swear, this time, I’m in love. I’m really serious this time. I can feel it.

Well, I’m talking to you too, but you knew that. You know, you’re one of the only people who knows. I’m afraid. No, no, I’m terrified. I’m terrified of telling people how I feel. I mean, how will they react? What if they don’t care about me the way I can about them? I trust you, you know, and I guess it’s safe to say that I love you too. You’re like the older sibling I never had. I suppose I sound clingy or desperate or something, and I’m sorry. I’m real sorry you had to listen to me, but I had to tell someone, you know? I can’t tell my friends. I can’t tell Bailey. I’m afraid that they’ll think I’m clingy if I was to tell Bailey that I love him, I’m afraid of what he would say. I’m afraid that he wouldn’t have a reaction, or, worse yet, he’d react in a way I don’t know how to deal with.

I guess that’s what this all boils down to. I’m afraid of being so misunderstood and then left to fend for myself. I’m afraid of being so alone. I’m not unique when I say that I don’t want to be alone for my entire life. Who does? I’m terrified of being alone. But what can I do, right? No one wants to love the gay sixteen year old, dying of HIV. Not family, not friends. I guess, in the end, the only person I’ll ever have is you.