Did This Year Really Happen?

This year began just like the two before it, with me standing on one of the balconies of my high-rise condominium, watching the mass of humanity far below ring in the New Year with fireworks that always take my breath away. From where I lived some were so close I could almost catch them in my hand. It was big, it was beautiful, it was exciting – just like my life. 2011 was to be a big year for me. I had just finished a major recording project and signed on with a legendary record producer to launch my career in Asia. My career was finally going the way I wanted it to, and I would finally have enough cash to buy that brand new condo in Eastwood, take my fabulous vacation somewhere exotic, and still qualify for permanent residency.

Except for the small strange rash on my upper lip everything was perfect.

A week later, it started. The headaches, the eye pain, the sore throat. Ten days into 2011, I was sicker than I’d ever been; vomiting, nausea, fever. Little did I know that that was just the beginning of the weirdest year of my life. It’s really funny how these things sneak up on us when we’re least expecting them. Just when I had gotten my life to where I always dreamed I wanted it to be, it fell apart with these words: “All your test results came back negative, except the HIV test.”

That was February 5, 2011 on board the Grand Princess, a beautiful luxury ship sailing in the Caribbean Sea. The next day I was evacuated from the ship home to Manila where the worst nightmare of my life began by finding out that I had been betrayed by one of the people I trusted most, and had been infected with HIV on purpose. After that, it became a blur of “why don’t you go back to your own country” and “you don’t deserve it because you’re white”, rotating doctors, 2-hour bus rides and fear far more real than anything Steven King or Clive Barker could ever dream up.

On February 13, just a day after emailing Migs, the Manila Gay Guy for help, I got a message from someone wanting me to go with him for HIV testing. I did, and soon other people started asking me to do the same for them. So it became a regular thing for me. At least a couple of times a week I’d go with someone for HIV testing and thank goodness, they were always negative. But for the first time in my life, I found strength in helping other people. For me? That was just plain weird.

By March I had taken all I could take and decided once and for all to end it. With a box cutter in my hand I decided to take my revenge on the person who infected me by going to his house, sitting on his door step, slitting my wrists and letting him come home to a bloody corpse. Fortunately, my new friend Marco realized something was wrong and came to stop me. Marco realized the mountain I was facing, being a foreigner with HIV trying to get help. So he took it upon himself to be my friend, my interpreter and even my nurse until I was able to stand on my own again.

March was a big month. I started making new friends. I met Raffy who took me to yoga, where I connected with Paulo and Ben. I met Jericho who connected me with Humphrey. I met Dr. Kate who connected me with my psychiatrist. Marco took me to a Recollection Retreat where I met Brother Dan. And from there, things started to change.

In April I started on ARVs because the virus was eating my retinas and I had started to go blind. The meds made me really sick and looking through my journal now, I remember how hard it was for me to adjust to them. I worked through it though, always keeping hard candies in my bag. They helped for some reason, but I was still really sick for the first couple of weeks. I even fell out of a moving tricycle one time. It was good that Marco was around to help me with simple things like cooking, cleaning and going to the bathroom because I couldn’t even stand up.

Also in April, I met Keith. Keith emailed me because he wanted help getting tested as well. Little did I know that he would be the first person I’d help who would test positive. And, as with Marco, little did I know how important he would become in my life and in my work. We started talking about the idea of a website about HIV where other people who needed help could get information about the virus and where to go for help. Keith is important to me to this day, and we continue to develop ideas and projects together.

May was when I started getting involved in advocacy, talking with Keith about the website, meeting with artists about fundraisers, attending conferences and forums, and all the while helping people get tested for HIV. In May, I helped at least 1 different person almost every day – some days as many as 3-5. I started considering disclosing my status publicly. When word got out that I was considering that move, suddenly I started meeting everybody because everyone had an opinion. I was threatened with deportation and physical violence. My doctor was worried about the effect it would have on my health. Wanggo and Humphrey were behind me completely. I did my first TV interview on June 8 and made my first public speaking engagement on June 9. After that, I started disclosing my status to everyone I met. It felt amazing!

In June I met Dave, a Buddhist monk back from Taiwan who wanted to get involved in advocacy. Dave and I became fast friends. I had always wanted to become a monk, but really didn’t know how. So as Dave and I started to talk, I started to think that maybe that was the right time for me. I remember I got really sick in June and was confined at PGH. Dave came to visit me and gave me some Buddhist prayer beads made from polished sea shells. He held my hand and chanted for me. That experience made me realize that if I was ever going to be a Buddhist monk, I better do it now, because there’s no day but today, after all. I did it. But clearly, it didn’t last too long because I’m still here in my office writing a blog post instead of sitting in a monastery in Cambodia. (My friends thought I had lost my mind.) But what did remain is my friendship with Dave. And with Dave came Andrew. Andrew was moved by hearing my story and wanted to help me help other people. So Dave, Andrew, Keith, Marco and I started to talk about how we could formalize our operations. Things started to move.

In July, I learned to be a counselor. Yes, an HIV counselor, which is a specialty. But I wasn’t just interested in being limited to DOH forms and risk assessments. I wanted to really help people. I realized that I had been counseling people all along, and just didn’t know it. So with training and mentoring, I started to refine my skills and by July 9th, I was certified as an HIV Counselor by one of the best counsellors I’ve ever known. July was spent learning Pali chants and studying Buddhist texts while at the same time getting people tested for HIV and continuing to do TV interviews, public speaking engagements and organize The No Day But Today Project into a formal organization.

But by mid July it became clear that I was in serious financial trouble. I hadn’t collected a paycheck since November 2010, and had invested most of my savings in my last album, which never got released. And whatever else I had left after that was spent on medical tests and treatment earlier in the year. So by July, I had to start getting creative. So I decided to do what anyone in my position would do. I had a garage sale and founded an NGO.

I sold everything I owned and on August 1st I used the money to get an office for The No Day But Today Project. And since I was now a Buddhist monk, I didn’t need finery like a TV, sofa or a bed, so I moved into the office with my blanket on the floor and smiled myself to sleep…for a while. But it didn’t take long before I realized that the demands of running an NGO, being a counselor and a public figure was way too much to handle as long as I was living the quiet, chaste life of a Buddhist monk. It became a strain that even I couldn’t manage.

As September and October progressed, I started learning the basics of building a good NGO. We had weekly support group meetings, the testing continued, there was more training and more connecting with other NGOs for support and partnerships. I learned that it’s okay to be human in front of a camera when I took Bob the photojournalist to one of the HIV treatment hubs and then let him sit in on one of my sessions with my shrink, during which he heard all my deepest, darkest secrets. Afterwards, when we got in his car, I broke down. Fortunately, his camera was in the back seat. But I decided that maybe it’s okay for me to be a human – with emotions, fears, hopes and dreams, and maybe even to fail sometimes. And if people see that…who cares?

In November I started feeling the pull of romance again, and started considering dating again. But the demands of running an NGO, being an advocate and counselor leaves little time for things like that. The No Day But Today Project became a legal entity on November 8, and I was like a proud daddy with a new baby.

So now, here it is December. 2011 – the weirdest year of my life – is coming to a close and I can’t help but wonder about 2012. I’m still sleeping on the floor of my office without a TV or a chair to sit on. But where at the onset of the year I was a selfish, rich, arrogant hermit, 2011 has taught me to be a friend, advocate, counselor and mentor. And honestly, I couldn’t be happier.

I’ve started dating again with what little time and money I do have. But I’m married to my work, so it’s more like having an affair than dating. I’m still Jake, still doing TV interviews, public speaking engagements, building bridges and helping people get tested. The only difference now is that I have a team of people who help me with all of it. In fact, you wouldn’t be reading this if it weren’t for them. You think I have time to run a Facebook page, Twitter, Tumblr AND a website? Are you kidding? That’s all Keith. I just write the material. And the testing part? That’s becoming more and more about Marco, who’s also a great counselor by the way. Dave is responsible for making us legal and Andrew is trying to bring money into the Project. Wow, what a year.

This morning I spoke to a group of students at UP Diliman about the power of positive thought, speech and action. I love students, and I probably would’ve been a teacher in another life. I really didn’t realize that I understood the subject so well, but it felt really great to step outside my comfort zone and do something different. Oh, who am I kidding…I don’t have a comfort zone anymore! Afterwards, as the taxi driver was taking me on a scenic tour of the villages, barangays and barrios of Quezon City, I was planning our first General Assembly for next February. What do I know about General Assemblies? There’s still so much I don’t know. But I’m learning as I go. And after the year I’ve had, I’m sure that the right people will be there to help me when I need them, just as they have been all year.

To all who have loved me, cared for me, helped me, mentored me, sheltered me, held my hand, laughed with me and have generally helped me become who I am still becoming…thank you all. I love you!
Here’s what 2011 taught me:
- Life lived only for ourselves isn’t worth living.
- Helping people is worth more than a 7-figure salary.
- I don’t care how long I live – I care about what I do with whatever time I have.
- I’ve learned that no one should face life with HIV alone.
And the moral of this story is this: If you want to bet against Jake Lopez…don’t! I certainly won’t anymore!
Here’s wishing you and those you love Happy Holidays and a happy and healthy 2012!

+Jake

A moment’s wound for one could be a lifetime for others.

I wasn’t really minding the dude since it’s midday and work is starting to nail us. If not because of the shrieking “OMG” of another lady officemate, I would go on ignoring them.

I turned to where the commotion was. Blood. I saw blood. Blood that spewed and unsightly at the finger of my officemate sitting next to me. And not just blood, a finger of his was covered with scotch tape in a vain attempt to substitute for the loss of bandage. So that was his announcement. Pwede rin pala ang scotch tape, no? he said.

The wound he’s nursing was all too perfect for me to do the cringe: my neck muscle strained, one of my leg folded and suddenly raised, and my eye twitched. My cringe strings always get the pulling whenever a badly mended wound is in sight.

He took some time in explaining what happened. Apparently, the metal label of his netbook created a nasty slice on his finger without him knowing when he was pulled out the contraption. As things happened quickly, it was painless. The next thing he knew was he was looking for a band aid but the good secretary offered a pathetic solution to none that is scotch tape. He said the bleeding stopped, which was good, but his appendage was still soaking in sanguine splendor.

I and Ms. OMG haven’t stopped cringing yet. Slightly irritated with our proof of disgust, Mr. Wounded Finger took the offense of a six-year-old kid whose ego was badly injured and bellowed somewhere from the pits of his vendetta, looked to me, and hollered, “Hoy, ah, wala naman akong AIDS.”

It was a gun fired at point blank. As soon as his words registered in my head, I saw myself bleeding, this time, in what could be a mix of shame and self-pity. His bullets came round. If only I could muster the shattered courage, I would have snorted, “Well, in case you have Sir, would my simple nonchalant sitting here infect me?”

But of course I didn’t tell that straight to his face. The most adult thing to do is to shut up. So I tied my tongue and let silence restore disturbed peace. After all, Mr. Wounded Finger didn’t know the kind of wound I too am carrying after all. He didn’t know about my status. And I guess with that sort of snicker made against me, against people living with HIV, I wouldn’t let him ever know.

I thought his line of thinking was a kind of oddball that it hit my sarcasm button. Why, tell me? Who in his right mental frame ever sprinkled his blood on everybody? Are we really entering the civilization of vampiresque and zombiesque that we’d feast on someone else’s blood? Having seen his wound, my cringing would be inevitable but I wouldn’t surely partake on his blood–whether he’s a healthy man or an HIV carrier. Thank you for informing me that you are HIV-free but that’s your wound. You keep it to yourself. Some things aren’t gladly shared.

Was there any prejudice committed against me with his slur? Looking back, still I’d say there was none. For he was clueless about the personal wound I am carrying, he didn’t know the severity of his words. The flight of his utterances were not intentional spears hurled at my status or against my humanity. His flush of irate was, I surmise, a vengeful f-you for the sheer, nay immature, disgust toward the sight of blood that I and my lady officemate displayed, but it wasn’t a personal stab against me and my disease. Nonetheless, reading between the lines, I clearly can sense that in the depth of his collective consciousness, his words are not but reeking of stigma.

It’s unfair to dissect or psychoanalyze him here and trace why he uttered such kind of innuendo. From lack of information, from stereotypes or from the equally incompetent media whose reportage seem to spread the malicious word that HIV is a death sentence, who knows? But it seems to me that his words would just add a great deal of obscurity to the already dumbfounded: that HIV-positive people doesn’t have the right to be wounded? Or even bloodied?

For crying out loud. How many people living with HIV out there can still manage to have their face pricked at beauty centers? How many can still have their tooth extracted? How many still have managed to keep the virus to themselves despite being wounded one time in their lives?

Surely, what draws the line between a wounded healthy man and a wounded HIV carrier for my office mate to tell me that? Both need access to medical care, or the very least, first aid, but misinformation is making it doubly hard for the sero-positives because there is judgment made against them quickly. There is already the fear in the uninfected that a mere sight of blood is already infectious, and the non-medical practitioners are easy victims of this maligned information. And when this baseless factoids snowball what you get is stigma.

Down the lines of the most basic science of HIV, blood really is infectious. But really now, who would be infected by the mere sight of it?

All has the right to medical attention, even the most corrupt needs doctor, but stigma makes a difference altogether. While stigma on the sending end means to look down upon on someone, to discriminate others, to consider a person an entirely different being, on the receiving end it is shame, self-pity, and guilt. Stigma is a double-edge sword that has done no good on both ends: one reinforces stereotypes, the other wallows and becomes the victim of a supressive ideology.

What started as an office mate’s wound ended up with a barrage of questions of my own and others’ security. What should I do if I cut myself like that? Would I lift a monobloc chair and parry anyone who’d come near me? Would I go on a screaming fit and just run to the faucet like a deranged madman? Would I call for a freaking ambulance? Or better, I thought, I shouldn’t just wound myself. I should do everything to not wound myself. Without knowing it, I have given in the mold of stigma–which is ironic, because even if with utmost care, I might still cut myself whethere I like it or not. Even the untimely, they say, has its time.

But if everybody would just treat a wound as a wound, a wound that needed serious medical attention, a wound that must be dealt with great care, be it from an HIV carrier, or a healthy man or a diabetic, we can all do away with that one great wound that’s for a lifetime, and that is the wound that drills the heart of every people living with HIV whenever they come across prejudice, stigma, and disparaging swipe made against them.

If only people were aware of how hard it is for HIV-positive people to rise above themselves on times when it seemed the world crashed in on them because of the disease, I guess they wouldn’t add another round of hardships on us, call our wounds as an HIV person’s wound, and dwell on their hang-ups. They’d just call it, “a wound.”

As for me, I’m doing everything I can so as not to cut myself, and I starting by gently pulling out my laptop from its sleeve.

- J

Usually when I write, it’s directed to my brothers and sisters living with Harvey. But this time, I want to talk to everyone else – those whose friends, partners and family members get diagnosed with the virus.