This isn’t the first time that I am baking cupcakes in the middle of the night, wrap presents, blow up balloons and dash to the store to get a missing ingredient, leaving my sleeping children home alone. It isn’t the first time I am preparing my child’s birthday by myself, and yet here I am, sobbing into the cake batter and eating half of it raw.
I haven’t slept in weeks, and when I forced myself out of bed after another restless night, I could feel the panic creeping up in me. In the midst of depression, about two years ago, I had regular anxiety attacks, and they only subsided when I finally allowed myself to address my feelings and thoughts, how uncomfortable they might have been.
What would you do if you could do anything (or anyone)?
I am a child of the 70s. And despite being born in the era of sexual liberation and free love, my early adventures into sexuality circa 1992 were overcast by the ever present threat of HIV. Sure, we had fun. But every sexual encounter was a potential risk. No matter how careful you’d been, the fear was always there. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who was dying of AIDS. I can’t remember how many times I took the test, let alone the times I made a potential new partner take it. Serial monogamy offered some comfort to the issue and was the relationship setting du jour.