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HIV, in fiction, hits right at the heart

HIV, in fiction, hits right at the heart

The good thing about having a ridiculously unnecessary cable package is getting to watch random movies you wouldn’t see otherwise. Recently, my partner Luke and I cuddled up to the film A Home At The End of the World. Some had said it wasn’t very good. And even though the filmmakers cut out Colin Farrell’s full frontal nude scene, we still felt compelled to watch it.

This coming of age story follows two friends who awkwardly fooled around as teens in the ’70s and then lovingly quarreled as adults in the ’80s. As the storyline progressed, I felt relieved that the gay character could be sexually promiscuous during this time period while not letting it be about HIV.

Ever since my own HIV diagnosis, I have been very intentional about steering clear of fictional depictions regarding the onslaught of HIV and AIDS. I have avoided movies such as Philadelphia and It’s My Party like the plague — no pun intended.

I’d nearly slid home free with A Home at the End of the World when about two-thirds into the movie, the gay character got a mysterious bruise. While shaking with fear, his lifelong buddy (played by Farrell) unconvincingly tries to convince him not to worry. The characters never mention HIV or AIDS, but by the fear in their eyes, they, along with the viewers, are all thinking it.

Naively, my heart sank. None of the online reviews mentioned this subplot; I felt completely caught off-guard. After six years of living healthily with HIV, I would have thought I could handle it; I’ve watched dozens of documentaries on the history of AIDS. Yet  in a fictional context it hits me differently, and even though the movie’s heavy moment didn’t quite call for tears, I got choked up.

I’m too young to have lived through the initial epidemic as an adult. I don’t remember any of it and have never even really known someone who died from AIDS. This, in combination with my successful medications, has probably allowed me to keep the raw, frightening factors about the disease at a distance.

I thought the documentaries would have helped me honor the history of what presently lurked inside me. But it turns out that watching a real person talk about the horrors of HIV is very different from watching a fictional character act it out. Documentaries keep it cerebral. This portrayal, on the other hand, hit me right in the heart.

A Home at the End of the World wouldn’t let me keep these upsetting feelings at a distance anymore. I had to face a depiction of what it would have been like to have this disease 20 or 30 years ago. It was a frightening reminder that while I am indeed OK, I could have been dead by now.

As far as HIV storylines go, this one was mild. The movie ends on a random note before the character deals with any major illness. It’s up to the viewer’s imagination to continue on the story in our heads. And in my head, the character died. And it was awful. My heart simply carried on what my brain knew to be true of the time period. The thought made me cry.

In a way, it helped me once again feel vulnerable about having HIV. That wasn’t such a bad thing. While I may still remain hesitant about running off to purchase a ticket to Rent, I also realized stories like these can help deepen my connection to HIV in my heart.

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