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of issue 73/74
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I really can't convey enough how awful it was and is to have facial wasting.
Feeling fantastic, fit, and full of verve, yet haggard, pinched and depressed.
Odd really, to feel so good yet look so bad.
I also can't forget the mind-numbingly, endlessly reassuring comments
of friends whose expressions conveyed a different message. The endless
pursuing of the best lighting, the tinted moisturiser (which made it look
worse), and the hours of facial exercising to build up the muscles.
Round and round like a circle in a spiral. How inventive we become.
It was never about vanity because I've never been a page three stunner.
More to do with the demise of anonymity and quality of life, of being
singled out, of facing up to cruel stares and acid comments. Of plunging
self-esteem, and never losing the consciousness of a changed appearance
and the new identity forced upon it.
I felt observable and on display, enduring a consequent constant state
of discomfort. I don't like or have ever sought attention, even in my
disco shoes. And now it felt as if
the whole world was staring at me. And they were! As it got worse, life started to close in. Aids, ironically, had made its impact. Which was odd
