When I get back to Italy, I rush to the Infectious Diseases department. I tell the doctor everything, and he goes hard on me, basically insulting me for my stupidity. He probably has every reason in the world, but what I lived through in the past 24 hours was already a harsh enough lesson. And what came after would be a fair punishment for the massive bullshit I pulled.
Thailand has hundreds of thousands of HIV-positive people. In 2018, one out of a hundred was infected. The doctor looks at me without mercy as he lists probabilities, statistics, and risks. I sit there in silence, knowing I can’t change anything anymore.
To prevent AIDS, which I’ll never know for sure whether I was exposed to or not, the doctor prescribes a treatment called PEP, Post-Exposure Prophylaxis. Two small boxes of medication, Isentress and Raltegravir. One costs €750, the other €950. A treatment that, for the next ten months, destroys me physically and mentally.
I’ll try to briefly sum up the side effects this treatment caused me. In the first few days, I slept more than 12 hours a day, and anyone who knows me knows I usually sleep four, maybe five hours a night. When I was awake, I cried. I was terrified. I felt awful. I was scared to be alone. When my parents left for work in the morning, I begged them not to leave me at home. I was afraid I might want to kill myself. I threw up often, trying to hide as many symptoms as possible. I didn’t tell the rest of my family anything, so I wouldn’t be judged or yelled at. I pretended to be fine every time I saw my grandparents and uncles.
One of the consequences of the medication was also an almost total loss of sexual desire. During that period, things between my girlfriend and me weren’t going well. I was extremely irritable, the drugs gave me intense anger outbursts, and it was impossible to talk to me. I tried to stay alone as much as possible, keeping my distance from the people I loved whenever I could. I hid my terrible mental state for several months.
During the first year after starting the treatment, I had to get tested for infectious diseases once a month, including HIV, Hepatitis B, Hepatitis C, and Syphilis. I was always negative.
Maybe this was the punishment for not following the rules. Maybe, without realising it, I crossed the little bridge in Monteclaro park while a duck was casually following me. But despite everything, I feel strangely lucky. Maybe that protection worked after all, in its own way.
Today, when I think back to this story, I ask myself the same question everyone asks me when they hear it: was it worth it? I’m not sure. But every scar has a story, and mine started with a simple question:
Why not?