In a recent trailer for a National Geographic documentary, St Fauci of the Mask said that he had PTSD from the AIDS crisis.
OH REALLY!?!?!
I was blindsided on some website by this trailer. After I finished throwing up, I thought, “What the fuck do you think people like me have, you bastard son of a bitch?”
With one exception, EVERYONE I knew or cared about died, horribly.
I didn’t have time to even grieve. Between funerals and having to be in the closet at work, (yes children, there was a time when being out at work was a fireable offense,) how deep do you think my personal PTSD goes?
How deep do you think the PTSD of other people in my age group is?
We lived in terror that we were next, for YEARS. While you Fauci, and your ilk, had people afraid to use the toilet, or touch door knobs. You had people wearing masks then too, for all the good it did.
You’re one of the sons of bitches that blocked various treatments to those suffering.
You’re one of the motherfuckers that made sure so many thousands of gay men died alone, isolated, in fear. You’re one of the bastards that profited on their misery and as an aside, made damn sure that if they had insurance, it didn’t pay for treatments so thousands died destitute because “experimental” drugs were so expensive.
You and people like you have no concept of what it’s like to find friends and former lovers time and again with their brains spattered across a wall of their home.
I shouldn’t know how to clean blood & brain off walls.
The first thing I thought then shouldn’t have been, “Oh he kept his porn stash there, there, and there.“I should have been thinking, “God please make this stop, I can’ loose anyone else,” I should have been able to be young, vulnerable, and human.
I wasn’t able to be, because it was my task or the task of his friends to “sanitize” the home prior to the upstanding Religious family showing up.
You know, the same family that was all too willing to take anything and everything of value, years after they’d disowned the deceased. The good righteous family that would instantly throw the deceased’s sick partner out onto the street so the house could be sold. Yeah THOSE wonderful people! At least Westboro Baptist Church was upfront about being bastards.
At the time St. Fauci of the Mask, you were a Roman Catholic and it was obvious that you hated both the “sin” and the “sinner”.
Don’t talk to me about PTSD!
Sick fucks like you don’t have any concept of being “The guy‘ people come to for advice about killing themselves. It wasn’t that I was qualified to provide advice, it was that I would speak of death honestly and openly, without platitudes or falsehoods.
I was often the last person someone dying of AIDS talked to. Because simply put, when folks reached the end, they needed a sounding board who wasn’t going to judge them.
At the time, psychoanalysts of various stripes either wouldn’t or couldn’t speak of these matters. They were bound by law to report that someone was a danger to themselves. Those reports would lead to hospitalization and a long drawn out agonizing death.
At 23, I felt like the Angel of Death. I shouldn’t have been that familiar with death unless I was in an active war zone. I wasn’t… I was in sunny California.
Not that I was taking lives, but it was as if somehow I was the Angel’s harbinger.
Believe me fucker… that leaves a mark on your soul.
I was the last being on Earth many of these people had a cup of tea, a conversation, a cocktail, or watched a movie with. Then they were gone, and I was standing graveside at another closed casket ceremony. Tears streaming down my face under the baleful eyes of the deceased’s relatives. Feeling guilty because somewhere deep in the back of my mind I was asking, “when am I gonna be the guy in the box?”
I and my rapidly dwindling friends became the object of those families hatred not for what we’d done, or how we lived, but because they couldn’t face their own shame and guilt over not being there for their sons, brothers, uncles, or nephews, at the time when Family would have meant everything.
Fuck you Anthony Fauci, and fuck your claim of PTSD too!
Guess what fucker? You need to Man up and stop your whining. Just like all of us had to do.
You’ll get no sympathy from me. You could be coughing up your lungs, flesh falling off your carcass screaming in agony, bleeding from every orifice, but not dying, and I’d call it long overdue justice. In fact, I’d be asking the Angel of Death to let you linger just a while more.
How DARE you try to play the PTSD card?
It’s not yours to play, I claim it.
I claim It for all those who, like me, survived. It’s our card, our history, our scars. We own it and we ain’t sharing.
I claim it in the names of all those who didn’t survive.
The only thing you can lay claim to Fauci, is the blood of thousands on your greedy, inept, hands.
Oh and by the way, you’ve learned nothing in 40 years. You’ve handled COVID exactly the same way you handled AIDS, you’ve just done it on a grander scale.
I’m sure Hell has a special place for you.
You know why this pissed me off so much?
It’s because now I have a hard time remembering all my friends faces as they were.
In the latter stages of AIDS, as they withered away, they all looked the same, like animated skeletons with eyes full of pain.
That St. Fauci of the Mask is why I dislike you so very much, and resent you whining about PTSD over the AIDS Crisis.
You always had your professional distance, you didn’t have to know anything about the sick and dying. They were just another faggot who was going to die, and they all looked alike to you. You didn’t give a shit about them.
I on the other hand knew them, and now feel like somehow I’ve betrayed them because I can’t clearly remember their faces anymore. There are simply too many.