When I was first diagnosed I told a few select friends and after a few days my soon to be Boyfriend as well, but that was out of sheer necessity for my own self-preservation. I felt as though my whole world was crumbling around me and you need at least a few people to tell you that “things will be alright” even if you aren’t ready to believe it yet. In the weeks that followed as I began to process my situation and cope with it better (better in the sense that I was now coping, however badly) I stopped telling more people for a long time. Not a single member of my family discovered the truth for nearly two years. It was a conversation that was just too painful for me to have. It’s paralysing. It’s a pain unlike any other that I’ve ever experienced; it’s a pain of many parts.

It is a pain of Trauma. My case isn’t the same as everyone’s and is by no means typical, but I know how I caught the disease. To cut a very long story short, I fell victim to a sociopath who gained my trust and then abused it by removing his condom during sex without my consent or knowledge in order to deliberately infect me with the disease. When I confronted him a year later he said that he did what he did because “he got a little piece of my soul, and that’s priceless.” Part of the pain is to relive the memories of that kind of violation of my body and my dignity, the anguish of seeing him escape criminal prosecution on a technicality and all the rage that I feel at that injustice. I’ve had to settle for knowing that my accusations remain on his record so he remains on the Police’s radar. The fact that I know this wasn’t an accident and that I did everything in my power to take the right precautions and still ended up with the disease will forever scar me and it has taken a great deal of time for those scars to heal to the point where I’m now able to talk about these facts openly and not do myself great emotional harm in the process.

It is also a pain of Fear. To disclose your status is to risk stigma and rejection. The worst I ever experienced was being kicked out of somebodies house and spat at because they thought I was going to give them the disease. I’m not proud to admit that I haven’t always disclosed to casual sexual partners since then and I have instead relied upon practicing safe sex. I am fallible and at this point I can only apologise to those people who are affected by that. It’s very easy for somebody to take the moral high ground and tell me that I should always disclose no matter how infinitesimally small the risk (now that my medication is working, transmission is very unlikely even if I were having unprotected sex) and there is no excuse that I can make that would stop them from being right. But taking the high ground lacks the compassion necessary to understand what it feels like to be rejected, violently or otherwise, whilst in the process of seeking love, affection and human comfort on the basis of an often-misunderstood medical condition that you didn’t ask for. I think many of us with HIV make bad choices like this because we can be cowards who are afraid of the consequences that we don’t deserve, but still experience — at least that can be the case for me. Now it is a mistake I plan not to repeat, but again I’ve needed time to build the confidence I have now to say never again, be the bigger person and really own my status as a part of who I am.

It is also a pain of Shame. All of the things that I’m describing aren’t discrete facets; they all bleed into one another. But for me the effect of the stigma (and some of the realities) of the disease is shame. I don’t want to be seen as somehow weak or fragile or delicate and yet that is how the disease can make you feel. I felt stupid and impotent that I let myself be used and fooled by a psychopath. Sometimes you feel the weakness physically, especially if you aren’t on treatment, but mostly it’s a mental thing; I internalised a lot of stigma for a long time. I’m afraid to be perceived in these ways and then in turn that fear makes you feel that way yourself and it becomes a vicious cycle.

The complexity and strength of feelings that I have around this subject are incredibly difficult to put into words that somebody who doesn’t have HIV will understand. If you had said to me six months ago that I’d be publishing articles about my diagnosis and telling all of my loved ones, all of my Social Media AND anybody who decided to take an interest on the broader internet then I’d have probably made some sort of excuse to leave so that I could find somewhere to be sad on my own for a little while. Whilst I’m ecstatic as an aspiring writer to be getting my work out there and having professionals tell me it’s good, talking about my life’s greatest difficulty remains far from easy and enjoyable.

You might think that being openly Gay I might have some experience not just of keeping a part of my sexual identity quiet, but also coming out with it to people. Having been thrust into a second closet the second coming out ought to be easier – right? Sadly though, my coming out as gay was a rather quiet affair; it wasn’t really my style to make a flourishing declaration of “I’M HERE, I’M QUEER, GET USED TO IT!” complete with sparkles, euro trance and jazz hands to my peers at a school for boys, aptly known for a while as ‘LADams Grammar.’ I was happier to do things quietly and let the news spread naturally. But this time around I’m deliberately drawing attention to myself. My writer’s ego has to shout, “Look at me!” for the article to work. It’s petrifying, but unless people like me put their necks out then the myths and fear surrounding HIV will persist; it’s a condition that is never to be taken lightly, but equally it isn’t as bad or terrifying as I perceived it to be when I was first diagnosed. I’m no selfless martyr, obviously I’m doing this for myself and my own personal growth, but if any good can come out of the bad that I’ve experienced then I have to do my best to make that happen. I’m blessed with an OK written voice, so why not use it?

I really owe massive thanks to the people who have got me this far by being my crutch whenever I have needed it. I also owe massive thanks to Professor Erika Hayasaki at UCI because without her and her Literary Journalism class the article wouldn’t have been written, let alone published. Of course I need to thank Jia-Rui and all the other staff at Zocalo Public Square who chose to move forward with my article and helped me edit it down into something publishable as well. I’d also finally like to thank everyone for the incredible love and support they have shown me in the short time since my article has been up — it really means the world and really helps me to remember that I’m doing the right thing.