Stop Slut-Shaming Yourself
On sexual regret and self-identity
“You have an STD,” said the doctor, the scorn dripping off his voice, as the nurses nodded in agreement. There were too many people in the room, all peering into my vagina as though it were an abject horror. “That genital wart? That’s what you get for not waiting until marriage.”
They froze the wart off as tears streamed down my cheeks. I felt like a complete failure. Indeed, why hadn’t I waited until marriage? My boyfriend, with whom I’d fallen in love under an idyllic waterfall in Belize, whose hoarder’s home I had spent many hours cleaning up, had left me for a woman in Europe. My trust meant nothing. And now I was paying the price. I was marred, disgusting, broken, riddled with disease.
Six years later, I was seeing a new primary care physician who was asking about my medical history. “I, um, have a sexually transmitted disease,” I half-whispered, expecting another dose of slut-shaming.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Um…HPV,” I said, tears welling up again.
“When were you diagnosed with it?”
“Six years ago.”
“Oh!” she laughed, and my eyes widened. “Honey, that’s like telling me you had a cold six years ago. Most people get it at some point. Your body has kicked…
