I was at work when I got the phone call from the sexual health clinic. I had been expecting an all-clear text, but instead I got a call asking me to come in again. I assumed a test had been faulty and they needed me to redo it.
When I arrived I was shown into a back room with a nurse and that’s when she gave me the news: I had tested positive for human immunodeficiency virus. I had HIV.
It was July 2016, and I was 27. I felt like my life was just getting going. I’d got out of a long-term relationship; I’d moved into a house-share with my best friend; party times lay ahead. Now images of Aids victims I’d seen on the television from the 1980s flashed through my head. I thought, “That’s me, I’ve messed up my life; I’m going to die, I’m finished.”
I’ve always been proactive about my sexual health. I tested regularly and talked to partners about it. Taking an HIV blood test is optional, but I always thought, why not? I knew I was low-risk. In my head, it was only really gay men and people from sub-Saharan Africa who got HIV, so I was never worried about it.
When my most recent boyfriend and I committed to a long-term relationship, we had a conversation about what form of birth control to use. We’d been using condoms, but after we both got an all-clear from STI tests, we went for the contraceptive pill.
The relationship ended acrimoniously. There was a lot of lying on his part. To begin with it was just about small things, but it started to pile up. I learnt through a friend that he was sleeping with a lot of other women outside of our relationship, and that was why I decided to get tested before I started dating again. I never thought for a second this would happen to me.
The diagnosis felt like a bomb going off in my head. The nurse kept talking about next steps, but I couldn’t hear a word of it. In my head I kept thinking, “This can’t be real.” All the ideas I had about my life, having a future, having a partner, having a family; I thought I’d lost it all.
The morning after my diagnosis, I went to a specialist clinic. They ran all sorts of tests, examining my viral load, my T-cells, my immune system functionality, even things you wouldn’t expect, like levels of vitamin B-12, iron, cholesterol.
After they assessed me, I was given medication straight away, just two pills that I’d keep taking for the rest of my life. The medication is antiretroviral therapy, which stops the HIV from replicating in my blood, halting its ability to make new viruses.
Within months my status became undetectable. When it’s at that level, and you maintain that, it becomes impossible to pass the virus on. Undetectable equals untransmittable. Lots of work is happening to get the U=U message out.
For the first six months after I started my meds, I carried on life as normally as I could. I was telling myself I could do it, I could fight it, I could still work and socialise and have a normal life. But that stigma starts within and by the end of 2016 I’d spiralled into depression. I was being torn apart by the feeling that I’d messed up my life. I struggled with suicidal thoughts.
I didn’t tell anyone. My mum had just been diagnosed with breast cancer and I didn’t want to worry anyone. Even with friends, I was terrified of them judging me. I already considered myself dirty and shameful and all I could think was that they would share those feelings.
My nurses at the specialist clinic put me in touch with Brigstowe, a charity supporting people with HIV in Bristol. Getting in touch with the charity was what really turned my life around.
I was partnered up with an HIV positive mentor. She was a straight woman who lived with the virus. We met at a café after work once a week. Any question I had about living with HIV, she answered. All of the mental struggles I was going through, she had been there too.
Brigstowe also offered a workshop for newly diagnosed people. It taught me everything I needed to know, how HIV worked, what the medication did, how I could live a normal life with it. But more important than the information was meeting the other people on the course. These were normal people with normal lives, they weren’t defined by the virus.
With the encouragement of my mentor I began to open up about my HIV status. It was incredibly daunting, telling people for the first time. The first people I told were my closest friends. I was met with a wave of love. They were all so proud of me, reassuring me that I was still the same girl they always knew. After that I opened up to my family, who gave me the same support. Now I tell everyone.
It hasn’t always been easy. I’ve dealt with a lot of misconceptions, especially once I got back onto the dating scene. It took me a long time to build up trust again, and I’ve had a range of reactions. Because U=U, my status isn’t something I have to share, but I volunteer at Brigstowe and I’m proud of that, so it comes up naturally.
Dating has been quite a rollercoaster. Some people who I’d had good conversations with ran a mile when I told them I was HIV positive. In a way it worked in my favour, if they weren’t willing to listen to me and had all these preconceived judgments, then it was easy to cross them off the list.
I eventually met the father of my son, who was understanding and respectful of my status. Obviously we had sex without a condom, which is what led to the birth of my son. Because of the medication I’m taking, I can’t pass the virus on. I sometimes find it hard to get my head around the fact that unprotected sex is seen as such a negative, like you’ve been stupid or dirty if you have it and get HIV, but then in the same breath people get so excited about it if you get pregnant through it.
By the time I had my son, I had become clued up about HIV, so I had no concerns about passing it on to my child. They are still researching whether you can pass HIV on through breastfeeding, so I bottle-fed him, but I probably would have done that anyway so I could get help through the nights.
My HIV diagnosis hasn’t changed the trajectory of my life. I’ve had the opportunity to do some of the most amazing things and meet some of the best people I ever could.
I take my pills every day and I don’t think about them. To me, they’re just something I take which keeps me healthy, like vitamins.
Numbers of HIV diagnoses in heterosexuals are rising. I have met so many people who think the H in HIV stands for “homosexual”. It stands for human. If you’re human, it can affect you. Take a test and know your status.
Medicine has advanced hugely since the Aids crisis. We have everything we need to make sure those who are negative stay negative, and those who are positive avoid passing it on. A future of zero new HIV diagnoses is within our grasp; the most important thing we can all do is know our status.
As told to Jack Rear
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Source Agencies
