TEXT SENT, 9 AM: good morning! I have something I need to tell you and I hope it won’t impact our relationship because I have enjoyed dating you the past few weeks. I wanted to let you know I have herpes. It is not a big deal and can be handled without spreading. I think we should have a phone conversation when you can since I won’t be back in Asia for a few weeks. 

TEXT RECEIVED, 11:46 AM: omg gross is that HIV? Am I going to die?
TEXT SENT, 11:55 AM: we haven’t even had sex. And also fuck you. Never talk to me again.

The above conversation was the first time I attempted dating after I learned I have herpes. I didn’t really like this guy, but I was in a low place emotionally and desperate for love. I went back and forth about even telling him. I decided texting would be easiest, and it had to be done. His response made me want to throw up. My self esteem, already low, plummeted lower. 

I called my friend, the only person in the world other than my doctor who knew my diagnosis. He could hardly understand me between my sobs. He tried to console me; told me I was pretty, smart, very loved, and more. I hung up on him. I felt like shit—but I had to hide it. I was on vacation with my very conservative family. I washed my face, put on makeup and a dress, and headed to dinner with my parents, sisters, and brother.

This friend—we will call him Dan—and I became friends in 2015. He was the best friend of my then-roommate. After two years living and working with pregnant women in Afghanistan, Dan was in the process of moving to Vietnam. En route, he came to stay with his best friend. But this best friend, aka my roommate, happened to be on a work trip—so, for the first week of his trip, I was his (as my roommate termed it, with a wink) “babysitter.” 

Dan is tall, handsome, extremely intelligent, well traveled, kind, and a skilled conversationalist. I fell in love with him immediately. After a few beers on the first night we made out on the couch before going to our separate bedrooms. The next morning, I had a weird, painful cluster of bumps on the back side of my right leg. It hurt to sit. It hurt to walk. It looked disgusting.

Dan and I spent the day at the pool. I tried to hide the bumps but, being an epidemiologist, he noticed. He examined them closely and took a picture. He immediately knew what they were but did not want to ruin my day by telling me, so he sent the photo to a doctor friend of his. After a chill day together, I told him bye and he headed off to a wedding in a different town. 

That night, I was at a party surrounded by friends when Dan called me. He told me my diagnosis: you have herpes. “Like the STD?” I asked. I couldn’t understand. Everything I knew about STDs had come from an eighth-grade health class in a conservative town in Kentucky. In short, I was taught that sex will send you to hell and STDs will kill you. 

I lay down and cried. I was drunk so the tears flew out of my eyes. My friend tried to explain to me that this news was not a death sentence. I would be okay; I just needed to go to the doctor and get some medicine. I was so embarrassed it took me two months to get the courage to go to the doctor. At the doctor, they gave me my “official” diagnosis and a prescription, but they only accepted cash and I didn’t have enough for the medication I needed. There was no ATM nearby. It took me another five months and two outbreaks to go back with cash and purchase it.

After my diagnosis, I drank a lot. I thought alcohol would make me forget, would make me more fun, and I would make out with men in clubs to try to feel loved. But I didn’t go on dates and I didn’t bring anyone home because I didn’t want to have that conversation. Despite having amazing friends during this period of my life, I’d never felt so alone or disgusting. 

I left Asia in 2016 to start a new job in California. Liberal California, I thought, maybe I can start dating again and find my self esteem. I joined Bumble because a friend said it was better than Tinder. She was right. I went on dates and met a guy I like—or, perhaps, it was more his dog that I liked. Either way, after a few months of dating I was ready to talk to him about my diagnosis. Before I could, he ended things because he met someone else. It hurt me a lot, but I was also very relieved I didn’t have to tell him.

Fast forward to 2018. I moved again, and went back to my old ways of getting blackout drunk and going to clubs where I flirted and made out with random men. My self-worth had plummeted again, for various reasons. Then, a friend introduced me to a handsome, accomplished Latino dreamboat. We started dating, but my work caused me to travel a lot. One of my trips took me to Bali, and he obviously wanted to join. I went a few days early and he was scheduled to meet me for the weekend. I knew that I had to tell him. The night before he was supposed to arrive, I called him. My hands shook and I was sure to have several gin and tonics before pressing the call button. 

He was furious. I cried to the point that my eyes were swollen. Of course, I called Dan. He was the only person in the world I could talk to. He told me, once again, that I was pretty, smart, thoughtful, kind. He told me Latinos are traditionally assholes. He tried everything—but none of it helped. I felt like the dirtiest pile of shit. Surprisingly, that relationship did not end that night (I think it was because a trip to Bali was on the line). It did end shortly thereafter when he met someone else: a Latina who was clean and polished. She wasn’t dirty and ruined like me.

This time, I threw myself into work and exercise instead of alcohol. On a work trip, I met a new man. He is a counselor: kind, thoughtful, compassionate. His blue eyes are a color I could stare at all day. Conversation was easy and the attraction was immediate. 

It took me a while to tell him; I wanted him to like me first. It finally happened when I was at his apartment and we were cuddling on the couch. I started crying before any words came out. He held me. After I told him, he said: “I don’t care. I like you and we will make this work.” I cried harder. This was the moment I knew he would have my heart forever.

We got engaged a year later. 

Living with an STD is scary. It’s stigmatized in a way that is hurtful. Although I am in love and living a healthy, happy life, this diagnosis caused (and still causes) a lot of pain when it shouldn’t. It’s important to create dialogue around an STD diagnosis and for people to understand that it is not a death sentence. It is like everything in life: you learn to live with it.