[PH] 20 and I found out I was Positive.
Last night, I found out something I have always dread.
December, I fell ill and It wasn’t something that I was familiar with, not the usual flu or fever, it was something different and I was sure of it. My mom quickly took me to the hospital, where I spent hours waiting for the result only for it to be diagnosed into a cold as a result of fatigue. I’m a student and I didn’t overthink much of it at that time because It was during our finals, and i didn't think I had a choice, but something wasn’t sitting right, I knew something was off, and my mom did too, coincidentally she invited me to attend a small ED with testing booths and condoms, that was where my whole life did a 180.
I was told I was reactive with syphilis. I was calm, I knew something wasn’t right; Yet, what choice do I have? What do I do? The volunteer told me I could visit their clinic, and I planned to — but things doesn’t always go to plan or was it that I subconciously paralyzed myself from that reality to avoid the inevitable? Life got busy, I was working with pressure, I lost track of time. It all sound like an excuse, but It’s something I never wanted to overlook. For someone who reads and writes about queer culture and the costs stigma that has chained us with preconcieved notions, It was Ironic — for a person so informed and educated, I lacked the courage to seek help.
Until, life got lighter. I was given the time to really process and digest what happened. There was no changing it, the only path forward was with therapy. I went and got booked for testing. I was running late, I didn’t expect to spend an hour on the road, and It ate me inside, the thoughts came flooding one after the other filling the cup to its brim. I needed to silence those thoughts, and the only way was with verification.
I arrived, apologized for being late, and waited. Time flew quickly, the process was easy, I was told I could wait for the results at the commons. I picked up a book as my phone blasted music, in the background a video was on repeat playing what seemed to be an advocacy video, I stared at it blankly as I watched the silent, flickering images loop over and over, completely disconnected from the message.
The upbeat, brightly lit faces on the screen felt like a cruel contrast to the heavy knot tightening in my chest. My phone kept playing, the video kept looping, and the words in my book blurred into straight lines. I was sitting in a room full of people, yet I had never felt more entirely alone, I came in expecting the worst, while I hoped for the best. I thought of everyone I knew, the people I’ve surrounded myself with, the people close to me, I drowned myself with music. I left time to soar.
Then, a voice cut through the hum of the commons, reading off numbers. I let my grip on the book loosen, tossed it to its pile, bracing myself as the sequence neared mine. But as the volunteer spoke again, they skipped right past my number, calling out the digit after it instead. A sharp, jolt of worry hit my chest, instantly killing the music in my ears. Why did they skip me? Did they lose my paperwork? Or did my results require a different conversation—a worse one? My heart hammered against my ribs during that agonizing beat of silence before the voice finally corrected itself and called my number. I stood up on unsteady legs, the brief panic still echoing in my chest as I walked forward.
I was directed away from the open area, leaving behind the comforting, low hum of people talking. I had already prepared myself for this. I was taught about the basics and asked about my experiences. These were things I was already aware of, things I knew about beforehand, Yet, the moment the heavy door clicked shut behind me, the theory evaporated. In that white room, the knowledge became a deeply personal, terrifyingly real experience. The seamless white walls didn't care about my preparation; they just stared back, reflecting a blinding, sterile silence that forced me to face exactly what I was doing there.
The volunteer—now sitting across from me—opened the folder, pulled out the test and delivered what I have dread for months. They confirmed what the reactive screening booth had whispered months ago. The word itself was small, just three letters spoken softly into the sterile air of the room, but it hit with the force of a physical blow.
HIV
I was found to be HIV reactive. I didn’t cry or panic. Instead, a weird, hollow calm settled over me, leaving me completely composed on the outside while my mind drifted somewhere far away. The volunteer seemed to recognize the silence for what it was, quietly stepping back to give me the space and time to process the weight of what had just been revealed. They introduced themselves, perhaps offering reassurance or explaining who would be guiding my care from here, but I struggled to catch their names. The syllables just bounced off the thick fog in my head.
I stared blankly ahead, perfectly still, trapped in the quiet echo of that white room while the rest of the world kept moving. The door opened, and the heavy silence that had filled the room was suddenly greeted by the rushing tide of outside noise. The low hum of the commons, the overlapping chatter of strangers, and the distant, looping audio of the advocacy video all came flooding back in a single, sharp wave.
It felt incredibly jarring—as if the world outside had stubbornly refused to stop spinning while my entire reality had just shifted. Yet, even as the noise rushed in, I wasn’t panicked or worried. The initial fog of distraction cleared, replaced by a quiet, steady resolve. There was no room left for fear, only for what needed to be done next. When the paperwork was laid out and the next steps were explained, I calmly complied. I signed what needed to be signed, listened to the instructions, and proceeded with agreeing to take therapy. Stepping back out into the crowded commons, the weight was still there, but the crushing ambiguity was gone. I had made my choice to move forward, and with that single agreement, the path toward healing is now in motion.
I do worry, about how life looks like in the future.