Insight asks: can grudges sometimes be good for us, or is it always healthier to let go? Watch on SBS .
I contracted HIV from a man who lied to me about his HIV status, and yet I forgive him entirely.
I was 19 in late 2003, and while studying in Perth, I connected with a handsome man on a dating website. After chatting for a day or so, we arranged to meet at my house. Things progressed. Unprepared and inexperienced, I had no condoms at my disposal. As I'd rarely engaged in unprotected sex before, I brazenly asked him, "Do you have HIV?" He assured me he was negative, and I believed him. We then had sex without condoms; it was a great night of intimacy and connection, things we both craved.
The following February, I accompanied a friend to a HIV clinic. My previous test was six months earlier, and apart from a ferocious flu at the end of 2003, I felt invincible. Regardless, I agreed to another test for moral support. We returned to the clinic a week later, and after my friend received his negative diagnosis, I entered the consulting room. I knew I was in trouble. My doctor unhurriedly informed me that my test had yielded a positive HIV result. I was 20.
I remember very little of the hour that followed, other than crumbling under the memory of the 'Grim Reaper' AIDS campaign and the thought that I would be dead before 30.
A few months passed, and, desperate for connection, I discovered a HIV-friendly dating website and started chatting with a Perth man. After sharing our photos, I recognised him immediately; this was the man I'd had sex with the year before. It quickly became apparent that he didn't remember me at all. Then, the chronology of last year's events became apparent; my negative HIV test, the date we met, the strange flu, and subsequent positive HIV test.
... he transformed from a man who gave me HIV to a person utterly consumed with pain, fear and shame.
Understanding how I contracted HIV had never interested me. Nevertheless, I posed a few questions about his sexual interests and views on condom use. He told me he preferred to 'bareback' without condoms. After a deep breath, I casually asked if he was 'poz'. He responded. "Yep, have been for 15 years. You?"
It is with no certainty that I can deduce that this was the man from whom I contracted HIV. When considering the sequence of events, the risk we assumed, the onset of my potential seroconversion illness (flu) and his subsequent admission of his positive status, it is highly likely. But this is not the point of telling my story. I tell my story because I've learned that things change; with some transformations beyond our wildest dreams.
As a teenager, I believed my parents didn't want me. During high school, I felt the relentless bullying would never end. After the diagnosis, I thought people with HIV could never find love and would all die young, and I couldn’t fathom that recalling my HIV diagnosis would elicit anything other than fear and rage. Of all these projections and hypotheses, not one holds any weight or truth today.
I met this man, who I was pretty confident had given men HIV a year later, and in a Sydney cafe, he transformed from a man who gave me HIV to a person utterly consumed with pain, fear and shame. At that moment, I recognised the power of vulnerability. Instead of harbouring a grudge for his actions or holding out hope for eventualities I couldn't change, I chose empathy and compassion. It has served me well.
I acknowledge now, at the age of 39, that my hurdles were significant, and I wouldn't wish them on anyone. But I don't sit in the hope of having lived a better past. I am incredibly proud of the man I am today and love myself in a way that I didn’t know was possible – another existential shift. These experiences form the fabric of my fortitude and character.
Forgiving him does not condone his actions. For me, it is about accepting our realities at the time. A diagnosis of HIV today is something not to be feared. A diagnosis 20 years ago was a vastly different story. However, a diagnosis in the 80s was a death sentence more often than not.
If I saw him tomorrow, I would ask him one question, “Are you OK?”
What I went through was hard, but I cannot fathom the lonely and fearful experiences of those diagnosed before me. This realisation has paved my trajectory of forgiveness, and after 20 years, I feel no resentment, anger or blame that I once believed would consume me forever.
