Unfortunately (or not), I acquired HIV from a partner who did not disclose their infection, and I knew exactly who it was. It made for a very tough start. In fact, the betrayal was far more devastating than the diagnosis. I had been living with someone that knew they were HIV-positive and never told me.

We lived together for two years and I didn’t get sick. Eventually though, I became seriously ill. I went to Emergency three times and they kept sending me home with the flu. The third time they sent me for an endoscopy to check my esophagus. So, my health was in the hands of an ENT doctor (a specialist in diseases that affect that ears, nose, and throat) and because that’s who did the endoscopy, that’s who had to tell me the news. He was an Emergency referral doc, so it wasn’t his practice to give an HIV diagnosis. It was lacklustre at best.

I remember watching his body language, thinking, “Okay, this isn’t good, but what the fuck is it?” He said, “Well, the good news is that you’re not Hep C positive, however, you have tested positive for HIV.” My jaw dropped, and I immediately thought, “How did this happen?” He told me the public health nurse would be in touch, that I needed to tell my sexual partners, and that I should follow up with an HIV specialist. He was more nervous than I was, and he didn’t really have great bed side manner. Five minutes and then he had to go to see another patient.

When I walked out of his office, the receptionist said, “Would you like some water?” And I replied, “No, I’m fine.” She said, “Thanks. Okay. Then, have a good day.” And I went, “Oh. Okay. Bye.” And I never saw them again, because that was just the diagnosis results day, and I was immediately in the hands of other care providers. That was 2008.

How did this journey start?

I met my ex-partner in 2006 while taking some time away from dance. I had moved to Vancouver Island (on Canada’s west coast) and we got to know one another in open ocean, of all places. He was real stand-off-ish initially we bonded over our sailing passionand didn’t want to know anything about me. He had just come out of the bush and was an outward-bound kind of guy, a rugged sailor with the bluest eyes I had ever seen. He taunted me into going sailing with him, saying, “You’ll never make it, but if you want to come, you can come along.” And, so I finally took him up on it, and went. That was the basis of our relationship. There was no past. It was all about being present. Learning to sail. And so, it was one of the first relationships that I thought, “Wow. This is so cool. We don’t have to talk about ex’s and our history.”

"For a while, I was having the time of my life. We were like peanut butter and honey, we just went well together."

We moved in together within a couple of months and, for a while, I was having the time of my life. We were like peanut butter and honey, we just went well together. We loved to be on the water. We loved to listen to live music. We could talk about the most obscure and sublime subjects. We loved art and politics and we saw these things through a similar lens. We were both bisexual. We had experienced same gender-loving relationships and eventually, after I was diagnosed, we talked about that in detail.

Two years in, when he found out I was diagnosed with HIV, he disappeared for a week. Harsh first eight days of my diagnosis. He was afraid that I would charge him. I tried calling him many times. But there was no response at all. I thought I would never see him again. Those eight days were dark.

Then, on day nine, he called back. That mattered so much to me.

He spilled his heart and soul out in an effort to explain. While the betrayal wasn’t any less, I felt compassion for him. His story was broken and damaged.I thought I needed to understand why he didn’t tell me. Yet, as time went on, I realized what a silly question that was. When asking about human behaviour, there is rarely an exact answer as to why we do the things we do. It is wrapped around intrinsic emotions that are human, and life experiences (some good, some bad) that shape and form our personal world and identity. His life had been full of betrayal, hurt and loss. I needed to recognize that in him if I was going to move towards forgiveness. It was brutally honest and hard to swallow at times. But it made me ask other questions, and eventually understand ‘why’ better. It didn’t change the diagnosis, nor the fact that I wished we talked about our sexual health (a conversation to be had on both our parts), but it toned down the anger and hurt slowly, day by day, month by month, year by year.

We cared for each other for a while. He was supportive of whatever I needed to do, and that included full disclosure on his part in front of a medical professional. I was fortunate he was willing to do this; it helped me to understand the betrayal better. That he would stand up in front of a health professional, NOT in a court of law, made it real without the shame, humiliation, and punishment. It was really important to hear why he had betrayed me to that degree. And, because he had been living with HIV for so long, why he thought it was okay not to use a condom. We practised safe sex in the beginning, and then, after some time, we just stopped. We were living together, and I thought, “I’m over 40. I’m not getting pregnant. We’re fine.” It wasn’t like he withheld his status from me maliciously. He just didn’t tell me.

"We all have a sexual health status and should know it and talk about it with our partners."

And I didn’t ask.

Why didn’t I ask? Why didn’t I protect myself? Was I not responsible for my own sexual health and safety?

I now know that we all have a sexual health status and should know it and talk about it with our partners. The onus should not just be on those who are HIV-positive. Talking openly about sex, without free of judgement, is hard in our society, particularly for women, who may feel crippled by sexual shame and traditional gender norms, such as women being passive recipients of sexual activity. Women need to be empowered to be active and equal agents in all matters relating to sex, including conversations about sexual health.

As my partner’s story unfolded after the fact, the more I also began to understand the stigma attached to living with HIV and the shame and fear he felt. Slowly, I found myself beginning to forgive him.

He owned up to his betrayal as well as helped and supported me in those difficult first few months, and years, where I spiralled into a dark and depressed place. He came back and took responsibility regardless of the consequences at that point. I could have charged him for not disclosing his HIV status, and he knew that, but to what end?

Criminalization is not the answer. In fact, research shows it can do harm to both persons involved, as well as the greater HIV community as a whole. (You can read more about this topic in my first blog.)

I had to take responsibility for my part and make a choice. Wallow in self-pity, anger, and resentment? Or, move forward through forgiveness to acceptance and carry on. I chose the latter.

"Forgiveness is so much easier than resentment and heartache."

After many years now, we are friends. We are no longer “together” but, we share our successes, laugh at our mishaps, and cry at the loss of so many. I haven’t had sex since then—I came close but not quite—and that’s my choice. Forgiveness is so much easier than resentment and heartache.  It’s not easy to do, but it is far more empowering than any other choice I can think of.

I am responsible for my choices, sexual health, and safety. No one else. I choose forgiveness over punishment. Criminalization does nothing more than fuel the stigma and shame of those living with disease. Forgiveness opened my heart and mind to move forward with strength and compassion. I am stronger for it, that I know for sure.

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Join the conversation. Share your thoughts below in the comments section. How do you forgive even when it feels impossible?