Hi, I’m NoTABBC, and I grew up in the southern United States—a place where faith, tradition, and cultural expectations often define your path before you even understand who you are. From a young age, I knew I was different, and as I began to understand my sexuality, I realized how much of an uphill battle life would be. Being part of a minority group, grappling with societal expectations, and coming to terms with my identity made me feel like happiness was something always out of reach. Still, I tried to hold on to the hope that, one day, things might get better.
Life has always felt like a balancing act—staying positive while managing the weight of judgment, isolation, and the struggle to find acceptance within myself. When I was diagnosed with HIV, it felt like yet another challenge stacked on top of everything else. It wasn’t just about the illness itself; it was the fear of how it might further define me in a world where I already felt out of place. Yet, through it all, I’ve tried to keep moving forward, holding on to small moments of hope and searching for peace in a world that often feels so heavy.
This is my story—not just about my diagnosis, but about the complexities of life, identity, and learning to navigate a world that doesn’t always feel welcoming. My journey is far from over, and while I don’t have all the answers, I hope that by sharing this, others who feel the same weight might find even a glimmer of connection.
How Have Your Feelings About Your HIV Diagnosis Evolved Since You First Found Out?
When I first received my HIV diagnosis, it felt like a quiet confirmation of something I had feared but never truly confronted. I wasn’t shocked—I had prepared myself for the possibility long before it became my reality. The emotions I felt were complicated: a mix of disappointment in myself, sadness, and a sense of inevitability. It was as though life had simply handed me another burden to carry, one more thing to weigh me down in a life that already felt heavy.
Over time, my feelings haven’t changed much. I don’t think about the diagnosis itself constantly, but it’s always there in the background, affecting how I see myself and the choices I make. It doesn’t define me entirely, but it has added another layer to my struggle with self-acceptance. I’ve always been hard on myself, and this diagnosis sometimes feels like a reminder of the ways I fall short of the person I want to be.
I wish I could say that I’ve found a way to make peace with it, but the truth is, it’s still a work in progress. There are moments when I feel like I’m just going through the motions, surviving but not truly living. I hold on to the memory of the days when I felt more alive and had more energy to keep striving for something better. Those memories, while bittersweet, remind me of the resilience I’ve had all along.
Are There Any Specific Moments or Experiences That Have Given You Hope or Peace, Even Briefly?
There have been moments—tiny, fleeting glimpses of hope or peace—that have crossed my path. But they’re so brief that I sometimes question if they were even real. When I think back on them, they feel fragile, like a flickering candle in the wind. I doubt their authenticity because they vanish almost as quickly as they appear, leaving me to wonder if they were just illusions my mind conjured up to protect me from sinking deeper.
Most of the time, I feel like I’m either drowning in low moments or just floating in apathy. There’s rarely an in-between. When I’m not feeling completely weighed down by sadness or frustration, I’m indifferent to everything around me. It’s a strange space to exist in because it feels like anything outside of those two extremes isn’t real. Anything that might resemble joy or contentment feels like a lie I’m trying to tell myself.
I wish I could hold on to those moments of peace longer or trust them more. Maybe they’re proof that better days are possible, even if they’re not here to stay right now. But for now, they remain brief and elusive, making me question whether they were real at all.
What Aspects of Your Independence Do You Miss the Most, and Are There Ways You’ve Been Able to Reclaim Some of It?
What I miss the most is the freedom—the ability to pack up and take a flight somewhere without a second thought, without worrying about whether I’ve packed enough medication or how I’ll manage it while I’m away. That kind of spontaneity, the ability to just go wherever I wanted, feels like a part of my life I’ve lost. There’s something about being able to escape, even just temporarily, that feels like it could offer clarity or peace. But now, everything feels tied down by responsibilities and necessities that I can’t ignore.
Sometimes I dream about stepping away from modern society entirely—secluding myself in a place where I don’t have to deal with the pressures and expectations that come with this world. I feel like having that space, that time to be alone and think, could help me clear my head. It’s not that I want to leave everything behind permanently, but there’s something healing about the idea of being able to breathe without the weight of my diagnosis or the constant reminders of dependency.
Right now, reclaiming that sense of independence feels like an uphill battle. The logistics of it, the constant planning, and the reliance on medication make it hard to imagine a life where that kind of freedom exists again. But the longing for it hasn’t gone away—it’s a part of me that I still hold onto, even if only in my imagination.
Do You Feel That Your Community (Religious, Cultural, or Otherwise) Has Provided Support, or Has Stigma Made Things Harder?
Harder. That’s the simplest way to put it. My community—whether religious, cultural, or otherwise—has not been a source of support for me. Instead, it’s been the opposite. The stigma attached to being different, to being diagnosed with HIV, to being a member of the LGBTQ+ community, makes everything more difficult. It’s not just the diagnosis itself that feels isolating; it’s the constant awareness that the people around me might not see me as whole, or worse, might see me as a source of shame.
The hardest part is knowing that the spaces that are supposed to offer love and acceptance—the church, the cultural gatherings, the neighborhoods where I grew up—don’t feel like safe havens. Instead, they amplify a sense of judgment and alienation. The silence I’ve kept about my diagnosis and my identity isn’t just for my own protection; it’s a shield against the rejection I fear would come if I were truly open.
I don’t think I ever expected my community to support me, but the rejection, even when it’s unspoken, leaves a mark. Instead of easing the burden, it’s made things heavier. The stigma is so ingrained that sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever truly belong anywhere.
How Has Being Part of a Minority Group Influenced the Way You’ve Navigated Your Diagnosis and Life in General?
Being part of a minority group has meant living with the constant fear of being ostracized. For much of my life, I kept my sexuality to myself—not because I didn’t want to embrace who I am, but because the risk of rejection and judgment felt too great. Growing up in a world where both my identity and my diagnosis could lead to being excluded made me cautious about sharing any part of myself.
That fear has shaped the way I navigate life. It’s made me guarded, careful about who I trust, and reluctant to let anyone in too deeply. I’ve learned to create a kind of armor around myself, not out of choice but out of necessity. When you’re already a minority, adding something like an HIV diagnosis feels like piling vulnerability on top of vulnerability, and it’s hard not to feel like the world is against you.
This constant balancing act—wanting to be seen but fearing the consequences—has been exhausting. It’s a reminder that being part of a minority isn’t just about identity; it’s about survival in a world that doesn’t always make room for you. The weight of that reality is something I carry with me every day.
What Kinds of Support or Resources Have Been Helpful to You in Managing Your Diagnosis and Mental Health?
The truth is, I haven’t leaned on many resources. The one consistent source of support has been the VA (Veterans Affairs). They’ve provided the care I need to manage my diagnosis, and for that, I’m grateful. But when it comes to mental health, the journey has been much more solitary. While the VA has helped with the practical side of things, like access to medication and medical care, the emotional weight of living with HIV often feels like something I’m left to face alone.
I haven’t sought out much beyond the VA. Part of it might be pride, part of it might be exhaustion from navigating a system that doesn’t always feel designed to help people like me. Sometimes, it’s just easier to keep things to myself. But easier doesn’t always mean better. There are days when I wish I had more—more understanding, more connection, more places to turn to when the burden feels too heavy. For now, the VA has been the foundation of my support, even if it’s not everything I need.
Are There Particular Places or Situations Where You Feel More at Peace or Less Burdened by These Thoughts?
Honestly, no. There isn’t a specific place or situation that gives me peace. I’ve tried to find spaces where the weight of my thoughts might feel lighter, but so far, nothing has truly worked. The friends I do have have been there for me at times, but we’ve been drifting apart lately, and that distance makes it harder to find solace in those relationships.
I sometimes wonder if the problem isn’t the world around me but something within me. No matter where I am or who I’m with, the heaviness doesn’t seem to go away. Maybe that’s why I dream about escaping—about secluding myself in some far-off place where I don’t have to interact with anyone. But even then, I don’t know if that would bring peace or just a different kind of loneliness.
I wish I had a safe space, somewhere I could feel unburdened, even if only for a little while. But right now, that place doesn’t exist for me, and I’m left navigating this journey without the comfort of a sanctuary to rest in.
How Do You Envision Finding Happiness or Purpose, Even in a World That Feels Filled With Conflict and Suffering?
I’ve thought about this question a lot, and the only answer I can come up with is acceptance. Finding happiness or purpose in a world full of conflict and suffering feels impossible when you’re constantly trying to change or fight against it. Maybe the key is to stop resisting and learn to accept things as they are. That doesn’t mean giving up, but maybe it’s about finding peace in what’s unchangeable and focusing on what’s within my control.
Sometimes, I think the only way to survive is to close my eyes to the chaos around me. There’s so much pain and suffering in the world that it can feel overwhelming. It’s hard to imagine happiness when everything feels so heavy. But perhaps happiness isn’t about solving the world’s problems; it’s about finding small moments of meaning, even if they seem insignificant in the grand scheme of things.
I don’t have a clear vision of what happiness or purpose would look like for me yet. Right now, it’s more of an abstract hope than a concrete goal. But I think if I can learn to let go of the things I can’t control and focus on what I can, maybe I’ll get closer to finding it.
Do You Have Any Routines, Practices, or Passions That Bring You Moments of Relief or Clarity?
One thing that sometimes brings me a bit of relief is singing. It’s not something I do often or share with others, but in those moments when I sing, there’s a sense of release that feels different from anything else. It’s not about being good at it or performing—it’s just about feeling something that’s my own, something that isn’t tied to my diagnosis or the struggles I carry.
Singing lets me escape, even if only for a short time. The act of focusing on my voice, the rhythm, and the sound helps me push everything else to the background. It’s not a solution, and it doesn’t erase the heavier thoughts, but it’s a small act of self-expression that reminds me there are parts of myself that are still untouched by the challenges I face.
I don’t have a lot of routines or passions outside of that. Most days, it’s just about getting through and doing what needs to be done. But those moments when I sing, when I let myself get lost in the melody, they give me a glimpse of something lighter, something that feels just a little bit like freedom.
What Would You Say to Someone Who Is Newly Diagnosed and Feeling the Same Sense of Being "Tied Down"?
I honestly don’t know if I have the right words to say to someone newly diagnosed. It’s such a personal experience, and everyone processes it differently. But if I could offer anything, it would be to make myself available to answer their questions or share my own experience. Sometimes, just knowing there’s someone else out there who understands can make a difference.
I would want them to know that it’s okay to feel overwhelmed and tied down. Those feelings are valid, and there’s no right or wrong way to navigate them. It’s not an easy road, and I won’t pretend it is. But I’d remind them that they’re not alone, even if it feels that way sometimes. There are others who’ve been through it, who’ve faced the same fears and challenges, and who are still here.
Maybe, in sharing what I’ve been through, they might find something to hold onto—whether it’s hope, understanding, or just the reassurance that their feelings are valid. Sometimes, that’s all you can offer, and sometimes, that’s enough.
