Life has a strange way of throwing unexpected challenges at us. One moment, everything seems to be moving along just fine – your job, your relationships, your health – and then suddenly, you find yourself in a situation you never imagined. My name is Leprev, and that’s where I am right now.
I recently got tested for HIV. I always thought I was careful. I always used protection. But when the nurse told me, “I’m not allowed to tell you more about it, the doctor will inform you,” my world started crumbling. My heart pounded. My thoughts raced. What did she mean? I checked the website where my results were posted. Everything else was marked negative – except HIV. And next to it, those haunting words: “See a doctor.”
I live in Turkey. A country where conversations about sexual health are almost non-existent, where stigma runs deep, where an HIV diagnosis feels like a life sentence. And now, here I am, at 25, a newly employed engineer, suddenly feeling like my entire future has been ripped away from me.
How do you process fear — do you internalize it, or do you express it outwardly?
Fear has a way of weaving itself into the fabric of our daily lives, especially when it’s too overwhelming to suppress. Normally, I try to compartmentalize it, burying it beneath layers of rationalization and solitude. I tell myself that if I can just control my thoughts, if I can just hold on a little longer, it will pass. But this time, it refuses to stay quiet. It claws its way to the surface, creeping into my actions, my words, and even the way I breathe.
It follows me everywhere — hovering over my shoulder at work, slipping into my thoughts during conversations, and wrapping around me like a heavy blanket when I try to sleep. It turns the most mundane moments into battlegrounds, where my mind fights against the endless loop of worst-case scenarios. Every decision feels fragile, every step uncertain.
Fear isn't just an emotion; it’s a relentless voice, whispering doubts and what-ifs that chip away at my confidence. It makes me revisit past choices with newfound anxiety, as if combing through them might reveal a mistake I didn’t see before. It makes the future feel like a vast, unpredictable storm. And above all, it makes me wonder—will I ever feel like myself again?
Is it harder to deal with stigma or the actual illness itself?
Right now, the illness consumes me. The fever burns through my body, leaving me drained. Every movement is heavy, every breath a reminder of how fragile I feel. The exhaustion isn’t just physical — it seeps into my thoughts, making even the simplest tasks feel impossible. But I remind myself: this will pass. The worst of the symptoms will ease, my body will adjust, and I’ll find ways to manage. The illness itself, as overwhelming as it feels now, is something I can fight.
But the stigma? That’s something I don’t know how to battle. It lingers long after the fever breaks, after the aches fade. It doesn’t just live in my body; it lives in the eyes of others, in their whispers, in the quiet hesitations when they learn the truth. HIV isn’t just a medical condition in the eyes of society — it’s a label, a shadow that follows you. People make assumptions. They reduce you to a single word, a single moment, as if your entire existence can be summed up by a diagnosis.
That’s what truly terrifies me. Not the virus itself, but how it changes the way people see me. How it rewrites my story in their minds, replacing my identity with their own fears and misconceptions. The illness is something I can treat, something I can live with. But how do I live with the weight of being seen as something less than human?
What kind of internal dialogue are you having with yourself right now?
“How did this happen to me?”
The question loops in my mind, relentless, like a song stuck on repeat. No matter how many times I ask, no matter how many angles I analyze it from, I never land on an answer that makes me feel any better.
I was careful. I followed the rules. I did everything I was supposed to do. I used protection, I made responsible choices. I thought I was doing enough. But here I am. And I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve been betrayed — by my own caution, by the belief that I had control over this.
Was it just bad luck? A cruel twist of fate? Or did someone know and not tell me? That thought is the one that haunts me the most. The idea that someone could have held this knowledge, could have made a choice that impacted my life without me knowing. It makes me question everything — trust, intimacy, the very nature of human honesty.
And then, beyond all of that, there’s this quiet, creeping doubt: was I naïve for ever believing in the concept of “safe sex”? For thinking that protection meant certainty? That being careful meant being immune?
I feel like a fool. Like I was playing a game where I thought I knew the rules, only to realize too late that the deck was stacked against me. And now, all I have are questions with no real answers.
If Turkey were more open about sexual health, do you think you’d feel differently about this moment?
Absolutely. If I had grown up in a society that treated sexual health as just another aspect of well-being — something to be understood, managed, and talked about openly — maybe I wouldn’t feel so crushed under the weight of this moment. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like my entire identity has been reduced to three letters.
In another country, in another culture, perhaps I wouldn’t feel so alone. Maybe I’d be surrounded by support instead of silence, by understanding instead of judgment. If people talked about HIV the way they talk about diabetes or high blood pressure — acknowledging it as a medical condition rather than a moral failing — then maybe I wouldn’t feel like my life is over before it even truly began.
But here, in Turkey, sexual health is not a conversation we have. It’s something hidden, something whispered about behind closed doors. It’s laced with stigma, with shame, with fear. Schools don’t teach it. Families don’t discuss it. Doctors tiptoe around it. And that silence breeds ignorance, which in turn breeds judgment.
So when something like this happens, there’s nowhere to turn. No roadmap for navigating the emotions, the fears, the questions. No reassurance that life goes on, that people live, that love is still possible. Instead, there’s just isolation, just the overwhelming feeling that I have somehow failed — not just myself, but the expectations of a society that refuses to see this for what it really is: a health issue, not a punishment.
If things were different — if conversations about sex, about safety, about HIV weren’t so taboo — maybe I wouldn’t be drowning in shame. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like I have to carry this burden alone.
Does this experience make you think about leaving Turkey for a more accepting country?
Yes. I’ve thought about leaving Turkey before — many times, actually. Even before this, I struggled with how closed-minded and homophobic my country can be. The weight of living in a place where parts of who I am must remain hidden has always been heavy. But now, with this diagnosis, that weight feels unbearable. It no longer feels like just an option — it feels like a necessity.
I want to live in a place where I don’t have to constantly censor myself, where I don’t have to second-guess how much of my truth I can safely share. A place where I don’t have to brace myself for judgment or fear that being open about my health will mean losing friends, opportunities, or even basic dignity. I want to be somewhere I can exist fully — without shame, without fear, without the constant anxiety of being discovered and treated differently because of something that should just be seen as a medical condition, not a moral failing.
But leaving isn’t easy. Moving to another country takes money, connections, opportunities — all things that feel so far out of reach right now. It takes paperwork, visas, and the kind of privilege that not everyone has. And beyond the logistics, there’s the deeper uncertainty: Where would I go? What would I do? Will I ever feel like I belong anywhere?
Right now, I don’t even know what my future looks like. I don’t know if I’ll be able to build the life I want in Turkey or if I’ll have to fight for a new one somewhere else. But I do know this — staying feels suffocating, and leaving feels like the only way I might be able to breathe again.
Do you trust the people you’ve been with sexually?
Unfortunately, no. And that’s what stings the most. I was always cautious, always hyper-aware of the risks. I never gave my trust away easily, because deep down, I knew I couldn’t. I knew that people lie. That they omit the truth. That they make mistakes. And yet, despite all my precautions, despite doing everything I was supposed to do, I still ended up here.
It makes me feel helpless. It makes me question everything — every decision, every encounter, every assumption I ever had about safety. It makes me wonder if trust was ever an option at all, or if I was always fooling myself. Because if I can’t even protect myself when I’ve done everything right, then what does that mean? Was it bad luck? Was it someone else’s recklessness? Was it dishonesty? Or was it just an illusion — that control over my own health was never truly in my hands?
I keep replaying moments in my head, looking for answers I’ll probably never get. I want to blame someone, but I don’t even know who. Myself? The person who gave this to me? The system that never taught us enough about prevention, about real risks, about how to navigate this without fear?
The worst part is, I don’t know if I’ll ever trust again. Not just sexually, but in any way. How do you let go of this kind of betrayal—when the cost is your own body, your own future?
If someone you loved had HIV, how would you treat them?
If someone I loved had HIV, I would treat them just as I always have — because their diagnosis doesn’t define them. If they are on treatment, the virus is suppressed to the point where it cannot be transmitted, and they can live a full, healthy life just like anyone else. The real burden isn’t the illness itself but the stigma that surrounds it.
It’s frustrating to realize that so many people still believe outdated myths about HIV, despite all the medical advancements. I know the facts now, but I have to wonder — would I have been this understanding if I weren’t personally affected? Would I have believed, like so many others, that HIV is a life sentence or that people with it are somehow different?
Ignorance is easy when something doesn’t touch your life. But once it does, you start seeing the truth: HIV isn’t what makes life difficult. It’s how people treat those who have it.
Since you’ve always had protected sex, do you feel betrayed by the idea that safe sex isn’t 100% safe?
Yes. I feel betrayed.
I did everything right — everything I was told would keep me safe. I used protection. I was responsible. And yet, here I am. It makes me feel like an idiot, like I was sold a false sense of security.
They always say, “Use a condom, practice safe sex, and you’ll be fine.” But what they don’t tell you is that safe doesn’t mean foolproof. That even if you follow every precaution, there’s still a chance —small, but real — that things can go wrong.
No one prepares you for that. No one warns you that even responsibility doesn’t come with guarantees. And now, knowing what I know, I can’t help but wonder — was I ever really safe? Or just lucky until I wasn’t?
How much control do you feel you have over your own future right now?
Right now? Not much.
Everything feels uncertain — my health, my career, my relationships. It’s like I’m standing on shaky ground, waiting for it to collapse beneath me. I don’t know when or how, but the fear is always there, pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe.
Logically, I understand that an HIV diagnosis isn’t the end. There are treatments. People live long, healthy lives with it. I’ve read the statistics, listened to the doctors, and repeated the facts to myself like a mantra. But knowing something and feeling it are two different things.
And right now? All I feel is fear. Fear of what comes next. Fear of how people will see me. Fear of losing control over my own life. Because even though I know I’ll be okay, a part of me still can’t help but wonder — will the rest of the world let me be?
If this moment was turned into a movie scene, what would it look like?
Dramatic? Maybe. But that’s exactly what it feels like. The sky would be heavy and dark, rain pouring down in relentless sheets, drenching everything, seeping through clothes, sticking hair to skin. I’d be standing there, shivering, barely able to breathe between sobs, my voice raw from screaming into the void.
The world around me would blur — city lights smudged like watercolors, headlights streaking through the downpour. Maybe there’s no music, just the sound of rain hammering against pavement, drowning out my thoughts. Or maybe there’s a score swelling in the background — something slow, something aching, something that makes the weight of this moment feel even heavier.
Because that’s what it is. The moment everything I thought I knew gets washed away. The moment I realize that life doesn’t always follow the rules, that doing everything right doesn’t always mean things go right. And in this storm, in this scene, I’m just trying to stay standing.
I’m still in the middle of this. I don’t have a neat, happy ending to give you. I don’t have words of wisdom or a lesson learned. All I know is that I’m scared. I’m angry. I feel lost. But I also know that I’m not alone.
If you’re reading this and you’ve been through something similar, I want you to know – you’re not alone either. We may feel like we’re drowning, but maybe, just maybe, we can help each other stay afloat.
This isn’t the end. It’s just another chapter. And I have to believe that there’s still more to my story.
Also Read: 27-year-old woman's personal herpes story
