Hi, it’s scaredandisolated69, and this is how I learned to live with something that once felt like the end of my world.

In 2018, my life changed in ways I could have never imagined. I was 20 years old, navigating my way through life, when I was sexually assaulted by a group of unknown men after being drugged. That night not only stole my sense of safety but also left me with a permanent reminder of the trauma: herpes. In the years since, I’ve had to learn how to reclaim my body, my confidence, and my ability to love and trust again. But the world isn’t always kind to people with my experience. The stigma surrounding herpes, coupled with the lasting scars of sexual assault, has shaped my journey in ways I never expected. This is my story — raw, unfiltered, and deeply personal.

## **Do you ever feel resentment toward the men who assaulted you?**

Sometimes. But I refuse to let that resentment consume me.

I am a sex worker. I dance, I occasionally escort, and I have what I call “sponsors” — not purely transactional but still financially supportive relationships. When the assault happened, I retreated into myself, afraid of being outed, afraid of the judgment that would follow, afraid of losing the life I had built. The fear made me a recluse. It wasn't just about the physical violation — it was the isolation that followed, the feeling that if I spoke up, I would be the one who paid the price.

I won’t lie and say I’ve completely let go of resentment. There are still moments when anger creeps in, when I think about what they took from me. But I also know that holding onto that anger only keeps me trapped in their shadow. Resentment gave them power, and I refuse to let them hold that over me any longer.

Instead, I’ve chosen to channel my energy into something else: being smarter, protecting myself, making choices that empower me rather than define me by what happened. Healing isn’t linear. Some days, I wake up feeling strong, grounded, and unshaken. Other days, it’s a fight to reclaim my confidence, to remind myself that I am not just what I have survived.

But one thing remains true — I refuse to let them dictate my life. They had power over me in that moment, in the aftermath, in the fear that silenced me. But not anymore. The battle isn't over, and healing is an ongoing process, but I choose to live for myself, not for the ghosts of what they did to me.

## **Do you think your ex really wanted to stay, or did guilt and obligation play a role?**

In the beginning, I truly believe he stayed because he cared about me. When I first told him I had herpes, I made it clear that I would never expect him to stay. I didn’t want him to feel trapped or pressured into a decision he wasn’t fully comfortable with. I wanted him to have the choice that I never had. And he chose to stay. For a while, we navigated that reality together — we built trust, we educated ourselves, we figured out how to manage the virus while still maintaining a fulfilling relationship. I found comfort in him, in his acceptance, in the idea that love could withstand something I once thought would make me unlovable.

But over time, something shifted. It was subtle at first — a hesitation in his voice, a distance in his touch, a look in his eyes that felt less like love and more like obligation. I began to wonder if he stayed because he truly wanted to or because he felt like he had to. And when he contracted the virus himself, I could see the way it changed him. The same fear, the same helplessness I had once felt, now lived in him. And maybe, deep down, he resented me for it. Even if he never said it out loud, I could feel it growing between us, an unspoken weight neither of us knew how to carry.

In the end, that resentment became too much — for both of us. Staying together wasn’t about love anymore; it was about guilt, about what-ifs, about the feeling that we were bound together not by choice, but by circumstance. And that’s not the kind of love that lasts.

I have to remind myself that his choice to stay was his own. I never forced him, I never manipulated him, and I never tricked him. He made his decision, just as I made mine. And while I may never fully know whether love or obligation played a bigger role in the end, I do know one thing: we both have to live with the consequences of our choices. And maybe, just maybe, that’s okay.

## **Do you think people truly understand the long-term effects of SA, or do they only focus on the immediate trauma?**

I think most people assume that once the bruises fade and the initial shock wears off, the worst is over. But that’s not how it works. The reality is, the effects don’t just linger — they embed themselves into every corner of your life. They change how you see the world, how you trust people, how you move through spaces that once felt safe.

Sexual assault isn’t just a singular event — it’s something that rewires you. It makes relationships difficult because you’re constantly second-guessing people’s intentions, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. It makes intimacy terrifying because even when you willingly let someone close, a part of you is still bracing for harm. It makes you question if your body is truly your own or if it’s just something that can be taken from you again. It makes you hyper-aware, hyper-vigilant, sometimes hyper-independent to the point where letting people in feels more dangerous than being alone.

For me, the long-term impact has been a constant battle between wanting connection and fearing it. I crave closeness, but I also fear vulnerability. I want to trust, but I’ve learned that trust can be a risk. Some days, I feel strong, like I’ve regained control of my life. Other days, a simple trigger — a touch, a scent, a phrase — can send me spiraling back to a place I thought I’d left behind. And that’s what people don’t see.

Healing isn’t a straight path. It’s not about getting "better" and moving on, as if trauma has an expiration date. Some days, healing looks like progress, like reclaiming parts of myself I thought I lost. Other days, it’s just surviving. And that’s what so many people fail to understand — healing isn’t a finish line you eventually cross. It’s a continuous process, a lifelong journey. And some days are harder than others.

## **Have you ever hesitated before disclosing your status?**

Every single time. No matter how many times I’ve done it, no matter how much I’ve accepted my reality, the fear never fully goes away. Disclosing my status is one of the most anxiety-inducing things I have to do, because in that moment, I’m placing my trust in someone else’s hands, hoping they’ll handle it with care.

When it comes to my work as a sex worker, my clients are usually understanding. They see it as a part of the industry, something to be managed responsibly. But dating? Dating is an entirely different story. The stakes feel so much higher. The fear of rejection, of judgment, of being outed — it’s overwhelming. What if they see me as tainted? What if they don’t just walk away, but make sure others know? What if my private medical history becomes gossip, a warning, a joke? The internet has made it so easy for people to be cruel, and once something is out there, it’s impossible to take back.

I’ve accepted that I have to be honest. It’s not just about doing the right thing — it’s about respecting my partners and myself. But knowing that doesn’t make it easier. Every time I tell someone, I brace myself for the worst. I prepare for the shift in their expression, the polite distancing, the excuses they think I don’t see through. And even when they react with kindness, even when they say it doesn’t change how they see me, there’s always that lingering fear in the back of my mind. Will they still feel the same way tomorrow? Next week? A month from now? Will they stay, or will they slowly pull away once they’ve had more time to process?

It’s exhausting to have to explain, to have to reassure, to have to prove that I am still worthy of love, of intimacy, of respect. But it’s necessary. Because as much as I fear their reaction, I fear lying to myself even more.

## **If herpes was socially neutralized and no longer a taboo, would you still feel the same way about your own diagnosis?**

Not at all. If society treated herpes the way it treats a common cold or a mild skin condition, my experience with it would have been completely different. I wouldn’t have spent years drowning in shame, feeling like my worth as a person had been permanently reduced to a diagnosis I had no control over. The virus itself isn’t even the worst part — it’s the stigma. The way people react, the whispers, the jokes, the unsolicited pity, the assumption that having herpes somehow makes you irresponsible, reckless, or dirty. That’s what hurts the most.

The physical symptoms are manageable. I’ve learned to live with them, to take care of myself, to make responsible choices. But the emotional toll? That’s something society created. If we viewed herpes as just another medical condition — something that happens, something that’s treatable, something that doesn’t define a person — then I wouldn’t have wasted so many years believing I was unlovable, unworthy, or broken. I wouldn’t have spent so much time hiding, apologizing for my existence, or bracing myself for rejection before it even happened.

The way I see herpes now is different from how I saw it when I was first diagnosed. Back then, I thought it was a life sentence of loneliness and shame. Now, I know it’s just one part of my life — one that doesn’t dictate my value or my future. But if the world saw it that way too? If herpes wasn’t a punchline, a dealbreaker, or a scarlet letter? I wouldn’t have had to go through that painful journey just to arrive at self-acceptance. Society made herpes a burden, not the virus itself.

## **Would you rather someone pity you or fear you?**

Fear, without a doubt. Pity is suffocating. It wraps around you like a weight, pressing you into the role of a victim even when you’ve fought to move beyond it. When people pity you, they speak to you differently — softer, more careful, like you’re glass that might shatter at any moment. They assume you’re fragile, that your experiences have made you incapable of standing on your own. But I am not fragile. I am not someone who needs to be handled delicately, and I refuse to be reduced to someone’s sympathy project.

Fear, on the other hand, comes with power. It means people recognize my strength, my resilience. It means they see that I have endured and survived, that I am not easily broken. Fear doesn’t mean I want people to cower in my presence — it means I want them to think twice before underestimating me. I’d rather be feared for the fire inside me than pitied for the battles I’ve fought.

Pity is passive. It strips me of agency, of control, of the narrative I have fought to reclaim. But fear, even in small doses, reminds people that I am not weak. That I am still standing. That despite everything, I refuse to be anything less than formidable.

## **Do you think herpes is a feminist issue?**

Herpes is, at its core, an education issue. But it would be naive to ignore the way gender plays a role in how people experience it. Men, for the most part, tend to view it as an inconvenience — something to manage, a hurdle rather than a personal failure. But for women, it’s different. We don’t just deal with the virus; we carry the weight of the stigma. Society has long policed women’s bodies, our sexuality, our desirability. A man with herpes is often met with a shrug. A woman with herpes? She’s seen as reckless, irresponsible, tainted.

The stigma isn’t just about the virus itself — it’s about control. Women are conditioned to tie our worth to purity, to desirability, to being "clean." When that is threatened, we internalize it. We feel as though our value has been diminished, as though we are somehow less worthy of love, respect, or intimacy. It’s the same outdated double standard that shames women for having too many partners but praises men for the same thing.

What I want—what we need—is better education, honest conversations, and a world where women aren’t made to feel like their worth is dictated by their sexual history or medical status. The more we talk about herpes openly, the more we strip away the shame. Stigma thrives in silence, and the only way to take its power away is to speak up.

## **Do you feel like your younger self would be proud of how you’ve handled this?**

Absolutely. If my younger self could see me now, she wouldn’t just be proud — she’d be in awe. She thought her life was over, that she would be alone forever, that love and acceptance were no longer things she could hope for. She believed the stigma, believed the cruel words she read online, believed she was now “less than.”

But I’ve proven her wrong. I have built a life that is full, one where I am not defined by a virus or by the judgment of others. I have found strength in myself, in my resilience, in the way I have learned to move forward even on the hardest days. I have learned that my worth was never up for debate, and no diagnosis could ever take that away from me.

If I could talk to her now, I’d tell her that the fear, the shame, the hopelessness — it doesn’t last forever. I’d tell her that she is still whole, still worthy, still capable of love and happiness. And I’d tell her that one day, she’d look back and realize that the thing she thought would ruin her life didn’t break her — it made her stronger.

## **Do you think HSV2 has made you a better person in any way?**

No. I was always a good person. My diagnosis didn’t change that.

People love to say that adversity makes you stronger, that hardships shape you into a better version of yourself. Maybe that’s true for some, but I don’t believe I needed to “become better.” I was already enough. HSV-2 didn’t give me strength — I had that long before my diagnosis. It didn’t make me more resilient — I was already surviving, already fighting for myself in ways most people never had to.

What it did do was force me to see how society treats people like me. It made me aware of the stigma, of the way people equate a medical condition with morality. It showed me who was truly kind, who was willing to listen, and who only saw me through the lens of fear and ignorance. But it didn’t change my core.

I refuse to credit my pain for my growth. I grew because I had to, not because herpes somehow made me a more worthy person. I was already whole before this, and I am still whole now.

## **Have you found a way to turn this pain into power, or is that still a work in progress?**

It’s still a work in progress, but every day, I grow stronger. I refuse to let my past define me. I am more than what happened to me, and that is where my power lies.

Living with herpes and surviving sexual assault have shaped me in ways I never expected. These experiences have tested me, broken me in moments, and forced me to rebuild myself from the ground up. Some days, that process feels exhausting. Other days, it feels like liberation. But no matter how heavy the weight of stigma or past trauma feels, I refuse to let those moments hold me back.

Healing isn’t linear. Some days, I feel invincible — like I’ve conquered everything meant to destroy me. Other days, the doubt creeps in, and I wonder if I’ll ever fully escape the shame that society has placed on me. But even in those low moments, I remind myself: I am still here. I am still fighting. And that in itself is power.

Self-acceptance isn’t a destination. It’s an ongoing process, a choice I have to make every single day. I won’t pretend I have it all figured out, but I do know this — my worth isn’t diminished by what I’ve been through. If anything, my survival is proof of my strength.

I share my story not for pity, but for understanding. For those who have felt isolated by their diagnosis, for survivors who carry the silent burden of trauma, and for anyone who has ever questioned their own resilience — I want you to know that you are not alone. There is strength in survival, power in reclaiming your narrative, and freedom in letting go of shame.

I am not broken. I am not unworthy. I am simply someone who has endured, learned, and continues to grow. And that is enough.

**Also Read: California man's** [**<u>herpes personal story</u>**](https://www.shamelesspath.com/blog/std-stories/unexpected-hsv2-diagnosis-my-journey-to-acceptance) **(age 28)**

<p>After surviving sexual assault and an HSV2 diagnosis, I was forced to confront stigma and isolation. This is my unfiltered journey of finding strength.</p>

Raped, Infected, and Left to Rot: Society Punished Me More Than My Rapists

After surviving sexual assault and an HSV2 diagnosis, I was forced to confront stigma and isolation. This is my unfiltered journey of finding strength.