november 25 2016
This sounded like a great idea in my head but this has become one of the most difficult things I have EVER experienced let alone write about.
I tried coming up with a catchy title but came up empty handed. All I knew is that I needed a space where I could be open, honest, real, raw and transparent – without judgement, without gimmick. Somewhere I could share – FREELY.
I want to be the voice that I was so desperately seeking the day I got the call. Yes, the doctor’s office called me and told me I tested positive for HIV but that’s a conversation for another day.
I yearned to hear from a millennial sista’s point of view. But as I ferociously and feverishly searched the internet looking for a blog, a prayer, scripture reference, an article, SOMETHING; I quickly realized that the face of this was REALLY white, REALLY male and REALLY gay.
I found not one millennial sista who was talking from the point of view that I was searching for, talking about her diagnosis, doing her advocacy, sharing her personal experiences living life with HIV. So, during prayer the next morning, God laid Psalms 23 heavy on my heart and then told me to write. Write because what I was looking, yearning and searching for was for me and in me to do.
So, welcome to my intersection… of being black, heterosexual, Christian, dual degreed, MBA, sorority girl, single and woman who was diagnosed as HIV+ on Sept 29 2016.
Sometimes this space will take the form of my personal diary. Other times it’ll serve as informative prose. Other times it may look like a complete fragmented vent session. But just know that whatever the form, ALL of it is coming from a genuine place. I want to give voice – a sound to my sistas that have found themselves in this place.
Those that are mute because of the fear of judgement and character assassination.
The ones sitting in pews and serving in their places of worship but literally dying on the inside not because of HIV but because of the weight and perceived stigmas and stereotypes of it all.
The sista in the prime of her career/ educational pursuits or the height of entrepreneurship and she thinks she has nowhere to turn or lacks a supportive and understanding tribe.
The sista who’s pacing the floor with a drank in her hand torn between fits of rage and replaying the countless times that he looked her in face and said, “I love you.”
This is your space is for you.
This space is for all of us. This is your tribe now.
Your fight is my fight – one step, one punch, one round at a time.