Stigma

Four years ago, I could be found most mornings at the same café with the same blue notebook and a mug of hot coffee. I was trying to write the story of how I got herpes.

Four years ago, I could be found most mornings at the same café with the same blue notebook and a mug of hot coffee. I was trying to write the story of how I got herpes.

In STI support communities, many refer to the person who gave them herpes as their “gifter.” This might sound strange, since I’m sure a sexually transmitted disease is not a gift anyone wants. But, looking back on my past nine months with herpes, I think this is an apt term.

In STI support communities, many refer to the person who gave them herpes as their “gifter.” This might sound strange, since I’m sure a sexually transmitted disease is not a gift anyone wants. But, looking back on my past nine months with herpes, I think this is an apt term.

For some of us, our first real taste of adulthood comes from sitting alone in a clinic, waiting to get our ding-dongs tested.

For some of us, our first real taste of adulthood comes from sitting alone in a clinic, waiting to get our ding-dongs tested.

These are precious years; years that pass too quickly as your little ones speed towards adulthood and the ever increasing awareness that their parents are fallible. What I never wanted, nor expected, was for these years to be punctuated by my second spell of severe depression.

I made the decision to come out of the mental illness closet and face the world without fear or shame. My son will grow up in a house that doesn’t stigmatize mental illness, but instead, strives to understand it.