When I first discovered I was living with HIV in 1996, the last thing I thought I would ever do was tell the world I was living with the virus.

I lived in fear, isolation and shame. I worried about being stigmatized, ostracized, rejected and fired. I worried that if I told people I was HIV-positive that they would no longer want to be my friend or date me, that they would tease my nephew in school and that they would be rude to my family. I didn't want to bring disgrace to people I cared for--and I didn't want to feel like the underbelly of society.

But during the ten years following my diagnosis, I gradually realized that I hadn't done anything wrong to get HIV. Or, if I had, it was the same thing that millions of people do every day. I decided to have unprotected sex with someone I trusted and cared for. I made the same decision that many people do; the virus just happened to be there when I made the decision. It didn't make me a bad person--just a biologically unlucky one.

I have come to understand that HIV isn't something that happens only to certain kinds of people who engage in certain types of behavior. The truth is, HIV can happen to anyone. And anyone who ever has unprotected sex is at risk for contracting HIV. The myth that HIV is the sole property of gay, black, poor or promiscuous people led to an additional 56,300 new cases of HIV in the United States in 2006 alone. It is one of the things that have led to an estimated 33 million people globally contracting the disease and 25 more million being laid to rest because of it. It is why HIV/AIDS is now the leading cause of disease and death among women ages 15-44 worldwide. Nothing else kills more women. Nothing else kills more people needlessly.

Five years after my diagnosis--having survived thanks to the fact that I found out that I was living with HIV soon after contracting the disease and having been fortunate enough to have the support of my family and the wherewithal to access medical care and afford treatment--I wanted to do something to stop AIDS. I was alive. I was lucky. Knowing that the virus was continuing to take the lives of millions of people around the planet, I couldn't just sit quietly by and watch. But I was still too scared to show my face.

Having discovered a magazine called POZ for people living with HIV/AIDS ("POZ" stands for "HIV-positive" and refers to a positive outlook on life), I offered to write anonymously for them. I decided I would tell some people that I had the virus and chronicle my journey of disclosure. Many people were compassionate and kind. Some people ran away--some came back and some never did. But each time the words "I have something to tell you. I have HIV" sprang from my mouth, the telling got easier. I learned that if people were reviled, it was the virus--not me--that repulsed them. And I saw that if I stayed calm and found the strength to explain the facts about the disease that even the most shocked and upset of people could eventually come to a place of understanding about HIV/AIDS. I saw that by telling my story, I could change people's perceptions of the disease--mostly, for the better.

Five years later, I was offered the position of editor-in-chief of POZ and I jumped at the chance. I put my face on the cover of the first issue I produced above the words: "I am no longer afraid to say I have HIV." It was only partially true, then. I thought that if I said it often enough, it would, one day become fact.

During the past four years at POZ, I have spoken around the country and the world about fighting AIDS and its stigma. I have appeared on the radio and TV and told my story over and over hoping to convince people to rethink the way they consider HIV/AIDS and the people living with them. I appeared in a Kenneth Cole fashion campaign, with a "HIV+" tattoo emblazoned on my upper arm. I will never forget the day I stood in Grand Central Station in New York, outside of the Kenneth Cole boutique watching people take in the image of my face combined with the message of that tattoo. There was shock, awe, sadness and disgust. Curiosity, wonder and the occasional blank stare.

In October 2009, I stood in the Barnes and Noble on Fifth Avenue in New York City staring at my new book on the bookshelf. I had been asked to write a memoir about living with HIV and decided that I was ready to share more details of my life with the virus in the hopes that the story would reach a broader audience and that more people would believe that they are at risk for HIV and get tested so they could save their own lives and protect the health of others. As I stared at my book and its title--I Have Something to Tell You--I got completely choked up thinking about how far I'd come from days when I wouldn't dare tell my best friend that I had HIV to the day I could proudly point to my story told publicly--and feel no shame.

People say I have courage. I appreciate that. But the truth is, if I have courage, it is driven by fear. Fear that too many people think AIDS is over and because of this, think that HIV can't enter their bodies. Fear that the myths, misperceptions and stigma around HIV/AIDS will forever make it impossible to prevent an otherwise easily preventable disease. Fear that we can't raise the financial or political capital to better fight this monster because too many people still think that people with HIV deserve to develop AIDS and die. Fear that though the pandemic is wildly spreading the world wants to--as I once did--turn a blind eye to the truth: That your chances of getting, or of having, HIV are statistically higher than ever before.

On the occasion of World AIDS Day, December 1, 2009, I want to suggest that no one else has to get HIV from this point forward and those who already have the virus deserve the same respect, dignity, access to health care and love that we would afford anyone else who falls ill. And I would like all people to consider getting tested for HIV. The simple, painless test could save your life--and do the world a world of good. You don't have to get HIV; if you have it, you don't have to die and you deserve to live a full, happy, long life. That is what I wanted to tell you.

[Image: POZ Blogs]