TW: This article discusses coercion, lab work and sexually transmitted infections.
I found out I had chlamydia after spending three months of summer 18 in my home country, Lagos. My university nurse practitioner, K*, called me with the news. In a very steady tone, she said, “your urine and blood tests came back and you tested positive for chlamydia. There is nothing to worry about. I need you to come down to the office this afternoon for a few more tests and some questions.” When I arrived at our appointment, she did an oral swab on me as well and then we filled out a mandated government form. The form was somewhat eye-opening and especially sex-negative as a result of the predatory questioning surrounding whether or not your past sexual interaction had involved someone who went to prison. Later, she asked me how I was doing with condom use. I would of course have to inform all my partners during the period of infection. This was perhaps the hardest part for me, how I would be perceived by them and if it was going to affect future communication. There was an anonymous mass text that was potentially an option, but I felt like they deserved ‘better’ from me. (Feel free to use the anon mass-text in your own time, as it is much better than saying nothing).
When I first heard the news, my mind had run amok with theories of how this came about. To be quite honest, there was a partner I had immediately suspected because of his negative reaction to questioning about testing. While engaging in penetrative sex with a condom, he had mumbled a few choice words about how the condom was hurting him and how in order to be satisfied we would have to do the next round without a barrier. At the time, I was conditioned to believe I had failed if he was not satisfied and I had acquiesced to penetrative sex (with an agreement that he would ‘pull out’). When I told K* this, she asked me if it was something I would consider bringing up in therapy. Sensing my confusion, she explained that this was clearly a method of coercion and affirmed my already negative intuitive feelings during that interaction. I would like to say, for anyone wondering out there, that condoms do not in-fact constantly negatively affect the people who are wearing them. In the few cases where they are not the right grip or size or the person happens to have a latex allergy the solution would be to get a barrier that fits your individual needs and not the absence of one entirely.
K* told me that it would do me a world of good to unpack my feelings around this experience during counselling and that if I had any other questions I was free to come to her. After administering the medication which I took on the spot, she sent me back to my dorm to get some rest. We did some more labs in a few days, including the oral swab which both came back negative for chlamydia. In the few days between the drugs and the fresh bloodwork, I had texted other partners. I started with the people whom I was closest to, informed them of my results and asked them to seek out testing where they could. A majority of them were understanding as they could be for the most part, to my utmost pleasure. Unsurprisingly enough, the person whom I felt was responsible flat out refused to have a test done. “Nooo, I don’t have anything” he texted back. No symptoms, no itching, no burning pee. “Nooo I can’t have anything.” He was put off by the idea that he could be infected with a disease.
I realized that my first reaction to the news, the burning shame I felt when I had spoken to K* on the phone revealed a very similar pattern to his response surrounding sexual health. Worrying about the way my partners would feel about me in that moment was a direct reflection of the internal biases I had cultivated about my body and sexual illness in general. Why, instead of commending myself for immediately getting tested after a sexually active summer and discovering said illness plus getting treatment for it in the early stages, was I worried about negative responses? Instead of being overjoyed at having access to the necessary treatments, I was almost wishing I never even found out.
In a world that tells us people are either ‘clean’ or automatically ‘dirty’ when they are infected with sexual illnesses, how do we expect to cultivate honest, sex-positive dialogue about past history?
Just the way your body falls ill when the immune system is weak, so are sexual illnesses to be anticipated when engaging in sexual activity as a mature adult. Even when the use of barrier methods are diligent and consistent, there are still events beyond personal control which can lead to infections. We can really only equip ourselves to handle these situations after the fact. Yes, some S.T.I’s have no symptoms. Society conditions us to view S.T.I’s, or rather, people who are positive for S.T.I’s, as unworthy of unbiased social interaction or full, vibrant lives. Debunking that idea openly allows us to become more in tune with our own bodies; more knowledgeable about sexual health, kinder to ourselves and others while experiencing events such as my own. Making an unabashed decision to change the language we use around S.T.I’s and testing is also extremely important.
These beliefs are especially harmful because they maintain the status quo that only people with many partners are at risk of getting infected with sexual illnesses. We have civilians who have never gotten tested and believe that they could not possibly be positive for an S.T.I who also wholeheartedly avoid sex workers (SWers) because they are definitely riddled with disease. I attempted to get sexual testing done at my primary care facility in January. My family doctor sincerely refused to do it unless I had been placed directly at risk (which he only said after being told I had been strict with my use of barrier methods). It is a huge stigma for doctors to insist that simply not testing a person will make them have less sexual activity and it is a belief that is absolutely not backed by any science whatsoever.
While admitting to the fact that I was knowledgeable about barrier methods as a whole during therapy, I was forced to grapple with the fact that that knowledge did not hold up while also tackling preconceived notions surrounding your duties to a (cis) man’s orgasm as a person who has less social power such as a woman/SW/queer person. Knowing that I was directly putting myself at risk in that moment still could not give me enough edge to tell my partner at the time that I was absolutely not budging on the condoms. K* went on to always give me several kinds of barriers during my trips back home, including female condoms and dental dams. Still, the work I did during therapy was expressly needed to spur me into setting boundaries, safely emphasize them and be unafraid to hurt a partner(s) feelings if they did not respect that boundary.
Access to mental health services, testing, barrier methods and medical treatment after infection should be the right of every individual. For those of us who have access and are able to, we must look after our sexual health. This means that having a positive result is not the end of the world and living with a chronic disease does not make you unworthy of personal fulfilment.
*Name has been abbreviated to protect identity
