Iris

It's a cheesy 90's song with a message that's far too obvious to be clever, but Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls, ironically featured in the film City of Angels, really connects to this next post.

The fact is I don't want the world to see me, because I don't think that they'd understand.

The world, in this instance, would have to be a guy named "SEM".

"SEM" is a grad student, PROUD black gay man and an advocate for the use of PrEP, the preventative measure to protect against HIV transmission for the fortunate ones of us that are still negative, but want to play with the rest of us.

The reason I'm writing a post about "SEM" isn't because we had some sexual encounter; I didn't expose him to my tainted bodily fluids. The last night of the HIV conference in San Diego last month, I spoke with him on the phone about a few of my frustrations with being gay and black.

Now you're probably wondering why I decided to talk on the phone with someone I have never met and barely know about something so personal and raw, but it's because of how he presented himself of social media. He's intelligent, opinionated, informed and passionate about the subject.

In many ways, I want to be passionate and proud to be black and gay myself. So I decided to take a chance and lay it on him why I haven't been feeling the sentiments about my sexuality that he and his friends do.

In the typical pattern of tragedy with my life, I was wrong.

Not only did he not understand where I was coming from, he took anecdotal evidence from my blog and what I was presented on a former facebook page, despite having access to my authentic and more reserved one, to describe my situation as a calamity brought on myself by no one other than myself.

He told me that the reason that men consistently used me for sex was because I subconsciously wanted it. By talking about sex so candidly and freely, I invited it.

Additionally, I had no room to feel upset about my state of affairs because in fact, I AM NOT comfortable with my "true self" and living "in my truth".

He actually said the words, "you mean to tell me that you are comfortable living in your truth?"

Now the way I typed that may read as a gentle and honest questions, but his tone was filled with a bias and reluctance to listen to anything I was trying to convey to him. I was dismissed.

He even told me that I should care about PrEP and what it means to a community that was left me on the outside. I was infuriated.

I wasn't angry because he was telling me some truth that I was unwilling to accept, I was angry because despite telling him my story, and my experience, he didn't care.

With all of his education, experience and exposure to the community, he didn't care that I found out my status when my CD4 count was 8. He didn't care that my experience living in a transient, hypersexual city like Washington where men drive their behaviors underground and have risky sex contributed to my infection, my feelings of low self worth and overall dissatisfaction with my community.

He just didn't care and to make it worse, he let it be known that he didn't care.

His words were like daggers to the most sensitive places on my body. When I got off the phone with him that Sunday night, after staying up past my "bedtime". I cried.

For the first time in a long time, I cried. It was also the first time someone made me cry. Not because they were right, but because they were wrong and didn't care enough to listen when I was as open I've ever been.

I felt betrayed. Betrayed by myself for being that open with someone and betrayed because of all the strangers I've opened up to for understanding, he was the first one I EXPECTED empathy from.

Over the past few weeks we've had a few exchanges via text and a phone call with his apology, but I don't forgive him and I never will. For my sanity, I have to learn from him. Learn the dangers of trusting someone based on their "experience".

It's like going to a doctor when you have an issue that was need to be treated and expecting the doctor to have open ears about your pain and they pull out a textbook and find a diagnosis that just doesn't work for you.

Only this doctor was for my own sanity.

He had my blog address, which I doubt he's ever read and probably never will, so I'm more than comfortable writing this here. I'm comfortable not only because I've told him how I felt, but I need to put it down in these words so I never forget.

In the words of the Goo Goo Dolls:

"I just want you to know who I am."

- CGN