My name is Harry.

But when the lights hit, when the lashes are on and the world’s too much to bear

I am Charity Kase. I was raised in a remote area of Lancashire, where I was the only openly gay individual in the community. The environment was not conducive to celebrating diversity; instead, it was a subject of hushed conversations. My refuge was found in art, fashion, and fantasy, which enabled me to aspire beyond societal expectations to an unquestionably fabulous existence.

At the age of seventeen, I relocated to London, a city of vibrant lights, loud music, and endless nights. This transition felt like liberation until an incident at a social gathering where my drink was spiked, and I was subjected to exploitation. I turned eighteen during this period. Weeks later, after experiencing persistent illness and conducting frantic late-night research online, a blood test confirmed my worst fears: I was HIV positive.

During that era, my knowledge of HIV was limited to the associated fear, the whispered warnings, graffiti messages such as ‘Harry has AIDS’ scrawled on school walls before I had experienced my first kiss. My partner remained with me for a time but eventually left. I withdrew into myself, overwhelmed by shame, until I reached a low point and found myself in a police cell.

That night marked a crucial turning point. My closest friend, my anchor, rescued me from the chaos. He accompanied me through moments of silence and restored my sense of security. I began treatment immediately; my viral load subsequently became undetectable, and gradually, I reconstructed myself.

But undetectable doesn’t erase stigma. It doesn’t stop strangers from weaponising your truth. Once, on a date, a man casually announced my HIV status across a restaurant like he was calling out raffle numbers. Another time, I overheard someone joke, “Careful, you don’t catch my AIDS,” expecting me to laugh. I don’t let those comments slide. Shame has never saved anyone, and the moral panic of the 80s belongs in the grave.

Drag became my armour and my therapy. If I’m sad, I paint on a new face. If I’m angry, I become a furious demon in sequins and six‑inch heels. I once performed in drag every single day for a year, not just to prove I could, but to remind the world I’m here, I’m loud, and I’m not going anywhere.

Here’s the truth: HIV is not a death sentence. It’s a virus, not a verdict. If you’re on treatment and undetectable, you can’t pass it on; that’s science. We don’t whisper about asthma or diabetes at the pub, so why are people still whispering about HIV?

I’m Charity Kase. I’m Harry. I’m an artist. I live with HIV.

And I’ve got sequins, claws, and zero tolerance for your stigma.