One of Those Terrible Blogs About Vaginismus

Now she wants to talk about it, wants to throw herself into being helpful, wants to be there for me, and while all of those things are admirable, I just can’t right now. I’m too raw as it is, I can’t open these other wounds too. 

I formally give you permission to ignore my screaming into the void, not in a self deprecating “it’s fine, I’m used to being ignored and I don’t matter” way, but in a “seriously, I just needed somewhere to purge these things from my system, and this is the only place I am anonymous” way. 

Also he’s very close friends with another friend and I’m shaking I’m so scared they’re going to talk about me. I wish I could say I don’t care, but I do.  

All I feel right now is lacking. Just a huge dark hole of not-good-enough. 

 I swear, I’ve spent my entire adult life arguing that men and women can be friends, that we can hang out and goof off without a sexual relationship being on the table. I have fought well into the night with multiple people about this. But you know what? Fuck it. I’m wrong, ok? I give up. 

Because things are going fine: a group of friends getting together every week for beer and movies, and then one evening you hang back and tell me “we need to have an uncomfortable talk.” And then there’s the talk itself, which is ridiculously formal and strangely vague. “This has become too difficult. I thought I could work through it at first, but now I think it best we avoid these situations. This isn’t ideal.” I’m sorry, are you describing our friendship or finding the water in your swimming pool has been replaced by chocolate pudding, because that conversation works for BOTH THOS SCENARIOS NOW USE YOUR FUCKING WORDS.  

And then you want me to draft a solution with you. “How do you  think we should fix the situation?” Well, right now we get together in a group situation for beer and movie night. I don’t know how to fix beer and movie night because from where I’m sitting, the situation is fine and I’m not sure how to fix something that’s fine. If from where you’re sitting, things are not fine then that’s...fine, but the ball is in your court. Your move. I’m not on your team. I’m not playing the game. I’m at a weekend bbq for all the good my opinion will do you.

But I know what you want. You either want me to date you or leave. There is no ignoring it or moving past it. And then the others start to ask, “why is she avoiding us? What happened?” Eventually you confide in one friend (who confides in everyone else) and they all get together and either judge me for getting involved with mutual friend (you) or judge me for sticking to my single status despite mutual friend’s (your) interest. 

So fine. It’s cool. I’ll abandon my movie night friends and return to my apartment, feeling like I’m being punished and like I’ve done something wrong. Guess what, fucker? Still not going to sleep with you. 

I’m angry, and yet there is that part of me that wonders: am I allowed to feel single and insecure and shitty and still turn you down? I mean, there’s zero spark there. ZERO. And after a few of these, I start thinking “just fucking date them; they’ll realize the sex is shit and all you ever want to do is read books, watch reruns of tv you’ve already seen, and goof around on the internet, and they’ll dump your ass.” 

But then I suppose we’d be having the same pudding-in-the-pool conversation, and end up right back here. 

Well, I can now wear regular sized tampons. It’s still a chore to put in (and definitely chore to take out), but it’s getting easier. Still, it’s...something. I’d still rather wear pads. I keep having to talk myself into them. Every. Single. Time. Yay progress.

But that’s it. 

My dilators still suck. I haven’t used them in months. I’ve got three weddings in as many months. I was the oldest person at a bachelorette party last night (and the only one single). I also got to listen to the other women mock their past boyfriends’ sexual disfunction. It was incredibly uncomfortable (and I just wanted to crawl into a hole). 

I wanted to be done with this by 30. Now we’re pushing 31 and I’m listening to all these younger women talk about how easy their first time (and every time since) is. 

I mentioned it in physical therapy today, and she noted that I was carrying a lot of tension in my shoulders, which may be negatively impacting my pelvic floor. My physical therapist suggested needling (think acupuncture needles tapped into knots in your shoulders). Because I bruise so easily, this has left me looking like a a vampire bat gave me tiny purple hickeys all over my shoulders. Very easily explained to my coworkers. >_>

Also, my period started last night at 11 pm, and I cramped all night, which means I got a total of 50 minutes of sleep. I slogged through the day until my dinner break and hopped in my car to go grab a coffee...

...and my car's dead. I have to have it towed to the local garage ($50) and the battery replaced because it's totally shot ($178). A brand new battery in a 13 year old car I'm replacing (in exchange for all my savings) in two weeks?? And I'm so focused on getting back to work and how I'm still so tired and how much this is going to cost that I completely forget that my purse contains four dilators, a vibrator, and a diagnostic insert-able sensor until I'm already digging through the vaginismus mess trying to find my credit card, and dropping a phallic shaped object or two practically ON the nice mechanic's feet. KMN.