About Me

I started this blog about 3 years ago when I was first diagnosed with vaginismus and vulvar vestibulitis syndrome.  I’m in my late 20s and I have never had intercourse and have never been able to use a tampon. My first visit to the gyno was extremely painful and traumatic. For years, I have suffered in silence, thinking that my extreme fear of vaginal penetration was all in my head, and not knowing why or how I could get over it.  This blog is not intended to give any sort of advice, medical or otherwise.  It is merely a place where I share my feelings and experiences on how this condition affects my every day life, in the hopes that other sufferers will see these words and feel that maybe they’re not so alone.  There’s a lot of personal details, some profanity, and some graphic descriptions, so if this kind of stuff makes you uncomfortable, please move on.

In The Beginning…

I first found out what intercourse was when I was in the 7th grade. We were in the library of my Catholic grammar school, watching a video about sex ed. The narrator of the video explained that sexual intercourse is when a man inserts his penis into a woman’s vagina. I was absolutely horrified. Nowhere in my 11 or 12-year-old mind could I imagine that there was a hole down there big enough to fit a penis. Wouldn’t that hurt? I thought. I couldn’t even fathom the idea that there was a hole down there at all! Thanks, mom, for never telling me.

In fact, now that I think of it, I also remember the time I asked my parents how babies were made. I don’t remember exactly how old I was, but I know I was old enough to understand because I had already learned about it in school. All I knew was that a man’s sperm connected with a woman’s egg, and a baby was made. So I asked my mom and dad a very simple question: how does the sperm get into the woman’s body? I remember this next part very clearly. My mother turned very red and paused to think for a while, while my dad looked away pretending he was somewhere else. So to help her along I whispered, “does it go through your skin?” At this, my mother suppressed a smile, and hesitantly said to me, “umm, no, honey… it goes through your vagina.” After hearing that, I was the one who became embarrassed and decided to stop asking questions. My mother didn’t elaborate.

Years later, I got my first period. I was 14, just a few months into my freshman year in high school. My mother had never talked to me about my period either, so I had no idea what that red spot was on my underwear. Then I remembered the time I heard the girls in my 6th grade class talk about their first periods, and I thought, “wow I finally got mine!” I wondered why it had taken so long, when all my other friends had gotten theirs at 11 or 12. Even at that early age, I had already started to feel like a freak.

I didn’t find out about tampons until years after that. Or maybe I had seen them in TV commercials and assumed they were only for women who had already had sex. Who knows. But I remember being in my late teens and listening to my friends express their disgust that I was still using pads. “But don’t they feel like diapers?! Eww!” I felt dirty, and too embarrassed to voice the fact that I was just too scared to try tampons. I remember having to make excuses for not wanting to go in the water when it was summer time and we took trips to the pool or the beach. I would say that I was too shy to take my shorts off, or that I didn’t want to get my hair wet.

I eventually gave in to the pressures and bought a box of Playtex Slimfits. I stared at the packaging for hours, making sure I had the procedure exactly right. That box sat in my drawer for a few months before I worked up the courage to try one. The first time I tried, I barely touched the applicator to myself, when I freaked out and threw it in the trash. I cried myself to sleep that night. And probably for a few more nights after that. Months later, I had forgotten the trauma of that first try, and decided to try again. This time, I took a deep breath, and pointed the applicator at what seemed like the right spot. I pushed in a little, and that’s when I felt the pain. I can’t really describe it, but it almost felt like feeling an extreme amount of pressure on a highly sensitive spot. Picture putting your finger up to your eyelid and pushing in too hard. I guess it’s not exactly like that, but you get the idea. It was painful. Once again, I threw the failed tampon in the trash, and cried myself to sleep. That box of tampons is sitting in my drawer, to this day.

And now for the sex… (or lack thereof)…

Prom night, senior year. My first experience making out with my boyfriend in the privacy of his room at 2 in the morning. We barely get to the making out part, when I feel him trying to shove his hand down my pants. I immediately panic and push his hand away.

Fast-forward to my freshman year of college. Alcohol is first introduced into my body, and my body loves it. My body also realizes that making out with boys while drunk is a fabulous thing. One random night, in one random guy’s room, I find myself in his bed, half-naked, after too many shots of vodka and whiskey. My stupid, drunken self was very excited at the thought that this was going to be my first time. Good thing the guy I was with was nice enough not to take full advantage. After a few minutes, I passed out and woke up the next morning, confused, embarrassed, and very hungover.

The summer after my college graduation, after years of similar scenarios, I found myself in bed with a boy I was very much infatuated with, convinced that I wanted him to be my first. I didn’t say this to him, but he was very aware that I was a virgin, and didn’t seem to have any qualms about popping my cherry, with no thoughts of commitment whatsoever. Although I liked the feel of his hand on my hoo-hah, the slightest pressure of his fingers on my very sensitive opening was enough to make me cry out in pain. “That hurts?” he asked, confused. I didn’t respond. Needless to say, that first time never happened.

Several months later, when the thrill of drunken hook-ups had worn off, I met the first boy I had ever been in love with (or thought I was at the time, anyway). After a couple of months of dating, we officially became an item (“Facebook-official!). I was finally in my first real relationship and I couldn’t have been happier. He was well aware that I was a virgin, but told me he didn’t care because he’d never felt about anyone the way he felt about me. I convinced myself that because he was the right guy, I would be able to grit my teeth through the pain, and that once I got through that first time, sex would be great! About a week after our relationship was publicized to all our Facebook friends, we went out on the town for some drinking and dancing with his friends. I wasn’t really expecting it to happen that night, but of course, we were drunk, and he wanted it. Obviously, we failed. I don’t remember crying that night, probably because I was too drunk to remember, but I remember feeling pain, and feeling everything in me close up and pull away. This same scenario continued endlessly for a few more months, but with varying details here and there. One night he thought that maybe if he used his finger first it wouldn’t hurt. He was wrong. No matter what he did, I could never relax enough to not feel any pain, and I would always end up in tears in his arms, feeling embarrassed and inadequate. He would comfort me and tell me that it was OK, that he didn’t care, then we would fall asleep or eventually move on to other things. It was always the same.

I never thought that maybe I should go see my gynecologist and talk to her about it. Actually, the thought did cross my mind, but my fear and doubt that she would be able to help me kept me from going to her about this. I thought I was the only one, and I felt like a freak. I thought the pain was mostly in my head, that it was so intense only because I couldn’t relax. I thought that since most women always feel pain on their first time, that I was less of a woman for not being strong enough to take it.

A few months after the break-up, I faced my fear and went to go see the gynecologist. I found out that what I have has a name, so here I am, struggling to understand and to believe that one day I will overcome this.