The Unmentionables

I made the declaration on social media the other day that I should filter a new list strictly for the status updates I always want to post, but never do because they seem inappropriate. Possibly extremely funny, but not really appropriate.

Several friends seemed enthused by that notion, but every now and then my better judgement prevails.

Or does it?

It’s always a dilemma. But maybe that’s what blogs are for (aside from being a delightful exercise in vanity).

I told my friend Ruby I was going to blame her for this blog post and so I am. She told me that I should start a 2^nd blog with the title “The Vaginismus Chronicles”. I will NOT be doing that, even though all the funny nonsense that seems to come out of my mouth these days is related to my attempts to get healthy. But for Ruby, I’m collecting some of the things I didn’t want to post on FB and putting them here. And then, naturally, posting a link on Facebook so people can read it. I mean, that makes sense, right?

I get so tired of going to physical therapy twice a week. This has been going on since April and while I know time and patience are involved, patience is a virtue I have never possessed. It’s not even about wanting to be able to have pain-free sex – or have sex, period – anymore, but being tired of having to spend so much time thinking about my vagina. I swear, adult film stars don’t spend this much time thinking about their private parts. It really gets old. As does my vagina. Older every day. It's like I'm living in a world I never even planned to visit and now I'm taking up permanent residence.

Much as I am weary of the physical therapy, I do try to have a positive attitude about it because going into a session without feeling positive is only going to make for a bad session. The PT is not cheap and I refuse to waste my time or money. If my mind and body won’t relax, then the therapy won’t work and I may complain a little, but I’m very determined for it to work. I’ve kind of forgotten exactly why now, but I’m sure there is a good reason. What was it…what was it… Gimme a few minutes. It’ll come back to me.

The physical therapy room. It's like a spa for your vagina!

Except, y'know, not.

The therapy room is relaxing, as it is intended to be, and I’ve said in the past that the physical therapist as the perfect personality for the kind of work she does. We laugh all the time, which is dangerous if I drink too much water in the morning before I go and feel the desperate need to pee. Nothing good can come of that. It’s a horrible accident waiting to happen.

The other day after PT, I was cleaning up and thought to myself, “Man, there is lube everywhere!" That seemed like an inappropriate status update to post on Facebook though, but totally funny to me and probably to my PT as she always says that she uses too much lube. But let’s get real here, lack of lube usage is probably part of the problem for some people, so I say the more the merrier. Except, y’know, it’s really messy. That’s something they don’t teach you in sex ed class I’d wager.

This morning I was picking up a bra to put it on and saw something on one of the cups that I couldn’t identify. I just looked and thought, “Oh, there’s something on this. Not sure what it is.” *pausing* “Well, I hope at least I had fun!” When I relayed that to a friend, her response was, “Here’s hoping you did!” and the first response I could think of was, “Well, usually when my blouse is off I'm having a good time, so there's a solid chance that I did.” This. This is what you get from my brain on too many Oreos. The struggle is real.

My counseling sessions with the psychotherapist also continue and progress. Well, they feel like they are progressing, so I hope that they are. Right now she wants me to make an effort to get out and meet more people, be more social. I’m also sure she wants me to take the opportunity to meet more men, making it easier to get over any lasting attachments I may have to the friend I was canoodling with earlier this year. But when someone says you need to ‘get over him’, I usually want to respond with “But I haven’t even been UNDER him recently!!” Buh-dum-bum. Yes, yes, I do fancy myself quite funny.

Thankfully, I have some friends who will check on my progress and how I’m dealing with my situation. It’s not the end of the world or some monstrous health crisis, I know. I get that. But it’s a quality of life issue and that cannot be denied.

One friend is a former boss of mine who I now see once a week. For a while, she kept tabs on me after she’d left our office to make sure I hadn’t decided to up and quit. Even though she, y’know, up and quit and left me there. But whatever. We’re buddies and appreciate the snark in each other and it’s nice to get to see her regularly now, even for a few minutes between her meeting and running back to her new office.

She asked why I was at physical therapy the first time she came around and I told her the whole story. Since I keep saying I’ve lost my filter, I will tell pretty much anyone all about this situation, even if they’d probably rather I did not. But as my friend is a doctor, she was instantly familiar with what vaginismus is and the treatment options and was mostly pleased at first that I might be having sex at all. Gotta love a supportive friend, right?

Still defective, but it could always

be worse.

On her way out the door the first time she said, “I’ll text you and check on how your va-jay-jay is doing!” She hasn’t yet, but I can assure you that eventually she will. This week, however, she simply said, “I’ll be back next week to see how you are doing!” My response was, “I’ll still be defective!”

Ah yes, that’s how it feels. Like I’m defective. I know that I’m not, but those thoughts of negativity and frustration and slight depression still sneak in from time to time. But for now, right this minute, I’m just going to laugh. If laughter is the best medicine, then I’m all set.