Vaginismus; a word I didn’t know existed and a condition that I had unknowingly been suffering with for years before an unsuccessful smear test gifted me with this label. “Was he big?”, the doctor asked me. “I don’t know”, I blurted amongst uncontrollable tears; “I don’t really have anyone to compare him to”. This was the first time so many questions of mine had started to be answered, which although positive, I knew now was the time to seek professional help and admit that what had happened to me wasn’t right. I now had a reason why a tampon would never fit, why I had put off my smear test for years and why I experienced excruciating pain every time intercourse with my husband was attempted.
Although unnerving, it was reassuring to know that I wasn’t a freakish anomaly and that there must be a considerable amount of women with the condition, otherwise there wouldn’t be a name for it. I was enrolled on a course of NHS psychosexual counselling which required both myself and my husband to attend the sessions. From the first appointment I knew that the counsellor may not be the right fit for me as he seemed to be focussing on the physical side of the condition rather than adopting a more holistic approach by incorporating the psychological aspect of vaginismus. He showed us diagrams of parts of me that I had disassociated myself with a long time ago and proceeded to line up frighteningly rigid plastic dilators, chronologically arranging them in height order along his desk. I remember looking at the smallest one and a great wave of sadness and sickness overcame me, “I won’t even be able to insert the smallest one” I thought. Maybe this was my body and mind’s way of warning me that I wasn’t ready to remove the lid from the box that had been tightly closed and enabled me to achieve so much throughout my early adult life. Another sign was that I was made redundant that year and, shortly after, my beloved grandmother sadly passed away. I plunged into a self-pitying routine of depression and there I stayed for a good while. It was comfortable and cosy, shutting out the world from my bed with my husband waiting on me hand and foot. Even though I had admitted what had happened to me and had gained a degree of comfort from the label of vaginismus, I wasn’t ready to fully commit to what needed to be physically done to recover and knew that I needed to revisit the trauma in order to psychologically recover from it and function within my relationship as a sexually active adult.
Two years passed and I was finally feeling strong enough to go back into therapy, this time knowing I needed to focus on sorting my mind out before anything physical could change. I knew I wanted a female counsellor and I was ready to change my life.
During a past sexual experience I had had no control of what was happening to me, and through therapy I learnt that I had been sexually abused. As a result, I had linked anything entering my vagina to pain, fear and a terrifying lack of control. Through revisiting these painful memories during psychosexual counselling sessions, a suppressed form of OCD was unleashed as my mind’s default response to try and gain control. Countless times panic would awaken me in the night, I would pace the room like a madwoman and my husband would be unable to calm or reassure me that things would get better. Stillness scared me. I would try to distract my mind with physical movement, but would inevitably be consumed by the panic and terror entwined in my past brought to the surface. It was incredibly distressing to experience these feelings again and it took a long time to realise that instead of trying to work them out (which in fact embedded the cycle of despair deeper), if I understood the reason for their occurrence (i.e. feeling not in control) they would subside.
My therapist said that I had so much courage to come back to the sessions and said that many people wouldn’t have returned. With hindsight, I shouldn’t have tried to go back to work straight after a session. I didn’t want to be alone, so things like driving and going to the toilet were very distressing as I worried that if I had a breakdown, who would find me? Many times, I had to call my husband to come and be with me and if he wasn’t around I would de-camp to my in-laws for my own mental safety. I felt like I was going insane and couldn’t understand why my therapist would calmly say to me that, although it seemed really awful, it was good. It was some months later that I realised that what she meant by that, was that I was allowing the feelings to leave my body so they couldn’t affect me anymore. I was letting go of the need to be in control and as a result was unconsciously allowing my physical body to open up too. I noticed that my relationship with my husband became more equal, through relinquishing control, I became happier to cook for him and do my share of chores around the house.
Another couple of years went by and although, mentally and physically I had definitely improved, we were still unable to have sexual intercourse. My 30th birthday had come and gone and I was becoming angrier and angrier with each Facebook pregnancy announcement and becoming less and less able to keep up my normal answer when questioned “So why don’t you have kids yet?”, which was to pretend that I didn’t want them. It was becoming more difficult to not become hurt by the accusations of being selfish, trying to justify why I was “choosing” not to give my parents grandchildren and not adhering to the reason humans are on planet Earth; to procreate. At this point, I cut off all communication with friends and family, especially those with children, as the reminder of what seemed like an impossible picture for us was becoming too much to bear. I realised it was time to return to psychosexual therapy for the third time and, although I saw this as a frustrating failure at times, I also looked back on what I had achieved; my self-growth, my ability to not flinch every time my husband attempted to touch areas of my body which I had psychologically separated myself from, and the fact that I had gained the strength to be honest enough with my friends to explain that having a family wasn’t a reality for me and that I needed space to work on myself and my relationship. I was also now able to Google the word “vaginismus” and the more first-hand experiences I read, on sites such as the Vaginismus Network, of women living with and overcoming the condition, the more hope and acceptance I gained. However, for me, I knew that therapy was the only way of making it to the finish line.
This time it was totally different. We started and continued together, until our counsellor asked to see my husband on his own for a few sessions. His anxiety had increased around having sex as for 10 years, due to vaginismus, he was unable to have intercourse with me. As a couple, we had never really thought about the implications of the condition on the male of the relationship. His terror of causing me pain had now caused him to become paralysed, unconfident and extremely anxious that any attempt at intimacy would trigger painful memories and he would set me back to square one. We learnt of various techniques to help with expressing feelings and easing anxiety such as drawing, listening to music, meditating etc. Unfortunately, just as my husband was gaining confidence, our therapist went off sick for 4 months, leaving us desperate.
As we were enrolled on a course of therapy, the doctors were reluctant to prescribe medication for my husband’s anxiety so we had to suffer the panic attacks on our own. Me trying to calm him down using experience I had gained from suffering with my own past poor mental health. Luckily, my husband was allowed to enrol on a group therapy course for 6 weeks which aimed to equip its members with tools and strategies they could use to handle their anxiety. Although this helped with his understanding and acceptance of having anxiety, he began to become overwhelmed with anger and started self-injuring as it was becoming clear that he was unable to express his feelings orally and so the crushing sense of frustration was leading us both to become destructive and angry people.
He was always my rock through my bouts of depression and now the tables were turning, the vaginismus was easing and it was clear that the effects that the condition had left on my husband, needing dealing with, fast. I was considering moving in with my parents as the pain of living within the relationship had become too much.
Then lockdown happened.
Although we couldn’t now meet our therapist face-to-face, we were so grateful that the sessions were to continue albeit via telephone. We learnt of the effects and causes of erectile dysfunction and that also my husband may be very slightly on the autistic spectrum which gave us a comforting label to pin reasons for his erratic behaviour on.
The lockdown forced us together and as we couldn’t run away (even though my husband tried to a couple of times), we had time to “get to the tears”. By that I mean, his vulnerability would come after bouts of frustration, and once the emotion left the body so did the difficult feelings and anger he was experiencing. What we needed to fathom was how to extract the feelings without the despair.
Anyway, we are still a work in progress. We are still together. We are still trying. We are still hoping. We are still loving. I thought it was important to write this from the viewpoint of someone who is still dealing with the effect of vaginismus within a relationship and highlight the difficulties it can cause for both parties. Our therapist has asked us to both be honest with each other and question whether this is the right relationship for us. Now I have relinquished control, is my husband ready to seize that control I have worked so hard to let go of? Our roles have seriously had to readjust and we are still figuring out our new parts to play in a vaginismus-free relationship. Although we now have healthy connections with our own and each other’s genitals, neither of us have experienced a positive sexual adult relationship before and even though we have worked so hard for this blank canvas, we are now wondering what to paint. The possibilities we now have, although liberating and endless, are scary and unknown. Fear of the unknown holds us back. I know that my husband will work through his challenges and I love him very much. I am proud of who he is and how far he has come. I know that we are in this together, we will grow together and one day we will both be free from the challenges of vaginismus.
I would also like to say sorry to my friends for not being there for any of you over the past few years, not knowing who your children are, not knowing anything about your lives and I thank you for your patience with my absenteeism. I hope you understand that just by me knowing that you are there when I am ready to be a friend again is amazing and I love you all very much.
My advice to anyone who any of this may have resonated with is to take solace from the fact that you are not alone. Although it is important to recognise the extremely challenging and at times destructive nature of vaginismus on both body and mind, try to focus on the positives that can be gained through your journey with it; empathy towards others, self-confidence, courage, inner strength. I thank my struggle with vaginismus for giving me these personal strings to my bow.
Utilise the energy it takes to feel the sadness, hopelessness, frustration, fear and unfairness to seek help, and keep asking for help, the right help, the help which suits you and your partner. Keep going, keep communicating, keep reminding yourself and each other how far you’ve come, and also be realistic about any challenges you have yet to face and how best to face them. You are a woman with the right to have pain free sex. You are a man with the right to live without sexual anxiety. You will get there. You are unbeaten. You are amazing.