That’s a Long Haul for a Booty Call and Other Things That Can Change Your Life

A while back I was messaging with a friend and during the conversation we were discussing how The Guy and I didn’t live close together (which in situations such as mine can turn out to be a boon and tends to happen when you live in a decent-sized city), so on the occasions when I would go to his place, it was “a long haul for a booty call”. And let’s be real here. That’s what it was. We were hooking up, not having a relationship. I make zero apologies for that, by the way, so feel free not to judge. I had fun. I’m reasonably confident he had fun. No harm, no foul. I’m not claiming I’d repeat the scenario, but I also don’t regret it. That’s such fun, by the way. Being able to walk away at the end of something with no regrets. You should try it some time.

But back to my story…

Today was my last day of in-office physical therapy for vaginismus. In truth, we could have stopped a few weeks ago, but I’d had a bad run of at-home PT before an appointment and really wanted to make sure everything turned back around before calling a complete halt. I knew going in this morning that this would be the end, though. We’d discussed it a few weeks ago and I get the feeling that my physical therapist was waiting for me to bring it up. Not that she wouldn’t have eventually said, “I think we’ve gone as far as we can go”, but she did ask me after each appointment what I thought but it was never quite phrased as “Do you think you need to keep coming back?”

I’d say it was for the best to let me come around to this idea on my own. Just a couple of months ago I’m not sure I could have made that call. The idea of the end of PT freaked me out. Now, however, I’m mentally and physically in a good place, and I think that made all the difference. I’m doing PT on my own 2-3 times a week and working with various sized dilators, introducing larger ones slowly, but surely. Even when there is pain, I realize it’s not always going to be that way and I remember how far I’ve come in the past year. It’s all good. I’ve got this.

I remember in the beginning my therapist said she thought it would take about 8 weeks. Fast forward to today’s appointment and we are 363 days into our association. Hey, I never said I wasn’t uptight! Ha! Probably 6 months ago I was saying that if we were wishing each other a Merry Christmas then it was going to be worrisome, but as that date drew closer, I let that thought go. I started telling myself that however long it took that was just fine and then…I even started to believe it. Yep. I’ve got this.

So now allow me to circle the wagons back around to the beginning and how it’s a long haul for a booty call. Changing the meaning of that a skosh, I laughed – thankfully only in my head and not out loud so that everyone around me would think I was nuts – today when I was thinking about writing something with that title. I realized that, I suppose, it could also be interpreted that this past year has been quite a long haul for, well, y’know, to be able to have sex.

But it’s not about a “booty call” or a “hook up”. I have little-to-no interest in that kind of thing (my involvement with The Guy was a behavioral anomaly, albeit a fun one). This is a quality of life issue. If I’d had sex more recently than…well, I’m not telling you specifics on how long it had been before last year because some things I actually will not share with the masses, but suffice it to say that it would have helped if I’d been more sexually active in the past because then perhaps things would have been working right. Or I’d at least have realized that they weren’t. And it would have helped if any of my doctors over the years had questioned why a pap smear was so excruciatingly painful for me. But I wasn’t and they didn’t.

So yes, in the end, I suppose it’s been a long haul for a booty call. Good thing that’s not really what I’m ultimately interested in. I didn't expect this last year of my life to unfold the way that it did, but as I said earlier, I don't regret it. I've discovered a lot about myself. I'm stronger than I imagined. I have less of a filter than I always thought I did. I've let go of any particular fear about discussing pretty much anything with anyone. And I'm also pretty damned amazing. I think that last one is my favorite.

What a difference a year makes

“What a difference a year makes.” Such a simple yet complex statement. Something happens one day and it can change the course of your week, your year, your life. Every day things happen to us. We have experiences that shape who we are and who we will become. That happened to me last year. It’s been a year.

I realized the other day that it had been exactly one year since I’d discovered I had vaginismus. I didn’t have a name for it yet – that took a few more days, some time spent on Google, and then confirmation from the doctor – but there was a day in early March 2016 that I found out I had a problem. Looking back year later, I’m not sure how I feel about it all.

When I realized what day it was I wondered how I would feel. Would it matter? It’s not like it was an anniversary I wanted to celebrate. That day had not turned out as I’d planned at all. If it had, I might have been in favor of a celebration of some sort. Everybody knows how much I love cake. 😊

I paused a few times that day to take stock of how I was feeling. Was I upset or frustrated? Was I sad or was I feeling empowered by how far I’ve come in a year? Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe felt a combination of all those things. I could never get a clear reading on my emotions.

In late 2014 I’d started a personal journal after not having kept one in probably at least a couple of decades. Knowing I’d written about this, I pulled out the journal today and wanted to see what I’d been thinking and feeling in the immediate aftermath.

Huh. Aftermath. “Something that results or follows from an event, especially one of a disastrous or unfortunate nature; consequence.” That seems like such a strong word to use, but based on the definition, it’s also wildly appropriate. The aftermath of something that should have been so simple and natural and normal was anything but simple, natural or normal.

I don’t like looking back at how I felt late that night or how I felt the next day, because I felt horrible. I felt like a freak. Like something was so very wrong and I was never going to be able to fix it. When you don’t know what’s happening, all you have is fear. The unknown can be terrifying and since I had a partner who wasn’t interested in what was happening, well, that didn’t help. Maybe on some level he was as confused as I was. Maybe he was afraid in some way. Perhaps it was a shot to his manhood that no matter what he did – no matter what we did – there was no way my vagina was going to cooperate that night. I really don’t know what he was thinking or feeling as he was never interested in having any kind of conversation with me about this.

I get that on some level, but I also don’t. I remind myself that we were never particularly great friends, but more people who knew each other, though not well, for a long period of time and I thought we were friends. Had hoped we were. As I said to a friend today, it's easy to be kind and everyone deserves kindness, even if they don't know how to accept it or extend it to other people. He'll always get kindness from me, this friend of mine, even if he doesn't want it. I can be pushy like that.

Now a year has come and gone. I’ve started talking to people about something I never would have imagined I’d be talking about. I’ve gone through countless hours of physical therapy, some of which has been very painful and discouraging, but it’s better now. So much better that, if all goes as planned the next couple of days, when I go for my appointment on Tuesday I’m going to ask the physical therapist if I need to keep coming back. I’m not sure there’s anything more she can do for me. The rest is going to be up to me and I know I won’t stop. I won’t quit or give up. I’ll never stop until I’ve done all I can do to be healthy. It is, as my therapist, doctor, and counselor would all say, a quality of life issue. And I have found in the past year or so that I’m damned determined to have the best quality of life that I can. Because I deserve it.