“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.
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.
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