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.

“Doc, You’re Never Gonna Believe What Happened…”

Doc, You’re Never Gonna Believe What Happened…

That sounds like a great line from sitcom and, in fact, I think that it is. Or at least it’s a paraphrasing of a “Seinfeld” quote when Frank Costanza has a slight mishap with Fusilli Jerry and has to make a trip to the proctologist. My story isn’t quite like that, but…then again…

Believe it or not, I really don’t try to write posts that give folks a lot of visuals about exactly what goes on when I do my physical therapy. I can’t imagine that it’s something anyone wants to spend a lot of time thinking about. I certainly don’t. So please know that that is never my intent. If you want some visuals, think about cute puppies frolicking through a field chasing butterflies. Think about rainbows or a sunny day at the beach. Think about the Cubs winning the World Series. Think about Keanu Reeves shirtless…oh wait. That one’s primarily for me. Hey, whatever gets you through the day, right? ;)

So yeah, please don’t get what would be the very wrong opinion about why I write these blogs. It’s really another form of therapy for me and, as always, I hope that other folks can find humor in what makes me laugh. Even though it’s often times a wee bit twisted.

Such is today’s story…a wee bit twisted.

I believe I’ve previously described basically what this pelvic health physical therapy I do is all about. Since it is done to stretch the vaginal muscles, obviously something has to be inserted into the vagina and isn’t that what got us into this pickle in the first place? Trying to insert something into the (my) vagina? Why yes, I think it is. Oh, the humanity!

This video has nothing whatsoever to do with this blog post, but it always makes me laugh and contains Les saying, "Oh, the humanity!" So I choose to believe it's relevant.

Since this is, indeed, the case, that means…it means…ummm…yeah, lost my train of thought. Train just jumped the track and headed of somewhere. Woo! Woo! Clear the tracks! Shannon’s Brain Train has run amok!! Save yourselves! Dive for the ditches!! It’s really your only hope.

Ok. Now where was I? Oh yes. Physical therapy involves having to insert a dilator into the vagina to stretch the vaginal walls and I do this 3 times a week. Sometimes it’s in-office PT with my therapist, but mostly it’s something I do on my own. It’s not sexy, it’s not exciting, it’s not something that would turn anyone on. It’s boring, it’s painful (sometimes), and it’s really quite routine after nearly a year. It’s simply part of my life.

That being the case, sometimes…well…accidents happen. I’ve alreadychronicled the fun times that can be had with lube. Things get slippery. It happens. And sometimes things, well, they come part. Whoopsie.

The way that dilator sets are constructed is that you have a handle and then you have various attachments of increasing size that you attach to said handle. The purpose, obviously, being that as you achieve a certain point with one size and stretches then you graduate to a larger size and proceed to work on that level of stretching.

I have been fortunate recently to come to that nice place where, after times of struggle and frustration, the stretches have gotten easier. I’ll never claim it’s pleasant (and in fact it’s damned boring), but it’s always nice to hit the point where you know things are working. Even though I know that means soon enough it’ll be time to step up to the next size and the process will start again, this is a nice place to be for a while.

Except when the dilator comes apart when I’m doing a stretch. That’s right. It totally comes apart. This obviously means that one part is in my hand and the other part is in…well, we all know where it is. Don’t make me say it.

The first time that happened I was stunned. I thought – and possibly said out loud – “What just happened here?!” I couldn’t believe it had really come apart. Neither could my physical therapist when I told her about it. It never happens when she’s doing it and her stretches are a lot harder than the ones I am able to do. (She’s a professional. I’m an amateur. Coming at it from different angles. All that stuff.)

Now, it’s not like I’m worried that I can’t get it out. It’s coming out. The whole reason I’m in this situation is because it’s difficult to get things to go in. That means it’s not going in there to the point where it’ll never come out. It’s coming out. Trust me.

But when it comes apart it’s rather disconcerting, to put it mildly. After the first time that happened, I tried to be extra careful. Do a hard stretch, but not too hard. I’m not trying to break anything – me OR the dilator. Don’t turn it in a strange direction (and I have no idea what that might be, so I’m not going to think about it too much) that will cause things to detach.

It seemed to be working pretty well…until last night. Last night, a different dilator came apart while I was using it. For a split-second I was once again stunned and then I started to laugh. And I kept on laughing for quite a while. How could I not? I have no idea why this is happening! I was doing a hard stretch, but nothing so strenuous that it would cause things to come apart like that. It’s not like I’ve had the dilators for a long time either, so wear and tear isn’t an issue here (and it never really should be because these things are very sturdy and durable).  Maybe God or the universe, or whatever you want to subscribe to, decided I needed a good laugh because I certainly got one. I suspect that my physical therapist will get one too when I tell her about this tomorrow.

You know, I sure didn’t want this to happen to me. I just wanted to have sex. Seemed pretty simple and straightforward at the time. But you know what? If this had to happen to someone, I think I was probably a good choice. Because I’ll talk about it. Because I’ll try to educate people when I can. Because I can laugh about things. And because I’ll get this taken care of. I will not be embarrassed or ashamed or feel guilty. And the next time I try to have sex, it’ll work. Oh, it may take a little trial and error, but I’m pretty sure I’ll have good time trying. But it’s for damned sure I’m not going to be telling you about it! Some things I actually will keep to myself.

How to Freak Out Your Friends by Talking About Your Vagina

Can you freak our your friends by talking about your vagina? Oh yes, it’s totally possible to do that. I’m pretty sure I do it all the time, just by bringing up this subject, but you know what? That’s not going to stop me.

In case you haven’t realized it yet, I talk about my vagina a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Way too much, most likely, but this is apparently who I am now. Go figure. Every time I talk to someone and say I’m surprised at my willingness to be so open about something so personal, they look at me like I’m nuts and say they aren’t surprised in the least. I have no idea what that says about me, but…ok…I guess…

I’ve learned that talking about your vagina can really mess with people's heads. Most people (and rightly so, I’d imagine) don’t talk openly about truly private things and if a vagina isn’t a private thing, I don’t really know what is. I understand why that is, but also understand why it’s not that way for me anymore.

I am fortunate, however, to have a couple of friends in my life right now who allow me to talk about my vagina all the time. Actually, I have a lot of friends who seem to roll with it when I talk about all this kind of stuff, but two in particular seem to handle the conversation pretty well. Or maybe they’re just faking it. That’s always possible as I’m also quite confident that they would welcome other topics of conversation that do not include my vagina (yes, at this point I’m actually trying to see how many times I can mention the word “vagina” in this post). And one of them definitely does not like to say the word vagina, so maybe I’m onto something there.

For our purposes here, I’ll refer to these friends as “The Girls”. Ordinarily I’d refer to my breasts as “The Girls” or “The Twins”, but I know some twins and that would be awkward. So I’ve decided to change things up and call my breasts Eva and Zsa Zsa instead. It feels right. It also makes it sound less strange if someone asks what my weekend plans are I say, “Oh, nothing much. Just hanging out with Eva and Zsa Zsa.”

Back to the original topic of this post which is that it is often quite easy to freak out your friends by talking about your vagina. Now, it’s not necessarily that they can’t talk about the fact that I have one or that it is presently dysfunctional, but it sometimes upsets The Girls that I have this problem. The Gal (as she has asked to be called), in particular, struggles with knowing that I often times have to deliberately do something that causes me pain. Because that’s what happens frequently with my physical therapy – I am causing myself pain. Unfortunately, much like Shelby Eatonton having to have 9 bridesmaids in Steel Magnolias, there is no way around that.

Sometimes, physical therapy just hurts. But you know what? It doesn’t always hurt and it will get better.

A year ago I couldn’t have imagined certain size dilators would not be excruciatingly painful and yet now they are not. For a while there, I couldn’t get my mind to wrap around that. I was frustrated and angry and upset and that didn’t help things. My body would play off the messages my mind was sending and make the experience worse. Once, it hurt so bad I cried for a long time afterwards. It felt like I’d never make any progress.

But you know what? I did. One day things just got better. It really was as simple as that. Something that hurt one day and drove me to tears, suddenly became easier and the pain went away. I try to keep that in mind when something does hurt because I know that one day it won’t. When I allow my mind to relax, my body will follow suit and things work out so much better.

One particular detail that bothers The Gal is that sometimes I bleed. Yes indeed, sometimes there is blood. So far it’s only happened twice and it can certainly be disconcerting (which is nicer than saying the first time it kind of freaked me out), but that also goes away. I am not sure why it happens, but I’ve discussed it with my physical therapist in the past and I think it’s really a matter of hitting a tender spot when doing a stretch and/or making a small tear in the vaginal wall. And let’s be real here. I’m putting a large, hard foreign object into my vagina, which we’ve previously established is a bit of a hostile environment these days. And once inserted, I’m stretching the vaginal walls which have proven that they aren’t very flexible to begin with, which logically means there will be pain. Possibly even blood. (Side note: I find it perversely funny that I am a freakishly flexible human being in basically every part of my body except for my vagina.)

The bleeding happened for the second time a few nights ago and I’ll be bringing it up in my next PT session to keep her in the loop. I wasn’t expecting it because I felt like that session went really well and the pain was less intense than it usually is. Then…blood. I don’t want to make light of that nor do I want to make it sound like a bigger issue than it was. It was truly minor and did stop soon enough. Heck, the paper cut I got today hurt more than that did, but it’s more about the mystery of why it happens and how to prevent it in the future if possible.

Telling your friends things like this will, doubtless, mess with their heads. I don’t know how it couldn’t. Even the most supportive friends, like The Girls, are surely to be squeamish about those kinds of things. What I find so strange is that I am not. I don’t think I ever have been. From the moment I realized I had to take control and find out what was wrong, I’ve never looked back. Once my mental health counselor suggested maybe I take a break from physical therapy if I felt like it was taking a physical toll on me and I looked at her like she was insane. I’m not going to stop. I’m not going to let things regress. I’m only moving forward. There is no other option.

So to recap our story today kids, sometimes simply saying the world “vagina” (that makes 12 times in the word count game) will freak out your friends. Then if you talk about having to stick foreign objects inside it or having it start to bleed from said objects, well, you’re pushing it. Push it real good. bahahahaaha I crack myself up.

But my hope is that anyone dealing with a situation like vaginismus has friends who can handle these discussions. Those who will be supportive and lift you up…like my Girls. Oh, there’s another boob joke for you right there.

Slip Sliding Away, a humorous tale of personal lubrication

“All I remember is sitting up on the table thinking, ‘Oh my God! There’s lube everywhere!’”

And thus we begin our heroine’s (um...that would be me) descent into madness. Or, well, at least the descent into the battle with too much lube. *sigh* It happens.

Lube. Personal lubricant. KY Jelly. Astroglide. Slippery Stuff (my personal preference). You know what I’m talking about. Don’t make me keep naming names.

I want to write something funny. I keep thinking that I will and then I back off, not wanting to say something considered too inappropriate. Or I worry that what I think is funny simply won’t translate as such to other people. One thing, however, that really should be universally humorous is the wacky hijinks that happen during physical therapy as related to lube.

If you think about it, it’s easy to see that the use of lube would be a huge component of pelvic floor physical therapy. As much lubrication of the vaginal canal as you can manage is going to help with inserting a dilator or a penis. That may not solve all the problems, but it certainly helps and I can personally attest to this.

Whenever I’m in physical therapy, it seems like something funny happens with the lube. My therapist talks all the time about the copious amounts she uses on each patient. I’d never really thought about it because I don’t pay that much attention to how much she uses. I’m more focused on if there is pain during a stretch or, better yet, when there is not.

One day, however, we had finished my session and the therapist had left the room so I could get dressed. As I sat up on the table to get cleaned up, my first thought was "Oh my God! There’s lube EVERYWHERE!!" I mean, seriously. It seemed like it was everywhere – on me, on the sheet covering the table…all over the place. Now, I’m fine with using more rather than less because I don’t want pain, but this seemed perhaps a wee bit excessive.

Of course, normal people don’t go around telling people this kind of thing, but then, I’ve never been normal. It’s part of my charm. As much as I thought that would be a freakishly good social media status update, I managed to refrain and simply told a few friends about it. Thankfully, they laughed, but then, they also know I’m nuts. It helps to remember that.

Another morning the PT was putting lube onto the dilator – covered in a condom, as mentioned in a previous post, because we do like to practice safe sex – when suddenly a large blob fell right onto the floor. The look on her face was priceless! Her mouth fell open, her eyes went wide as saucers, and she stared in shock. I, of course, was of no help since I was laying on the table, naked from the waist down and covered in a sheet...laughing like a hyena.  

Recently the office changed the brand of condom they use (I have no idea which kind was used now or before) and the PT commented that sometimes the lube simply slides right off. Well, yes. Yes, it does. Onto the floor. Onto me. Probably onto her shoe now and then, but I haven’t witnessed that. Yet.

A week or so ago she was once again lubing up the dilator at the start of our session, using this bottle of Slippery Stuff with a pump (like a lotion bottle). As she got just about the right amount that she wants on there, a big blob slid right off and onto my sheet-covered stomach. She looked more horrified and it was more comical than the first time she dropped some on the floor. And I'm just lying on the table laughing at her because her expression was too damned funny. I wish I'd had a camera.

It may not make it funnier, but my physical therapist is 26-years-old and a reasonably petite blonde. She’s kind of perky, but I don’t mean that in a mean-spirited way at all. She has the perfect personality for the work she does and we get along like gangbusters. But half of the funny in all this is how she reacts when she drops something or the condom shoots across the room. It’s comedic horror at its finest. Twice condoms have shot across the room while she was putting them on the dilator. Really people, you can’t make this stuff up.

Sometimes it’s just hard to stop the laughter…thank God!! If I had to go through all this straight-faced and uptight (And hellloooo! Being so damned uptight is part of what got me into this mess to begin with I am sure.) I’d never make it.

On a more serious note, I have the sneaking suspicious that most folks don’t use enough lube even if the woman doesn’t have this kind of problem. I can only imagine it would make things better for everyone if they did. There’s my unsolicited tip for today.

The recommendations from my therapy office are for water-based personal lubricants, like Slippery Stuff (which is what they use and what I use and can be purchased from Amazon.com as I haven’t seen it in my local stores) or Astroglide. My PT isn’t big on KY.

I’m sure I’ll have more humorous lube stories in the future. It’s just something that seems to lend itself to funny things happening. Although I’m really surprised I haven’t had any twisted, awkward dreams revolving around personal lubrication. It seems like that would have been a given.

Now if someone could tell me how I managed to nearly put my underwear on inside out one day after physical therapy, that would be great. It’s not the first time I’ve put on my underwear. You’d think I’d know by now how it’s done.

You want me to do WHAT with that?!?!

I honestly don’t remember much about my consultation or first physical therapy session. It’s been going on for so long now that it’s simply a part of my life. A part that I hope will be over sooner rather than later, but it is what it is.

The first day I went to consult with my physical therapist, she showed me a model of the pelvis and explained the different muscles and how they connected and worked. Then she said if I felt comfortable, we could do an initial pelvic exam. Nothing says “fun” like having to explain your sex life (or lack of one) to a total stranger and then get naked from the waist down so that they can examine you. Yeah, I think that’s right about the time I lost my filter on discussing all sorts of things and lost any inhibitions I might have had about allowing a stranger to see me naked (at least in a clinical setting). And vulnerable. Let’s never underestimate the level of vulnerability that goes along with a situation like this. But my therapist was (is) nice and it was either trust her or never solve my problem, so I voted in favor of trust and have certainly been proven right.

Thankfully, physical therapy has been helpful to me physically, but also a reason to laugh a ridiculous amount. As a friend of mine said, who suffers from vaginismus and a dermatological condition called lichen sclerosus, (which I actually think I was diagnosed with about 20 years ago) “you get to know someone pretty well when they are all up on your hoo ha”. Since that friend is also a doctor, I guess that means “hoo ha” is, in fact, a medical term. Use it as you will. But back to the laughter…my PT and I laugh ourselves silly sometimes during physical therapy. I’ve shed tears a time or two, but never in the office. We really laugh through PT in the office. Thank God!!

Looking back, however, I can’t imagine how I was ever convinced that this was a good idea. I mean, let’s break it down here. You are in a clinical setting, although it’s set up like a spa room for relaxation purposes with low lighting and soothing colors and paying someone to stick a hard object into your vagina. Depending on the severity of someone’s condition, this can be excruciatingly painful, no matter how hard you try to relax. I was given a set of breathing and relaxation exercises to work on outside of PT sessions, but that doesn’t mean the nerves won’t get you. If you are experiencing pain when something is inserted in your vagina, it’s hard for your mind and body not to have the instant reaction of tensing up when that is attempted.

No one is asking, but here is exactly what is used for the physical therapy. This is a medical dilator set that can be purchased on Amazon.com (and other places, obviously). This is the model that is used by my physical therapist and I have this set at home as well. And yes, they practice safe sex in the therapy office since the dilator always wears a condom. J

This photo was taken from Amazon.com's listing for this dilator set.

This is not the set that is initially recommended by my therapist, which is why I have 2 sets. She tells all her patients about this dilator set since it only costs about $25.

I have both sets because they differ in sizing and if I was going to be able to do the same PT at home that we did in the office, I wanted to have comparable sizes.

I’ve said to many people and I hope it is obvious that there is nothing sexy or erotic about this. Nothing whatsoever. I don’t enjoy pain and had zero interest in the “50 Shades of Grey” books. Pain isn’t fun. It isn’t sexy. It’s pain, plain and simple. Which leads me to another extremely important component of physical therapy – the use of copious amounts of personal lubricant. But that’s a story – many funny stories, actually – for another day. Right now I’m focused more on the dilator sets. And so are you, most likely, since I’ve made you look at pictures.

This physical therapy is something I will always have to do, even when I’m released from office visits. In order to keep the vaginal muscles working well, they have to remained stretched out and this is going to be the best way of keeping them like that. That’s also why I bought the white set of dilators – it’s an investment since I know I’ll be using them more than a few months. I’m fortunate that I can afford to do that. I’m fortunate that I can afford to have the physical therapy that my body needs. I’m fortunate that I’ve got people who are supportive of what I am doing, even if they most likely would prefer NOT knowing about everything happening #allupinmyvagina.

I’m not sure if I have a twisted sense of humor or if things that happen really are funny. I’ve had the dilator fall on the floor. I’ve had the pieces separate while I was using them (still haven’t figured out how that one happened). At least twice the condom has shot across the room while the physical therapist was trying to put it on the dilator. I think we laughed so hard we cried the first time it happened. You can’t make this stuff up.

Twice I’ve even allowed an undergrad PT student to sit in during a session, always on the side where they couldn’t see anything, mind you. I tell them about how I came to be in therapy, what it feels like and how my body reacts during a session; I’ll pretty much answer any of their questions as long as they are interested in learning and not freaked out by the kind of physical therapy that is going on (and they are always female).

I suppose my mantra or my theme for all this is that you can either laugh or you can cry. I continue to choose laughter and am grateful for all the ridiculously funny moments that happen in this journey. We laugh every single time and maybe in this case, laughter truly is the best medicine. ‘Cause, y’know, nobody offered me valium, so…