Quiet therapy. Time alone with some Zen-like thoughts. That will be good. I can focus more.
And that was pretty easy, so maybe I’ll try something a little larger in scale.
This one is inexplicably purple and sparkly. I’m not sure if it’s supposed to represent something or if it’s just supposed to be festive, but, hey, whatever floats your special.
I take another deep breath.
This isn’t working quite as well. I’m startled to meet instant resistance, and my mind flashes with the image of an eyelid slamming shut at the sight of a giant purple glittering finger poking at it.
Ow. OW.
“Fucking ouch!” As a reflex, my hand jerks away from my body, and the sparkly purple faux-penis goes flying across my bedroom. I regret it immediately. “What the hell? It wasn’t that much bigger!” I say this to no one, and I really super hope the pope isn’t coming.
I look down at my bed, comforter covered in naughty implements, and a feeling of dread settles in.
I’m never having sex again.
Any morning that starts with me in a backless gown and my bare ass on a tissue-paper-covered exam table is not a good day.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Well, yes, I do. I thought I’d dive right into therapy, and it would be all rainbows and lollipops, and my vagina and I would go skipping off into the sunset together.
Instead, the therapy was kind of awful. It was actually quite painful, but I kept trying, and I was up half the night battling my lady bits. Now I’m exhausted and my goddamn special hurts.
And I’ll admit, I’m panicking a little.
I just had to go and give Ryan this stupid deadline. I thought for sure I’d stroll through this whole thing and be ready for nookie and anniversaries with weeks to spare.
Add in the pressure of getting things ready for our presentation to the Coopertown Ravens concessions committee, and I am about two seconds from completely flipping my shit on everything.
There’s a knock at the door, and I say, “Come in!” in an annoyingly happy voice. Why is it so hard to sound normal when you’re not wearing pants?
Dr. Snow comes in and gives me a friendly hello. “Kat, it’s been a long time. How are you?”
“I’ve had better days,” I say, shifting my weight and regretting it as the tissue paper crinkles loudly under my ass. “Look Doc, I’m going to level with you here. My junk is broken, and I need you to fix it, okay?”
She freezes halfway through sitting down on her rolling doctor’s chair. “I’m sorry?”
“Two years ago, you told me I had vaginismus. Well, I still have it. There has to be a pill by now, right? They have, like, fifty different kinds of Viagra. Tell me someone has stepped up to help ladykind out on this one.”
Dr. Snow finally sits all the way down and looks down at her high-tech tablet medical chart. “Okay, give me a minute to catch up here.”
She starts scrolling through my medical history, and I swing my legs nervously on the exam table. I look around the room, desperate for a distraction. On the wall is a large full-color poster of a uterus with a full-term baby lodged inside. I’m probably overreacting, but I feel like that baby is judging me a little bit.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Yes, two years ago I diagnosed you with secondary vaginismus. And—”
“Wait, secondary? I don’t remember that. Is there a first kind of vaginismus?”
Dr. Snow squints at me as though she’s not sure if I’m being serious. I put my hands in my lap and try to look composed. “Secondary means you haven’t always had the condition. You, at one time, were able to have sex without pain. This was something that developed.” She crosses her legs at the knees and balances the tablet on her leg. “Patients with primary vaginismus have never been able to have intercourse without pain, or possibly at all. Some aren’t even able to have pelvic exams or wear tampons, depending on the severity of their condition.”
I involuntarily clench my knees together. That sounds horrible. Here I am, making a screaming fuss over two years, and there are women out there dealing with a significantly more hard-core scenario than me.
This isn’t my finest moment.
“Can people with primary... I mean, can they fix it?”
She nods, and my knees unclench. “The treatment is the same, and in most cases, a full recovery is possible. As is my expectation with you.”
I exhale sharply. “Okay, yes. Say more things like that, please.”
Looking at me sternly, Dr. Snow continues, “So, that was two years ago. You’re telling me you’ve been unable to have sex this entire time?”
“Sort of,” I say, smoothing my gown down over my legs. “I kinda just forgot to deal with it.”
She blinks at me. “You forgot?”
“I was busy! I was getting a new business off the ground, so it wasn’t a big priority, and the whole intimacy thing with my boyfriend sort of took a back seat. Then I realized it had been almost two whole freaking years, and oh my god, that’s a really long time. So I tried to do the therapy like you told me, and it’s not working very well, and I would just really like to get past this and have sex so I can move on, please. I need your help here.”
She’s still blinking at me. “You...forgot to have sex.”
“It slipped my mind,” I say, sighing. “But seriously, though! Tell me what to do.”
She shakes her head a little. “When you say the therapy isn’t working very well, what do you mean?”
“Well, it hurt really bad, for starters. And at first I was able to do it, but then I couldn’t get anything in there at all. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I have a bunch of printouts. I’m following all the directions. We got all the things, like it said on the website.”
“‘We’? You and your boyfriend?”
My stomach flip-flops a little at the word boyfriend, and it makes me all the more uncomfortable. “No, me and my friends. It’s been a group effort. Well, I mean, I’m doing the therapy alone, obviously. But they’re cheering me on. One of them actually went through this herself years back, and she’s been giving me advice. The whole ‘two years’ thing hasn’t gone over well for anyone.”
“You seem really focused on the ‘two years’ aspect of this.”
“Because it’s been two years, Doc.”
“That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself,” Dr. Snow says calmly. “How long have you been doing the therapy?”
“Well. Technically, I started last night,” I admit. Then, a little defensively, “Why do you keep blinking at me?”
“Kat,” she says, setting her tablet down on the counter beside her. “This is a process. If you sprained your ankle, I wouldn’t expect you to have full motor function in a day. It takes time. You can’t rush it.”
“I do know that,” I insist, feeling really pitiful. “I do, but you can’t blame me for being a tad impatient, okay? Look, is there anything I can do to, like, speed things up a little?”
“I don’t recommend speeding anything up beyond what your body is telling you it is ready for,” she says in a measured tone. “If anything, it will make the situation worse. And honestly, it doesn’t sound like you’re approaching your therapy with a calm demeanor, which might explain why you’re having trouble.”
“You’re