Vaginismus and trauma, part one

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This is a two-part series on vaginismus and sexual trauma.

See part two here.

Trigger Warning: explicit discussion of vaginas, sex, and violence

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vag·i·nis·mus noun painful spasmodic contraction of the vagina in response to physical contact or pressure (especially in sexual intercourse).” Google dictionary

For all the difficult experiences I’m public about, my vaginismus has not been one of them. The societal shame around vaginas, and the compulsion for vaginas to “perform” and “look” specific ways, has kept me at bay from my vagina for most of my life. Further, the coercive and cissexist equation of “vagina” with “womanhood” writes trans and non binary people out of our vagina narratives. And finally, sexual trauma compounds this disconnection.

But I’m working hard put this shame behind me. Sexual dysfunctions like vaginismus don’t get talked about enough. And when they do, it’s pathologizing and cisheteronormative medical discourse without discussion of its deeper potential emotional, psychic, and spiritual components. My experience as a queer, non-binary spiritual vagina-haver with complex-PTSD is a necessary corrective to these narratives. So here goes everything.

I first experienced vaginismus when I got my period and wanted to try tampons. Although I’d received basic instruction about menstruation and vaginas, which helped, I hadn’t been encouraged to develop a positive relationship with my vagina. I was pretty scared of it, to be honest. And that fear only got worse when I couldn’t insert a tampon. It hurt and stung terribly. I tried to breathe through it, thinking maybe this was just the “normal discomfort” that vagina-havers are taught to expect. Which is bullshit.

But no matter what I did and how closely I would follow the instructions, it was like hitting a wall which the tampon just couldn’t breach. I would work myself into tears trying to insert what wouldn’t enter me.

So I didn’t wear tampons. Studiously avoided pools and oceans while menstruating. Skipped my mandatory college swim class on days I was bleeding and made up the absences later.

I soon discovered the same fear and physical contraction around penetrative sex. At first, even fingers were difficult to receive. In retrospect, my whole body was contracted in fear around sex. But my mind and ego were determined to experience what sex was, even if it was uncomfortable. I gritted through an extreme amount of pain and discomfort, hoping that pleasure would be on the other side somewhere. I apologized to cis male partners, telling them that I couldn’t handle penis in vagina penetration, but that I could offer really good blowjobs instead. In my warped logic at the time, I saw blowjobs as a consolation prize for tolerating my broken body.

By sophomore year of college, I wanted to try penis in vagina (PIV) sex. I figured I could push myself through it: the first time’s supposed to hurt a little, right? I chose a fuckbuddy friend who I trusted, we got a room, and I waited for the big moment.

The big moment didn’t come. When he tried to enter me, I was so tight he felt like he was raping me. He could get about an inch into me, but there was no way he could go further without hurting me. I left feeling confused and hurt by my own body, which I thought I’d given a safe place to experience this. In retrospect, I can identify so many things that were still missing — lubrication, a willingness to say ‘no’ or ‘slow down,’ basic trust in my body. But I was fixated on my body not “working” the way I wanted it to. On missing out on something that seemed to come naturally to everyone else. Although growing exposure to feminism helped me cast aside my “broken body” narratives, I felt hopelessly different.

After a brief stint in physical therapy — turns out, vaginismus PT isn’t much more than someone putting a finger in you and telling you to breathe — I accepted there would be no quick fixes to my condition.

I’ve never seen myself in the normative hetero-narratives around vaginismus — women upset that they couldn’t have sex with their husbands or boyfriends.

In fact, I joyously turned to queer sex for the first time in my life after an experience of sexual violence. Vaginismus was way less big of a deal once my entire sexual life didn’t revolve around getting a dick inside me. Granted, that was as much about social pressure as it was about me internalizing narrow ideas of what sex is. But queer sex freed me to ground pleasure in my own body, instead of centering cis men all the time.

But there’s way more to this story than cis men.

For me, vaginismus touches my deepest and most intimate parts. My long-standing sexual trauma symptoms. My relationship to creativity, sensuality, pleasure. My sense of safety. My freedom to let go and receive.

So I’ve started to talk about this more publicly as a queer person.

There’s way too much shame and secrecy around sex, and way too much devastatingly bad framing of “sexual dysfunctions” like vaginismus.

I’m fucking grateful to my vagina for saying no, no, no, as long as it has taken for me to listen. I always knew it, but she’s metal as fuck.

Now that I’m listening, there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Developing a relationship with my vagina from the ground up has been empowering, grounding, and liberating at the same time.

Read on to the next part to find out how I’ve been turning this train of negative and traumatic experiences around. Finding actual trust with my vagina. And letting go of the need to control my body and its natural armoring.

Thanks for reading. ❤

Photo by Zahra Aprilita on Unsplash