Content warning: This article includes in-depth descriptions of extreme vaginal pain in medical and sexual situations, and violent imagery in a dark humour context.

I was diagnosed with vaginismus in 2020, in what I’m sure would have been an otherwise uneventful year.

I had long suspected something may have been amiss; the first time I attempted to use a tampon at age 11, the pain was so intense it caused me to momentarily black out. But my unworldly self put this down as one of those “primal experiences” I’d heard some must suffer on the road to adulthood.

So it came as a shock when, during my diagnosis, my doctor gently explained that most people don’t feel like someone’s sawing at their vaginal canal with a bread knife during a routine swab.

I was referred to a gynaecologist, where after a brief physical exam, she concluded my pelvic floor had more strain on it than the Nixon administration at the height of Watergate. It was during that appointment that I first heard the word “vaginismus”, and came away with a newfound understanding of my body.

Photo by Sélina Farzaei

At the time of my diagnosis, the act of penetration was more important to me than sex.

As a queer woman, I know there are a thousand ways to give pleasure, and to make a person gasp and blush. And yet, I felt penetration was a hurdle I had to conquer.

I was tired of turning my head away from my partners in bed, trying to hide tears of pain and embarrassment. I was sick of fearing pap smears, swabs or any kind of vaginal examination.

And I deeply envied my friends who found rapture in sex, as opposed to only finding repulsion and pain.

My gynaecologist gave me a set of dilators and taught me how to use them.

Every night, I stared down my vagina like Van Helsing in the climax of Dracula and staked myself over and over again, slowly learning how to lean into the sensation and relax.

I was soon drunk on the fizzing euphoria that came with my pain fading. Then eventually, the pain disappeared altogether. I had triumphed.

Still, my vaginismus followed me. Whenever I met a new partner, my diagnosis was always one of the first things I shared with them: a pop-up disclaimer to accept the terms and conditions of my body. Buyer beware, these goods may be faulty.

Four years after my diagnosis, I experienced a flare-up.

I had a bad period where I bled for a week and a half, and was left with bloating that made it look like I’d swallowed a watermelon whole. I also went through a busy and stressful time at work, where I was coming home drained and exhausted every night. It didn’t occur to me that these issues could affect my vaginismus.

But, during a later attempt at intimacy, it suddenly felt like someone had stuck a corkscrew inside me and started twisting it. It was an agony I hadn’t felt in a long time; it felt like my body had betrayed me.

The next morning, still fuming, I dug out my dilators from the back of my cupboard and dusted them off. But while using them, the pain didn’t decrease – rather, it seemed to burn brighter, like a dying star. In a fit of frustration, I remember gritting my teeth and pushing as hard as I could.

One torn vagina later, I sheepishly washed the blood off the dilator and sat down on the side of the bath.

It is deeply understandable that a person with a sore vagina must be in want of a permanent solution. But what I’d failed to understand in my rush to quell my vaginismus, is that no amount of physical therapy would ever be able to eliminate it.

There is a misunderstanding, even among people who are familiar with the condition, that once someone is successfully using tampons or having penatrative sex, their vaginismus is cured.

But in the same way the roaring ache of grief will return when you least expect it – in an old birthday card, or the scent of the aftershave they wore – I discovered that my pain wasn’t gone, merely dormant.

I’d put in the work. I’d done everything right. I’d gone months, even years without any issues. And after one bad week, I felt as though I was back at square one.

Even at that lowest point, I knew a few things to be true. I knew that sex is more than just the act of penetration. I knew that love is more than a body meeting a body.

And I knew that, with a bit of patience and practice, I could once again conquer my pain.

So, once I’d healed from my injury, I returned to the dilators. If the pain was too much, rather than push through it, I listened to my body and took a break.

In time, the vaginismus flare-up subdued, until the pain finally disappeared altogether.

In the face of societal pressures exerted on young people – especially where sex is concerned – it’s easy to see vaginismus as a personal failing.

Yet when I reflect on my experiences to date, I don’t see failure. I see someone who has been knocked down over and over again, and each time has gotten back up. I see someone who has learned to look her pain in the eye and tell it, “You will not defeat me.” 

I will never live without vaginismus. But if I know one thing, it’s that I can learn to live with it.