That One Time My Vagina Stopped Working
The effects of poverty on sexual health and confidence.
You haven’t lived until you’ve been in the doctor’s office for early-onset menopause at the ripe age of 23. Or, until you’ve had your mother googling up “angel” surgeries to have your hoo-ha restored.
Like many women (or maybe unlike some of you), I prided myself on having a healthy vagina. I was absolutely in love with everything that she was, did, and looked like. There was nothing I wished to change about her. And because of the immense infatuation I had with her, I exercised her pretty often. Maybe a lot of my identity was tied up in how sensual and sexually liberated I was (and still am).
Before this weird point in my life, nothing interrupted her flow. Literally nothing. Whether I was in the mood or not, too tired, super stressed or nervous, she performed the same way. Until she didn’t anymore.
I had just graduated from college. What was meant to be a celebratory time ended up being the start of a downward spiral that lasted almost two years? I was happy I wouldn’t have to begrudgingly show up for another 8 am class or stay up way later than I should’ve to complete an assignment that was actually due two days prior.
And I was happy that I had made history within my family lineage becoming a first-generation graduate. But I didn’t graduate with a full-time job lined up like many of my peers.
It turns out I knew less about my vagina and its functions than I thought I did.
Several months passed and I still hadn’t secured anything consistent. I was waiting tables and bartending, but it wasn’t yielding much money at all. Bills started piling up (partially because I wasn’t bringing in much money, and whatever I did bring in I was spending on booze). At the same time, my parents decided to separate. That took a toll on me. And my relationship began to suffer from all three.
I slept a lot. I cried a good bit. I showed up for my server shifts and perfected my fake smile. As for the rest of my emotions, I met them at the bottom of a bottle.
Still, I wanted to have sex.
So, we’d do it. But it didn’t feel the same. It didn’t feel good. It was extremely painful. My vagina literally would not respond to stimulation of any kind. The first time or two we shrugged it off because things happen. They do! But it kept happening over and over and over again.
Having sex began to feel like a chore. What was once used to relieve stress, generate pleasure and foster a sense of connectedness between two people, started to be the exact opposite.
Because of everything I was going through, naturally, my sex drive decreased but my partner did not. So, we persisted. And just like the time before, it wouldn’t work. This frustrated my partner and made me feel inadequate, like less of a woman.
So, I finally broke down and told my mom about it. I was in the doctor’s office within the next three days (shout out to all the moms who still make doctor’s appointments for their grown kids).
They performed all of the routine checks — pap smear, STD/STI, and then something new… A vaginal tissue check. This test made sure that the cells within my vaginal tissue were still alive. They were. My doctor told me there was absolutely nothing wrong with me and suggested I buy his favorite lubes that he uses with his wife.
Great. I’m 23 and I need lube, I thought.
I didn’t buy the lube. I was too prideful. Weeks went by and the same things happened. We tried, and we failed. It got to the point where I avoided my partner incessantly. I didn’t want to hug, kiss, hold hands or cuddle. I didn’t want any kind of physical touch to turn into a sexual advance because I knew I could not perform. I called my mom again.
We need to do something about this immediately.
That’s when she recommended the “angel” surgery. This procedure isn’t like the reconstruction surgeries (labiaplasty, and the like) that are becoming more and more popular today, but rather a rejuvenation surgery.
The inner tissues of the vagina will be — for lack of a better, less in-your-face, term — burned off with a laser to reveal “new” and “untouched” tissue. The tissue is supposed to perform naturally and normally. Though I was interested, I really could not bring myself to go through with a procedure that I shouldn’t have been even thinking about at my age.
Several more weeks went by and I got a call from the doctor’s office. It was the nurse from my appointment. She assured me that nothing was physically wrong and inquired about foreplay. She asked me if exercising foreplay, or spending more time on it, was something that I was missing or not doing enough of.
But we had never had a problem with foreplay that was my favorite part of sex. I assured her that foreplay was not the problem. My vagina just would not budge. This made sex dry, difficult, and painful.
“I thought so.”
She said the blockage I was experiencing was completely and entirely caused by mental and emotional tensions — like large amounts of [unhealthy] stress, lack of sleep, increase in alcohol consumption, and mental unrest. All the things that I was cycling through daily.
I believed her, but could not come to terms with the fact that factors like these (that had never affected my sexual health before) were the cause of such insecurities. It turns out I knew less about my vagina and its functions than I thought I did.
There are certain things that I just expected my vagina to do, like show up and be ready. This worked for a while when I didn’t have to focus on adulting. However as my responsibilities became greater, sex kept getting pushed down lower and lower on the priority list.
My vagina responded to that. And unbeknownst to me, she was doing exactly what she was supposed to do — notify me of chemical deficiencies that she could not do her job without.
It was a full year of on and off sex that was only decent and sometimes sex that was a complete fail. But slowly my stressors started falling off one by one. I got a great job. I stopped taking myself so seriously. I caught up on most of my bills. I disassociated my parent’s marriage ending with my whole world ending. And the blockage slowly began to release.
I had no idea that my outside world could impact the performance of my inner world to that degree. My vagina had never just given up on me like this before. She was a true rock and roller. And perhaps holding her stellar performances at the center of who I am was a mistake in the first place. Perhaps if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have had such a prolonged mental breakdown.
Things are better now. Sometimes I feel myself tensing up right before sex, but I remind myself that sex is only successful when I’m not having an inner war with myself. And of course, with life taking such positive turns it’s easier to want to have sex and focus while I’m there.
I don’t have to worry about any outside factors like if my electricity is going to be disconnected soon or if I have enough money to gas up my car to get to work.
Now I’m back to focusing on the big O and the vagina I knew before is making her way back.
