Womanhood And Vaginismus: A Journey Of Acceptance

Thank you to the inspiring and talented Paula Amenta for the use of her photograph in this piece!

Whilst it’s often thought that mental health is the aspect of wellbeing we struggle to share, the journey to acceptance and living a fulfilling life whilst battling chronic pain and illness is an aspect of women’s health often shied away from. It is estimated that between 5-17% of women live with vaginismus (although the taboo nature of the subject means statistics are hard to come by), and consequently we cannot thank Meredith enough for her honest and raw contribution to the site. We hope her words provide some comfort and reassurance to others who may be struggling in silence:

“The first moments I felt truly insecure were during my summers as an adolescent, spent on an idyllic river with dear friends in Northern Ontario. For a handful of weeks each summer, I would wait out my period on the rocky shoreline, unable to swim due to my puzzling inability to use a tampon 

I was what they call an “early bloomer,” the joys of womanhood arriving for me at the young age of twelve. Soon after, my hours were spent in the bathroom, learning the ins and outs of becoming a woman, attempting to win a losing battle against a box of Tampax Pearl. 

I soon made up weak excuses to mask the humiliation I felt towards myself and my body. I consistently skirted the natural discussion of periods and girly things amongst friends to avoid addressing this odd predicament I had found myself in. The truth is, I had no idea what was wrong with me, and why any attempt at using a tampon had caused me so much pain. This was certainly not something they touched on in health class or your run-of-the-mill puberty book for girls. 

I felt lost and downright embarrassed at such a young and vulnerable age. So, I avoided the issue, buried my worries, and continued on with my otherwise happy teenage years, all in the hope that this would somehow disappear. 

Seven years later and I am sat in a gynaecologist’s chair at home in Toronto, where the doctor has attempted yet another unsuccessful pelvic examination. It was my third that year. With my first serious boyfriend, I felt panicked to get to bottom of why this had been happening. I sat on the edge of the table while she calmly explained to me that I have a condition called “Vaginismus.” I left her office with a yellow referral slip for a physiotherapist and an agonizing feeling that this was not going to be an easy fix. Out of both fear and an odd sensation of relief, I cried the whole way home. 

Vaginismus is a disorder that causes involuntary pelvic floor spasms, which makes any kind of insertion severely painful or impossible. It is thought that two in every 1000 women have the disorder, however this number is expected to be higher due to many women’s hesitancy to address the issue in the first place. Thankfully, this condition is highly curable with the help of intense therapy and counselling.

Initially, it was reassuring to know I wasn’t crazy for something that I had knowingly struggled with for close to a decade. This uncontrollable reaction was something other doctors had suggested might be the natural anxieties of first-time intimacy. Deep down, I knew it was more than that. On the contrary, it was the dread of experiencing searing pain that I had come to associate with penetration, and now dismally expected. I had always wanted to take part, but my body betrayed me. It became my biggest insecurity. 

I felt pathetic in the weeks that followed that doctor’s appointment. I desperately threw myself into physio during my breaks from university, but to no avail. I wanted a quick, easy, and painless fix: an operation, a pill – anything! I didn’t feel like a woman and the pressure I put on myself to get better was overwhelming. I felt jealous of other women who were physically able, which shamed me. I became so dejected and I was convinced I would die a virginal old maid. What man would fall for a woman who couldn’t have “normal” sex? That’s what men wanted, right? 

I possessed this bottled-up secret that I hid from nearly everyone I knew. I refused to talk about it due to the deep humiliation I was experiencing. How do you casually tell someone that your vagina doesn’t work? My internal agony and inadequacy smothered my spirit. No one should have to feel so much anguish over their own body. I was tired of berating myself. 

It wasn’t until I took a one-off writing class at university that I had an opportunity to write and speak openly about what I had been going through. Our first assignment was to pen a personal humiliation essay. For the first time, I had been given a chance to go head to head with not only the physical, but also the mental and emotional struggles that I had been dealing with for so long. It was an incredibly therapeutic process for me. I still remember the way my hands and voice shook while I read it aloud to a room full of compassionate strangers, the weight of it all slowly easing off my shoulders.

The opportunity to speak, write, and produce photographic essays about Vaginismus has been both liberating and humbling for me. Being so raw and open about this disorder has connected me to other women who are going through exactly the same ebbs and flows that I am. To feel accompanied in this, I have realized, is crucial to not feeling so discouraged.  

In the interest of normalising female sexual health disorders, I feel it is absolutely integral that we continue this critical conversation surrounding them. Even with increasing amounts of impactful dialogue, there is still so much that is misunderstood and misrepresented in both society and the medical industry when it comes to Vaginismus.

Personally, I have not yet been able to find a method of therapy that works best for me. Despite this, I’ve learned how to take care of and accept myself and my body as I wait for a time when I can fully immerse myself in that healing process. 

This disorder has taught me that we all struggle with things, be it internally or externally – sometimes even both. It is important that we exercise empathy and genuine kindness in all that we do. Although I still have moments of great stress and anxiety over Vaginismus, I have come to realize that it does not define me, my femininity, or my ability to show affection. It is a physical discrepancy, a small blip in my overall being and my journey throughout womanhood. I refuse to let it win by letting it get me down and allowing it to tarnish precious moments. Although I am not yet the success story I yearn for, I hold onto hope for myself and for my peers who struggle with this taboo, overlooked disorder”

Meredith Sherlock is a professional food, travel and commercial photographer, aspiring writer, and avid traveller. She is based between Toronto and New York, where she is pursuing her BFA in Photography at Parsons School of Design. Meredith hopes that the stigmas surrounding Vaginismus, and other female sexual health disorders, can be abolished through art, media, and writing. To view Meredith’s portfolio, visit www.meredithsherlock.com.