In 2017, I was in my final year at University and whilst scrolling on social media, I stumbled upon an article that completely changed my life. The headline went something like "How to tell if you have Vaginismus" and I figured it was worth a read.
I'd never come across the term Vaginismus until that day, yet I'd experienced pelvic pain most of my adult life. The more I read the article, the more I resonated with the pain, confusion and frustration that the author felt. I completely related to everything she described - from the initial pelvic pain she had experienced when first attempting to use a tampon, to the crippling fear she felt when having to undergo gynae appointments. How had I never heard of this before?
By the end of the article, I felt sure that I had Vaginismus. I immediately booked an appointment with my GP in Northern Ireland, filled with excitement that I finally understood what was going on with me and that I was going to get the help I needed.
From that initial appointment until now, I have had a mix of positive and negative experiences when trying to cure my Vaginismus, something I've since learnt is a universal experience. My initial GP appointment resulted in a referral for psychosexual therapy at a local hospital. I attended the appointment with optimism and hope, but left in tears. The therapist diagnosed me with Primary Vaginismus, putting it down to my 'Catholic upbringing', but gave me very little practical advice or support in order to overcome this. For what it's worth, I felt that I my Catholic upbringing was a stretch. I have a Catholic mother and a non-religious father and as a child was brought up going to Mass until approximately the age of 11, when I could make my own decisions and stopped attending. But besides this, Catholicism was not strict in our household. My family are very open-minded, liberal and by no means enforced the Catholic way of life on me, or my sibling, growing up. Moreover, my peers who were brought up in a similar way and attended the same church, have never felt the effects of Vaginismus. For me, it had to be something more than just my 'Catholic upbringing'. I'm still not 100% sure what has caused it, but I strongly suspect some of it is down to a severe lack of sex education in Northern Ireland, plus childhood conversations around sex that spoke to the pain of 'breaking your hymen'.
I began to dread the appointments, as so often they involved a physical examination which would leave me shaking and in tears. I found the therapist had little patience for my reaction, and I felt so ashamed. The consultant suggested I buy dilators, which I did, but I struggled to make progress with them. After a few sessions and no progress, I was referred to a more senior consultant in another hospital. This time, I was seen by a male consultant (and a student who would sit in on our sessions), who suggested I use the medical dilators provided by the NHS. During these appointments, the consultant would ask me to try to use the dilators under his supervision, which more or less involved pushing the dilators in and breathing through the pain. Again, I left the sessions in tears and more in fear of my anatomy than ever before.
Then came the Pandemic. A blessing in disguise. I was furloughed and had time on my hands, so I went back to my original silicone dilators and began to make real progress. I was delighted! I felt like I was slowly on the road to being cured. But as soon as I went back to work, life caught up with me and my dilating took a back seat. Moreover, due to Covid, my appointments with the consultant were cancelled for the foreseeable.
Flash forward to now and I'm still on a waiting list to see my consultant again (I've been waiting since 2021), so I've started seeing a pelvic floor therapist privately. I found her on Instagram and realised she was one of the few therapists in Northern Ireland that specifically treat Vaginismus, so I knew it was worth a try. The therapist completely emphasised with my disappointing experience with previous consultants. As she wasn't from Northern Ireland originally, she had a totally different outlook on why I might have Vaginismus, beyond the archaic notion that most issues here stem from religion. I saw her for a few months and made some steady progress with her being able to insert a finger, but then I plateaued. She recommended I undergo Botox as part of my treatment, which I'm now in the process of pursuing. On top of this, she recommended exploring more psychosexual therapy, (although I am struggling to find people who truly understand the problem- I dabbled with a CBT therapist for a few months who couldn't pronounce the word Vaginismus and gave me the advice of 'if you don't use it, you'll lose it') and offered helpful tips like listening to Binaural Beats whilst dilating.
Vaginismus can sometimes feel overwhelming. It's a confusing, debilitating condition that I still feel is hugely under-researched. However, it's a journey, and I am prepared to continue working on getting myself the treatment I need and deserve. In terms of support, I've loved being part of Vaginismus communities online (specifically on Facebook, Instagram, and Reddit), where I take comfort in reading other people's struggles and also their success stories. It inspires me and motivates me and reinforces for me that more people have Vaginismus that I ever realised.
As I approach 30, almost a decade after reading the initial "How to tell if you have Vaginismus' article, I remain hopeful that by continuing with pelvic floor therapy, dilating, and perhaps giving Botox a try, I might begin to make some strides. What are my goals? Well, I would love to be able to insert a tampon without fear, enjoy intimacy, and book in for a smear test. Achieving any of those will feel like a milestone. I know it will take time, but the accomplishment I will feel when the time comes will make it all worth it.
- Anonymous, 29, Northern Ireland
