the s word

Disclaimer: I will tell you right off the bat - this post is about sex. If that is not something you're comfortable reading about, please don't feel pressured to continue reading. You can stop right now and wait for my next blog post to be published - I won't be offended in the slightest! To those of you who choose to continue reading, I will tell you that I know this is a sensitive discussion topic, and with that in mind, this post will not explain things in graphic detail. I did my best to write as tactfully as possible without watering down what I want to say. This post is also going to involve sincere vulnerability. I've gone back and forth about whether or not to write it, and when I finally wrote it, I went back and forth about whether or not to publish it (which is why it's a little late). I'm choosing to do so in the hopes that someone will find this helpful. This post is for that person.

In previous posts, I've hinted at the fact that sex (read: vaginal intercourse) hasn't been as simple or as easy as I thought it would be. For those of you who didn't know, Peter and I were virgins before we got married. It was a lifestyle choice that both of us made long before we met. So, in all honesty, what I knew about sex came from movies and books, and then later I learned things from friends of mine as they entered relationships and/or got married. The problem with basing all of your sexual knowledge on movies and books is the fact that consensual sex is always depicted in a positive light, and that positivity is experienced mutually by both parties, more often than not (granted, I'm only using myself as the sample size here, so I'm not claiming this to be true of all movies and books, just the ones I've personally seen/read).

So what happens when sex turns out to be uncomfortable, even painful, at times, and there's no mutual pleasure from it? (Again, I'm only talking about vaginal intercourse here - I can assure you that the other aspects of my sex life are good!) At first, I thought it was just a matter of getting used to it. Maybe if we try more often. Maybe if we try different positions. Maybe if we try looking up tips online. Peter was certainly doing everything he could to help make my experience more enjoyable and less uncomfortable, make no mistake about that, and there were certainly times when it was just that, but I still experienced a lot of discomfort and I didn't know why. We sought out advice and made sure that we observed the standard answers (like using lube and enjoying some foreplay). Nothing seemed to work, though. I became a bit jaded. I couldn't help but think, "Why would I want to do something that sometimes hurts and that I seldom seem to enjoy?" In some of the marriage books I read during our engagement, this theme of making sacrifices being an important part of a marriage and how it's not about "winning" or getting your way all of the time kept surfacing. But what happens if it feels like you're making sacrifices all of the time?

Soon enough, I went from thinking it was just a matter of time to being in flat-out denial that something was wrong. I didn't think I needed help, and every time Peter gently suggested that maybe it would be good for us to talk to a sex therapist, I said no. I refused to acknowledge that there was something wrong with me, especially something that I couldn't fix myself. There was a huge problem with this, though. Even though sex wasn't always painful, it was painful more often than not, and because of that, I started avoiding it. I KNEW it was a psychological phenomenon that I was experiencing - I equated sex with pain in my mind, and I didn't want to keep trying because I assumed it wasn't going to get any better. Slowly but surely, we started having sex less and less.

This led to another problem, one that was even worse. My denial that there was an issue in our sex life meant I was hurting Peter terribly. His personal physical needs weren't his biggest concern; it was more that he started questioning whether or not I still found the idea of sex with him appealing. Learning that truth was devastating because that was NEVER something that had crossed my mind. Perhaps it's because we're still newlyweds, but I often find myself watching Peter, especially when we're with others, and marveling at the fact that this beautiful specimen of a human being is MINE and that he chose ME. I don't notice other guys anymore; he's all I want. Also, before we got married, it was SUPER hard keeping our hands off of each other lol. But Peter noticed a shift after we were married, since I went from wanting sex to avoiding it, and he became concerned that he was responsible for my newfound negative feelings towards it. It really had nothing to do with him, though. I don't know that many other guys would have been as patient as he has been throughout this entire process, and I want to reiterate the fact that my disdain of sex had nothing to do with him. He has really done everything he can to make it better for me, and always puts my sexual needs above his own. I have never equated sex with Peter with pain; it was just the sex by itself. I assumed it would be the same no matter who I was sleeping with. I finally realized that the way I was dictating our sex life wasn't sustainable (or fair at all), and the physical pain I sometimes experienced was going to be the least of my worries.

We finally visited my gynecologist to check that all of my lady parts were in working order, since we had no idea what the problem might be, and that we really were doing everything within our power to make me as comfortable as possible while being intimate. After her examination, and after having a vaginal ultrasound to be extra safe, she told us that the problem was simply that the muscles I have in that area are tight. My muscles were tense during the examination, and that's really all it took for her to recognize the problem. I'm not accustomed to having to use those muscles, so when I use them, I tense up. She suggested I visit a physical therapist to help me learn how to relax my muscles, to control them. I wasn't really sure what to think about that. I had no idea this was something that women actually visited a physical therapist for. I was determined to fix things, though, so I made an appointment. The physical therapist was incredibly sweet, and assured me (sadly) that she's seen plenty of other women who also struggle in this area. It was so freeing just to know I'm not the only one with this problem. She taught me some breathing exercises to complete while doing some exercises with my muscles to help me relax. Interestingly, the type of breathing I do when I sing (that deep breathing you do from your diaphragm, not your chest) is the type of breathing she said I should practice. She also gave me a ton of other helpful information, and I left feeling hopeful.

My thoughts still associate sex with pain, so if I'm honest, I haven't been practicing those exercises while being intimate with Peter as often as I could be. This morning, Peter and I actually had a serious conversation about it. And I've realized I need to get rid of that fear. Because that's really what this is about, isn't it? I'm afraid that I will experience pain when I have sex. That is a feeling that I need to squash, and I can only do that by choosing not to give up. You know what else I've realized? Sharing that kind of intimacy with Peter is so much more important to me than avoiding the pain I might feel in the midst of it. Obviously I've never been this physically close to someone before, but I've also never been this emotionally close to someone either. I love him so very much. It's okay that we don't have it all figured out right now. It's okay if it takes a little more time. At the end of the day, I believe our love will get us through this.

Despite the struggle, God is good (I'm actually listening to Hillsong's new People album as I finish up this post - it's really good!). Marriage is messy, and my marriage is in no way perfect (as this post has made clear). But what makes me hopeful is the fact that Peter and I love each other despite the messiness. We'll get through this, and we'll be better for it. I just thought I'd share because I've felt quite alone in this...not because I felt I didn't have anyone to talk to, but because I had never heard of someone struggling sexually in the same way that I am currently struggling. It has certainly led to bouts of depression and feelings of isolation. No more, though! This blog has been an ode to saying goodbye to the things I allow to put me down or scare me or attack my self-confidence, and this fear of pain during intimacy is no exception. This blog has also seriously drawn me closer to people in ways that I hadn't even fathomed when I started it, and I'm looking forward to continuing to develop these deeper connections with people! Shout-out to all of you who have helped us through this process (you know who you are). Though we've been keeping this on the down low until now, we appreciate every conversation we've had with you about this and all of the advice you've given us.

I've recently been reading Daring Greatly by Brene Brown which discusses the importance of vulnerability, and I'm being reminded that vulnerability isn't a weakness - it's actually an act of courage. I don't have it all together, and I'm tired of pretending I do. Here's to being a bit more courageous in my daily life. Please do not hesitate to PM me if you wish to discuss any of this further. Let's break through these barriers together! <3

P.S.-To the love of my life: You are a blessing that I don't deserve. Thank you for standing by me, even when I felt led to write a post that would expose some of the most intimate parts of our marriage. You're the real MVP. I love you like Cersei loves being a baddie.