"... If My Wife Denied Me Sex, I'd Probably Divorce Her..."

I feel an immense desire to journal an experience I had with my former doctor.  The experience, at the time, left me feeling as if I were defective and broken.

Early in our marriage my husband and I did not have the best sex life.  In fact, we hardly had one at all.  Even though I don't currently blame myself for our former circumstance, I very much did so at the time.

I struggled with opening myself up and connecting, but mostly, sex physically hurt. I also had (and continue to have) a real strong aversion to pelvic exams.

I thought there was something physically wrong with me; that I was defective in some way.  Seeking help, I made an appointment with my OBGYN to talk things over with him.

I went into the appointment hopeful.  I really liked my doctor.  He had recently delivered my first child and my husband and I both had established quite a bond with him.  He was nice, encouraging and gave freely of his time.  He even took phone calls at home, which is pretty much a dead tradition.

I felt nervous as I sat in his office, but I really wanted to get better.  I was ready to talk about my problem, seek answers and get help.

He finally entered the room and I spent a few minutes describing my symptoms.  He listened carefully and asked me some questions.  He didn't need to physically exam me because he had recently delivered my baby and based on that, determined everything physical was in working order.

Then something completely unexpected happened; as if the energy switched in the room and my once advocate suddenly became my enemy.

He began to tell me that God placed us here on the earth to procreate, and in order to do that we have to have sex.  He told me that by denying my husband sex I was, in essence, disobeying God and sinning.  He told me that the pain was all in my head and that my mental problems were getting in the way of me doing the Lord's will.

And then he capped it off with "... if my wife denied me sex, I would probably divorce her."

I sat there quietly as tears streamed down my face.  I felt horrible.  Wretched.  Broken.  Worthless.

... because I believed him.

All that I had felt about myself, that men just want me for my body, was confirmed in the space of three to five minutes.  And by someone I completely trusted.

I mean, why would he lie?  He's supposed to have my best interest at heart.

I left his office feeling beaten.

I don't remember much about the following months.  I did seek out therapy which was somewhat helpful.  But I still felt a deeply embedded shame; resigned to being broken.

It wasn't until recently that I found out I wasn't crazy.

Even though I no longer struggle with it as I once did, my condition was very real.  It's called vaginismus and it effects about 10% of women nationwide.

Imagine the relief I felt when I realized that not only was I not defective, but I wasn't alone either.  What I struggled with was real and not imagined.

My doctor was wrong.  Literally and ethically. (This is the same doctor that told me I peed my pants when my water broke and just recently finished a stint in Federal prison for smuggling phentermine into the US from Mexico and selling them on the internet).

I have also come to learn that I was not created so that people can touch me, or use me how they want.  I am my own person and I still govern what I do with my body.  I am not obligated nor required to have sex.  Yes, sex is a beautiful gift, but it is very fragile and when any level of darkness comes into play, the beauty of it completely disappears.

I would rather never have sex again than have tainted sex.  How can I lovingly attach to my wonderful husband if I continue to feel used when we come together in unison?  I'm not placing blame.  I am just as accountable for the darkness that sometimes invades as anyone.

I have really noticed a difference in me since I've started recovery.  Boundaries are never easy to set, but I can set them now.  And for the most part I can uphold them.

I'm grateful for this space in which I can place my pain.  It helps me release and let go.