dealing with pain and dysfunction

Category Archive

The following is a list of all entries from the assholes category.

nice guys, Nice Guys, and not getting laid

My life has been a Nice-Guy-splosion this week.  FUCK.  I can only think of one friend who is a dude and not a total goddamned asshole/Nice Guy right now.  Shoutout to Dan for not being a total bag of dicks.

The thing about dealing with so many Nice Guys is that after awhile, I stopped feeling like a person.  Most of my male friends were or are just straight up lying about it; we were never friends no matter how much I thought we were.  Right now, I don’t feel like a person who might be interesting or have something worthwhile to contribute to a friendship other than fucking.  AND HEY, I CAN BARELY EVEN DO THAT, AMIRITE?  I mean, if I can’t fuck then I’m basically pointless.  Obvs.

And the real killer thing is?  I’m in my most epic and shitty dry spell ever. Attention dudes!  This could be so easy for both of us.  Stop pretending to be my super platonic awesome friend, state your intentions and quit being whiny little manipulative assholes for an hour or so and you’re more than welcome in my bed.  What’s that, you can’t manage it?  FUCK RIGHT OFF, THEN.  I HAVE NO USE FOR YOU AND YOU HAVE NO USE FOR ME.

ETA:  it appears that the antidote to a dry spell is whining about it to the internet…


i am gonna make it through this year if it kills me.

we have all the same friends and they all like him better than me

if i told people they’d think i was an asshole

he’s way hotter than me so people would think it’s a compliment or that i’m lying

it’s best to not cause a scene and pretend to be totally cool about it

it’s close to the end of the year anyway, what good would come of saying something?

just in general, what good would come of saying anything?

i was drinking way too much

i’d slept with him a few times before anyway

it’s easier to play it off as a hilarious, if awkward, story (i stole his corkscrew as i was leaving!  ha ha!) than actually think about it

“i want to go home” isn’t a forceful enough “NO”

i’m just being way too dramatic

just because i don’t remember how i got to his apartment doesn’t mean i didn’t want to go, right?

if, when asked how i got there, he told me i was “playing hard to get” and he had to “like, physically force me” then…

oh wait, i guess shit just got a lot more difficult to rationalize away as a funny mistake between friends.

for the aforementioned reasons i’ll continue to shut up about it and keep acting like it’s totes hilarious, but i wanted the internet to know that last night someone actually had the gall to announce to me at a bar—in public!—that he “physically force[d]” me into his apartment a couple weeks ago.  i’m glad i don’t remember that part.  even making a little blog entry that no one will read feels like i’m being a hysterical prude.  anyway, there’s not really anyone for me to talk about this with, so, whatev.  i’m keeping the fucking corkscrew.

on topic:  this is the same guy that i had the horrifically awkward vulvodynia discussion with last summer, and when i got all “wtf happened” he looked really upset and asked if he had, “y’know, hurt me” (shifty gesture to my pelvis).  no, my vagina’s pretty cool most of the time nowadays, it’s just that you should maybe reconsider your idea of “fun” if it involves forcing extremely inebriated women to come home with you.  just a thought though, dude.

all the people that have been so shitty to me this year are only going to matter for four more months.  there will be no more running into them or trying super duper hard to hang out with them just so i stop being such a homebody shut-in.  i’m sure “real life” is just as cliquey and terrible as high school and college were, but fuck.  i’m going to get a puppy and we are going to love each other.  and the people that actually do matter will be there for it.

the things that are getting me through this day:  puppy face and beat control (i was at this MHoW show in august 08 and it remains one of my very favorite memories, plus the lyrics are just what i need)

Well, “I” think you’re an “asshole”

Story of my life, I have another raging yeast infection.  I got a weird strain of strep throat and a doctor at the student health center gave me 500mg of penicillin 2x a day for 10 days.  On the third day, the yeasties started.  On the fourth day, I wanted to die, it was my birthday, and I decided that my present to myself would be to stop taking the antibiotics.  I’ve been eating tons of plain yogurt, using Yeastaway, and taking AZO yeast 3x daily since Saturday.  Nothing is working.

On Monday night, I couldn’t take it anymore.  I went to an urgent care center that’s associated with the local hospital and waited two hours so someone would prescribe me Diflucan (for any non-USians/lucky ones who’ve avoided yeast/doodz, that’s an oral antifungal tablet that you take in a single dose).  Of course, no one was willing to trust me and just write the goddamned prescription so we could all go home.  Oh, no.  They had to go through the whole schpeil, with the questioning, the pelvic exam, the swab, and on and on and on.  Even though I know beyond a shadow of a doubt what is wrong with me and all I need from them is a prescription.

They asked if I had done anything over-the-counter for it, and I told them about what I’ve done so far.  When I said that I had been using yogurt, both the doctor and nurse looked at me like I’m a particularly stupid child, and in a very slow, condescending voice, told me that I “shouldn’t be eating dairy” even though every woman ever knows that plain yogurt will help a yeast infection.  They hadn’t heard of AZO or Yeastaway, so I started listing some of the ingredients and mentioned that they were homeopathic remedies.  In my chart they put a note about “so-called ‘homeopathic’ treatments,” scare-quotes and all.  UGH.  I hate visiting doctors.  Oh, and by the way, the Diflucan hasn’t done jack shit, so they can’t even be all high and mighty about being better than my so-called homeopathy.  While I’m kind of smug about the failure of western medicine, I’m still mighty pissed about this still-raging infection and that the strep has come back because I didn’t finish the antibiotics.

Just for the record, I’d rather have my throat be on fire than my vagina, any day.  Poor thing’s had enough trouble in its life, I’ll just take the strep for now.

Of course, no doctor’s visit would be complete without a little slut-shaming, so they made sure to ask me about recent sexual activity and then made a big show of doing an STI screening.  Naturally, they had to point out that with “so many” recent partners I was obviously a “huge risk” and after hearing that they’d need to double-check to make sure it wasn’t anything “nasty” like herpes.  WOW.  Really?  I was pretty mad at the time, but typing it out, I’m just stunned.  When “so-called professionals” (see what I did there) are calling STD/STIs “nasty,” you can’t deny our society’s ridiculous mischaracterization and stigmatization of sexual healthcare.  If I had been my 16 year old self I would have just bolted out the door the second they insinuated that I’m “nasty.”  Way to make people comfortable with being tested, “assholes.”

Also, since I’m obvs a huge fucking slut (my grandmother knew all along, it’s now been confirmed by doctors), I’m super pissed that this stupid infection isn’t going away.  Nobody can have any fun with a yeast infection.  Sigh.

Pain and Detachment

The assholes tag on this one is for me this time.  I’m very uncomfortable writing about this because I’m very uncomfortable with what I’ve been doing.  I mean, kind of.  In a way.  I don’t know.  I’m not doing these things to be hurtful, I’m doing this because I don’t know how to be by myself.  This summer (or whatever timeframe) is supposed to be a time for me to sort out what I’m like when I’m not in a Big Important Relationship, and that’s what I’m trying to do.  I’m not really navigating it very well and the whole thing makes me very upset and weird.

I had sex and it didn’t hurt.  It was with first with someone that I really, honestly hate and later with someone I don’t know.  That is very upsetting to me–I’ve been in two serious relationships (one of them sucked, but it still counts).  And when I was with someone I really love (or loved, as the case may be for ex-boyf #1) I wasn’t capable of having pain-free sex.  There are two reasons I’ve come up with that might be the culprit here.  The first time this happened, I had been drinking a lot–which for me, is a little.  I mean, I hardly ever drink at all.  My first hypothesis, and one that makes a lot of sense, is that alcohol both relaxed my muscles and made me less psychologically tense–i.e. it seemed like a good idea at the time.  My other hypothesis, and one that developed after the second time this happened and I hadn’t been drinking, is that there’s a lot less at stake in a casual encounter.  There’s not a feeling of this could be it! or I’m a bad girlfriend if this hurts *again* and therefore I’m less tense.  Plus I won’t ever have to see this person again, so that lowered the stakes even more.

The good thing is that now I know what that’s like, I guess.  I feel a lot more normal, though it’s been sort of hit-or-miss as to whether or not I’ll have pain.  The times I did have pain, I acted like everything was totally fine, which is one of the worse ideas I’ve had, and probably just made me seem boring.  These encounters haven’t been drawn out or happened more than a couple times, so I don’t have to have a ~*~conversation~*~ about pelvic pain, which is great.  That would make me feel decidedly not normal, anyway.  But I’m really, really disappointed about how this happened.  I wanted this to be an important, meaningful thing, with someone who would understand why it’s a big deal, someone who’s listened to me whine about this and brought milkshakes to the pity parties I throw for myself and my vag, someone who’s worked with me toward this.  We could make a cake to celebrate or go out to dinner or something, I don’t know.  But instead I’m by myself and this happened with someone that I really, literally can’t stand to hear talk–or someone who seemed decent enough but I’ll never talk to again.  I can’t discuss it with either of these people, because 1) embarrassing 2) I don’t want to speak to either of them and 3) what’s the point.  I can’t discuss it with the one person who should have been there and who should be excited with me because it wasn’t him.  It should have been.  I feel so awful about this whole thing, I don’t really know what to do.  This moment was supposed to be the culmination of years of horrible doctors, anti-depressants, painful pelvic exams, steroids, awkward talk therapy, awkward physical therapy, medical bills that have my credit card maxed out, and instead it’s just… sad.  I guess I’m glad this pain-free thing happened at some point, but I’ve detached myself so much from these encounters that it hardly seems like a victory.

So in an amazing twist, I managed to make even this part of this stupid situation suck.  Apparently I can turn anything into something to whine about.

In which I find new and innovative ways to humiliate myself

Firstly, I’ve managed to (kind of) work out the issues that I thought were going to keep me from writing here.  Therefore, I have an awful story to share.  This builds upon an older entry which is now much more relevant to my life.  I guess I’m single?  Or something?  I know it’s a good idea to be by myself for awhile but I’m kind of working through it—and not necessarily in the best or healthiest ways.

So, I had to have the pelvic pain talk.  Well, that’s not true, I did it accidentally.  Either way, it was horrifically embarrassing (mostly because I answered the wrong question—it didn’t have have to come up [keep reading to see why this is a pun!]).

Dude*:  So we’re both on the same page concerning the seriousness of this encounter, right?

given the circumstances, i assume this is a question about ‘we both know where this is going, are you okay with that?’** and answer accordingly.

Me:  Well, I should probably tell you that I have a pain condition that might make things difficult.  If I’m in pain it doesn’t mean that I don’t want to be doing this or that I’m not into it, it’s not your fault.  We’ll see where it–

dude looks kind of taken aback

Dude:  No no no, I meant like… there isn’t really any meaning behind this, right?

Me:  Right, of course not.

*is dead of embarrassment*

In an amazing turn of events, however, I was not the dysfunctional one!  Even though this was a totally casual, just for fun situation, I feel infinitely better knowing that he can’t get it up when he’s stressed out.  Because now I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that at least one guy has to understand what it’s like when your body doesn’t cooperate with your mind.  So (luckily?) we were both insanely embarrassed, called a raincheck, and tried to sleep.

Maybe before that, though, the pelvic pain thing was mentioned again.  I don’t have much of a grasp on timeline here, but… it wasn’t in the morning, so it had to have been before sleep.  I’m practically a detective, y’all.  He was apologizing and explaining, and I said, “Oh, don’t worry, I’m probably more embarrassed for having launched into the pelvic pain lecture at the worst possible moment, blah blah blah.”  And rather than making a big deal or demanding an explanation or causing a scene, all I got was a calm, “yeah, I didn’t really know what you were talking about.”  So all in all, slightly awful but nothing as nightmarish as I had imagined.  Regardless, thinking of how I must have sounded is enough to make me physically cringe and turn a little red.  Whatever, if nothing fun happens with this guy I’ll just think of it as taking one for the team in the name of consciousness-raising!

*he’s got an asshole tag now, see below

**this is extra lulz*** in light of this

***and also by lulz i mean what in the actual fuck

srs bzns.

(yes, the title is my effort to snarkily lash out against the way in which we tell our assault stories.  oh lulz, *sardonic grin* boys will be boys!  oh, ha ha, isn’t this an amusing anecdote about being sexually assaulted on a bus?)

This is the serious version of my last post.  A trigger warning applies to this entire post.  It makes me incredibly uncomfortable to talk about this openly.  If you are reading this as someone that knows me personally, please do not be offended that I typed this up instead of coming to talk to you about it.  There is no way that I could spit this out verbally.  I have had three therapists and have not come close to talking to them about it.  Until recently, I had not told myself.  What I repressed comes back to me in bits and pieces when I’m not ready for it.  What I remember I forced myself to define as “no big deal” or simply “part of growing up female.”  You will know if or when it is appropriate to discuss this in person with me.  I write this here because I feel that my past has contributed to my pelvic pain in ways that I am only just realizing.  I am using this space to work out my thoughts on this matter, and, like the rest of this blog, to help others with similar pain deal with their own issues.

In case anyone is not aware of how to properly handle this kind of discussion, here are a few pointers that you can use now and in the future.  First, victim blaming is never acceptable.  This can take many forms.  I know that I don’t get many comments around here, and I don’t have many readers.  But.  If anyone here engages in that kind of nasty rhetoric, I will ban them before they can blink.  If I know you in Real Life and you say anything even remotely victim-blamey online or in person, I will never talk to you again.  Trust me.  The whole wide world is full of rape apologists, and I do not choose to associate with them.  Ever.  Also, women have damn good reasons for not reporting rape.  It’s not helpful to make a survivor feel guilty, i.e. “it’s your duty to other women,” “think about everyone else he could be hurting,” etc.  Not helpful.  The only duty a survivor has is to herself.  Further, there is no typical victim and no typical reaction to assault.  There are no emotions that someone should feel, a right way to deal with abuse, or some foolproof guide on how to heal.  With that point comes one of the most important:  never tell a survivor how they should be feeling.  It is not anyone’s place to categorize assaults or put someone else’s experiences in a hierarchy.  Lastly, I’d like to officially strike both “it could have been so much worse” and “I’m lucky that I was only ______” from use.  None of us are lucky to be merely groped or only leered at.   We can’t rank how someone experiences violation or pain, so please do not try.

When first researching vulvodynia and vaginismus, almost every source stated that a history of sexual abuse/assault/rape is common amongst pelvic pain sufferers.  I thought, “how ridiculous, of course I’ve never been assaulted or raped” but the more I think about it, the less that is true.  Now it seems ridiculous and sad that I had internalized our culture’s pure vitriol for women and blamed myself for each and every attack.  I still do, in a way.  I’m going back and forth as to whether or not to use “attack” or “incident.”  Attack is an action that was performed upon me.  Incident is an occurance, a happening, a hm, how peculiar, the deliberate disappearing of the attacker.  Wording is very powerful—it allows us to convince ourselves of almost anything.

It can’t be rape if…  I didn’t actually fight back when…  It would have been rude to say no to…  It’s my fault that it hurts because…  It doesn’t count if you give in after being worn down…  He’ll stop if he notices I’m crying, probably…  I don’t deserve any better than…  It’s the least I can do for him since…  Coercion isn’t the same thing as…

Every gynecologist that managed to take me seriously would first ask about my history of sexual assault—some more tactfully and respectfully than others.  After my emphatic NO, NEVER! they’d dismiss my pain as all in my head and send me on my way.  I no longer think that “in your head” should be grounds for dismissal, though I did for a very long time.  This is why.

This is a roughly chronological account.  I have left out large swaths that I still can’t think about or just don’t want to have “out there” yet.

The large swath turned out to be my entire life.  I can’t do this.  But gather from this post, if nothing else, that the shame and fear and physical horror of assault leaves a mark.  I’m definitely beginning to realize that my pelvic pain is a part of that.  I haven’t come to terms with this and I’m not even close to being able to deal with it or dispose of it or move on in any way.  You wanna know why I’m so anxious and stressed out and my body hurts all the time?  Because every single day forces me to relive each and every assault upon my person.  Wanna know why I’m so mad?  Because in our culture it’s all a big fucking joke, and victims are the punchline.

Reading the news is like being attacked.  Going to the movies.  Magazine covers.  Conversation.  Culture.  “Herp derp I totally got raped by that test, d00dz.”  The whole goddamn internet.  Quick movements.  Incense.  Darkness.  Whiskey.  Waterbeds.  I’m so glad that waterbeds went out of style.  Music.  What’s disturbing is that I could add to this list weekly.  And it always changes.  Most of the time I’m just fine lying on a couch.  Sometimes the situation aligns so that it makes me want to scream at the top of my lungs.  One day it will feel so nice to be offered a hug, the next it will feel like strangulation.

It seems like these are just tiny little things that make me act out for no reason.  But to me, it is not tiny.  Everyday occurances are like the soundtrack to hell.  A particular song could be played at a coffee shop when someone with poor taste is in charge of the speakers, and it could ruin my day.  The connection to pelvic pain is so blindingly obvious to me now. My triggers (let’s say, a rape apologist commenting on a news item or some shitty AC/DC song) don’t just mentally set me back.  The pain flares and muscle spasms go right along with them.  It seemed ludicrous that my vaginismus could come from an emotional place rather than a physical one, at first.  But it does make sense.  A lifetime of fear will make one a bit tense, after all.

The most infuriating thing is that I now have this physical vestige of abuse.  Every time I want to use my body for pleasure and experience pain, my attackers are victimizing me all over again.  There’s nothing I can do to stay in control of myself.  I hate that it took some scientist to validate what I already knew about my life.  I felt crazy and helpless and out of control until reading that headline—but I knew all along that it was true.  I don’t ever again want to hear that I just need to buck up, champ, it’s not that bad.  I don’t choose stress and anxiety and not knowing how to handle life’s little problems.  Lots of people chose it for me a long time ago, and they keep choosing it for me over and over again.  It’s not as simple as “just ignore it” because every day I have to hear people make excuses for rapists, for attackers, for their friends who are let’s face it just not that kind of guy or maybe it was your cousin who knows but he volunteers for the youth group so he’d never do that kinda thing and what were you doing out so late anyway?  It’s the fucking music it’s the stars in July it’s a look in someone’s eye on the subway I can’t ignore it, it’s not going away. My brain has been pickled in cortisol since birth, I can’t shut it off.

I try so hard to just calm down, to try to convince myself that I’m overreacting and that everything is fine now, but I can’t do it.   I just can’t.  The spasms in relation to triggering circumstances are getting much, much worse and far more frequent.  I don’t know what this means.

The only way I know how to react to this is with anger, which I can and do express (but can’t often control).  What I don’t express is the profound sadness of it all.  That I hold tightly.

Though they weren’t right on purpose, those doctors that told me it was all in my head may have been onto something.

A New Theory

Maybe my vag is just scared of our culture and won’t come out of hiding.

This culture is a clusterfucktastrophe of woman-hating gay-bashing misogynistic bullshit and i’m up to my eyeballs in it and i pretty much can’t take it.

Culture is scared of teh queerz:  Amazon Rank

“Feminism was established so as to allow unattractive women easier access to the mainstream of society. It’s proved practically every day in our modern culture.”


oh my god, this is just today, wtf, why doesn’t anyone else care about this.  orite, i just need to calm down and deal with it, CUNT.  get over it, it’s just your sense of self-worth and bodily autonomy.  DEAL WITH IT.  Doctors push you around?  Deal, cunt.  Get raped?  DEAL, cunt.  Have your mind and worth and sense of self torn to fucking shreds by reading a book or watching tv or going outside or listening to fratbros?  DEAL WITH IT, CUNT.  Oh, and don’t forget.  It’s probably all your fault.  Cunt.

And the most satisfying part?  Is how everyone can now call me overreacting or hysterical.

whateverrrrr patriarchy

In Which I Defend My (Nonexistant) Honor

Attention  privileged, puritanical, assholes:  just because I am a godless heathen does not mean that I fuck everything that moves or am guilty of “sexual sins.”  Kindly piss off.

Once again, something about my outward appearance/attitude/loud feminism/lack of religion/something has convinced someone that I’m a total whorebag.

AS A MATTER OF FACT, that almost couldn’t be farther from the truth.  And I can’t say a damn thing about it, because pelvic pain is pretty silencing, and no one wants to hear about it.  So as usual, I channel my rage to the anonymous internet.

First off, how, exactly, is someone with vulvodynia and vaginismus going to find all these partners with whom to be promiscuous?  While I’ve never had a one-night stand or anything resembling one, I think it might go something like this:

[at a party or some other social gathering]

Dude/Chick:  Yo, let’s talk about something like school or music or travel.

Me:  Okay, blah blah blah.

Dude/Chick:  Want another beer?

Me:  Oh, actually I don’t drink.  [I just hold this cup so my hands have something to do and I’m not the only person here without one.]

Dude/Chick:  Yeah, why’s that?    -or- Bye.

Me:  Um, family history, would you like more detail?

Dude/Chick:  That’s cool.   -or- o_O  Bye.

[Somehow miraculously progresses through my social anxiety/general awkwardness to some kind of hookup situation]

Me:  So there are a few things you’re going to need to know before we begin… [vulvodynia, vaginismus, vulvar vestibulitis, no quick movements please, you may scare it]

Dude/Chick:  O_O  BYE.

So as you may understand, I’m a bit confused as to how I am committing these egregious sexual sins that someone else’s god is so upset about.  Is it the part where I CAN’T HAVE SEX?

I think what the real problem here is as follows:  some asshole is uncomfortable with sexuality and is mad that I haven’t joined him in the ranks of obedient followers, ignoring sexual impulse and condemning others while probably still making time to furitively masturbate in the shower, crying and repenting afterward.  You can go on and on about how “everyone’s guilty,” but no one’s gonna convince me that a life of shame is the right path.  Even if I can’t have sex (by hymen fetishist standards, at least), I’m still going to have a damn good time and not feel ashamed about it.  Just, umm… probably not with someone I’ve just met.  And you know what?  Even if I did fuck anything that moves, your ridiculous concept of “sin” is useless to me and has no place in my life.  So, hey.  Fuck off, buddy.

Oh, whatev.

I have no idea why or how this came up, but my four roommates are having a very loud conversation about the use of numbing agents during sex.  Cue a whole lot of really stupid, ignorant shit!  I wish that the living room weren’t between my bed and the door, I’ve gotta get out of here.  At least it isn’t my friends spewing ridiculous nonsense this time, I guess I can take comfort in the fact that these people know absolutely nothing of my sex life (or lack thereof).  Actually, no.  I think that it might piss me off even more that I’m not okay with throwing open my bedroom door and exclaiming:

There are perfectly legitimate uses for numbing agents during sexual activity!!  Here, let me explain to you why it could possibly be useful and not “fucking weird/gross/tingly.”

Goddamnit.  I already feel fucking weird and gross (thankfully, not tingly in any negative sense…).  I don’t really appreciate the people in my house stating it, even if they don’t realize what they’re saying and why it could possibly make the weird new subletter girl uncomfortable and sad.

The Feminist Perspective on Female Sexual Dysfunction.

I do strongly identify as a feminist. However, if someone (Our Bodies, Our Blog, among many others) is going to tell me that female sexual dysfunction (FSD) is being created by pharmaceutical companies in order to make a profit, they can FUCKING SHOVE IT.

I would be jumping for joy if someone manufactured a pill that could make me better. Imagine, a pill that would make the pain stop, make the self-consciousness, the arguments, the doubt, the fear stop. I don’t care how much money I would have to give to big pharma. I don’t care if some feminists declared that my sexuality was being pathologized. I don’t care if “dysfunction” sounds ugly to a feminist blogger’s delicate sensibilities (and that’s saying a lot, because I’m the first to decry the stereotype that feminists = oversensitive). It makes me feel better to have a medical vocabulary to use, like the problem is a real one and that it’s not all in my head, as I’ve been told by so many doctors. Perhaps they can consider that when they accuse doctors and pharma of “making a disease.” Perhaps they can consider that when my foot is up their ass, as well.

Really, “looking to social change and education”?  Thanks a whole fucking lot, that will totally help with my uncontrollable pubococcygeus muscle.  Yeah, I want some social change in my vagina.  Morons.  I understand how that can help women who’s FSD is emotionally based (trauma leading to vaginismus, etc), but to claim that all FSD can be treated with social change and education is simply ludicrous.  I don’t understand how the leap is being made from a drug for FSD –> a narrow view of acceptable sexual behavior.  Anorgasmia isn’t acceptable to a lot of women, unless they are asexual.  And my pain sure as shit is not acceptable to me.  Who are they (bloggers and the people they cite, such as Leonore Tiefer, a psychotherapist at NYU, incidentally the same place where I got my vulvodynia diagnosis) to tell me and their entire audience that FSD is being manufactured by big pharma?  This makes me very angry.  And very disturbed.  I don’t need any more impediments to my medical care than I’ve already got.