I was diagnosed at university, when I had my first proper sexual relationship, with vaginismus. This is when you tighten up involuntarily on penetration. It makes for painful sex. It’s caused by fear or anxiety. I was in a very happy relationship so no fear there. The doctor, rather than suggesting exploring what might be making me anxious, prescribed ky jelly. I told him I had no problem with lubrication, that when we had sex I was as baffled as my boyfriend at how I’d suddenly tighten up. He said, Try the KY, it’ll help. It didn’t.
Back then I didn’t know why I was anxious. Now, I suspect it was caused by having seen my mother – who had a drink problem – being raped by a local taxi driver late one night. I was 14. When he saw me at the door (my mother was unconscious and would have been in mo condition to give consent) he said Get out, or you’re next. I got out. My mother would have been humiliated if I’d called the police. She still doesn’t even remember it. I still have flashbacks and feel tremendous guilt for not doing something.
I got raped myself when I was 25. I woke up to find him coming inside me, his weight crushing me. I thought he was my friend. I pretended I hadn’t woken up. We were staying with the grandmother of a friend of his, on our way to the Alps, a car trip across Switzerland. I was embarrassed, didn’t want to cause upset, didn’t want to not be believed. We continued with our trip. First I pretended everything was normal but after a day I just stopped talking to him. He didn’t ask why.
In the street or on trains or buses; catcalling, or getting cornered or groped or flashed at. All horrible but I have always felt I could manage in those scenarios and I’m quick to shout Get your hands off me! Or simply Fuck off! But 2 incidents really shook me. One, early evening on an empty street in London, just outside my office – an approaching man suddenly lurched at me and spat in my face : I could twist your fucking nippples right off. I din’t break my stride but felt terrified at the violence of it. Another time, busy Saturday shopping street, a group of teenage boys was passing me when one of them leaned over and whispered in my ear, I could fuck you right up the arse. This time I was shocked but not scared. I shouted at him. Everyone looked at me like a crazy woman and he laughed at me.
I have always stepped in when I’ve seen a woman in what looks like a potentially bad situation. Sometimes it’s nothing. Sometimes it’s me who gets told to fuck off. That’s fine. But you know, when it is something, the bloke usually walks away as soon as he has an audience.
So many women enduring awful violations in the dark because we’re scared that fighting it will make things worse. So many abuses and violations that could be stopped before they happen. I hate that it took me decades to get to a place where I honestly believe not simply that I am not powerless but that I can be powerful. We all can. But it still doesn’t stop me being afraid, most of the time, pretty much everywhere. Not just in my vagina.