Regardless, the idea of taking anti-depressants certainly didn’t thrill me, but I was willing to try anything to get my sex life back to normal. In time, I did discover that the medication dulled the stabbing pains that plagued my vagina. Unfortunately, my muscles still made penetration an ordeal and left me with a terrible burning sensation afterward. The medication wasn’t without its downsides either. After a few weeks of consistently taking the meds, I found myself devouring everything in sight – particularly sweets, something I usually abandoned in favor of saltier snacks – which only enhanced my college freshmen 15.

The irreverent attitude I had towards taking pills on time didn’t help matters. The first day I forgot to take my pill, I woke up in the middle of the night unable to move, listening helplessly as people dug through the closet at the foot of my bed. They whispered that I had nothing valuable for them to take, that they were just going to rape me and slit my throat. These night terrors about menacing presences in my bedroom – far more terrifying than any illegal drug I’ve ever experienced – inspired me to stick to my pill schedule. Still, I began to question whether the side effects of this drug were worth the slight relief it gave me.

For the next few weeks, I spent my nights laying awake in my bed feeling sorry for myself. The muffled sounds of R&B hits emanating from my roommate’s headphones served as the background music to my despair, my world’s tiniest violin. I always considered myself an incredibly sexual person, and – though I didn’t believe in a higher power – I felt that I was being punished. It all seemed so unfair. For God’ sake, I’d been touching myself since I was 5 years old! I remember having my first orgasm before I’d entered the double digits. Why did the pain have to be so mysterious? I’d also read somewhere that vaginismus was usually reserved for the extremely religious and guilt- ridden. Why was this happening to me?