The state of your unions

Straying, sexual dysfunction, traumatic vasectomies and other tales from the front lines of marriage.

Feb 4, 2004 | An end to pain

My marriage is a story of first love, sexual dysfunction and hope.

When my husband and I met, we were both teenagers. We argued over politics and religion, started to date, fell into puppy love, and enjoyed a mostly innocent romance. We went our separate ways to attend college in different states. Several years later, we realized we were still in love, reunited, and decided to move in together.

Neither of us had much sexual experience. We figured we'd learn together, and the prospect seemed sweet. Instead, our inexperience nearly proved to be our undoing. Because what I didn't know at the time was that I had vulvar vestibulitis, a condition that makes any kind of penetration painful. I expected sex to hurt the first time, so I didn't know my pain was unusual.

When my pain continued, I wasn't sure what to do. I didn't know that trying to "grin and bear it" could be a harmful strategy, and I absolutely didn't know how to treat a problem I had no name for and was too ashamed to tell anyone about.

So I buried it, and I buried our sex life with it. We thrived as a couple in many ways but never as lovers. I knew the lack of sex bothered him, but I failed to appreciate how much my rejections hurt him or how dangerous his unhappiness was. And when I did work up the courage to seek medical help, I twice had a gynecologist look me in the eyes, ask no questions, and tell me I needed to relax, light some candles, use a lubricant and make sure I got enough foreplay.

This useless advice only made me feel worse. Sex was almost always painful and was frequently impossible. And since I had been told the problem was in my head, I assumed the worst about myself. My libido disappeared, and I suspected that I was either phobic or frigid. I resisted almost all my husband's advances, and I could only see his desire through the filter of my own deficiency.

After years of not talking about the elephant in our bedroom, disaster struck: My husband came home one day and announced he wanted to split up. He agreed to counseling, but he was no longer committed to the marriage. I wanted to fix things; he was undecided. Worse, he was interested in someone else. Worse still, she was someone I knew and trusted, and she quickly cut off communication with me and acted against my marriage's interests. The combined shock of emotional abandonment and betrayal made me, for the first time in my life, wish I could die to end the pain.

But I'm not the suicidal or depressive type, so I collected myself and decided it was time to develop a Marshall Plan for personal happiness. To survive the crisis, I found new friends to go out with, leaned on my family, reconnected with old friends, and bought the kind of self-help books I usually mock. To prepare for the worst, I consulted an attorney. In hoping for the best, I continued the marriage counseling. And most important, I found a gynecologist who could diagnose and treat my condition so that, regardless of the outcome of my current marriage, history would not repeat itself in my future.

It's been almost a year since my husband said he wanted out. We've had many ups and downs in this time, and we've both had moments when it seemed easier to quit than to stay together. We're still in counseling, but much has changed from those first miserable sessions. We now arrive at the therapist's office committed to the marriage and proud of the progress we've made in becoming a better, happier couple.

We are also enjoying an active sex life for the first time in our relationship. I'm not cured, but I am greatly improved and have been released from a horrible psychological burden. For the first time in my adult life, sex is something I enjoy and pursue with enthusiasm. For the first time in my relationship, sex is something that brings me closer to my partner.

Having weathered this crisis, it seems possible that we will forge a greater union as a result of it. I like to think that I have just begun my second marriage -- one I enter with more baggage than the first, but also with more wisdom. What I look forward to most is the day my husband and I can discuss the pain that recent events caused while feeling none of it. I have faith that that day is on the horizon.

-- Anonymous

Goodbye heels, hello marriage

We've been together for four years, married 18 months. It finally feels a little more settled. We're not newlyweds anymore. I go through the mail before throwing him on the bed and taking his shirt off. I wonder how I can correct the way he holds his knife and fork before the babies come.

For the first year we were dating, I kept waiting for the fatal flaw to reveal itself. He's so great, but the parents must be monsters. Nope. He's so accomplished, but there must be a seed of hubris in there waiting to grow. Nope. My mother warned, "You can't keep thinking he's perfect, because you will end up disappointed." Still perfect. (Ask again in 10 years.)

I feel so much more myself now. So calm and happy. It took a year of therapy in Manhattan for my shrink to elicit my secret. I would leave the office every Tuesday at a quarter to seven, expensive heels clicking through the marbled lobby, and take a taxi crosstown to my therapist's plastic-paneled little tomb of an office. After the session, I would stare into the bathroom mirror until I no longer looked like I'd been crying, before returning to work. Finally, we uncovered the secret. He asked, "What would make you happy?" I answered in an embarrassed whisper, "to be married and have a family."

When my husband and I go to bed after dinner, it's better than law review, it's better than expensive heels, it's better than Manhattan. It's who I am.

-- Anonymous

Next Page: Once I lay back on the urologist's table and he taped my penis down, I knew there was no reversing this decision

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