When I Announced My Divorce, My Vagina Broke.

After twelve years of a lackluster marriage with a dismal sex life, I came to the conclusion that affection and intimacy were no longer negotiable. Usually, at least in my experience, it’s the man who complains when the relationship lands in the sexual desert.

Nope, not here.

It was actually me, the woman, who was parched with no quenching in sight. Therapy couldn’t fix us nor did the attempts at dating. And, I’d come to a point where I was okay with moving on.
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Once the courage was mustered to make such a bold decision, my nerves went into high-gear. At the time, I didn’t know it, but said nerves were setting off all sorts of stress signals to various body parts.

​Instead of fantasizing about a new life on the horizon, I was googling pressure on my lady parts wondering if it were stress-induced. All that came up were diagnoses with reasons that included intercourse being the number one culprit.

​“But I’ve been (unwillingly) abstinent for months!” I protested to the gynecologist, my back pressed firm on the waxy paper of the examination table. “She should be pristine. Primed!”
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“You need to see a urologist,” the doctor said, scratching her head after several other tests came back negative.
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Sitting across from another specialist, I listed the symptoms. “Doc, it literally feels like someone punched me in the vagina. Please tell me you’ve heard about this before and it’s not some sick penance for finally admitting what I really want--need—in life.”
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She blinked at me; the space between us growing increasingly uncomfortable as my brain confirmed what the medic wasn’t saying.

Yep, you’re officially a slut.
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“But I haven’t had the relations mentioned in any of the information listed online!”

​When the urologist continued to remain silent, I secretly arrested myself and decided to shut the hell up.

“The results indicate,” she began, flipping through several pages of scans and tests.
Indicate what? That I’m Madame Bovary? I held my breath.

​“You have something called OAB,” she said.
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This time I did the blinking.

​“Overactive Bladder. You have an overactive bladder.”

“That’s it? My bladder is spasming? So, my vagina’s not broken?”
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The urologist closed the file and stood, clearly done with me. She handed over a print-out outlining the foods and beverages I should stay away from to calm the affected organ.
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“Wine? Chocolate? Coffee?”
​I glanced up from the list in disbelief. “You might as well kill me.”

​The medic rolled her eyes. “They’re stimulants. You need to limit them not eliminate them.”
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Suddenly, there was a tingle in my nether regions as if to remind me why I was there in the first place. Yes, that’s right, we’re still intact! Clutching the paper, I followed the doctor out of the room, pumping a quiet celebratory fist at the libidinous news.