An Ode to Vaginismus
in collaboration with the poet Divya Dureja
Culture, either traditional or popular, both seem to be serving as a tool to legitimize violence against women. The reality is that violations against women continue to happen under the disguise of cultural norms, or through misinterpretation of religious tenets and even because of certain messages presented in modern popular culture depictions. In some South-Asian countries many women and girls are regarded as impure during their periods . Hailing from India, poet Divya Dureja breaks her silence on topics of societal shame and pain faced by women belonging to not just erstwhile colonial nations, but everywhere. Her poem ‘An Ode to Vaginismus’ is an attempt at sharing the difficulties she and many other women like her face inside their bedrooms and outside. The narrative of her performance piece is built on her experiences of living as a cis female queer individual and navigating not just her non-normative sexuality in a country that still has archaic colonial provisions , but also living with a debilitating female sexual dysfunction, which goes undiagnosed for many women world over, and one which is not discussed openly in the public sphere. By speaking on taboo topics and defying personal inhibitions, she succeeds in pulling in the spectator to an intimate space and creating emotional awareness. She does so in a very powerful and self-confident way, one that represents a new angle of femininity marked by nobility and pride.
Vaginismus: (Medical Definition) A painful spasmodic contraction of the vagia, rendering copulation impossible.
An Ode to Vaginismus
I am 24 and I have never had sex.
But I have felt my body become one with another.
I have felt shivers tremble down my fingertips to my heart and seep into my toes when touched by another while my brain was under the influence of love.
I have felt the concurrent contractions
that come during an orgasm
As my hands slip down
to remove their tongue
away from my clit
They
They come and go
His hand
Her touch
His chest
Her breast
I’ve given her pleasure and I’ve wrapped myself around him.
But penetration
Penetration hurts
What you call making love
Leads to tears and cuts
Agony and pain
That make me afraid of finding myself
in the touch of another
In the words of lyrics
In the jokes of a comedian
In the narrative of a rom-com
In the eyes of lust
Penetration you see
By him or by her
Is equally a crime
Done unto my body
This condition called vaginismus
Is a strange curse
One that is discovered
Only if you’re privileged
But its discovery may take years
Long after you’ve begun
To grow in your skin
To grow in love
But long after you’ve been conditioned
That sex is pleasurable
Sex is love
The togetherness, the moment, you become whole
I will never experience this sum
I will always wonder what happens when you consummate with the one you love.
How do I tell her that this is where we will have to stop?
“I can’t make love but I can love a love that I’ve made myself for you and for others
with this strange condition I don’t understand but let me try.
Try, my love.”
I’m 24 and I will never, ever have sex.
I will never understand how it feels to be consumed in the flesh of another.
But
we can make our own interactive map
And I can let you know how I experience love
And I’ll do my best, to please you such.
This love,
They call universal,
Has its own regional dialects
Its tweaks and tests
Not all fit in
In the category of passing the litmus test
“Hey, have you had sex?”
“Um, almost.”
Almost, is my complete, but I don’t know how to tell you that by your definition I’ll always be an attempt.
An incomplete assignment
A symphony without an end note
I’m 24 and I will never ever understand the words written in books or in the context of a smile by a flirtatious date asking me what I enjoy about sex.
How did this three letter word become so laden with intent
that when someone says ‘fear of missing out’
under an event
I hear my insides
rumble and writhe
In disdain for popular culture
And I crumble inside
just a little
Dent by dent
There is no ultimate act
There can’t be
if you decide to be with me
I can kiss you till my lips begin to fade into your skin
I can hold you till my hand prints itself onto your Carbon skims
I can give you all I have
But I can’t give you
That ultimate act
They, call sex.
