My boyfriend and I just tried to have sex for the first time in over a month. We’ve both been suffering from our mental illnesses, so we haven’t felt too hot and bothered about our bodies, let alone another’s.

But we tried. For our relationship, we made this attempt.

His finger alone made me sore, but I was too stubborn to ask him to stop. When he asked me if I wanted him inside me, I said no. If his finger made me sore, I didn’t want anything bigger. I didn’t tell him any of that, but I turned down his offer. I encouraged him to continue to finger me, even though I was sore, even as I went to dark places. I don’t know why. I’m not a masochist, really. I guess it’s a lot like my panic attacks. I relive and relive these awful memories, and I can’t stop myself. Something about the horror and the pain. I don’t know what it is. It’s as if, by holding onto the memory, I’m holding onto—I don’t know. I don’t know. I wish I did.

After I came, he asked if I would go down on him. In that moment, no amount of potential pain was as frightening to me as going down on him. Of course, these weren’t the choices he presented me. He posed a question, not an ultimatum. But I couldn’t help but think in old ways. I felt compelled to choose when I could have easily said “neither” without any repercussions. Terror struck, and I, without ever hinting my reasons, asked him for sex.

He asked me twice if I was sure. He knows I tend to lie about wanting sex. He knows I have a habit of putting his sexual pleasure before my physical and psychological well-being. But I’m convincing. Sex feels like a knife at my throat: I feel the urgency to perform, to save myself.

I enjoy the first few minutes of it more than I expected. Not that I’m pleased, but my body has its physical reactions. He covers my mouth at my request—because by now, I feel desperate to enjoy this—and I cum. As if cuming spites the Andys. As if it wipes away the trauma. Maybe that’s why something clicks in me then.

Where I could ignore the vaginal pain before I cum, I can’t any longer. I cry. With no particular memory in mind, absent flashbacks and all, I start sobbing uncontrollably for the next ten minutes. Of course, he gets out of me as soon as the tears start, but it doesn’t help. I’m sore, and I’m naked, and I feel dirty, and I want to die. I hate myself, and the shame of crying during sex, even as he consoles me, especially as he consoles me. It’s enough to keep the tears coming. I hate that this has to always hurt.

Now, I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know how to help this. The doctors have explained vaginismus, and they’ve explained PTSD, but all they ever seem to do is pat me on the head and send me home. I don’t want more therapy. I don’t want more medication. I just want to be me again. I just want—

I need to stop. There is no other me. This is me now. The old me wasn’t doing too well, as evidenced by her choices and the lousy situations she kept walking into. I need to accept that. It’s only then that I’ll begin to overcome this. And I can overcome this. I can at least make it manageable. I simply won’t be having sex any time soon. Brw will understand; he always does. Back to just cuddling, is all. And back to the basics: breathing, patience, self-love above all else. I’ve applied these tactics in almost every other aspect of my life with good results. I can do it with this. I can be okay. I realize I can’t say, “I’ll be okay again,” because I was never okay with sex, but it’s time to learn. It’s time to stop feeling bad. I’m young, and I’m extremely intelligent, and I’m strong. I’m strong. I know that. So let’s do this. Deep breaths.