Clinically Tight
NYC weekend part 2/2
“I’m not a standup comedian, I’m a writer. I’ve been writing about vaginismus on the internet for the last four years. I’ve had vaginismus for the last 17 years. And I chose one of those things. I chose to be a vaginismus writer. I did not choose to be an expert in my field. My pelvic floor physical therapist once remarked that I was the ‘most severe case’ of vaginismus she’d seen in her 15+ years of experience… and I have that on my resume now.”
If you missed part 1 of my NYC adventure, you can watch my recap here or catch up below:
And as I was saying, I had a very exciting reason to be in New York City recently!
A few years ago, I interviewed a vaginismus researcher who introduced me to the “Who Cares” factor as it relates to vaginismus. When I asked her to clarify what she meant about a particularly pessimistic comment regarding global awareness, she simply said, “Well, let’s be honest, who really cares about this?”
She cared a lot, as do I, but vaginismus is sometimes a frustrating space in which to niche down. Where she has struggled with funding research and extrapolating data to compensate for unknown statistics, I’ve struggled to get 200 of you to press the subscribe button so that I might convince a publisher that this population 1) actually exists and 2) might be in need of some representative literature.
The researcher’s comment stuck with me, and I’ve been trying to prove her wrong ever since.
“What made me want to start writing about vaginismus is that I was convinced nobody had ever experienced anything like it. It took almost a decade for me to be diagnosed. I spent the majority of my twenties paying doctors to tell me that what I was experiencing was all in my head. You guys know that one, right? It’s a classic. I was 19 years old the first time a doctor told me to drink wine to have sex. I thought it was a test. I asked him, ‘Are you gonna buy it for me?’ I was literally blackout drunk at 20 explaining, ‘No officer, you don’t understand, it’s medicinal.’ And I had a prescription!”
Imagine my shock seeing the above poster for Clinically Tight, a comedy show featuring a lineup of comedians with vaginismus. It felt significant for two reasons, the first of which being that I removed the phrase “Clinically Tight” from my social media bios in 2023, as I noted in my post about learning from the vaginismus community. The second reason was simple, as the mere existence of the poster implied that somewhere, there were going to be people who care about vaginismus gathered in a room.
I decided I need to be in that room.
I emailed the venue, wrote about being rejected by Meghan Trainor, and posted this TikTok encouraging fellow writers to shoot their shots.
Hi there,
I’m so excited to attend your Clinically Tight event in March, and was wondering if there’s need for one more in the comedy lineup? Please forgive my presumption, but I’ve been writing (and joking) about vaginismus on the internet for 3+ years and it’s not every day an event centered around the condition comes across my desk…
Since I’m not a standup comedian, I also offered to supply custom table coasters for the evening or even hang a poster in the bathroom. It was the notoriously hard-to-reach audience I was interested in more than anything, but if standing on stage was the only way for me to put my words in front of them, I was ready.
A million emails later, the event producer granted me a 5-minute opening set, and then my dog died. I spent the next week in bed, writing and memorizing, skipping showers and meals, rehearsing jokes between unpredictable fits of grief.
A week later, I hit a major personal sexual milestone that I had no idea how to process, given the circumstances. I had a backlog. I’d made big things happen! But nothing seemed bigger than the empty dog bed at my feet. The only upside was that I didn’t feel nervous about the show, because I wasn’t really feeling anything. That numbness carried me from point A to point NYC, and the next time I did a full-body anxiety scan, I found myself at the Museum of Sex.
On International Women’s Day, I woke up in hotel room in New York City with my mom and my sister. I’d spent the previous evening pacing and crying, rehearsing my set for the umpteenth time in front of people who love me very much but who do not personally struggle with vaginismus and therefore can’t really simulate how the target audience might respond. The nerves found me, and they seemed vengeful that I put them off for so long.
“I was naïve. I grew up in a house with five sisters. Every day was International Women’s Day in my house. So after a decade of being dismissed by doctors, I emerged from that experience indignant thinking, ‘A woman!? Being ignored!? Gaslit!? Talked over!? This is unprecedented.’ I didn’t know.”
We wandered around the city, two Floridians and a zombie. The Floridians thrifted and brunched, while I spent most of the day finding my own crazed eyes in shop window reflections desperate to ask the person in charge who the fuck I thought I was flying to New York and trying to be funny. (Read more of my thoughts on vaginismus and imposter syndrome here.)
I arrived early to the venue because of course I did, and spent a solid half hour listening to affirmations in my headphones and taking deep breaths. A photo slideshow of AOC, Kate McKinnon, and Pete Davidson standing on the Q.E.D. stage played onscreen above my head. I watched as the room filled up with comedians, then my mom and sister who I’d left on a nearby street corner an hour prior, and then that coveted audience. My nerves started to subside. After all, I came for them.
“Men are so embarrassing on dates, I think I just decided one day that vaginismus was the least of our problems. I went out with a guy who said to me, ‘I usually need to be told things more than once.’ I know what you’re thinking. That kinda sounds like an underlying condition that might make sex difficult, right? But you have to treat others how you want to be treated in the dating world so I said to him, ‘I’m getting so wet just thinking about repeating myself to you.’”
I was up first. One sparkling introduction later, and it was me and the audience and the insanely bright lights. I can’t believe I’m typing this, but there were laughs where I intended there to be laughs, sighs where I intended there to be sighs, and gratifying applause at the end that I promptly crushed up and snorted in my heart. I shared personal stories of medical gaslighting and dating with vaginismus that keen readers of this newsletter will recognize. My intention was to write a love letter to the crowd, and to anyone brave enough to amplify their experience with vaginismus for others who might be suffering in silence like I did for so many years.
Approximately five minutes after that, I was sat with a glass of wine (appropriate) feeling unbelievably seen by each and every set, with a newfound appreciation for crowd work since experiencing the blinding stage lights firsthand. More than nervousness and imposter syndrome, I felt gratitude. Vaginismus was not always funny to me, and to be able to laugh wildly at something that caused so much pain and isolation in my twenties with a room full of people who’ve been there too felt like therapy.
“It took modern medicine a decade to make me feel as seen as I did the first time I spoke to someone in real life with the condition. Mountains moved that day. Which is why I think it’s a really brave thing to be in this audience tonight, to share a laugh together and be willing to be seen in this very specific way.”
I did the damn thing, and due to that aforementioned processing backlog, my preoccupation with the sound of people clapping for me, and the celebratory whiskey I consumed afterward, I don’t really remember much else.
“Thank you guys so much, I write a publication called Hard Things on Substack, please find me! And enjoy the show!”
I'm so proud of you! Wish I could have been there! ❤️