It's February, ya'll, and that means it's time for The Vagina Monologues! I got to participate in our local university's production of it last year for V-Day because of my work with the domestic violence/sexual assault program I work for, and had so much fun moaning on stage as The Women Who Loved to Make Vaginas Happy, as well as telling the story of one woman's body's betrayal with cancer during The Flood. I get to do it again this year too and I'm so excited!
Rehearsing this year in preparation for the performances got me thinking about my own vagina (as one does), and wondering what answers I'd have for Eve if she asked me questions like "what would your vagina say?" and "what would your vagina wear?" If she asked me to talk about my vagina and its experiences, its needs, its desires. If my vagina could tell its story, what would that story be about?
And the more and more I thought about it, the more I realized I wanted to share it with others, with you, if you'll honor me with your attention. If these women could share their vaginas' stories with the world, why couldn't I? Who knows, maybe someone out there needs to hear my story, needs to hear my vagina's story.
And so, with that in mind, here is my vagina monologue.
My vagina is tired.
Tired, like me.
My vagina remembers days when it wasn't tired, when it had all the energy in the world.
My vagina remembers when it used to be hungry, full of hopes and dreams and desires and cravings.
It remembers when things were forbidden to it, and remembers when it used to want those things that much more. It remembers the yearning, the ache, the need. It remembers the hunger.
It remembers the satisfaction of finally feeding that hunger. The sigh of relief, the laughter, the humor.
It remembers its first love. The energy it had then! It couldn't wait to play, it couldn't wait for soft kisses, it couldn't wait for dressing up, for going out, for breaking rules. There was danger and excitement that gave way to contentment, safety, security, comfort. The heat of passion tempered into a softer glow, like the last dying embers of a fire, stoked to life only every now and then in a shower of sparks.
My vagina remembers purpose, and destiny. It remembers dreaming of pleasure that would, could, should inevitably bring life.
It remembers a year of disappointment so closely interwoven with hope that it would be impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
Still it dreamed.
My vagina remembers the year that the games stopped being fun, when playtime had to be scheduled, recorded on a ledger, counted down from. My vagina remembers the year it was told that not all of its neighbors liked it very much and weren't playing the same game by the same rules. It remembers a brief glimmer of hope that it suddenly had all the right rules and that winning was just around the corner.
My vagina remembers heartache, bleeding out, month after month after month. It remembers wands and suppositories and ultrasounds and injections and too too many doctor's visits.
It remembers emptiness.
There were vaginas everywhere, all around, making miracles happen.
Not mine.
My vagina remembers the start of the third year without a baby.
The pain -- both physical and emotional -- still come each month, right on cue. My vagina doesn't want to play anymore.
If it could talk, it would say "what's the point? Please just leave me alone. I'm tired."
My vagina is tired. So, so tired.
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