Self-Hating Vagina

There are around thirty-four known symptoms associated with menopause—for now. I’ve handled many gracefully but one symptom in particular really brings out the worst in me. Vaginal Atrophy, also known as Atrophic Vaginitis or Genitourinary Syndrome.

Only a scientist can take the burning need to piss and give it a delightfully complicated name that sounds like an incurable deadly disease, and if I ever meet that scientist, I’ll force a king-size tube of Estradiol down his throat.

According to the Mayo Clinic, the diminished estrogen that comes with menopause makes the vaginal walls thinner, drier, and more inflamed. This, in turn, makes me more inflamed.

Sure, there are plenty of ways to defuse my anger. I can eat a healthy diet and exercise regularly. I can talk about my emotions or write in my journal. I can go for a walk or spend time with friends. I can use prayer to try to appease the sadistic Vagina Goddess up there who’s obviously trying to kill me (see more on the prayer approach below). I can breathe, meditate, or live like a bloody monk. And all of this works except when it doesn’t. It’s at those times that I embrace the rage and make angry drawings.

I have this fantasy in which I run into my vaj on the street and really let her have it.

Obviously, Vaj attempts to defend herself but blinded by rage, I go through a list of accusations, blaming her for the random bleeding, the yeast infections, the whole damn lot.

She’s quick to point out the good shagging and the two gorgeous boys she’s given me, but I don’t want to hear it.

This angry approach doesn’t offer any answers, but imagining beating the crap out of her can be helpful, especially, when I discover yet another menopausal symptom that no one ‘s mentioned, and I’ve been up Googling it at two in the morning desperately seeking a cause or a remedy.

Each new symptom makes me hate my vagina and her constant demands to change my behavior, and thus, I’m transported again into my fantasy confrontation.

Unfortunately, the confrontation tends to end the same way every time.

It’s a valid question and one that’s often given me pause from raging.

Having a penis is clearly no picnic. For starters those things have a massive ego, and the risk of rebellion is high—just ask my husband. Also given the choice, who in their right mind would opt for a moving target like a pair of bollocks?

At this point in the fantasy, Vaj takes to her soap box with all the usual boasting and preaching.

“I am your superpower, I make life. All you have to do, is take care of yourself.”

The nice thing about menopause is that I seem to have approached the finish line with a kind of radical self-acceptance. After decades of emotional ups and downs all that’s left is me. Older me. Flawed me. Improved me. And yes, occasionally, rage-filled me.

If you prefer the prayer approach to handling meno rage, click below for Reverend Orli’s prayer to the Goddess of Vaginal Atrophy

If this doesn’t appease that bitch, nothing will.