In August of 2012, when I was almost twenty, I started dating my second long term boyfriend who we can call Nate. At first, when we started getting serious, I contemplated breaking it off, but something inside me held me back; I really, really liked him.

When we got to sex, I once again made the insane decision not to tell him my problems. I wondered if maybe, because he was more experienced, he could fix me? I know it was dumb, I can't begin to explain it, I was just desperate. Of course, nothing worked, and he was as perplexed as the last guy. Especially since I had told him I had been sexually active before... I acted like I didn't know what was up. Trust me, I know it was stupid, but my walls were so high up I just couldn't admit that I had put this problem off for 8 whole years.

Nate and I worked around it, every once in a while attempting sex, but always failing. We were able to be intimate however, by oral and hand stimulation, and in a way it was a blessing. I got to know my body better than most people, and I knew that Nate wasn't in it just for sex. No, I wouldn't have passed up the opportunity to magically rid myself of this disease, but there is something amazing about knowing that somebody truly loves you for you.

Despite my newfound love, my depression was still at an all time low, and I started to develop anxiety. Random attacks would start to come, first once in a while, then once a week, then almost every day. I actually breathed through paper bags to calm myself down, but still I refused to get help. Yeah, I'm stubborn.

Nate and I moved in together in 2014, just before my twenty-first birthday. I was excited and things were good for a while, until the stress of paying bills, going to school (I started again in January of 2013) and dealing with my increasing depression and anxiety caused daily panic attacks. These were unlike any I had ever had; I would curl up into the fetal position and cry harder than ever to the point where Nate wondered if he should call 911. I was hanging on by a thread in those days, everything threatened to break me, and I found those gaps of depression coming more often and for longer periods of time. I remember once being in the middle of folding laundry, then stopping and staring out the window for at least fifteen minutes, the weight of emotion threatening to suffocate me as I dazed out.

Finally, after 8 years, Nate convinced me to seek medical help. I made a gynecologist appointment and walked into the office shaking from head to toe.

"So um, I've been having problems having sex" I said nervously, tears already springing to my eyes.

"What kinds of problems?" My doctor inquired, looking concerned as I told her my history. She sent out two referrals to the only two pelvic pain specialists in Arizona, and told me to make an appointment immediately.

When I called to make an appointment with each doctor I was floored by how much it would cost to see them.

"$450 and you don't take insurance?" I asked, practically falling on my face.

"No ma'm I'm sorry," and the woman on the other line really did seem sorry, "but the cost goes down a little after your first appointment and we can help you try and bill your insurance."

I had no choice at this point, I had to talk to my mom. I quickly ran through with her what was going on, but I was so quick and probably included no information that by the time I finished, my mom asked, "wait, what?"

"It's nothing Mom, I don't want to talk about it with you, I just need to see this doctor!" I whined, getting increasingly agitated. I could tell she was hurt that I didn't feel comfortable talking to her about it. My mom was so supportive, but from the little information I gave her she asked me to go back to my gynecologist and get a second opinion, so I did. And they gave me the same answer, and same referral.

"Then we'll do it," Mom said, "you don't have to tell me everything, but you can if you need to. I just need to make sure we're doing this as cost effectively as possible and that you are getting whatever care you need."

Now that she had approved the doctor's appointment, shit had gotten real. I was about to confront my problem, and I was incredibly scared. So scared, I waited about three months to make an appointment with Dr. Brooks, who couldn't fit me in for another month. That entire month of waiting was pure agony, I didn't think so at the time (since I with all of my google and Tyra Banks show knowledge had already dubbed this thing terminal), but it was also the first step to recovery.