From day one of the procedure, I had 90 days to work in physical therapy before the Botox wore off. However, I had to wait 3 weeks before I could start physical therapy for the Botox to set in, so needless to say the window was small.

After the 3 week period, I jumped straight into physical therapy twice a week, with a new found sense of hope. My mother accompanied me to my first appointment and we excitedly reported back to Dr. Sullivan about the Botox.

"Well I'm excited too," she said, putting on gloves as I situated myself on the table, "I think this is going to make all the difference." She started slowly examining and everything was fine, I turned to my mom and smiled this is it, I thought, this was my big answer!! Then it happened. "Okay," she said, "I'm going to go inside now slowly, tell me when it hurts." And there it was, the unbearable, breathtaking pain. My back arched and tears spring to my eyes, "stop!" I gasped, and she did.

I left that day feeling back to square one, and deeper down in my hole of depression. When I came back the second time that week, Dr. Sullivan decided we should try something called biofeedback.

Biofeedback is a great technology system physical therapists can use to measure the state your pelvic muscles are in-whether they're relaxed or clenched. With women who have vaginismus, it's a visual to help them see how tense they are just in the resting state, and learn how to relax. Mostly, the probes your physical therapist used for the biofeedback go inside the vagina. However, for me, they were stuck on the inside of my butt cheeks, as close to my anus as possible. This wasn't as accurate of course, but could still show me at some level the state of my muscles.

I laid on my side and watched a bar graph go up and down depending on how clenched my pelvic muscles were. Just laying on the table being as relaxed as possible, my pelvic floor muscles were incredibly clenched, working hard to close off the entry way to my vagina. As I started to relax each muscle in my body individually and noticing where I had tension, the graphs started to go down, showing me that my pelvic floor muscles were relaxing. We did the practice for the next few physical therapy sessions, and though helpful to get to know my body, it was doing nothing to for me physically with pain.

In March, we finally went back to dilators, feeling we had seen enough of biofeedback. Twice a week, I went back to my weekly torture, with zero progress. Each session was the same as before I had Botox. I came in for 30 minutes, tortured myself beyond words, then sat in my car shaking and crying. Shane and my two dogs were my saving grace then. When I came home, my dogs relaxed me and Shane was always an intense listener, taking in everything I had to say about my experiences and providing feedback when wanted. He stood with me helplessly as my mental state deteriorated with every appointment.

In May, my mother urged me to find a therapist, and I did. As wonderful and understanding as Dr. Graf was, it was really too late for me at that point. I should have found help much earlier, but I simply was too stubborn. Eventually, he recommended that I go back to Dr. Brooks and ask him for something to calm me down when I went to my physical therapy sessions, because he was afraid I was going to eventually break; and he was right.

In June, I had my first breakdown. Shane and my mother were attending my appointments by now, because I couldn't drive myself after taking two Ativans. We were walking through the parking lot, I was shaking and crying despite being drugged up to the point where I should have been a little more serene. When we got to the front doors, I lost my shit. I collapsed onto the concrete with Shane holding one arm, tears and snot flying out of my face.

"I can't do it!" I screamed, as passerby glanced at me, clearly bewildered.

"Rebecca, calm down!" My mother said, clearly not enjoying the show. "Don't be ridiculous, come on it will be fine."

Eventually, I was able to gather myself and went in for my torture. I came out threatening to kill myself, every idea of how to do so running through my head like a slide show, trying to figure out the best way.

The next day, my mother took me to a psychiatric hospital, where we waited for three hours to be seen. When I told my nurse my problem and asked her for an antidepressant, she said she was too scared to add more medication to my list, and I should try essential oils.

Essential oils. The nurse told a suicidal patient to try essential oils. I left steaming, got in the car with my mom, and slept my weekend away.

The next Friday, I went back to physical therapy and bravely entered the room. One thing that always held me down, was knowing that I could always say "stop" and the doctor would stop. This time however, she and my mom had a different idea.

"Okay," Dr. Sullivan said, "I need you to let me go a little further today," she said carefully, "you ask me to stop a lot but I need you to let me do what I need to do, try to take it."

"No." I said.

My mom sighed, "Rebecca..."

"No!" I yelled firmly, "I need the option to say no! You don't know how horrible this is for me, I need to be able to say no!" But they weren't taking it, they truly didn't understand (how could they?) and after a long talk, they somehow convinced me to remain silent. So I did.

After the worst 10 minutes of torture I'd ever been through, Dr. Sullivan finally said "well, I'm stuck. I don't really know what to do anymore, we're not getting anywhere, and I'm just causing you too much pain which is going to make it worse. You need to go back to Dr. Brooks and figure out what's next, then come back to see me." She was very kind about it, and clearly concerned, but when those words came out, I decided my life was over.

I cried and left, canceling all of my appointments, and falling into Shane's arms who was sitting out in the waiting room. "I'm going to kill myself." I whispered. By the time we got outside, Shane and my mom trying to convince me things would be okay, but I wasn't having it.

I ran.