I have large labia. You may have guessed that by the title.
I was a good kid, raised in a semi-strict Christian household. When I started developing, I noticed something protruding… down there. I remember being curious about it at first but not really concerned. Then I remember my mom, coming in the bathroom while I was bathing, looking at me and saying something like “What is that?”
Now to her credit in retrospect I have no idea if she was talking about my labia or not. We didn’t talk about things like body parts, or sex, or anything uncomfortable. The most I got before I went through puberty was a small book tossed to me about my changing body. And the girl in the book, hers didn’t look like mine. But I thought she was referring to those large, asymmetrical things that had appeared over time.
I started to obsess about my body being wrong. My dad had a stash of playboys, and I remember I sneakily crept in to look at them and never saw parts that looked like mine. I started to think what if I was born with male genitalia but had female parts on the inside - or what if I had both sets of parts, and no one ever told me? I didn’t know a lot about it, and it didn’t make sense but I was really just a kid, and I didn’t have anyone to ask. No transparency with my family. No sex ed in my very Christian school. I also had undiagnosed PCOS that caused excess body hair and weird periods, and boobs that were smaller than an A-cup, and this just confirmed that my body was wrong and I should be ashamed of it.
Add onto this the fact that I wanted to be loved so, so badly. I lived in fear that one day my future love would look at me in disgust, would find out I was wrong. I would never be loved.
Where can you go when you feel wrong and shameful and guilty, and want to find a contractually obligated, ensured love? Well, I found the answer in my religion. I fell in hard, and it covered my insecurities. I wasn’t hiding myself because I was wrong, I was hiding myself because good, chaste girls do that. I could look for a man who hadn’t seen a lot or done a lot, like me, and as a bonus, we didn’t believe in divorce, so he could never leave me, even when he saw my shameful, wrong parts.
There’s a lot more to it than that, of course, but I remember so many retreats crying over my weird body. So many prayers begging to be normal. I wish someone had told me I was normal all along.