I shave my legs. I sit in the bath and do it properly, with shaving foam and everything. And a new razor blade, even though they cost a fortune. I lift my arms out from the bubbles and scythe off the regrowth in my armpit. It takes me a while to decide what to do about my pubes. In the end, I decide that perfect Gretel would have a perfect amount of them. Enough so she doesn’t look like a child, because men can feel a bit guilty about that, even though porn has trained them to crave it. But not too much because she’s a grown woman. It’s so hot I hardly need a towel to dry off. But I still roll myself up in one, like a jam roly poly, and spend several minutes sitting in the sunlight that is chucking itself through my window, having lots of thoughts about what I’m planning to do, and how I know it’s such an act of self-harm, but I’m going to do it anyway.
I stay in my towel and stare at the wall. Even with the morning off, I may still be late for work.
‘Get ready,’ I say out loud. ‘Get up April and get ready.’
I don’t get up.
‘No,’ I reply to myself. ‘I don’t want to.’
‘But you’ve got to go to work.’
‘Living life and being an adult is terrible. Why does nobody tell you how terrible it is?’
‘April. Stop being weird and get ready.’
‘FINE then, I WILL.’
I rub scented body lotion into my skin, and lie naked on my bed waiting for it to sink in properly while I look at the crack in the ceiling and wonder if anyone would do anything about it if I were to scream. I should probably use my trainers to ‘prep the area’. In all the sex advice, ‘prepping’ usually refers to trimming your pubes with a pair of IKEA scissors or something like that, but, in my case, it involves stretching the muscles of my traumatised vagina. I roll off the bed and open the drawer under it, sifting through all the things I hide under there: my vibrator, lube, condoms that I rarely get the chance to use. Right at the back I find the ghastly pink bag of equipment the NHS gave me two years ago. My stomach tightens as I pick it up – just the gross hue of pink is enough to ignite several painful memories associated with this bag and the things inside it. I get out my hand mirror and a cotton bud from my dressing table, then reach into my bag and unscrew the small bottle of lidocaine numbing gel. I examine my genitals for a moment. It’s always a shock, looking at your vulva in a mirror. Even with all the practise I’ve had through using these trainers over the years. I always find it vaguely grotesque and worry it’s different and wrong. Which, considering I need to use vaginal trainers, it sort of is. I squeeze the lidocaine onto the Q-tip, then, using my mirror, I apply the gel around the entrance of my vagina like I was taught to at the hospital clinic. It burns like it always does. I get a flashback to my first appointment. My legs in stirrups. Screaming as they tested me because it hurt so much. ‘I can’t even use tampons any more,’ I cried at them. ‘What’s happened to me?’ They looked sympathetic. They told me how normal this is for survivors of rape. They reassured me the trainers would help, but they also said, ‘You may not ever be able to have penetrative sex again.’
Now in my bedroom, one tear drizzles down my cheek but I pretend it hasn’t, even though I flinch as the cotton bud hits each gland. I get out the dilators while I wait for the effects of the gel to take hold. They slide out of each other like white plastic Russian-doll dildos. I pluck out the smallest one, the size of a mini tampon, and hold it between my thumb and forefinger. I lay back on my pillows, open my legs, and, like I was taught to, take three deep breaths to relax my muscles. On the last breath, I push the plastic inside my body. It slides in fine with not even a wince. Relief gushes over me. The success of this relaxes me enough to go up one size and repeat the