There Simply is No Catchy Title to Give

When I decided to create this blog I told myself that I would not use it as a forum to critique events, political or otherwise, unless I felt that they had a direct impact on me and my path to wellness. This has been difficult for me because I can see the impact on myself in many of life’s events, but I’ve tried to keep this blog in the direct state of I. These last few weeks, however, have left me in an emotional land of limbo where I’m simply not sure if this Alice will ever wake up.

I am still, one month later, in a state of disbelief that not one, but two bombs went off on Marathon Monday. It seems unreal to me that the city that I have always viewed as one of the cleanest and safest of the urban landscapes I’ve called home was also home to people that would cause such destruction and devastation. It’s no secret that there is no love lost between Boston and I, but overall I’ve felt much safer here than in other cities I’ve lived. The finish line area of the Boston Marathon is in a neighborhood that I love and the idea of peoples’ limbs flying through the air and lives taken there is just too ghastly to comprehend. I still have not visited the area.

April 19th was another shocking day for those of us in Boston. I awoke to find out that my neighborhood of Brighton, the neighboring areas, and the city of Watertown were on lockdown due to an early morning carjacking, a bomb throwing and gun fight with the suspected bombers, and the search for Dzhokhar Tsarnaev. This all led to the injury of MBTA Police Officer Richard Donahue, Jr. and the death of MIT Police Officer Sean Collier and suspected terrorist Tamerlan Tsarnaev.

The entire city of Boston was eventually placed on lock down with baited breath full of fear. For me this made the memories of 9-11 and the Oklahoma City bombing come rushing to the surface of my consciousness. I was living in Los Angeles when 9-11 occurred and the planes that struck the towers were bound for LA. I recall LA was rather still and quiet that day as well. I was 15 and living in Abilene, TX when the OKC bombing occurred. Being an Okie though it felt as if the bomb went off in my own backyard. Despite these personal links to such horrid acts of terrorism I had never been directly in the panic zone before. I spent most of the 19th watching the news and giving updates on Facebook. The one positive that came from this tragedy-what a trite, smug, and maddening descriptor to be left with-was that I heard from friends I hadn’t spoken to in ages. Their outreach of concern was a nice reminder that I’m loved.

Eventually the lockdown was lifted and the T-slang for the MBTA system- began to run again. I did not leave my apartment until much later that night.

Part Two to come.

The Recent Disappearance of Jen

I recently suffered five weeks of miserable neck pain that ran down my psyche, my emotional well being, and left me mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted from the pain and the lack of sleep. It wasn’t long before I was snapping at people and that old feeling of hopelessness began to creep back.

In early April I underwent new Cervical and Lumbar MRIs that found my back has become worse in the last two years. Thank the Goddesses for small favors though my neck has remained the same.

Only a week before these results were delivered my physical therapist informed me that she fears my knees have plateaued. According to her I should be able to walk and stand for forty five minutes to an hour before the pain in my knees requires that I sit. I laughed when she said that. My neck and back are so bad that I can’t go ten minutes before I have to sit down. She thinks my neck and back problems are interfering with knee recovery. I could have told ya that my entire body is connected and not just a series of independent parts.

This now takes us to my appointment with a new chronic pain management doctor at Brigham and Women hospital in Boston.
Same ol’ story different day. He wanted to do steroid injections and had no other new suggestion. Blah blah. I’ve already tried them and the cost benefit analysis is not in my favor. They made me lose my hair. They fucked up my skin more than it already is. I’m currently covered in a rash that won’t go away and that is making me miserable. I don’t need to be more miserable due to skin issues or other health problems simply because I’m trying to manage my pain. Now that I’m diabetic steroids sky rocket my blood sugar and make me very sick. They run my immune system down and make me more prone to catch every virus and bacterial infection out there. A run down immune system also means that I’ll get more yeast infections than I already get. All of this and I only get moderate relief for six weeks and I can only get the shots every three months. It’s absolutely not a long term solution given how it sucks the bones of calcium and does Goddess only knows what else.

I asked about neck surgery and par for the course he was against it. He felt I wasn’t really a candidate; that my neck wasn’t structurally bad enough. My neck isn’t bad enough? My quality of life is shit. I’m in horrible pain and it just gets worse with every year and no one seems to have any new remedies for me. I’ve been living with pain since I was 14 and I’m only 33 now! I’d like to have a long, healthy, happy life. MY NECK IS BAD! Fucking fix it or find an excellent way to really manage the pain or I’ll take a goddamn knife to it myself!

Obviously I told the Doc no steroids. I want to try Botox injections next. He referred me to a Neurologist who does them. Of course I can’t get in to see her until July 11th. It occurred to me after I left though that she may not even do Botox for neck pain given that she’s a Neurologist. It may not be a good idea to do Botox for neck pain given that I get it for my migraines too. I’m going to do some research and call my current Neuro and this new one.

I was also referred me to a psychologist who does Biofeedback to help control my pain on the mental health side. Of course I can’t get in to see him until June 11th. He reluctantly gave me the name of a surgeon too.
In the mean time I’ve also faxed my MRI reports to a neck surgeon at Mass General Hospital. I don’t even get an appointment with him until he has reviewed the MRIs and decides if he thinks I’m surgical. If he doesn’t think I’m surgical then I get sent to the physiatrist in the office.

Thankfully I heard from Dr. Shin’s office telling me that he wants to see me. I have an appointment on May 17th. Here’s hoping he has some better options for me.

Welcome to the bullshit of trying to manage spine problems and chronic pain. It’s a broke down journey with a broke down body across an endless dilapidated swing bridge that’s hanging on by threads over the deepest of canyons. At least this broke down body is possessed by a woman smart enough to pack a canteen full of top notch vodka and all her trusty meds. It makes the fight across much more interesting indeed.

Coming up in my next posts:
My feelings surrounding the Boston Marathon
Thoughts on running for office as a woman in my position

See you then!

Ableism: The other -ism to Bitch Slap in the Face! Part Two

Alright so I promised Part Two would come the day after Part One. I do apologize, but feel free to blame my neck. She’s a cruel mistress that I’m desperate to bound and gag and certainly not for any kinky kicks. Next time I’ll start with the beer and my weeks long neck flare up will be swirling down the drain *read previous post*

So here we are at the concluding part of my Ableism piece. Last you read was the definition of ableism and how it impacts disabled peoples’ lives in everyday discrimination and invisibility up to larger institutional oppression. I also began the discussion of the stereotypes that disabled people face and the two in particular that are personally enraging for myself: paternalism and desexualization, fetishization, and victimization of disabled women. In Part Two I’ll be delving into the later three. Buckle up readers, it’s going to be a furious ride.

Women=Sex. Right? Isn’t that what we’re told everyday through a variety of ways? Well not all women equal sex. If you’re a disabled woman then some make the assumption that you’re not up for the task. If you are physically able to have sex then you probably won’t be any good at it because of any limitations you suffer from. Women are devalued to the worth of our sex abilities, but as disabled women we lose all value because we are seen as unable to sexually perform well if at all.

I was on a bad date-shocked as I’m sure you all are-a few months ago and after a brief description of my knee surgeries the gentleman had the audacity to ask if I still had my “mojo.” Yes folks, my “mojo.” Not only was he enough of a cretin to think it was his right to ask this question, and on a first date no less, but we apparently time warped into the 1970s when a word like “mojo” was used. I was so taken aback by this that I wasn’t able to form a pithy come back and instead sort of sputtered a “yes” and changed the subject. Despite my attempt to move onto another topic he kept at it. He then went on about how he needed to have sex often and he just wanted to make sure I was up to fulfilling his needs. Yes, you read correctly, his needs. I soon said it was time to call it a night. During our goodbyes he invited me to his place and after being shut down flat he then repeatedly invited himself to my place. He went home to play with his “mojo” solo.

After my first knee surgery I was stuck at home for quite some time. I spent the first month primarily fading in and out of consciousness with brief moments of lucidity to painfully hobble to the bathroom, have a bite or two of food, and pop more pain pills. Around week 6 I was finally able to hold my head up on my own while still taking my all meds. As you can imagine it wasn’t long before I was pretty stir crazy. I had sparked an online conversation with someone and once I had the green light from my surgeon to go out and I felt ok enough to take a cab somewhere we made a date.

Upon telling my mom about the good news, leaving my place being the first and the date being the second, she instantly told me to be extra careful with a bit of an ominous tone to her thickly Okie accented voice. This wasn’t something she had said to me in a long time. At this point in my life she’s usually more of the vain of a plain ol’ “Be careful. Love you” than a somber warning. I followed up a flip response and asked her what the deal was. She replied that I was especially vulnerable because of my knee surgery and that he had a better chance of hurting me if he wanted to. Of course this didn’t need saying. As a woman I am aware of my vulnerability to rape and sexual attacks, and as a woman with disability said vulnerability increases greatly. There are many who would take advantage of this. Coincidentally, it was after my first knee surgery that my PTSD flared up and I began having nightmares every night again. If any woman didn’t need a reminder of her vulnerability it’s this one.

The women’s vulnerability issue of ableism feeds directly into rape culture. Anytime a woman is seen in a compromising situation society deems it appropriate for her to be taken advantage of. She’s not attacked, she’s not raped, she’s simply getting what she wanted, deserved, and asked for by being vulnerable. The promotional posters for the wretchedly misogynistic movie I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell is a glorious example of ableism meeting rape culture. The posters had the tag line “Strippers Won’t Tolerate Disrespect (Yeah Right). Blind Girls Never See You Coming.” I’m going to save my comments about the stripper sentence for another time and focus solely on the blind girls remark. Let me start by saying “WOW!” These posters might as well have had a picture of a blind woman holding a sign saying “Rape me; I’m easy prey.” This is both fetishizing and victimizing.

Rape culture defines women as less than human and nothing more than a victim responsible for her own demise. Ableism defines disabled people as less than human and childlike due to their illnesses or low mobility. Through the meeting of ableism and rape culture we disabled women are seen as nothing more than easier prey than the average woman. We’re easier to attack and based on the ableistic and misogynistic notions of our culture people would not believe that sex was possible and as a result rape would not possible. Our government, schools, media, and residents cannot even decide on what rape is or if and when it’s possible for able bodied women even when it is clearly videoed, Facebooked, Tweeted, and texted in front of their faces. Even in the aftermath of such vividly clear wrong doing our media displays empathy for rapists rather than the woman who was attacked as we saw in the aftermath of the Steubenville case. If our ableistic society believes that disabled people can’t have sex and our society can’t decide on what rape of a woman is then this clearly leaves disabled women in a highly vulnerable place.

Another notion that we disabled women battle is the societal belief that no one would rape us because we’re undesirable. If we are believed when we bravely and publicly tell of our ordeals then we are met with the twisted idea that we lowly disabled women should be happy that someone cared enough to rape us because we are less worthy than an able bodied woman. The thought of being less desirable than what society deems as a so called normal woman is quite often a disgusting form of double misogyny and fat phobia that fat women face when they’ve been raped. The idea that anyone would rape a fat woman is so far fetched because culture has deemed her unattractive because she’s fat that no one believes she was raped. In the off chance she is believed then there is the sentiment that she should simply be happy someone did find her decent enough to rape. It is as if she won the big prize of a pity rape. “Dear Diary, I was finally raped today. I feel so much better about myself!”

Desexualization, fetishization, and victimization of disabled women are all part of a larger system of ableism and sexism that form together with misogyny to perfectly fall into line with America’s rape culture. Throw a dash of paternalism into the above mix and you have the perfect recipe for ableism stew. The most infuriating aspect of ableism for me is the literal and figurative invisibility from the world, including other disabled people and my so called leftist, feminist, bi, etc family. I don’t appear disabled, but I am. I cannot, we cannot, be pushed aside into disabled ghettos and forgotten. If one suffers then we all suffer. I’m suffering and I know that I’m not the only one. This is a fight for the many, not merely the few.

I’ve attempted to write with both the clarity and ferocity that these issues deserve. I’ve also attempted to channel my own personal pain and the resulting rage into two constructive posts that hopefully have given my readers further insight into the issues of ablesism and how it crosses paths with other -isms and oppressions. Obviously there are a great many more facets to ableism and the multiple forms of oppression that the many 1 out of 5 disabled people in America face everyday. I strongly encourage you to educate yourself on these issues in a respectful manner that is empowering to those of us who have disability. Now get off your ass, learn more about the issues, the policies (today Obama’s budget called for $400 mil cut to Social Security. SS pays disability!), and begin advocating!

My Neck Flareups: Will I ever see my left shoulder again?

As of today I couldn’t turn my head to the left at all. I mean not even an inch without searing pain. I woke up several times during the night thanks to the pain. This flareup has gone on for about two weeks now. Surgery sounds more amazing with each nerve shattering minute.

At 11:30pm (April 2) I was finally able to turn my head to the left almost to where my chin was aligned with the middle of shoulder without any pain. What did it take for this glorious dare devil act to occur you ask?

Step into my parlor and find out…

Throughout the day I used:

1. Ice packs on both shoulders and neck for 2o minutes

2. Heat on left shoulder for 10 minutes

3. Lidocaine patch 5% on left shoulder for 9 hours

4. 600 mg of Gabapentin

5. 2400 mg of Ibueprofin

6. 20 mg of Oxycodone

7. And lastly 1 Harpoon Celtic Ale

Clearly #7 backs up Benjamin Franklin’s claim that “beer is proof that God loves us.” Sheer genius right there.

To answer the unspoken, but powerful question on all your minds: No, I haven’t been holding back on Part Two of the Ableism post just to keep your panties wet. The literal pain in my neck has made the thought of sitting at my laptop seem akin to the torture those human rights loving folks of the Spanish Inquisition were down for. Never fear though dear readers, you’ll get Part Two when I’m damn good and ready and you’ll like it too

 

Ableism: The Other -ism to Bitch Slap in the Face! Part 1

For those of you that have  not clue one what ableism is I’ll school you. Ableism is discrimination and oppression against those with disability. It may come in a variety of forms from the serious to the everyday inpracticalities and impossibilities that are thoughtless and wear one down. An example of a serious current issue is the very real threat of extreme budget cuts to Social Security and Medicare. Many disabled people live below the poverty line and rely on these services to barely squeak by in life, yours truly being one of them, cuts to these services could literally mean the difference between receiving mandatory health care and a roof over one’s head to living on the street, no health care, or death. 

A less serious example, but still problematic issue that I often face in Boston is the constant hurtle of stairs. The damn things are everywhere. Just to get into the first floor of a building I usually have to climb half a flight of stairs. I am very rarely told about the presence of stairs before arriving at an establishment either and this includes doctors’ offices. For example, after a 2 and 1/2 hour T commute to the oh so trendy Shag Salon in Southie on what had to be one of the hottest days of the year, I arrived utterly sick and in pain to find the salon was on the third floor of a building that did not have an elevator. When stairs are difficult or impossible for one to climb and no one informed you of this because they assume that everyone is able bodied you tend to get fucking pissed off! Thankfully I was able to slowly trudged my way up, but I never went back again. My first appointment with my current therapist was not too long after my first knee surgery and I was still in a lot of pain and on crutches. I arrived to find several stairs I had to climb just to get to the elevator. I was in agony by the time I made it to her office. Assuming that everyone is able bodied because someone happens to be able bodied is similar to heterosexism in the way that it works under the assumption that everyone must be straight because said person in charge is straight. Get it? Good. 

There are important deviations of ableism and other -isms to keep in mind. Every oppressed group has these ol’ bugaboos and we’re no different: stereotypes! I’m using my experiences as examples, but stereotypes represent larger systematic problems at play. There are two primary stereotypes/challenges that I face regarding ableistic stereotypes. The first being the paternalism of the system because I am viewed as a child and the second being the desexualization, the fetishization, or the victimization as a disabled woman. 

Let us begin with the issue of paternalism and the childlike treatment. Upon becoming disabled I was treated radically different by people, doctors, society, and the system. I am now no longer seen as a human, a person capable of thoughts and feelings and the ability to know what is in my best interest. I am viewed as nothing more than a disabled blob, a child really, who cannot possibly take care of herself and therefore is patronized and left to beg and wait for the bread crumbs that are thrown my way. Two cases come to roaring to my mind right now. The first is the meal delivery program that I use, Community Servings, and the second is my current health insurance quandary. 

I am currently a client of Community Servings meal delivery plan because I am often unable to cook for myself or go to the grocery store because of my chronic pain and limited mobility. At first I was very excited about this program as well as furious that despite my multiple inquiries during my knee surgeries I was repeatedly told that no such program existed. As a result I was left to fend for myself when I was so immobile and deep in pain that getting from bed to bathroom was next to impossible. That’s a rant for another day though. Moving on…Seeing as I have diabetes I’m signed up for the diabetic meal plan. Do I receive lots of high fiber veggies, whole grains, and lean protein? No. Instead I get white flour starches, starchy veggies, rarely a green veggie in sight, dark chicken meat, and yogurt and desserts made with cancer and migraine inducing fake sweeteners. I can’t eat anything with fake sweeteners because they bring on a migraine faster than chugging a bottle of Jack. I also have no desire to eat the desserts or a lot of the food in the meals simply because they’re not healthy and they just don’t taste good enough to risk the harm to my body. I often throw out half the high glucose causing foods and then substitute with my own healthier food. In the end I’m still cooking a bit, but this at least helps me stretch my meager $200 monthly food stamp allotment.

After becoming tired of wasting the yogurt and such I finally called and told them that I wanted to stop receiving the fake sugar items. I was then told that because I’m diabetic that I’m not able to make changes to my meal plan and that I need my doctor to authorize the changes. Now take a minute to absorb that. I’m 33 years old and I need my doctor to allow me to eat what I know is best for me. Meanwhile that particular week these people brought me not one, but two frozen meals of fried chicken with mashed potatoes and corn, as well as enchiladas with white rice, but I’m not qualified to make decisions about what I should eat.  Apparently I am nothing more than a 5 year old that needs a parent to make my plate for me. Along with this condescending behavior regarding my food this program only delivers to me on Tuesday. There is no time window either. I have to stay home all day on Tuesday and wait for my delivery. I’m not an adult with things to do. I don’t have numerous medical appointments to go to, errands to run, or Heaven forbid possibly do something enjoyable if I feel up to it. I don’t need to register with Mass Rehab that happens to only register people on Tuesday morning. Nope. I’m just a poor, disabled person, ie a child that needs my parent to think for me. 

Issue number two pertains to my health insurance.  Overall I’m very happy with the insurance that I receiver through the state. I don’t pay deductibles, co-pays, and they’ve approved every drug and procedure I’ve needed. I’ve had some issues, but overall I’ve had a great deal of freedom with this insurance plan. Out of nowhere I received paperwork last month stating that I would be cut off from my current insurance plan and that I’m now enrolled in Medicare. Medicare comes with deductibles, premiums, co-pays, and prescription co-pays. These are all things I cannot afford to pay and will mean that I cannot see my doctors or get my prescriptions. These changes have been made without my consent. 

What did I do with my day today? Did I spend hours writing? No. Did I do my exercises? No. Did I make all the financial and doctor related phone calls I needed to make? No. Instead I spent my day on the phone trying to deal with the insurance issue. Of course the problem is not solved and this led to an anxiety attack, migraine, and increased neck pain. Thank you fucked up health care system for causing me more physical pain. Well done! Is there any wonder I have multiple ulcers in my esophagus?  

I was finally told that my state insurance is cut off because I now have Medicare, but I can apply for a program that will pay for the deductible, insurance premiums, and co-pays. This application period takes roughly 45 days and may not be in effect by the time my current coverage is cut off. This plan, if approved, will leave me paying co-pays on prescriptions which I currently don’t pay. I’ll now be looking roughly at an extra $30 a month in expenses that I simply do not have. This means I’ll now have to decide which drugs I need most when the reality is that I need them all. 

After speaking to Social Security I was told that if I waived Medicare then I would be responsible for paying back the disability I earned while I was eligible for Medicare. I didn’t entirely understand the time frame, but knew this wasn’t an option. My primary concern in all of this since it seems I can get most of the financial issues taken care of is that I doubt Medicare will pay for many of my necessary treatments. What happens to the doctors I’ve established relationships with? I have a lot of specialists and it’s been hard as hell to find them all. I recently found out that my PCP is leaving Boston and it’s going to be next to impossible to find a new one. I can’t possibly hunt down new specialists too. What happens to my mental health care? I see a therapist twice a week. Most private insurance companies would never pay for that, let alone Medicare. What about all the physical therapy I need? What happens when/if Medicare suffers more budget cuts? What happens to my quality of health care then? My current health insurance plan is perfect for me and yet I get no say in the matter because I’m simply poor and disabled. My voice, myself, doesn’t count. I just don’t matter. 

When I was merely poor I had no issues with the MA insurance plan, but once I became disabled it was all a new ball game. I lost any and all rights I had. I became a pawn between federal and state agencies. Who will pay for my healthcare? Who assumes responsibility of my gimpy, childlike self? I’m merely a burden that someone must think for. The goddamn paternalism that goes with ableism is fucking maddening! I already experience paternalism from the government as a woman and now I get this shit?! It’s enough to drive me guano and I’m already crazy. All I can say is that Medicare best pay for my therapy, psychiatrist, and meds or they’ll have one more loon walking around, not that they government would care one bit. Hell the Republicans would be nothing but thrilled to have a reason to lock me up and keep me from participating in society and democracy.

Deep breath. Calm and collected now. Zen Jen. As zen as this Jen gets without a vodka martini in hand or a good fuck anyway.

I’ll be back tomorrow for the concluding part of my Ableism piece.

Until then, you foxy readers you.

 

The Curse of the Blog & its Foul Mouthed Friend, Whiskey Pen

Yesterday I attended part of the AWP annual conference which was held here in Boston. I had an absolutely fabulous time and wish I had been able to attend the entire conference. Next year in Seattle and for sure in Minneapolis ’15.

While at a reading for Augusten Burroughs-I do so love that crazy man’s writing!-I finally realized why I’ve stopped writing this blog, as well as stopped writing all together: I HATE IT! What I mean is that I love to write, but I hate this motherfucking blog! I can’t figure out how to make it look polished and fresh. I can’t even get the damn Facebook icon to work. Every single time I sit down to work on this thing I end up incredibly tense, in more pain than I already am in, and so goddamn angry it takes every last bit of self-control I have, and that ain’t saying much, not to send this laptop sailing across the room.

Coupled with the zero blog progress I can’t even remember the last time I worked on my book. I don’t even enjoy writing anymore. The entire act of trying to be a published author has made writing miserable. So far I’ve been told that my genre needs an agent to get a book deal and I can’t get an agent without a body of published work. Armed with this aggravating news I decided to put my book on hold, start a blog, and write smaller pieces in the hopes of publication in journals and magazines. The complications of my life due to the health issues, worrying about the business of writing, and attempting to set up a blog which I clearly know dick about has given me whiskey pen in the worst way. Not only do I but I feel guilty about it, but it’s as if I have a noose hanging over my head threatening me every day that I don’t work. The guilt only makes me resentful and in turn I resent writing. I’m caught in a negative feedback loop.

Writing is now one more chore that I have to contend with, similar to calling the health insurance company. Believe me that’s something I’ve been putting off for two weeks and will require both a Xanax and vodka when I finally call. It’ll most likely result in a pain pill too because stress elevates my pain. This, my friends, is why so many writers are crazy and are alcoholics.

I’m signing off now. My laptop is safe for tonight, but my liver is not.

Roe, Reproductive Justice, & Me

 

I’ve finally returned to the land of the blogging. I’ll get into details of the last couple of months in my next entry. Today I want to celebrate the 4oth anniversary of Roe v Wade and share my story which will give you a glaring look into why I am an adamant supporter of reproductive rights and justice.

There are a litany of reasons why I support reproductive justice and why I use the term reproductive justice rather than pro-choice. I could easily write a series of books about these reasons, but for the sake of brevity I’ll stick to a couple of examples.

As a Native woman my body has been colonized just as our land has been. My people, the Cherokee, were forced at gun point by the US Government to walk in the dead of winter on what is known as the Trail of Tears. We left our home of the Southeast for our new home of then known Indian Territory and present day Oklahoma. It is estimated that 5,000 of us died during that winter. Our new land was stolen from us not even 100 years later by the government when they opened the land for white settlers during the Oklahoma Land Run.

Native women have (depending on the studies you read) a 3 to 6 times higher rate of rape in the US than any other race of women. To add insult to injury the Violence Against Women Act which was once a bipartisan supported bill was not resigned into law partially due to the fact that it gave tribes the right to prosecute non-tribal members, ie white men, who raped Native women on tribal land.

In the past we have faced the theft of our children to have them placed in Catholic “schools” that were nothing more than factories to teach them indentured servitude. While here our children were ultimately emotionally, physically, and sexually abused by the so called enlightened Christians. We have also faced forced government serialization simply because we are Native women. There have been cases of forced sterilization at the government owned and operated Indian Hospital in Claremore, OK. This is the very same hospital I used as a child.

As a disabled person I suffer a higher fate of health complications during pregnancy, difficulties raising a child, as well as the very real threat of forced sterilization by the government or having my child taken from me. A blind woman in Missouri had her child ripped from her arms only days after birth by the state simply because she didn’t properly breast feed on her first attempt. Because she was blind she was written off as an unfit mother.

Many in my government would rather see me die in a hospital than allow doctors to perform a lifesaving abortion. If I chose to have a child I would not receive the proper assistance I’d require as a disabled person to raise a healthy, happy, well-adjusted child. Despite this though my government also believes I shouldn’t be allowed access to birth control or abortion. I suppose I just shouldn’t have sex.

There are countless other reasons that I rock the reproductive justice movement. I’ll always support organizations that are self-identified as “pro-choice.” We are all in this fight together, after all, but the legal right to abortion is not enough to guarantee reproductive rights and health for all women.  While many of these organizations fight for legal rights such as birth control and sexual education, they are often unable to push further on reproductive justice issues, particularly ones that may be more controversial like the rights of incarcerated women.  I say reproductive justice for me, reproductive justice for you, and reproductive justice for all!

To end this blog entry I have included a chapter from the book I am writing Cute, Crazy, & Chauvinistic: The Real Life Dating Adventures of a Bi Grrrl. This chapter is my abortion story. It is honest, heartfelt, and one more reason that I believe women, not the government or religious bodies, have the right to make healthcare and life decisions for ourselves.

 

Pink Lines

I’m making a departure in this chapter from my established theme. This chapter, like the others I’ve written, is highly personal and highly political. It’s a story that I’ve yet to tell in full to anyone: the story of my abortion.

I met the soon-to-be-father of my unplanned pregnancy on my 26th birthday. He messaged me on Myspace and we soon began chatting. Turns out he literally lived across the street from me. I took it as a sign and I invited him to my party. He seemed wonderful. He was attentive, smart (off to graduate school that fall), super cute, and my friends seemed to like him. I knew it would only be a summer fling, but I was a spontaneous risk taking kind of grrrl so I went with it. A few hours and many drinks later that night a friend was holding my hair back while attempting to calm me down while I heaved up my birthday shots and cried. I knew he would hurt me when he left. I had no idea at the time just how he would hurt me.

We casually dated for a few weeks and spent a few nights a week together. The fact that we were neighbors definitely played a part in the amount of time we spent together. In some ways he was very thoughtful & caring, but it wasn’t often that I saw this side. He actually cried when I told him about an incident of gender based discrimination that I encountered while I was a music student at USC and how it sparked PTSD from having been raped as a teenager. I’d never seen a man cry before, let alone for me and my pain. The few times I had ever attempted to open up to a man about these incidents they usually 1. Became awkward and withdrew from me 2. Blamed me for what happened or 3. Treated me like a weak victim that was broken beyond repair or that could only be put back together by a man.

I was blown away by his show of softness and concern. Despite this one time display of compassion and pain he more often than not was cold and lacking affectionate. I remember us walking through our neighborhood and him mocking me for wanting to hold hands. Eventually I had enough of his emotional aloofness and I ended it.

A week or so later he showed up at my house with a David Sedaris book (I had borrowed one of his and loved it) and a card.  I had never had a man give me a book. Most men seemed intimidated or put off by my intellectual side; this one seemed to really like it. Many of the nights we spent together had included us lying  in bed together reading. It was an intimacy and acceptance that I had not experienced until then.

He told me that he missed me. I, being the secret softy romantic that I am, melted on the inside, but kept my tough exterior. Of course I began seeing him again. During one of our makeup sex sessions the condom came off inside me. I had been on hormonal birth control and had just stopped taking it so I wasn’t too worried about pregnancy. At that point my main concern was cancer. I had just recently had a cervical biopsy and was terrified of any possible links between hormones and cancer. In hind sight I should have put that unscientifically supported fear aside and taken a dose of emergency contraception just to be safe, but I didn’t.

In the grand scheme of my life the biopsy wasn’t that traumatic, but I was scared and I went through it alone. I recalled a college friend of mine requiring the same procedure and her mom actually offered to fly to Los Angeles from New Jersey just to be with her daughter. My mom could barely acknowledge my feelings around the matter. I had also recently told someone I was dating about the biopsy. In the midst of our date he freaked out and literally walked away from me. His father had died from cancer so the mere mention of my biopsy sent him into panic mode. Once again, I was left feeling that men would always view me as damaged goods and ultimately be unreliable and only provided another source of pain.

A few weeks after the condom incident I was yet again fed up with my summer fling’s cold aloofness so I told him to get lost. He did…and so did my period. When my period was about 10 days late I decided to take the dreaded test, but I never really thought I could be pregnant. I had never once had unprotected sex, not even in high school when so many people have risky sex. I had unofficially taught and counseled the girls in my conservative, West Texas high school about safer sex and STDs/STIs. As an undergraduate student I taught sex ed to junior high kids in East Los Angeles. I had even just begun volunteering with a local LGBTQ health center and was giving out condoms, lube, and safer sex information in LGBTQ clubs. There was just no way I could be pregnant!

Once I pulled the decider of fate from in between my legs I noticed that damn pink line forming. I felt instant panic. I was only 26. I had a shitty, dead end job that paid me a lousy 26k a year. I couldn’t even financially take care of myself. I lived in a crappy apartment with a rude roommate. I had 125k of student loan debt from only my Bachelor’s degree! I was studying for the GRE and looking at grad schools. I had too many emotional and physical health problems to possibly consider carrying a pregnancy, let alone raising a child. I had just broken up with the father of this unplanned catastrophe. He was moving away for grad school in Georgia. This couldn’t be happening to me!

I hoped maybe it was just my imagination so I didn’t look at the test for a few minutes in the hopes that the line would disappear. But there it was: a fucking pink line. I hated the color pink! It was only fitting that my bad news would be delivered via a “perky” color.

The room began to spin and I could hardly breathe. I was in a full tail spin panic. I knew what I was going to do. There was no doubt in my mind in how to handle this nightmare come true. I knew with absolutely certainty though that this wasn’t my burden to suffer alone. I quickly messaged the father and told him that we needed to immediately talk and that it was very important. That night I went to his apartment and delivered the news. I told him that I had an appointment the following day at Planned Parenthood for a pregnancy test and that I’d let me know the results as soon as I did. He insisted on coming with me despite my telling him that I really wanted to have the test alone. I honestly didn’t see him as a proper support system and I felt that if he went with me then this was real; it wasn’t some home pregnancy test error. Despite my wishes he still came along.

We sat nervously and awkwardly in the waiting room of the Brighton Planned Parenthood. When my name was called I was instructed to pee in a cup and leave it in a small window area. I could call for the results within two days. After doing as instructed we walked out onto Comm Ave, shell shocked and silent. He asked me if I wanted to take a cab with him back to Cambridge. There was a yoga class he wanted to take and it started soon. I was so angry when he said that. How dare he go on as if everything was fine! Didn’t he know that I was probably pregnant and would have to have an abortion? Didn’t he know that this brought back horrid images from when I was only 14, had just been raped, and was terrified I was pregnant? I couldn’t even buy a pregnancy test for myself at the time because my town was too small and people would talk, let alone privately acquire an abortion in the harshly anti-choice state of OK! There I was, once again terrified I was pregnant. My current circumstances were vastly different, but that didn’t make them good. How dare he not share my pain, anger, confusion, and helplessness! Yoga?! Really?! That was why he wanted to take a cab rather than the T? The fact that I was tired, stressed, and about to burst into tears at any minute wasn’t enough for him to warrant a cab, but a yoga class was? I firmly said no and ran for the train station.

Two days later I was at work and decided it was time to call for my results. I needed complete privacy so I went to the office gym when I knew no one would be there. I sat down on a weight lifting bench and heard the news. I was, in fact, pregnant. I immediately asked to schedule an appointment for an abortion. After being transferred to another department and being placed on hold I was asked if I wanted the surgical or the medical abortion. I knew my options and I opted for the medical abortion. I didn’t like the idea of having to sit in a clinic like a prisoner waiting on death row. I didn’t like the idea of some doctor man handling me while bringing my pregnancy to an end. I felt that the entire scenario was too familiar to being raped for me to endure.

The soonest I could get in was the following week on a Wednesday, but I was worried that I’d need a day or two to recuperate. Of course I couldn’t come in for the abortion pills on the weekend or a Friday night. I had to come in on a weekday morning. I scheduled the appointment for the following Friday so at least I would only have to take one day off from work. I was also forced to be pregnant for one more week. I didn’t know how I was going to keep myself composed until then.

I managed to get a day off from my rather resistant boss. I couldn’t afford to lose a day of pay so I took a vacation day. A vacation day! For an abortion! Damn it why wasn’t that bastard who was responsible for this going through the same nightmare I was?! It wasn’t fucking fair! That night I went to his place and gave him the latest news. We sat quietly on his bed for a few minutes before he told me that he couldn’t be with me if I had the abortion on Friday. He was moving his belongings to his parents’ house in CT that day. I explained the situation and asked if he couldn’t just delay his move a day. His lease wouldn’t be up yet. He had already planned to be in CT for a week before moving to GA. It wasn’t crucial that he left that Friday. He said that he wouldn’t change his plans and that if I really wanted him with me then I’d take the Wednesday appointment. Once again my feelings and needs were of no importance to him. I went home and laid down in bed and cried until I felt numb inside.

The week dragged on and I felt like Friday would never come. I was nauseous, exhausted, sore, and in emotional misery. The most basic things like going to work at an office for 9 hours felt so draining that one would think I had been doing hard labor for 12 hours. A co-worker’s Chinese food almost made me throw up on my computer keyboard and monitor. Every time I saw a child it was all I could do to not sob. I knew I was making the right choice for myself and a potential child. I knew that I was a good, responsible person and that it was bad luck that led to this. I knew that it was my right to make this decision and that no one had any business telling me what to do or how to feel. I was a feminist, after all. My body, my choice. Blah blah blah. None of this made my pain and frustrations go away. It was while on the T that I noticed what I was left to assume were a couple and their child happily playing. Their little boy looked so happy and amused from the simple act of riding a train. His parents looked just as amused watching him. It was that moment that I realized this pregnancy was a potential life. This nightmare could be our child. It would be so damn smart and cute with both of us as its parents. I practically ran home when I got off the T. I once again threw myself on my bed and cried until I couldn’t feel my pain.

That night I told him how I felt watching that little boy and his parents. He asked me if I had changed my mind and I told him no. I knew what I had decided, and the choice he agreed with, was best. I told him that despite my unwavering certainty in my decision that I still felt like I was killing a part of him, and of us. He broke down sobbing and so did I. We spent the night together. He was more affectionate to me that night than he had been when we were dating. Looking back I think it was the loneliness of the situation that led me to stay with him that night.

As Friday came closer I began to panic. I was terrified about the possible physical pain. I was scared of what the staff at Planned Parenthood would say or do. Maybe I should have the surgical rather than medical abortion? I called Planned Parenthood to ask if I could change to the surgical, but they informed me that I would have to wait another week if I did. I knew I couldn’t take another week of this insanity. I kept my Friday appointment.

A friend said she would go with me since the father wouldn’t. Friday morning the three of us were at my apartment trying to act as if everything was normal. My friend later told me that the father had thanked her for going with me and that she coldly responded by telling him that she was going for me, not him. When it was time to leave my apartment the father and I said our goodbyes. I told him that I loved him, which I did in an unexplainable way, and he returned my comment with a stoic expression. In utter frustration I almost screamed “say it back!” I knew he didn’t love me or care for me. Hell, he didn’t care enough about me to be with me during OUR abortion. I just needed to feel, no matter how briefly, that I mattered. That the experience I was going through wasn’t me alone, but rather our experience. He finally said that he loved me and I walked away to join my friend.

I was praying the entire T ride to whatever deities may exist that there wouldn’t be protesters outside the clinic. I had dealt with them while getting my checkups and biopsy and didn’t need a repeat encounter. My meeting with them had been rather ugly. The Brighton Planned Parenthood is on a busy street that runs between Boston University and Boston College. There are numerous young people on that street at any time of day. At that time, pre-Massachusetts Buffer Zone Law, the protesters would line up along Comm Ave and harass any woman that happened to walk by that stretch of side walk. The law at the time was so loosely written that these misogynistic monsters would literally get right next to women to the point of practically touching us, even if one of us were simply trying to cross the street to the grocery store that happened to be next to the Planned Parenthood.

My pre-pregnancy appointment at Planned Parenthood was for my biopsy. As I walked closer to the Planned Parenthood I was stopped by one woman hater after another with each one being more aggressive than the last. Once I finally made it to the door and began to open it a woman got right behind me and screamed “Don’t kill your baby!” Without even thinking I turned around and looked her dead in her eye and screamed “I’m here for a biopsy for possible cancer, you nosy bitch!” She looked utterly shocked and was silent for a moment. I turned around and as I walked in I heard her yell “Oh yeah that’s how you talk for a normal doctor appointment. Murderer!” There was no way in hell I could deal with an encounter like that on the actual day of my abortion. I knew if I had to see these horrible wastes of oxygen then I might break and punch one of them and end up in jail. The Goddesses cut me a break and there were no hate filled “Christians” to contend with that day.

My friend and I both took off our coats and put down our bags and separately walked through the clinic metal detectors. We then passed through two different locked doors before arriving in the waiting room. Yeah, can’t imagine why any woman would get angry and scream at a protester under these conditions. I never had to walk through metal detectors and locked doors for any of my other doctors.

I irritably signed in and sat down as far from people as I possibly could. I saw several different people throughout the eight hours my friend and I spent at Planned Parenthood. My appointment began with having my blood drawn and a hospital bracelet put on my wrist. I told them I didn’t want the bracelet and that I was only there to get the pill. The nurse responded in a bitchy tone “If you don’t wear the bracelet then you can’t have an abortion.” I was utterly furious! I felt like I was being branded with a large scarlet “A.” I got the bracelet and sat down to wait. And wait. And wait some more. Meanwhile my friend was reading one of her law books while occasionally complaining about the wait. The waiting room had several couples throughout it with the women wearing the scarlet A bracelet. I thought I might scream at any time. Why the hell wasn’t he with me now? Why did these women deserve to have their partners with them, but I didn’t? The entire damn reason I elected for the medical abortion was so I wouldn’t have to spend a day in a clinic enduring this added pain and rage and yet that was exactly what I was doing on my “vacation” day.

Next I saw a counselor. Thank goodness Massachusetts doesn’t have those horrible laws that require medically unsound and highly judgmental “counseling” designed by asshole legislators that care more about their so called morals than they do about women. Unfortunately that didn’t stop the counselor from making some faux pas. She had asked me when I had “unprotected sex” to which I responded that I hadn’t. I told her that she shouldn’t assume that every woman that walked through her doors had unprotected sex or even sex at all. I reminded her that many women are raped and that rape isn’t sex. I also reminded her that half the women who get abortions were using birth control at the time they became pregnant. She politely agreed with me and asked a few more questions before I could finally see the doctor. I went back to the waiting room and sat down in a very angry huff. Why should I have to tell these morons how to talk to women?! If there’s any damn place that assumptions should not be placed on women it’s at Planned Parenthood. While sitting angrily I also had to listen to the Wedding March being piped through speakers. Who the hell was running this place?! I sat there screaming in my mind “Jesus can’t I just have my fucking pill so I can go home and end this pregnancy already?! I just want to be free from this!”

Eventually I was called back for my ultra sound and pills. I was roughly six weeks along. I couldn’t believe that I was that far along. Finally the doctor came in and explained the pills to me. She told me that some women experience pain, cramping, and nausea and that I shouldn’t be alone. She asked if my partner or a friend would be with me and I said yes. I lied. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that the father didn’t care enough about me to post pone his move one day to be with me. I couldn’t tell her that I only had one friend in Boston that I could tell and that while she was sitting in the waiting room she couldn’t be with me that night. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that I was utterly alone.

She finally gave me the first pill to take at that moment and the second to take a few hours later at home. That night I chatted online with the father after I took the second pill. I mentioned that I was beginning to have cramps and that I didn’t feel so good. His response: “I have packing cramps.” I ignored it and told him to please stay online and that I had to go to the bathroom, but that I wanted to chat more. When I returned to my computer he had signed out.

I spent the rest of my Friday night in agony. I had never been in so much pain in my life. The time I dislocated my knee cap didn’t even compare to this pain. I was throwing up, had diarrhea, horrible cramps, and heavy bleeding. At one point I woke up on my bathroom floor not knowing how I had gotten there. The pain was so intense that I had passed out. I desperately needed a glass of water, but I didn’t have the strength to get it myself. Finally, after hours of this excruciating pain, it was over. The doctor told me that I wouldn’t be able to know when my body had expelled the fetus from my uterus and that I was so early in my first trimester that I wouldn’t be able to see the fetus, but I knew. I just had a feeling wash over me. It was finally done. I was no longer pregnant. A bit later the bleeding considerably slowed down and I was finally able to walk to my bedroom. I looked at my computer and he never signed back on. There were no messages on my phone either.

About two weeks later I finally heard from him. He emailed me to tell me about his move. He emailed to complain to me about how hard his life was and how horrible us Southerners were. He didn’t email to ask how I was. I became enraged. How dare he show such blatant disregard for me and what I had gone through! The hell I just went through was partially due to him and the hell I went through benefited both of us. I knew he was happy with the decision I made because the minute I told him I wanted an abortion he let out a huge sigh of relief. Who the fuck did he think he was to be so cruel?! I said all of this and more in an email to him.

He later responded to tell me that it was my fault he wasn’t with me during the abortion because I didn’t schedule it at a “convenient” time for him. He went even further telling me that it was my fault that I had become pregnant. Up to this point in my life only three people had incited so much rage from me: my emotionally abusive father, the boyfriend who raped me, and the guy who tried to rape me while I was in college. I hated all of those men and I hated my ex almost as much as them. I told him this and that I never wanted to speak to him again. He replied that it hurt him to hear that. I didn’t respond to him and we haven’t spoken since.

Roughly a month after the abortion I was at a counter protest sponsored by the Boston chapter of NOW. We gathered outside the Commons to show our support for women’s reproductive rights as the so called “pro-life” people walked by us. I thought I was mentally prepared for the onslaught of demeaning and derogatory words that the anti-choice monsters use about women such as myself. Turns out I wasn’t  A man walked by us with a sign that read “Abortion is Manslaughter.” Tears instantly filled my eyes. It hurt me deep down to my soul that I, the always caring activist that gives countless hours to help others, was thought guilty of manslaughter. Did these people realize that I was keenly aware that I had the potential for a life growing inside me and that I didn’t take that lightly? Did these people not realize that I took every means necessary to prevent a pregnancy? Did these people not realize that there was a man involved and that responsibility did not solely lie on my shoulders?

At that moment I became incredibly angry that I was considered a murderer, but that my ex-boyfriend got off scot-free. He didn’t have to beg for a day off from work. He didn’t use a vacation day for an abortion. He didn’t sit for hours in a clinic waiting for a pill. He didn’t have to endure hours of extreme pain and illness and days of bleeding. He would never be called a murderer, a slut, irresponsible, or the countless other fucked up stereotypes that the anti-choice and anti-woman agenda forces on women. That was the moment that I realized this was a highly personal and painful matter that the public felt entitled to judge me, and only me, for.

Slowly, over time, I began to talk to more friends about my abortion, many of which I learned had their own stories. I even read a personal essay about part of my abortion experience at an event held by NARAL Pro-Choice Massachusetts on the 35^th anniversary of Roe v. Wade. I so scared to read my story in front of strangers, politicians, and the people I volunteered with that my hands and voice were shaking. Later, several people, including a state politician, thanked me for sharing my story. Even now, almost seven years since the abortion, I cried while writing this chapter. My palms are cold clammy at this very moment.

I continue to be a tireless advocate for women’s rights, particularly our rights to control our lives and bodies. No on, and I mean no one, has any right to tell us what we may or may not do with our bodies. Forcing a woman to have a child, not have a child, or taking away her right to have or refuse birth control and sterilization is tantamount to rape. The so called “pro-life” people and movement can trump up all the medically unsound and unscientifically proven statistics they want. They can talk until they’re blue in the face about saving children. They can harass and abuse women. They can judge us and turn their backs on us. They can do their goddamn best to take away our legal rights and say it’s all in our best interests or that of a child, but I know the truth. They do not care about saving lives, but rather controlling women. Strong women with self-determination, money, and education scare the hell out of them. If they take away our right to control our reproductive systems then they can keep us pregnant and under men’s control. They want us beaten down, helpless, and weak. This is the exact same mentality of how a rapist views their victims. These “pro-life” people are nothing more than monsters that must be vanquished. Those of us with integrity and respect and love for women must fight back. And lastly, there are some men that need to understand that you are not pro-woman or pro-choice simply because you believe abortion should be legal. If you only view abortion and those of us who have them as a matter of convenience for you then you’re only a small step above the “pro-life” monsters and their agenda.