I have spent the last week trying to get two prescriptions filled. Prescriptions I need so I can function, at least semi-normally, on a day-to-day basis. New prescriptions, because my current medications aren’t really doing an adequate job of managing my pain. Call me crazy, but having 10 migraines per month (sometimes more, and sometimes for days on end) isn’t what I’d call effective pain management. My neurologist agrees, so he decided we should try some new medication.
But my insurance doesn’t want to cover these new prescriptions. And do you want to know how much they cost without insurance? $500, for one month’s supply. So I have spent the last week ferrying myself back and forth to the pharmacy, calling my insurance, and trying to get hold of my doctor in hopes that he can convince the insurance the medications are a necessity. I have done this on top of working two jobs, and suffering from two separate migraines in that week’s timeframe.
I am sharing this not because I want pity, or even commiseration; I’m sharing because I want to illustrate how difficult it is for people like me— people who work, but are still barely above the poverty line; people who suffer from chronic, debilitating health problems; people who are trying damn hard but still barely keeping their heads above water, either health-wise, finance-wise, or both— to access the care we need. It’s this hard in our *current* system; a system that, in theory, has concessions, programs, and safety nets for people like me.
In the proposed Republican healthcare plan, those programs would be decimated. People like me would be left holding the bill for hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars worth of medical services and prescription costs every month; a bill we have no hope of paying. Our current healthcare system is not perfect; the last week of my life can attest to that. But the proposed plan would not fix any of the problems that plague that system; if anything, it would make them worse.
It’s easy to ignore the issues this new plan would create if you’re not one of the people negatively affected by it. It’s easy to generalize and rationalize and convince yourself that the people who would suffer under this new plan somehow don’t deserve care. So I’m asking you NOT to generalize; I’m asking you to make it personal. The next time you hear or read about the bill and are tempted to think of the people affected as just an anonymous ‘other,’ I would ask you to think of me instead. Do I matter? Do I deserve to have access to the specialists and medications I need to lead a productive, fulfilling life? If you answered yes, then you need to think twice about supporting the healthcare bill in its current form. And if you answered no, then I guess I would ask you-- why? What is it about me as a person, or my situation, that makes me less deserving of care—of quality of life—than anyone else? What makes any one person more deserving of care than another?
There is no doubt that our system is broken. I could write a dozen posts on the myriad of things wrong, and give examples of how other countries are doing it better. But suffice it to say: the proposed health plan, far from fixing anything, would absolutely destroy the few pieces in place that are actually working. We can do better.
Wednesday 28 June 2017
Saturday 4 February 2017
Believe Us, Part 2
I have been so overwhelmed—-in a good way—-by the response to my last, very personal, post. So many people—-men, women, close friends and people I hadn’t seen in ages—-voiced their support, compassion, and solidarity that I know sharing my story was the right thing to do. I want to thank each and every person who responded, whether in a comment or a direct message, for their kind words and love. It has made me a better person and bolstered my belief that Love Wins.
I didn’t know just how much I would need to lean on that belief until last night, when I decided that I wanted to discuss my experiences with the person who made the rape comment that triggered all this in the first place. Things hadn’t felt right between us all week, and even though I was hurt and angry, I wanted to open up a dialogue that might allow him to see things from my perspective. I approached him and asked if we could talk, because I knew things had been weird between us since last weekend’s incident. His response shocked me: “Things aren’t weird; I’m just ignoring you. And not talking to you has made this the best week so far, because I haven’t had to listen to you whining about how terrible men are. I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s the truth. I don’t want to talk to you.”
I wish I could say that the conversation recovered, and we went on to have a meaningful dialogue around personal trauma and compassion; but that’s not how it went. What did happen was that I tried to maintain my composure while dying inside, and get the conversation back on track, while he barreled on, completely ignoring/discounting my experiences, accusing me of “playing the woman card,” and maintaining that not talking to me had made his life so much better.
Needless to say, I left in tears. Again.
My emotions since then have floundered between blind rage, total despair, profound disappointment, and deep hurt. I’ll be honest and say I am really struggling not to add this man to the list of other men (namely, the two mentioned in the previous post) who I trusted to respect and support me, and instead abused my trust and left me reeling. I am struggling not to let this embitter me. I am clinging to the fact that so many other people responded so supportively when I told them my story. I am trying not to let one hateful person deter me from saying what needs to be said, or convince me that my experience is worthless, or make me believe that because I notice injustices and point them out, I am just an angry bitch who hates all men.
But of course I’m angry. I’m angry at the person who triggered all this for belittling my story and saying such hurtful things; and I’m angry in general at the fact that we live in a world where 1 in 4 women experience sexual assault at some point in their lives, and where I have to pay for a taxi home at night instead of walking because I might get followed (again), and where even though I cover my face with a scarf when I cycle to work, I still get catcalled on a regular basis.
We should all be angry. Anger doesn’t mean you hate everyone and everything; it means you recognize that something is wrong with the way things are and you want better—-for yourself, for others, for your children. And don’t we all want that? Don’t we all want to live in a world where we and our children after us—-daughters and sons—-can feel safe, no matter where we choose to walk or how we choose to dress or what we choose to drink? So get angry with me. And let’s turn that anger into something beautiful.
I didn’t know just how much I would need to lean on that belief until last night, when I decided that I wanted to discuss my experiences with the person who made the rape comment that triggered all this in the first place. Things hadn’t felt right between us all week, and even though I was hurt and angry, I wanted to open up a dialogue that might allow him to see things from my perspective. I approached him and asked if we could talk, because I knew things had been weird between us since last weekend’s incident. His response shocked me: “Things aren’t weird; I’m just ignoring you. And not talking to you has made this the best week so far, because I haven’t had to listen to you whining about how terrible men are. I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s the truth. I don’t want to talk to you.”
I wish I could say that the conversation recovered, and we went on to have a meaningful dialogue around personal trauma and compassion; but that’s not how it went. What did happen was that I tried to maintain my composure while dying inside, and get the conversation back on track, while he barreled on, completely ignoring/discounting my experiences, accusing me of “playing the woman card,” and maintaining that not talking to me had made his life so much better.
Needless to say, I left in tears. Again.
My emotions since then have floundered between blind rage, total despair, profound disappointment, and deep hurt. I’ll be honest and say I am really struggling not to add this man to the list of other men (namely, the two mentioned in the previous post) who I trusted to respect and support me, and instead abused my trust and left me reeling. I am struggling not to let this embitter me. I am clinging to the fact that so many other people responded so supportively when I told them my story. I am trying not to let one hateful person deter me from saying what needs to be said, or convince me that my experience is worthless, or make me believe that because I notice injustices and point them out, I am just an angry bitch who hates all men.
But of course I’m angry. I’m angry at the person who triggered all this for belittling my story and saying such hurtful things; and I’m angry in general at the fact that we live in a world where 1 in 4 women experience sexual assault at some point in their lives, and where I have to pay for a taxi home at night instead of walking because I might get followed (again), and where even though I cover my face with a scarf when I cycle to work, I still get catcalled on a regular basis.
We should all be angry. Anger doesn’t mean you hate everyone and everything; it means you recognize that something is wrong with the way things are and you want better—-for yourself, for others, for your children. And don’t we all want that? Don’t we all want to live in a world where we and our children after us—-daughters and sons—-can feel safe, no matter where we choose to walk or how we choose to dress or what we choose to drink? So get angry with me. And let’s turn that anger into something beautiful.
Sunday 29 January 2017
Believe Us
Tonight was hard for me.
I was out with some friends and one of them (a man) joked that having mustard put on his food “was like getting raped in the mouth.”
I didn’t take that well. I pointed out that having a condiment you disliked put on your food and being raped were not comparable. I said that if you hadn’t been raped, you couldn’t joke about it (and those who have been probably don’t want to joke about it). He disagreed and didn’t back down. I fled to the bathroom in tears.
I found myself wondering why I was so upset. “Jocelyn,” I asked myself, “what about what was just said is making you retreat to the corridor of a bar, in tears?” And if I’m being honest, it was because someone tried to do exactly that: “rape me in the mouth,” several years ago, and I had never acknowledged it. Without getting graphic, but being factual and anatomical, someone—-a person I trusted—-decided that since I was drunk, I must want his penis in my mouth. So he tried to put it there. I was drunk, but I did not in fact want his penis in my mouth, or anywhere near me. So I stubbornly kept my mouth shut. He kept trying; I kept resisting. And eventually he retreated home, unsatisfied. I later found out that he had jokingly complained to his friends afterwards, “I kept trying to put it in, but she wouldn’t open her mouth!!”
I wish that was the only time someone tried to do something to me I didn’t want done. But a year or so later, someone decided that either I had had enough alcohol, or they had put enough drugs in my alcohol (I’ll never know which, because both hospitals and police refused to test me without ‘proof of that a crime had been committed’), that they could take me home. Not bring me home; that would imply desire. But physically take me from the restaurant we were at, in a taxi, to their apartment, where I did not want to go, simply because I could not physically resist. I don’t remember going to their apartment; I don’t know how I got there. The only memory that persists, through the drugged/alcohol haze, and through the haze of time, is a vague sense memory of me shoving him away and running, then wandering the streets of an unfamiliar city, alone, disoriented, at 4 in the morning. I was ‘lucky’; I got away, physically unharmed.
I don’t like the term victim. I try to avoid it when talking about the clients and populations I strive to serve. I certainly don’t use it with myself. I like the term survivor. But I’ve never used it with myself because to me, survivor implies that you’ve gotten through some sort of violence, some sort of very real physical threat to your personhood; and I’ve never felt I could claim that.
So I’ve never known what to term myself. And tonight, I realized I don’t need to categorize. What happened to me traumatized me. That much is clear from my visceral emotional reaction to my friend’s flippant statement. I don’t need to categorize myself into victim, or survivor, or any other label. And neither does anyone else. What happened to us happened. It affected us the way it affected us. We persist and we break down and we heal. Labels don’t matter. Stories matter. People matter. What happened to me—-what happens to anyone—-doesn’t define me. But it is a part of my story, and it needs to be told. And people need to be willing to listen; and not just listen, but believe. This is true for everyone, but especially men. When we tell you that it’s not okay to compare a disliked condiment to mouth rape, believe us. When we tell you it isn’t funny to joke about drugging someone’s drink, listen to us. And if you say ‘not all men’ but then do nothing when you hear or see others doing these things, start standing up for us.
I was out with some friends and one of them (a man) joked that having mustard put on his food “was like getting raped in the mouth.”
I didn’t take that well. I pointed out that having a condiment you disliked put on your food and being raped were not comparable. I said that if you hadn’t been raped, you couldn’t joke about it (and those who have been probably don’t want to joke about it). He disagreed and didn’t back down. I fled to the bathroom in tears.
I found myself wondering why I was so upset. “Jocelyn,” I asked myself, “what about what was just said is making you retreat to the corridor of a bar, in tears?” And if I’m being honest, it was because someone tried to do exactly that: “rape me in the mouth,” several years ago, and I had never acknowledged it. Without getting graphic, but being factual and anatomical, someone—-a person I trusted—-decided that since I was drunk, I must want his penis in my mouth. So he tried to put it there. I was drunk, but I did not in fact want his penis in my mouth, or anywhere near me. So I stubbornly kept my mouth shut. He kept trying; I kept resisting. And eventually he retreated home, unsatisfied. I later found out that he had jokingly complained to his friends afterwards, “I kept trying to put it in, but she wouldn’t open her mouth!!”
I wish that was the only time someone tried to do something to me I didn’t want done. But a year or so later, someone decided that either I had had enough alcohol, or they had put enough drugs in my alcohol (I’ll never know which, because both hospitals and police refused to test me without ‘proof of that a crime had been committed’), that they could take me home. Not bring me home; that would imply desire. But physically take me from the restaurant we were at, in a taxi, to their apartment, where I did not want to go, simply because I could not physically resist. I don’t remember going to their apartment; I don’t know how I got there. The only memory that persists, through the drugged/alcohol haze, and through the haze of time, is a vague sense memory of me shoving him away and running, then wandering the streets of an unfamiliar city, alone, disoriented, at 4 in the morning. I was ‘lucky’; I got away, physically unharmed.
I don’t like the term victim. I try to avoid it when talking about the clients and populations I strive to serve. I certainly don’t use it with myself. I like the term survivor. But I’ve never used it with myself because to me, survivor implies that you’ve gotten through some sort of violence, some sort of very real physical threat to your personhood; and I’ve never felt I could claim that.
So I’ve never known what to term myself. And tonight, I realized I don’t need to categorize. What happened to me traumatized me. That much is clear from my visceral emotional reaction to my friend’s flippant statement. I don’t need to categorize myself into victim, or survivor, or any other label. And neither does anyone else. What happened to us happened. It affected us the way it affected us. We persist and we break down and we heal. Labels don’t matter. Stories matter. People matter. What happened to me—-what happens to anyone—-doesn’t define me. But it is a part of my story, and it needs to be told. And people need to be willing to listen; and not just listen, but believe. This is true for everyone, but especially men. When we tell you that it’s not okay to compare a disliked condiment to mouth rape, believe us. When we tell you it isn’t funny to joke about drugging someone’s drink, listen to us. And if you say ‘not all men’ but then do nothing when you hear or see others doing these things, start standing up for us.
Sunday 22 January 2017
Women's March Momentum
I participated in one of the many Women's Marches that took place yesterday around the world, and I am so glad I did. I don't like crowds.; it was crowded. I don't like rain; it was raining. I don't like attending events alone; I couldn't find the friend I was supposed to meet up with and ended up marching by myself (alone, with 40,000 other people).
It's safe to say I was way out of my comfort zone. But I'm so glad I was there. My Lyft driver dropped me off a few blocks away because traffic was at a standstill; I didn't know exactly where I was going, but all I had to do was follow the herds of people heading in the same general direction. And when I rounded a corner and saw thousands upon thousands of people-- women, men, black, white, Asian, Hispanic, gay, straight, young, old-- gathered to support the same ideals, I got a little choked up.
And what ideals were we supporting? Well, I think every person will have a slightly different answer. But at their core, those answers will be the same. Because everyone present was there to support the idea that every human has the same rights, and those rights are precious and must be protected.
I marched because 1 in 4 women are sexually assaulted at some point in their life, and that is unacceptable. What is even more unacceptable is that someone who has perpetrated sexual assault now leads our country. I marched for myself and for every other person who relives their trauma every time they see or read about the man who is now in charge of the US.
I marched because healthcare is a human right, not a privilege. How much money you have in your bank account should not affect whether or not you are able to go to the doctor, or fill your prescriptions, or receive preventive or lifesaving treatment.
I marched because I refuse to accept that this new administration is going to define the direction our country takes. I marched because women are half the population, and we have a voice, and for me, the march was the first line in what I hope will be a long story of using that voice.
It's safe to say I was way out of my comfort zone. But I'm so glad I was there. My Lyft driver dropped me off a few blocks away because traffic was at a standstill; I didn't know exactly where I was going, but all I had to do was follow the herds of people heading in the same general direction. And when I rounded a corner and saw thousands upon thousands of people-- women, men, black, white, Asian, Hispanic, gay, straight, young, old-- gathered to support the same ideals, I got a little choked up.
And what ideals were we supporting? Well, I think every person will have a slightly different answer. But at their core, those answers will be the same. Because everyone present was there to support the idea that every human has the same rights, and those rights are precious and must be protected.
I marched because 1 in 4 women are sexually assaulted at some point in their life, and that is unacceptable. What is even more unacceptable is that someone who has perpetrated sexual assault now leads our country. I marched for myself and for every other person who relives their trauma every time they see or read about the man who is now in charge of the US.
I marched because healthcare is a human right, not a privilege. How much money you have in your bank account should not affect whether or not you are able to go to the doctor, or fill your prescriptions, or receive preventive or lifesaving treatment.
I marched because I refuse to accept that this new administration is going to define the direction our country takes. I marched because women are half the population, and we have a voice, and for me, the march was the first line in what I hope will be a long story of using that voice.
Bringing Bloggy Back
I've done some thinking in the past 48 hours (I mean, I've done some thinking other times, too; but the past 48 hours have been more focused), and I've decided it's time for me to bring back the blog. The blog started as a way for me to express my thoughts and experiences as an American living in the UK; sadly, I'm no longer in the UK (one day I'll be back!!) and the blog is taking a new direction. Here is where I'll be posting thoughts on being a liberal, feminist woman under a Trump administration, and hopefully also posting about positive actions that we can take to ensure that Love Wins. I know that a lot of us are scared, discouraged, and angry. I am. So I'm going to be channeling my anger into words and actions that I hope will help bring about safety and unity in a scary world. I hope you'll join me!
I thought about changing the name of the blog-- the title 'The Not-So-Quiet American' was meant to bring attention to my foreign-ness in the UK. But I think it's still relevant. America doesn't belong to Trump, or to his supporters who preach hate and ignorance. I am American. And I will not keep quiet.
I thought about changing the name of the blog-- the title 'The Not-So-Quiet American' was meant to bring attention to my foreign-ness in the UK. But I think it's still relevant. America doesn't belong to Trump, or to his supporters who preach hate and ignorance. I am American. And I will not keep quiet.
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