The Difference Between My Experience and Yours

[trigger warning: rape. please enjoy an otter if this will disturb you.]

This, the column and the comments, are an excellent study in the difference between being a woman in the patriarchy/rape culture and a man in the patriarchy/rape culture.

I'll start this by saying that I don't like Cary Tennis. He's pretentious. He ignores the possibilities of medical/mental illnesses in favor of existential rambling, which, as far as I can tell, means nothing. Honestly, the man doesn't give advice, he rambles for a few paragraphs and then calls it a day. His qualifications for advice giving seem to be that he can use big words, quote dead white guys and he is an alcoholic in recovery. Yeah, okay, I actively dislike Cary Tennis.

Anyway, this woman, LW, writes in and says that she is an alcoholic. (Actually, she's not sure if she's an alcoholic, but a 6 pack a day every day drunk by oneself does put one squarely in the alcoholic category.) She's also lonely and clearly quite depressed. Her problem is that she attends AA* and the men in the group make her uncomfortable. As in sitting too close and touching her uncomfortable.

Are you a woman? Then that last sentence made you uncomfortable, and it had nothing to do with alcoholism.

It didn't bother Cary Tennis, who seems to think that a woman being touched by strange men is just part of recovery and nothing to be concerned about. It concerned every woman who commented, and there were pages of comments. Mostly from women, saying things like, "Um, no, being touched by strange men is not part of recovery, it's a sign of danger, get out."

And that's the difference between being a man and being a woman in our patriarchy/rape culture. When a man experiences another man sitting too close to him and getting touchy, he's probably freaked out, but he's not thinking, "So, exactly how alone would we have to get before he rapes me?" When a strange man offers another man a ride, he may turn it down because he doesn't want to make small talk with a stranger, but he's not thinking, "Oh, fuck no, you creepy rapist! I'm not that stupid."

Chances are, Cary Tennis has never paused in the middle of a conversation with an appliance repairman and thought, "Oh, shit. I'm alone in my house with a strange man. I wonder when the raping starts?" Cary Tennis has likely never looked at a random man walking down the street and thought, "I wonder if that's the man who rapes me." So Cary Tennis can totally ignore this woman's reasonable fears and bullshit some answer about working the program and existential whatever while every woman witnessing this shrieks, "NO! GET OUT! NOW!"

Must be nice, Cary. Must be nice.

*AA is total bullshit, though Cary thinks it's awesome. Despite the PR, AA is as or less effective than going it alone.

Do Doctors Realize How Stupid They Sound?

Me being still obsessed with my complete inability to eat anything, I'd like to share two conversations I had in the ER early Tuesday morning. Both of these happened while I was on a lot of dilaudid, mind you, so I was a bit more, um, direct than I usually am.

Conversation 1:

Dr: We need to test the function of your gallbladder.

Me: Okay.

Dr.: We can't do it right now, you'll have to schedule it later.

Me: Okay. So what does that involve?

Dr.: They'll inject a nuclear dye into your gallbladder to make it spasm-

Me: Wait, wait, wait. Isn't spasming what's going on right now? That's what's causing the pain, right?

Dr.: Well, yes, but we need to see-

Me: So you expect me to walk into a room knowing that I'm going to leave feeling like this, only without the dilaudid and the toridol?

Dr.: Well, yes, but in order to-

Me: Just how many different kinds of crazy do you think I am?

Seriously, how do you say that to someone? "Hey, I've got a great opportunity for you to deliberately feel the sort of pain that makes you beg for death! Sign up now!" Um, no, I'd rather not.

Conversation 2 (after 4 shots of dilaudid and 2 of toridol):

Dr.: If we can't get your pain under control, we'll have to admit you.

Me: And do what?

Dr.: What?

Me: What are you going to do on the 8th floor that you aren't doing here?

Dr.: Um, well, we can work on controlling the pain.

Me: You just gave me enough dilaudid to knock out an elephant, does the dilaudid work better the higher up you are?

Dr.: No.

Me: I can't sleep on dilaudid. I can't stop grinding my teeth on dilaudid. I'd like to go home, wait for the dilaudid to wear off and sleep in my comfortable bed with my pillow that smells like me. I don't see how being in some overly bright room with some roommate who wants to watch Fox News at top volume would be any better.

Dr.: I can't release you with uncontrolled pain. It's against hospital regulations and it's unethical.

Me: and I have insurance, so those things matter, I suppose. My pain's all gone now, get this IV out and send me home.

Really, pain? Don't make me laugh. Me and pain are old friends, the kind that can't stand each other anymore, but we've been together so long we don't know what else to do. Ethics? Every doctor I've ever seen undertreats my pain deliberately because they're scared of the DEA or they think I'm lying, but all of a sudden undertreating pain is unethical? Like you'd care if I didn't have insurance? Fuck off.

Cranky, Cranky Me

So after years of constant low-grade nausea and random abdominal pain, I have a diagnosis: biliary dyskinesia, basically my gallbladder spasms uncontrollably for no apparent reason. I even have a suggested treatment: yank that fucker out! Except that actual research shows that gallbladder removal isn't as successful for treating biliary dyskinesia as it for treating gallstones. As in, I could risk a surgery and not feel better. Nor does there really seem to be a risk to biliary dyskinesia other than crippling pain. Oh, hello, pain, my old friend. Come to visit me again?

The other treatment is to follow the diet recommended for those who have had their gallbladders removed, which can be best described as What the fuck do I eat, then? Not the hollandaise sauce that went with last night's flounder and steamed vegetables. Not the cookies currently in the break room, being all delicious. Not the 50 cent bag of chips in the snack machine that has the advantage of being cheap and holding back hunger for another hour and who doesn't like chips?

FUCK! I'd have the surgery just to be able to enjoy cookies and hollandaise sauce (who wants to live forever, anyway?), except that I wouldn't be able to eat them after the surgery, either. FUCKFUCKFUCK!!

Yeah, I'm gonna miss food. I'm also likely to make the people around me miss me eating food. It's not so much that misery loves company, as it is that misery demands company.

No, Actually It Was Never Easier

Filed under Revering Pasts that Never Were, we have this screed against assisted reproduction (i.e., IVF, surrogacy, etc.):

At some point, anticipated and even feared by some parents, every child asks the inevitable question: “Where did I come from?” That question is endemic to humanity. The question of our own biological origins is eventually inescapable. Our existence requires an explanation, and the question takes bold form. The answer used to be easy.

That is, the answer was easy in terms of biology. In some form, the answer took the shape of a story about two people, one male and one female, who came together and made a baby. Mommy and Daddy made a baby. That story was both true and universal. For most of human history, there was no alternative account. The answer given by parents in 1960 was the same as that given in 1060 or in any previous year.

Except not. Keep in mind, the number of children, in the US, conceived through assisted reproduction* is quite small. Reproductive assistance is prohibitively expensive, for one thing, and most people don't need it, for another. You know what number is far larger? The number of children being raised by men not their biological fathers who don't know they aren't the biological father**. That's a complicated explanation of someone's existence. A certain number of women have and raise their rapist's child, as well. That's not something I would ever want to explain to a child. That's complicated. A wee bit more complicated, to me anyway, than "Mommy and Daddy (or Mommy or Mommy and Mommy or Daddy and Daddy) had trouble making a baby so they got a doctor to help."

You know what? What is so complicated about "Mommy and Daddy (or Mommy or Mommy and Mommy or Daddy and Daddy) had trouble making a baby so they got a doctor to help." You don't have to explain the exact intricacies of IVF to a child. It's not like a small child would understand that if you did. I just don't see the necessity for pearl clutching in this situation. Oh, right, evangelical Christians. They're just not happy if they don't have a death grip on a string of fake pearls.

*Major league reproductive assistance like IVF and surrogacy, as opposed to less dramatic assistance like hormonal therapy. I don't think anyone has a problem with hormonal therapy. Yet.

**Unfortunately, the MRAs have taken over on this one, so a google search turns up a number between 1 in 25 and 1 in 5. I somehow don't think it's 20% of all children, but it is more common than IVF successes.

The Rest of the Roll Was Less Charming

I have no idea what's actually going on in this picture, but I'm betting the picture just after this one is significantly . . . redder.

pic link

Fun Fact: Don't Tell Creationists When They Are Wrong

I'm Not Making Resolutions, I'm Making Demands

This year, I'm not making resolutions. This year, I'm making demands. 2011 is the year of les comtesses if I have to beat all of 2011 into submission with my bare hands. 2011 is the year of the 99er. 2011 is the year of the foreclosed. 2011 is the year of the mobile home owner. 2011 is the year of compassion as a virtue and Ayn Rand as a vice. 2011 is the year of the homeless, the hungry and the abused. 2011 is the year will we not be afraid to say our taxes have a purpose and it's not killing brown people halfway across the world or making sure corporations get an extra half percent of profit, it's making sure our children have food and medicine and educations. In 2011, when somebody says "empathy", you will take it as a compliment.

My name is Faith. I have a list of demands, written on the palm of my hands and when I pump my fists, you gonna know where I stand. My name is Faith and I'm not afraid of you and I'm done being a victim of your fears. 2011 is ours.

List of Demands, Saul Williams (who ought to be poet laureate of the United States)

I want my money back.

I'm down here drowning in your fat.

You got me on my knees praying for everything you lack.

I ain't afraid of you. I'm just a victim of your fears.

You cower in your tower praying that I'll disappear, I got another plan, one that requires me to stand.

On the stage or in the street, don't need no microphone or beat.

And when you hear this song, if you ain't dead then sing along.

Bang and strum to these here drums til you get where you belong.

I got a list of demands written on the palm of my hands.

I ball my fist and you're gonna know where I stand.

We're living hand to mouth! You wanna be somebody! See somebody! Try and free somebody!

I gotta list of demands written on the palm of my hands.

I ball my fist and you're gonna know where I stand.

We're living hand to mouth! Hand to mouth!

I wrote a song for you today while I was sitting in my room.

I jumped up on my bed today and played it on a broom.

I didn't think that it would be a song that you would hear, but when I played it in my head, I made you reappear.

I wrote a video for it and I acted out each part.

Then I took your picture out and taped it to my heart.

I've taped you to my heart dear girl, I've taped you to my heart and if you pull away from me you'll tear my life apart..

I got a list of demands written on the palm of my hands.

I ball my fist and you're gonna know where I stand.

We're living hand to mouth! You wanna be somebody! See somebody! Try and free somebody!

I gotta list of demands written on the palm of my hands. I ball my fist and you're gonna know where I stand.

We're living hand to mouth! Hand to mouth!

Ecstacy, suffering, Echinacea, bufferin.

We aim to remember what we choose to forget. God's just a baby and her diaper is wet.

Call the police! I'm strapped to the teeth and liable to disregard your every belief.

Call on the law! I'm fixin' to draw a line between what is and seems and call up a brawl.

Call'em up now! 'cause it's about to go pow! I'm standing on the threshold of the ups and the downs. Call up a truce! 'cause I'm about to bust loose. Protect ya neck,'cause, son, I'm breaking out of my noose.

I got a list of demands written on the palm of my hands.

I ball my fist and you're gonna know where I stand. We're living hand to mouth! You wanna be somebody! See somebody! Try and free somebody!

I gotta list of demands written on the palm of my hands.

I ball my fist and you're gonna know where I stand.

We're living hand to mouth! Hand to mouth!