Fuck the Pill
I try not to be a brat about any of the wins that past lady generations fought tooth and nail for. But sometimes, the advancements that were made decades ago can seem arcane to those of us who never saw life pre-feminism. Which is why I am both deeply thankful for the various birth control methods available to me and deeply troubled by the lack of progress that we’ve seen in their accessibility, affordability and safety.
Let’s begin with the fact that doctors can hold my birth control hostage so that they can collect insurance money through arbitrary health guidelines. For those not in the know, doctors recommend getting a pap every few years, and the way that they ensure that every woman concedes to this horse shit is by refusing to grant you birth control unless you keep their fucking schedule. I should never, never, never NEVER have to choose between going to see my doctor and having access to birth control, but that is exactly my situation. In fact, my pharmacy just called telling me that my doctor refused my birth control refill request because she needs to check on me. Maybe she does — but I’ve just started a new job and time off seems iffy right now and also … why? I’m healthy. I’m youngish. My veej is a fuckin’ beautiful trooper. But even if I were plagued with cysts and pain and Ghostbusters-Green discharge — it would be my cysts and pain and discharge to deal with.
But it isn’t always just a matter of inconvenience. In the months following my sexual assault, the prescription for my birth control needed refilling. My doctor called and said that if I wanted the refill, I’d need to come in for a regularly scheduled pap smear, which at that time was recommended once yearly. I was not in any position to have my vagina handled against my will. But I either had to explain to a confused receptionist about how some dude forced his way into my holes and therefore I was a bit selective about access to them or I had to go into the appointment. I went into the appointment. And I’ve had terrible associations with the gyno ever since.
There are also still very real cost problems with the pill. Last month, when I went to pick up my regularly scheduled baby blocker, I had sort of forgotten that my insurance was different because of my job change. I assumed that my birth control would cost about the same as it did with the other guys. But the cashier really showed me what assuming will do to you when she said, “That’ll be ninety dollars.” Let’s keep in mind here that Obamacare mandated that all birth control should be covered, totally and completely, by my health insurance. But those sleazy fucks have found numerous workarounds to ensure that many women have to pay for their birth control and pay out the nose for it, to boot. Pay for it I did, because I was scheduled to start taking it in like two hours and, as a terrible slut, had that very day engaged in sexual intercourse with my husband of ten years.
Beyond the whining and inconveniences, some women still suffer debilitating and sometimes fatal complications because of birth control, and especially the pill. While most methods are considered safe (but not without some truly heinous side effects for many), women who take birth control are doubly likely to suffer serious medical issues like stroke or heart attack. Sure, it’s only eight out of 100,000 women, but that’s a shit of a lot when it happens to someone you know. Why are we still okay with absorbing this risk for women? Can we not get that number down?
Today, I told my husband he could pick condoms or another birth control method of his choosing but that I was done dosing myself with hormones, getting poked by a doctor who controlled my family planning and then getting buttfucked when I tried to pay for an item that is mandated to be free. At one point in time, birth control was the best thing since sliced bread. But just because something was great once doesn’t mean that the standard shouldn’t change and improve. With time and the potential for extraordinary medical advances, it’s time to reassess what’s what and why, without the nannying of liberals or the slut shaming of conservatives. Whatever the case, I’m gonna let my husband fucking worry about it for a little while.
