Starbucks
12oz Soy Caramel/Vanilla Latte
(a.k.a. tall soy Caramel Macchiato)
Cranberry Orange Scone
I have known many people denied various kinds of social services and benefits, even when they clearly qualified. They have to fight, appeal, fight again. And should the aid finally come through, it is too often insufficient to meet all their needs. And for all, there is ever the specter of funding cuts.
So it was not for lack of love that I had to consider inflicting that terrible pain again. It was for love of a child and a realistic look at what kind of life they might face. Could we really afford everything they needed? What kind of circumstances might we find ourselves in if we came up short and couldn't provide them with some kind of special equipment? medication? who knows what? And would we be emotionally resilient enough to give them the emotional support they would need, even more than an otherwise "normal" child?
If I had traditional insurance with high co-pays and deductibles - or no insurance at all - I might have made a different choice. Since I had Oregon Health Plan, and my extra ultrasounds and amniocentesis and all the labs were fully covered, we were able to determine that our boy did not have some of the more severe conditions, and that he had about a 95% chance of being completely in the clear. We decided to take the chance - that much smaller chance - that our one and only child would be alright, that we could care for him, even if the worst case were to come true. Again, my husband still had good credit...
We continued to monitor the anomaly through additional ultrasounds, and by the time our little Henry was born, his brain appeared to have normalized. He has been robustly healthy and appeared to be developing normally, or faster - except in his speech. By the time he turned two, he was still about half a year behind where he should have been for his age, and it appeared to be contributing to some behavioral problems. So, with a recommendation from our doctor, Henry was evaluated by the school district and has been receiving early intervention services over the last year.
He has come along wonderfully but still seems to be a bit behind. He's going to be evaluated again soon to see if he is still eligible for additional intervention services. Still, the help we've already received from Henry's teacher has made a huge difference in his behavior. It would have been a much harder year in our home without it. A lot more screaming and crying from the both of us, and, probably, from Henry's little brother.
Oliver... the other one who made it.
Like his older brother, Oliver's conception was not exactly planned, just not intentionally prevented. Henry was about 11 months old and my husband and I had just decided that, yes, we wanted one more child. Because there was help there if we needed it, we would try for just one more child, to complete our family. A little later, though... because we wanted to be more financially comfortable (or less desperate), and one baby is plenty hard as it is, and, oh wait, we're pregnant again. Ah, Valentine's Day...
So, we're off! Again! And this time's going to be harder, we know, but we wouldn't think of not going through with it now... And then something unlikely comes along to put the fear, the uncertainty back in me.
The Ryan Budget.
I'm not trying to pick a partisan fight, or to engage in demagoguery. This is truly the level of panic that was instilled in me when the details of the budget started coming out, just weeks after I had gotten my pregnancy confirmed (again) by Planned Parenthood (being without OHP or insurance again, after I had gone back to work). We had a prologue as soon as the new Congress had been sworn in. They had been swept in to get us jobs and the first thing they went after was Planned Parenthood and WIC. Now, the Ryan Budget was supposedly going to try to cut more from these programs we relied on.
It was extremely uncertain how deep these cuts would go, and what they would mean, bottom line, in our own budget. But the truth is, without the food stamps and WIC, month to month, we don't make it. Even with them we've been living in the red all year, and that great big refund check is going to pass straight through our checkbook at the speed of our sigh and bullet to the credit card companies that have been propping us up. (VISA and MasterCard would be most distressed if anything were to happen to that Earned Income Credit). There's still going to be a little balance after we make that payment.
What would we do if we didn't qualify anymore, if our benefits were cut? What if there was something wrong again, on that first ultrasound? What if we had to start paying for some of the medical tests because of cuts to Medicaid? What if we couldn't cover the kids anymore? What if they got sick, or any one of us? Medical cost are absolutely insane, even with insurance. But with none...? I had already destroyed my credit, so what would happen if we had to max out my husband's credit, too?
I began to regret that I had told people I was pregnant. I cursed myself for not waiting a few more weeks, so they wouldn't have known... if... How could I explain how terrifying that specter of budget cuts was to me? To end the growing life of a wanted child? To have already experienced the birth of a child, of holding him in my arms, and the love that has grown every day since his first breath... To know that and still consider it? Yes. That is how much being poor has hurt. That is how much the constant anxiety I have lived with has deteriorated me physically and mentally. I wish I was stronger, but I am not. Maybe I would have been if things hadn't always... always.. been like this.
But people knew already and I would have to explain. I would have to explain to my husband that I was scared enough that we wouldn't be able to afford to care for two kids that I would chose to not have a child we both wanted. I was afraid we wouldn't be able to afford just the three of us if these kinds of cuts went through... I don't think I could have made him understand, though. He had a much more stable life, and subscribes to that flimsy platitude that things will work out somehow, and we'll always get by. I have learned, on the other hand, that things don't work out, or that deep and irreparable damage can be done in the getting by.
All this was greatly disturbing to him when we finally talked about it months later, after little Oliver was born. He was shocked that I could even consider not having the baby. He was more upset when I told him how often I had been thinking about suicide. Not considering it - I'm a mother now, so checking out is not an option. But it had been on my mind. As I watched the play by play of the political theatre, and wondered bleakly if we'd come out safely on the other side of each successive deadline. The feeling of doom... the feeling that things just never get better... It felt like this abstract talk of budget cuts in far off Washington was a real sword of Damocles poised above my growing belly, and that I had made the wrong decision to have another child under that constant threat.
I still don't know if I made the right call, though I love and adore my boys and I could not now go back and unchoose either of them. I don't know if I could have chosen differently with Bean, even knowing the pain it caused. But if I had the chance to go back and have her, I would almost certainly be giving up one or both of my boys. There is no way to have them all, though with all my heart, I wish I could. I tell this deeply personal story now only to give a glimpse. This lengthy story only sums up all the thoughts, the fears, that go into such a decision.
It's like that marshmallow test...
Many years ago, researchers put a marshmallow in front of a series of 4 year-olds and told them that if they didn't eat the marshmallow then they could have two marshmallows when the adult came back. They found that the kids who lasted the longest, who waited for the bigger reward, did better later in life. They concluded that it was their superior willpower. However, a new study was done recently that showed that kids who didn't trust the adults around them to come back with a second marshmallow later, were first to eat the marshmallow in front of them (the researchers had biased the some of the kids by not coming through on a promise of stickers prior to promising the extra marshmallow).
So, if you're the kid who has learned to mistrust the world, that adults - your well-meaning family and friends, your elected representatives - will fail you at best, or screw you at worst; what kind of decisions do you think that kid is going to make in a situation as grave as this? How much confidence do you think someone like that - like me - has to invest in something so important as a human being's lifetime happiness and well-being?
I've seen enough failings in the system to choose an abortion once, and to seriously consider it twice more. But I have received help, and I had enough hope in the social safety nets to take the chance twice, to invest in the Future of America, as it were.
Just keep all this somewhere in mind during all this talk about how we're all going to have to make hard choices, how we're all going to have to make sacrifices... Ask yourself who is doing the sacrificing, and what is the real cost.
** finished after an additional decaf espresso con pana, and some kind of chicken pannini thingy, because this took way too long, and if I weren't in a hurry I'd probably edit it down...
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Hard Choices... Part 1...
Rogue Valley Roasting Company
Soy Mocha
Coconut Dream Bar
** This is in two parts because I keep running myself out of time to finish these while I'm actually Out of the house. Also, some of the State of the Union speech was relevant to this wide-reaching topic, so I'm doing a little modifying of what I've already written and will post two separate blogs from about where I left off last week. Hopefully the dramatic conclusion will follow fast. **
I'll write about drones next week (or not). This week, I've decided to talk about hard choices. All this talk about sequesters and minimum wage and mental health and other public services, kind of provoked this, though I've been thinking about writing this for a long time.
This is a story about three abortions - the one I had, and the two I didn't. This is the story of how public policies played a part in each decision. I'll try to keep it brief.
In the vice presidential debate last year, Paul Ryan mentioned his "little Bean" in his response to a question about abortion. Well, I had a little Bean, too. In fact, I got a tattoo of the kanji symbol for "Bean" on my belly on the day she would have been born. My ex - her father - was with me, too, getting his own tattoo over his heart. This was not an unwanted pregnancy. Unintended, yes. Unprepared for... but not unmourned for. And we chose it - I chose it.
I was not a scared kid, either, with my whole future ahead of me. I was 28. And it was the past behind me, and the unstable present, that had driven my decision. Everything I had learned in a lifetime of poverty, and debt-driven almost-middle-class poverty, was that what little help there is is usually not enough. I had learned that the public assistance programs were so over-burdened that I usually didn't qualify, and the process could take weeks, months, years longer than you could last without the help. I had learned that working hard - even above minimum wage, even more than 40 hours a week - wasn't enough to even pay for myself, let alone start a family on. I had learned that something is always looming - the tires are getting balder, the cavities are burrowing deeper, and the people who have offered to help are about to be crushed with their own crises, and you're two breaths from being on your own again. I had learned that I could live in my car if I had to, but I couldn't force all that stress and uncertainty and insecurity on a child.
It was not until that moment, though, that I knew how badly I wanted to be a mother. And I learned then that, you can have a fair idea of your mind, but you really don't know what you would or would not do until you must decide what you will or will not do. I didn't know if I'd ever get the chance again to have a child, but I knew that I'd never put myself in the situation where I would have to make that choice again.
I was wrong.
I had vowed at the time to get myself more financially stable so that I could raise a child without all the risks that Bean would have faced. Instead, my finances basically imploded. I tried going through one of those debt management services, but this was before the reform act that was passed in 2009. The company got their fee up front, none of my creditors made me any offers - some of them pretended that the debt management company didn't exist - and on my thirtieth birthday I got court papers from my biggest creditor. I suspect they decided to sue instead of negotiate a settlement because according to the paperwork the mediator had, I own a rafting company. Imagine my surprise. And still, when I try to get my credit report, I keep getting asked about my home mortgage. (Anyone else see that report on 60 Minutes this last Sunday? That's a whole other travesty. Anyway...)
After the mediation hearing, where it was decided that I was going to have to file for bankruptcy, I turned to my future husband and said, "Well... it doesn't get any better than this!" and we stopped using protection. We were pregnant surprisingly quickly. He still had good credit, after all. And we had decided that we were willing to go into complete financial ruin if we had to, just to become parents in this lifetime.
Fortunately, there is such a thing as public assistance, and here in Oregon, it is much easier to navigate than in California where I had been with Bean. Almost all my medical care was covered. I received food stamps and WIC vouchers, not to mention invaluable nutritional advise and breastfeeding classes through WIC. I also qualified for state and federal assistance for school, so I got a couple of classes in before I popped. I could still get financial aid, now that I have dependents, but now that I have dependents, it's a little too difficult for me to manage going to school, too.
(I also have to give an extra shout-out to my bosses for being extremely accommodating of my extreme morning sickness. It probably wasn't as bad as Kate Middleton's, but it was pretty debilitating and I missed a lot of work. Very few employers would be so supportive, so thank you guys again).
So things were looking good, and I was uncharacteristically happy going into our first ultrasound. We were expecting a boy - woo-hoo! But we also found out then that we were expecting a boy who had an abnormality in his brain. It's called an isolated ventriculomegaly. It could signify a range of disabilities, including Down Syndrome and other developmental delays, some mild, some severe. We weren't sure what we were facing, and we had to consider how able we would be to care for a child if he required intensive financial and other special care.
For the second time, I found myself facing the choice I never dreamed I would face.
** see the next blog for the dramatic (long) conclusion...
Soy Mocha
Coconut Dream Bar
** This is in two parts because I keep running myself out of time to finish these while I'm actually Out of the house. Also, some of the State of the Union speech was relevant to this wide-reaching topic, so I'm doing a little modifying of what I've already written and will post two separate blogs from about where I left off last week. Hopefully the dramatic conclusion will follow fast. **
I'll write about drones next week (or not). This week, I've decided to talk about hard choices. All this talk about sequesters and minimum wage and mental health and other public services, kind of provoked this, though I've been thinking about writing this for a long time.
This is a story about three abortions - the one I had, and the two I didn't. This is the story of how public policies played a part in each decision. I'll try to keep it brief.
In the vice presidential debate last year, Paul Ryan mentioned his "little Bean" in his response to a question about abortion. Well, I had a little Bean, too. In fact, I got a tattoo of the kanji symbol for "Bean" on my belly on the day she would have been born. My ex - her father - was with me, too, getting his own tattoo over his heart. This was not an unwanted pregnancy. Unintended, yes. Unprepared for... but not unmourned for. And we chose it - I chose it.
I was not a scared kid, either, with my whole future ahead of me. I was 28. And it was the past behind me, and the unstable present, that had driven my decision. Everything I had learned in a lifetime of poverty, and debt-driven almost-middle-class poverty, was that what little help there is is usually not enough. I had learned that the public assistance programs were so over-burdened that I usually didn't qualify, and the process could take weeks, months, years longer than you could last without the help. I had learned that working hard - even above minimum wage, even more than 40 hours a week - wasn't enough to even pay for myself, let alone start a family on. I had learned that something is always looming - the tires are getting balder, the cavities are burrowing deeper, and the people who have offered to help are about to be crushed with their own crises, and you're two breaths from being on your own again. I had learned that I could live in my car if I had to, but I couldn't force all that stress and uncertainty and insecurity on a child.
It was not until that moment, though, that I knew how badly I wanted to be a mother. And I learned then that, you can have a fair idea of your mind, but you really don't know what you would or would not do until you must decide what you will or will not do. I didn't know if I'd ever get the chance again to have a child, but I knew that I'd never put myself in the situation where I would have to make that choice again.
I was wrong.
I had vowed at the time to get myself more financially stable so that I could raise a child without all the risks that Bean would have faced. Instead, my finances basically imploded. I tried going through one of those debt management services, but this was before the reform act that was passed in 2009. The company got their fee up front, none of my creditors made me any offers - some of them pretended that the debt management company didn't exist - and on my thirtieth birthday I got court papers from my biggest creditor. I suspect they decided to sue instead of negotiate a settlement because according to the paperwork the mediator had, I own a rafting company. Imagine my surprise. And still, when I try to get my credit report, I keep getting asked about my home mortgage. (Anyone else see that report on 60 Minutes this last Sunday? That's a whole other travesty. Anyway...)
After the mediation hearing, where it was decided that I was going to have to file for bankruptcy, I turned to my future husband and said, "Well... it doesn't get any better than this!" and we stopped using protection. We were pregnant surprisingly quickly. He still had good credit, after all. And we had decided that we were willing to go into complete financial ruin if we had to, just to become parents in this lifetime.
Fortunately, there is such a thing as public assistance, and here in Oregon, it is much easier to navigate than in California where I had been with Bean. Almost all my medical care was covered. I received food stamps and WIC vouchers, not to mention invaluable nutritional advise and breastfeeding classes through WIC. I also qualified for state and federal assistance for school, so I got a couple of classes in before I popped. I could still get financial aid, now that I have dependents, but now that I have dependents, it's a little too difficult for me to manage going to school, too.
(I also have to give an extra shout-out to my bosses for being extremely accommodating of my extreme morning sickness. It probably wasn't as bad as Kate Middleton's, but it was pretty debilitating and I missed a lot of work. Very few employers would be so supportive, so thank you guys again).
So things were looking good, and I was uncharacteristically happy going into our first ultrasound. We were expecting a boy - woo-hoo! But we also found out then that we were expecting a boy who had an abnormality in his brain. It's called an isolated ventriculomegaly. It could signify a range of disabilities, including Down Syndrome and other developmental delays, some mild, some severe. We weren't sure what we were facing, and we had to consider how able we would be to care for a child if he required intensive financial and other special care.
For the second time, I found myself facing the choice I never dreamed I would face.
** see the next blog for the dramatic (long) conclusion...
Friday, February 1, 2013
Toilet Coffee, Suspenders, and Hypnotic Henry.
Home
Sleepytime tea
Ramen (Oriental flavor) and night-night pills
Three things: Toilet Coffee, Suspenders, and Hypnotic Henry.
1. No, this is not a euphemism for something else. A while ago, a friend suggested using coffee grounds as an air freshener/odor absorber. So we put a little tupperware cup with coffee grounds on the back of the toilet (we have the diaper changer in the bathroom, as well...). Then I got the brilliant idea to make it into a little zen garden instead.
Unfortunately, I didn't really think through my temporary instant coffee grounds idea. Instant coffee likes water. Where is there a lot of moisture? Yep. So after scraping the half-dissolved coffee into the trash next to the toilet, I refilled the zen garden with some lovely holiday coffee (on clearance, of course, because I'm not going to drop organic Kenya AA money on bathroom coffee). As you might have guessed, during this process some instant coffee grounds got into the bowl of the toilet and... ta-da! Toilet coffee.
2. I have taken to wearing suspenders around the house. I have a deviant body shape, and because I am a cheap bastard (as evidenced above) I will not shell out the money (and equally spare time) to get my pants properly fitted. But wearing a belt actually hurts my hips and overall posture. The suspenders relieve the pressure on my hips but the downside is twofold: they are made for men and, thus, the support is not perfect, and also availability and wearibility are limited for women. So if anyone can score me some more lady-friendly suspenders... drop me a line...
3. Yesterday, Henry took a piece off the ladder of his toy firetruck (I say "off" as if it has ever stayed "on") and swung it pendulum-like in front of my face while repeating, "cwose eyes, cwose eyes..." I have no idea where he learned how to "hypnotize" people. (Who's supervising this kid, anyway?). I did, of course, cwose my eyes. :)
Real blogs will resume this weekend. Maybe.
Sleepytime tea
Ramen (Oriental flavor) and night-night pills
Three things: Toilet Coffee, Suspenders, and Hypnotic Henry.
1. No, this is not a euphemism for something else. A while ago, a friend suggested using coffee grounds as an air freshener/odor absorber. So we put a little tupperware cup with coffee grounds on the back of the toilet (we have the diaper changer in the bathroom, as well...). Then I got the brilliant idea to make it into a little zen garden instead.
Unfortunately, I didn't really think through my temporary instant coffee grounds idea. Instant coffee likes water. Where is there a lot of moisture? Yep. So after scraping the half-dissolved coffee into the trash next to the toilet, I refilled the zen garden with some lovely holiday coffee (on clearance, of course, because I'm not going to drop organic Kenya AA money on bathroom coffee). As you might have guessed, during this process some instant coffee grounds got into the bowl of the toilet and... ta-da! Toilet coffee.
2. I have taken to wearing suspenders around the house. I have a deviant body shape, and because I am a cheap bastard (as evidenced above) I will not shell out the money (and equally spare time) to get my pants properly fitted. But wearing a belt actually hurts my hips and overall posture. The suspenders relieve the pressure on my hips but the downside is twofold: they are made for men and, thus, the support is not perfect, and also availability and wearibility are limited for women. So if anyone can score me some more lady-friendly suspenders... drop me a line...
3. Yesterday, Henry took a piece off the ladder of his toy firetruck (I say "off" as if it has ever stayed "on") and swung it pendulum-like in front of my face while repeating, "cwose eyes, cwose eyes..." I have no idea where he learned how to "hypnotize" people. (Who's supervising this kid, anyway?). I did, of course, cwose my eyes. :)
Real blogs will resume this weekend. Maybe.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Context.
Here are some haiku to make up for my last overly long post...
8/2/10
The dark stranger will
reveal you are liked and have
no luck with numbers.
7/20/12
Red numbers condemn
my dereliction of sleep:
disapproving glow.
7/30/12
You're a hurricane,
and woe to the butterflies
that fly in your path.
8/3/12
An autopsy of
your heart while it's still beating:
admission for fame.
8/18/12
Counting down the foam
strata marking my hours:
I've lingered too long.
-- Now what are your guesses for the object or inspiration for each of these bad haiku...? I'm curious how other people interpret these out of context. I would think they're, generally, pretty easy, but who knows?
And a couple bonus ones...
1/8/11
Failure is shitty;
fertilizer for success,
just don't sit in it.
"Battle Cry of the Ramenista"
We cry to the moon
fight songs of the underpaid:
Howl if ya hear me!
8/2/10
The dark stranger will
reveal you are liked and have
no luck with numbers.
7/20/12
Red numbers condemn
my dereliction of sleep:
disapproving glow.
7/30/12
You're a hurricane,
and woe to the butterflies
that fly in your path.
8/3/12
An autopsy of
your heart while it's still beating:
admission for fame.
8/18/12
Counting down the foam
strata marking my hours:
I've lingered too long.
-- Now what are your guesses for the object or inspiration for each of these bad haiku...? I'm curious how other people interpret these out of context. I would think they're, generally, pretty easy, but who knows?
And a couple bonus ones...
1/8/11
Failure is shitty;
fertilizer for success,
just don't sit in it.
"Battle Cry of the Ramenista"
We cry to the moon
fight songs of the underpaid:
Howl if ya hear me!
Saturday, January 19, 2013
A walk down Mental Health Lane.
Evo's Coffeehouse
2 Soy Hot Chocolates w/Marshmallows
Bagel w/Cream Cheese (for 2)
I am Out today with Mr. Henry, so I will probably only begin this here and hopefully finish at home tonight. Tonight, I say! Anyway.
It occurred to me that I could be banned from owning a gun, depending on what form reform takes. I have a history of periods of depression and anxiety, including a very definitive case of postpartum depression following the birth of Mr. Henry's little brother. And while I think I've definitely improved over where I was a year ago, I know that I'm not quite out of the woods.
So my whole experience, with depression and with going through the government's mental health services, got me thinking about how it relates to the current gun regulation debate. It raises many, many questions and we would be better served discussing these questions than wasting our breath of the non-real debate about a non-real imperialist, socialist, fascist dictator asking Congress to 'come fur yur guns!'
One of the gun-related statistics that has been brought up recently is that a person who is thinking about suicide is more likely to go through with it if there is a gun in the house. It would make sense, then, that a depressed person might be considered too high-risk to be allowed to purchase a gun. I knew that I would never commit suicide, but how would someone else be assured I would not? Criminal psychologists might have to make such determinations for trials, but with the sheer amount of Americans experiencing some level of depression, who is going to be making that determination for all of these people? At one point, it was my general practitioner who wrote my prescription for anti-depressants: Would he be the one to submit my name to some database, or would it have to be a mental health specialist?
And what if I am on anti-depressants, or even just in some kind of therapy, and I am returning to a more "normal" mental state, would I then be eligible? Would I ever be? After all, I've had better periods and worse periods but depression has pretty much always been with me. If I am allowed to purchase a gun while I'm doing okay, what happens if I hit a bad stretch again, or if the pills stop being effective? Or more likely, if I can't afford the pills anymore...? Should my gun ownership be contingent upon an annual, or semi-annual, check-in with some government approved mental health professional?
Another big unknown is the nature of this mental health database being discussed. Presumably, when someone attempts to purchase a gun the seller will check to see if the person should be denied because of a criminal history. Now we are trying to add to that check whether or not the person attempting to buy a gun should be denied because they are mentally ill. Dangerously mentally ill. Maybe someone like me would qualify to be on it, maybe not. Maybe this database will be only for those deemed imminently dangerous to others. But, still...
...Where will this info come from? Does someone have to submit a patient's name directly? Will it be gleaned automatically from digital medical records? How much of a person's case would be included? Would there be nothing at all except the name? And who has access? Just the seller, or law enforcement too? What about private sellers, just one guy trying to thin out his collection (/arsenal)? Could this information be accessed as easily as someone can buy your credit score? Could someone look me up even if I'm not trying to buy a gun? Doesn't this violate my right to privacy? I could eeeeeeasily see such a database being commoditized. (Spell-check says that's not a word, but I think it passes grammatic muster). How are we going to be protected from that? Would we be?
And speaking of all the inaccuracies on credit reports, who do I complain to if there's been a mistake? My mother can't get my brother's name removed as an alias from her credit report - and those are the geniuses who come up with the (much contested) No-Fly List. Are we going to trust them to handle sensitive medical information as well? How can I challenge or defend my mental health competency, and how long will it take? Especially if, say, I've got a crazy ex who doesn't feel like abiding by a restraining order, but I had a bout of postpartum 5 years ago, or, you know, never...?
As I said, many, many questions.
There are undoubtedly clear cases where a dangerous mentally ill person waves a red flag (an online manifesto, a registered letter stating, "Hey, I'm going to stop by on Monday and shoot up the place...") that we could act upon. Often we look back after a tragedy and say 'that should have been reported - right there!' Or sometimes there is a trail of warnings that weren't followed up on, or weren't enough to prevent a tragedy, given current circumstances. Those are the people we know we want to keep from getting a gun. What concerns me is the unintended consequences of trying to keep them away from guns. Not only the people, perhaps unfairly, who might be lumped in with them, but the ways in which a person's mental health status could be used against them in other areas of their life.
Oh, yeah. What about the people who live with the mentally ill? If I can't buy a gun, can my husband? Or the shooter's mother? Should she have had guns in her home when she knew the severity of her son's mental illness? My therapist commented that that's kind of Safety 101 when you have someone you know might hurt themselves or others - you get anything harmful out of the house. But should the government, in any way, mandate that? I'm inclined to say that goes too far, but I didn't lose my child that day. I don't know... I think it might be a difficult if worthwhile compromise, but I think that's one of those areas that leaves us too vulnerable to abuse.
I have proposed all these many questions completely openly, to be pondered and discussed. I haven't put them out there rhetorically to prove a point, other than, perhaps, that we have a lot to consider before taking any hasty actions. But, make no mistake, we absolutely must act and soon.
One more thing before I go. We must also follow through with better funding for mental health programs, as well as all safety net services. It was dealing with the shortcomings of our public health services that first lead me back into a state of depression.
I was actually unusually happy during my first pregnancy. But then I hurt my back. Foolishly, I thought that that would be a pretty clear case for a referral to physical therapy, or what have you, but because of the restrictions - namely, the lack of adequate funding - in the Oregon Health Plan I got one denial after another. Not only did this bring back my depression and panic attacks of old, but it resulted in a very difficult labor, causing additional injury to my back, preventing me from returning to work as I had planned. It took several more requests and denials and repeated break-downs in my doctor's office before he was finally able to convince them to approve me for 6 whole visits to the physical therapist.
The PT was able to help me recover enough to return to work, though the problem was not really fixed until I got pregnant again (surprising, I know). But by that point, with all the stress of the pain, the bureaucracy, and the reduced income, my mental state had seriously deteriorated. Fortunately, being extra poor meant that I kept my state medical coverage for another 6 months, so I decided I'd make them pay up for some counseling, which I still feel they drove me into. I probably could have used it, even on a good stretch, but I didn't really need it like I needed it then, after the Ordeal.
Unfortunately, though I was not healed, physically or mentally, my eligibility ended after I went back to work. And I want to be clear, I wasn't back to work full time. I had only picked up about 8 to 10 hours, at most, and making a little more than minimum wage. So, for a family of 3, working less than a combined 50 hours a week at just above minimum wage isn't poor enough to get help. It isn't enough to buy insurance on our own, but it isn't quite screwed enough to get all the help we need. We do get help, and I am grateful for it, but it is not enough. And I felt completely abandoned.
These are the kinds of financial realities that will really drive a person crazy.
So this was the headspace I was in when I got knocked up again. There was no blissed-out period of this pregnancy. There was a lot of anxiety - especially after the Ryan budget was released, just a couple weeks after I got the little pink line of doom. There were longer dark periods. And, oh, the debt ceiling debacle... By the time sweet little Oliver was born, I could feel the altered chemistry in my brain. I knew that this was different, and deeper, than what I had experienced before. It's hard to describe if you haven't really dealt with depression... This was a kind of chemical undercurrent that was causing the pull, as opposed to the mental pull producing the chemical waters that drown you... A "chemical down" versus a "mental down" is how I refer to it in my head.
But, fortunately or unfortunately, I wasn't able to go back to work this time and we're now a family of 4 so the state is willing to say, "yeah, you're plenty screwed," enough to get medicaid again. So, over the last year, I've been getting help and working my way out of it. It's worth noting that when I first applied again (what a fun ordeal that was) I was told at my intake meeting that it would take 3 or 4 weeks before I met with my therapist. That's how overwhelmed the mental health system is here in southern Oregon. It's far worse in other places. At the same time we are creating more stressed out people in need of help of all kinds, we are cutting back on the funding and availability of all kinds of help.
This is just a glimpse of where we are. Other people have had other experiences, other stories to tell. Things are complicated and under great strain. I have been able to get help, but it has so often fallen so short. So when the politicians and pundits say that we need to improve access to mental health services, they need to know how far we have to go to make this system, these networks, fully functional. And then they need to make it happen.
Alright. Discuss.
2 Soy Hot Chocolates w/Marshmallows
Bagel w/Cream Cheese (for 2)
I am Out today with Mr. Henry, so I will probably only begin this here and hopefully finish at home tonight. Tonight, I say! Anyway.
It occurred to me that I could be banned from owning a gun, depending on what form reform takes. I have a history of periods of depression and anxiety, including a very definitive case of postpartum depression following the birth of Mr. Henry's little brother. And while I think I've definitely improved over where I was a year ago, I know that I'm not quite out of the woods.
So my whole experience, with depression and with going through the government's mental health services, got me thinking about how it relates to the current gun regulation debate. It raises many, many questions and we would be better served discussing these questions than wasting our breath of the non-real debate about a non-real imperialist, socialist, fascist dictator asking Congress to 'come fur yur guns!'
One of the gun-related statistics that has been brought up recently is that a person who is thinking about suicide is more likely to go through with it if there is a gun in the house. It would make sense, then, that a depressed person might be considered too high-risk to be allowed to purchase a gun. I knew that I would never commit suicide, but how would someone else be assured I would not? Criminal psychologists might have to make such determinations for trials, but with the sheer amount of Americans experiencing some level of depression, who is going to be making that determination for all of these people? At one point, it was my general practitioner who wrote my prescription for anti-depressants: Would he be the one to submit my name to some database, or would it have to be a mental health specialist?
And what if I am on anti-depressants, or even just in some kind of therapy, and I am returning to a more "normal" mental state, would I then be eligible? Would I ever be? After all, I've had better periods and worse periods but depression has pretty much always been with me. If I am allowed to purchase a gun while I'm doing okay, what happens if I hit a bad stretch again, or if the pills stop being effective? Or more likely, if I can't afford the pills anymore...? Should my gun ownership be contingent upon an annual, or semi-annual, check-in with some government approved mental health professional?
Another big unknown is the nature of this mental health database being discussed. Presumably, when someone attempts to purchase a gun the seller will check to see if the person should be denied because of a criminal history. Now we are trying to add to that check whether or not the person attempting to buy a gun should be denied because they are mentally ill. Dangerously mentally ill. Maybe someone like me would qualify to be on it, maybe not. Maybe this database will be only for those deemed imminently dangerous to others. But, still...
...Where will this info come from? Does someone have to submit a patient's name directly? Will it be gleaned automatically from digital medical records? How much of a person's case would be included? Would there be nothing at all except the name? And who has access? Just the seller, or law enforcement too? What about private sellers, just one guy trying to thin out his collection (/arsenal)? Could this information be accessed as easily as someone can buy your credit score? Could someone look me up even if I'm not trying to buy a gun? Doesn't this violate my right to privacy? I could eeeeeeasily see such a database being commoditized. (Spell-check says that's not a word, but I think it passes grammatic muster). How are we going to be protected from that? Would we be?
And speaking of all the inaccuracies on credit reports, who do I complain to if there's been a mistake? My mother can't get my brother's name removed as an alias from her credit report - and those are the geniuses who come up with the (much contested) No-Fly List. Are we going to trust them to handle sensitive medical information as well? How can I challenge or defend my mental health competency, and how long will it take? Especially if, say, I've got a crazy ex who doesn't feel like abiding by a restraining order, but I had a bout of postpartum 5 years ago, or, you know, never...?
As I said, many, many questions.
There are undoubtedly clear cases where a dangerous mentally ill person waves a red flag (an online manifesto, a registered letter stating, "Hey, I'm going to stop by on Monday and shoot up the place...") that we could act upon. Often we look back after a tragedy and say 'that should have been reported - right there!' Or sometimes there is a trail of warnings that weren't followed up on, or weren't enough to prevent a tragedy, given current circumstances. Those are the people we know we want to keep from getting a gun. What concerns me is the unintended consequences of trying to keep them away from guns. Not only the people, perhaps unfairly, who might be lumped in with them, but the ways in which a person's mental health status could be used against them in other areas of their life.
Oh, yeah. What about the people who live with the mentally ill? If I can't buy a gun, can my husband? Or the shooter's mother? Should she have had guns in her home when she knew the severity of her son's mental illness? My therapist commented that that's kind of Safety 101 when you have someone you know might hurt themselves or others - you get anything harmful out of the house. But should the government, in any way, mandate that? I'm inclined to say that goes too far, but I didn't lose my child that day. I don't know... I think it might be a difficult if worthwhile compromise, but I think that's one of those areas that leaves us too vulnerable to abuse.
I have proposed all these many questions completely openly, to be pondered and discussed. I haven't put them out there rhetorically to prove a point, other than, perhaps, that we have a lot to consider before taking any hasty actions. But, make no mistake, we absolutely must act and soon.
One more thing before I go. We must also follow through with better funding for mental health programs, as well as all safety net services. It was dealing with the shortcomings of our public health services that first lead me back into a state of depression.
I was actually unusually happy during my first pregnancy. But then I hurt my back. Foolishly, I thought that that would be a pretty clear case for a referral to physical therapy, or what have you, but because of the restrictions - namely, the lack of adequate funding - in the Oregon Health Plan I got one denial after another. Not only did this bring back my depression and panic attacks of old, but it resulted in a very difficult labor, causing additional injury to my back, preventing me from returning to work as I had planned. It took several more requests and denials and repeated break-downs in my doctor's office before he was finally able to convince them to approve me for 6 whole visits to the physical therapist.
The PT was able to help me recover enough to return to work, though the problem was not really fixed until I got pregnant again (surprising, I know). But by that point, with all the stress of the pain, the bureaucracy, and the reduced income, my mental state had seriously deteriorated. Fortunately, being extra poor meant that I kept my state medical coverage for another 6 months, so I decided I'd make them pay up for some counseling, which I still feel they drove me into. I probably could have used it, even on a good stretch, but I didn't really need it like I needed it then, after the Ordeal.
Unfortunately, though I was not healed, physically or mentally, my eligibility ended after I went back to work. And I want to be clear, I wasn't back to work full time. I had only picked up about 8 to 10 hours, at most, and making a little more than minimum wage. So, for a family of 3, working less than a combined 50 hours a week at just above minimum wage isn't poor enough to get help. It isn't enough to buy insurance on our own, but it isn't quite screwed enough to get all the help we need. We do get help, and I am grateful for it, but it is not enough. And I felt completely abandoned.
These are the kinds of financial realities that will really drive a person crazy.
So this was the headspace I was in when I got knocked up again. There was no blissed-out period of this pregnancy. There was a lot of anxiety - especially after the Ryan budget was released, just a couple weeks after I got the little pink line of doom. There were longer dark periods. And, oh, the debt ceiling debacle... By the time sweet little Oliver was born, I could feel the altered chemistry in my brain. I knew that this was different, and deeper, than what I had experienced before. It's hard to describe if you haven't really dealt with depression... This was a kind of chemical undercurrent that was causing the pull, as opposed to the mental pull producing the chemical waters that drown you... A "chemical down" versus a "mental down" is how I refer to it in my head.
But, fortunately or unfortunately, I wasn't able to go back to work this time and we're now a family of 4 so the state is willing to say, "yeah, you're plenty screwed," enough to get medicaid again. So, over the last year, I've been getting help and working my way out of it. It's worth noting that when I first applied again (what a fun ordeal that was) I was told at my intake meeting that it would take 3 or 4 weeks before I met with my therapist. That's how overwhelmed the mental health system is here in southern Oregon. It's far worse in other places. At the same time we are creating more stressed out people in need of help of all kinds, we are cutting back on the funding and availability of all kinds of help.
This is just a glimpse of where we are. Other people have had other experiences, other stories to tell. Things are complicated and under great strain. I have been able to get help, but it has so often fallen so short. So when the politicians and pundits say that we need to improve access to mental health services, they need to know how far we have to go to make this system, these networks, fully functional. And then they need to make it happen.
Alright. Discuss.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Know your audience.
Downtowne Coffee
Soy Mexican Mocha
Garlic bagel w/ cream cheese
Censorship is a concept every person has to square themselves with at some point in their life, and more than once. We must choose what we say, how we dress, even how we act around other people. As parents, we have to grapple with these choices the whole way through our child's infancy to adolescence. Even though, he's only two, should we let him be in the room for a violent film we don't think he understands? The debate over what we allow other people to say and do is much more esoteric and comes only after we have instituted layer upon layer of self-censorship on ourself.
I am pretty anti-censorship (I used to be a card-carrying member of the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund back when I had the money), but I am also a big believer in tact. I am forever the diplomat, as all my old performance reviews show. This is because it matters to me that I am understood, that people can hear what I have to say. So if I want my mother to read this or anything else I've written, I can't go dropping the f-bomb in every other sentence. That's knowing your audience. And if I want my mom as part of my audience, then the word "fuck" is the sacrifice I make to keep her there.
Obviously, though, I'm only going to make the sacrifices I feel I can make and still retain my voice, my self. I ask myself, what is more important: to say what I need to say, or to be heard saying it? And after all, if you can't speak without swearing, can you really speak? Who is the master of your words?
But beyond the words, the songs, the art, there is the uglier censorship of society. I've been reading too much lately about the ugly reality of rape culture, which, once we open our eyes, we find everywhere around us. I'll let my more activist feminist friends school you if you don't think it's there. (I watched "Mirror, Mirror" recently and was appalled to hear Nathan Lane's character drop a rape joke - in a kids movie!). Every female in this society (and most others, sadly) must decide how much she will sacrifice for rape culture.
I recently re-posted a picture on my facebook page (mostly for the accompanying text) of a woman who was topless with only some sort of appliqué over her nipples and the words "still not asking for it" written across her body. Needless to say, this was met with mixed responses. One of the main themes, though, was about this woman making herself a target.
The bottom line is that if this woman, or any woman wants to run around buck naked, she should be able to do so without fear. If that's what satisfies her as a human being, no one should ever be able to say that she's wrong. We weren't born wearing clothes and it's really society that's weird to be so hung up on them. But we also know, as she does, that she will draw attention to herself by not covering up. And if she does become the target of violence, people conditioned by rape culture will likely still blame her for making that choice to not conform, to not cover up. Oh, she didn't deserve it, they may say... but isn't she still "asking for it"?
No, in case you were wondering. It is always, under any circumstance at all, one hundred percent the rapist's fault for rape.
So, what is a free-spirited nudist - as we all are when we are born - supposed to do in a rape culture like ours? That is the dilemma.
As a parent, I will censor my children's nudity. I will limit where they go and the people they play with. I will restrict their freedom because I know their audience. The world is full of monsters and I am afraid of them. I will try to give my children as much liberty and self-expression as my fear will allow. I will try to see all the good and wholesome people out there, and more importantly, I will try to teach them early to be good people, to not be monsters themselves. But I will be on alert. The truth is I sacrifice some amount of joy for that vigilance, but that is where I'm at.
And as a woman... I try to walk that line every day between vigilance and joy. If I want to wear something revealing, something sexy, even walk down the street late at night wearing it, I refuse to say that I can't do that. I refuse to say that it's wrong or dumb to do that. Sometimes you gotta drop the f-bomb. Sometimes you gotta "work it" (though if I thought too long about where that phrase comes from, I'd probably not use it). But I can never forget my audience. I'll always be vigilant, carry my keys in my hand as I walk, never allow myself to get drunk and be out of control of myself or my surroundings.
Know your audience... But know your own voice, and never let the audience choose your words.
Soy Mexican Mocha
Garlic bagel w/ cream cheese
Censorship is a concept every person has to square themselves with at some point in their life, and more than once. We must choose what we say, how we dress, even how we act around other people. As parents, we have to grapple with these choices the whole way through our child's infancy to adolescence. Even though, he's only two, should we let him be in the room for a violent film we don't think he understands? The debate over what we allow other people to say and do is much more esoteric and comes only after we have instituted layer upon layer of self-censorship on ourself.
I am pretty anti-censorship (I used to be a card-carrying member of the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund back when I had the money), but I am also a big believer in tact. I am forever the diplomat, as all my old performance reviews show. This is because it matters to me that I am understood, that people can hear what I have to say. So if I want my mother to read this or anything else I've written, I can't go dropping the f-bomb in every other sentence. That's knowing your audience. And if I want my mom as part of my audience, then the word "fuck" is the sacrifice I make to keep her there.
Obviously, though, I'm only going to make the sacrifices I feel I can make and still retain my voice, my self. I ask myself, what is more important: to say what I need to say, or to be heard saying it? And after all, if you can't speak without swearing, can you really speak? Who is the master of your words?
But beyond the words, the songs, the art, there is the uglier censorship of society. I've been reading too much lately about the ugly reality of rape culture, which, once we open our eyes, we find everywhere around us. I'll let my more activist feminist friends school you if you don't think it's there. (I watched "Mirror, Mirror" recently and was appalled to hear Nathan Lane's character drop a rape joke - in a kids movie!). Every female in this society (and most others, sadly) must decide how much she will sacrifice for rape culture.
I recently re-posted a picture on my facebook page (mostly for the accompanying text) of a woman who was topless with only some sort of appliqué over her nipples and the words "still not asking for it" written across her body. Needless to say, this was met with mixed responses. One of the main themes, though, was about this woman making herself a target.
The bottom line is that if this woman, or any woman wants to run around buck naked, she should be able to do so without fear. If that's what satisfies her as a human being, no one should ever be able to say that she's wrong. We weren't born wearing clothes and it's really society that's weird to be so hung up on them. But we also know, as she does, that she will draw attention to herself by not covering up. And if she does become the target of violence, people conditioned by rape culture will likely still blame her for making that choice to not conform, to not cover up. Oh, she didn't deserve it, they may say... but isn't she still "asking for it"?
No, in case you were wondering. It is always, under any circumstance at all, one hundred percent the rapist's fault for rape.
So, what is a free-spirited nudist - as we all are when we are born - supposed to do in a rape culture like ours? That is the dilemma.
As a parent, I will censor my children's nudity. I will limit where they go and the people they play with. I will restrict their freedom because I know their audience. The world is full of monsters and I am afraid of them. I will try to give my children as much liberty and self-expression as my fear will allow. I will try to see all the good and wholesome people out there, and more importantly, I will try to teach them early to be good people, to not be monsters themselves. But I will be on alert. The truth is I sacrifice some amount of joy for that vigilance, but that is where I'm at.
And as a woman... I try to walk that line every day between vigilance and joy. If I want to wear something revealing, something sexy, even walk down the street late at night wearing it, I refuse to say that I can't do that. I refuse to say that it's wrong or dumb to do that. Sometimes you gotta drop the f-bomb. Sometimes you gotta "work it" (though if I thought too long about where that phrase comes from, I'd probably not use it). But I can never forget my audience. I'll always be vigilant, carry my keys in my hand as I walk, never allow myself to get drunk and be out of control of myself or my surroundings.
Know your audience... But know your own voice, and never let the audience choose your words.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Prayer for the end of the world.
Rogue Valley Roasting Company
Americano and spinach egg puff thingy
Yes.
And what am I praying for?
Listening.
Americano and spinach egg puff thingy
A prayer? From me? Godless heathen-type?
Yes.
There is an act of the soul, unmistakable. Uncontainable, it is compelled outward, whether or not it has faith that there is a listener. It is somehow a wish, a hope, a need, all at once... so urgent...
And what am I praying for?
Listening.
This deep desire has been in me for a long time, and the need for it has not lessened. This last election was rife with examples of just how bad our deafness and isolation have become. We withdraw behind screens - laptops, televisions - protected, we think, within our echo chambers. We don't even raise the window shades to see those passing by.
We invite no one in from outside to sit at our table.
A week ago, a madman committed another act of madness. So shaken, and so quickly, we found our niches, found our memes to hide behind, lest anyone point to us and say we are culpable in some way for this madness. No one is talking to each other. Almost nothing new has been said. The font just went to ALL CAPS as people started lobbing slogans at each other with no real sense of who they were aiming at.
If the "pro-gun nutjobs" were to invite the "lib-tards" to their table and listen... they would find that most gun control advocates are more "gun regulation" advocates. I'm sure I must have friends who want to ban all guns outright, but I can't for the life of me think of one. And most gun owners seem to support reasonable safety measures, so the polls show. If we could sit down together, break bread, and speak to one another... all these false caricatures could fall away.
What we need for this next age of the world is to see to speak and to listen to our brothers and sisters on this earth. We need to burst our own bubbles. We need a kitchen table movement.
We need to post this before the laptop dies and we go another week without a blog. No edits. Love to you all.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)