At least once a day I hear someone reference the War on Women. 2012 has been a particularly difficult year to have a vagina. Wanting affordable access to family planning makes us sluts. Not wanting to be mothers until we are ready means we are going to hell. And don’t even get me started on the scientific “facts” that “prove” you can’t get knocked up from rape.
The irony isn’t lost on me that most of the people making these kinds of statements into a microphone are old, rich, white men. One of my best friends is a very Christian conservative. We greatly disagree on a woman’s right to choose. But even she concedes that we live in a country that doesn’t support motherhood (aka paid maternity leave, affordable day care, access to decent prenatal care for everybody) in comparison to other developed nations.
It doesn’t help that while the nation is waging a war against my body, SO AM I. For the past five years I have tried a variety of remedies to make my womb SIT DOWN and SHUT UP. From the cysts, to the pain, to the bloating, to the side effects, something always seems to be amiss. There is no perfect solution. I don’t want anything implanted in me like I’m a Russian spy. The Nuvaring scares the hell out of me. And the patch is a pinky tan color that just screams I WAS MADE SOLELY FOR WHITE PEOPLE. They can make a clear nicotine patch for smokers, but I’m stuck with this piece of shit:
Inevitably I gave up the search and went on the pill like everyone else. Except something is wrong with that too. I never take it at the same time. Sometimes I forget. And when I take it, it’s a daily depressing reminder that I’m not in a relationship. Yay!
After talking with my doctor and my OBGYN friends about my options, it was glaringly obvious what I should do.
Get an IUD.
Mom, if you are reading this, I promise you that IUDs have changed since the 70s and I’m not going to die from an unheard of infection. Also, the Surgeon General says that tampons are ok. Thanks! Love you.
It seems completely counterintuitive to stick something into your uterus so nothing will stick in your uterus. And the price tag doesn’t help. Basically, it’s like sticking a Marc by Marc Jacobs purse up your pussy. A Marc by Marc Jacobs purse that lasts for 5 years only. Did I get ripped off? It is what it is.
Today as I laid on my back spread eagle, I knew I was making the right decision. I don’t want a baby right now. No other method works for me. It’s actually cheaper for the average user once you add up 60 copayments for bcp and Plan B.
As I exited the doctor’s office, I felt crampy yet confident!
And then I started to cry.
WTF? I looked down at the little card the nurse had given me.
Next replacement: August 27, 2017.
2017. 2017! I will be fucking 34 years old.
That card was concrete evidence that the life I pictured for myself is completely not going to happen. I will not be the 30 year old mother of 2 living in a 3 story house who works even though she doesn’t have to because her amazingly attractive husband brings home the bacon. I will be the 30 year old who is thinking about having roommates again because she can’t manage to pay off her student loan on an artist/public servant salary. I will be the 31 year old woman who still wouldn’t want to get pregnant even if she met the perfect man so she won’t have to depend on someone else 100%, just in case things don’t work out.
I mourn the vision I had of myself. There’s just a wide discrepancy between who I thought I would be and who I am. I knew I had those feelings when it came to my career, but not when it came to my cunt.
I can’t blame Paul Ryan for the War on Women that I have within myself. Really it’s the War on Woman, because the rules in my head apply to me alone. The war that expects me to do everything, all at once, like yesterday. Today I made the right decision. I want to live a healthy life without constantly thinking about my reproductive organs and how they could ruin my life.
But until my IUD can do for my worry what it is doing for my womb (preventing unwanted things from sticking) I will be stuck with that image of something I have failed to become.
Even though I’m not even sure if I ever really, truly wanted it in the first place.