What was once a sign of the working class is now a sign of the bourgeois. Except I’m basically unemployed, can’t afford a manicure, and every job I have held in the past decade has been in a form of the service industry, give or take. I don’t have a high school diploma, let alone college, my “middle class values” are laughable, and my husband and I barely slide into the DC area economic middle class — we make it by a paltry few thousand per year. Last year, the two of us combined made half the average D.C. wage for one person, and this year I’m not working so we will be making about two-thirds to half the average wage.

So how bourgeois is soil under my nails, really? Are urban gardening and farming really a food revolution, or short-lived hobby for fiscally comfortable foodies? Once the aching backs and cracking knees of their proletariat forefathers set in, and the first longing for the old conveniences that our grandparents so eagerly embraced at the supermarket, maybe reality will set in for some. For others, maybe dirt in the skirt will stick. Maybe some will truly embrace their newly founded Victory Gardens.

My husband asked me, if folks are calling them Victory Gardens again, what are they emblematic of this time around? Our food buying and eating habits certainly are not making an impact on Afghanistan, so what are we seeking to be victorious of? I think this time around, the fight is against ourselves and the relationships we have cultivated with food: with reliance upon ease of access, with our desire for sugars and starches and all things super-sized, with comfort grazing, with the rise in eating disorders, with Big Agra and the failing regulators at the Department of Agriculture, and with our own crumbling health due to the above factors.

There was an increase in small scale gardening and farming in the 1960′s and 70′s due to the hippies back-to-the-land movement.  What we are experiencing now is similar.  Of course, most of those ideals failed to stick then, though there are quite a few stubborn stalwarts from that era who have gone on to mentor the new generation.  I like to hope that some of what is going on now will catch on at a national level and really sink in deep, make solid change where it is badly needed.  Optimist/pessimist.  Only one can win.

Matt and I are not agreeing on this topic. Intellectually, I know the arguments: I can’t let my past dictate my life; the odds of someone assaulting again on campus in broad day light are now slim; odds of being assaulted are slim; it can happen anywhere, so am I going to be afraid to go by myself everywhere (again)? Matt initially said all the wrong things, which has made me even more defensive: oh, it was probably someone she knew (wrong), a fellow student followed her in there (wrong), it was probably in a bathroom at the far end of campus (right — except it’s right across from my classroom, which makes me feel worse).

I am freaked out. The building it happened in is relatively new (two years old) and this semester is my first time with a class in it. I was surprised at its location — it’s got Georgia Ave to the west, Burlington Ave to the north, King St to the south, and to the east is a parking lot and then the metro tracks. You don’t need an ID card to access the building (or any of the buildings on campus), so it’s very easy for anybody to just walk in there… which is clearly going on. Walking around on that campus after dark creeps me out more than walking around the city at 4am — it’s worse lit, and at times, seemingly more deserted. Apparently, it’s even dangerous to use the bathrooms in the middle of the afternoon. That’s not something their wimpy “blue light system” is going to cover. Arrugh. I’m angry and I feel really uncomfortable with the thought of being there, now.

It really feels like a Catch-22, to end up in a situation where I had to make a decision that to improve part of my health, I had to give up all my health and financial security. Matt doesn’t make enough for us to get by in this high cost-of-living area, and I’m too gimpy to find a job that’s where the income is steady enough that the wages will matter. Oh, and possibly, maybe provide health insurance — no, that’s far too much to even slightly fantasize about, much less ask for. [He pays $300 a month for my health insurance, then add our other health expenses like out-of-pocket and co-pays, and that’s another $300+ per month. $600 per month. That’s just under the U.S. average of $7500 per person per year as of July 2009, though it doesn’t include our tax or employer contributions (which changes the numbers drastically).

Along the same vein, I saw the gyno for my annual last week. I was several months late. My last annual came back fine. This one, I have a lot of abnormal activity going on, so much so that my doctor doesn’t want to wait six months to do another PAP but wants to go ahead and schedule a colposcopy. Last time I had one, in 2003, I had to have a LEEP done soon after. If I keep having to have my cervix frozen every five years, I hope I can just get the damn thing cut out. It’s not doing me a hell of a lot of good, anyway. ]]> http://cassandradisque.com/2009/12/07/bummer-of-a-day/feed/ 0 http://cassandradisque.com/2009/11/09/the-devil-and-the-dollar/ http://cassandradisque.com/2009/11/09/the-devil-and-the-dollar/#comments Mon, 09 Nov 2009 23:23:01 +0000 Cassandra Disque http://cassandradisque.com/?p=4021 Homeownership really is just a way of putting the shackles on tighter. After declaring medical bankruptcy in 2002, I haven’t even been able to get a GAS card or a store card, let alone a credit card. That’s despite my bankruptcy having fallen off one of the three credit bureaus already. All my debt has long since fallen off, and I’ve brought my score back up to “good” by sharing a gas card and having a Target-only card that I always pay off in full on the months that I’ve used it.

After we moved, my PayPal debit card also expired, so when I had to validate my new one it asked me if I wanted to apply for a PayPal credit card. I thought, why not, for kicks to my self-esteem? After all, no one has turned me down since I was applying for car loans back in April. (Ironically, out of ten banks applied to, the only place that would loan me money, Capital One, is one of the banks that had a credit card included in my bankruptcy years ago. Go figure.)

Apparently, one month of homeownership makes me completely desirable as someone to give more debt to. I was just instantly given a credit line of $2,500.

I’ve been down this rabbit hole before and it’s a fucking scary ride. Okay, I reason: Matt doesn’t have a credit card either, and we should have something for emergencies. But…remember what happened last time. Learning the lesson doesn’t prevent it from happening again. The only way to prevent dominoes from falling is to not put the dominoes down in the first place. Augh!

Was being an adult always this scary in prior generations?

Friday morning I had 5-6 episodes where I temporarily lost my sight, hearing, and couldn’t move. Each episode lasted for several seconds at a time. Some felt stronger than others, though I don’t know how to describe how. I don’t know if they were painful when they were happening, because all I can remember is being terrified while they took place. There didn’t seem to be any warning, just suddenly this violent pitch blackness overtook me.

They weren’t catalepsy episodes. Because of having narcolepsy, I have had several to many catalepsy attacks in the past, so I know the difference. catalepsy attacks the muscles and causes the body to “drop,” but it doesn’t cause temporary blindness or deafness. [Aside: it just occurred to me that I'm not sure if I was still able to breathe or not, as I was so utterly panicked I failed to pay attention. But during catalepsy, most people can still breathe. There have been cases (very rarely) where people have actually been accidentally declared dead, but I've never experienced that kind of catalepsy. My experiences have never been anywhere near as strong. Most cataleptic attacks leave the patient completely aware of what is going on around them, which means sight and sound are intact -- those are the types of cataleptic episodes I have always experienced before.]

My psychiatrist, a second psychiatrist, and my general physician all say that they do not believe the episodes to in any way be a side effect of any of medications I am on. They also agree that because my history with catalepsy does not mimic these episodes, they don’t think it’s related. They all say that it sounds like “seizure activity” (exact quote). I’m supposed to get an EEG and an MRA. I’ve been waiting for the right paperwork from the insurance to do so.

I’m not allowed to drive until the test results come back, which mean I’m housebound again.

My blood work for the infection now comes back negative but I’m still getting a lot of wicked migraines and still running fevers several times a week. The CT scan of my sinuses came back okay; there is still congestion (infection) in my sinuses but nothing horrible. There’s still fluid in my lungs and ears as well; it simply doesn’t seem to respond to the antibiotics. Since May I’ve been on two months worth of antibitotics: zithromax, clarithromycin, ciprofloxacin; as well as diflucan; guaifenesin with codeine, chlorpheniramine with hydrocodone; claritin-d, allegra-d; flonase, nasonex; albuterol, adavair; treximet, ib profen 600s; and some other stuff I’m not remembering the names of at the moment.

* * *

Under Word Web’s definition for catalepsy, it says “See: psycho, psychotic, psychotic person.” That pisses me off, a lot. Under the definition for psycho, it says “A person afflicted with psychosis; Synonyms: psychotic, psychotic person.” It doesn’t say anything about those usages being offensive at all. Under the definitions for queer and nigger, it does point out that they’re considered offensive.

I might not be the most politically correct of people, but I do think that says a lot about what we as a society still consider to be acceptable to look down upon and what we don’t. People with illnesses and disorders of the brain still have a hell of a long way to go before they’re given equal treatment on the human rights bandwagon.

* * *

Something I’ve been interested in for years but am currently feeling a resurgence of is how people refer to chronic illnesses, from a socio-linguistic perspective. A lot of people in Western culture talk about “Lauren’s diabetes,” “my spasms,” “our fibromyalgia,” as though the illness is “owned” or perhaps “ruled” by the person who has it.

For example, it may not be as common to hear [individual experience may vary, and as a sick person my experience is skewed because people will talk to me about illness of their own or of their friends or relatives in order to have a "common ground" or "bonding experience"] “I get headaches which prevent me from going to the movie theater” as it may be to hear “my headaches prevent me from going to the movie theater.”

The change of language personalizes the experience: the speaker is emphasizing that these are their own experiences that happen frequently, and not something that just can come and go like with other people. It also shifts responsibility onto the illness: the speaker won’t take a chance on an activity because a symptom doesn’t just happen — it reliably happens. (I am not getting this out of my head in the way that I want and upon rereading this can see where my statements are quite contentious; they’re not meant to be. I’m trying to semantically dissect statements and that seems to be beyond my capability at the moment.)

Do other cultures do this (do they take linguistic and then perhaps psychological ownership or subservience of or to chronic illness)? If not, what about their cultures prevents them from doing such?

Anyway, this interests me, in the way that Kristin K. Barker’s ‘The Fibromyalgia Story’ interested me. It’s an anthropological study that I found myself both agreeing with and getting angry at — in other words, it was really well done. (Angry at because it WAS well done and did not actually take a side about whether or not the author believed fibromyalgia to exist or not; in that, it was a true anthro study.)

Ow, my head. I’m afraid I’m never going to get anything done with my life except say “ow.”

Getting married and getting off Medicaid was supposed to be wonderful, right? We didn’t take into account being sick long term. I miss Medicaid’s $4 co-pays. No wonder we’re so damn broke these days.

When our medical expenses are combined with what is taken out of Matt’s paycheck for health insurance, we are paying exactly the same per month on medical expenses as we are on rent ($1175).

Saw the doctor again today for a follow-up. Still sick. Bacteria and congestion just aren’t clearing up. I’m back on antibiotics for a month.

At least I’m not pregnant.

I’m a 36-38D, depending on the cut. If I don’t want a very matronly bra or a piece of crap that’s going to fall apart in a few weeks, then yes, the motherfuckers are expensive little things.

But try explaining this to a man who goes to work with bleach stains on his jeans and holes in his t-shirts.

I did it to myself, going from dating nothing but metrosexuals to marrying a dirty ex-pro skater. Augh!

Well, I’m having my revenge. Obama’s stimulus package is giving everyone on Social Security on extra $150 in the month of May. My tits have grown and they need more coverage, so I’m spoiling them with $150 worth of Bare Necessities. My boobs and I thank you, Mr. President.

1:15p: The county’s mental health department & What is narcolepsy?

The county’s mental health department wants to survey me for one of those “how we doin’” things. I’ve been with them so long, they value my opinion, or did they grab my name/Social Security number at random? I don’t know. But I’ll be happy to give them an earful. To start, I actually have a question, which is, “why is narcolepsy listed as among the mental health matters treated? Narcolepsy isn’t a mental health disorder, syndrome, or disease; according to the National Institute of Health, it’s a neurological disorder. Neurologists treat it, usually, sleep specialists mostly, and sometimes the odd psychiatrist who has a level of knowledge and comfort with prescribing high levels of modafinil (Provigil and Nuvigil) and GHB (Xyrem). Is the inclusion of narcolepsy as a mental health matter because those with it sometimes or often need counseling to learn to cope with the stigma and life disturbances that narcolepsy brings? Please explain.” Yes, that ends up being more than one question.

1:45p: Journaling software for nuts

Earlier today, I found pretty much what I consider to be the best thing since metaphoric sliced bread: MyPsychTracker.com. I’ve tried using Tranglos’ Keynote (not the Mac one), paper journals, Livejournal, WordPress with custom fields, a custom designed MySQL/PHP journal that I made myself and ultimately never used due to the memory drag of having to run a server on my home computer to use it, this other software thing specifically for health symptoms that I downloaded while in Australia in 2004 but it wasn’t quite what I wanted and now I don’t remember the name of it, XJS… but none of them are quite THERE.

To be honest, MyPsychTracker.com isn’t, either, but it DOES have a living development community that I can bug to implement new ideas, and it DOES have symptom support groups, which makes using Livejournal look like it usually feels to me — yelling into an echo chamber about my head and getting condolences but few ideas.

I don’t like in-person support groups because you can’t pick and choose what you need to hear (eg, if this week I’m in an insecure place and hearing about sad things is going to make me feel more sad, what I would need is to query a neutral co-group about ways to bring myself out of the sad place and not get brought back down — without having to listen or read about other peoples’ stories which might set me off). Mental health support you can pick and choose: duh! I can only get 45-60 minutes of actually psychotherapy a week, so being able to pick and choose support outside of therapy could be a great help. Especially these days.

2:05p: My slum lord; How poor folk get housed; DC housing costs; What to do with that pesky federal poverty guideline; Internautte will save us

My apartment did not pass inspection. The windows are swollen in the frames in four out of the six windows without air conditioning units. So swollen, in fact, that they can only be opened about eight inches wide. The bathroom window I can’t open at all. Inspector said he’s going to tell the landlord that the repairs have to be made, as well as a crack in the plastic window in the kitchen. None of this will happen, though, I’m sure. My landlord has had several lawsuits against him in the past few years. He’s such a baddy, in fact, that the National Fair Housing Alliance uses his practices and one of the many cases against him as a “model” anti-discrimination case (top statement). And that instance is just a start for him. Augh.

On one hand, it’s terrible that people who don’t have the financial means get forced to do business with people like this guy (and that I was one of those people who didn’t have the means, so did the business, because there was no place else to go). On the other hand, it does sting that even though I AM working my butt off now, in this area I’m still essentially making no money and so I’m still the working and invisible poor.

Before taxes (not sure I’m claiming/filing, anyway) and without counting my SSI since I don’t MAKE that, I’m making $11,840 (based on the last four months of work); almost unbelievably (this is the USA, so stomach-turning financial things aren’t that unbelievable), $11,840 a year for one person is actually $1,444 OVER the 2008 federal poverty guideline. Which officially means that even though I wouldn’t be able to afford to rent anywhere (the average rent, according to today’s ads so far on DC’s Craigslist for people seeking a roommate or renting an unfurnished room in the District of Columbia, — 33 total rentals, $24,035 total rent per month = $728.33), I still wouldn’t be considered poor. Think about it: if DC’s average rent for a room (according to Craig’s List) is $728.33 a month, that’s $8,739.96 per year.

Harvard’s Joint Center for Housing Studies released a study in 2006 showing that though the average American spends 18% of income on housing costs per year, 30% of yearly income or less is the recommended amount (in fact, reputable lenders and landlords won’t serve you if your home of choice will make you pay more), the Washington, DC metropolitan area’s average housing cost is over 50% of each household’s annual income. That’s normal here. So if I spent my average $8,739.96 to rent a room, I’d have $3,100.04 left for the rest of the year, or $258 a month for transportation, food, OTC medication and co-pays, clothing, household and hygiene. That’s basically how I was living, finance-wise, in 2002. But still not considered poor, oh, heavens, no!

Uh, the first thing I do when I become President in 2012 is scrap federal guidelines for poverty and bring them to the municipal level. Even state level is irrelevant. The difference between Montgomery County, Maryland (stinking filthy rich, in places) and Caroline County (rural, poor) or places in Baltimore City (pockets of urban poor), is just ridiculous. And Maryland is the 9th smallest state by land (10th counting DC), the fifth largest state by population density (don’t know where DC fits in there), and is the 19th largest state by population. Imagine how hard other states, with more counties, and more urban areas but less density, would be to figure out? For fuck’s sake!

First thing we do in office (in this fantasy world I am creating, of course), is do a complete public policy overhaul. would help me, I’m sure.

3:00p: Internet bye-bye; Backing that shit up; Note to self: don’t so business like this

This is the most time I’ve spent on the computer outside tooling around on it in between customer flow at the store on Sundays, since January. And it shows. My RSS feeds have gone into overload (I’m not even going to bother trying to catch up on ArtsJournal ever again — it has 11,700+ unread news stories!), I don’t know what’s going on in the world anymore but my back has been feeling better (uh, until about ten minutes ago, that is), but my writing skills are very, very rusty. I’m not happy about the last part. But at least I still know how to pull up my data to make an argument.

I miss writing argumentative papers, like for the political sociology and U.S. foreign policy classes I took. Those were only a year ago and a half ago, but somehow it feels like a lot longer — untouchable, like a dream I remember having, but can’t remember when. I do miss that vital ON BUTTON. While I’m keeping busy now, and enjoy it, I’m not intellectually stimulated, which does bug me. I’m learning to unlock other parts of me, but I miss doing what I’m good at: RESEARCH, MOTHERFUCKER. Back that argument up.

(It pissed me off a LOT when I went to my boss last month and said, “We should do coat check for X night in a few weeks because last year I checked Y amount of coats and made Z amount of money,” to which he replied, “Really? I wasn’t going to do coat check this year, forgot we had it last year; I’m glad someone keeps track of these things.” WHAT THE FUCK, ISN’T THAT *YOUR* JOB, TO KEEP TRACK OF THE AMOUNT OF MONEY I HAND OVER TO YOU AT THE END OF THE NIGHT?! Ass. Anyway, I did coat check the night I argued for and made $150 after checked 100-odd coats. Convincing data rarely fails.)

3:08p: I’m not insane, I’m just a stressed person with bipolar disorder; “Odyous of olde been comparisonis, And of comparisonis engendyrd is haterede;” Normal is also a comparison, if you think about it

I forgot, I wanted to say that yesterday, my psychiatrist comforted me greatly during my appointment. I’ve been concerned that maybe how I’ve been feeling lately has just been my bipolar suddenly out of control, but she assured that she didn’t think that was the case. (Paraphrase:) “No, you’re going through two major life events right now that would send even a non-bipolar person off their heads and make them act manic.” I can’t begin to explain how much better it felt to have my doctor tell me that, because on one hand I think I am handling my current life (newly married, planning wedding, planning party, working full time for the first time in ten years, changing my identity structure from “disabled” to “with disease(s) but capable, just have to monitor myself,” my grandfather getting closer to dying every day, and then managing how my illness relate to everything I just listed) well, but on the other hand I am still the abject perfectionist who [okay, I keep retyping this bit -- I want to type "will not allow," but I know that's too harsh and I'm trying to not be so harsh, so then I type "does not want accept," but I know that inside my head OF COURSE I don't want to accept it, so that phrasing doesn't seem to project how severe my mindset is] demands perfection…as a perfectionist does.

I say to myself, yeah, sure, I have narcolepsy, CFIDS/M.E., a broken butt, bipolar, PCOS, diabetes, and a host of other, more minor things like asthma, allergies, cystic acne, rosacea, ocular rosacea, Raynaud’s, and then all that “crazy shit” like social anxiety, BDD, ADD, and BED, but people are always telling me that other sick/disabled people still do things. “Look at so-and-so! She lost both legs and an eye but still WALKS her dog.” (I love the use of the word walk; is it because the dog is walking, or because the speaker isn’t thinking?) Yeah, crips and crazies do amazing things all the time, so… I should, too!

I should be housewife of the year AND daughter of the year AND granddaughter of the year AND mother of my furry children of the year AND get a promotion at work AND work more hours at both jobs AND take on more work AND consider other activities AND plan both a wedding for 100 people and a giant nightclub party all by myself AND keep my health together AND pay my bills while putting $5,000 toward the wedding because Matt isn’t putting any toward the wedding AND save money to buy and house AND look to move out of this shitty apartment soon AND if I can’t manage to lose weight before the wedding (because I can’t) at least I can manage to stop gaining weight AND I will do all these things PERFECTLY. Perfectly; with a smile on my face, no health relapses, no mania breaks sending me and my hard-earned savings into Bulgari to go on a mania-induced shopping-spree, no loosing my cool with anyone, no forgetting to take my meds — just such smooth sailing that everyone around me forgets that I’m even there except in a helpful capacity.

Yeah, my psychiatrist said I’m actually responding perfectly normal for someone even without bipolar. I actually agree with her. I mean, I’ve seen it happen; the people on my mom’s side of the family don’t have bipolar, but the women are all fucking nuts, as in they’re all perfectionists. And the more stress thrown at them, the more they take upon themselves to make perfect. Somehow, it’s their way of remaining calm: is there is so much responsibility to be had that you can only just barely keep your head afloat and have no time to think of anything except responsibility, then you will survive. Take a moment to think, and you drown. Fortunately, I’ve got myself a nice level anti-depressant, one level mood stabilizer, and another mood stabilizer on the rise right now, just when I need it. I’ve got a psychiatrist and a therapist. I’ve got pain pills, topical pain gels, pills to put me to sleep when it’s bed time, pills to keep me awake when it’s awake time and the narcolepsy is being a bitch, pills to make me focus when my mind is racing through mud. What do my female relatives have? Responsibility, marijuana, and alcohol. The playing level isn’t even; I think I’m going to win this one, dude.

Cassandra–As of today, I have not heard from HOC regarding the
outstanding rent. Excluding late charges, $3,198 is outstanding, I
intend to intiate collection proceedings and to regain possession of
the apartment unless this matter is promptly addressed.

P.S. To landlord: if you want to seem intimidating, learn to spell or get a spell-checker. Otherwise, while you are indeed stressing me out, it isn’t because I’m in the wrong — it’s because you’re harassing me. And I have a very low tolerance level for poor grammar, silly spelling errors in a formal setting, and fuckwits in general.

…

In other news, my daffy dog turns a year old at some point this month. To celebrate his birthday, on Saturday night he thought it was a great idea to jump off my grandfather’s elevated porch. He free fell five feet to the grass below, took a few seconds to figure out what had happened to him, and started howling. His walk was all discombobulated, so we had to take him to the emergency veterinarian. $240 for X-rays, sedatives, and anti-inflammatories. The poor dingy bruised the hell out of his hind legs; he’s still limping a bit on one of them, but he’s basically fine, which is good.

No one in this family is allowed to have any more accidents or health issues until after Taint on Thursday night, because Mama Cass and Daddy Matt are now broke, broke, broke. This is what happens when I don’t work for three weeks, apparently. Go figure.