Why Doesn’t Everyone Have Access to PrEP?

The killer’s name is Gilead. I hadn’t heard of it before and I thought the name sounded oddly, almost eerily familiar.

With some light googling I managed to find out that Gilead is an American biopharmaceutical company that makes antiviral drugs. It’s also the name of that heinous country from Margaret Atwood’s book-turned-TV series, The Handmaid’s Tale — which seemed like an odd coincidence, until I kept researching.

Truvada is one of the drugs made by Gilead Sciences. On the commercial market, it’s sold and advertised as PrEP. It’s an FDA approved medication which, when taken continually and properly, reduces the risk of contracting HIV by 92 percent. Super effective, cheap to make — less than $60 a year according to the New York Times — and super easy to administer. So why isn’t everyone taking PrEP?

Namely, because it’s absurdly expensive.

The price of PrEP has risen over the years, with Gilead turning a profit of $14,000 per patient. No one else has previously been able to manufacture the drug because Gilead wouldn’t release Truvada from its patent. Since they’re the sole proprietor, they get to name their price, so they inflated it by 25,000 percent. Finally, after significant public outcry and protest, the pharmaceutical giant agreed to allow a generic version of PrEP to be made — but only by one company and in 2020.

While it’s estimated that there are over a million people in the U.S. who would potentially benefit from the medication, only about 225,000 are currently on PrEP. Guess who most of those people aren’t: the Black (38%) and Latino (29%) men who have sex with men and made up 67% of HIV diagnoses in 2016 — the majority of whom live in the South.

Meanwhile, Gilead Sciences is sitting comfortably at #199 on this year’s “Forbes Global 2000” list, with a market capital of $80.3 billion.

Gilead actively depriving high-risk communities of access to PrEP is also avoidable, seeing as the trial research which established PrEP was substantially funded by the Federal Government. We live in America, so the government has “March-In” rights, which means they can come in and take stuff back if companies don’t comply with government and public interests. If they really wanted to, the government could take the Truvada patent from Gilead and give it to a generic pharmaceutical company to make at affordable prices. That clearly isn’t happening.

Despite Gilead recently reaching a deal with the Trump Administration to donate enough drugs to treat 200,000 patients for 11 years — one of the largest pharmaceutical donations in our nation’s history — it’s not nearly enough to cover the million-plus people who need treatment. It’s a fake move, and people are dying for it.

HIV is still classified as a global epidemic, and the U.S. Government consistently fails to treat the disease as the lethal threat it can be. The continuation of unnecessary deaths is disproportionate along lines of class and race, which I argue isn’t by coincidence. It’s important to recognize where we are protected and where we are not.

Sex and sexual health rights within communities of color have long been used as a weapon by the government and private corporations alike. As a journalist and, more importantly, a woman of color, I do my best to spread the word when I hear about how the powers that be choose to handle our bodies. Hopefully, we can use what we know to gain more autonomy over our own bodies, drawing power from education.

Use rubbers. Get tested. Ask your doctor about PrEP. Be open with your partners. We can learn a lot from what is being stolen from us and channel that into advocacy, awareness, and action.

For more information on what PrEP is and how it works, click here.

To join the activism surrounding access to the life-saving drug, check out the #BreakThePatent campaign.

For New York Times Daily podcast episode on the subject, click here.

Photos (in order of appearance) via breakthepatent.org and by Dariana Portes. Art by Brigid Stafford.

My Eating Disorder is Not “Textbook”

The following content may be triggering.

I can only speak for myself when I say I feel underrepresented and misunderstood by Health and Psychology textbooks. It’s not that the examples and clinical criteria in school books don’t represent real, statistical data gathered from cases of eating disorders. I just don’t fit into that data.

Having been severely underweight for two years, and at a healthy body mass index for four, I felt out of control overwhelmed, exercise and food-obsessed, and helpless for a total of six. However, according to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition (DSM-5) criteria for anorexia, only the first two years of my disorder would “count” as diagnosable. Does that mean that my eating disorder wasn’t real? That I didn’t suffer for all six years and battle with my anorexia every single day?

In the past, I wouldn’t care if a professor failed to mention the outliers or the widespread grips of this disease and how its physicalities don’t even compare to the mental takeover. However, today, sitting in my 300+ person Psych lecture at one of the most esteemed universities in the country, I finally see how damaging these academic misconceptions can be towards fueling the stigmas and lack of understanding for eating disorders.

For the first few months of my disorder, I danced on the line between severity and being “completely fine.” On the outside, I looked like a “skinny” 13-year-old, and my doctors assured my parents that I was “fine”, but probably shouldn’t lose more weight. When I protested my parents’ concerns and told them I was just being health-conscious, they were worried but not inclined to get me help because anorexia had a look that I didn’t fit yet.

I was exercising seven days a week for three hours at a time, eating less than 900 calories a day, and constantly feeling surrounded and beaten down by voices telling me I was fat, unworthy, and wholly disgusting. Even at 5’5″ and 108 pounds, I was convinced the skin on my hips was excess fat, that my hip bones jutting out was a sign of weight gain, that everything wrong in my life was due to my absolute repulsiveness. Even then, according to textbook criteria, I would not be considered anorexic.

It’s not the fault of my parents or doctor, but rather an institutional problem that needs to be addressed. Our attachment to alienating clinical guidelines perpetuates a dangerous narrative towards eating disorders. In my experience, the psychological torture was enough to send me over the edge far before I was 89 pounds with low blood pressure. Nonetheless, my friends and family weren’t equipped to help me, because we only know to cry “anorexia” if someone looks like a skeleton.

This antiquated narrative also made it difficult for me to validate my disease after treatment. I eventually hit that spiraling point and was in and out of inpatient facilities for seven months, but afterward when I was released at a “normal weight,” I spent four years killing myself to stay right at that line.

My metabolism was so depleted and confused from my cycles of starvation and over-exercise that it remained stagnant, in starvation-mode. My body was unable to restore my metabolism to a normal level where I could maintain weight by eating and exercising in a way that’s healthy for me. Instead, I remained right at my 18.5 BMI weight for four years by eating with extreme restrictions.

I’ve been pescetarian since my treatment and used to be terrified of any “unclean” foods. I would exercise a strict six days a week, for about an hour and a half at a time. Because my body and metabolism were so used to the low levels of nutrients and rest, this was enough to maintain my weight. As I remained what’s considered to be a healthy BMI, I still had crippling issues.

No one noticed. In comparison to everything we’re taught anorexia looks like, I appeared to be perfectly fine. I’d argue we aren’t being taught enough.

We hold the delusion that once treatment is over, weight having been restored, the eating disorder is over too. It’s ingrained in academia and professional medical treatment for eating disorders. It was less than a month ago when I was formally taught about the Maudsley Family-Based Therapy for anorexia in my collegiate Psych class. The professor explained that this common therapy process involves three phases. However, my experience wasn’t compartmentalized this way.

The idea of a specific number or time frame of phases is extremely misleading. Recovery is a trial and error process that can take someone, like me, up to seven months of being in and out of inpatient/outpatient treatment and psychiatric institutions.

I met a 30-year-old in an outpatient facility who had been in and out of treatment for 14 years. The idea that recovery is a three-step journey involving concrete mechanisms, standardized for all cases, creates a narrative of superficiality surrounding eating disorders. It’s also inaccurate.

For example, in the third phase — endearingly called “Healthy Identity” — involves establishing familial boundaries, weight maintenance, healthy body image, and “termination” of the eating disorder.

An eating disorder is never terminated.

This is why it can be so difficult to find that healthy body image: that image — good or bad — usually coexists alongside your eating disorder. Recovery does not just happen with weight restoration. For a lot of patients, myself included, it can takes years to accept that weight maintenance is the only way to stay healthy and out of treatment. Then you have to learn to live and be comfortable with the idea of this new weight. For me, recovery is about shutting out the critical voices in my head and making choices in spite of them. It’s a process, not a formula.

Textbooks can make it feel pretty formulaic and familiarly inaccurate. Not once during my Psych class did we discuss the process of regaining control outside of treatment, or what recovery looks like in the long term. People relapse and return to treatment, or struggle for years as I did.

In treatment, we labeled “scary” foods — often unhealthy foods like fast food or sweets — “fear foods” and would always be challenged to choose them at mealtime. I used to dread Pizza Night or days when we would go to the movies and be challenged to buy buttered popcorn.

Today, there are days when I really want to eat something I previously labeled as a “fear food”, and I’m able to eat it in the moment — enjoy it, even. Though sometimes, it only takes minutes for the voices to come back and torment me. I’ll look in the mirror and, remarkably, it looks as though that one cookie or piece of pizza has made me gain ten pounds.

Recovery looks like navigating the things that scare you; that hurt you. I worked my ass off for years to fight my eating disorder. This idea that recovery just happened for me, or for anyone else that is struggling, is downright offensive.

Having an eating disorder is not just about physical restoration and body image. When you have anorexia, you develop a relationship with it.

In my recovery process, my fellow patients and I fondly named our eating disorders “Ana” for short. This personification of our disease(s) allowed us to attach emotions to the voices inside our head, as well as explain to ourselves why we so often chose her over other relationships and sometimes, our own lives. This was imperative in breaking up with my eating disorder.

As Ana became less of a disease and more of a physical entity or even a friend, it became clearer to me why she resembled a toxic relationship that needed to be addressed. Ana alienated me from my friends and family, making me self-deprecate so that I hated myself enough to rely on her and hurt myself in the process, and lied to me and tricked me into doing what she wanted.

There is a level of intimacy patients address between themselves and their eating disorders that reveals why it is so hard to move on and choose themselves over this relationship. You live for years thinking Ana is there for you and helping you control your life and make yourself into a better person. It’s a toxic codependency that reveals what needs to be rediscovered outside of your eating disorder, while in recovery.

Anorexia is not just a superficial obsession with one’s body and looking good. It is a much more complex emotional dependency that is rooted in becoming attached to the reassurance that Ana provides and being too afraid to let her go.

Though I believe it’s important to learn about eating disorders in an educational setting, most curricula are rooted in methodology and beliefs that minimize all experiences into a chapter in a textbook. Which is adverse to ending stigmas and better preparing people to help themselves, friends, and loved ones.

Medical criteria and DSM-5 guidelines may be clinically backed by data and science, but there needs to be a more open discussion supplementing these guidelines and allowing students the space to discuss how these disorders manifest outside of textbooks. It’s important to understand the fluidity of eating disorders and the diversity of people impacted by them. The mold we’ve given disorders like anorexia leaves a lot of people and their stories out of the conversation, and academia is unintentionally educating its students within a very limited, clinical range.

Personally, I think our schools and our textbooks can, and must, do better. Until then, we host the responsibility of educating ourselves. Read, learn, and advocate like somebody’s life depends on it — because it does.

For more information on anorexia and other eating disorders, you can call National Eating Disorders Hotline at (800) 931-2237, for personalized advice.

Photos (in order of appearance) by Uma Schupfer, Dina Veloric, and Cheyenne Morschl-Villa.

How to Respond When a Loved One Tells You They’re an Addict

Telling your family and loved ones that you’re an addict is no small feat.

Speaking as someone who has done it herself (twice), I can say without a doubt that it was the hardest decision I’ve made, and it continues to be the toughest one to carry out…

First, you have to reach the point at which you can no longer deny the fact that you are an addict and that you have an actual illness. And, let me just tell you… that can take much longer than one would think. The disease alters the chemistry of the brain and actually changes one’s ability to perceive themselves and their behaviors accurately.

For example, I would convince myself that I needed to buy a gram of cocaine in order to have one last hurrah before quitting for good. However, I went through that exact thought process for years before I realized how deeply in denial I was.

This behavioral defect ensures that an addict continues to seek out and abuse substances, no matter how much it continues to destroy them and their life. Crazy, right? Everything else aside, I’ve got to give it to this disease for being so fucking smart in its ability to maintain its existence in the body. It’s a true evil genius.

So, yeah, like I said, getting to the point where you actually realize that you have an addiction can be one tricky motherfucker. And then, once you’re no longer in denial about the fact that you have it — you actually have to get to a point where you want to admit it to your loved ones. That can take an even longer time, because from the moment you come forward with your addiction, your behaviors and actions will become scrutinized and analyzed by everyone around you. There’s no alternative choice but to stop, which is not exactly an addict’s ideal situation.

This is why it took me years after acknowledging that I had a problem to actually come forward about how serious my coke addiction was. I didn’t want people knowing that it was an issue. I didn’t want my friends to A) stop doing it with me or B) prevent me from doing it. I didn’t want to quit, obviously. And, you have to want to quit or it simply won’t work. It took three years for me to want to quit coke, and I’m happy to say that as of now, I am six months clean. Halle-fuckin-lullah.

My drinking, however, is a different story.

I was so focused on my coke addiction for such a long time that I didn’t realize how badly my alcohol abuse had become. In fact, I only realized it for myself a few months ago. But once I did have that realization, I knew that I had to tell my friends and family that I was an addict…again. I suppose the bright side is that I was able to do so much faster this time around because once you admit the first addiction, the next ones become easier (yay?).

Now that I’ve had to admit that I am an addict to my loved ones on two separate occasions, I feel as though I’m warranted in writing an article about the best ways to respond when a loved one tells you they’re an addict.

I have the credentials. I know which responses made me feel supported and which ones made me want to intake more drugs. I have also been on the receiving end of this situation in the cases of multiple different loved ones, and I’ve done my research on what I could have done better considering my reactions were not all too stellar. So, I’ve been on both sides of this equation, and I’ve learned my do’s and don’t, which I hereby pass on to you:

The Don’ts:

Don’t say: ‘I knew it’ or ‘I can’t believe this.’ Instead say: ‘Thank you for telling me, I’m sure that must have been difficult for you.’

A little compassion goes a long way at this stage. Not centering this issue around yourself also goes a long way. Do you really need to communicate to them your level of knowledge about their addictive behaviors? Not really.

They are coming to you with the truth for assistance, and as I elaborated so eloquently in the first few paragraphs of this guide, getting to that point is not exactly easy. So, don’t be a dick. All you need to express to them in this moment is your love and support for them. They took a long ass journey to get there, so let them rest and have a glass of water before asking them about their trip. Ya feel?

Don’t say: ‘You need to do…’ Instead say: ‘How can I best support you through this?’

You don’t know what is best for them in this situation. Even if you’ve gone through this before yourself, or if you think you know what was best for your aunt’s friend’s cousin’s step-daughter that one time, this is a unique situation regarding a unique individual who has unique symptoms and unique needs that will help manage those symptoms. You can offer suggestions if they’re stumped—with the help of an addiction counselor of course—but, you can’t tell them what they need to do because they might not even know.

Don’t say: ‘Have you tried stopping?’ Instead say: ‘I will help you to the best of my ability.’

If they’re in front of you asking for help, rest assured that they’ve tried stopping. They wouldn’t be coming to you and letting you know about an incredibly personal and difficult issue if they didn’t think they needed help. They don’t need any reminders that they can’t stop, and they certainly don’t need to feel the Shame Wizard when they have to admit to you their inability to stop abusing said substance. In addition, stopping cold turkey might not be the best option for them. In some situations, it can actually be a dangerous option. So, instead of making assumptions, just inform them that you support whatever choice is best for their wellbeing and livelihood. That’s what they need from you right now, and the decisions about their recovery can be made with the help of a professional at a later time.

Don’t say: ‘What’s wrong with you’ or ‘How could you let this happen?’ Instead say: ‘This isn’t your fault, addiction is a disease, but we do need to come up with a plan to help you manage it’

We need to dispense with the belief that addiction is a failing on the addict’s part to behave ethically. It is a serious disease that alters brain chemistry and behavior and should be treated as such. It is not the addict’s fault, and blaming them is not only incorrect and ableist, but it will most likely push them further into the arms of addiction. Make sure that they know you know it’s a disease. Their illness needs to be validated by a loved one. Nevertheless, you should express to them that a plan needs to be made. It is not their fault, but that doesn’t mean they don’t need to take action to manage it. It doesn’t need to be right in that exact moment, but they do need to seek out the advice and help of a professional, like a substance abuse counselor, an addiction psychiatrist, or an AA/NA meeting.

The Do’s:

Do start going to Al-Anon, a support group for family members of alcoholics. You need help right now, too.

In addition to showing your loved one support, you’ll also need some support, too. Al-anon is the place to get it. Al-anon is a support group for loved ones of alcoholics and addicts. Loved ones of alcoholics and addicts tend to either naturally prescribe to certain behaviors or develop them as a result of having an addict in their life. These behaviors can be truly harmful to your mental wellbeing, so you need to be in a safe place where you talk about them and work through them and understand how to manage them. These groups are judgement-free spaces that include other people who know exactly what you’re going through and can help you deal with it. I go to them in addition to AA/NA meetings because having a parent who is an alcoholic/addict definitely affected my behaviors growing up as well as currently. Seeking out a group that offers me understanding and support during this aspect of my life was the best decision I made. I would highly recommend it.

And, last but not least, DO take care of yourself right now. This is an emotional and draining experience and you need to practice some major self-care, ya hear?

If you or a loved one are struggling with substance abuse, the follow resources may be helpful:

Alcoholics Anonymous

Al-Alon Family Groups

Narcotics Anonymous

SAMHSA National Helpline, a 24/7 free and confidential information service for individuals facing substance use issues: 1-800-662-4357

All photos by Isabelle Abbott.

I Hate You — Don’t Leave Me

Navigating relationships and intimacy with borderline personality disorder.

I often feel “empty.”

My emotions shift very quickly, and I often experience extreme sadness, anger, and anxiety. I’m constantly afraid that the people I care about the most will abandon or leave me.

I would describe most of my romantic relationships as intense yet unstable — the way I feel about the people in my life can dramatically change from one moment to the next, and I don’t always understand why. When I’m feeling insecure in a relationship, I tend to lash out or make impulsive gestures in hopes of keeping the other person close to me.

These are just a few ways borderline personality disorder has manifested within my relationships throughout my life.

Although I’m only nineteen, I consider myself an intimacy aficionado. I have been in quite a few romantic relationships — some long, some short, some unrequited, some not — and I would say the only common denominator in my love life has been my personality disorder. I read a Vice article once that referred to women as wonderful torturers of ourselves. Although loving comes easy for me — trust, stability, assurance, and security certainly do not.

What is borderline personality disorder?

Borderline personality disorder (BPD) is a mental illness that revolves around an intense fear of abandonment and instability and impacts the way you feel about yourself, others, your relationships with others, and everything in between.

The cause(s) of BPD can be linked to genetics and hereditary predisposition, brain abnormalities, and trauma, although this is not an exhaustive list. Typically, you must display five or more of a long list of criterium to be diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. These symptoms may include identity disturbance, frantic efforts to avoid abandonment (both real or imagined), instability, and intense interpersonal relationships, suicidal behavior, and chronic feelings of emptiness, among others.

Loving while Borderline…

My fear of abandonment has forced me to require more reassurance than the average person. Even with adequate reassurance from a partner, trust can be frail.

I’m constantly anticipating that my partner will leave me or that they feel differently, which has often pushed loved ones away. My feelings of inadequacy took a toll on them and our relationship. I cannot always explain why I so vividly imagine loved ones leaving me and acting in my worst interest.

My impulsive behavior and unstable sense of self has put me in situations where I have felt obligated to be promiscuous and hypersexual in order to obtain love and care. Hypersexuality as a result of my personality disorder has also led people to take advantage of me — and blame myself for it in the same breath.

I still sometimes have a hard time distinguishing between love, lust, and impulse. On the opposite side of the spectrum, sometimes I have total aversion towards sex. I can feel sexually repressed due to trauma, trust issues, unstable self image, and acute feelings of shame. This physical repulsion has also been a site of complication in more than one of my relationships.

Ultimately, each day and each partner is the luck of the draw in terms of how I will be feeling and what irrationality my brain will orchestrate.

Living while Borderline…

Dialectical behavior therapy [DBT] has been one avenue of treatments that has helped in equipping myself with skills to manage my emotions, self soothe, and navigate relationships.

DBT is a form of cognitive behavioral therapy that works to promote a balance in thinking — a way to see seemingly opposite perspectives at the same time. I think of it as understanding that the glass is both half empty and half full. Although mindfulness has always seemed pin-headed to me, allowing myself to feel, use strengthening statements, and understand that things don’t have to be black or white, but can rather just be, has been benevolent in my self discovery and relationships.

Note that I say I live with borderline personality disorder rather than suffer from it.

I have decided to no longer pathologize who I am and the way I am, even if I am sometimes not too sure of either of those things. Being borderline has often made me susceptible to self stigmatization; I’ve believed that I’m manipulative, dangerous, and unable to be in healthy, loving relationships. But this is not necessarily true. If anything, being borderline has offered me ways to be intuitive, compassionate, and empathetic.

My inner turmoil has granted me the privilege of being able to relate to others through lived experience. My heightened sensitivity allows me to be hyper-aware of the emotions of those around me. My intuition allows me to understand and navigate situations that may be unfamiliar.

In terms of intimacy, being borderline has come with a self awareness toolkit that has taught me what I need in relationships in order to have them be both healthy and mutually fulfilling for me and a partner: Reassurance. Patience. Compassion. Understanding. Mutuality. Flexibility. Boundaries.

For more information on borderline personality disorder, click here.

Art by Ezra Covalt, photos (in order of appearance) by Cheyenne Morschl-Vill and Sweet Suezy.

My Mental Marathon

How I learned to stay ahead of my anxiety disorder.

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It’s human nature to worry.

Certain situations — familial, relational, academic, personal — that arise often can cause us to fret. Most of the time, these feelings are perfectly normal. We’ve all heard of “fight-or-flight” — how your body reacts to a perceived threat.

This natural bodily response involves an increase in heart rate, hyperventilation, nausea, dizziness, muscle tension, and all of that body-draining goodness (NOT).

Now, here’s the thing… feeling anxious or suffering from an anxiety disorder are two entirely different conditions. If you are one of the countless people who suffers from an anxiety disorder, A) welcome to the club and B) chances are, you experience these fight-or-flight sensations even when there is no apparent threat.

You may relate to this, if not, I guarantee that there is someone in your life that can. Anxiety disorders are the most common mental illnesses, affecting 40 million adults in the United States — 18.1% of the country’s population. In light of the statistic, you’d think more people would be understanding, but that’s not necessarily the case.

I was diagnosed with GAD (General Anxiety Disorder) a few years ago, but I’m pretty sure this “thing” has been living inside me since I was in the womb. This is not an exaggeration, “prone to anxiety” was written on my medical file when I was a kid. It was as if it were stalking my childhood, getting ready to jump my bones the moment puberty hit.

In the beginning, it started off with nervous feelings and overly cautious tendencies. Once I learned that these nervous feelings weren’t supposed to linger when everything was going swell, I realized that something was actually wrong. I would constantly wonder why my friends weren’t feeling the same degree of anxiety as me, or if they were, why they weren’t vocalizing it. This bred a daunting feeling of loneliness and isolation.

I remember missing class trips due to the fear of being struck with homesickness, something fatal happening, or just the plain discomfort of unfamiliarity. I thought, How is everyone okay with doing this?

Of course, my family did their best to teach me that life wasn’t supposed to be a fearless breeze. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder why it had to be so fearful. It’s so hard to escape this type of mindset when it is literally your mind whose the one playing tricks on you.

My moments of panic, as if they weren’t horrific enough, were constantly labeled as dramatic, idiotic, foolish, silly, annoying, ridiculous… the list goes on. The worst part is, adults (the people I trusted the most) made a majority of these uneducated presumptions. Can you imagine what this did to my self-esteem?

Not only did these symptoms progress and evolve into the product of self-destruction but also self-estrangement. A couple of years ago, my anxiety drove me to a very dark place. I began questioning life, reality, my existence, everything and anything that I could wrap my head around. I had anxiety about my anxiety! How does it even get to that point? I would ruminate on these thoughts until I was blue in the face, and when there was no energy left in me, I was fueled by my unknown panic.

Panic attacks can feel like death; your heart starts skipping beats, you can’t breathe properly, tunnel vision kicks in, and you lose all sense of reality.

I remember going out with my friends and I started to feel really nauseous and that triggered anxious feelings. My friends couldn’t understand, so I felt alone and scared. My body started to kick into a fight-or-flight state, and I was not close enough to home. I called my mom repeatedly, begging her to pick me up. I ran to the bathroom and locked myself in a stall for a long period of time. Everything felt so foreign, all I could do was cry and hyperventilate. I wanted to be anywhere but there in that moment.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was experiencing feelings of depersonalization and de-realization. These are common anxiety symptoms, but unfortunately they’re rarely discussed. Depersonalization and de-realization are mental illnesses of their own and can be experienced without an anxiety disorder to accompany them.

This awful side effect always had me in a daze, completely detached from everyone and everything — including myself. A constant cycle of panic and detachment, I felt as though I was losing my grip on reality, which has always been one of my biggest fears. I cannot emphasize how exhausting it is when you’re trying to run away from your own mind — anxiety disorders are a mental marathon.

Thankfully, my mother was my moral compass and directed me toward seeing a psychiatrist.

After participating in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), I learned several coping mechanisms. My sessions were progressive, but the entire experience naturally opened up some wounds. Metaphorically, it felt like I was wreaking havoc in my room only to rearrange everything again, learning how to Feng-Shui my brain in order to have a new Zen mindset. As much as it was terrifying, I needed to experience it in order to grow.

What has really helped me cope is understanding that a panic attack cannot last for a very long time. Whenever I fear that panic might strike, I remind myself that an anxiety attack has a peak of about 10 minutes, and then you’ll start to calm down.

I’ve also learned that cognitive distortions (distorted ways of thinking, which formulate an altered view of reality) take place when I am anxious. For example, overgeneralizing situations based on a single experience in the past. I also tend to catastrophize every little thing, expecting the worst to happen. Emotional reasoning is something a lot of people do; when we believe things based on how we feel about them.

To combat these distortions, you can…

Journal your thoughts and moods because when it’s on paper, it’s easier to face and figure out.

Recognize your distortions and challenge them by restructuring your initial fearful thought into something more positive/realistic.

Another important technique is exposure, AKA facing your fears. Try to understand the ways anxiety affects your mind, so you can walk yourself through panic attacks, etc.

Remember to breathe — try closing one nostril and inhaling for seven seconds, then exhaling out of the opposite nostril for seven seconds, and then repeat.

* * *

Over time I have learned to remain civil with my anxiety whenever it tries to surface in my life. It’s important to make the conscious decision to set boundaries with your demons. You can acknowledge them, but don’t invite them over to hang out.

I have learned — and am still learning each day — to let my anxiety tell me what it wants, and then take those thoughts with a grain of salt. There needs to be a distinction between what’s real and what your mental illness is trying to convince you of. It can make you feel unfamiliar with your own life and force you to question what you already know.

My ultimate advice is to not fear it, but get the help you need to defeat it. You are NOT your thoughts. You are NOT your mental illness. Your low points do NOT define you, and most importantly, you are NOT alone.

Photos (in order of appearance) by Cheyenne Morschl-Vill, Sweet Suezy, and Uma Schupfer.

Will Roe v. Wade Be Overturned?

The judiciary and legislative basics, explained.

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Several states have recently either drafted, passed, or signed Anti-Choice legislation into law. These are policies that restrict and/or outright ban a person with a uterus’ ability to access a safe and legal abortion.

If you’re thinking, “That sounds unconstitutional!” — you’re not wrong.

Roe v. Wade was a landmark case by the United States Supreme Court which held that the right to an abortion is protected by the constitutional right to privacy. That was in 1973. Prior to that ruling, abortion was illegal in the United States.

Later, other Supreme Court decisions, such as Planned Parenthood v. Casey (1992) reaffirmed Roe v. Wade and stated that any policies/laws that place “undue burden” on a woman seeking an abortion are likewise unconstitutional.

Are the state laws restricting abortions in Alabama, Missouri, Ohio, and Georgia unconstitutional?

The short answer is yes.

As we write this, legal challenges are being filed in the U.S. district courts of these states, which will likely delay any implementation of these new laws. However, that is the goal of the Anti-Choice legislators who drafted them.

Even though it is likely that the lower courts will deem these laws unconstitutional, the losing side will appeal to the U.S. circuit court, and then to the U.S. Supreme Court.

Confused?

United States law operates with federal legislators (Congress people and senators) and state legislators. Federal laws apply nationwide while state laws are only applicable in their state. Federal laws override state laws. However, states can attempt to pass laws that restrict or modify federal laws — to varying levels of effectiveness.

The Federal court system has three tiers: district courts, circuit courts, and finally, the US Supreme Court.

Laws are passed at either the state or federal level. If their content is challenged, they can travel up the courts — if a law reaches the US Supreme Court for review, their ruling is final.

The latest wave of Anti-Choice legislation doesn’t just criminalize abortion, but also proposes the most severe penalties against not only people who seek an abortion in these states, but for the physicians who would potentially carry out the procedure.

How can they do that?

These laws were drafted to provoke legal challenges and make their way to the U.S. Supreme Court for review, with the hope of overturning access to safe and legal abortion.

The Supreme Court is made up of nine justices who serve for life. With the recent confirmation of Brett M. Kavanaugh, the court is now made up of a conservative-leaning majority (five to four). With the odds tipped, there’s a fear that long-standing federal protections of abortion could be reconsidered.

So how in danger is Roe v. Wade… actually?

It’s hard to tell for sure. The Supreme Court usually operates on precedent, and thankfully for us, tries to avoid rushing to overturn a long-standing ruling.

Efforts to limit and restrict safe access to abortion are not new. Pro- Choice advocates have been fighting for years against numerous state laws that sought to make it harder for people to obtain abortion procedures.

Nonetheless, there is legitimate concern that these recent (very) aggressive tactics combined with a more conservative Supreme Court may put Roe v. Wade in serious jeopardy.

If Roe V. Wade gets overturned, will abortion become illegal everywhere?

It will depend upon the content of the opinion (which lays out the specifics for a ruling) from the Supreme Court, but if they overturn Roe v. Wade in its entirety, abortion could very well become illegal in the United States.

Is the recent legislation in Alabama, Missouri, Ohio, and Georgia currently being enforced?

No. In most cases, Pro-Choice groups will have mobilized quickly to file law suits to stop their implementation.

What can I do to fight this?

While you may not be involved in government, there are ways you can help combat these recent infringements on human rights.

Donate to state-specific reproductive rights organizations:

Missouri

Gateway Women’s Access Fund is based in Missouri and provides educational and financial support for low income people in the state seeking abortion.

Alabama

The Yellowhammer Fund provides funding for abortions and also assists with patient access to travel and lodging while seeking treatment.

Alabama Women’s Center, the only abortion provider in northern Alabama, provides healthcare services for people with uteruses and their families.

Mississippi

Mississippi Reproductive Freedom Fund is run entirely by volunteers in Mississippi. The organization helps people access abortion services while providing additional support and resources.

Ohio

Women Have Options is an organization that provides financial assistance and support to low-income patients.

Some nationwide organizations fighting for reproductive rights include the ACLU and Planned Parenthood. Additionally, the National Network of Abortion Funds services over 38 states, with an emphasis on eliminating economic barriers to marginalized and low-income individuals in need of abortions. Cut them a check!

Cisgender women are not the only ones affected by these laws.

Consider donating and/or volunteering with Lady Parts Justice League, an abortion rights organization which caters to trans and gender non-conforming people.

For tips on how to make your conversations surrounding reproductive rights less cis-centric, click here.

If you can’t afford to donate funds, consider donating your time…

Volunteer as a clinic escort. (Click here for more info.)

Attend local protests surrounding reproductive rights.

Missouri’s HB 126 is a bill that would ban abortion after eight weeks of pregnancy. It passed through the state senate and just needs the governor’s signature to become law. Call Gov. Mike Parson’s office at (573) 751-3222 and urge him not to sign the bill.

Engage with and intellectually challenge people in your life who are Anti-Choice.

Changing minds can change votes.

Photos (in order of appearance) by Julie Bennett (via Getty), Sophie Kubinyi, and Alida Bea.

My Trauma Does Not Define Me

Why does the media portray trauma as the most interesting thing about us?

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Elena from The Vampire Diaries kind of sucks.

I think we can all admit that she’s not the most interesting character, but somehow, we all love her; at least, we’re supposed to if we watch the show. Even though she is relatively boring, she endured unspeakable trauma through her parents’ passing. As a result of this trauma, she has two immortal beings head over heels in love with her.

Elena and similar characters I came to know throughout my teen years taught me that trauma is all someone requires in order to be lovable; characters are only interesting and worthy if they’ve had something terrible happen to them. The death of Elena’s parents is the very thing that deems her worthy of love. Within this problematic model, she is not supposed to be more than her trauma, nor is the audience supposed to expect any more from her.

My mom passed away when I was 14 years old. She’d been in a coma for 10 years before that, and in some ways, I used to count this as an asset.

My freshman year of college, on the anniversary of her death, I didn’t feel too sad. What is the importance of an anniversary anyway if she is still gone every other day? But in books and movies, people are always upset on these anniversaries. They would cry in the bathroom secretly and be distant all day. Take the book, Crown of Midnight, for example. On the anniversary of her parents’ death, the main character runs away, awakening her love interest to the deep intricacies of her character. Because I thought the only way to deserve love was to exploit my trauma, I decided to play sad music to induce similar depressive episodes throughout the day.

And if I liked a boy, I’d go through all the ways in which I could slyly let them know my mother was dead — as if that would make them love me. I’d pretend to be on the sidelines at parties sometimes, trying to show that I “wasn’t like other girls.” I’d been through shit in my life and therefore couldn’t be as free spirited as the others… right? I was the mysterious Katniss, just a little detached from anything that could bring me happiness. My sadness became the apex of my personality, hiding the other traits I had — something I’d seen happen with so many characters in books and films before me.

I would look at other girls who were similar to me and decide that what set me apart, what made me special was the death of my mother.

The other chick and I were both funny and smart, but my mom had died, so the boy should choose me, right? If they didn’t, I would sink further into the haze of my depression. I would think of more reasons why they should love me — add another tally to the list I would use to measure myself against others. My grandma had died this year, too. I was juggling work and school and sports and yes, I deserved love because of all of this. But the real problem was, I never looked at myself as someone worthy of love without this trauma.

I eventually became obsessed with these feelings. Every mundane issue I crossed paths with would make me fall apart. Part of me wanted to break so someone could find me and put the pieces back together. I wished for bad things to happen to me. I stopped going out with my friends. I almost lost myself entirely. I no longer believed in who I was — I only believed in what had happened to me, and how others might respond to that. I became the damaged girl I wanted the world to think I was.

What surprised me the most about this time in my life was how badly I did not want to be okay. When approached with ways to change my disposition, I would almost always find a way to excuse myself. I would constantly listen to sad music and try to make the predicaments in my life fit the lyrics of the songs, instead of using music to lift me out of the hole into which I had dug myself.

I kept waiting for someone to save me because they saw my pain and loved me for it. This is what I had been taught to believe — that someone’s worth is equal to the amount of pain they’ve endured.

When I returned home after my freshman year, I was exhausted. I felt out of touch with myself, unable to recall many of the characteristics that made me who I was. However, I remember a distinct day a few weeks into being at home that I began to find myself again. I was sitting in a bookstore reading, and the unmistakable scent of books hit me. For the first time in a long time, I felt entirely peaceful within myself. I pulled out my phone and began a list of things that make me happy — things that make me who I am. These were items I could bond with people over, rather than things that made me sad, and subsequently competitive with others.

It took me a few months to understand just how bad of a state I was in at the end of my freshman year. It took seeing a post on social media about how you are an active participant in your own mental health to really make me realize what I had been doing to myself, and how unstable it was.

I started taking the necessary steps to achieve stability.

I found value in myself through reading, writing and listening to music that showed me that being myself was enough. I felt healthy for the first time in a while; I finally wanted to be okay.

I realize now how lucky I am to have been able to escape that dangerous state of mind. I have good friends and a supportive family that helped me, but if I hadn’t had that same support, I’m not sure what kind of mindset I would be in today. I may have sunk deeper and deeper into that hole, trying to prove myself worthy of love.

In the future I’d like to see less glorification of trauma in the media. I’d like to see more people who may have been through trauma, but who are not deemed worthy of love simply because of this trauma. It shouldn’t have taken Meredith Grey a dramatic near death experience in the emergency room for Dr. Shepard to realize he loved her — she was just as worthy of love before.

And me? I am worthy of love because of all the things that I am, not because of what has happened to me.

Photos by Cordelia Ostler.

My Pussy is More of a Britney Spears Than a Kate Upton

Rediscovering my sexuality after getting diagnosed with herpes.

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It was the first week of 2019 and I was laying on my boyfriend’s couch with my legs splayed open, trying to get a better look at my vagina.

With my legs in the air, I balanced my iPhone between my feet, using its flash to shed some light on my “situation.” I winced. I was inspecting my vagina in an attempt to find the source of the pain I had been experiencing for nearly two days. It was a pain that felt entirely foreign to me, and which, despite my best efforts, had amplified.

Every time I went to the bathroom, it burned. Even the slightest touch left me reeling. Neither sitting nor standing nor walking offered any relief, and though I tried to push my hypochondriacal tendencies aside, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was actually wrong.

Looking intently at my vagina, I noticed two small sores near its opening. They weren’t menacing, exactly, but they were certainly shocking, and they were indicative of a problem I wasn’t yet ready to come to terms with. Everything else looked swollen and red and entirely unlike the vagina I had known and loved — I was stunned.

I quickly booked the next available appointment at the nearest gynecologist, and the following morning my fears were confirmed: “Looks like a classic case of genital herpes,” she said.

Happy fucking New Year.

Over the next few days, the sores began to multiply as the virus took effect, and my vagina morphed into something completely alien that I could no longer recognize as my own. I became fixated on examining this strange new vulva and mentally cataloging all of the changes it underwent. Had the pain not served as a reminder that my genitals and I were connected, I would have felt like a third-party observer — like someone who becomes entranced by a car wreck, but who doesn’t bear the emotional repercussions because they don’t know anyone involved. While I no longer felt a personal connection to my pussy, I didn’t have the option to forego the emotional repercussions. The pain kept me tethered to my new reality– a reminder that, on some level, this was my fault, and I would have to take ownership of the pussy that lay before me.

Maybe it’s vanity, or maybe it’s a well-fed ego, but the physical changes to my vagina seemed to take a larger toll on my mental health than the sores did.

Sure the pain was intense, but the dysphoria I experienced upon looking down at my vagina was difficult to reconcile. My “porn star pussy,” as one ex had dubbed it, had always been a point of pride for me. To me, she was attractive: discrete, symmetrical, and perhaps a bit mysterious. The sort of pussy that never feared having sex with the lights on or being naked in a women’s locker room. The sort of pussy that never felt inclined to Google “is my vagina normal?” I always thought that if my pussy were a celebrity, she would be Kate Upton — obvious hot girl with girl-next-door charm.

And what about everything we’d been through together?

She had been a loyal and adventurous comrade through many o’ late night romps. She had been patient when dozens of men failed to find (or even look for) her clitoris. She had endured razor burns and amateur bikini waxes, periods that felt more like hemorrhages, G-strings that hugged her a little too tightly, and an endless slew of incorrectly inserted tampons. Hell, she was even a survivor of sexual assault.

But here she was, bruised by a little bout of herpes. I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed in her for going down without a fight, or me for putting her in this situation in the first place. I felt no synchronicity between myself and the part of my body with which it had always been the easiest to connect.

As the days passed, I worried that I had lost my porn star pussy forever. That sex would never be enjoyable again, and that even when the sores healed, things would always be “different.”

To add insult to injury, the pain seemed only to worsen. I created a contraption out of a sliced up water bottle just to prevent pee from cascading over my sores every time I used the bathroom. It was one of those things that felt embarrassing, even when I was the only one there to witness it.

Amidst all of the pain and embarrassment, I tried to keep moving forward. I found solace in oversharing, in telling my friends about my herpes and my experience. I quickly discovered that, for me, herpes was like the opposite of Tinker Bell; the more attention I paid it, the weaker it became. I started incorporating herpes jokes into my Sunday night stand-up shtick, knowing that 1 in 6 audience members could probably relate. Even if they couldn’t, I was putting a face on the “Hot Girls With Herpes” movement, and I felt a strange sort of bravery for doing so.

Before contracting herpes I had always assumed that getting an incurable STI would be the end of life as I knew it. Herpes, especially, seemed incredibly daunting. It is the go-to STI for scaring teens into abstinence and warning women about the dangers of being “too slutty.”

I distinctly remember sitting in my high school health class as dozens of students screamed in horror when a 3×5 foot projection of genital herpes lit up the chalkboard. I was convinced that anyone who contracted it would become a social pariah. However, once I became infected with herpes, it didn’t seem all that life-altering. Sure it was ugly and painful, but it certainly didn’t result in my societal isolation. In fact, several of my friends had been quietly living with genital herpes for years, and were more than happy to share their tips of the trade. Herpes, as I discovered, is far more menacing when shrouded in mystery than it is on the flesh.

After about two weeks, the sores began to heal.

I watched in amazement as my porn star pussy made her triumphant return to the spotlight; her resilience was uncanny. I almost felt foolish for doubting her. What had seemed like irreversible damage had faded away to reveal the precise pussy I had always recognized as my own, but this time, she was stronger. I realized that her celebrity persona wasn’t Kate Upton after all — Kate simply lacked the depth of my pussy. She was more like Britney Spears: a divorced mother of two who overcame an addiction problem and reclaimed her place on the throne, hot as ever.

Of course, I would never overcome herpes entirely, but knowing that my pussy and I could withstand its wrath, fostered a deeper connection between us. My dysphoria turned into a re-centering, and I felt confident that my mental revival had catalyzed my physical one.

I often categorize my life into a series of “before and after”s. Who I was and who I became resulting from my experiences — things like living abroad, my parents’ divorce, and my first real heartbreak — each landmark an era of becoming that has changed me irreversibly. I assumed getting herpes would be another one of those “before and after”s, that I would look back on herpes-free Jessie and feel that, in some consequential way, I was different. That my vagina, my sexuality, and my personal connection to both could never feel quite as strong.

Instead, contracting herpes became an exercise in my ability to remain unchanged — to reconsider the idea that having an STI made me any less sexy, funny, desirable, smart, or womanly. That the aesthetic value of my vagina was indicative of my sexual prowess. That my personhood could, in any way, be shaken by the presence of a few open sores. Herpes was a bold reminder that I was placing too much stock in others’ perceptions of my desirability, and that this mindset, more so than my herpes, was making me sick.

Contracting herpes made me realize that perhaps a porn star pussy is not a pussy after all, but a commitment to coexisting peacefully with the most unlovable parts of yourself. And I think that’s something worth spreading.

First photo by Eileen Kelly, the following two by Dina Veloric.

Chasing That High

*The following may be is triggering to those affected by substance abuse/addiction.

Five. That’s the number of pills I had left.

I stared at the baggy, shocked by how many that meant I had taken that day. I must have miscounted, and somehow, the second time I opened the bag, five more pills would surely appear right before my eyes. But this was not the case.

I shoved the bag into my pocket as my girlfriend walked in and asked if I was ready to go. We had planned on going to a friend’s party later that night — something we both always looked forward to. She knew about the drugs, or at least what I decided to tell her. To her, I was simply a guy who liked to get high once in a while. She had no idea as to the extent of my addiction — the toll that it took on me emotionally, physically, and even on our own relationship.

After spending the night drinking at our friend’s house, we decided to Uber to hers. Feeling the positive momentum of the night, we started hooking up as we sprawled out across her oversized fluffy bed. I could tell she wanted to have sex, and I did too. But instead of relishing in that reality, I felt a wave of fear wash over my mind.

How many pills had I taken that day? Would I even be able to get hard? Would I enjoy myself at all?

This was the part of my drug use that I had to constantly hide. How it left me feeling so aroused, but barely able to get hard. Sometimes I couldn’t even cum. I would go at it for two hours hoping and hoping that I’d finally be able to finish, only to end up having to fake an orgasm. The drugs were stealing from me the thing I valued most: connecting with her in one of the most intimate ways I knew how.

I briefly considered giving them up and returning fully to the girl I loved, before a flurry of fear and self-doubt quickly pushed all hope of quitting far away. I knew I could never truly give myself to her while I was high, and I constantly lived with that guilt.

Half of me tried to blame her accepting nature for my addiction — as if I would quit the second she told me to, absolving me of all responsibility for my actions. Deep down I knew this couldn’t go on forever. One day we went up to San Francisco during Christmas break to spend the day shopping and eating. I couldn’t have been happier. Everything was decorated beautifully. I was getting to experience it all with the girl I loved the most. It looked like something out of a movie. Yet I still found myself sneaking away for a moment to slip my hand into my pocket, fish out a pill, and quickly swallow — no water needed. I was an expert by now.

The guilt I always felt was quickly replaced by shame. I had everything I ever wanted in the world right in front of me, but I still felt the need to get high. Even worse, I knew that no matter how much we both enjoyed each other’s company that day or any other day, the experience would never culminate in the deeply passionate sex I used to know.

I wish I could say the problems I experienced ended with the physical, but that was just the beginning.

After a while I found myself needing more and more pills to feel as good as I used to from one (you all know how the story goes). Whenever I didn’t have enough to keep me high, I would look at her with pure contempt whenever she spoke. When I was craving, everything about the girl I supposedly loved left me with a feeling of rage, my mind preoccupied with how I was going to get that next pill. I’d lie almost constantly, making excuses to leave her so I could pick up. I would go to the bathroom sometimes twice during one meal. Eventually, everything came to a boiling point.

I experienced a rare moment of clarity and decided that it wasn’t fair to either of us for this to continue. I promised myself that that was the last time I would allow a substance to get in the way of what was probably the best thing that had ever happened to me.

The following two weeks were hard, but as I felt myself being purged of all the drugs, I knew my decision was the right one. When I looked at my girlfriend, that rush of endorphins that was once so familiar returned and I was filled with a euphoria that no drug could ever come close to producing.

Our sex life became full of the passionate vigor that I always wished for, and my body finally felt clean and free. I realized that the high I had been chasing was right in front of me the whole time, and it blew everything else out of the water.

As cliché as it may sound, love can be a drug, and without it, I fear I would have never been able to break free from my addiction.

Photos by Haley Hasen.

Don’t Let Your Gynecologist Slut-Shame You

I used to have stress dreams about going to the gynecologist that left me sweating and anxious when I woke up.

The vulnerability that comes with revealing literally the most private parts of myself to a stranger made my dread feel relatively reasonable. That fear feels especially heightened when you factor in the physical discomfort of having a cold, metal speculum shoved inside of your body as your vagina is cranked open using other unfamiliar objects.

When I first experienced bleeding during sex, I brushed it off. But when it happened again with a different partner, I began to panic. “It’s probably nothing,” I’d lie to myself as I tried to stifle my increasing trepidation. The Internet, as usual, didn’t help to calm my nerves.

“YOU HAVE CANCER!!!” screamed every WebMD-esque article. My fruitless searching yielded no better results, only offering me a vast range of possibilities from sexually transmitted infections, to menopause, to polyps, to faulty birth control, to just plain old vaginal trauma.

Finally, after serious urging from my friends — and a tearful phone call to my mom — I admitted that maybe this was something worth getting checked out by a professional. This was for my own peace of mind, if nothing else.

The gynecology department at my university’s student health center would not even see patients under the age of 21 unless they were experiencing a medical abnormality or emergency, which I found puzzling. My general practitioner had always told me that it was important to see a gynecologist for annual exams upon becoming sexually active, which was something that I had been guilty of stalling. Of all places, shouldn’t a university be encouraging students to take ownership and responsibility of their reproductive health?

Making an emergency appointment proved no easier. In the two-and-a-half weeks leading up to spring break, only two appointments were available, so I swallowed my apprehension and jumped at the chance to take the first possible spot.

A quick Google search of my doctor’s name yielded eyebrow-raising results: a one-star rating on a third-party website. But with over 40 years of experience in the field, I was certain that she had seen my problem before and could at least give me the mental placidity I craved before I began my final exams.

Instead, I walked out of Student Health feeling confused, unsatisfied, and ashamed of my life choices.

I sat on the table and waited for my doctor for what felt like an eternity. Naked from the waist down, covered only with a flimsy sheet, my clothes sat crumpled on the floor like a sign of surrender. My mind raced, and I nervously fidgeted with my hands, wondering what I was supposed to do. Was I supposed to lie down and count the dots on the ceiling? Or was I meant to sit up, conscious of my terrible posture and my bare ass on the too-crunchy paper?

My meeting with the doctor began fairly standard, but my first inkling that this appointment would be futile came when I brought up my personal suspected causes of the bleeding. “I was wondering about the possibility of endometriosis causing this bleeding? I’ve never been diagnosed, but my mom had it, and I’ve been taking birth control to ease my really painful periods for–”

“The pill is the best method for dealing with endometriosis, so you probably shouldn’t change what you’ve been doing,” she interrupted.

Having my questions basically discontinued by the doctor wasn’t the worst part of my appointment, while pondering my chart, she turned to me and said, “You know, I don’t like you having this many partners in such a short amount of time.”

I was stunned. As I lay there, scared, splayed open and vulnerable, this doctor had the audacity to criticize me for having safe, consensual sex with two different people in a span of two weeks. And, frankly, let’s be honest. It’s college. Crazier sexcapades have surely happened.

While a doctor’s concern for a patient’s health and safety is always reasonable and appreciated, I felt as though this comment crossed a line of professionalism. Her judgment regarding the frequency of my partners — in spite of the fact that I explicitly stated that I had used condoms in both encounters — read as preachy, not professional.

As young people begin to take agency of their reproductive health, the last thing we want or need in a daunting situation is a doctor who openly shames us for our expression of sexuality. I was disheartened to have left my first gynecologist appointment — something that already had me wracked with nerves — feeling ashamed and unheard when I should have left feeling comforted and supported.

Sermons about promiscuity that go far beyond the boundaries of the job descriptions of medical professionals are, sadly, nothing new.

While there isn’t data at the ready specifying the percentage of women who have experienced slut-shaming by their doctors, medical professionals often overstep beyond unbiased patient care into personal lectures about moral conduct. Countless young women have reportedly encountered health care professionals who will not prescribe them birth control because they deem them too young, too promiscuous — or simply unworthy due to some unrelated, subjectively implemented standard.

It is not the job of a gynecologist (or any doctor, for that matter) to judge a patient who is lying physically and emotionally bare before them. It is their job to offer as much help as possible. And, in my case, my doctor not only shut down my questions and refused to answer them, but she also made me feel unable to be wholly honest about my sexual history and activity.

Being candid and truthful with healthcare professionals is one of the most vital parts of seeking treatment. As young women set out on the quest to maintain good reproductive health, the last thing we need is to be shamed, invalidated, or questioned for wanting to practice safe, consensual sex — and for pursuing the healthcare that comes in conjunction with that. Experiencing a negative impression from my first-ever gynecologist appointment will surely leave a lasting mark, and I wonder how many other women at my university (and beyond) have had similar experiences?

Shame will not likely amend our lifestyle choices, but it will affect how much we tell our doctors and even how willing we are to schedule additional visits when facing a medical crisis. And, that’s where the real danger lurks.

First two photos by Maizy Shepherd and last photo by Kama Snow.