Tavie blogs i like:
amy
dave foley
mark mckinney
e.mail
archive
andrew
carl
barb cooking blog
boing boing
caroline
cartoon brew
chris
cityroom
consumerist
ebert
erin
gena/ deadly stealth frogs
gothamist
jim hill
kids in the hall lj
kithblog
matt k
mike t
nathan
post secret
rynn
sarah
sarah c
sean
tea rose
toby
tom
webcomics i read:
american elf
american stickman
elfquest
lolcats!
masque of the red death
the perry bible fellowship
toothpaste for dinner
ultrajoebot
xkcd
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me on the tumblr
me on the flickr
me on the formspring
me on the twitter
me on the ravelry
me on the myspace
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Tasty Morsels Bakery on Facebook
my 'currently-reading' shelf:
i want:
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i've read:
goodreads list
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
You may have noticed that I candidly discuss my health insurance woes here, and some may find it startling that I'm so willing to admit that I've been taking antidepressants for the past twelve years.
The truth is, like Zach Braff's character in Garden State, I can't really remember a time before I was taking an antidepressant of some sort. The reason that I've been on Effexor for 12 years is that it works. A month after starting Effexor at 18, I was able to start taking classes at Columbia University, after having dropped out of high school due to what was officially classified by the State of New York as "emotional disturbance". I'd like to think my turbulent adolescence - the cutting, the sleeplessness, the inability to leave the house, the bouts of rage that caused me to kick holes in the wall, spending half my time locked in the bathroom- was unique, but I know that it is not. It was just turbulent. Adolescence tends to be.
Now I support myself and I've held down a job for more than five years. I live in an apartment that I pay my share of the rent for. These are major achievements, a fact I often forget. A few years ago, I couldn't imagine a future for myself that didn't involve either hospitalization or some sort of adult halfway house for the emotionally crippled. I'm not exaggerating; one of my therapists posed the question to me, "Where do you see yourself in five years?" and "supervised adult home" was the best I could do.
Most of us can mark our lives in phases marked by major events in our lives - "childhood" may have ended when you went off to college, or your life may have been changed the day you met an important person in your life - your boyfriend, your birth mother, whatever the hell it is that's been significant to you.
I've got a couple of these. My family moved from Brooklyn to Roosevelt Island in 1990, the summer I turned 11. I can neatly divide my life into a "Brooklyn" era and a "Roosevelt Island" era. When I moved out of my parents' place in 2005, the "Jersey" era was born. And so forth.
That second era can also be demarcated another way, because that was the summer I was hospitalized for clinical depression, which manifested itself as a separation anxiety so severe that I couldn't bear to leave my mother - not to go to school, not to allow her to go to work, not at all. I have memories of this time that include locking myself in the bathroom, which only locked with a hook-and-eye, and having my mom desperately thrust a butterknife up through the crack in the door to get it open; of sitting on our backyard swingset in the rain while the neighbors called the cops because of my screaming that I would kill myself if I had to get on that schoolbus. And almost meaning it. Almost.
So. While my family was packing up boxes and getting ready to move to a new borough, I was living in a state of what my memory tells me was perpetually swollen-eyed, hiccupping agony (interrupted by occasional bouts of calm) in the children's psychiatric ward at St Vincent's. They prescribed me my first mood stabilizer there, a little orange pill called nortriptyline. It was the first of many. I was on Prozac, I was on Zoloft, I was on some pill whose name escapes me that gave me a side-effect so comical and strange that I hesitate to mention it here.
It took me a long time to see my depression as a chemical imbalance rather than a personality flaw. One of ny symptoms is a self-esteem so low that it took me quite a long time to stop asking my friends why they would possibly want to be friends with me. Even with Effexor, before coffee most mornings I walk down the street and imagine my footsteps shaking the earth, my jowls trembling, and fellow commuters veering away from me in disgust. Most of the time I feel okay, but once a month, my hormones overtake the effectiveness of the drug and for a few days I cry myself to sleep each night, imagining wrapping the bed-curtains around my neck.
The lows on Effexor are rarely as low as they were before Effexor, though. Without it, I'm certain I'd be dead. With it, I'm a mostly-functioning adult contributing, however meagerly, to society. I pay my bills on time (usually), go out with friends (when they make me) and try to remember to change the kitty litter without being told. I even have fun, sometimes. There was even some dating, for a time. You know, like the "normies" do.
Which I am. I'm as normal as anyone else with a chronic condition - arthritis, migraines. I control it with medication, I live my life the best I can. I'm not ashamed of the condition itself, although I'm occasionally ashamed by my behavior. I'm not always the best friend, sister, daughter, roommate or employee. Sometimes the choices I make are not so great. I own those mistakes, and I don't blame my depression for them - they're all me. But I do thank my Effexor that there aren't more.
The truth is, like Zach Braff's character in Garden State, I can't really remember a time before I was taking an antidepressant of some sort. The reason that I've been on Effexor for 12 years is that it works. A month after starting Effexor at 18, I was able to start taking classes at Columbia University, after having dropped out of high school due to what was officially classified by the State of New York as "emotional disturbance". I'd like to think my turbulent adolescence - the cutting, the sleeplessness, the inability to leave the house, the bouts of rage that caused me to kick holes in the wall, spending half my time locked in the bathroom- was unique, but I know that it is not. It was just turbulent. Adolescence tends to be.
Now I support myself and I've held down a job for more than five years. I live in an apartment that I pay my share of the rent for. These are major achievements, a fact I often forget. A few years ago, I couldn't imagine a future for myself that didn't involve either hospitalization or some sort of adult halfway house for the emotionally crippled. I'm not exaggerating; one of my therapists posed the question to me, "Where do you see yourself in five years?" and "supervised adult home" was the best I could do.
Most of us can mark our lives in phases marked by major events in our lives - "childhood" may have ended when you went off to college, or your life may have been changed the day you met an important person in your life - your boyfriend, your birth mother, whatever the hell it is that's been significant to you.
I've got a couple of these. My family moved from Brooklyn to Roosevelt Island in 1990, the summer I turned 11. I can neatly divide my life into a "Brooklyn" era and a "Roosevelt Island" era. When I moved out of my parents' place in 2005, the "Jersey" era was born. And so forth.
That second era can also be demarcated another way, because that was the summer I was hospitalized for clinical depression, which manifested itself as a separation anxiety so severe that I couldn't bear to leave my mother - not to go to school, not to allow her to go to work, not at all. I have memories of this time that include locking myself in the bathroom, which only locked with a hook-and-eye, and having my mom desperately thrust a butterknife up through the crack in the door to get it open; of sitting on our backyard swingset in the rain while the neighbors called the cops because of my screaming that I would kill myself if I had to get on that schoolbus. And almost meaning it. Almost.
So. While my family was packing up boxes and getting ready to move to a new borough, I was living in a state of what my memory tells me was perpetually swollen-eyed, hiccupping agony (interrupted by occasional bouts of calm) in the children's psychiatric ward at St Vincent's. They prescribed me my first mood stabilizer there, a little orange pill called nortriptyline. It was the first of many. I was on Prozac, I was on Zoloft, I was on some pill whose name escapes me that gave me a side-effect so comical and strange that I hesitate to mention it here.
It took me a long time to see my depression as a chemical imbalance rather than a personality flaw. One of ny symptoms is a self-esteem so low that it took me quite a long time to stop asking my friends why they would possibly want to be friends with me. Even with Effexor, before coffee most mornings I walk down the street and imagine my footsteps shaking the earth, my jowls trembling, and fellow commuters veering away from me in disgust. Most of the time I feel okay, but once a month, my hormones overtake the effectiveness of the drug and for a few days I cry myself to sleep each night, imagining wrapping the bed-curtains around my neck.
The lows on Effexor are rarely as low as they were before Effexor, though. Without it, I'm certain I'd be dead. With it, I'm a mostly-functioning adult contributing, however meagerly, to society. I pay my bills on time (usually), go out with friends (when they make me) and try to remember to change the kitty litter without being told. I even have fun, sometimes. There was even some dating, for a time. You know, like the "normies" do.
Which I am. I'm as normal as anyone else with a chronic condition - arthritis, migraines. I control it with medication, I live my life the best I can. I'm not ashamed of the condition itself, although I'm occasionally ashamed by my behavior. I'm not always the best friend, sister, daughter, roommate or employee. Sometimes the choices I make are not so great. I own those mistakes, and I don't blame my depression for them - they're all me. But I do thank my Effexor that there aren't more.
A story about drugs.
I've been on Effexor since I was 18. That's 12 years. My co-pay has varied over the years, but I've been fortunate that the drug never cost me more than $30 a month.
Last August, a "generic" version of the drug, called Venlafaxine, was released. My doctor switched me to it, and even tried to give me a coupon for it, but when I got to the pharmacy, the pharmacist told me that my copay was so low - $15! - that the coupon wouldn't apply. I happily paid $15 per month and considered myself extremely fortunate that the drug that I take every day to stay alive - and make no mistake, missing a dose brings me very close to suicide - was so cheap.
So imagine my surprise when I was hit with a $40 charge for it last time I went to fill it.
I brought this to the attention of a number of people, including my health insurance company (Meritain), my prescription insurance carrier (ScripWorld) and, of course, my employer's HR Department.
After a lot of confused back-and-forth by email between me and Meritain, during which they kept insisting that I either have been or should have been paying $75 for Venlafaxine - the generic version of a drug that I had only paid $30 for until the generic came along at $15 - I finally sent them a detailed medical costs report from my pharmacy showing exactly what I've been paying for each prescription.
Want to know the bottom line of all this? Let me quote the last email I got, which is a rep from Scripworld's email to the rep from Meritain:
Osmotica’s product was also approved with a New Drug Application (NDA) rather than the abbreviated pathway commonly used for the approval of generics. In addition, FDA generally does not assign an AB-rating to products of different formulations, such as tablets and capsules. However, the company has stated that equal doses of venlafaxine extended-release tablets are bioequivalent to Effexor XR capsules.
(Emphasis mine.)
Further, they added:
So as of now, there is not an exact generic for the Effexor XR medication. Because the Venlafaxine medication that the member is currently taking is not a generic, it has been moved to non-formulary which is why it is coming back with a $75 copay. In order for the member to have her copay reduced to the $50 she was paying previously, she will need to continue filling the brand name Effexor XR.
I guess the part where I never had to pay $75 for this medication is being ignored. They're now telling me I'm lucky to be able to switch from what is obviously a generic, sneakily patented in such a way so that they can NOT call it a generic - so that I can only pay 233% more than I used to, instead of 400% more. Oh, lucky me.
Furthermore, the $40? They explain that the pharmacy told them it was charged after the application of a coupon. The coupon the pharmacy rejected, that's right.
So, fuck you Duane Reade and fuck you ScripWorld and fuck you Meritain. (No animosity against HR, who've been as helpful as possible, I believe.) You're all a bunch of cheapskates and liars and blame-pushers bouncing me back and forth between yourselves. Very helpful. Luckily my moods are stabilized by this medication, or I'm sure I'd be able to whip up some tears about this.
I've been on Effexor since I was 18. That's 12 years. My co-pay has varied over the years, but I've been fortunate that the drug never cost me more than $30 a month.
Last August, a "generic" version of the drug, called Venlafaxine, was released. My doctor switched me to it, and even tried to give me a coupon for it, but when I got to the pharmacy, the pharmacist told me that my copay was so low - $15! - that the coupon wouldn't apply. I happily paid $15 per month and considered myself extremely fortunate that the drug that I take every day to stay alive - and make no mistake, missing a dose brings me very close to suicide - was so cheap.
So imagine my surprise when I was hit with a $40 charge for it last time I went to fill it.
I brought this to the attention of a number of people, including my health insurance company (Meritain), my prescription insurance carrier (ScripWorld) and, of course, my employer's HR Department.
After a lot of confused back-and-forth by email between me and Meritain, during which they kept insisting that I either have been or should have been paying $75 for Venlafaxine - the generic version of a drug that I had only paid $30 for until the generic came along at $15 - I finally sent them a detailed medical costs report from my pharmacy showing exactly what I've been paying for each prescription.
Want to know the bottom line of all this? Let me quote the last email I got, which is a rep from Scripworld's email to the rep from Meritain:
Osmotica’s product was also approved with a New Drug Application (NDA) rather than the abbreviated pathway commonly used for the approval of generics. In addition, FDA generally does not assign an AB-rating to products of different formulations, such as tablets and capsules. However, the company has stated that equal doses of venlafaxine extended-release tablets are bioequivalent to Effexor XR capsules.
(Emphasis mine.)
Further, they added:
So as of now, there is not an exact generic for the Effexor XR medication. Because the Venlafaxine medication that the member is currently taking is not a generic, it has been moved to non-formulary which is why it is coming back with a $75 copay. In order for the member to have her copay reduced to the $50 she was paying previously, she will need to continue filling the brand name Effexor XR.
I guess the part where I never had to pay $75 for this medication is being ignored. They're now telling me I'm lucky to be able to switch from what is obviously a generic, sneakily patented in such a way so that they can NOT call it a generic - so that I can only pay 233% more than I used to, instead of 400% more. Oh, lucky me.
Furthermore, the $40? They explain that the pharmacy told them it was charged after the application of a coupon. The coupon the pharmacy rejected, that's right.
So, fuck you Duane Reade and fuck you ScripWorld and fuck you Meritain. (No animosity against HR, who've been as helpful as possible, I believe.) You're all a bunch of cheapskates and liars and blame-pushers bouncing me back and forth between yourselves. Very helpful. Luckily my moods are stabilized by this medication, or I'm sure I'd be able to whip up some tears about this.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Yes. When would work for you?
Thursday, March 04, 2010
All the good stuff is on my Tumblr blog.
LOL that is “PS: I love your hat” BTW, must have cut me short & no, not yet. I was busy w/ work but I have been asked if I could draw Dave or Mark next & I would like to. Jen said she could add it to the FB page but I don't think she had yet.
I can't wait to see.
Monday, March 01, 2010
Thank you for responding! I’m glad the FB group has such great mods. If I find any news I will be sure to send it along. I’m not sure if you would remember me; I’m Kami Jo on FB & added the drawing of Kevin in the Discussion board. :)PS: I love you
I love that drawing, that drawing is superb! Have you done any more KITH fan art?
How many roads must a man walk down?
I think you know where the answer to that one is blowing, my friend.
Hello! My questions is; How did you get to become a mod for the Kids in the Hall group on facebook and is there anyway say, I could become one too? :)
I've known the Kids for many years and have long worked with their management on their online presence. It would be confusing if there were too many mods for the KITH page - there are already me and Jen, plus 5 Kids to keep track of, 3 of whom are on FB! Please send us suggestions/links, though, and I'd love to post them for you.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
My idea of a very fine, very geeky Sunday: wake up, take the Light Rail to the PATH to the WTC, walk to Andrew and Joanna's place in Chinatown, joining my visiting sister; there, Andrew serves us a classic NY brunch (bagels, cream cheese, lox, chubb, coffee) and then we watch Turtles Forever, an extremely po-mo offering combining various incarnations of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, including some current animated version I'm not familiar with; the Saturday-morning '80s Turtles of my childhood; and animated versions of Eastman and Laird's gritty, black-and-white graphic novel visions ("Turtles Prime".)
Following this, a spirited round of Castle Crashers, and then we all put on matching Flynn Lives tee-shirts and head out for dim sum. Delicious, delicious dim sum.
On the way home, I spend as much time in Century 21 as I please, with no one to hurry me out; then, home.
The only thing marring the day is the laundry I'm not waiting for, and even that ain't so bad, when I consider my ancestors beating their laundry against rocks in icy streams and whatnot.
Following this, a spirited round of Castle Crashers, and then we all put on matching Flynn Lives tee-shirts and head out for dim sum. Delicious, delicious dim sum.
On the way home, I spend as much time in Century 21 as I please, with no one to hurry me out; then, home.
The only thing marring the day is the laundry I'm not waiting for, and even that ain't so bad, when I consider my ancestors beating their laundry against rocks in icy streams and whatnot.
Who's the black private dick who's a sex machine with all the chicks?
SHAFT!
What is that on your head?
Hair.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The worst thing that can happen has just happened. I was in the tub with my giant Stephen King book as I am every night, enjoying my nice warm bath, and A BIG FUCKING SPIDER FELL FROM THE SKY AND LANDED ON MY KNEE AND BOUNCED ONTO THE LIP OF THE TUB.
I screamed and jumped out of the tub into my robe and jumped up and down outside the bathroom as Gina screamed and the cats fled and the world turned green and spun around and around in a hellacious tornado of horror.
Then I committed an extraordinarily brave and heroic act for which I deserve a medal. As Gina screamed and screamed outside (she never laid eyes on the monster, mind you), I ran into my bedroom and grabbed a clear plastic cup that I use to fill my turtle's water pools. Then I grabbed a Weight Watchers dessert box from the recycling and flattened it to a thin sheet.
Then I WENT BACK INTO THE BATHROOM WHERE THE BEAST STILL LURKED. I managed to trap it between the cup and the cardboard. I then came out of the bathroom. Gina yelled, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! YOU CAN'T BRING THAT IN HERE!" But it was the only way to get to the door. She was between my bathroom and the front door - there was no other exit! I HAD to go past her! She screamed and clawed at the walls like a cat. Her Kindle went flying. THE SPIDER WAS CRAWLING ALONG THE INSIDE OF THE TRANSPARENT CUP AS IF IT WERE CRAWLING ON MY VERY HAND. I cannot describe the gut-crawling horror I felt as I took it to the door and threw the cup and spider out into the cold rain.
I am a hero. I am a knight. I deserve a prize.
I screamed and jumped out of the tub into my robe and jumped up and down outside the bathroom as Gina screamed and the cats fled and the world turned green and spun around and around in a hellacious tornado of horror.
Then I committed an extraordinarily brave and heroic act for which I deserve a medal. As Gina screamed and screamed outside (she never laid eyes on the monster, mind you), I ran into my bedroom and grabbed a clear plastic cup that I use to fill my turtle's water pools. Then I grabbed a Weight Watchers dessert box from the recycling and flattened it to a thin sheet.
Then I WENT BACK INTO THE BATHROOM WHERE THE BEAST STILL LURKED. I managed to trap it between the cup and the cardboard. I then came out of the bathroom. Gina yelled, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! YOU CAN'T BRING THAT IN HERE!" But it was the only way to get to the door. She was between my bathroom and the front door - there was no other exit! I HAD to go past her! She screamed and clawed at the walls like a cat. Her Kindle went flying. THE SPIDER WAS CRAWLING ALONG THE INSIDE OF THE TRANSPARENT CUP AS IF IT WERE CRAWLING ON MY VERY HAND. I cannot describe the gut-crawling horror I felt as I took it to the door and threw the cup and spider out into the cold rain.
I am a hero. I am a knight. I deserve a prize.
Monday, February 22, 2010
I'm in the middle of three books that I'm really enjoying now. This puts me in a generally improved attitude toward life, as long as the books last. I can make books last pretty long these days, because I get so distracted by the mind-mushifying internet.
I'm going somewhere with this. One of the books is Peter Beagle's The Folk of the Air. I'd tried to read this a couple of times before and it didn't take, but I guess third time's the charm because I'm now lapping up this book like a cat with cream. It's just so full of the kind of yummy, descriptive prose that I adore:
and
The book was written in 1977 and is about a bunch of hippies in a northern Californian college town (not called Berkeley) who are in club where people romanticize and "selectively recreate the culture of" the Middle Ages (not called the SCA.)
We knew this day would come, didn't we, we knew this day would come for a daughter of His Baronship Lord Frederic the Silent - like, if I were one of those dorks, what role would I end up with? Of course I'm gonna wonder for a fleeting moment; Beagle writes about it so well.
Obviously my first thought is that I'd be a scullion or spinster - I'd be swabbing the kitchen or spinning yarn, right? (Actually I'd be dead of the plague or madness or something.) But then I wouldn't get to live at court and that's no fun. The whole point of selective recreation of a romanticized past is that the filth, pestilence, lack of medical technology and fact that women are chattel are all completely beside the point: I don't think they let people play peasants in the SCA. So I think the best I could get to would be lady-in-waiting. I can't imagine that I'd actually get to be a titled noblewoman, but maybe a noblewoman's best friend.
Even in my fleetingest fantasies about playing pretend-- meta-fantasies-- I'm pretending as a supporting character.
Yeah.
I'm going somewhere with this. One of the books is Peter Beagle's The Folk of the Air. I'd tried to read this a couple of times before and it didn't take, but I guess third time's the charm because I'm now lapping up this book like a cat with cream. It's just so full of the kind of yummy, descriptive prose that I adore:
"The Bay took up half the horizon, rumpled and dingy as a motel bedspread, with a few sails frozen under the bridge and San Francisco behind, slipping like soap through a dishwater mist."
and
"Outside, beyond their borders, the honey-slow twilight was thinning and quickening to a cold, dusty lavender."
The book was written in 1977 and is about a bunch of hippies in a northern Californian college town (not called Berkeley) who are in club where people romanticize and "selectively recreate the culture of" the Middle Ages (not called the SCA.)
We knew this day would come, didn't we, we knew this day would come for a daughter of His Baronship Lord Frederic the Silent - like, if I were one of those dorks, what role would I end up with? Of course I'm gonna wonder for a fleeting moment; Beagle writes about it so well.
Obviously my first thought is that I'd be a scullion or spinster - I'd be swabbing the kitchen or spinning yarn, right? (Actually I'd be dead of the plague or madness or something.) But then I wouldn't get to live at court and that's no fun. The whole point of selective recreation of a romanticized past is that the filth, pestilence, lack of medical technology and fact that women are chattel are all completely beside the point: I don't think they let people play peasants in the SCA. So I think the best I could get to would be lady-in-waiting. I can't imagine that I'd actually get to be a titled noblewoman, but maybe a noblewoman's best friend.
Even in my fleetingest fantasies about playing pretend-- meta-fantasies-- I'm pretending as a supporting character.
Yeah.
Thank you, Steve, for fixing my blog. You are a prince and a gentleman and a scholar and may you never have to wait on a line for Space Mountain.
Let's see if this works. If it works, I owe Steve a Coke.
