I was looking in my glove compartment for my car cellphone charger before I drove in to school today, and in with the Advil and cellphone wires and DS wires and batteries and extra headphones (I’m that kind of person), I found a case of my birth control. Which means I have been storing my birth control in five places– in my glove compartment, in my apartment, in the “pills” drawer in my parents’ kitchen, in my sock drawer in my room in my parents’ house, plus several extras in my purse. In other words: hello, privilege!
I take Lybrel birth control, which has absolutely no “placeholder” pills, ever, which means I not only don’t ovulate (something that is true for all hormonal BC), but also don’t bleed. Ever. This is a good thing, because for me, bleeding (even “pill periods”) is preceded by sharp pains throughout my lower half, accompanied by throbbing pain throughout my entire body (plus vomiting!), and followed by lingering aches. So it’s a week of PMS, a week of agony, a week of painful recovery, one week off!, and then back to the cycle.
I pay upwards of $50 a month to not go through this. Honestly, if I had to, I would cut out almost all my other expenses before I stopped buying my Lybrel– the first $50 of every paycheck would go straight to BC. But I don’t have to. In fact, the cost fazes me so little that I don’t even put any effort into remembering where, exactly, all of my fifty-dollar containers of medicine are, or how many I have at any point in time. I just locate the nearest pill and take it, every night at 6:00 Central exactly (since PMS will visit me within hours of a missed pill) and if I finish a package, I make a note to get some more.
I know the blogosphere doesn’t really need any more privileged-rich-chick navel-gazing, but, well, it’s too late now. My navel: let me show you it! It’s not sensitive to touch or extreme temperatures, because this privileged-rich-chick is taking good care of it, as only she can.