She’s All That. Because high school is a perpetual party. Look at these guys. In real life, they were like, 29.

We’re kind of loath to offer advice to ALL teenagers. But we do have a few choice words for our former teenage selves.
By Samantha Howard, Lindsay Patton and Tara Cavanaugh

Being a teenager is not cool.
You like movies like She’s All That  and Ten Things I Hate About You.** Because in the movies, the teenage years look like an endless party. In reality, it’s an endless amount of mortification: pimples, parents, failures and frenemies as you figure life out. No worries. Later in life, you’ll find that most of the people you admire, the people who are interesting, funny and stylish adults, were totally awkward teenagers. I think it’s because high school only allows you a few categories (sporty/artsy/brainy). But most of us are a few combinations of that, and as an adult, you really do get to find your niche, and you really do blossom as a person. So no matter what a sitcom or a teen rom-com movie says, you will *not* blossom during your teenage years. Not as a person. Sorry. You’re all ugly duckling for now. You’ll be a swan after college. (TC)

**THIHAY is actually a fabulous movie. As far as teen rom-coms inspired by Shakespeare go.

You actually do have a talent or two.
There reaches a point in even the most self-respecting young gal’s life where you’ll think all of those compliments your teachers and parents are giving you are just to pad your ego because you know, it’s easy to feel like you’re great, but not amazing. Those collages you’re making when you’re bored on the weekend, or the weird fact that you can still recite half of The Wife of Bath’s Tale from the Canterbury Tales, those things add up. Perhaps your wandering curiosity comparing Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein to Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World will amount to something cool someday. Oh don’t worry, little Sam, it will. (SH)

Open up a fucking book.
Being a slacker and acting ignorant isn’t cool. Maybe if you read Animal Farm in high school, you would understand how communism worked before you turned 20 years old. Good lord, you’re an idiot. No wonder nobody wanted to date you until you turned 22. Seriously. Go and read something right now. Learn about the world and how it works. And don’t pick Catcher in the Rye. It’ll just make you lazier and stupider.  (LP)

Things are not going to the go the way you planned and that’s totally fine.
If you were to compare the high school life plan versus what actually unfolded, brain matter might fall out of your ears. College in Philadelphia? Nope! Majoring in journalism or education? Forget it! Quit over-planning and just do some stuff! It’s all going to work out as long as you keep working hard. Those girls you thought you’d never live without are going to slowly find their own way elsewhere and that’s okay. There are other friends and other plans. (SH)

Wear whatever the hell you want.
At your age, you can wear the latest trends, you can dye your hair purple, you can get a nose ring, you can deck yourself in thriftshop finds. Do it. Wear it. Wear it all. Later, as an adult, you’ll try to cultivate a “sense of style” for yourself. But for now, wear whatever the hell you want. If you took this kind of attitude to heart, maybe you’d stop making yourself late to school because you were obsessing over your wardrobe.  (TC)

Speak up.
You act like you don’t care what anybody thinks about you. If that were the case, you wouldn’t be so afraid to talk in class or say ‘Hi’ to people in the halls, let alone talk to the person sitting in the seat next to you. It might surprise you, but there are some people that think you’re pretty funny. Sure, it may not go the way you’d like it to some times, but it sure beats sitting uncomfortably in your seat, drawing pictures of dolphins and birds while everyone else is talking during ‘free time.’ (LP)

You’re eating pizza for lunch every day and yet you are so tiny!
Girl, appreciate that. That doesn’t even make sense and it’s happening. (SH)

Going to your church’s youth group every week makes you feel like you fit in and are popular, but you’re kind of an asshole because of it. Stop judging your friends for doing things you wouldn’t do, because soon they’ll all get sick of you. Just do your best to get it out of your system as fast as possible, because for crying out loud, you’re going to college soon and while everyone else is partying, what will you be doing? PLAYING BOARD GAMES. You’re eventually going to become (SPOILER ALERT!) one of those evil atheists, so stop wasting your time.  (LP)

So what would YOU tell your teenage self?

My mom, pretty on her wedding day, wearing a Victorian dress in a historic Victorian house in downtown Grand Rapids. I’m the little girl in front of her–no, I don’t know what’s wrong with my face.

A strange thing happens when you lose your mother at a young age: you try to find mothers the rest of your life.

And you do. However long-lasting or short-lived, you find female relatives, friends and coworkers and you take from them: wisdom, guidance, approval, hope.

I lost my mother when I was 11. In her absence, many have mothered me since then. And thanks to them, I’m doing pretty well. I went to college, I worked hard and I chose my friends carefully. I take today to offer my sincere gratitude to them, and I hope they’re proud of me.

I thank the great-aunt who took me in when I was miserable and 15. She gave me a place to live, guidance, confidence and a semblance of a normal teenage life.

I thank my youngest aunt, who, even at thirtysomething will always be 25 to me. I’m thankful for our long talks about life and love. And when she dishes out that wicked sense of humor, I’m reminded of my mom.

I thank my godmother, my aunt who was my mom’s best friend. She remains the closest portal to my mother and I know I can ask her anything about what my mom was like.

I thank my boyfriend’s mother for her support, her ceaseless sense of calm and her delightful humor. I think she and my mom would have been fast friends.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. A motherless daughter knows that all too well. Make sure to take the time to thank not just your mom today, but all those mom-like women in your life too.

Me with two aunts (and an ill-conceived nosering. We all did stupid things when we were 20, right?)

–By Tara Cavanaugh

Editor's note: I saved this image on my desktop as Vanessa_Hudgens_sartorially_confused_fashion_bad. Because woman makes me into a blogger Neanderthal. WTF.

While almost anything goes at a music festival, and Coachella tends to attract both the weird and trendy alike, most people don’t wrap themselves in a blanket and call it a day. But not Vanessa Hudgens (affectionately known as V. Hudge to me), reigning queen of homeless hippie couture. She goes that extra mile and wears the heck outta that shapeless blanket dress, perhaps both fashionable and functional for her. My reaction to her outfit comes in three stages:
a) What? What even? Are there words…?
b) Having just clenched her Fug Madness title, she is already campaigning hard for next year’s crown.
c) Her inner monologue: I see you your freaky festival wear, fellow Coachella-revelers, and raise you a headdress.

No thanks.

Hi, I’m Jackie. I take birth control. I don’t take it because it helped save my life or because it cured some medical mystery happening inside my body. I take it because I like to have sex without repercussions that come in the shape of an infant.

If you’re sporting a uterus, chances are you’ve noticed all of this political commotion surrounding women’s rights and the usage of birth control. Thankfully, there have been some badass women who stepped forward to tell their stories about how birth control has solved their health issues and even saved their lives. These stories give validity to this drug and also a scientific “go fuck yourself” to all of the men that are trying take this right away from us. Perhaps if these men see what a useful medication the pill can be, they stop labeling all modern women as harlots who are just looking for a good time. With that being said, what about that harlot who is looking to have a good time? Is she any less important to this equation of birth control validation?

Cue the harlot.

I am actually not a harlot.

In fact, nowhere near a harlot considering that my pool of sexual partners consists of a significantly low number. A serial monogamist might be a better term for me. So, how do I fit into this argument? I am a grown woman, who likes to have sex with her long-term boyfriend. I am intelligent, educated, gainfully employed, I contribute to society and I don’t want kids.

Yeah, I said it: I don’t want kids.

The whole idea of conceiving offspring now, or ever, is more frightening than the idea of a political candidate strapping his dog to the roof of a car. But here is the real kicker: I don’t want to get married either.

I’m sure there are conservatives across the nation baffled by these two choices, but I assure you I have my reasons. I have been diagnosed with two separate auto immune diseases that have been wreaking havoc on my body for the last six years.

When I was in my final semester of undergrad I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Then, as if God hadn’t laughed in my face enough, he gave me a butt disease. In 2009, I was diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis. Both of these diseases involve inflammation around various parts of the body, but I would have gladly taken a few more lesions on brain than the humiliation that colitis so happily gifted me on a daily basis. You don’t know mortifying until you crap your pants in your place of employment. Then, as life so often does, it threw me another curve ball. My colitis had become medication resistant and my only option was to have surgery to remove my colon. Colitis has now removed my large intestine and my dignity. One million dollars in health bills and six surgeries later, I am choosing not to pass on these experiences and my defunct genes to my spawn. If Darwin were still beboppin’ around, he would surely give me a high five for choosing to snub out my inferior gene pool. Those are the cards I was dealt in the game of life and if you think about it, I am doing you and generations to come a favor. This unfortunate hand, however, does not mean I should never be allowed to experience the joys of sex or that amazing intimacy you feel when you’re with someone you love. No, I shall go forth, bang my man, and prosper.

As a woman that makes responsible choices about her life, birth control is a huge part of how I execute those decisions. A child would not only be a serious kink in my life plan, but frankly is not wanted. In this argument over birth control women like myself are often forgotten. I know these political tyrants would just tell us to not have sex, but my life involves sex. And if I’m lucky, I’ll continue to ‘get lucky’ on a regular basis.  I understand that the “bang baby free” stance is not one that everyone does or wants to take, but it is the soapbox that I have chosen to stand on. Whatever the reason for choosing birth control, I’d venture to say it is a choice rooted in responsibility. In a life where I have had so few things to actually choose, I can at least choose to be responsible about this.

And that harlot that I spoke of before, she deserves the option to make responsible decisions, too. We all do.

–By Jackie Zimmerman

Related posts

• Pill thrilled: how birth control gave me my life back
• Birth control: It’s more than family planning for me. It’s life planning too.
• Me Vs. The Pill

I wonder if any of the men summoned forth to testify on Darrell Issa’s congressional oversight committee on women’s health have ever collapsed in front of an ATM. While I’m not nearly as much an expert on these men’s lives as they are on me and my feminine health, I’m going to safely venture as to guess the answer to my query is a resounding “no.”

Or maybe I’m wrong. Perhaps any number of these men of the cloth, the stethoscope, or the Emperor Palpatine-like disposition have at one point or another collapsed in front of an ATM. Should we happen to share this unusual parallel, I still feel comfortable estimating that my reasons for collapsing – a severe flair up in my endometriosis – differ greatly from theirs – less than $20K in checking, say, or a silencing check to an altar boy that hasn’t yet cleared.

I don’t want to get too mean here, or fall back on Regina George style ad hominem to accomplish my point. After all, I doubt I could shoot humiliation arrows with more deadly accuracy than meme-makers the Internet over have already bestowed upon this male-y band of male women’s health experts. Instead, what I want to do is speak honestly about what birth control has meant for me; how it’s changed my life for the better, really given me the ability to take my own life back in ways that such medically proven treatments as prayer and abstinence never have.

The whole mess started in community college, right on the heels of being dumped by a self-important, small-time actor whom I thought I was happily dating. Stress abounded and my period, which had always been a shade more difficult than most, began to flow, but its eccentricities took on a more ugly tenure than in previous months, bygone years. Rather than being concentrated in my abdomen, the pain was everywhere – that throbbing, persistent full body ache you get from having the flu or running six miles in the rain. It was in my arms, my legs, my neck, my back. The joints of my fingers. The gums of my teeth. It was as though a more skilled magician than actor boy had laid waste to me with a bone-deep, airborne torture; the experience was not unlike how I’d always imagined the Cruciatus curse must feel, and continued to chip away at my resolve to live for the better part of 24 hours.

At the time, I chalked up this overwhelming pain to the pangs of despair – surely my distress over being rejected and simultaneously ignored had contributed more than just psychological impediments to my well-being. Didn’t rejection, and all its self-hating byproducts, often find physical manifestation in the form of excruciating pain? Given the set of circumstances, I was able to dismiss the horrendous experience of my own body trying to suicide bomb itself from the inside, and as the attacks continued in subsequent months, I continued to find excuses for my suffering. During my August 2005 menstrual cycle, I explained away my nearly catatonic state with the stress of moving cross country, from Detroit to central Pennsylvania, to attend a four year college and finish my degree. Hell, who wouldn’t hear the malignant echoes of “crucio!” shrieked in their ears under such a condition? September’s period was explained by the emotional agony nursed along by adjusting to a new environment, the workload that had popped up as classes began to escalate, the ongoing identity crisis and blossoming alcoholism that has plagued college students since Aristotle’s day. (Hemlock jello shots, anyone?) By the time October’s period had rolled around, however, I had run out of excuses. At this point I had made friends, established something of a fledgling personal niche within the campus atmosphere, and had gained some concrete footing on my class workload. Being chained to my bed and writhing in pain was, this time around, surely not the after-effects of some rickety wooden emotional roller-coaster, come to claim victory over my body as well as my mind. The fact that I was missing class, a virtual prisoner under my bed-sheets, and barely able to breathe or eat finally compelled me to see a doctor. Sure, all periods are bad – rare is the case of the woman who bypasses each month without mind-numbing cramps or other irregularities. But this monster attached to my uterus, this full, submerging ache from head to toe could surely not be pinned on the pedestrian tribulations of monthly lady cramping. This was something different and bigger than myself; bigger than any fistful of ibuprofen, bigger than a heating pack and gritted teeth.

And so I went to a doctor, described my symptoms in pitch perfect detail, and discovered that I wasn’t… taking enough ibuprofen. Or gritting my teeth hard enough, and bearing it like all the others. Bewildered, disappointed, and worst of all, still suffering from these mysterious pains each and every month, I went to one gynecologist and OBGYN and otherwise ordinary physician after another only to be told that the pains I experienced were more than likely “in my head,” or the result of a perfectly normal estrogen drop, which would be treated if only I just sucked it up and took even more over the counter painkillers to counter the handful of painkillers I was already taking and failing with. More than disappointed, I was devastated – hurt beyond believe that such a serious medical anomaly could be met by experts in the industry with such cavalier disregard. The suggestion that I should take more of the banal painkillers that already weren’t working was enough to leave me in tears after more than one doctor’s visit, but also enough for me to grow eager to find my own answers, especially if the person with the degree and proper licensing couldn’t be bothered to do so.

After about six months of this internal torture, which, yes, included the ATM collapse incident, my mother (a doctor only by merit of a PhD) suggested that what I described might in fact be endometriosis – a disease a colleague of hers was diagnosed with and described as a full-on body ache comprising flu-like symptoms with exasperated period pains, flaring up every month like some kind of fucked up clockwork. In case you’re not intimately familiar (and how lucky an individual you are if not), endometriosis is a condition in which the cells inside the wall of your uterus grow on other organs of the body. There is no definitive known cause and there certainly is no cure, but there is a rather air-tight treatment, and that would be hormonal birth control pills. (You know, that stuff that those pesky Personhood peeps are so put out by.) I had been on the Pill since I was 18, just to keep the lady plumbing regulated and light, but had never considered the prospect of simply not taking the placebos and bleeding. Encouraged, I brought this newfound discovery to the attention of yet another gynecologist. “Let’s experiment,” she offered, which is of course always the precise sentiment you’d like to hear coming from your doctor. “Try skipping your period this month; just don’t take the placebos. If it works, and you don’t have a pain attack, then we’ll know you’ve got endometriosis, because this is the most effective treatment we know of.”

The rest, as they say, is history, which is far preferable to hysteria. I’ve been on the Pill in continuous doses ever since. My condition is bad enough that even four periods a year – the salvation of Seasonale users – proved to be too much a physical burden still; I now take the placebo pills and bleed just twice in a calendar year, and as a result, for the first time since pre-menarche, I feel like myself again. Aspirin didn’t work, neither between my knees nor in my blood stream; but the Pill did.

Yes, I use the Pill, and it’s shameful that such a responsible action has become itself worthy of shame. Taking the Pill for any reason, for the betterment of your life, should carry with it no more shame then there is in admitting infertility, or actively choosing to not stuff more bodies into an overcrowded planet, or, hell, even in popping a boner pill for no more salient a reason than pure recreation. (Eh, Rush?) How the spokesmen for a religion supposedly rooted in compassion for the weak, the poor, and the sick could be satisfied with my being hospitalized every month is, in and of itself, a kind of endometriosis on our culture. You say you’re interested in celebrating life, Catholic leaders, so prove it. Take away my monthly access to birth control, and you’re taking away my life and livelihood. Amen?

–By Emma Kat Richardson

JC Penney has taken a “less is more” attitude toward advertising this year. It has got me thinking, are they trying to be more like Hollister? I think so.

At home in Minneapolis, we get the Sunday newspaper and I’ve noticed that the dowdy department store ads JC Penney used to put out have been totally revamped. Their newspaper inserts used to resemble catalog layouts, with a blah-di-blah plain red, black or white background and as many items squeezed onto each page as possible. Every single piece of clothing on the store’s racks, in every available color, made it into those Sunday ads.

Now JC Penney’s ads look more like those from one of the trendy stores the trendy teenagers love, like Hollister or Abercrombie. JC Penney’s new ads are full of vibrant scenes and images that look like they came from the vacation scrapbook of a professional photographer. The clothing has become secondary to the layout, which is no longer devoid of white space. Instead of five different colors of the same shirt fanned out or stacked into a pile, you can admire just one shirt paired with some fun new summer accessories in a fun beach scene that takes up the entire 2-page layout.

JC Penney’s new look also comes with a new name, JCP. This acronym has been used before, it’s true, but in the new ads the full name of my grandmother’s favorite department store is hard to find. I had to flip to the very back page where it was hidden in a corner.

The big question on my mind is: Did it work? Has JCP successfully made the transition from “Dowdy” to “Hip?”

–By Michelle LeGault

And Kate really favors these coat-dresses (probably because they’re so flattering to her figure.) She wore another coat-dress—in a stunning blue!—for her first public speaking engagement.

So the question is: how to steal Kate’s current outerwear-heavy style and transition it into warmer weather?

The key is a structured top that cinches at the waist, preferably with a belt.

This option from ASOS ($42.97) might be less formal than Kate’s frocks, but it’s another way to make a statement in blue.

While not as coat-like, this H&M dress ($29.95) is a great option for a warm night.

Or splurge on this J Crew dress ($198.00), in the same cobalt as Kate’s, and add your own statement-making belt.

–By Lindsay Ray

My attempts to keep track of my life are chronicled in these pages.

I. Plan. Everything. I’m almost as Type A as you can get. I pack my lunch the night before. I’m allergic to procrastinating. I’m the only person I knew in college who didn’t pull all-nighters. I’m never without my day planner and the calendar on my iPhone beeps at me incessantly.

Like many ambitious young women, I’m juggling a lot: career aspirations, relationships, stress. You know the phrase, “Life is what happens when you were busy making other plans?” Yeah. I plan as much as possible so that I can handle whatever unexpected hurdles life throws my way.

So it’s no surprise that I use birth control, right?

Funnily enough, I was an unplanned baby. I mean, a really unplanned baby. My parents couldn’t even legally drink when I was born. I’m happy I’m here and all, and I’m sure my family is too. But I know my mother got on the Pill tout de suite after she had me. As a single and then married mother, she did a wonderful job raising me, and she also did a great job with my little brother–whom she decided to have when I was ten.

What most irks me about this whole birth control kerfuffle is that idiot pundits like Rush or the screamers on Fox News make it seem like women who use birth control are careless whores with an endless slew of sex partners. But making the conscious decision on whether or not to be a parent actually shows a huge sense of responsibility, doesn’t it? I’m not going to have a baby until I’m emotionally or financially ready.

At the moment, I’ve got a student debt load that’s eating out of my monthly budget like a fast-growing child. Financially speaking, it’d be grossly irresponsible of me to have a child right now. I also happen to be a motherless and fatherless young woman, and the scars from losing my parents very young are just too big at the moment for me to even think about becoming a mother myself. Emotionally, I’m not in a good place to be a mom.

I really think so much of this national birth control argument is about sex. We just can’t accept that people who aren’t married have sex. Oh wait, that’s not true. We see premarital sex all the time on movies and TV shows. Sex is dripping from every commercial or magazine ad we see. It makes sense that we see it so much, since like 90 percent (yes, that’s right) of the population has premarital sex.

And yet the very idea of getting insurers to pay for the commonly used drugs that women use to plan their families sparks outrage. Never mind that these same insurers pay for older men’s erection enhancement drugs. Never mind that those drugs are being marketed to a younger and younger audience–have you seen those commercials lately? The actors look like they’re 25 with fake wrinkles painted on. And yet women using birth control is this hush-hush thing that we don’t talk about and certainly do not want to pay for.

I think it’s time for a grownup conversation about this. The slew of suited old men that I’ve seen discuss this at length just don’t seem to understand some simple cause and effect statements, but I will labor to explain them here, as simply as possible: Babies cost money. Unplanned pregnancies cost government a lot of money. Most people are having sex. The economy sucks and most probably aren’t intending to expand their families right now. It takes two to tango, and two to make those babies, so it’s about time insurers and employers pay for birth control as happily as they do for “old” men to have a four-hour boner.

For me, it’s not just about family planning. It’s about life planning. Taking control of my own destiny, and the babies I do or do not have, isn’t a crime. It’s the responsible thing to do.

–By Tara Cavanaugh

Other worthy reads

• Me Vs. the Pill
• Why the Mississippi ‘Personhood Amendment’ failed
• What free birth control means (and doesn’t mean)
• Premartial sex is nearly universal among Americans and has been for decades

So anyone who knows me probably knows I’m ridiculously excited for The Hunger Games movie to come out. As in I already have my midnight premiere tickets and have been following the filmmaking process since the movie was announced. So of course I checked out the premiere and was keen to see the sparkly dresses and suits since fashion does kind of have a pivotal moment in the book. Maybe I’m a little biased because I love her as an actress, but I really like Jennifer Lawrence’s gold dress. It’s futuristic, which is the right feel for this movie, and a little Capitol-esque. Yes, it does look a little like space blanket-couture. But the cutout on the back is awesome, and it kind of looks like something Katniss would rock in an interview.

I also love both the red dresses Leven Rambin and Elizabeth Banks sported, mainly because they fit the Girl on Fire theme. And they seem a bit in character, with Elizabeth’s capturing that quirky, futuristic vibe and Leven’s really glimmers.

Jacqueline Emerson was stunning in green. (It just looks so good with her red hair.)

Update: The gold rush continues…

And so does my love affair with Jennifer Lawrence. She again donned a sleek gold dress for the UK THG premiere. Except this time it looks like gold snakeskin. Does it get any better than this? I kind of want her to wear gold textured dresses for the rest of her international premiere tour. I mean, I’m really liking how she’s walking around looking like an Oscar all the time. It’s like she’s saying, “See, Academy? Gold and I look good together.”

–By Lindsay Ray

Getting a really bad period can feel almost worse than this crazy fool yelling at you.

“I’m not going to pay for your birth control just so you can have sex.”

My dad said that to me when I was 22 years old and on birth control for the first time. I still remember the setting in perfect detail. He yelled it at me while on a family vacation with my mom, brother, aunt, uncle and cousins. And yes, they were all standing by.

In Limbaugh’s terms, my parents were my ‘pimps,’ as I was a financially limited college student under their health insurance.

It’s hard to think of a time previously where I had been that embarrassed or ashamed. The reality of the situation, in fact, was that I wasn’t using it ‘just so I can have sex.’ I actually spent the past year struggling to find some sort of magical potion to fight my diagnosis of premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD), as well as depression. Birth control was an option that would – hopefully – curb the emotional and physical pain I went through each month.

It was hard enough admitting to myself that yes, I was depressed, and yes, I needed help in the form of chemicals that regulated my body. What’s worse was the shame I felt just admitting to people that I was not only on Prozac, but birth control too. To say, ‘I’m on birth control,’ brings judgment and speculation upon women who should be respected for making responsible choices. To admit that she is on birth control, a woman quickly risks being judged by her sex life instead of her character or intelligence.

But why? Contraceptives have been widely available to women since the 1960s and there’s still stigma. We’re still fighting for the right to use it and not be shamed. We’re also fighting for the ability to have it available at a decent cost in order to cover our medical ailments.

In addition to this, there are some of us are fighting with our contraceptives. That’s what happened to me during the two years I took birth control off-and-on. My experience with the Pill was a three-year battle. The freedom and liberation it represented to many actually ended up being imprisonment for me.

The first brand I tried was Seasonique, which limited me to four menstrual cycles a year. Great in theory, but in order for this to happen, my little body needed to be pumped with more hormones than it could handle. I suffered many side effects, with the worst being debilitating migraines up to three or four times per week.

After saying “Maybe my body will get used to it” for half a year, I had finally had enough and asked to be switched to another brand. What my doctor prescribed me was a brand so opposite of the spectrum that I saw little to no changes in my monthly struggles. As ‘that time of the month’ came and went, I’d constantly be asking myself, “What’s the point?” So I switched to a middle-of-the-road dosage to see if that would change anything. Thankfully, it did – for a while. But the problem I had with this brand was that I had missed periods due to varying degrees of personal and professional stress I was going through at the time. Missed periods = scary shit. Having this happen also didn’t help with the heaps of stress I was already facing.

My solution? I went off birth control indefinitely.

This was approximately two years ago when I made that decision. Not only was birth control holding me captive in my own body, but I was spending upwards to $40 per month on it – money I couldn’t fit into my monthly budget, even with the assistance of Planned Parenthood (I did not have medical insurance at the time). To me, going off birth control was just trading one struggle for another. I still go through insane periods of depression and anxiety days leading up to my menstrual cycle, but I consider that a lesser evil compared to tri-weekly migraines and pregnancy scares.

And that’s the side of birth control I wish people would see when they wage war against contraceptives and Planned Parenthood. I wish the words ‘birth control’ didn’t immediately lead to thoughts of ‘sex, sex, sex.’ The judgment that is placed on women who use the Pill is, in my opinion, disgusting and outdated. Women use contraceptives for multiple reasons, with some of them actually being for sex. And if that’s the case, why should they be shamed for being responsible? Is it really better for them to have an ‘oopsie baby’ and not have the parents be prepared mentally and financially to raise it the way it deserves?

We try to make the topic of contraception a black-and-white issue when there’s really so much grey. The education is out there, but we’re fighting against a group of people who refuse to take the time to learn about the various uses of the Pill and listen to stories like mine and the millions of other women who are using birth control for dozens of reasons other so they can ‘just have sex.’

–By Lindsay Patton-Carson

Editor’s note: Lindsay’s account is just one in our series, “Yes, I use birth control.” Stay tuned for more.