It has recently been exposed that drug companies have been aware for quite some time that drugs like zoloft have no effect on mild to moderate depression. It performs the same as a placebo. Well . . . that explains a lot. I wish I could say I was shocked, but I’m not. I took it for weeks before it started “helping” and then it only helped very slowly, while I still endured panic attacks and ate many many antacids in a single day for weeks and weeks. And it explains why I didn’t really start feeling ok until I started to transition.
Several months ago, I read that the pharmacy where I got my Zoloft had a markup on it of, like, 900%. I should have paid around $100- $150, but instead I paid a thousand. For the first bottle. I had to pay for three different American doctors to get the drugs coming. And doctors are the only thing in America that’s not cheap. And I had to keep up with this in Europe and go see doctors there and pay for prescriptions there. Basically, the medical industry made thousands of dollars off of me and gave me something with all the many benefits of a placebo. I should have just taken St. John’s Wort.
Because while Zoloft helps as much as a placebo, it has all the downsides of a real drug. It didn’t do much for my panic attacks, but it did alter my brain chemistry. But not in a way that helped me. It made me stupid and gave me nothing in return. Now, it’s giving me the many joys of withdrawl. Because that part is real. The part where your risk of suicide goes way up and the part where you feel like shit if you miss a dose or change your dose. So thousands of dollars plus shitty health effects. . ..
I mean, I guess there’s a silver lining. I felt like I really needed help and they gave me fake pills. So it was me that made me better. I did it. Hooray for me.
I hadn’t “needed” the pills since I started to transition. So I started cutting my dose. I figured that if I noticed a change for the worse, I could start again. But I haven’t noticed a change at all. Except for a week or so of crappy withdrawl at every decrease.
I don’t want to blame my doctors. They didn’t know. They didn’t exactly send me off to talk therapy. Well, the Netherlands very generously put me on an 8 month long waiting list, so it’s not like I got no kind of support of any kind while I was freaking out. But the drug companies knew and suppressed the data. And the pharmacy didn’t know that the drugs they were selling me were crap, but they sure as hell knew how much they were charging me. (And they knew that people don’t go around comparison shopping for drugs they think they really need because they’re in a crisis).
I want my fucking money back. I want a letter of apology. I want some fucking therapy. I want a drug company executive to come to my door and personally say ze’s sorry. Then I want hir to slowly learn to deal with the side effects of taking the drug as ze ramps up to the max dose and slowly combat the withdrawl symptoms as ze cuts back to zero. And then I want to kick hir in the shins several times for good measure. And I think every other deceived person should get the same – to kick an executive in the shins.
I was sick. They took my money and gave me shit while I was sick. I want somebody to go to jail. It’s not like they just charged me a lot for a sugar pill. They charged me a lot for a pill that causes an alarmingly high percentage of takers to become suicidal. They charged me a lot for something that made me feel sicker. They charged me a lot and I was patient while I waited and waited and waited to get a “high” enough dose and feel ok – and during that time, that’s all I had. Well, that and my very very patient girl friend. And my chiropractor. She claimed she could cure me by pressing on the sides of my head, but at least I knew that was bullshit.
Anyway, I took the last pill of it I’m ever going to take two nights ago – because the withdrawl of cutting it down by half when I got here had worn off an acceptable amount. And if anybody comes to me with a class action lawsuit thingee, I’m so onboard.
Author: Charles Céleste Hutchins
Supercolliding since 2003
Education
In 2003, I wrote a snarky post about how I needed more education because I had no idea what “acousmatic” meant and couldn’t find a short, coherent definition for it on the internet.
Tonight, we had a colloquium (but they aren’t called that in England) where one of my profs, Jonty, used the term “spectromorphology” and others made derisive comments about mp3s, youTube and kids today and their lack of love for teh hi-fi. I felt vaguely rebellious, as I spent my formative years writing stuff to sound good as mp3s. I made a comment later to another student about a generation gap. He scooted slightly away from me. Fine, you’re all very hi-fi.
And another student was joking about academia and how he wasn’t academic. (The hot thing in academia, at least in music departments, is to assert that your music is not academic. It might be the case that I’m just attracted to places that assert that. The anti-Columbia U. Because, let’s be honest, I couldn’t get into an overly-academic program. I mean, I don’t know how to do serialism. Or maybe I’m grasping at the same sort of anti-academic street cred that all the uni kids want these days. Whatever.) But, I pointed out, doesn’t the term “spectromorphology” sort of point to a certain academicism?
Anyway, this evening, I was searching my blog for something completely different and stumbled across the old post of acousmatic snark. It seemed timely, as I’m still unclear on the concept and it came up this evening. Jonty said something about it. . . …. Jonty, of that same post. One of my professors is the same guy . . . who, um, how did I get here? At least I’m getting the education that I need.
You kids get your mp3s off my lawn!
Trans Composers?
If CRI decided to put out a disk called “Transgender Composers” (for example), who would be on it? Wendy Carlos. Terre Thaemlitz. Who else? Who are some out FTM composers? I can’t be the only one.
(Google searches reveal that there is an annual Feminist Theory and Musicology con. Cool, but offtopic.)
Also, CRI should totally do an album like this.
Trampoline
And now for something completely different: Nicole jumping on a trampoline.
4 August 2007. Berkum, The Netherlands. At a campground.
Questions
I think I can use tin foil, a HID brain and some fancy algorithms to decode an EKG from a person. I’m fuzzy on the details here, I might need some extra electronics. The HID brain is a usb device and so supplies 5V DC power. The current can go up to 500 mA. Therefor is it’s connected to my laptop, even if the laptop is plugged into a 220V outlet, the testee isn’t going to get electrocuted, right?
Life in England
Home
This is the first time in my life that I’ve lived with housemates not of my choosing. I mean, I didn’t have anything against them when I met them, but it was really the only house I could get with a dog and our meeting was all of 5 minutes before I signed a rental contract. I kind of prefer it when I know the folks ahead of time.
When I got back to England, the internet had been turned off and several past-due bills had arrived for it, the kitchen light was burned out and the shower was broken and my housemates were bathing with a bucket. This was a week ago. The first thing I did after sleeping was call up and get the internet turned back on. The next thing I did was call the letting agency and ask them if they knew about the shower. They did. Some part needs replacing. My February rent hadn’t arrived yet, so I didn’t press the matter, but that’s next on my list. Today, I went and bought a new kitchen lightbulb and replaced it. Apparently, my housemates are ok with living in the dark with no running water and no internet? I don’t know how long the kitchen light has been out, but I’ve been back for over a week now. Oh, and I think I’m the first person in the last several months to clean the lint thingee in the dryer, which has not been much help as it smells like burning hair whenever anybody runs it. Also, while I’m whining, the heater really does not need to be turned up to 22 – 25 degrees at night (mid 70’s for you ‘merikans). Sheesh.
One of my housemates likes to tell me what to do. He ends all of his minisermons with a reminder of the importance of thinking of others. Last night, he was complaining because I walk too loudly(!) and it wakes him up. He reminded me to think of others. . . says the guy who woke up at 4:30 am on Friday morning and started playing dance music. Says the guy who gets up at 6:00 am and whistles. Says the guy who I told to fuck off. Since I have nothing better to do at 4:30 AM then try to fall back asleep and imagine what the heck is wrong with him, I think he must be very rich in Nigeria. I mean, he can afford to study in England. He must have had an army of nannies trying in vain to tell him to think of others, but since he was never actually required to do so, what he learned was that when somebody bugs you, that’s what you tell them.
I have a new housemate also. He likes Xena, so I think he must be ok. But sometime while I was gone, everybody got very habitual about locking the doors to their rooms. I imagine that he’s a thief, but I don’t think so. He told me what country he was form and I hadn’t heard of it. The Gambia is a tiny sliver cut out of Senegal, surrounding the Gambia river.
I am so not out to my housemates.
School
In other news, ever coffee machine that I know of at the uni is out of service. Every single one of them! I imagine it’s some sort of nascent AI on a wildcat strike, demanding that their drip trays be emptied.
I volunteered to record a small ensemble piece composed by another student. My social life is in kind of dire straits since returning from England. I went from California, having tens of contacts I could call on a whim in my mobile to having only my supervisor in England. So recording for this student sort of forces her to get a beer with me later. Also, I’m hoping it makes me look better than just being the incredible disappearing postgrad. I went last night to school to figure out the software that I would be using this morning. It’s just another DAW, and they’re all more or less the same, but it’s often bad form to be reading the getting started guide at a session. As I arrived at school, I realized I couldn’t recall the alarm code, so I called my supervisor. He asked me about preparing for the session and said he’d be there at 8:30 to unload gear. I was surprised, since it was Sunday night. In one hour? Did he need help unloading?
Yeah, he meant 8:30 this morning, but he didn’t hear me ask “in one hour?” and I didn’t hear him say “in the morning.” He told me the (new) alarm code, but I couldn’t get the damn door open. A security guard, who clearly thought I was nuts, told me I needed a key. I waited until 9:30 for my supervisor to arrive and them went home. (Note that I was working on my laptop while waiting, although I was hungry and grumpy.)
He called me at 8 this morning to ask why I had called him 4 more times last night. meh. Later, I spoke to him and his more senior colleague. Oh yeah, two weeks ago they decided to hand out keys, in case of power failure. His colleague was looking at me funny. Was it because I had waited on a Sunday night and that was clearly nuts? Or was it the trans thing? I felt awkward and studied.
Before the session, I tried to buy coffee and the rehearsal hall, but the machine was broken. The guys behind the front desk were laughing about it and joking around in general. They kept calling me “he,” like, “Tea? Don’t be so British! Tell him where to find coffee!” It’s so weird to pass.
Anyway, I spent the first part of the session reading the getting started guide while the composer rehearsed the ensemble. I think the recording went ok. I taped 4 full takes and visually, the levels looked pretty good, especially on the last one. I think the piano was sort of getting everywhere, into everybody’s mic, but there’s not much to be done about that. I imagine the piano like a big splattery, wet oozing thing that gets everywhere.
After breaking down all the gear, I went to my bank and happily discovered that I still have account there. I let them photocopy my visa and they promised me a debit card within a week. Then, I went to the ID card folks. My ID card said “Ms Hutchins on it, and, well, I don’t want to be in the closet or anything, but, uh, yeah. I felt trepidation, but I went to the desk and explained that I was transgender and didn’t want any kind of title on my card, just my name. The woman behind the counter didn’t hesitate or seem taken aback at all, but just made me a new card. Would I like it to just have my two first initials and my last name? Perfect. And she didn’t charge me for the card. And it works on all the card lock doors I have access to (which now also require a key, because this country is nothing if not prudent and cautious.)
It’s not like I’ve written any music or anything, but I feel very productive today.
Glossary
The idea behind this post is that I’ll link to it from the sidebar and in it define a bunch of jargon-y terms that I use. If you see a term in a future post that you don’t grok, leave a comment or send me an email, and I’ll add it to this post. These are the definitions that I think these words have. If you think I have it wrong, leave a comment. Unless you’re defending radfems, then don’t leave a comment.
Evenfall Minimodular – a nifty small synthesizer made by a guy named Evenfall. - FTM – “female to male” transgender / transsexual. One who is read as female at birth but goes on to identify as male.
- genderqueer – a gender identity that rejects the binary opposition of male/female.
- HID – “human interface device”. A joystick, gamepad, mouse, etc.
- hir – a gender neutral pronoun used like his or her.
- MTF – “male to female” transgender / transsexual. One who is read as male at birth, but goes on to identify as female.
- OSC “open sound control”. A system that does everything MIDI does and more. (see wikipedia article)
- Pass, Passing – “Passing, in regards to gender identity, refers to the ability of an individual to be successfully accepted by others as belonging to a gender opposite to that of their [sex assigned at birth]” – wikipedia
- POC – “person of color”. Somebody who is not white or somebody who is multiracial.
- radfem – Radical feminist, a member of a branch of feminism characterized by transphobia and gender essentialism.
- SuperCollider – A program that does sound stuff. http://supercollider.sourceforge.net/
- T – short for “testosterone”, specifically the pharmaceutical kind which can be used by ftms.
- trans – transgender or transsexual or genderqueer
- twitter – http://twitter.com
- ze – a gender neutral pronoun used like he or she.
. Very short blog-like posts. (“blog haiku” – Clyde)
Crossing Borders
The first time that I realized that I was consistently passing was the San Francisco airport. It’s an odd thing to realize at an airport. I further realized that it meant if I had to go, I had to go to the men’s room. I start rationing fluid intake at that point. I’ve used men’s rooms before, but not such high traffic ones. It would be just my luck, the first time out, to end up next to Larry Craig, who got busted in an airport. Right.
In general, it was really, really weird. I was walking around the non-secure parts of the airport, holding hands with Nicole and straight people smiled at us. Later, a straight, older woman acted flirty with me. Nobody treated me like a criminal. I forgot to take off my hat before going through the metal detector. The TSA guy asked if he could see my hat. I apologized for having forgotten it. He said it was ok and just peered inside it. Later, when a TSA person checked out my synthesizer, she apologized for the inconvenience. Either SFO has changed for the better recently, or TSA agents treat white guys with a lot of respect.
I was not suspicious or threatening or criminal or degenerate. I was a pillar of society. I was . . . I don’t even have words. I wasn’t even dressed that nicely. Being middle class white guy is really different than being a middle class dyke.
Fortunately, as soon as I got to England, I resumed criminal status, by nature of being a foreigner. Or maybe it was the ‘F’ on my passport. Who knows. I thought I was being all smart, as I put my landing card in my passport next to the page with the student visa. In any other country that I’ve travelled to, a visa gets you a stamp right away. And it seemed to be going that way when the border guard scanned my passport through the computer. “Why were you denied entry in November?” he asked. Shit. “Because I didn’t have that student visa yet.” He told me to wait and I did for about an hour. Then he came back and asked me again and I repeated my answer. “Doesn’t the computer tell you?” I asked. “Yes, but it says medication was found on you and maybe you were returned because you were sick.”
The whole brouhaha where I had to get a doctor to let me take my zoloft last time. . .. Augh. Jetlag makes me feel like shit and I didn’t want to have Zoloft withdrawl at the same time, so I had to jump through a bunch of hoops to be allowed to take it. And now it’s in my permanent record. And of course, I felt a slight wave of panic. If they searched my backpack this time, they’d find a collection of hypodermic needles. Augh. I imagined the exchange. Was I planning on coming to England to get free medical care? Yes. But damn it, I’m a postgrad student and postgrads are fucking people and people have fucking medical problems. I’m not some kind of fucking money-bearing robot here to stimulate your fucking economy and get nothing in return.
Anyway, I was admitted, obviously. Later I saw a news story saying that immigrants seeking citizenship would have to “earn” their rights by taking a test to prove that they were worthy. What the fuck? First of all, rights aren’t “earned.” The whole point of rights is that they’re not earned. You have rights by nature of being alive, by being a human, not because you somehow earned it. The whole concept of “rights” is meaningless unless they’re bestowed intrinsically.
Secondly, I’d have to take a test to prove that I’m as good as the fucking Brits? Why do they think people want citizenship? Do they think immigrants are just hopeless anglophiles enthralled with every stuffy, tawdry aspect of British culture? Do they just wish we were? Of course, the reason they want us to pass a test to prove that we’re maybe (never) as good as them is because they hate us. They know we don’t worship them and wish we did. I’m not opposed to tests for immigrants gaining citizenship. I’m against the presumption of unworthiness. I’m against the presumption of criminality and guilt. I’m against being treated as a suspect every time I try to come into the country. If I wanted citizenship, it would be to avoid harassment and to make bureaucratic processes simpler and so I could vote. So I could come and go with my benign prescriptions without having to disclose my mental health issues to a fucking cop every time I try to cross the border of this tiny country.
So to prove my Britishness, I plan to get so fucking pissed that I fall into a canal and then have drunken, sloppy sex with an 18 year old and regret it the next day. Then, I’m going to riot after a football match. Um, and I don’t know. I don’t want to be treated like a criminal, but I don’t know what to do with the straight, white, male privilege that Americans were suddenly foisting on me. I was anticipating the actions of the border guard during my whole trip. In North America, I thought, “Any second and they’ll read me and I’ll go back to being a dyke. These aren’t bad people. I mean, it’s not just the TSA agents. It’s the guy the other day at REI. It’s everybody. They’re good people, or at least as good as anybody.”
I don’t get it. I don’t get why Nicole has always been invisible when standing next to me. I don’t get why even women and POC are immediately ready to treat a white guy like he’s special. Why don’t they treat everybody that way? Of course, I knew that sexism and queerphobia existed. I mean, I’m 32 years old and have been read as a dyke for a long time. But SFO was astounding. White guys: you have no fucking idea. Dress in drag for a day for comparison.
I haz a Xena!!
Hooray, Xena just got dropped off!
When I got her back, first thought was, “she’s gotten fat again.” Second thought was, “What’s that smell?” Third thought was, “augh, she needs a bath.”
She was all awag. Apparently, I still smell enough like myself that she recognized me instantly. I was worried that my lower voice and higher testosterone levels would confuse her, and maybe they do, but she still knows me. Hooray.
So I took her to the park. On the way back, she jumped into the street in front of a car. They drive on the wrong side of the street, so it was only after I pulled her back on to the sidewalk that I realized that she was nearly run over. That would have sucked.
We walked to the store to get dog shampoo. When we got back, I discovered that the shower is broken and probably has been for a while. Then, when washing her blanket, I found out the kitchen light is out. Well, it’s not out, it blinks on occasionally. And, I found a stack of final notices from the ISP. Three of them were last and final. 2 of those said they were going to turn it over to a collections agency. Yeah . . .
And my luggage just came. Huzzah.Blogged with Flock
Berkeley Politics
My home town, the city of Berkeley, California is in the public eye for objecting to a US Marine Corps recruiting station downtown, near both the university and the high school. The right wing blogosphere went kind of nuts at this and you can read more about it here, at the Berkeley Daily Planet.
I went today to see the protests. 
The anti-war group, Code Pink was set up in front of the City Hall. They had camped over night. This is a women’s group and most, but not all, of the women seemed to be retirement age. There were also a lot of very energetic young people running around, most ly on the other side of the street. 
Also across the street were a bunch of right wing pro-war types. Even in Berkeley, alas. 
They had a very loud sound system set up playing Sousa marches and country songs. While I was mingling with the Code Pink types, somebody I knew from Mills came up to me. She said that when the pro-war folks showed up at 5AM, they started chanting “Burn! Burn! Burn!” at Code Pink. “They just seemed very angry.” She said.
Parked behind all the action were a bunch of news vans. 
Whenever the police started herding people around, something they were fairly aggressive about, the news cameras sprung into action.
I didn’t stay at the demo long. I was enlisted to help distribute water to the Berkeley High students. Many of them had cut class to go protest. I heard one girl telling her friends that her “mommy” had given her permission to skip school and protest. The kids involved seemed to be very diverse – girls and boys, many races, many teen sub groups. Skaters, goths, and jocks were all out there, all having a good time.
I quit distributing water when the kids started throwing it on each other. I’m not going to carry several liters of water around on my shoulder so they can play with it. As I got on my bike to leave, I went very near one of the news vans. Inside, I heard the anchor ranting about how this sort of thing has been going on for 40 years. The unbiased media was full of scorn for the peace movement. Isn’t it tired to spend the last 40 years advocating for social justice and non-violent conflict resolution?
Even if some individuals have been advocating the same thing in the same way for almost half a century, that doesn’t make their cause less right. 