Backward Health Care: Mental Health

I don’t like to gripe, and I certainly don’t want to be perceived as a whiny, entitled hypochondriac.

However, I think there is a lot wrong with the health systems in this country, and people like myself are getting a bum deal.

Stop! Don’t go – this is not a political post. Promise.

Let me say at the outset that I am not a medical, psychiatric or economic expert. All I have is my experience and reason. It just so happens that, in this case, I feel they are enough to warrant a strong opinion.

I know times are tough, and that resources are limited. I also know that a car accident, heart attack or stroke are far more acute than a panic attack or mental meltdown in the context of medical emergency.

But, when someone is at the height of anxiety, or the lowest point of depression, he or she should not have to wait a month to get real treatment. At the moment, that kind of delay is a fact of our mental health care system. And it is a burden on the workforce and on families.

Case in point: In early 2011, I was dealing with a variety of life changes that involved everything from loss of a family member to nutritional deficiencies. The resulting anxiety and depression set me into a downward spiral of improper diet, stress, weight loss, digestive symptoms, hormonal imbalance, emotional instability and perceived infertility.

By the end of February, I was missing days of work and enduring physical discomfort. My low mood was impacting my marriage and other relationships.

Now, let me stop and say that while I knew a lot of the problem could be fixed if I ate better, practiced deep breathing and told myself “everything was ok, ” there was another part of me that was repressing those initiatives. I was at a point where I needed help.

My family doctor’s office was fabulous about getting me in for same-day appointments, and letting me express my fragmented and exaggerated concerns. They even prescribed me a med that reduced the chaotic anxiety that descended around 10am every morning at work. But I needed more. I needed professional talk therapy.

Understand that this admittance was a big deal for me. I’d always prided myself on my “dealing” skills. I never needed anyone else to keep my head working correctly.

Except now I did. It may have taken 30 years, but I was in desperate need of a therapist – now.

Therein was the problem. It was practically impossible to obtain that service without waiting at least a week. As I lay immobile on our bed one weekday 6am, my incredible husband spent hours looking for a therapist who could see me that day. He finally found one, and she did her best and was very kind. But she worked mostly with children, and couldn’t do much more than listen until the clinical psychiatrist could see me… in a month.

My brain and body were so jumbled that I couldn’t focus. I wasn’t going to die or anything, I just couldn’t DO anything.  I was completely useless, and it was costing my family and my job as much as a debilitating illness would.

That’s because this type of situation is an illness. Some call it a weakness, and I say sure, just like asthma or diabetes. But there simply isn’t a system in place to get quick help to the mentally ill, unless they are the emotional equivalent of a person in cardiac arrest or with end stage cancer.

I actually considered saying I was suicidal (which I certainly was not), only because that seems to be the only way to get immediate and effective help. I did not go that route, because I was still myself enough to refuse treatment that basically required living like a criminal. Unless you can afford a retreat, spa type establishment in some exotic far away land, you’ll most likely enter a facility that does not allow you to use your tweezers or nail clippers. As ridiculous as it sounds, my personal care routines were among the things that kept me anchored to myself. So I did not get to have myself committed. Damn.

Fortunately, I made it through. I found a therapist/nutritionist. I managed to undergo a few tests to confirm to my cancerphobe that I did not have the real C word. I did yoga. Spring arrived. I spoke openly with friends and family about my anxiety. I became pregnant. Pregnancy hormones, by the way, are amazing for the mood.

Others might not be so lucky. Without health insurance, a wonderful network of people and a solid upbringing, I probably wouldn’t be doing as well as I am. I wish everyone had the resources I do.

I’ve heard that some feel such advanced mental disturbance indicates a failure on the part of intimate partners – spouses and the like. Let me take a moment to say that my husband was a rock, and the farthest thing possible from a failure. Any person that says otherwise is not worth my time.

Today, I am just fine. Any stress I do have is “good stress” and motivates, rather than debilitates, me. I know how to recognize the signs and triggers of my particular brand of anxiety, and have the tools to stop them before they take hold. Again, I’m one of the lucky ones.

This may all be a bit soft and subjective. It’s an area I would like to learn more about, on which to be able to quote more solid fact. Perhaps one of these days I’ll do that. Stay tuned.

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