The Expense of Sanity

In this time of economic woe and strife, with Mom and Pop Midwestern clammoring on about the mortgage they can't afford, or the gas prices skyrocketing every day, or that they've had to cut back on their weekly trips to Wal-Mart, and practically begging for a socialized medical system, I find myself directed more towards the insane costs of keeping sane.

Don't get me wrong, I have a healthy dose of sympathy for those who are shelling out large portions of their salaries to get from Point A to Point B, but I just don't see it everyday; so like the adorable, yet starving kids in Africa that Mom and Pop are ignoring, I tend to ignore Mom and Pop. I like to picture them in little swaths of clothing with their hands together asking for more of my tax dollars to pay their bills. OK- I don't picture that...but it's a fair image, no?

I have never had a health plan that looked kindly on mental health care, and I've had some pretty damn good health care plans in the past. We're not talking HMO crap here. I'm beginning to think there's some sort of matched animosity between the insurance companines and the mental health providers that slowly but surely refuse to deal with them. It's like they throw therapy up there with other "optional" and self-driven things like plastic surgery or the chiropractic/accupuncture quacks. I can see the conversations they'd have with insurance compay reps insisting that therapy is hokum and malarkey they won't pay for and various psychotherapists shaking their dead chickens and voodoo charms back at them. HA

Owing to my emotional need to eat everything in sight these last few months, I wisely (I thought) elected to try therapy again with an LCSW (someone who doesn't care for the long and arduous route to PhD or MD land, so takes the quickie route of a Masters or even Bachelors' and a bit of testing). She was nice, soft-toned in her appeal, but essentially a sounding board who listened attentively (at times) and didn't have much to say back. I began to see the insurance company's point of only approving 30 visits per calendar year. Oh well...at least she was in network.

I have since upgraded myself to a full-on PhD cognitive behavioral psychotherapist...a fabulous combination of wit and intelligence in a package of someone who gives me lists of things to track. Upon my 20+ years of experience in therapy-land, she is by far the best I've sat down with to bare my long and belabored life story. The catch is that she doesn't take insurance. At All. I'm assured by other members of the medical community that the $150/hour rate she charges is quite frugal for this area and I should be grateful. The insurance company still refuses to relent though, and like all shrinks, personal trainers, and medical specialists, she wants to see me at least once a week. ONCE A WEEK? Forgive my snark, but if I'm not about to go postal or jump off a highrise onto innocent bystanders, that seems a bit excessive.

That's $600 a month. More than I used to spend on rent. More than I spend a month on groceries. Equal to a pair of almost-equal in therapeutic value Manolo's.

But I digress. My new, trendy analyst of psycho-babble; as comfortable a necessity in Manhattan as a purse dog, weekly massage and facial, or bugaboo is not alone in her requirements. From the churchdoor mouse LCSW, to the quack MD I saw for weeks who was clearly shilling for the pharmacopia in his drug pushing mannerisms, they all want you back, and back soon.

As the economy worsens, and belts tighten I may have to abandon my quests for better mental health care in favor of eating, or more likely the necessity of the summer dresses at Banana Republic. But I ask you...shouldn't we be able to have both?