Magical Adventures in Therapist-Finding!
Something that has recently come to my attention: considering the United States' shortage of doctors and other health care personnel, as well as the lack of quality care, what sort of sorry state is mental health care in this country?
I wonder this because I just recently went through a fairly hellish situation to find a good therapist. To prove that I'm not entirely cynical I will make two points right now: 1) my search could have been worse and 2) I just mentioned I found a good therapist (and I was telling the truth!).
After spending a couple of arguably cushy months in my parents house, I figured I should probably go ahead and start working on social rehab. I don't have a trust fund or anything (and if I do, my parents sure haven't told me about it), so I need to go back to work eventually. I called my behavioral health group to figure out what therapies would be covered (pretty much everything), how many visits I got per year (twelve, and more if there is medical need) and to get a list of doctors nearby that are covered. I called up the first number on the list, asked if they offered Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and then signed up for the earliest appointment they had -- about a month from when I called. I probably should've known that there would be problems because when I spoke with the receptionist, she had no idea what Cognitive Behavioral Therapy was.
My insurance company was really sweet and called me back about two weeks later asking if I had made an appointment and if they'd been helpful and whatnot.
A couple more weeks pass and I find myself sitting in a dim waiting room with twenty people all of whom seem to want to be in my personal space. I filled out my paperwork and sat there quietly knitting for some time, but it felt like everyone else's eyes were all over me. For those not as psychotic as I am, remember that scene in Michael Jackson's "Triller" video where all those zombies finally close in on the girl while she's on the couch cowering in fear? Yeah, that's pretty much how I felt, only there were no zombies.
Though they definitely weren't zombies, it did seem like a lot of the patients I was waiting with were court ordered to be there. One guy was very obviously there with his sponsor/probation officer/"responsible adult." Not that I have anything against people who have problems worse than my own, but.. that's just it. It's worrying to be waiting with people for the same service when all those other people are totally different than you are. You wonder, "hey, did I get in the right line? Do you guys even take people that haven't been hospitalized?"
I kept trying to concentrate on my knitting, but I was pretty much in total hell -- I was completely alone in a waiting room with no less than fifteen strangers in there at any one time, all the chairs pushed together with someone's elbow encroaching past my armrest territory and into the space in front of me. Lots of conversation that sounded directed at me and I couldn't figure out if it was, and this one developmentally disabled guy who kept asking me if I was knitting a scarf for him.
About an hour after my appointment was supposed to be, I was still sitting in the waiting room, so I walked up to the receptionist and asked if I'd been forgotten about or something. I tried really hard to not come off as confrontational or otherwise belligerent, because I've played receptionist before and I know those people do not get paid enough to deal with other people's bullshit attitudes. I guess I failed miserably at trying to ask nicely, because the woman behind the desk yelled at me about how the doctor I was seeing "takes time with her patients and listens to them" and all this jazz about how all her patients are special and how the doctor is so attentive and whatnot. It was pretty much said in one of those, "you are a white girl with no problems, why don't you just leave?" voices.
I sat down in my chair and went back to my knitting.
I got called in about forty minutes later. The doctor asked me what my deal was and I mentioned my atypical depression and PTSD. I told her I was there because I wanted to learn coping skills for my anxiety because medication wasn't working out for me. She made me go over the details of the assault twice, which was pretty awful, considering she didn't ask me to tell her, but rather commanded me. I didn't feel comfortable at all with this woman, and I had to tell her about how the puddles of water in the shower stall made my favorite socks damp.
She wasted about five minutes examining my eyes (one of my pupils is larger than the other for no reason; I have no neurological damage, that's just the way I am) and another three minutes asking about my depression and if my antidepressant was working for me. Then she dismissed me, saying a social worker would call me and I could set up an appointment "as early as two weeks from now." The entire visit lasted ten minutes, at the very most. Apparently that's what the receptionist calls, "taking time with [her] patients."
But wait! That's not all!
Three or four days later I get a call from a social worker to set up my first appointment for depression counseling. I said that I was uninterested in making a second appointment, and when asked why, I explained that I felt totally brushed off by the doctor and she was apparently incapable of taking notes about me, because I was there for my uncontrolled anxiety that is currently keeping me from returning to the workforce, rather than my controlled depression. To make a long story short (too late), the social worker called me a liar and I hung up on her.
Maybe a week later, after I stopped feeling miserable about what had happened with the doctor, I called the second number on the list from the insurance company. Surprise! They specialize in anxiety disorders and they can see me the next day.
The waiting room was painted a golden yellow and I sat on a comfortable burgundy couch while I waited all of five minutes for my appointment. There were no other patients in the waiting room. I met with my therapist who asked me about myself and why I was there and what my goals were. The walls were painted blue and she had this bright yellow triangular coffee table and this neat monochromatic lamp and somehow managed to pull off wearing the most hideous of trends - Ugg boots. I felt so comfortable there, just the way we spoke and how she directed my thoughts and asked if I wanted to elaborate on certain ideas. It was a complete 180.
I went back to the office a couple days later to meet with the doctor who would be prescribing my medication and (surprise again!) she was super-nice and totally understood when I said I wanted to work on my anxiety unmedicated (but with therapy) and see how that went. And she had really cute business cards with a tree on them. Fabulous!
But one of the neatest things about this current therapist is something in her building's parking garage:
A speed limit sign that doesn't end in a five or a zero!
I wonder this because I just recently went through a fairly hellish situation to find a good therapist. To prove that I'm not entirely cynical I will make two points right now: 1) my search could have been worse and 2) I just mentioned I found a good therapist (and I was telling the truth!).
After spending a couple of arguably cushy months in my parents house, I figured I should probably go ahead and start working on social rehab. I don't have a trust fund or anything (and if I do, my parents sure haven't told me about it), so I need to go back to work eventually. I called my behavioral health group to figure out what therapies would be covered (pretty much everything), how many visits I got per year (twelve, and more if there is medical need) and to get a list of doctors nearby that are covered. I called up the first number on the list, asked if they offered Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and then signed up for the earliest appointment they had -- about a month from when I called. I probably should've known that there would be problems because when I spoke with the receptionist, she had no idea what Cognitive Behavioral Therapy was.
My insurance company was really sweet and called me back about two weeks later asking if I had made an appointment and if they'd been helpful and whatnot.
A couple more weeks pass and I find myself sitting in a dim waiting room with twenty people all of whom seem to want to be in my personal space. I filled out my paperwork and sat there quietly knitting for some time, but it felt like everyone else's eyes were all over me. For those not as psychotic as I am, remember that scene in Michael Jackson's "Triller" video where all those zombies finally close in on the girl while she's on the couch cowering in fear? Yeah, that's pretty much how I felt, only there were no zombies.
Though they definitely weren't zombies, it did seem like a lot of the patients I was waiting with were court ordered to be there. One guy was very obviously there with his sponsor/probation officer/"responsible adult." Not that I have anything against people who have problems worse than my own, but.. that's just it. It's worrying to be waiting with people for the same service when all those other people are totally different than you are. You wonder, "hey, did I get in the right line? Do you guys even take people that haven't been hospitalized?"
I kept trying to concentrate on my knitting, but I was pretty much in total hell -- I was completely alone in a waiting room with no less than fifteen strangers in there at any one time, all the chairs pushed together with someone's elbow encroaching past my armrest territory and into the space in front of me. Lots of conversation that sounded directed at me and I couldn't figure out if it was, and this one developmentally disabled guy who kept asking me if I was knitting a scarf for him.
About an hour after my appointment was supposed to be, I was still sitting in the waiting room, so I walked up to the receptionist and asked if I'd been forgotten about or something. I tried really hard to not come off as confrontational or otherwise belligerent, because I've played receptionist before and I know those people do not get paid enough to deal with other people's bullshit attitudes. I guess I failed miserably at trying to ask nicely, because the woman behind the desk yelled at me about how the doctor I was seeing "takes time with her patients and listens to them" and all this jazz about how all her patients are special and how the doctor is so attentive and whatnot. It was pretty much said in one of those, "you are a white girl with no problems, why don't you just leave?" voices.
I sat down in my chair and went back to my knitting.
I got called in about forty minutes later. The doctor asked me what my deal was and I mentioned my atypical depression and PTSD. I told her I was there because I wanted to learn coping skills for my anxiety because medication wasn't working out for me. She made me go over the details of the assault twice, which was pretty awful, considering she didn't ask me to tell her, but rather commanded me. I didn't feel comfortable at all with this woman, and I had to tell her about how the puddles of water in the shower stall made my favorite socks damp.
She wasted about five minutes examining my eyes (one of my pupils is larger than the other for no reason; I have no neurological damage, that's just the way I am) and another three minutes asking about my depression and if my antidepressant was working for me. Then she dismissed me, saying a social worker would call me and I could set up an appointment "as early as two weeks from now." The entire visit lasted ten minutes, at the very most. Apparently that's what the receptionist calls, "taking time with [her] patients."
But wait! That's not all!
Three or four days later I get a call from a social worker to set up my first appointment for depression counseling. I said that I was uninterested in making a second appointment, and when asked why, I explained that I felt totally brushed off by the doctor and she was apparently incapable of taking notes about me, because I was there for my uncontrolled anxiety that is currently keeping me from returning to the workforce, rather than my controlled depression. To make a long story short (too late), the social worker called me a liar and I hung up on her.
Maybe a week later, after I stopped feeling miserable about what had happened with the doctor, I called the second number on the list from the insurance company. Surprise! They specialize in anxiety disorders and they can see me the next day.
The waiting room was painted a golden yellow and I sat on a comfortable burgundy couch while I waited all of five minutes for my appointment. There were no other patients in the waiting room. I met with my therapist who asked me about myself and why I was there and what my goals were. The walls were painted blue and she had this bright yellow triangular coffee table and this neat monochromatic lamp and somehow managed to pull off wearing the most hideous of trends - Ugg boots. I felt so comfortable there, just the way we spoke and how she directed my thoughts and asked if I wanted to elaborate on certain ideas. It was a complete 180.
I went back to the office a couple days later to meet with the doctor who would be prescribing my medication and (surprise again!) she was super-nice and totally understood when I said I wanted to work on my anxiety unmedicated (but with therapy) and see how that went. And she had really cute business cards with a tree on them. Fabulous!
But one of the neatest things about this current therapist is something in her building's parking garage:
A speed limit sign that doesn't end in a five or a zero!
1 Comments:
Congratulations! It sounds like you found a good fit! I know this is a huge step for you, and I'm thrilled to hear about it. Maybe someday you'll reach the point where you won't even need medication. Congrats x1000!
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