Mental Health Parity

Just got our new insurance info. Gyno visits are totally covered. Psychiatric visits are totally not.

Here’s hoping my vagina can be treated for depression.

So I have an appointment with my Psychiatrist today. As you may know the difference between a Psychiatrist and a Psychologist is the former is an MD and the latter is a PHd. From my personal view and multitude of experiences though, Psychologists (and therapists) often have a sense of humor and a personality while Psychiatrists almost never do.  This fall as I spent time in my outpatient program I was shocked, shocked to find there was a very talented Psychiatrist there (bastardized Casablanca reference for my Dad) that was actually able to relate to people and laugh. Oh and the other bonus, he found meds that wound up being helpful. It was awesome. If I  created a fantasy team with all of my mental health professionals over the years, (possible weekend activity) he would be in my top three. This is saying a lot. Unfortunately this is not the guy I am seeing today. He is crazy busy (bad pun) and I see this other lady. She is decent enough and gives me refills and, to my delight, that seems to be enough right now in my current stage of good health. So tonight as you are drinking you red wine or hard liquor while watching people with flags and torches, know I will be sitting in my comfy bed with a delightful cocktail of my own (yay for sleeping pills and mood stabilizers.) Hopefully I won’t be sending Ambien-fueled text messages that I don’t remember in the morning. Either way I hope to fall asleep to the dulcet tones of Bob Costas talking about the history of Croatia’s gymnastics uniforms while being thankful for my medicated happy self.  Go Olympics!

I think when you spend over a year dealing with severe often suicidal depression you start to ponder a lot about yourself, those around you, and the world as a whole. You think about things you were never forced to consider before. Of all the different beliefs that were cemented in my thoughts during this past year, there is one I am more certain of then all the rest: Crazy people love PayDay candy bars. Now let me clarify, I do not believe all people who are mentally ill eat PayDays, that would be a ridiculous sweeping generalization. I do, however, believe anyone who eats a PayDay is some form of diagnosed or undiagnosed crazy. This stance is based on a lot of research. In my life, before I had my lovely stay at the mental hospital, (which I also like to refer to as one of Cleveland’s finest Bed and Breakfasts. No shit, Alton Brown would call it a delightful yet understated hidden gem.) I had never seen anyone eat a PayDay. During my brief residence at the crazy people B&B, I saw three different people eat them. I feel so strong in my convictions that if you see someone on the street eating a PayDay, you could ask them what SSRI they are currently on. I pretty much guarantee they would answer you with the same automatic response they have come accustomed to when answering the myriad of doctors they go to. And if you think about it, the crazy person/PayDay connection makes total sense because you have to be somewhat ill to be convinced this is a candy bar in the first place. A PayDay is a glorified hunk of nuts. Yet at every grocery store or drug store you go to, it has somehow gotten the glorious location of being with the good, chocolaty, legitimate candy bars. I mean really, the Bit-O-Honey has more of a right to be there. Now prehaps you are a PayDay fan and none of this makes sense to you. To you I say “Let me know if you need a good psychiatrist, I know tons of them.”