Seventeen Business Days

Ten business days ago, I made an appointment to see my psychiatrist. It's going to cost me $175 to see her, because she's not covered by my insurance. This is uncomfortable for me, as I already struggle to treat my mental health appropriately, convinced that what I really need is just more will power. Or exercise. Or love. Or faith. Or fill-in-the-blank that means I can do it all by myself.

Except I can't do it all by myself. So I made an appointment to discuss the possibility of starting medication to treat my depression.

For the last month, I've done the things I know and am capable of. Some days I do them really well, some days I don't do them much at all. But I keep trying. I started yoga again. I break my to do list into small steps I can achieve. I stay connected with my support network. I practice good sleep habits. I don't take in mood altering substances. Every day I get up and I try with all my heart to find the will power to step away from the crushing darkness of my depression.

But I'm still here. And in some ways - some very frightening and important ways - the monsters have gotten bigger. It's time to discuss the possibility of pharmacological intervention. And for that, I need a psychiatrist.

The catch is that if I see a pysch that is on my insurance, I will only have to pay $25. I don't need a referral or precertification. Just $25.

And a psychiatrist that will see me.

Three calls to the insurance company. Nearly 20 calls to providers. Of the 20 calls I made, less than half of those calls connected to a person or resulted in a call back response to my message. Of the less than 10 providers I contacted, three were accepting new patients. All three had at least a month wait before there was an open appointment.

I can't wait a month, I told those people.

For 9 of those business days, I knew I had an appointment in the books, and that appointment was creeping closer. Then, on the tenth business day, my scheduled appointment was cancelled. Clerical error. My $175 psychiatrist isn't available on the day of my appointment, I must reschedule.

I do have a new appointment. A week after my original schedule. Seventeen business days after I made the heart wrenching anxiety inducing desperate decision to seek medical intervention, I will be able to see a psychiatrist.

In the world of instant gratification, seventeen business days is a lifetime.

In the world of depression, seventeen business days is unbearable.

I keep wondering: how long can I actually just keep going? How does anyone actually make it through seventeen business days?

My seventeen business days translates into twenty three days of waiting. Just waiting for the appointment to come around.

If my psychiatrist decides that pharmacological intervention is helpful, it will take anywhere from two to six weeks for those medications to work.

And the medication may not work at all.

My reality.

It's the bad place. The no good very bad place where depression holds everything hostage and I forget that it isn't always like this.

I forget all sorts of things. I forget that the laundry needs to be done, or dinner needs to be cooked, or that I need to mail that letter today.

I forget that I was supposed to return a phone call, make an appointment, take a shower.

I forget that I am better when I talk to people. That those people love me. That those people want to hear my voice.

I forget that I am more than this moment in time, that the depression isn't going to last forever.

I forget how to say things out loud.

It's a deep hole in the ground, this place, and it feels like every time I try to climb out my handhold crumbles between my fingers.

I want to live a story, one where each cycle of depression has less control than the one before. A story of forward linear progression. A story of increasing levels of success. A story where eventually I'm not ill any more, ever again.