I have Health Insurance...

I used to think that depression was nothing more than a mood swing that would not last more than a day or so. Or a fancy, make believe condition that only rich people suffer from in an effort to appear more interesting and less bored with their privileged lives. Rich ladies mostly, fed up with their social obligations and daily routine. It must become so very insignificant at one point.
     How much can you talk about Prada’s latest designs, Chanel’s new colors or the hottest hairdresser in Midtown? How many luncheons at the Ritz and dinners at Le Cirque does it take to go thru your entire life story when you spent most of your adult part of it ‘wearing off‘ Manolo Blahnik pumps by walking three times from an elevator to your chauffeured town car. Yes, those same pumps that end up displayed in the window of a chic thrift store on Lexington avenue, written off as ‘charity’…or in a Christmas bag that you so generously present to your beautician.
It’s your way to thank her for a year of waxing your private parts and for ‘squeezing you in’ the Friday before Labor Day weekend for a quick change of polish on your toes.
Yes, you were wearing them that day and she remembers gasping when she took them off your feet and realized they were probably worth 6 months of  her entire salary and tips *before taxes*.
     How many times did your world fall apart because one of your nails has chipped the afternoon before a black tie affair that is SO important to your husband that no one would want to do business with him anymore if they noticed your chipped pinky nail.
A quick DIY fix? Why, you would never…..even though you bought that same color polish when you last visited your salon… ummm… yesterday? What if, God forbid, the wrong reflection of your carefully stacked diamond rings would expose the covered up chip? Which by the way, it’s in Chanel’s Jasmine shade and one would need a magnifying glass to even realize that you actually wear nail polish.
     What caused YOUR depression?
     In most cases there is nothing hidden in your sheltered, happy childhood and the only ‘disaster’ you ever experienced was the 'coming out into society' ball where some other debutante wore the same gown. Even though your father held much larger bank accounts than hers did, you never got over the feeling that she ‘stole’ something from you.
     Your father! The one who passed away alone on a hospital bed while you were taking a year off in Amsterdam, Paris, Barcelona maybe? A year off from what? I always wanted to ask you that question….You would have probably said something lame…like…you wanted to study the light at dusk in Tuscany because you wanted to reproduce that effect in your bedroom? I actually heard someone saying that once. She probably belonged to that same crowd from the debutante ball, remember?
     Your mother was getting her hair done when the hospital called on her cell phone to tell her that your father was about to take his last breath and wouldn’t she want to be there? How could she? Her hair was not even half way done…I always wondered if your father ever realized that he had died alone and not cared about. Yes, I did feel bad for him but not for you or your mother. Your father’s name was on the credit card she paid for her services with that very same afternoon.
A black Amex that most mortals don’t even know exists.
     And now you’re depressed, or you think you are because it’s so very popular and trendy to suffer from a ‘mild disorder’.
Bulimia and anorexia are over rated. Agoraphobia does not fit your lifestyle. OCD? You have always been a compulsive shopper because you had the financial means to disguise it graciously.
A trend that you must indulge in to continue fitting in your selfish, carefree world? What about depression?
     But depression is NOT a trend, at least not for those like me. It’s a real, debilitating ailment. It brings with it a cohort of little alien monsters like anxiety, panic, agoraphobia, real OCD…etc. Little monsters that are eating away at your psyche and render you feeling desperate, useless and miserable. They don’t stop until they ruin your life.
     So you think you have it… the big D. And you’re dying to get on one of those comfy leather couches in a shrink’s office. You know… Park Avenue, Central Park West, 5th Avenue… even Madison will do. After all, that’s where the crème de la crème of shrinks win their daily bread, and getting as many appointments as you want is never a problem. Not for you!
     What makes it different for me? For you it’s a social event. One more reason to dress up and try to dazzle. One more opportunity to talk about yourself for an entire hour or so. And there is nothing you like more. You do get those prescriptions filled because you never know when you will need to fish your cell phone from your Louis Vuitton bag. That Prozac rolling out ‘by accident’ will make your brunch at the Plaza companions gasp in disbelief and pretend to be concerned. It will be the main topic of discussion for socialites at all the galas and gatherings for weeks to come. Even your hairdresser will find out about it first thing the next morning while shampooing your best friend’s locks. It’s well worth the attention. And the perfect excuse for a shopping trip to Paris to lift your spirits up every time you feel breathless, lost, scared, worried. You will need to rest and go out in the sun and fresh air. What more perfect place than the south of France? And what better subject to chat about during your next charity, dinner party, Christie’s or Sotheby’s auction, Hamptons wedding, or God knows what other likely event causes you to think you’re getting a panic attack.
     After all, you do have a trust fund and even if you signed a pre-nup there must be an outrageous settlement option. What tomorrow may bring is not an issue. One way or the other you will have more than enough to maintain your life stile for as long as you live and there will be plenty left for your children too.  
     As far as I’m concerned… the value of the ‘casual’ jewelry that you are wearing right now would probably do the same thing for me. Not to mention getting me in for those appointments that I really need but the Park Avenue psychiatric care seems to be way out of my league. My faults? I don’t come from money, I never owned a pair of Blahniks and my Hermes bag is a fake even though you can’t tell the difference.
     Oh… and the most important of all: I have health insurance!


     I wrote this essay as an ‘insider’ and from personal experience. I actually met, talked and dealt with people like the ones I rambled about. I wrote it out of frustration over not being able to find a psychiatrist who would accept one of my health insurances, insisting that I pay cash. $400 and up for the evaluation visit, $200 and up for each 45 minutes long follow up visits.
I am educated, well spoken and I can dress up nicely, but offering health insurance as payment places me on the wrong side of the tracks.
     Depression treatment is a trend around here and not a necessity. And we all know that most trends don’t come cheap.
Aren’t psychiatrist doctors too? Didn’t they take Hippocrates’s oath, a pledge to help those who suffer? Don’t they get paid by the insurance companies? Or did all that become obsolete these days and I am lost in a time warp?