The victim mindset says: I am Tantalus beneath the fruit tree, hungry, and unable to reach it. I am Tantalus, thirsty, floundering in a pool of water that cannot be drunk.
I drive 50 miles to my therapist’s office every other week. We are a year into forming a patient/clinician relationship and working through what a lifetime of living with unpredictable people has done to my nervous system. I waited years longer than I should have to ask for this help, and have embraced it with the deepest gratitude for all the ways it has given me a lifeline when I was at my darkest.
I broke down in her office and told her how my ex husband is drinking again, was visibly drunk and fighting with his girlfriend in front of our son. The girlfriend calling me at midnight from her bathroom where she had locked herself away from his drunken anger to tell me he is threatening to leave the house with my son, after drinking whiskey all night. And the terror that gripped me was every night I lived this reality before. With no one to call. With just myself, speaking in hushed whispers through gritted teeth. With fear turning my chest to ice, my body tense, my breath held, eyes wide in the face if the madness of alcoholism.
I looked up at my therapist’s beautiful, kind face. And I realized she was observing me. Not just looking at me while she listened, but seeing me. And I became self aware. That my eyes were wide and there was ice in my chest and every muscle in my body was so tense I was shaking. I didn’t realize I was shaking. In my head I staring into the dead, blacked out eyes of my ex husband. Devoid of logic, empathy, and reason. Shark’s eyes.
This is PTSD. Cornered in the kitchen while a man with frighteningly strong hands threatened to kill me if I ever tried to take our son from him.
PTSD is also the constant expectation that something bad is about to happen, and living every moment vigilantly watching for it. Except this time I wasn’t hypervigilant. I let my guard down. I relaxed. I finally trusted something. That office was a constant space for healing and support I finally reached for and accepted. The cost was baked into my budget like the mortgage or my 401K contributions. Manageable, reliable, consistent.
Last week I drove the 50 minutes to the clinic. I stepped up to the front desk in front of a waiting room full of patients. And the lady at the front desk did some calculations and looked at a grid of numbers on a printed sheet, highlighted one of them, and slid it across the counter.
Amount due last time: $132
Amount due this time: $236
The oxygen dropped out of the room and I stood there ashamed and fumbling with my credit cards and checking the health savings account balance on my phone. Did I have enough, and could I still pay the plumber I needed to call to come check the clogged kitchen sink?
I stared at the highlighted number on the printed page, fighting back tears, and realizing the best thing I had in my life at that moment was being moved out of reach.
This is a reality of therapy. Insurance companies treat mental health care like an elective treatment. No different from teeth whitening or breast augmentation. Low income families have a safety net in the form of state or federal assistance. As they should. Because the people who need the most support are people who are struggling to stay housed and fed. But this clinic is out of network. I am billed on a sliding scale and I make too much money. So when prices increase, there is no safety net. There is only “Cut back, or go somewhere else.”
This is also PTSD. Becoming hyper-independent because you grew up with caregivers who were not dependable. You learn to suppress your emotions because they will be weaponized. You learn that your place in the world must be earned, so you over-achieve to prove your worth. I did not expect that the over-achieving would put me in a different income bracket: the one without a safety net. I left the office burning with shame that I let myself trust something and it ended up abruptly being taken away.
I am still figuring out my options. My family has offered to help. I wrote a letter to the clinic CEO and CFO detailing what this price increase does to trauma therapy patients like me. I called the office manager and asked for exceptions or options. The answer from the CEO and CFO has been silence. The answer from the office manager was “there’s nothing I can do.” Cut back or go somewhere else.
I’ll figure this out like I have figured everything else out. I’ll come out on top, because I always do. Unlike Tantalus, I can climb out of the pond anytime I want. For that I am grateful.
So to the CEO who signed off on the decision and will likely take home a comfortable bonus this year: fuck you.
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