The Mind

Since I started therapy eight months ago, I intended to file a claim with BlueCross in the hopes of having them foot the bill. My policy doesn't cover mental health, but I figure it was worth a shot. Yesterday, I finally emailed my therapist to inquire about the proper procedures. She, of course, was willing to help me fill out the forms and also indicated I would need the following information: her license number, cpt code, diagnosis code, etc.

Diagnosis code? The thought made me chuckle a bit. I remember a similar occasion that occurred with my first therapist. I'm not sure how the subject came up. Perhaps I asked what the hell was in the huge file he lugged to every session, or maybe we were simply discussing trivial insurance matters. The only thing I'm certain of is how my chest tightened at the mention of "my diagnosis." For several seconds, I sat there speechless.

At age 20, the thought of being a little crazy slightly appealed to me. I was still reeling from two awful relationships and several bad decisions that left me alienated from my family. Although I had emerged from the worst of it, I still carried my armor wherever I went. I was tough. I was impenetrable. At least that's what I told myself. If I were officially deemed crazy this would supply yet another mask to don, another layer of protection. Yet, at that moment the label terrified me. As my therapist explained the need for a diagnosis in every case in order to satisfy the insurance companies, my anxiety began to dissipate. Not surprisingly, I was diagnosed with General Anxiety Disorder.

I was reminded yesterday of not only my past fears and emotions, but also our society's unhealthy attitudes towards mental illness. It is the pariah of the medical profession and the dark secret of many families. I have numerous friends who refuse to either take anti-depressants or see a therapist, while others speak of their practices only furtively. I, on the other hand, have always candidly discussed therapy and the instances when I've taken anti-depressants. Therapy is not an easy process. It takes a lot of courage. I believe wholeheartedly that my willingness to genuinely self-reflect makes me stronger than most folks. So why, yesterday, did those two words - diagnosis code - pique my interest? If I went to a physician because I felt a little ill, would it matter if he deemed it a mild case of influenza or a common cold?

Played out in the real world, society's view of mental defects may result in pernicious consequences. One example is a typical scenario capital defenders face when their clients are mentally retarded. In 2002 the Supreme Court, in Atkins v. Virgina, finally declared the execution of mentally retarded offenders was unconstitutuional. I've heard more the one attorney recount instances wherein they explained to a mentally retarded client, in painstaking detail, that this fact alone would save their life. However, the attorney's efforts are often met with great disdain due to the shame associated with mental deficiencies. Clients often refuse to allow their lawyers to publicly mention the words mental retardation, even if it means death. One woman told me the only tactic that worked with her client was to tell him that they were only pretending he was retarded. With only an IQ of 60, he went right along with the plan.

I know this post was a little disjointed, but what do you guys think about mental illness? Is it different from other illnesses? If so, why? If not, why do we as a society approach it differently?