Mental healthcare in the U.S. is kicking my ass in ways I didn’t see coming, like I’m sitting here in my apartment with the heat barely working and the neighbor’s dog barking at nothing again, and I’m supposed to just… function? Post-pandemic mental health is a joke nobody’s laughing at. I keep refreshing the patient portal like it’s gonna magically cough up an appointment. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
Why Mental Healthcare in the U.S. Feels Like a Sick Prank
Six. Freaking. Months. That’s how long they told me I’d wait for a therapist. I’m on the phone, pacing my kitchen, stepping over the same damn Amazon box I meant to break down three weeks ago, and the lady’s like “we’ll call if someone cancels!” Cool, cool. I’ll just pause my anxiety until then. Like it’s a Netflix show.
Telehealth: Mental Healthcare in the U.S. Via Shitty Internet
Thought virtual therapy would save me. Nope. My therapist freezes right when I’m mid-ugly-cry about how I ghosted my best friend for two months. “So the isolation feels—” buffering “—like drowning?” I’m over here nodding at a pixelated blob while my cat types “hsssss” into the chat.
But also… it’s something. I don’t have to leave my couch. Or put on pants. Had a breakthrough last week when my WiFi actually cooperated for 38 whole minutes. Progress?
Insurance Said My Breakdown Wasn’t “Severe Enough”
Got a letter—actual paper, who does that?—saying my sessions weren’t covered because my depression “doesn’t meet medical necessity.” I laughed so hard I cried. Then just cried. Spent $47 on copays for a diagnosis they won’t pay for. That’s a week of groceries. Or three therapy sessions. Pick one.
- What I do now: Screenshot everything. Appeal twice. Cry in my car.
- Sliding scale clinic: Found one. Still waiting. But hope tastes like stale church coffee and folding chairs.
- Group thing: Met a guy who also panic-ate an entire sleeve of Oreos in Target. Solidarity.
Post-Pandemic Mental Health: We’re All Just Winging It
Told my mom I was “struggling.” She sent socks. Fuzzy ones with cats. I wore them to my next Zoom session and cried because they were warm.
Tried the apps. The breathing ones. The “gamified” ones where you water a virtual plant with mindfulness. My plant died. Twice.
Mental Healthcare in the U.S. Ain’t Fixed, But I’m Still Here
Still on the waitlist. Still refreshing. But I texted my friend “I’m not okay” instead of disappearing. She sent a voice note: “Same, dude.”
If you’re reading this and your brain’s loud too—text someone. Anyone. Or hit up NAMI’s crisis text line. They answer. Like, actually answer.
We’re all duct-taping our heads together. Might as well do it out loud.
