Reader Report – I was billed for 50 minutes. Got 12.
He didn’t even fake it.
Didn’t nod thoughtfully.
Didn’t pretend to have reviewed my chart.
Just tapped away at his keyboard
while I sat there clutching a plastic clipboard
and my last shred of hope.
He said, “Remind me what you’ve tried already?”
I said, “Lexapro. Effexor. Trazodone. Wellbutrin. Cymbalta.”
He typed:
“What meds are good for severe anxiety and trauma?”
He read from a blog post.
Something about SSRIs.
Suggested I drink more water
and avoid caffeine.
I had a trauma history so long
it could’ve been bound in leather.
He skimmed it like a Buzzfeed list.
The room was beige.
So was his attention span.
He asked if I was suicidal.
I said, “Depends on the day.”
He laughed.
I didn’t.
He said he could “tweak a few things.”
Didn’t say what.
Wrote a prescription.
Didn’t say goodbye.
I checked my watch.
Twelve minutes.
Two weeks later,
I got the bill: $220.
“Diagnostic Evaluation with Medical Services – 50 min”
I wish I could bill him for the trust I lost.
Or charge him interest
on the days I didn’t get better
because he was too busy Googling my life.
Mental health care is a luxury
disguised as a lifeline.
And I paid for both
that day.
