I've Had a Lot of Help

In the immediate aftermath of my hospitalization in 2016, I still required extensive treatment. It started with a month-long partial day program at McLean Hospital consisting of a mix of group therapy, classroom sessions, and individual meetings with an onsite psychiatrist and a social worker. The McLean campus happens to have the look and feel of a small New England Liberal Arts college, so in a way, the partial program felt like going back to school. My only responsibility was to attend all the sessions and commit to the process. Since the hospital doesn't hand out identification cards to patients, I was allowed to blend in pretty easily during the day. If I brought a bag and a wore decent enough clothes, I could even pass for a mental health professional.

Even when I was inpatient, I wasn't particularly uncomfortable. I didn't want to be there, of course, but there were no straitjackets, or locked, confined spaces. My unit felt like a sterile, recently refurbished high school, with a handful of rooms sleeping one or two patients. There was an elliptical at the end of the hall, along with a small stretching station. There were a couple of couches and large windows to let the light in. My room was directly across the hall from the dining room, which served three meals a day and was stocked with snacks, low-sugar drinks, coffee and tea. Patients could order delivery from local restaurants.

Daily walks around the campus were offered, along with multiple group therapy sessions covering a variety of mental health topics. I checked myself in voluntarily and nothing was mandatory. The one sacrifice I had to make was turning over my cell phone. Those on the unit had to make and receive calls from a landline phone booth in the middle of the hall. I was addicted to amphetamines and I was a workaholic, so the break from technology was a welcomed breath of fresh air. There were multiple TVs with cable in communal spaces where I could watch a few Bruins and Celtics games. I wasn't allowed to leave willingly, but it was hardly a prison. The message was clear: I needed to slow the hell down and I needed a supervised environment to make sure I was trying to do so.

I enjoyed it. After the initial shock and terror of finding myself in a mental hospital wore off, I fell into a routine. I was relieved to not feel the pressure of keeping up with the 24-hour news cycle. I could focus on other things like eating three meals a day, doing laundry, and showing the doctors and other caregivers on the unit that I was improving. I realized the morning after checking myself into the hospital (with my wife's help) how unstable I had become. Being face-to-face with the unit psychiatrist gave me a moment of clarity and I was determined to get out of this situation as fast as humanly possible. It was as if I had known how bad things had become but I needed an independent party to tell me as much before I committed to making a change.

I was on the unit for two weeks. I was given new medication and taken off adderall. My nicotine addiction was satisfied everyday with nurse-provided patches and gum. I put on weight fast due to the new medication, and because I was eating regularly again. A week after I was discharged, I started the McLean partial program. The entire initial treatment process took about a month and half. After that, my treatment was up to me. My psychiatrist at the time was located at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston, my cognitive behavioral therapist was located in Harvard Square in Cambridge, and another talk therapist was located in a different part of Cambridge, along Concord Avenue, closer to Somerville.

Each provider offered management and therapy that I received on the unit at McLean and during the partial program. The obvious difference was that care away from McLean required managing recovery in the "real world," getting to appointments on-time two to three times a week while navigating some of the most congested areas or relying on public transportation. Including travel time, appointments were often two-hour commitments or more. Sometimes, I would have multiple appointments on the same day, making that particular nine-to-five dedicated to therapy, traffic, and trolleys. I was working hard and there was no paycheck involved in the process. For a while, committing to therapy and recovery had to be enough. I was in no position to work consistently or to my potential.

I've since changed all three providers. My psychiatrist now operates out of Mt. Auburn Hospital in Cambridge, my cognitive behavioral therapist has offices in Arlington and Somerville, and another talk therapist is stationed in Belmont. I've improved to the point where I only need one weekly session, but I do see all three consistently as part of my overall treatment plan. The process has been exhausting but the pros seem to outweigh the cons. I'd be lying if I told you making money has been easy.

Recovery for me has required, more than anything, time. Time to heal, time to process, time to strategize, and time to manage what I can do. Early on, I was absolutely unable to work in any capacity. My brain was traumatized and didn't I give a shit about doing somebody else's stuff. It took about two years for the desire to pursue my career came back. But at that point, I had become a writer who had fallen off the grid and offered little at face-value to publishers in a competitive market. That, plus a backstory that was getting more complicated to explain, an English degree, and no money left to pursue an MBA or Law School; I felt like my chances at what I considered success had suddenly become very limited. It was depressing feeling like I had sacrificed a normal life and all its pursuits to improve my mental health.

In reality, that's my privilege talking. I'm married to a brilliant, determined, and loving woman--with health insurance. I'm an only child with parents who were seemingly put on this Earth to provide for others. I've been given every opportunity to improve my mental health and I'm fortunate enough to have a team around me offering love, guidance, and support. I've been given time, which in this world often equates to money. This is America and not everybody struggling with a mental illness has the resources I've mentioned. While I've written about a relatively positive experience, elsewhere, psychiatric units are short on beds, wrapped up in scandal, or otherwise reportedly providing inadequate levels of care. Half of Americans with a mental illness don't seek treatment due to social stigma, insurance woes, limited access to care, or some combination of the sort.

Insurance costs money. Therapy can still require a copay. Some out-of-pocket providers who don't take insurance charge over $200 per one-hour appointment. Without some form of financial security, it's hard to imagine the feasibility of a lengthy recovery. And to personally provide oneself with that financial security typically requires a full-time job that could be hard to manage while pursuing extensive therapy. I've managed to do enough during recovery to contribute and stay afloat financially, stringing together a few part-time gigs and projects. It wouldn't be enough to get by without my wife's salary or, when necessary, my parents' security. I consider myself the opposite of a self-made entrepreneur and urge readers to think of me that way as well.

I'm telling the reader all of this to offer what I hope is a transparent look at the motivations and thought process behind my go at starting a business. On the surface, this project is nothing more than a well-maintained and interesting enough Instagram page and a beta website. It's taken four years for me to get to this point with a network of loved ones, healthcare providers, and business mentors. While not always convenient or ideal, my treatment has been consistent and productive. That's not always a given in healthcare. This project is meant to showcase the positive side of committing to recovery while acknowledging the inequity of class and privilege when it comes to receiving adequate treatment. I was afforded time and resources many others are not, and I thankfully don't have any horror stories to share. That doesn't mean recovery hasn't been hard every single day for one reason or another.

I'm fortunate to have been given this chance. In due course, the hope is that readers will become aware how much privilege and sheer luck of the draw have contributed to my recovery. I also hope readers can come to their own conclusions about what that says in regard to American mental healthcare and entrepreneurship.