To undergo the painful process of self-reflection regarding an eating disorder, and then follow that up with the gut-wrenching vulnerability of asking for help, is a process that should only be met with a simple answer: let’s get you the help you need.
However, the unfortunate reality is that, for many people, this terrifying request only brings more questions.
Where might we have to go to access care?
How will we afford it?
Will insurance offer any financial support?
Will there be openings with any providers?
Once these questions are posed, the process of finding suitable care becomes somewhat of a long-winded word problem:
There are 100 providers of treatment in your state. Only half of these providers take your insurance. Out of those, 30 have a 6-month wait list, leaving only 20 with immediate openings. 15 of these remaining providers are outside of a 2-hour radius of your home. Given all of that information, how many providers do you have to choose between?
Even once those calculations are complete, and it feels as though the hard part must surely be over, the search is not yet done. Whether you came out of the previous calculations with 2, 5, or even 10 potential providers, finding one that is perfectly suited to your needs is still a challenge.
During my search for the right provider, I found several providers who only offered treatments that I wasn’t interested in, a few whose out-of-pocket cost was still too expensive, one who looked far too similar to my grandmother for me to properly open up to, and even one who simply played Monopoly with me for several trial sessions. So, it’s safe to say that not all of the providers that are deemed ‘an option’ happen to fit every person’s individual needs.
All in all, this can be a fairly long and frustrating process, especially when contending with financial or locational difficulties. While the experience varies from person to person, for my part, I was stuck in this search for years. I struggled to find a provider who had a clear view of what I personally needed, and who also fit my criteria with insurance, expense, and location.
After many attempts and months of this search, I began to feel fairly frustrated. The insurance company was getting pretty fed up with me and my family, as we practically had them on speed dial during this period. I’d filled out so many intake forms that I had them all essentially memorized. The amount of money we had spent was disproportionately high for no foreseeable results. I was still so young, so tired of the same repeating cycle, and beginning to feel hopeless about the whole process.
I began to doubt whether care was even an option for me. It was too painful to get my hopes up that I would find help, just to continually have them dashed. So, I welcomed the thought that perhaps healing wasn’t meant for me. Maybe healing was something that was saved for those who were lucky, those who were “healable”, and I simply was… not. To be 13 and already convinced of one’s irreparability is a sad, sad thing.
