Being Poor is not a Mental Health Problem

I want to know one thing:
Are the Medicaid-receiving parents of children on anti-psychotic medication threatened with censure if they refuse to put their children on drugs?

Or do they, perhaps, not know that it is okay to refute a drug-treating mental health worker’s diagnosis?

It’s stunning to read that four times more children of the poor are being treated with medication for possible psychiatric disorders than their middle class counterparts. Being poor is not a mental health problem. The stresses involved with the possible surrounding chaos of a dysfunctional environment (not exactly read: poor) may render a child more prone to depression or acting-out behavior. But there’s no way that this jump in percentages reflects anything but an easy payday or workday for psychiatrists who treat children living in economic disadvantage.

We need a study, now, that provides a statistical model of mental health professionals who over-prescribe to these children.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/12/health/12medicaid.html

Racial Concerns of Job Searchers

Shaky times lead to shaky conclusions. I get it: if you graduated from Yale and still don't have a job a few months later, then it makes sense to look in the mirror and ask, What's wrong with this image? Because, you know, you're entitled to the oyster called 'the world' now. Unfortunately, the reflected color of one's skin seems to be the first stopgap to any kind of real self-reflection.

Looking for a job, having an interview, wondering why you never heard back from prospects after meeting them? Common. Second-guessing your resume and taking out any "flaky" sounding associations (editor of the literary magazine, associate member of American PEN)? Check. Wondering if you shouldn't have mentioned that your husband is a fireman (too civil service-y?), or that you plan to start a family (whoa! big mistake), or that you read The New York Times every day (possible Commie)? Yup.

In the middle of the night, I might fall victim to the bristling thought that it's-because-I'm-a-woman, or that-suit-makes-me-look-like-a-nun, or man-I-still-really-sound-like-I'm-from-Brooklyn. But then I wake up in the morning and see the light. Times are tough. Stop looking for reasons to be a victim.