It means that in parts of our country, there is one psychiatrist for every 30,000 citizens. Considering that 1 in 4 Americans has a diagnosable mental disorder, that's roughly the equivalent of a single NFL referee explaining the last call to each person in the stands individually.
But that's just the numbers-icing on the can't-get-treatment cake. The real problem here is shame, which I guess is trans fat in this metaphor. Christ, I'm hungry. The thing that sets mental health problems apart is that no one's ashamed of getting the flu, and fighting something like cancer even wins you some social bonus points. But aside from the occasional Oscar-bait Ron Howard flick about triumphantly overcoming your cartoonishly simplified version of schizophrenia, insanity is just comedy fodder. Once you're diagnosed as mentally ill, if you're not the butt of some joke about acting weird ("You total nut job!" or "That's mental" if you're Ron Weasley), your entire experience will be dismissed as something quirky ("I have such OCD about not wanting dog poop in my pasta!"). And since most mental illnesses are easy enough to hide, it can seem simpler to just not tell anyone and suffer alone. And that's the problem: If you skip your cancer treatment, everyone will think you're crazy. If you skip your psych meds, no one will.
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You're sad because someone made you wear that sweater, right?
Besides, treatment is expensive, and not just in how much you pay: Being mentally ill makes it harder to keep a job, so a diagnosis gangbangs your wallet from both ends. But unlike the flu, you can't just get over most mental illnesses. They're like the One Ring of Power: The longer you keep one around, the worse its hold over you gets. So you decide to take off your shoes and walk your creepy-looking feet to the local volcano to finally do something about it. But when you show up, you find 17 different pools of lava and 20 different volcano guides telling you you're at the wrong one, because ...