This is, of course, the age-old question of psychiatric diagnosis. The authors of the DSM-5, in fact, are grappling with this very question right now. Take grieving, for example. As I and others have written, grieving is “normal,” although its duration and intensity vary from person to person. At some point, a line may be crossed, beyond which a person’s grief is no longer adaptive but dangerous. Where that line falls, however, cannot be determined by a book or by a committee.
Psychiatrists ought to know who’s healthy and who’s not. After all, we call ourselves experts in “mental health,” don’t we? Surprisingly, I don’t think we’re very good at this. We are acutely sensitive to disorder but have trouble identifying wellness. We can recognize patients’ difficulties in dealing with other people but are hard-pressed to describe healthy interpersonal skills. We admit that someone might be able to live with auditory hallucinations but we still feel an urge to increase the antipsychotic dose when a patient says she still hears “those voices.” We are quick to point out how a patient’s alcohol or marijuana use might be a problem, but we can’t describe how he might use these substances in moderation. I could go on and on.
Part of the reason for this might lie in how we’re trained. In medical school we learn basic psychopathology and drug mechanisms (and, by the way, there are no drugs whose mechanism “maintains normality”—they all fix something that’s broken). We learn how to do a mental status exam, complete with full descriptions of the behavior of manic, psychotic, depressed, and anxious people—but not “normals.” Then, in our postgraduate training, our early years are spent with the most ill patients—those in hospitals, locked facilities, or emergency settings. It’s not until much later in one’s training that a psychiatrist gets to see relatively more functional individuals in an office or clinic. But by that time, we’re already tuned in to deficits and symptoms, and not to personal strengths, abilities, or resilience-promoting factors.
In a recent discussion with a colleague about how psychiatrists might best serve a large population of patients (e.g., in a “medical home” model), I suggested that perhaps each psychiatrist could be responsible for a handful of people (say, 300 or 400 individuals). Our job would be to see each of these 300-400 people at least once in a year, regardless of whether they have psychiatric diagnosis or not. Those who have emotional or psychiatric complaints or who have a clear mental illness could be seen more frequently; the others would get their annual checkup and their clean bill of (mental) health. It would be sort of like your annual medical visit or a “well-baby visit” in pediatrics: a way for a person to be seen by a doctor, implement preventive measures, and undergo screening to make sure no significant problems go unaddressed.
Alas, this would never fly in psychiatry. Why not? Because we’re too accustomed to seeing illness. We’re too quick to interpret “sadness” as “depression”; to interpret “anxiety” or “nerves” as a cue for a benzodiazepine prescription; or to interpret “inattention” or poor work/school performance as ADHD. I’ve even experienced this myself. It is difficult to tell a person “you’re really doing just fine; there’s no need for you to see me, but if you want to come back, just call.” For one thing, in many settings, I wouldn’t get paid for the visit if I said this. But another concern, of course, is the fear of missing something: Maybe this person really is bipolar [or whatever] and if I don’t keep seeing him, there will be a bad outcome and I’ll be responsible.
There’s also the fact that psychiatry is not a primary care specialty: insurance plans don’t pay for an annual “well-person visit” with the a psychiatrist. Patients who come to a psychiatrist’s office are usually there for a reason. Maybe the patient deliberately sought out the psychiatrist to ask for help. Maybe their primary care provider saw something wrong and wanted the psychiatrist’s input. In the former, telling the person he or she is “okay” risks losing their trust (“but I just know something’s wrong, doc!“). In the latter, it risks losing a referral source or professional relationship.
So how do we fix this? I think we psychiatrists need to spend more time learning what “normal” really is. There are no classes or textbooks on “Normal Adults.” For starters, we can remind ourselves that the “normal” people around whom we’ve been living our lives may in fact have features that we might otherwise see as a disorder. Learning to accept these quirks, foibles, and idiosyncrasies may help us to accept them in our patients.
In terms of using the DSM, we need to become more willing to use the V71.09 code, which means, essentially, “No diagnosis or condition.” Many psychiatrists don’t even know this code exists. Instead, we give “NOS” diagnoses (“not otherwise specified”) or “rule-outs,” which eventually become de facto diagnoses because we never actually take the time to rule them out! A V71.09 should be seen as a perfectly valid (and reimbursable) diagnosis—a statement that a person has, in fact, a clean bill of mental health. Now we just need to figure out what that means.
It is said that when Pope Julius II asked Michelangelo how he sculpted David out of a marble slab, he replied: “I just removed the parts that weren’t David.” In psychiatry, we spend too much time thinking about what’s not David and relentlessly chipping away. We spend too little time thinking about the healthy figure that may already be standing right in front of our eyes.