Because they were a little suspicious about all the chemicals in my blood, I had to talk to a substance abuse counselor before I was released from the hospital. Smart, those doctors.
We came up with a "life plan", in which I agreed not to attempt to harm myself before June 16, 2008 (do I get a "best if used before..." date stamp on my forehead?) and to see a counselor, who happened to be a therapist AND a pastor conveniently rolled into one. Great. I eagerly agreed, mostly because I didn't want to raise any flags and spend another night in that tv-less room, throwing up jello, and was in desperate need of a shower.
I made a casual, "hypothetically-speaking, if I did need a therapist" phone call to my insurance company and discovered they were willing to shell out funds for forty-five visits per year. A little pessimisstic, I thought, but at least this self discovery crap wouldn't cost me anything.
My 'therapastor', who doesn't like to focus on the past (what kind of anti-Freud bullshit is this?), welcomed me into his office and distracted me by talking about himself for 45 of the scheduled 55 minutes. The shoulda-been-caped Super-Crisis-Therapist has helped the high school tornado survivors, girls who are "cutters", and families who need help communicating.
After my brief synopsis/sharing of the spotlight, his only concern seemed to be my drinking, so he asked if I'd ever considered AA.
"Nah," I said, quoting my sister, "That's for quitters."
"Does your sister think you drink too much?"
"Uh...no. She's in college."
Obviously, alcohol might have impaired my judgement and encouraged impulsivity, but it seems like it'd be more logical to give up prescription meds if we're going to take this odd approach to curing depression. Yeah, focus on the only enjoyable social activity I have. He deemed me 'fine' and suggested I make another appointment in a few weeks. Delusional narcissist.