I’ve been to a not-date with a fellow patient from the psychiatric ward. (An intriguing premise, right?) His diagnoses include but are not limited to depression, alcoholism and asocial tendencies. (Getting interesting, huh?) I share the same diagnoses, minus alcoholism, plus anxiety. (Gotta have something extra, you know.) Nothing of note happened. (Anticlimactic, I know.)
On my not-date, I had not-coffee. That is, tea. The asocial alcoholic, let’s call him John Doe, had tiny coffee, in which he dipped his biscuit British-style. I ate my biscuit dry and was disappointed that John hasn’t given me his. I’m used to gifts of coffee biscuits from the mental ward because all the patients, on learning these are my faves, would bring me theirs in an attempt to fatten me up. (Didn’t work out.)
John is mildly scary and appreciates my morbid sense of humour. Hence, to start with, I observed that should he wish to drag me in a dark alley and kill me, he can feel free to do so because, being depressed, I wouldn’t be particularly upset to be dead. John didn’t feel like it. So we proceeded to sit in a smokers cafe and discuss the delightful graphic images on cigarette packages, which are probably intended to discourage smokers but which cheer me up.
I neither loved nor hated my not-date. However, as I’m socially isolated, I welcomed the opportunity to socialise, be it with an asocial person or not. My therapeutic programme involves at least one face-to-face social interaction per week, so I was pleased to have fulfilled my duty for the week. That’s how I go about my therapy – I duly do what I’m supposed to, and it does nothing for me, besides a rather weak and short-lasting satisfaction when I cross an item, like social interaction, off my to-do list.