This marks my final week of group therapy. No, I am not miraculously nut-free. I'm not getting sprung from the looney bin. In fact, I am graduating because no one else is crazy enough to keep coming week after week. Call me the lucky winner. My therapy is a 24-week program. When I began last spring, there were about 15 participants packed into a room barely bigger than my guest bathroom. As the sessions progressed, and we delved deeper into our neuroses, they started dropping like fireflies from a bug zapper. As of three weeks ago, the crowd had dwindled to two of us. She's a 21-year-old, manic, self-centered snob; I'm a 34-year-old shallow-breather under a blanket of depression. I've never missed a session, and I refuse to start now. She needs an audience to hear her talk about herself. So we're in for the duration. Because it makes little financial sense for the hospital to continue the course for three more weeks -- with two facilitators babysitting the two of us...