Group Work
Fiona Riley ’24
Waking up at the place–Hospital 2 as I call it instead of its hard to pronounce name– was not fun. I had longed for a sense of control over where I chose to be. I had made my place here last night and tried to put myself out there. My eyes, fully awake, now took in one of my roommates. She immediately took me under her wing. When she turned to me and smiled, I took a good look at her face. Her eyes were still bright despite the scars on her arms and thighs, but the lines painted on her face showed how tired she was–16 and looking like a woman of 60. I imagined the lines eventually taking over her face, eradicating her eyes. Entering the kitchen, I don’t feel like I did in Hospital 1–there’s laughter and jokes and a choice. I sit down, still nervous. I look around the group, and there are names that have since mostly faded in my mind. Jane and Beanie, my roommates, are both two years older than I am. Beanie. She has this mean look on her face and spends most of the time still denying her diagnosis, not wanting to be like her mom. No matter how she tries to deny it, the differences between her mom and herself don’t stop at the dark, curly hair and deep brown eyes. There’s also the small, sporty looking one–Boxy. The one with the rockstar hair: Stevie. The quiet and shy one who I knew from Hospital 1: Fran. Brit, the tall, constantly annoyed person. Finally, Olive is quite an aggressive girl with shocking green eyes. She doesn’t like me too much. I’m not a fan either. The group therapy type thing is first. It’s up against a light-yellow wall and near a tv that has a crack on the side; weirdly, there’s also a guitar. I am terrified. I will get judged like a caged animal as people point and poke at the glass that keeps calling me weak compared to them. Their stories will break my heart more than that boy did in 7th grade. “Alright–you start, Olive,” says a woman whose face, voice and name have entered the box of locked memories I do not wish to see. “I’m Olive. I’m here because of self-harm, drugs I guess, and suicidal tendencies.” Though I am not a fan of hers, the feeling that I need to wrap her up in a blanket that could protect her from the horrors of the world is a strong one. The person sitting next to her goes next. “I’m Brit. I’m here because of self-harm and gender issues,” they say fiddling with their hands. “I’m Boxy. I’m here because of suicidal tendencies, self-harm, anxiety and issues with isolation.”
21
