Group Work | Fiona Riley ’24

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.”

Isolation, huh? My parents think I isolate, and I am lonely, but truly I like to be alone. I like being able to be stuck in my mind trying to sew together why I’m feeling the way I am. But then again, leaking tears lying on the cold bathroom floor was not enjoyable. I guess sometimes our thoughts are too much to handle alone.

“Umm, Jane, umm, suicidal tendencies, self-harm and issues with isolation,” my roommate says, sitting next to me. There it is again: isolation. That word haunts my brain, roaming around the dark corridors of my thoughts, trying but failing to get into one of my locked boxes.

It’s my turn. What should I say? I should be honest, but I don’t know why I am truly here. I said all the things they wanted me to in Hospital 1, and yet they still sent me here.

“Umm, Alice, and, uh, suicide attempt.”

Time moves on, Brit is replaced by Cleo, a girl who relies on the cross on her neck to keep her in place and Stevie is replaced by Bobby, who needs someone to talk to her when she showers.

The question about isolation is still pressing against my temple. I’ve gotten better, knowing that the reason I’m here is not just my attempt.

“Hi, I’m Alice; I’m here because of suicidal tendencies and self-harm.”

Everyone is assigned a therapist at Hospital 2, but you share your therapist with others. My therapist, Dr. Kara, is shared with my roommate Jane, who becomes a sort of a sister figure for me since we spend every second of the day with each other, and Fran.

Dr. Kara takes us to the dining hall and has us sit. Fran rambles on while I enter my mind. The silence is overtaken by the vines in my brain wrapping themselves up in bad memories. Isolation. Who knew a word would mess up my brain so much? I always know the answers, but if someone asked me if I had ever been isolated, I would not be able to answer. Not wanting to think about this anymore, my head turns to the window, the vines in my brain creating an image.

It’s me in some sort of clock, my hair flowing in the window, my features small and my skin pale. I’m standing on the bridge outside the window. I jump into the cold water. I can almost feel the cold stabbing at my skin before I go numb and let the water take me down beneath the ice that I had shattered falling in. A peace that no one will ever be able to achieve overtakes me. Then there’s something my eyes see:

a deer. Don’t ask me how my brain works; I’m not fully sure. The deer stares at me while I sink deeper into the frozen water. The deer wants to help me. It paws its hoof against the ice, but no matter how much strength it applies the ice won’t break. My sight starts to go blurry and I–

“Alice, you here?” Dr. Kara asks. I look to see Jane staring at me with concern.

“Yeah, sorry.”

My memories of my time in Hospital 2 are still unclear as I believe I have blocked them out, but I will never forget what I said on my last day there.

“I’m Alice. I’m here because of suicidal tendencies, self-harm, and issues with…

“…isolation.”

Hongtao Chen ’22