The Therapy Group

I got to counseling pretty early. Well, 15 minutes early, considering I was driving slower than an old woman. Usually, I would make my mother drive me, but today was a school day, and she had to drive herself to work.

I don't just get to counseling early, only because I drive slower than the average teenager. I end up there early so I can listen in on people. The therapy rooms may have white noise generators outside each door, but I can still hear people if I listen close enough. I know, it's a creepy thing to do, but I find it interesting and addicting. It doesn't matter who is inside speaking, I just want to know what they have to say.

Before I went in, I checked out my face in the rearview mirror. My black hair was slightly disheveled and my eyeliner was a tad bit smudged. I wet the tip of my finger and rubbed the ends and bottoms of my eyes, cleaning up the eyeliner. I checked again, and I still looked horrible. Damn, I hated myself. I felt for the rubber band that I wore on my wrist, and gave my wrist a hard snap. There's a bruise from where I've been snapping myself with the band too much. Whatever.

I grabbed my drawing pad and exited my car. Inside, the woman that was sitting within the glass surrounded office didn't even bother to glance my way. I wouldn't need to check in for my appointment until later. I took a seat in my favorite spot and opened my drawing book.

I had this one particular spot that I was obsessed with. I must sit there. I don't know if it's my OCD, but whenever I cannot sit there, I get all sweaty and shaky. Of course, I'm parked right next to my counselor's office door.

My drawing book is filled with random sketches. Mostly sketches from school and sketches about my emotions. School is hell, and drawing makes things less worse, so school is where I draw the most. At home, I like to practice my singing, listen to music, read, or teach myself guitar.

I originally didn't hear anything coming from my counselor's office, which kinda bothered me, but then I heard some yelling. I leaned in closer, hoping no one would notice that I was eavesdropping and listened. I pretended to be interested in my drawings, flipping through them every now and then.

Random lady: Why don't you ever hug me or kiss me? Fuck, you won't even have sex with me anymore! Is it because I'm older? Is it because you're more interested in those porn stars, whom you have pictures of on your phone?

Random man: I love you, and I do hug you and kiss you, but why are you going through my phone to begin with? Do you really think there is something I'd hide from you?

Lady: You've been hiding those sluts from me!

Counselor: We are getting a little off topic here. Why not we talk about your feelings instead of what he hides.

It was drama, but I loved every second of it. I was ashamed of it and it was very illegal, but there was nothing I could do to stop it and it wasn't causing anyone any harm, unless I actually spread the secrets, which I wouldn't do ever.

I glanced at the clock briefly, and I still had ten minutes. I slumped down in my seat.

I felt the vibration of the door opening, before seeing the people walk out. The people in the appointment that I was eavesdropping on. I looked up at them as they passed by. The woman who was complaining about her and her husband's sex life had long dark hair and dark eyes. She was dressed rather expensively, both hands decorated with rings and bangles. The man was dressed well too. They were the perfect couple.

After five more minutes of waiting, Dr. Robinson walked out.

"Hello, Gerard," she said while she waved her hand into her room as a gesture.

"Hi," I said quietly while I made my way into the fancy looking room.

Once we took our seats, I blurted out, "That couple that just walked out are perfect for each other. Don't you think so?"

"Really? You think they're perfect for each other?" She countered quickly with other questions.

"Well...um...yeah," I replied.

"It's strange, yet interesting to hear how you're taking notice of them. Most of my clients do not even think, nor care about the people that come in before them." Dr. Robinson raised an eyebrow. I had a feeling that she was suspicious and I immediately regreted opening my mouth. I should've just waited for her to ask the questions, like always.

I shrugged.

"I've just started talking to you and you already seem like you may be hiding something or you might be distracted. Are you distracted?"

"Um..no."

Dr. Robinson nodded. "Your mother did tell me that lately you've seemed aloof."

My mother and Dr. Robinson talk about my mental health every now and then via phone. These secret phone conversations lead me to believe that my mom is the reason why I'm on Cymbalta.

"No, I've been fine." I bit back the urge to say something rude about my mom to my counselor.

"You know, I was thinking when I had that conversation with your mother about you being aloof and anti-social," Dr. Robinson said slowly. "That maybe you would do better in group counseling. It might release some of that distraction and help you become more social. It's not like you'd be with adults. You'd be having counseling with kids your own age, who face the same problems as you. I've talked to your mother about it and she thought it was lovely. She was saying it must be something you do."

I felt my face contort and I tried to stop it. I knew that Dr. Robinson already saw my look of horror. Group therapy sounded horrible. It sounded like the worst thing for me at this point. She fucking knew that I didn't do well in group settings. Plus, I didn't feel like leaving the comfort of her intimately lighted room, that smelled like cherry blossoms. This made my anxiety level go up, as well as my anger.

"I-I really don't think that's a good idea," I protested.

"It's okay to not want to be in a group and have to talk about yourself, but just think, this might help you to be more social with other kids. I swear, if you cooperate and participate in the group, it'll quickly become a great, supportive place." At the end of her statement, she tried to smile. Dr. Robinson isn't the smiling type, and neither am I.

"Fine. I'll do it," I muttered. Anything to get Dr. Robinson off my case. Then, I realized what a horrible mistake I just made. How the hell was I supposed to talk in front of people I barely knew? I started to get sweaty. I sweat when I get anxious.

Great. Next week on Monday I would be broadcasting my issues to strangers.

Notes