The Therapy Group

"Now that everyone is present, let's begin. First, I'm going to go around the circle and ask for your names, so that we all know each other. Afterwards, we'll tell each other about our problems," Dr. Robinson explained. She gestured towards me first, just like I thought she would.

"I'm Gerard," I said shyly. As soon as the words left my mouth, I started to shake. Everyone's eyes were focused on me for that split second, including the hazel eyes from Mr. Sexy. I had yet to find out his name.

Dr. Robinson just nodded and looked at the girl to my right. Her name was Amy. She was a tad bit strange, and had bald patches where she must've been tearing her hair out. I sympathized. The girl in the hijab was named Naomi. The kid in gothic apparel was named Patch. One girl refused to say her name no matter how many times Dr. Robinson tried to coax her out of her shy shell. Last but certainly not least, it was Mr. Sexy's turn.

"My name is Frank," he confidently replied. His voice was nice, and had a slight New Jersey accent. His eyes started to wander in my direction and I quickly glanced down at my sneakers. It would be bad if he caught me staring at him.

"Well, now that we have established that, why don't we have a group discussion? Who would like to share first? Remember, only support or advice. No rude comments or laughter at other's problems," she explained, grabbing her yellow notepad. Why did she even have to have that? What did she absolutely have to keep track of? I was not one to ask questions, so instead I pondered.

"I'll go, I guess. It's better to get it over with," Patch, the goth kid, volunteered. He didn't look enthused, but that could've been an illusion caused by his stage makeup. I could tell Dr. Robinson wasn't enjoying his attitude very much, but she bit her tongue. "I have self-harm issues."

"Very good. Is that all, or do you have more to add?" She scribbled on her pad.

"That's it." He leaned back in his seat.

"Thank you. Who's next? Gerard, would you like to go?" Of course she had to pick me and there was no way I could pass on this. It's group therapy. What would the point in going be if I were to just not add my problems in with everyone else's?

I took a deep breath, but it came out as a choking sound. "Uh, yeah, I'll go." Everyone was watching me and my hands starting shaking. I stuffed them in my hoodie pockets. "I have anxiety, and even in groups like this, I get shaky. On top of that, I was diagnosed with OCD. I often have weird ticks that I must carry out to the end, otherwise I get anxiety. I also have a case of mild depression, nothing too serious."

At the end of my spiel, Frank's eyes were still glued to me. I was excited, but also really intimidated by it. His eyes were amazing and he was just beautiful, but there was a little part of me that wondered why he was looking at me. Was I that messed up? Again, my eyes darted towards the floor and I couldn't bring myself to look up.

"Frank?" Dr. Robinson asked.

"No," he responded.

"Why not?"

“I don’t see you spilling out all your problems. In order to be the therapist, you must relate, otherwise it’s honestly a waste of your time."

“I am simply here to supervise and lead the group. I’m not your peer, nor am I anywhere close to your age. This group is for individuals in between the age range of 15 and 21." She was growing impatient and her lips had turned into a thin line.

“Okay, but your part of the group just like everyone else. Spill,” he said in a rather demanding tone.
“Frank, this isn’t about me, it’s about helping the kids here.”
“Well, until you share, I’m not sharing.” His smirk was growing and his eyes glittered. This was like a game for him. I found it hilarious, and apparently, so did he.

“What a waste of money,” Dr. Robinson murmured. “Okay, Naomi?"

We moved onto Naomi. She expressed that she was abused by her alcoholic father. At the end of her short story, I wanted to hug her. The girl with big chunks missing from her scalp, Amy, said that she was bullied at school and it got so bad, that she started ripping out her own hair. Another girl, who I didn't know her name, again, refused to speak. It was comforting knowing that I wasn't alone, but it also made me feel out of place because I didn't have it as bad as the other kids.

Disrupting my thoughts, Dr. Robinson announced, "It looks like we are out of time. Next time we'll discuss coping mechanisms and we'll do some fun team-building games, so that we don't feel so awkward together. I'll see you guys next week!"

With that, I grabbed my bag, decorated with comic book art, and started to walk out of the room. Even as I was walking out to my car, I felt eyes on me. Briefly looking back over my shoulder, I made eye contact with Frank.

Before I could even think about what I was saying, I blurted, "Do you have a problem?" I turned to face him, which probably made it worse. I didn't mind the attention from such an attractive guy, but it was a little uncomfortable. I had to occasionally look at him, but he didn't have to look at me.

"No, I was just admiring your fashion sense,” Frank sassed. His tone was so sarcastic and again, the smirk came into play.
“Oh, go pick on someone your own size. Maybe an eighth grader.” Standing up, I realized Frank was really quite short for a guy. I felt triumphant about my comeback and it was the first time I’ve actually come with one that was semi-decent.
He frowned and his smirk disappeared. The hands at his sides began to clench, ever so slightly. I have to admit, for a short person, his anger was intimidating as well.

“At least I’m not the emo kid here. At least height isn’t wrong.”
“Who says I’m emo? That’s a genre of music, check your facts before flinging irrelevant insults at me, thank you very much.” With that, I got in my car, feeling great about myself. I danced and sang in the car all the way home.

Notes

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