Author's note: As previously stated at the end of Ch. 3, my memories are a bit fuzzy from the medications I was on. Here's what I remember about our group sessions.
After Eric and I moved to the second wing, we became more involved in these get togethers. They fell into one of two categories.
1. Therapy: In here we sat in a circle, our hearts open and bleeding on the floor in front of a woman with judgmental eyes and a clipboard. There was this other patient who would make every person's story about her, so no one else got a word in edgewise. These were all but pointless.
2. Counseling: They were led by the woman from the last chapter and she brought much needed empathy to the (mostly) cold and sterile staff. These were the only hours in the hospital which did me any good.
During my first session with the new group, our counselor gave us a sheet of paper with a very basic ladder. She told us to write the first thing that brought us here on the bottom rung, the second on the middle and the third on the top. After we did this, she asked us to stand up and read what we wrote. I sat back and listened as my fellow patients bared their souls and flaws to each other, while finding acceptance. None of us were really crazy, just broken. If you're broken you can always be fixed. I stood up confidently and read my three darkest secrets out loud in front of strangers. I consider this to be my first open mic.
"My name is Davlin Stewart. I'm here because: 1. My ex girlfriend gave me genital herpes. 2. I still see her everyday at work. 3. I don't know how to cope with that or anything else that's happened to me anymore."
Then I sat down and everyone stared at me. Then they nodded, subtly telling me it was going to be ok. When walking to my room afterward I was stopped by John, a big intimidating looking guy who ended up being a teddy bear.
"Davlin. I just wanted to tell you that I respect what you did in there. I don't think I would have been able to say that in front of everyone."
"It happened." I told him. "I'm tired of holding it inside."
He nodded. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."
"Thank you and I'm sorry for what you've had to go through, too. I guess I just realized that all of us have problems we don't know how to deal with. Mine are no more serious than anyone else's, just different."
"I think you're right. How old are you?"
"22."
"Huh."
During the second she took us outside, which you really come to appreciate being trapped inside there for a few days. I remember the green of the trees being brighter than anything I'd ever seen. The air tasted clean and its warmth thawed me from the frigid recycled stuff which filled the hospital. I was pretty drugged up that day and that's all I remember.
The third and final one was my favorite time spent there. It was on my fourth day, also the day before my release. Our counselor handed us a blank piece of paper along with crayon filled tins and told us to draw pictures of our families. She then said,
"Is it ok with everyone if I play some music?" My head perked up. "I was told I couldn't play anything with too much energy, but it's better than nothing."
She popped a blank CD into a boombox, hit play and we set off to work as the music washed over us. The first couple of tracks were classical pieces and moved me in a way the genre never had before. I fell into an artistic rhythm and began drawing my family. First was my dad, aunt Betty, little brothers and my mom. They all looked sad and it wasn't a conscious effort to make them that way. When I was halfway through drawing mom, a familiar, haunting melody poured from the speakers. I dropped my crayon and jaw as I listened to "Black Orchid" by Blue October, tears streaming down my face. I looked at our counselor and mouthed the words, "thank you", and she nodded in return.
A little later during the session she asked about the people I chose to draw. I told her about them and that's something I will keep to myself. She then points something out I had missed completely.
"Why aren't you in the picture?"
"Huh?"
"You didn't draw yourself with them. That says a lot about what you think about yourself."
"Like what?"
"It's not my place to tell you that; have to figure it out for yourself."
I sat for a moment and seriously felt the weight of her words. "I don't feel connected to anyone."
"That's a start." Now, louder and to the group, "Ok, that's all of our time for today. Thank you everyone and keep your heads up." Nothing she said sounded anything other than sincere.
I approached her on my way out. "You have no idea how much you playing that song meant to me. You're the only person here who's listened to me and this is the first time I've felt anything other than fucked up since I've gotten here. Thank you."
Then I walked away, smiling for the next few hours until the song faded in a pharmaceutical haze.
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