"You must be the new girl." I hear a voice blare behind me.
I jump in my seat and turn around hurried. A boy around my age stands before me with too wide of a smile plastered on his face. His auburn hair is combed to the side. His pale face amplifies his piercing green eyes.
"Woah," he says, "didn't mean to scare you."
"Um, it's fine." I say. I straighten myself out, self-conscious of all facets of my personality and physical appearance. I know already that has voices like mine. I don't know how to communicate with him properly. Do I mention my voices or just keep it out of our casual conversation?
"It's fine." He laughs. "So you here for group therapy too?"
He grabs the chair next to me and sits in, comfortable as can be. He must come here a lot…
"Y-yeah," I stammer. Don't mention my schizophrenia. Don't mention my schizophrenia.
"A fellow schizo!" He remarks. He smiles at this fact but I don't see anything positive about this fact. If he suffers from this as much as I do, why would he want more people to? I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy.
I laugh politely.
"It's just nice to meet a couple people who understand." He says, "My name's Brooke."
"Nice to meet you," I say hazardously. He senses my nervousness.
"This group is only the non-violent ones." He says matter-of-factly.
"Non-violent?"
"Yeah, there are some really bad ones that hallucinate all of the time," he teaches, "some also have Psychosis."
"Psychosis?"
"Wow, you really haven't done any research…" He seems surprised.
"Yeah, I was just told a few hours ago that I am schizophrenic. I had no idea what it really was." I say shamefully, “I still really don’t.”
"Wow." He says, "How did you handle that diagnosis? I mean, I denied it for a while and then came to terms with it when the meds helped."
"Um, honestly," I swallow my excessive saliva that is slowly accumulating, "it made too much sense for me to deny it."
"What about meds?" He asks, "have you taken any?"
"Uh, I can't."
"Why not?" He is thoroughly confused. I can't just say 'because.' I feel an obligation to tell him the real truth. Don't ask me why.
"Uh, I'm pregnant."
His eyes widen and his mouth slightly falls. He looks from my face to my stomach and back again.
"Really?" He doubts it entirely.
"Yeah," I say, "only 4 weeks or so."
"Wow. Lots of news all at once."
"Yeah." I look down at my hands. I don’t want to this about it because my brain would begin the spiral of anxiety.
"Oh, here they come!"
His neck cranes and faces a swarm of people slowly trudging towards the archway. Most look disdained, but others seem assorted degrees of excited. I assume the more acute schizophrenics are the most excited. I make a mental note to not engage in any form of communication with them. Maybe that is disingenuous but I can't help it. I can't help any of my automatic assumptions. Society has fucked me over on that account. They all take seats in the circle and suddenly, we are formed into a halo of crazy. Nobody would even try to provoke a group such as this.
A middle aged man with medium length, well-kept brown hair sits in the very last seat. The longest strains tease his eyebrows ever so slightly. His face is comely but his hand twitches slightly on his tan pants. Subconsciously he doesn't want to deal with group as much as I. Or maybe I am overthinking natural nervous tics. Everyone is anxious in every part of their life; it's human nature. Just some have been cursed with a higher dosage of cortisol than others. I can't say I feel bad because apparently I am part of that group — or rather, this group.
The man brushes his hair back and his face relaxes into a permanent look of sympathy.
"Alright," he musters up an amicable expression, "let's get started."
The bantam banter slows to a halt. All eyes move to his. He intertwines his fingers and rests his conjoined hands on his abdomen.
"Let's go around and say a little bit about ourselves," he says, "My name is Dr. Emmett, and a clinical psychologist who likes dogs."
Thus began the awkward eye contact between the people on either side of him. Neither of them wanted to start the circle going. Brook's voice breaks through the silence.
"Hi, my name is Brook, I'm 22 and insane." He smiles at the end of his sentence. He takes too much pride in his mental disabilities. Maybe I just don't take enough pride.
"Brook, we have talked about tagging ourselves as 'insane,'" Dr. Emmett reminds him. You'd expect Brook to look even slightly guilty but when he sees Doc's reaction, it simply fuels his pride even more. His belligerence is frankly entertaining.
"Sorry Dr. Em," Brook snickers.
The doctors attention shifts from Brook after realizing that he wasn't going to get any actual progress with the unguilty, overgrown teenager. It is at this moment that I realize that I am the one sitting next to Brook and it is my turn now. With Dr. Emmett's eyes burning into my face, I begin to stammer nervously.
"I-uh," my words jumble, "um, Ana."
I look around the circle and see everyone eyes on me. This makes it so much worse. Surrounding me is a vortex of schizophrenics. They look at me with their full attentions. I clear my throat.
"My name is Ana, I'm 22 and, uh…" I can't think of any traits that I have. For the last five years I have simply been 'Kane's girl' or 'That one with brown hair.' I press my brain. I have personality somewhere, right?
"Burgundy is my favorite color."
I haven't actually told people that in a very long time. If you asked anyone I knew what my favorite color was, they would just tell you 'I don't know… blue?'
"That's a very nice color," Dr. Emmett comments. A smile is on his face. Instead of fake, it actually seems to be sincere. That small fact brings my confidence up by a smidge.
The girl next to me fidgets in her seat. Her arms are gripping the sides of her seat. Long red marks are streaked from her wrist to her shoulders. Both arms match. Depression has given her the tattoo gun and she made the scars so they would never fade. They glisten red and some look so new that they are hard to look at. She sees me looking and frowns. Her long auburn hair is incredibly thin and swipes across her shoulder every time she moves her head even slightly. She licks her lips and clears her throat.
"My name is Minnie, I'm 19 and I love to ride my bike." She looks down at her lap, in an attempt to clear herself of the attention. This girl, just like me, has to deal with voices that tell her to do things she doesn't always want to. I would call myself lucky if all mine do is bring Kane back into my conscious and always tell me to go back. At least I don't self-harm on a regular basis. For once, I feel more or less thankful for my schizophrenia.
"Exercise is very good, Minnie," Dr. Emmett says, "Thank you sharing."
"Hi," the next person says with much more confidence than Minnie and I. She sits, a mature woman, with a radiant smile on her face. Her gleaming green eyes have so much hope in them. "I'm Amanda, I'm 32 and cats are my favorite thing in the world." She pushes her frizzy red hair behind her hair and straightens her striped shirt that barely fits around her busty chest. She is so sure of herself. She has been going through this for ten more years than I. Hopefully the hope she pours through the room will fill me by the time I am her age.
"Animals are great!" Dr. Emmett chuckles, "I prefer dogs though, as you know."
The very last person comes into the center of attention. He is definitely the youngest and most nervous. His tight curly brown hair reminds me of Kane too much. He had blaring brown eyes with freckles to match. His resemblance to my lost lover is almost too much for me. My hand moves to my stomach and once again, I clutch my baby anxiously. What if my baby wound up like this? I can see it now. My son, sitting in a schizophrenics group therapy, looking exactly like his father but with his mother's head. Who knows how he would wind up after that. If his father became a sociopath without the help of schizophrenia, where will my son wind up? Fear pulses through my veins. Minute by minute I get more anxious. My hands start fidgeting and I hear the air in my ears. My breath starts to grow shallow and the drowning begins. I start to pant. I am having a heart attack. I know it. The blood pulls away from limbs, leaving them numb with pins and needles. I hold my hands together and squeeze. My muscles tense in response and I am left defenseless.