Lennon

one

"She wasn't bitter. She was sad, though. But it was a hopeful kind of sad. The kind of sad that just takes time."

"The Perks of Being a Wallflower", Stephen Chobsky

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He wasn't something you'd notice at first glimpse.

I made two vital mistakes that day: taking inventory of everyone I had grown accustomed to seeing in the last year and a half, and noticing the one chair usually left cold and empty was indeed filled by a boy with faded jeans and a stupid graphic t-shirt.  The circle of fold-out chairs squeaked as a couple of teens fidgeted in their seats. A weak cough emanated from somewhere on my left.  

"Group," Guy began, theatrically waving his hand through the air to gesture to Bazinga Boy, "this is Pete. Pete Lennon."

I couldn't contain my snort. He was probably beaten up as a kid with a name like that, I thought, before he looked up from his lap. His geeky name did not match the cute guy who anxiously scratched at the back of his neck.  Chelsea, a blond on Guy's right side, twisted chunks of her hair between manicured fingers. Another girl-  Alex, whose facial piercings were a magnet's best friend- actually giggled. Adler rolled his eyes, mouthing the words 'pretty boy' as he caught my eye.

"Why don't you tell the group about yourself, Pete," Guy eagerly encouraged, his thick brows jumping with excitement. He had a horrible habit of doing that.

There was a moment of silence. Everyone stilled in their seats when Pete cleared his throat. Contemplation was written in the lines of his frown. He stood, sneakers scratching against the crappy carpet of the church basement.

"Um," he began. His blue eyes flickering from face to face, Pete bit his bottom lip, letting out a nervous chuckle.

"Hi," Pete said finally, unintelligibly. "My name is Pete Lennon."

Adler and I snickered as everyone said in an eerie unison, "Hi, Pete."

"I'm here for my bipolar depression. I'm nineteen. I used to play baseball, and loved to go hiking. I'm currently taking college courses at MCC."

Pete's introduction was not unlike everyone else's. Guy, per usual, was nodding and making empathetic noises every few seconds. As Pete went into detail about his loss of interests and strange sleeping habits, I felt a small curdle of sympathy expand in my stomach.

"My symptoms started around my eighteenth birthday. I had begun to act strangely. I had trouble sleeping and concentrating, and had high levels of energy and euphoria. The crash came about a week later. My mother began to get worried when she found out I was abusing marijuana, and that I had gotten caught for petty crimes. Um, like you, I was encouraged to come here by my therapist. He thinks I'll get some companionship out of all of this."

My fingers itched when his voice caught and his eyes practically begged Guy to leave the subject as it was, a short autobiography about his doctor's recommendations and daily cocktails of antidepressants. We had all suffered through talking about ourselves on our first day.

I understood depression. Adler understood depression. Hell, even Dumb Abby, who once insisted the stars on the American flag were silver, understood this depression.

It has a teeter-totter effect. One moment, you are in AP Comp, and the next thing you know, a tiny speck of dread lands on your shoulder, weighs your steps down as you walk down the hall. You think nothing of it. It's a speck. But then, anxiety climbs on your back, kinda makes your skin itch. You brush it off, but the dread feels just a little heavier with their new found friends reminding you of your faults.