~~Group Therapy~~

~~~~5~~~~

     Bullshit diaries: Page 4. Hey bitch, it’s me, Bev, again. I know I’m supposed to write in this every day, but I forgot so I’m scribbling all of this in at group, in my chair beside Richie. He’s talking about dolphins again. I love him, but he is the world’s biggest god damned CHATTERBOX. Oh shit gotta go. Mr. Sweaty Dude is looking at me. Gotta blast.

Sweaty dude starts handing out our nametags again, smiling and nodding at each of us in turn. He sits down in his chair, cracking his large knuckles.

“So, how did the journals go?” He bellows, sweeping his gaze over the small group of bored teenagers. Everybody squirms in their seats, minus Anxiety, OCD and Binge Eater. I knew it. Those three did seem like the ones to actually do the work. OCD, or ‘Stanley,’ raises his hand, speaking out before even getting called on.

“If I may, I think the journals were bullshit.” A few heads nod, and he continues speaking. “I mean, you just told us to write what we feel. All I, personally, gained from that, was a sense of how sad my life is. I never realized how much my disorder rules me until after reading the journal.”

He sits down, and Sweat Machine leans forwards, a gleam of..... Happiness? Some emotion I can't quite place gleam in his dark blue eyes.

“Thank you, Stanley, for that. I politely disagree. I believe that the journals are for you to document your progress. While yes, you may seem ruled by what’s wrong with you now, that's why you’re here, is it not? To get better? And you can’t do that without having something wrong first. This is just the start. I am not a miracle worker. I am not going to cure you. But I am going to do everything in my power to help you guys manage.”

Stanley looks away, reprimanded, pondering what Sweat Factory just said. He nods and recedes the argument. I finally look at our sweaty leader’s name tag. Rory. Ew.

I realize my focus has settled back on my hands, and I’m trying to get the scar off again. I have a scar on my palm from an incident I don’t remember, probably from a past life or something. But it’s big, and garish, so I spend many of my waking hours trying to dig it out of my flesh. Something in me tells me if I get it out, I’ll be pretty. People will want to date me. Boys and girls alike. But I can’t get it out. I can’t. I’ve tried picking, and peeling, and even cutting, but none of it works. But I still try. I have to.

Richie squirms beside me, bringing my thoughts back to the present. I see he’s focused on something. This rarely happens, so I follow his line of vision until I see what he’s staring at. It’s Anxiety. Richie’s been out as Bisexual for a while now, so it’s not unusual for him to crush on somebody he hasn’t talked to, but he doesn’t usually seem this…. Serious. I like Anxiety. He seems like a nice kid. You know what? I’m going to get them together.

And so it begins. You guys Reddie? I know I haven't updated in forever, but I'm here so.... Enjoy?
(537 words)