Mare Moody - [blank]

She shakes her head and sighs deeply. She has to stay calm or she'll lose her job. I feel bad for getting irritated but I can't help it sometimes.

People begin to shift in their seats. Most people are done eating their grilled ass. Every type of person is represented in this group of people. Skinny, chubby, every race and skin color. Mental diseases do not discriminate. Everyone is equally as likely to become a sociopath. Everyone is equally as likely to fucked over by life. Everyone is equally as likely to attempt to take their life. It's sad but we can't rule the world; the world rules us. We are simply the pawns in fates Chess game. Bound to die in the first 5 minutes. Nurse Juay stands up and checks her watch. This place is so meticulously scheduled that being even a second late could result in another day of being on suicide watch. Or so I've been told. People aren't necessarily friendly but they don't pull back on sharing negative information. Recreational therapy was simply an orchestra of shushing and shit talking.

"You have to get to group therapy." Nurse Juay says to me while continuing to stare at her watch.

"What exactly is that?"

"You'll meet the other schizophrenics in the ward." She tells me. Her tone has a hopeful feeling to it. She has more hope for me than I do.

I stand up and grab my tray. She starts to speed walk and I hurry to follow her. As we walk out of the door, I dump my tray. A thud echoes through the cafeteria. Momentarily, the chatter quiets. The distraction of new sounds offsets all of the conversation happening. Humans are just overgrown squirrels. I chortle silently and walk out of the door. When my back passes through the threshold, I hear the talking grow louder and louder until it levels at its original volume.

We walk through the hallway. The labyrinth grows more. I seriously doubt I will ever fully learn the layout. The shear number of doors makes me realize how many people have the same issues as me. Although they may not have the same diagnosis, many of them most likely have similar experiences as I have. Maybe that's what has caused most of the mental issues in the world. It's just a cycle. My grandmother instilled it in my mother, my mother tried to keep it from me until she succeeded which immediately instilled it in me. Now, I hold my child and hope to God that it doesn't happen to them. I will fight it day after day if it means that my child will never go through the hell that I do. Even if it is printed in their DNA I will make sure without a shred of doubt that they will healthy and mentally stable. God, please. Please.

My hand moves to my stomach and I rub it gently. This baby will have the best life I can provide. Maybe this treatment will help. I don't want it but maybe I do need it.

Nurse Juay stops in front of an open archway. The archway is brown against the blaring white paint of the hallway. The entrance causes a clean flow into the adjacent room. Instead of furniture, I am met with simple folding chairs, positioned perfectly into a circle. It is oddly placed in the middle of the room. The room around looks like a failed garage. Big industrial windows are on the far window. I can see the evening sky peek through thick metal Venetian curtains. The room is painted an off white. I can only assume that they attempted to adapt a machinery storage closet.

Nurse Juay gestures me forward. I walk in and sit in one of the shaky chairs. I feel incredibly uncomfortable. I have never met anybody who shares the voices. I thought it was normal to think this way until I was 20, when I ask Kane-

Are you thinking about him again?

Keep thinking.

I remember his dark hair blowing in the soft breeze coming from his fan. It was a hot summer day. He rubbed his index finger against my cheek. Sweat was falling from both of our bodies. The heat never conquered us. We greeted it and when it become overwhelming, we rubbed our bodies together and made it glue in our conjoined existences. It was magical in a world of blurs and scars. We had been together for almost 5 years. I was unbreakable. I could at least control the thoughts. They simply reminded me how lucky I was to be with Kane. He was so charming. I loved his goofy smile and his carefree attitude. We would escape the house and run through the street. His button up shirt would be open and flowing in the breeze that he made with his sprinting. I would run alongside him, in my shorts and barefoot; the biggest smiles on both of our faces. Life was good. I don't remember anything bad about those days. Just happiness.

But then.

I remember that night. He got angry because I was tired and didn't want to spend the night at his house-

"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.