Mare Moody - [blank]

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.

"My name is John, I'm 17 and I should be in the adolescent ward but my 18th birthday is so close so I requested the adult ward."

I hear as if I am underwater. Everything is feels like the static coming off a TV. All confusing and blurry. My breath continually gets more and more shallow until I am gasping.

"Are you ok, Ana?" Dr. Emmett notices my failed attempts at breathing.

He moves straight into emergency mode. He gets off of his chair and walks over to me. He can see the fear in my eyes and the lack of breath in my lungs.

"I need you to breathe." He says calmly as he kneels in front of me.

"Take a deep breath in"

I try to control my muscle and force a fulfilling breath into my straining chest.

"Let it out slowly."

This is even more difficult as it requires twice as many muscles. I take control of my throat and diaphragm; with this I am able to let it out at a slower rate than hyperventilation. When I have total control of my lungs, I lose control of my face. My tear ducts develop a mind of their own and begins flowing oceans upon my shirt. I put my hands over my eyes to prevent my tears from being seen but once I put my focus back on my face, my lungs loss control again. I begin breathing with the flow of my tears. My face contorts and my eyebrows furrow. I can feel everyone's eyes on me and it make me that much more upset.

"I'm sorry," I say between breaths.

"It's ok," Dr. Emmett says, he remains on his knees in front of me, "we are all here for you."

I wipe my face of the tears and look around the circle. I expect faces of mocking or even faux sympathy but I am met with only looks of empathy. It not condescending but rather they understand my struggle have been through a close version of hell that I have. They know me even though all they know is my name and favorite color. I am understood. This is not sympathy. This is the most freeing feeling after the most crushing collapse.

Pounding on my door rips my conscience out of its acetaminophen and benadryl filled coma. I had begged Dr. Simmons for some sort of sleeping aid last night and now I am regretting it. My eyes snap open and I peer towards the window. Outside, the only light is the street lamp. Why the fuck am I awake.

"Breakfast in 30 minutes!" The pounding continues.

I groan and pull myself out of bed, demanding each muscle one at a time. I wake up at 3 o'clock in the afternoon on most days. Rising before the sun would never be listed as a hobby of mine. When my body finally responds, I t over to the light switch and flick it on.

"Come on," I urge Jamie, "get up."

She stirs for a second, then grows still. I have only known Jamie for 30 minutes total (minus the time we were asleep) and I can already tell that this will be a friendship that could take a while.

"Breakfast is in 30 minutes." I repeat the command yelled at us.