It’s Tuesday. My mom drives me in her beat-up Volvo to Teens with Mental Illness, a support group that has its description written in the title. Like most of the kids there, I’m forced to go by my parents, who heard about it from the school counselor. Unfortunately, Teens with Mental Illness is the highlight of my social calendar.

My mom drops me off at the non-descript brick building. It used to be an outpatient treatment program, but now it’s used for Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, and of course, Teens with Mental Illness meetings.

“Have fun,” she says as she pulls in front of the drop-off lane.

“See you at nine,” I say, and she drives away. Neither one of us speaks about where I’m going, or why I’m going there.

Sabrina is waiting in the lobby when I walk in. She’s shaking. I recognize a panic attack when I see one, so I don’t say anything, and sit down across from her, pulling out my phone, scrolling through Facebook.

About ten minutes later, Sabrina stops shaking, and she catches her breath.

“You good?” I ask without looking up. I’m not being rude; I’m saving her embarrassment. Nobody likes panic attacks.

“Yeah,” she says, and Molly walks in.

“Hey.” she says, waving. She sits in a chair with her legs curled up underneath her.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hi,” Sabrina says.

Daniel comes in next. He’s really short, and just got out of the hospital last week. From what I heard over the phone from his mom talking to my mom, he was manic for five straight days, and didn’t sleep at all. I actually met him in inpatient,a year ago, when I was so scared of germs that I didn’t eat for four days. That’s when I got diagnosed with OCD.

Finally, John comes in. He’s been in and out of the hospital all year. He’s tried to kill himself like six times.

“Hey,” Daniel greets John. They’re friends, and go to the same school.

“Hey Daniel,” John says. “Hey Sabrina, Molly, Lisa.”


The group leader, Sarah, comes in shortly after that.

“Hi, guys and girls,” she says, and half of us answer her, the other half silent. I’m among the half that answer her, because I feel bad for her. She’s trying her best. She unlocks the door, and we pile into the cramped meeting room, all of us taking our usual spots, Sarah sitting in the front of the table.

“I’ve got a fun night planned for us,” she says, and Daniel rolls his eyes.

“Daniel, how are you?” she asks, and suddenly the spotlight is turned on him.

“I’m in outpatient again. Which is better than the hospital, but still.” We’ve all been in the hospital before, and it’s a well-known fact that outpatient is just better than inpatient, simply because you can sleep in your own bed.

Sarah nods at that. “John, your mom called me. Said you had a rough night last night,” she says, the spotlight turned away from Daniel and onto John. Daniel looks at me, and then flicks his eyes up to the ceiling and then back down. I move my eyes to the wall, then to Daniel, then to the wall again. It’s a game I learned in the hospital, something to do during group therapy when it wasn’t your turn to talk.

“Yeah,” he says. “Went to the ER, but they didn’t admit me, which was a surprise.”

“What triggered it?” Sarah asks, and John rubs his arm underneath his long sleeve shirt.

“I saw a picture of a slit wrist online.” There’s no emotion in his voice, and his eyes are blank.

Daniel looks at me again, then looks at the floor, me, floor, me. I respond, crossing my eyes, and then uncrossing them, crossing them, and uncrossing them. And then suddenly it’s a compulsion, and I do it four more times.

“Sabrina, how are you?” Sarah asks.

“I had a panic attack about twenty minutes ago.”

“I’m sorry. Did you have your medication?”

She shakes her head, and Sarah moves on.

“Lisa. Your mom called me a few nights ago. She says you had a bad night. What happened?”
I pull out my hands from underneath the desk, and they’re raw and pink, blood surrounding my cuticles from where I pick them. I can hear the conversation of the AA meeting in the next room over, and they’re clapping. I wait until I hear the clapping stop, and then start speaking.

“I washed my hands until they bled. And then some. Then my stupid therapist made me eat food off the ground.”

“That’s good, then,” she says. “Are you able to eat food off the ground now?”

“I can eat a grape off the floor,” I say.

“Good job. Let Lisa hear it, guys and girls.”

I’m surrounded by congratulations. Even though they’re trying to be nice, they’re still being forced to congratulate me, when none of us know what the other one is going through. I have no idea what it’s like to be schizophrenic, like Molly, or have depression, like John. Daniel has no idea what it’s like to have panic disorder, and Sabrina has no way of understanding what having Bipolar is like.

“Somebody asked if I was okay yesterday,” Molly says. “I was hallucinating in class.”

“What did you say?” Sarah asks.

“But if anybody asks, tell them we’re fine,” Daniel says. He has it written in Sharpie on the back of his hand.

“What’s that from? A song? Poem?” Sarah asks.

“I found it online somewhere,” he says, falling silent.

“I hate it,” Molly says. “I hate it when people ask if we’re okay, when we’re obviously not. They only care about one answer, anyway. They just want to hear that we’re fine, so they can mark it as their good deed of the day and move on.”

“Especially at the hospital. Nurses ask you if you’re okay, and no matter what you say, it’s not the right answer. ‘Fine’ isn’t an option. If you were ‘good’, you wouldn’t be at the hospital, and if you’re ‘bad’ you’ll stay a few more days. So what do you say?” John asks, and Sarah says nothing for several seconds.

“Would, uh, would anyone else like to say anything about that?”

“We’re gonna be okay. No matter what they say, we’re gonna be okay,” Sabrina says.