Group, Sunday night, 7-8 p.m.
Bill lies on his back, knees propped up, and delivers a ten-minute
deliberate, blow-by-blow account of his back problem, an anatomy of
pain as experienced from Tuesday through Friday. He concludes he
doesn't take care of his back - he practices poor back hygiene - since
he would prefer not to be alive.
The group leader, a relief counselor, some sort of partial
psychotherapist if it's possible to be a partial psychotherapist,
takes this in, nods sympathetically, and moves on to the next person
in the rag-tag circle. At least some benefactor bought the house four
new couches, all matching, dark green leather, so the people heavy
with "diagnoses" and enduring greater or lessor degrees of "symptoms"
can deliver their weekly Sunday evening confessions in dignity.
Joey still does not utter more than monosyllables. It's been eight
months by my count, but he was here before me, so who knows how long
he has been slouching inside his zip-up sweatshirt and dreaming of the
next opportunity to watch TV; specifically, COPS, that show where they
trail the cops as they hone in on their next big suspect, someone who
is behind in child support payments, perhaps, or a petty pot dealer.
Skip is still thanking Jesus he is not so angry he turns it on himself
or on anyone else. He carries on a lively conversation with Jesus
that he translates for our ingrate ears. I don't believe a thing
about him, especially not the Jesus bit, whether or not he stubbornly
wears that cross and talks about taking Theology classes down the
line. Once he gets his probation and unemployment and debt and anger
all squared away.
I missed hearing Linda. I came in late and they had already gotten
past her. Damn. She is my favorite. A 20-year old
nihilist/existentialist with an astonishingly dirty apartment, a fat
cat, and a black bicycle with a wicker basket. She considers bike
helmets foolish in that they might come between her and death.
The new girl says she is less furious now than a week ago when she was
plucked from her real life and put in this residential home. "The
house", we call it, since it is demonstrably a Palo Alto Victorian
house that sleeps approximately 12, though they never cram more than
10 in here. The new girl wears tight braids across her forehead and
is radiant in that 18-year-old way. She is still completely outraged
at a system where outsiders (meaning anyone except herself) can put
her in a mental institution, or even H2, the Stanford Psych Ward.
What if I decide to move to London? she asks. Can they decide this
means Im crazy, and put me back in H2? What if I decide to move
tomorrow to Hawaii? What if I decide to move tomorrow to NYC? She is
obsessed with moving tomorrow. I take note: a good companion for my
eventual road trip in the truck, to visit all the national parks, plus
New Orleans and Savannah. We'd always be moving tomorrow.
Gary is doing OK and all that he's doing better and all that he had a
good weekend and all that but he's really, really, really angry with
his parents and all that. He was glad to see them and all that. He
is happy that he is channelling his anger now and all that. I count
how many times he says "and all that" in his 5-minute dissertation on
anger channelled nowhere. More than 37. My mind drifted to the
pixie, Linda, who is examining her hair and her knees and laughing
quietly to herself. Maybe she is also counting.
Luke is here. I am surprised. Luke never comes to Group in the
house. He stays in his apartment across the street, donwstairs from
Linda's fat cat, and drinks and watches TV and disposes of the empties
somewhere other than the common recycling bin. There's only six
apartments in our apartment block, and we're all tethered to the
house. The house owns the apartments, and slowly, eventually,
everyone graduates from the house, to the apartments, then finally to
leaving for good and living on your own. It's written into the rental
agreement that there's no alcohol or drugs allowed. This is why I
have to hold my parties over at Kathy's house. It isn't written in
the rental agreement that we have to go to Group daily, across the
street, but I do. I figure I'm paying $1,500/month for the mental
health support, so I may as well go to Group. You never know when you
hear something good, when you perk up your ears and actually learn
something relevant to your own life. Luke never goes to Group. He
complains now that someone ratted him out and now he is being forced
to live in the house for a while. He says he'd rather be in a morgue.
I think I am the only one here tonight not obsessed with my own
demise. Luke wants a job closer to his abilities than stacking
groceries at that outlet place in Redwood City. He is pissed off that
he has a mental illness; he is pissed off that's he's an alcoholic and
a pothead; he is pissed off that he has a lousy job; and, now, he is
pissed off that he's stuck back inside the house for an indeterminate
probation.
Linda giggles.
It's my turn and I say that I'm steady. Yessir. Sailboat on a calm
lake, not moving. A sailboat with yellow and white diagonal stripes
on the sail, on a calm lake about a mile in diameter, not moving.
The relief counselor looks at me a bit oddly when I offer that last
detail, and I reflect on the unfairness of it. You could be suicidal
and homicidal around here and they just cluck their tongues, but just
try to be cute or eccentric. They write you up as loony tunes.
We all gather to our feet and disperse out into the cold, black night.
So many people, vibrantly healthy, devoutly wishing for death as they
head to their rooms in the house, or across the street to their
apartments. Do we represent the high-end of the scale, or, just the
portion of the population that is talking out loud? How many people,
sitting down to watch "The Simpsons" at 8 p.m. on Sunday night, are
thinking life would be cured by just not waking up on Monday?