The Real Thing

The necessary revelation a support group taught me

Each seated member of my support group had honorary titles, chronic depressive, schizophrenic, bipolar, compulsive/obsessive, anxiety disorder, narcissistic personality, and me, college student. Not exactly crazy to be here, but it was a required part of my journalism class. I’d brought little interest and a pad along to make notes proving I’d been here.

“Anyone wish to start?”

Silence not profound, more cautiously bored. I raised my hand. “How does sitting here in a circle fix mental problems?”

Raised eyebrows met my gaze. “There are no fixes, mister, you are?”

“I’ll remain anonymous like the others, only my glittering personality will remain on display. If there are no fixes, not even medication, why are we here?”

“Court mandated,” came one muttered sad reply.

“My wife makes me,” came a last desperate attempt to avoid a nasty divorce.

“Free coffee?” suggested a third, sipping something dark from a cup.

A fourth sitting in a catatonic statue pose seemed to be reflecting on either the ultimate meaning of life or admiring his scuffed up shoes. “Am I the only one sane here?” he whispered aloud to himself.

“I get it,” I said, feeling my pencil snap in two, “Everyone living is crazy in their own way. Here is where you meet and share that fact.”

I had my school newspaper article I’d come for. I stood, shook hands around the circle, before waving and stepping outside the door to meet the newly exposed reality beyond.

Wc 239