I scanned the waiting room. One guy’s leg was bouncing and a gal was knitting either a giant sock or sweater, but it was the dude in the heavy tweed winter coat with the yellow flower in his lapel that truly shined. The room was hot as fuck, and this cat looked like he was ready for Wyoming’s worst winter. I watched him look frantically around the place. Yeah, buddy, no one’s in charge.
“I’m dyslexic,” he announced. “Can anyone help me fill out this form?”
I addressed him from the aluminum chair that my huge ass was parked on.
“Buddy, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that I’m not dyslexic, but the bad news is that in stressful situations, I tend to hear voices. So if you speak up, then I can do it. I can help ya.”
“Voices, huh?”
No one in the room stared at me or thought twice about my revelation or our conversation. Shit, I was in a room full of people who were probably more like me than I wanted to own. Add to it that we were all here on our weekend, which either made us total losers or desperate to get a professor off our backs. Or probably both.
“Yeah, that’s a whole other story.” I stood and walked toward him. “Let’s get the form filled out together.”
“Thanks, man,” he said and handed me the clipboard.
“Welcome to the Depression Center,” I read from the pink intake sheet I’d completed ten minutes earlier.
The guy grinned. “Why would they welcome you to a center for depression? Isn’t that counterproductive?”
I laughed. “Good point. Maybe it’s about relating.”
That made him chuckle.
“I’m more likely to get overwhelmed with all this stuff,” he said.
“Me too.”
I discovered his name was Bob Carole. He was two years older than me and about to graduate.
“I didn’t think I’d ever get a college degree. So to be under thirty is a win,” he said.
“Dude, you’re only twenty-five. You know how many people take gap years? You’re right on course.”
Bob seemed to consider what I said.
“My professor told me this was the best opportunity for me to meet my people,” he told me.
If I had a dime for every time well-intentioned people and their well-intentioned comments told me what I needed, I’d be as rich as Trump and just as emotionally bankrupt.
“Hell, Bob,” I said, “I think I just found my tribe.”
My first session with the Depression Center began when the counselor ushered us into a sterile room with white walls and more aluminum chairs. She introduced herself as Gabbie but pronounced her name through gritted teeth so it sounded more like Debbie. Still, she was in charge and asked us to grab a chair and form one large circle.
If it wasn’t such a stereotype of group therapy, I’d laugh. But I’d already made a friend in Bob, who kicked off the conversation. Gabbie wanted us to introduce ourselves and the issue—singular—we were working on.
“So, my mom claims there was a time when there weren’t laptops. Strange,” Bob began. His coat was unbuttoned, which revealed another jacket on top of a sweatshirt and sweatpants. The guy was either seriously cold or trying to cut weight for wrestling. And with the gut that hung over his pants, I doubted he was a wrestler.
“Then IBM invented the first portable computer, and the thing was huge. Like not just in the newness of it but also the actual size. This thing came with a carrying case and had like zero battery life. Still, as my mom tells the story, it was transformative, or so she claims,” he continued.
I glanced at Gabbie, who sat with her legs shifted to the side and crossed at the ankle like she was royalty. Or maybe that was how women sat. It just looked weird. And uncomfortable as fuck.
“Anyway, since my mom had one of the first laptops, she said it made her feel less invisible, which is funny because all my life, I’ve wanted to be invisible and she didn’t.” Bob seemed lost in time.
Still, Gabbie said nothing, which prompted Bob to continue.
“So as computers advanced, my mom continued to invest in them, which was like a second mortgage,” he said. “But when I was little and couldn’t read or write like my brothers and sister, she put me on the computer. I still struggled to read, and my numbers always got mixed up, but it’s like my brain was hardwired for computers. The keyboard and everything. It all just made sense to me. Funny, right?” Bob made eye contact with me, and I nodded. “Everyone liked to tell my mom that her approach to my dyslexia was crazy, but sometimes it’s that crazy that makes all the difference.”
Fuck yeah, Bob. Immediately I thought of my mom. When I told her about the static, which was what I called the voices in my head, she did everything to make it go away. My mom’s belief in me was so steadfast that she was completely blindsided when she realized that my command hallucination, Trevor, had been calling the shots. Still, it didn’t stop her. If anything, it made her work harder to get me the help I needed—at any cost. What she did to save me wasn’t crazy to me, but I knew my dad questioned her sanity.
“It’s well-meaning parents and caregivers who often integrate and normalize our mental health challenges. Instead of having this difference,” Gabbie said, “it sounds like your mom normalized it.”
“Straight up. I’m not thrilled about being here, but if it helps me go from failing a class to graduating, I’ll do it,” Bob replied.
“What class?” The girl with the knitting needles stopped long enough to make eye contact.
“Algebra. I’ve taken the class three times,” Bob said.
“I’m going to graduate on time and in the top of my class,” the knitter stated, which gave me another reason to dislike her.
“Everyone’s course is their own,” Gabbie said. “Bob, do you have your accommodations in place?”
“Yeah, I use the testing lab. I take all my tests there without any disruptions, but sometimes I need absolute quiet, and that doesn’t always happen.”
Gabbie reached beside her chair for a yellow pad of paper and ballpoint pen and wrote something down. “There’s other accommodations for proctored tests where it’s just you and the proctor alone in a room.”
“Cool,” Bob said.
“Who’s next?” Gabbie barely glanced around the circle before she nodded from Bob to me.
“I’m Branson. I have schizoaffective disorder, and sometimes it’s hard to drown out the sound when I’m writing papers or taking a test.”
“Okay.” Her face neither scrunched up nor did she take a measured step back with her chair. The look on her face actually seemed genuine. “Have you thought about using the language lab?”
I shook my head.
“It’s a free service on campus that helps students with editing and proofing,” she explained.
“And I’m sure they don’t battle with multiple voices competing with each other for top spot.” I relied on humor to deflect real emotion. I half laughed, but she didn’t. Instead, her face softened.
“You have a condition, but….”
But. That three-letter word negated everything that went before it. I glanced away. I knew the drill. Blah, blah, blah, but it’s your responsibility to take care of your illness. But you can’t expect everyone to understand. But you’re the one who entered your professor’s office and tried to steal the midterm. But this falls on you.
“Branson?”
I resumed eye contact.
“What do you wish people knew about you?” she asked.
“What?”
I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. No one had ever asked me that question.
“What do you wish people knew about you?”
“That I’m not a label. I’m not my mental illness. It’s not like I go around telling people I have schizoaffective, but when people find out?” I shrugged. “I want to say, ‘Check your assumptions.’ Not everyone with a mental illness like schizoaffective, bipolar, or whatever it is is going to go shoot up a movie theater or school campus.”
Gabbie gently smiled, but it was Bob who spoke.
“Yeah, like don’t get caught in the stigma that’s attached to mental illness,” he said. “We all have issues, but who doesn’t?” He elbowed me. “‘Check your assumptions’ is legit. Maybe we should get that made into a sticker. Like with a big check mark. I’d do it, but then it might read ‘assumptions’ with a big check.” Bob elbowed me again. “Actually, that could work too.”
His logic made perfect sense.
“Stickers really only work if there’s a defined purpose,” knitting girl said.
If I weren’t on a regular dose of medicine, which kept the shadow people that committed heinous acts in my mind at bay, my divided mind would’ve had a field day with her. I knew the shadow people well enough to know they’d use her fucking knitting needles to shut her down permanently. But I was on meds, so the thought passed as soon as it entered.
As it was, the knitter went next. “I’m Barbara and I have an anxiety disorder,” she said. “It’s why I took up knitting. If I can focus on one thing, then I won’t worry about all the other stuff. Plus, it helps me concentrate.” She resumed knitting. Black and gray yarn wove through her fingers like she was spinning an intricate web. “I’m socially awkward, and I have a fear of heights.” She paused to make eye contact with Gabbie. “The heights thing isn’t related to my anxiety. It’s just a thing. I probably shouldn’t have it, but I do.”
“Self-deprecating helps no one. Let’s not should on ourselves,” Gabbie said to the group. “A fear of heights is a fear of heights.” She laughed. “I’m not a fan of bridges. Like Bob said, we all have our stuff. And to circle back to the issue Branson raised about assumptions, it’s natural to want to correct misgivings people have about your mental health. And in the right context, a meaningful conversation can occur. Often, though”—she glanced my way—“when these comments are made, we may not be in the best headspace to have that meaningful conversation. Sometimes it’s healthier to walk away from the conversation and return to it later.”
“Yeah, I don’t agree with that,” Bob said. “It’s like you’re giving a pass to all the assholes out there who bully and shame us.”
She slowly shook her head, and her short black hair barely swayed. “What I’m suggesting is to pause. Pause when agitated or confronted and allow yourself the opportunity to reflect on what’s happening. All too often we react, which in the offender’s mind is all they need to feed their misconception about mental health. When we react, we lose the opportunity to respond.”
My thoughts turned to Hope. During our first date, she was so surprised that I listened before I responded. I guess she was so used to people interrupting her at work and making assumptions about her because she worked for a shrink that when I listened, I mean really listened to her, she about cried. We’d been texting ever since. When she told me she didn’t like to be alone, with the exception of this weekend, we spent all our days off together.
Gabbie moved her crossed legs and shifted gears. “We’re here to support each other. You may not understand what someone is working through or their process, which is why offering support is the great equalizer.”
“Hundred percent,” Bob said. “Branson helped me with my paperwork, and the dude didn’t even blink when I said I was dyslexic. Do you know how many people turn away from me when I ask for help? It’s like they’re afraid that dyslexia is contagious or something.” He leaned forward in his chair. “It’s not contagious.”
“All valid points,” Gabbie said, then prompted the next student to share.
When Bob sat back in his seat, he turned to me. “We should totally hang out.”
I was in a room full of rejects, not where I expected to spend part of my weekend. Yet other than issuing parking tickets, this was the most fun I’d had on campus in a long, long time. I knew I had Professor Nigel to thank, but something about the way he’d practically blackmailed me into this self-help group still pissed me off. He was just another link in a chain of well-meaning people who thought they could fix me.
I didn’t need fixing. But I did need a friend.
“Text yourself my number.” I handed my cell phone to Bob, which I realized was probably backward from how it should be done, but my logic made perfect sense to him.