“GROUP!!! GROOOUP!!! GROUP TIME EVERYBODY!!! SAME ROOM AS YESTERDAY…” This scrawny black guy, wearing scrubs like he is a nurse, but he’s really only a tech, yells through the hall. His voice gets louder and more annoying as he makes his way to my room. His smug ugly face peers through the crack in the doorway, and starts talking at me- me who is lying face down in my pillow: “Come on ladies group time… ”
…What the fuck is group? Who the fuck is he to tell me what I have to do? “I’m not going.” I mumble.
“Everyone has to go to group Jessica.” He says, acting like he owns the place, and leaves.
I hear my roommate head for the door. “Hey Jessie,” she says, mispronouncing my name. It’s Jessica you cunt.
“If you go to group you can get out of here faster… trust me I know.”
Ha. Ironic; advice coming from a skinny crack head. Her skin looks like an old worn out baseball glove. And her hair, well she either needs to finally admit to herself that she is not a blonde or seriously consider getting her 4 inch roots done as soon as possible. But even still, that would not help her much…
“How old are you Jessie?” She asks.
“It’s Jessica.” I say.
“Yeah, that’s what I said Jessie… soooo… how old are ya?”
“23. And it’s Jessica.” I sit up in my bed “NOT Jessie. JESSICA. Three syllables. Got it?” I can’t even look at her anymore. I feel like I may vomit.
“Mmhmm, sure thing Jessie.” She says, obviously not listening, or is simply too ignorant to get the difference, and heads out to the hallway.
I follow her out of the room, and down the hallway where I continue on, trying to make her say my name correctly, which I see is a lost cause. Then I realize I’m actually heading for this group thing.
What’s the harm, I suppose I can just sit there and see what it’s all about anyway. And if it actually does help me get out sooner, then hell, I’ll do it. My psychiatrist and mom say the stay is only going to be for the weekend. Today is Friday… so at most I’ll have 2 more days in this hell hole.
I don’t know if I will make it that long though. These people are fucked.
I walk into the room. I look at the two people in front of me, - a real life cowboy and Malibu Barbie! But why would Malibu Barbie be in this shit hole? She would go to a place that gives a mani-pedi-facial treatment rather than “GROUP”.
And the patio wouldn’t smell like an overflowing ashtray.
This place is so ghetto.
The group room is the size of a cubicle, with two brown scuffed up, fold out cafeteria tables. And brown fold up metal chairs lining the walls. Why are there so may chairs? Do they seriously think that this many people are going to come in this tiny little room?
“Come on, pull up a chair.” A skinny man with white hair and hippy clothes says.
I suppose this is the guy running this thing. He seems alright. I think he’s a priest. He’s wearing that little collar. Maybe he is just that confused and likes to dress up like that. Who knows in this place… not me.
“So. Now we’re going to go around the room and say our first name, and why we are here. I’ll start. My name is Father Tim. I am often the one here at Focus that runs these meetings. I also hold mass on Sundays in the cafeteria. And… I am a recovering alcoholic.”
…Hold on, what did he just say? He’s a… what? What the hell is going on?
“Hi, my name is Wendy, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hiiiiii Weeeendy,” the room murmers.
…God dammit, shut the fuck up people. I got scammed into coming to an AA meeting. I’m not an alcoholic though…
“Hi, my name is Jon, and I’m a heroin addict.”
…I’m not even addicted to drugs. There is a total difference here between doing shit occasionally and being in this 12 step bull shit…
“Hiiii Joooon.”
“Hi, my name is Sam. And uhm, I’m addicted to marijuana.”
“Hiiii Saaaaam.”
…Get the fuck out of here, that shit is not addictive, try a real drug. Pansy. And who says that, MARIJUANA. No one says that, no one that really smokes, unless you are like 60, and still say shit like far out dude or sooo groovy.
“Hi, my name is James, and I’m…”
A crack head… come on say it.
“I’m addicted to crack.”
Damn I’m good, maybe I’m fucking psychic. That could be cool…
“Good. Keep going around the room just like you are. I have to step out for a moment. I’ll be right back,” explains Father Tim.
Oh, great…
“Hi.” Here goes Malibu Barbie.
“My name is Kimberly…”
You know she likes the coke.
“And I’m addicted to…”
I will shit if she says COCAINE. Like pot-hea… oh no sorry marijuana-head over there…
“I’m addicted to cocaine.” Ahaha I fucking knew it. Yeah Barbie, no worries, who wouldn’t be addicted to that shit. It’s cool. Been there done that. If I can get off that shit anyone can. It’s not too tough. This crazy shit is much harder to deal with. But seriously, no one says that shit. It’s COKE Kimberly! Not COCAINE. Wasn’t Kimberly the name of barbie’s best friend? I swear it was something like… Oh fucking shit, I’m next. What the fuck am I going to say? Why am I even on this druggie side? I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here.
“Hi, uhmmm… My name… uhmmm.”
Across the table is Barbie’s BFF. She is nodding with so much anticipation that she looks more like Malibu bobble head than Malibu Barbie right now… Did I say my part yet? What is my part? AAAaaaahhh!!! I shouldn’t be here. “I shouldn’t be here.” FUCK, I said that outloud. Here it comes…
“Wale, whut’s yur name daarrrrlin? Just start wit that,” says the cowboy from the head of the table.
That was not what I was expecting. “Uhmmm, Jessica.” Fuck, now what? Just wait til he asks you another easy question… wait for it… wait for it…
“Now, why shouldn’t ya be heer daarrrlin?” I said easy, that one wasn’t easy. Shit Jess, your losing your psychic powers. Now how will we make it through this?
“Well, I was supposed to go on the other side, the psychiatric side but I was like, going to fail the drug test when I came in, and when they asked me I, like, told them straight up sorta, so I don’t really like remember much from my intake I was like really manic and I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be on the otherside…”
“Slooow down daarrrlin, nuuuun uh us folks er s’posed to be heer, we s’posed tuh be out theer…”
Can he talk any slower? I may scream if he doesn’t talk faster. He is worse than Trill’s dad, Pa. And I can’t even understand Pa. Trill has to translate for me. I miss her and the girls. I should call them from here. Maybe they can come down and break me out of here and take me back up to NC. I miss it up there so much. I hate it down here, where ever I am. I don’t even know where I am. I know there is an airport nearby. I saw some Cessna planes like Dad’s flying over me when I was outside before group. Shit I’m still in group…
“I’m not an addict, and I’m not an alcoholic. To be addicted to something it must interfere with your life or your ability to accomplish day to day things.” I finally say.
“Well, do you drink?” asks my crack head roomie.”
…Well fucking DUH!
“Yeah, occasionally, but I’m in college. Isn’t that what you are supposed to do when you are in college? But it doesn’t interfere with the stuff I have to do. And I don’t have to drink; I can stop if I wanted to.”
The room begins to mumble under their breath like I can’t hear them
“She’s in denial, the first step sweetheart; she needs to admit it…”
I’m guessing that was the wrong thing to say in a room full of people that can’t quit if they wanted to. But I don’t want to, it’s fun, and I’m young. What else would I do at night?
“What about drugs, you said you were goin’ to fail the intake test?” The longer they sit and mumble as if I were deaf the more I get annoyed, so I blurt out
“PASS.”
“You can’t pass, Miss Jessica,” announces Father Tim, as he pokes his head in on us for a millisecond.
Noooo wait. Father… please come back. They’re going to eat me alive!!!!
Ugh. “Fine… I guess you could, possibly, like, say that I am maybe kinda addicted to… mania.”
“What?” “What is that?” “That’s not a drug!!!” “Drinkin or druggin or get out.” “Are you mocking us?”
Aaaaaahhhhh! bLA BLa bLA bLA!!! BLA bLA bLA bLA bLA!!! bLA bLA bLA!!! bLA bLa bLA bLa!!! That’s all I hear from the whole room.
“It’s when I’m manic, that’s the only thing I can like think of that I cannot quit on my own that I need like help with.”
Malibu Barbie shouts, “That’s not a real addiction! Boooo! Next please!” yes, yes, yes… NEXT please! Dear gawd! PLEASE!!!
“I agree, NEXT!”
“Hi, my name is Bobby…”
How dare they! I gave it my best shot. Did I really just get boo’d off the stage by a bunch of addicts? I was rejected by a group of rejects. How fucking ironic… How fucking dare they!!! I tried to explain that I was not supposed to be here, I’m not. I need to be on the other side, learning how to deal and get over this mania. I can’t take this bull shit. I am never getting roped into going to group again.
They totally lied.
It’s not a therapy group it’s a fucking AA/NA meeting of people that have the smallest brains and least amount of consideration for others that I have ever met!!!
Fuck, is it hot in here.
Why does everyone keep looking at me and rolling their eyes? If they only knew what I really thought of them, these people are such assholes.
That’s fine. Fuck them. I don’t need this shit anyways. I’m going to get better and these people are going to still be crying over how much they miss their bottle or needle.
Group sucks, fuck this.
I’m outie!
