STORY SCRAPS — Group Therapy

For the first time Rob was fighting tears. He motioned to Amber, on his right. Mesmerized by Rob’s sharing, Amber surfaced and said, “Uh…”  The group sat quiet, expectantly, and watched empathically as her tears began to trickle. Jackie said gently, “Take your time, there’s no rush.”

Amber could feel the intensity  of everyone’s eyes focused on her, even Rob’s. She looked down into her lap and spoke softly. “I’m a new student and live alone in a single freshman dorm room, and my little sister died several years ago. My father was an alcoholic so my aunt Betty took me in for a couple of years. I’m a social work major at the  college.”

Ed nodded. “And what do you want from the group?”

She took a deep breath and said, “I’m afraid of men. I mean I hate them all! All they’re interested in is sex!  They just see me as a sex object!” Her voice sounded strangled now. “I hate everybody! I hate my mother and my father and me and–everybody!” Rob put his hand on her shoulder and gave a squeeze, whereupon Amber began emitting little choking sobs.  The group sat and stared at her, speechless, for once. Jackie passed her the Kleenex. There was still silence, as though no one knew what to say. Another covered her face with her hands.

Finally Ed spoke. “So that means you hate me and Pete and Stuart and Rob?  You don’t even know us. Somehow that doesn’t seem fair.  Is that something you want t work on?”

A little laugh escaped from Amber. “I don’t know. I think that’s reality. That’s the way the world is! Maybe nothing can help.” She was quiet, and so was the attentive grop. Finally she spoke in a small voice. “And I hate myself, too.”

Ed glanced around the grop. “How many people in heere hae themselves?” There was a mmentary shocked silence and then slowly four hands went up, even Rob’s. Ed regarded the the raised hands and said, “Do you wantg those who hate themselves to hate you, too? Will that make you feel better?”

Amber protested, but in a lighter vein. “You’re confusing me!”  She let out a deep sigh and said, “My life is such a mess!”

Ed looked around the group again. “How many members’ lives are a mess?” When everyone raised their hands Amber had to laugh. “All right, I guess I’ll live.”  She blew her nose loudly and the group moved  on to other issues.

Nether Amber nor Rob had experienced group psychotherapy before, and observed with interest the variety of therapeutic techniques used in the group. As they were to learn  later, some were Gestalt, some psychomotor, some Rational Emotive–whatever seemed to fit. After the deepest, most emotive exchanges, the group’s comaraderie and commitment remained.

As the session ended, someoone said, “Group hug,” and there was one. Someone else explained that the group often eats dinner together at the nearby steakhouse. Amber and Rob accepted with enthusiasm, welcoming the warm friendliness of the group.

There was no talk of therapy during the dinner. Amber noticed no one ordered beer with their meal, and from the  jokes and talk of current events you’d never guess they all felt their lives were a mess. She began to feel right at home with these people, especially Rob.

 

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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