Freedom of Sketch

Process Group

One of Circle Valley's distinguished social workers, a petite young woman named Meredith, quietly counts us as we enter The Lounge for a community bitchfest, (properly referred to as "Process Group" on the ever-evolving schedule). I seize a beanbag wedged in the far corner and flop lazily into it as though I'm a bag of skin with no bones.

The hospital's population feels like it's doubled overnight. When the door finally closes, every seat is taken save for the tufted wingback chair Meredith probably dragged in from her own office. I watch her warily while she takes attendance. She wears a long, unbuttoned gray sweater over a white eyelet blouse and dark slacks. Her quiet demeanor and gentle movements remind me of snowflakes.

"So," she says when everyone is more or less awake and looking in her direction, "does anyone want to remind us of what Process Group involves? The rules?"

Violet, irritable eyes ringed with bruise-colored eyeliner, shoots her hand into the air.

Meredith smiles. "Yes, Violet?"

"It's basically an open group. You can pretty much talk about anything. You can even bash staff or other patients, up to a point--"

"--Yes," Meredith interrupts, tapping her pen. "Criticism is welcome, but keep it tasteful and appropriate."

"Like, don't curse at each other and stuff," Violet resumes. "No fist-fighting, unfortunately." A sly grin crosses over her face, swift and light as a shadow. A couple of girls laugh quietly.

Meredith crosses her arms over her clipboard and leans forward in her chair. "The subject can be about nearly anything. This is probably the group that gives you the most freedom, but there are limits. We're not going to debate which religion is best--"

"--HAIL SATAN!" someone shouts.

Even Meredith chuckles. I swallow my amusement, push the laugh back down into my lungs, press my lips firmly together. The struggle practically strangles me. But I can't. I can't let anyone think that I belong here, that I'm part of the collective.

Meredith: "Okay. I think everyone gets it. Who'd like to start?"

It's obvious that a bunch of the girls have some potent secrets to spill; some of them squeeze their complimentary stress balls to death. Others lick their lips and ignore the beads of sweat tickling the backs of their necks. A few take deep breaths, and then give up to fluster with their hair, the loose threads in their socks, or their chewed-up fingernails.

"Okay, I will." The girl is a blonde who bears a suspicious resemblance to Brooke without all of the curves. She pretends to be reluctant to share, but her eyes are acidic with anger. "So I think that Dr. Bhandari should lose her freaking license because she decided that I don't need sleeping pills, because the dumbass night techs keep marking me down as being asleep the whole night."

"Do you say something or raise your hand when they check on you?" a girl peeps from inside her hoodie. Only her eyes show.

"Well, no, but my...."

I nibble on a sliver of skin peeling from my thumb, tuning the conversation in and out. More griping about pills. The constant complaining about meal plans and calories, the eating-disordered girls dancing around dangerous numbers. Riley is focused on a hallucination outside the window behind me. She breathes loudly through her open mouth and gives off a smell that reminds me of something from my childhood, but I can't remember what. I slide back into Process Group. A different girl is ranting now.

"...and I'm so tired of people refusing their supplements just so they can get a tube and be 'the sickest'. This is a disease, not a goddamn competition, you know?" The girl bursts into tears.