Chapter 55. Micah
MICAH
There couldn’t be a worse name for a support group.
I exhale like a dragon, scraping the metal legs of my orange plastic elementary school chair across the parquet floor to complete the obligatory circle.
Going by the initial introductions, no one here gives their real name.
I find it highly improbable that people with the names Dicie, Alf, Emory, and Beryl (or was it Meryl?) would all be in attendance to discuss the inconvenience of auditory hallucinations at the same time.
Bet they assume mine’s fake as well.
Our facilitator, Elijah, who looks like Vin Diesel and has the same buff body, makes long, exaggerated eye contact with each of us. “Welcome. I see a couple new faces. I’m glad we have a small group; that means we’ll be able to get to everyone who wishes to share this afternoon.”
Yeah, I’m not contributing. Not sure I’m even staying.
Dicie, a Black woman with graying hair, and Alf, a Latino kid who looks younger than me, insist on conversing across my chest.
I scoot my chair back.
Their hand gestures continue to invade my line of sight.
“One in ten people hear voices.” Elijah clasps his elbows, leaning on his thighs. “Like you, I struggle with intrusive voices. For the new people, this is a safe and respectful forum for you to share those experiences and exchange coping strategies with your peers.”
He had me at coping strategies.
“I experience visions along with the voices.” My words spew out at lightning speed. Guess I’m sharing after all. Was I supposed to raise my hand?
Alf and Beryl-Meryl both nod.
“Micah, right? That’s fun.” Elijah stretches back in his chair.
I like him more already. “I see my dead mother. It’s almost like she’s haunting me.”
I look around at my fellow hallucinators. Not a hint of a smile. I exhale—and spill my story, beginning with the day four years ago when I awoke to the Shadow People trapping me in my bed and continuing all the way up to my effed-up existence today.
“My family doesn’t know what to do with me. My old friends ditched me, new ones don’t stick around. I can’t move forward. My life stopped at sixteen. I’m . . .” My throat tightens, reining in my word vomit.
Dicie and Alf each take one of my hands.
Nope. I try to pull away.
They hold on tighter.
The fluorescent light strip overhead buzzes like a swarm of flies.
I eye the door. Elijah’s talking, but his words come out muffled.
Thanks for the chat, people, afraid I need to extricate myself.
In my ear, I hear Dr. Val telling me to breathe.
I refocus on Elijah. A minute passes, maybe two.
My chest releases, my breaths come easier.
Taking it slow, I free my hands. The room stays upright. I slump down low in my chair.
Going around the circle, they share their stories. I learn that Emory and Elijah also have schizophrenia. And that Emory, who reminds me of Josie, once lived on the street until someone from NAMI discovered her sleeping under the steps next to the St. Marks Hotel.
My spine stiffens. Never have I passed by the homeless on the street and thought that could be me—unmedicated.
My weekend with Brynn, she referred to the man begging for money as Subway Saul and I made that remark about not thinking of him as having a name, like he wasn’t a human. I look away, my knuckles over my mouth.
Elijah’s eyes slide to me. “You okay there, Micah?”
I nod, my face warm.
We each swap treatment debacles and snicker over the plethora of pharmaceuticals we consume. I learn that being resistant to antipsychotic drugs like I am is common. And though we may have been prescribed similar meds, our reactions differ wildly.
“Anyone else care to share?” Elijah makes eye contact with the only other person who has yet to speak: Beryl-Meryl. A newcomer like me, but with freckles. Lots of them.
Beryl-Meryl’s corkscrew strawberry-blond hair trembles like the rest of her as she raises a tentative pink hand.
Elijah nods at her, and she starts talking: She began hearing voices at the age of five and went untreated until her thirteenth birthday, this year, when the voices in her head encouraged her to step in front of a taxi.
Christ. She’s only a kid. Same as Alf.
I sniffle back the sudden tickle in my nose. Warm tears heat my eyelids. I pinch the bridge of my nose. I refold my arms and switch the position of my legs. Refold. Switch. Repeat. I don’t even like people. What is happening?
I look across and to either side and see it in their faces too. In this wheel of normal-looking people—each with another heartbreaking backstory—I’m one more spoke.
My freak-o-meter shifts.
We talk about our support system. Dicie and Emory don’t have anybody, but I do. Aunt Max. Dr. Val. Eunice. Granddad, on a good day. Even my dad, though I never give him credit for it.
Something—or someone—inspired me to come here today. Planted a seed of desire to start the work. My first group session, and it didn’t suck. A new beginning, perhaps. Toward a happy future? Maybe. No guarantee. Only this extra space I’m feeling in my already crowded brain.
Hope.
I haven’t moved from my chair when Elijah comes over afterward with two Styrofoam cups full of coffee.
He passes me one. “I hope you got something out of our meeting, maybe found some solace this afternoon.”
So much I need to process; I don’t know how to respond. I shake my head. “I had no idea.”
“What, that you’re not so unique?” He sends me a wry smile.
“Yeah. Something like that.”
He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “You’re also not alone.”
For some reason, I don’t shake his hand off.