I’ll never be a typical teenager but I don’t care. My mom thinks I’m depressed. She thought it was serious enough to require treatment so she took me to my regular doctor, Dr. Jim. He agreed that I was virtually swimming in a paralyzing and totally clinical depression and that my meds should be adjusted and I should attend a weekly support group.
Support group is about as boring as it sounds. Every Wednesday we meet in the basement of a stone-walled Episcopal church shaped like a cross, where the two boards would have met, and where the literal heart of Jesus would have been. We all sit around telling everyone else our name, age, diagnosis and how we’re doing today. Then we talked about fighting and battling, and scanning and shrinking. Patrick, the support group leader would tell us his cancer survival story every meeting.
This one kid, Isaac was the only reason that support group was bearable, even though we would basically only communicate through a series of sighs, eye rolls, and glances. Then finally the meeting ends with a prayer and a seemingly endless list of kids who couldn't attend support group anymore due to the fact that they were dead.
I’m so sick of it, I've been trying my best to get out of going, but in the end I just go to make my parents happy.
