I shuffle into the support group room, feeling every bit as awkward as I look. I'm late, and all eyes turn to me as I enter. The room is a circle of chairs, each occupied by someone with their own story etched into their face. I grab a nametag, hastily scrawl "Sam" on it, and find a seat, trying not to draw more attention to myself.
"Ethan" sits next to me, his presence marked by a palpable intensity. His eyes are like scanners, perpetually sweeping the room as if expecting a threat to materialize any second. His fingers tap a silent beat on his knees, a rhythmic twitch betraying an undercurrent of anxiety. His nametag, neatly written, belies the storm of nerves within him.
Across from me, "Zara's" youth looks unwelcome with the storm in her dark gray eyes. I wonder what could've brought someone like her, probably no older than Daisy, here into this world. Her arms are wrapped around herself in a self-embrace, as if holding together a fragile being. Her nametag is a bit askew, and has hearts drawn on it. She can't be older than 11. Maybe 12.
"Liam" looks to be about my age, lost in a world of his own. His gaze is distant, fixated on something beyond the confines of the room, looking past Zara and into the wall. His hair is blonde and I could almost call him handsome if not for the sunken, kind of horror movie vibe he's got going on, like he just crawled out of a mirror and is about to fuck your day up. But I get the impression that he couldn't really hurt a fly even if he wanted to.
"Tara", in her late twenties, sits with a controlled poise that speaks of efforts to contain something inside of her. I can see the way her fingers twitch just like mine. Her smile, brief and strained, doesn't quite come up to her eyes, making her cheeks really stretch and work for it. Her posture, rigid and self-contained, is turned almost entirely in her. She makes eye contact with me. I look away.
"Marcus", the oldest in the group, carries the weight of worry on his face. His hair is starting to grey, I'd imagine prematurely, and his face is covered in worry lines. He's a bit on the heavier side but I don't call any attention to it, because that would be rude. He looks like he's ready for shit to start. Me too, dude. Me too.
Next to me on the other side is some girl named "Nina", with her nametag placed firmly on her forehead. Her hair is all kinds of crazy colors, and her face and ears are just studded with piercings. I wonder how I'd look with some. I wonder-- never mind, thought cancelled. That one is not even leaving the station. We make eye contact every so often.
Finally, "Derek"'s making me feel like I'm about to get socked in the jaw. His hair is bright orange and I am operating under the running assumption that he has a switchblade somewhere on him. He's even got one of those leather jackets with all the patches sewn on. Talk about edgy.
The therapist, a woman named Dr. Jensen, gives me a welcoming nod. "Glad you could join us, Sam. We were just about to start sharing our experiences. We'll start by establishing some ground rules, and then we'll get started. Does that sound alright for everyone?"
There's scattered murmurs of assent from throughout the room. Yeah, sure, yep. Let's go.
Dr. Jensen begins by setting the tone with a gentle but firm authority. "Welcome, everyone. Before we begin, let's go over some important guidelines for our group," she starts, her voice steady and reassuring. "First and foremost, this is a safe space for all of us. What's shared here stays here. Confidentiality is key to creating an environment of trust and openness."
She pauses, ensuring everyone's attention. "Respect is our cornerstone. We listen without interruption, judgment, or unsolicited advice. Each of you will have time to speak, and it's crucial that we honor that space for everyone."
Dr. Jensen continues, her demeanor radiating a sense of calm. "You're not required to share more than you're comfortable with. Discussing your powers or how you acquired them is entirely up to you. This is about your feelings and experiences, not just your abilities."
Her eyes scan the group, a mix of understanding and compassion. "Lastly, let's remember to be kind to ourselves and each other. We're all here because we've been through extraordinary circumstances. This group is a place to heal, grow, and support one another on that journey."
She takes a breath after what seems like an acre of talking. "We'll start with a quick ice-breaker. Just tell us your name and one thing about yourself you think would be nice for us to know. It can be a hobby, or something you enjoy, or some kind of preference you'd like to have followed. Ethan, do you mind starting?"
She makes it sound so simple, but the idea of revealing even a small piece of myself to this group of strangers is daunting.
Ethan goes first, his voice steady. "I'm Ethan, and I… I like to run. It helps clear my head." He offers a small, almost shy smile and then looks down at his hands.
Zara is next, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm Zara, and I like to draw." She glances around the room quickly before retreating back into her shell.
Liam's turn comes, and he speaks with a detached tone. "Liam. I enjoy reading, mostly fantasy novels." His words are like mist, there and then gone, as he retreats back into his distant world.
Tara straightens up a bit as she introduces herself. "I'm Tara, and I'm a bit of a coffee aficionado. It's my small daily luxury." There's a hint of warmth in her voice, a glimpse of the person beyond the rigid exterior.
Marcus chuckles softly as he speaks. "Marcus here. I'm a fan of old movies, the classics. They don't make them like that anymore." His smile is genuine, a brief respite from the worry lines.
Nina rolls her eyes playfully. "I'm Nina, and I guess I'm into body mods, if you couldn't tell." She gestures to her piercings, a spark of pride in her eyes.
Derek scoffs lightly before speaking. "Derek. And I don't do hobbies." His arms are still crossed, but there's a slight easing in his posture, an almost reluctant participation.
Then it's my turn. I take a deep breath. "I'm Sam, and I… I used to be really into soccer." The words feel heavy coming out of my mouth. Used to be really into soccer. Even when I get out of this jail, will I be able to play soccer again? Will my ankles snap like a twig? I hear them talking about my bone marrow a lot, and I don't have cancer yet, but I have no idea what the future will bring.
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It's scary.
Dr. Jensen nods encouragingly as I finish. "Thank you all for sharing. Let's keep this openness as we move into discussing our experiences. Remember, this is a safe space. Who wants to start?"
The two hours in the support group feel like an even mixture of pain and strength in equal parts, like baking a trauma cake. Dr. Jensen guides the discussion with care, sometimes asking questions that make us think deeper. The stories we hear are a mix of struggle and survival, each different but strangely familiar.
Ethan tells us about a night that changed his life, a robbery gone wrong where he couldn't save a friend. His voice stays steady, but we can see the pain in his eyes. Zara speaks softly about feeling lonely and how drawing helps her cope. She doesn't say much, but I understand how she feels. Damn. Maybe I should start drawing.
She shows us her notebook. It's good. A lot better than anything I can draw.
Then it's Liam's turn. He talks about how his powers have made him feel isolated, but he finds solace in fantasy novels where he feels understood. Tara shares her journey of finding joy in her daily routines and how coffee has become a cherished ritual of self-care.
Everything feels so rote and regimented here. I'm having trouble hanging on, but the fear of social faux pas keeps me anchored to the now. I don't want to nod off while someone's talking and make myself look like an asshole.
Marcus shares his love for old movies and how they offer an escape from the tough realities of life. He laughs as he describes scenes from his favorite films. Derek asks if he's ever seen Fight Club. Marcus looks at him like he's an idiot with three heads. Of course he's seen Fight Club. Have you read Fight Club? Derek says reading is for suckers.
Nina casually mentions her body modifications as a way to express herself and rebel against the trauma she's faced. Yeah. I could guess that. I think if I was a meaner person, or maybe if I was Jordan, I would make a quip about daddy issues, but I keep that sort of judgment to myself. Not the place, Sam. Think about other things.
Do not think about Nina. Okay. Let's try that. (Not working).
Derek remains silent, arms crossed, and his expression guarded. He listens but doesn't contribute, keeping his untold story locked inside like a fortress. Okay, tough guy.
As the session goes on, our conversations start to blend together, overlapping and echoing one another. I mostly listen, taking in the shared experiences and the common bonds that connect us. I keep my own superhero part hidden, only speaking about the aftermath and the struggle to reconcile my past self with who I am now. They can all see it on my face, in my body, the sallow thinness to my skin, the way it sort of hangs off of me, surrounding where muscles used to be.
I can tell they're all making their own silent judgments. That's okay. I'll let it happen.
And all the while, Dr. Jensen asks gentle questions that encourage us to reflect. "How do you find strength in your everyday life?" "What little victories can you celebrate?" "How has your perspective changed since your Activation?" Therapist shit that feels extremely pointless. My therapist bites and rips at me, cutting under my skin with a scalpel. We got past the pleasantries weeks ago. This feels like a barrage of bean bags by comparison, totally limp and useless.
Everyone answers them, though. I've gotten a little used to therapy talk over the weeks, that specific phrasology they want you to use. Self-care, safe space, self-soothing, all the jargon. Derek offers nothing, and that's more interesting than anything else anyone else says. His silence gnaws at me like a small rat. Why is he even here?
It annoys me. I want to punch him in the face. For the first time since I started this lithium, I can feel something flare back to life in my head, between the two lobes of my brain. Something about this guy and his school shooter getup makes me angry. His stupid leather overcoat that drags on the floor, the occasional snarky quip that denigrates the shit the other people have to say.
I bite back the urge to say something to his face.
During the second hour of the support group, things start to get a bit more lively. People loosen up and the conversation becomes more animated. We laugh and sometimes there's a bit of tension, usually around Derek, but Dr. Jensen knows how to handle it all.
At one point, Marcus cracks a joke about his obsession with movies being his 'superpower'. Some people chuckle, but Derek just rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath about needing less escapism. It gets a bit tense for a moment, but Dr. Jensen quickly changes the topic to something more positive. Marcus moves to his powers, and how his they always put him ill at ease. Sure, he can avoid being shot, but how does that help him do the dishes? It doesn't.
I get that. I don't think my powers are useful for anything other than putting myself at risk and saving other people's lives. Would I be on a different path if I had something different in my bones? Did my powers turn me into this, or was I always going to be a crime-fighter? My teeth don't help me do the dishes. They help me break dishes.
Then Nina opens up and admits that her piercings and wild hair are a way to control how people see her and distract from the pain she feels inside. Barf. No, that's rude, Sam. She's expressing emotional vulnerability, and that's extremely mature of her. Tara nods in understanding and shares a similar feeling about her coffee rituals. I glance from Tara to Zara, wondering if they're related somehow, or if the names are just a coincidence. It's not like we know anyone's last names - and probably for the better.
I'm about to get ready and actually say something, to open my big fat mouth and vomit out a portion of my guts for this tinker-toy playhouse to dissect and observe, but I'm rudely interrupted. Derek suddenly stands up and loudly scrapes his chair against the floor. "I'm out," he declares, turning around and starting to trod out the room.
That does it. I scrape my chair just as loud if not a decibel or two louder, and stand up myself. "What's your deal, dude?"
"Huh?" Derek asks, sounding genuinely confused, whipping around to face me.
Dr. Jensen shoots me a look that I'm sure is meant to psychically convey the idea of 'sit down and stop yourself from getting into a fight'. I try to come up with some snappy comeback, but his simple 'huh?' pulled me out onto my back foot somehow. Should I say "what's your fucking problem?" No, absolutely not. How about pointing out his behavior directly, maybe a "you've been nothing but dismissive the whole time towards everyone else, and now you're going to leave early?", but that doesn't catch either, even though it's closer to how I actually feel.
Everyone's looking at me, which is the exact opposite of what I'd like. So instead, I just sit back down and scoot my chair back into the circle with three quiet, tiny scoots. "Never mind. Take care, Derek," I say, small and meek, like a mouse.
"Everyone processes in their own time and way, Sam. It's fine," Dr. Jensen says, once Derek is out the room and out of earshot. "He leaves early every time. It's alright."
"Oh," I reply, feeling embarassed, turning tomato red.
As the session wheels down to an end, I sometimes zone out and get lost in my thoughts, but then someone will say something that really hits home and brings me back. Ethan talks about the weight of always having to anticipate danger, and I completely understand what he means. How it feels to always be looking over my shoulders.
Zara surprises us all by showing a beautiful drawing she did. Her notebook is filled with pages and pages of drawings, most of them macabre, feeling totally unsuited for a girl her age. But then again, girls my age don't fight supervillains, so maybe I don't really have a high horse to look down from.
Dr. Jensen wraps up the session by encouraging us to reflect on what we've shared and heard. "Remember, you're not alone on this journey," she says softly. "I'll be seeing you all at the same time next week, alright?"
Everyone answers, in their own particular way of saying yes. I'm not going to go over every single one. It's all the same. Of course we'll be back, Dr. Jensen. This is the only thing we have to look forward to.
I shamble out of the room, feeling this strange, burning, noxious mixture of embarassment, exhaustion, and clarity. A voice in my head says 'first order of business - beat up Derek', but then I remind myself that randomly beating up people just because they're assholes isn't exactly a superhero thing to do. Instead, I shove that voice deep down where all the other trauma lives, stumble along the walls to the elevators, and start making my way back to my beddroom in the upper floors of the hospital, ready to sleep again in the crushing darkness.