Group Session 1: Support & Cookies

I made it to the support group! I have been feeling off balance lately. Those entries are for a different date though. I will not be brought down by mild paranoia, stress and feelings of overwhelming doom. This is a night to celebrate!

I started off my journey to the group like this:

I needed to collect myself as only Joan Didion can teach me. I told myself that this was a good thing, there was no reason to feel as if the world is closing in on you. It was a bold attempt, and it worked somewhat.

Arriving to the LGBT Center, this time in the right room and on the right time. I began to feel terrified again. I clutched the chair. The room was filling up quickly, older gay men dominated, but of the twenty of us there were about seven who were in their 20s. I felt relief.

The group opened with stating your name and the feelings you were bringing into the session.

"I'm Iguana and I was supposed to be here two weeks ago, but I got lost." Everyone laughed and I smiled to show there were no hard feelings. "I feel overwhelmed. I have school that started today. Then this project outside of school. Also, this is all so new. . ." I trailed off, not wanting to be the talkative new guy. Another guy in the group passed around cookies and I held mine until after I had spoken. It was Oatmeal, M&Ms and HIV flavored.

"I am upset. . . because of all the new people attending the group." I felt a hint of shame, obviously I was one of these people. I would not let it get to me though, it saddened this man to see so many people infected. I had to admit he did have a right to feel that way.

I don't want to go into detail of how it all played out. I can best compare it to being in a cave filled with echoes. I heard so many things tonight. So many worries or issues that I'd heard before, but only in my head. I found myself agreeing with a guy who felt anxiety in trying to get proper medical care and felt nothing but frustration.

I listened to them open the discussion of "Were you surprised when you first found out?"

I felt my body tense. I'm new to this. Do I really go that far and tell that personal of a story?

Here it comes. . . "I knew I was going to get it. I did some many drugs. . .When you're that high, even when they told me they were poz. I didn't care. . ." Wait, what's not me. I looked up and saw a man across the way. He had the same story I had and so, I spoke up.

Why I spoke up is beyond me. I wanted to let him know he wasn't the only one. No one in the group had said it yet, "I agree with you--I--I have done many drugs-- f--or the last few--years. I would know who was poz and it didn't bother me either. Then when you're sober, it seems to be all you can think about." I trailed off because the reality had happened. I openly told a group of people that I did drugs and didn't care if I became positive. Okay, that felt different. We need to see what progresses from that point.

It was liberating in the sense that I know I am not the only person to make this choice. Does that make me feel any lighter? No. Do I feel proud? No. Do I feel that I've connected with the world and I am beginning to put my life together? A little. Baby steps.

We continued on. Discussing different issues. At one point someone pointed out how surprised he was that all the new people are sharing. I lowered my head until he added that it was a good thing.

The last thing that shook my soul was when someone brought up, "Telling your family." The room became a game of hush. The distance this creates and how we all hate it. I spoke out because the topic was so ripe I could not resist picking it from the vine.

"I was born the middle child and grew up as the one you didn't need to watch. I always got good grades and my brother created trouble. I could move to NYC and take care of myself! Now I can shake the very foundation of my family life with one sentence. I have become the child who has the biggest issue to deal with and I cannot speak with them about it. I fight with my mother and it ended with my screaming at her that I was looking for therapy and she said, 'I didn't know your childhood was so rough.' And I had to let her believe that was the reason I wanted it. . ."

I felt small. I felt afraid. I felt alone.

At the end of the group we went around again and stated our names and feelings.

"I'm Iguana and I'm still feeling overwhelmed."

I will return next week, though.