Unicorns On Wheels [Petekey]

25. Friday

2016/03/11 Friday

I felt better when I got out of bed today, better than I felt yesterday anyway, but still not really good enough to be able to focus on my chemistry lesson. I knew I wouldn't be able to focus, knew I wouldn't be able to think anything except I am not afraid to keep on living.

And, even while I struggled through my English homework and poetry analysis, all I could possibly think about was I am not afraid to keep on living. Mr Bowie gave me a poem for leisure and he said that I didn't have to analyse it if I didn't want to: but it came with a sheet of questions so I did them.

The poem was called Group Therapy and I don't know if you've ever read it but it doesn't rhyme and, for this reason, I would deem it as useless and just generally a waste of space. They'd miscategorised a short paragraph for a poem, that's what they've done.

I didn't enjoy it much and I didn't relate: but I knew that Mr Bowie knew about group that happened on Fridays, even if I didn't tell him. The Group Therapy poem could've been worse: I'll admit. It could've been condescending or worse: the poet pretending to understand how I felt.

It was about children. A group therapy for children who, I guess, had been abused or had been neglected and even though I was neither of those things I felt like I could've been. I felt neglected and unloved: like, for some reason, the universe had decided that I wasn't worth it anymore. Like everyone and everything was out to kill me off. Like a character in a book they'd planned on killing from the beginning.

I felt abused. I felt like I'd been used and mistreated even though I knew that I hadn't. I felt bruised and broken and covered in a million different injuries that didn't relate to my Useless Logs of Fat™. I didn't want to get up today, I didn't want to have lessons and I didn't want to go to group therapy. But I did anyway. I am not afraid to keep on living.

The poem, Group Therapy, made me feel understood... like I wasn't alone even if it had nothing to do with me. The therapist didn't seem to know what he was doing and the children didn't either. I analysed it over and over and did the questions over until I was happy with them.

And, even after that, I couldn't stop myself from going over it again and again like it would make me feel less empty inside or maybe a little less afraid of seeing Pete at Group Therapy today. I just kept repeating it over and over again until I knew the words backwards and forwards.

Group Therapy by Bernard Levinson

We are talking about love
(not daring use that word)
As they sat about me
In a circle.
The boys and the girls.
Each with a paper puppet in one hand.

He said-
'Mine's an old man,
He's so very hungry
And so very much alone.'
And she in the softest voice –
'My puppet is ugly
Everyone hates her.'

I searched for words
To form a bridge
Between them.
The old man looked at the ugly puppet.
The paper head nodded gravely
While the group waited.

And I, groping in my word-world
Waited for the right words
To set them free.

On an impulse
He stretched forward
And gently swept her hair
Out of her face.

I know it, mostly, but I still had to look at it to type that out. I think it's my favourite poem so far. It's sort of like Pete. Because it's not what I'm used to; it's not what I like. The poem doesn't rhyme and it almost doesn't have a purpose, which means it's a waste of time and energy. While Pete is... he's never been what I like.