tramitem_log | Support Group

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Support Group - March 2021

Who: OPEN (Including to all the new characters who app throughout the month)
What: Bureau Run, Non-Mandatory Support Group
When: There are meetings at various times during the week, whatever works for your character between 8 am and 10 pm
Where: There are meetings at various locations around NYC, whatever works for your character
Rating/Warnings: We ask that players put appropriate warning labels in the subject lines of their threads as they become necessary

There’s a generic spread of food on a table off to one side of the room: donuts, muffins, bagels, and cookies; coffee, lemonade, water, and because one of the Different asked for it, hot chocolate. Maybe you’re hungry enough to try it—it’s free after all.

Or maybe you can’t stomach anything, given the event you’re attending.

The space is a local rec center. The beige-painted cinder block walls and the fluorescent lighting are a terrible combination. Maybe they are reminiscent of the public school you attended in your youth?

Why are you here? Curiosity? Maybe the Bureau official will say something that will help you make sense of things? The meeting was interesting—who knew there were so many people like you, receiving memories of a past life? The group was led by someone from The Bureau—the Department of Medical Services. Some people are staying in their chairs and chatting—they must know each other from previous meetings. Some of them are gravitating towards the food.

How do you feel about tonight? Has it helped you come to terms with the dream of memories you’re having? Maybe it’s time to talk to others, get an understanding of their experience.

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Martin's sitting in the folding chair, listening to the usual Bureau liason drone on about the importance of sharing their memories, when the world tilts just ever so slightly.

He's still sitting in a folding chair. Still wearing the sweater that showed up neatly folded on the foot of his bed back in November with no preamble. But the scrubs underneath are not his jeans and cotton shirt, and those are crocs, not winter boots on his feet. Even so, the stillness in the room is the same.

When he comes back up out of the memory, he starts laughing, pulling his hands up and back through his hair.

"Dr. Whitly?" The Bureau therapist squints at him, trying her best not to look absolutely offended at his sudden outburst and interruption. "What are you laughing at?"

"Oh, dear." He pulls himself together and presses his fingertips to his mouth until the urge to grin fades, and he dulls the rush of endorphins to a slight shimmer of a smile. "My apologies. I've never been hit by a memory at Group before, and I must say ... you might find it a bit of a relief."

She's not impressed. "How so?"

"Well, you see ... I've been in a group like this before. And it seems my previous therapist was even worse than you are at this." He turns in his chair and raises a hand. "Show of hands? People here who've had better therapists?"

Anakin was there on a whim. He was always at these meetings on a whim, when he remembered he was looking out for Different who were just a shade different from the rank and file that seem to eat up whatever was offered in the Bureau's tight-fisted hand.

He'd noticed that Martin was there tonight too, but stayed clear of his friend because of Anakin's purpose - to look out for new people.

But tonight something else happened.

He felt something odd through the Force and only later, after Anakin had time to think back on it, would he realize it was the sudden rush of many different emotions all at once. It was the number and suddenness.

And then of course Martin started laughing. Anakin knew then that he was the source of it.

But a weird feeling in the Force didn't prepare Anakin for Martin talking back to the facilitator, or when Martin started asking others to get involved.

The first thing Anakin tried was to get Martin's attention with a look. A look that said a mix of 'What the hell?' and 'Are you okay?' though whether or not Anakin was successful or not was not readily apparent.

Martin didn't really think much of saying anything - it seemed a valid enough concern, after all, now that he really understood how useless these sessions were for him.

He caught Anakin's expression, but took it in stride, smiling. "Do I have donut crumbs in my beard again, dear boy?"

Martin was not getting the hint. So Anakin stood up.

"I want to leave, and you're my ride, so-" And without saying anything more, he shouldered his backpack and started heading towards the door, hoping Martin would get the hint this time.

"Whu--"

His mouth froze in an 'o' of surprise, eyebrows raised as he watched Anakin move for the door. It took a moment for his brain to process what was going on, and he got to his feet, scurrying after him, one hand dipping into his pocket for his keys. Once they were outside the meeting room, he reached out and caught Anakin's arm - gently, just enough to slow him down.

"What's going on? Why are we leaving?"

"To get far enough away from any Bureau person so we can talk," Anakin said. He'd slowed, but he kept pressing on. On so they could get out of this building and somewhere where they could talk.

Harleen tried to cover her laugh with a cough, but she couldn't keep her shoulders from shaking. She bit her lip and pressed her mouth against her hand but it sputtered out in one great cackle.

"Oh god. I'm sorry. But he's right? I'm so sorry."

"Ha!" He beams at her, absolutely pleased as punch that of all people, it's dear Harleen who agrees with him. She'd mentioned PTSD, after all, which meant that her own memories were nothing pleasant.

"Seriously, though, group therapy? In a situation like this? The only commonality is that we're assimilating memories. In a real group, you look for people with a common trauma or a shared behavior in need of correction. Alcoholics. Sex criminals. Abuse survivors!" He raises his eyebrows a little at Harleen, since he knows she works with the latter.

"What we all have in common is something that has so much variety within the definition that a group modality is absolutely useless. It's like having a group session about food allergies. You can talk to us all about avoiding peanuts, but that guy over there might only be allergic to strawberries. Or she can't eat gluten. You see?"

Harleen was more hesitant to openly criticize during the sessions, but now that Martin had broken the seal. Well. Well, she had been thinking the same thing all along, right? And if nobody ever said anything, it couldn't get better.

"A support group isn't totally without merit. Being Different," she cringed at saying it with the capital-D, "is an isolating experience, because the Bureau enforces secrecy. But without individual therapy, more ... more curated groups, there's no progress to be made. As it is, these sessions aren't support so much as a headcount."

She looked away from the therapist's hard stare about halfway through speaking her mind and flushed from embarrassment. She frowned and folded her hands over her knee, staring at her knuckles.

Edited 2021-03-07 04:16 (UTC)

Realizing that neither of them were going to get anywhere with the topic, Martin got up from his chair and relocated to an empty one near Harley, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder as the others picked up their hum-drum discussions from before he'd interrupted.

"You're right, you know," he said quietly. "A friend of mine is thinking of a plan that we could run ourselves which might be of a little more use. If you're interested."

She went stiff under his touch and jumped a little in surprise.

"Maybe I am."

"Sorry." He held up his hands, then clasped them together and set them in his lap. "I didn't mean to - er. Anyway. I can message you the details? We haven't actually finalized anything yet, still waiting to get in touch with some people who'll make it possible."

"No, you're fine, I was just surprised." She plucked at the hem of her sleeve and eyed him warily. "I'm not agreeing to anything, or committing myself to it. But I'll hear you out."

He nodded in understanding, forcing himself to curb his enthusiasm for the project a little. She was a researcher, she dealt in facts, not emotionally-charged pitches.

"What we want," he said, keeping his voice low, "is a safe space where the Different can gather and talk to each other about their experiences without the 'big brother' feeling of the Bureau sitting within spitting distance. My friend is a licensed psychologist who's one of us, and he's willing to help mediate or meet with people individually ... and since some people are experiencing physical changes as well, I'm throwing my hat in the ring as a medical professional."

She leaned in closer to hear him, their legs pressed together. Hopefully it looked like a heartfelt moment of community support and not outright conspiring against the establishment.

"And you're telling me this why? To give me hope that help is coming eventually somewhere down the road, or rope me into helping?"

"No roping, just keeping you informed." He gave her a reassuring but grave smile, to fit the tone of the small ruse they were trying to project. "If you do eventually want to help, I'm sure Bailey would appreciate the help, but no one's going to force you into anything."

She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, partly to sell the act and partly because she was just so damn tired, and sighed heavily.

"Yeah, definitely keep me updated."

His shoulder was warm and comfortable, thanks to that thick cable-knit cardigan. He held the moment in silence, making it seem as if there was a moment of solemnity.

"Of course. ... You look tired. It's hard to sleep with all of this, I know." Maybe the ruse wasn't completely one, after all. "Have you tried anything over-the-counter? Melatonin, et cetera?"

"Yeah. Whiskey." She huffed a laugh and closed her eyes. For all she worked to project the image of a strong professional at work, she had a deeply snuggly core. "Your sweater is really soft."

He chuckled quietly, the sound a deep rumble beneath her head. "That works pretty well, too, but as a medical professional, I wasn't going to go straight toward it when giving out advice."

At her comment about the sweater, he smiled. "It is! I've been wearing it quite a bit for that exact reason. Do you know, it showed up out of the blue one day in my closet. Couldn't remember buying it or getting it as a gift from anyone. But it's in a lot of my memories, so I think ... it was important to me then. Somehow."

"I'm a doctor too so it's fine." Doctors don't have to actually follow their own advice. It was one of the perks traded for astounding medical school debt.

She rubbed her cheek against the yarn and sighed. "Might just grab a quick nap right here."

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Support Group - March 2021

CW: violence depicted in memory link

Re: CW: violence depicted in memory link

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