Group therapy wasn’t the cathartic release and emotional support that the psychiatric hospital advertised it to be. It wasn’t even the kumbaya, bi-weekly, mutual wound licking session Minerva had cynically expected it to be a year ago. No, group therapy was just like grade school all over again except with more medical excuses. There were small cliques of girls who would make jokes before session and would get coffee afterwards. There was that one guy, the only guy in the group, who never showed up. And the skinny chick who had a boyfriend and a job like a normal person and who made the group listen to an Eminem song because she felt it expressed her feelings. Then there was the majority, those who didn’t participate, either furtively glancing about or checking their phones. Over the last three months the group Minerva was part of had grown to fourteen participants. Fourteen people between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five, all with differing arrays of disorder. Their only reason for being put together was their age, the transitional gap between adolescence and adulthood. To make group therapy even worse, another member was joining today. Minerva toyed with the pilling on the inside of her hoodie pocket, waiting for session to begin. She just wanted to get it over with. She wanted a drink. And most of all, she wanted to go home, wherever home was. It certainly wasn’t anywhere under the indifferent stars above.