Group Therapy

The Jamaican boy, with his beautiful skin and hearty smile, tells us about how he used to punch his rage into concrete walls. The day that his eight-year-old dog died, he says, was the worst day of all. It was more than that, really, because it was also the academic pressure and his parents' divorce and some inconvenient neurochemical imbalances, but it was his little dog's big death which pushed him into action. He went where he was alone. And he clenched his fists. And rammed them against a wall. Over. And over. The unforgiving concrete must have felt cold and violent against his skin. Now, he shows us how his knuckles are permanently deformed. The group leader warns him about arthritis later in life, and I can't help laughing because that is so not the point. As the boy with the smile talks about all of this, he seems to notice our concern. So he stops talking. And then he starts talking again to reassure us that he has since picked up photography, which is an undeniably healthier coping mechanism. It is all I can do to resist hugging him. It is all I can do to keep myself in my stiff grey folding chair, and not jumping up to pull him against my chest and whisper you're safe, you're safe, you're safe, you've had it tough and you will continue to have it tough but you are loved and your parents' issues are not your fault and you are safe and you are safe, you beautiful boy, do you hear me???