"I used to cut myself with paperclips because my dog died."

"Well, that's awkward."

The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them or censor them. I clap a hand over my mouth, of course thinking for a split second that no one heard me. They did. Nebula (her real name is Christine, but she insists we call her 'Nebula'. What a winner.) Looks flabbergasted and blushes profusely whilst narrowing her eyes at me. Nebula just doesn't like me. I actually don't like Nebula very much either.

It's not like we didn't meet on a good foot, I mean, we met awkwardly. We all do, saying how the only way we did meet was for the group therapy sessions at Lingard's Institute for Troubled Youngsters (yes, even I noticed that it had a suspiciously sounding name like the one from X-Men Evolution. Not that I have all four seasons on DVD . . .) and we didn't really hit it off.

Nebula obviously has attention issues and wants people to want her. I can tell, because she said she used to cut herself with paperclips (that is such a lame lie.) and I see no scars (and paperclips are so damn sharp.).

Nebula is also a bad liar. Okay, I'll admit, when my old dog Scruffy died I cried for two days straight, but not once did the thought cross my mind to self harm myself. Wasn't my fault he died. I admit though, I fed him too much which led to the long awaited diagnosis of dog diabetes (maybe if Scruffy wouldn't yelp so much and I didn't have pity, I wouldn't have fed him so much). But, you can tell that Nebula is not a good liar. In fact, she's terrible at it. She just wants attention, wants someone to care for her, wants . . .

"Oh really?" Nebula's scratchy voice calls me out of my thoughts. Her eyes are rimmed with approaching tears and it's already starting to get red around there. She's already on the verge of tears? Maybe she's an only child . . . scratch that. She must have an older sibling (brother, perhaps) who used to make fun of her and instead of growing up and adapting to it; she's gotten even more sensitive over the years. No doubt it's an older sibling, the way she always craves for attention . . .

"What about you, huh? Why are you here?" She leans forward and balls her fists and leans forward menacingly. Our supervisor, Mrs. Lockhearst-Sharpe puts a comforting hand on Nebula's knee. "It's okay; we're all here to help."

Yeah. Okay, whatever you say. Mrs. Lockhearst-Sharpe is the girls' group therapy supervisor/counselor. She has almost a lion's mane of blond waves that cascade down her shoulders. She told us on the first day here that women's rights was fun, that's why she had her last name abbreviated to show us that us girls can take control of what is a world controlled by men.

Meh. I'm not one for all that hokey shit.

Lockhearst-Sharpe also believes that every single girl in the world will be able to get along with each other if we all just learn to know each other and talk in the ongoing circle of friendship that in her mind will start up the next day. Let the circle of lurking and friendship began because, honestly, this is 2011 and ever looming presence of those who like girls is present, especially when you are a girl. There the circle of lurking factors in (because honestly, there are some who still haven't come out, thus the need to lurk.)

But 'Nebula's' question brings me out of my analyzing reverie. Why am I here? I've been told this a thousand times, but you just soon toss that kind of information out of your head when you get sent to a special help place that reminds you of why you are here all the time.

"Easy," I say. Nebula's eyes are narrowed down so much that if she's not carful she could soon pop out a colored contact. "I analyze people."

I don't like to talk about that. Apparently it's a bad thing if your mind works into overdrive and produces thesis's and stories and profiles about people you barely know based on their actions. I guess most people consider that as unhealthy. I have yet to meet a person who does not mind it at all.

"Excuse me? And what does that mean?" Nebula says, now slightly rising out of her seat.

"Nebula that is not why she is here. Clare, can you tell the truth?" Lockhearst- Sharpe begs while restraining Nebula.

Okay, I lied.

I don't over analyze people. And, I'm a compulsive liar. It's just . . . those are symptoms of my actual disease and I don't like to talk about that very much.

"I have . . . I have schizoid."

Schizoid is an early manifestation of schizophrenia. By the time I am twenty one, I will be pronounced an official schizophrenic if I do not fully recover from these early therapy and psychiatric meetings. When I am eighteen, a family member will be able to admit me to a mental hospital, or the state will step in and admit me themselves if I do not show signs of progress. It's a crap life, but fate dealt me the losing card and I plan to make the most out of it.

There is a collective gasp once I spill my little 'secret' and I don't really mind. All I know is that having schizoids sucks but I would rather be crazy than an attention seeking outcast who decides that naming herself 'Nebula' will solve all of her problems.

That's why almost everyone is here. This is the personality disorder group. Although schizoids is serious, it's still is in such a low percentile that it can be defined as a personality disorder, instead of a full on mental ailment.

I raise my eyebrows. No one says anything. "Well?" I question. Silence makes me uneasy. I feel awkward during some social situations and I don't like trying to adjust to something that does not make me feel comfortable. After a minute of silence, Lockhearst-Sharpe nods earnestly. "That was an amazing act of bravery Clare. Thank you for trusting us with your disease." She nods to the whole group. "Thank you Clare," they all say at once, sounding like artificially programmed robots. It makes my head spin at the lack of inflection in their voices.

Amazing act of bravery? Please. There are people who die for their beliefs, people who do things that are way more important than sharing a little tidbit of what the Hell is wrong with you.

It's another awkward silence. Nebula adjusts herself, and then continues on. Of course. I'm sorry that I stole the spotlight for just a second Nebula, I didn't mean to.

While Nebula rattles off some crackpot story about an abusive boyfriend, Mrs. Lockhearst-Sharpe's words still echo around me.

Maybe she's right. Maybe I am so brave for sharing my disorder, but I certainly don't feel brave.

…..

A/N: Alright, well, there you go. I know you guys see a lot of stories like this out there, but I promise this one is different! I'm going to take a whole other spin on this, and I plan on writing longer chapters. This is my first story, so I would love criticism!

Please review!