I'm usually listening to confessions, not making them. I guess this is what it feels like to be on the other end.

I confess: I'm a therapist. I was a therapist at a local clinic that specialized in working with teens.

I confess: The clinic fired me when they found out I have AIDS.

I confess: I got AIDS from unprotected sex. Apparently the clinic felt that that was unforgivable since I counseled hormonal teenagers.

I confess: I started Life Support to help myself as much as others. After the clinic fired me, there was no way to fill my time. I have enough in savings to not have to work, but I still want something to make me feel useful.

I confess: I've accepted that I'm going to die. What I can't accept, what I can't fathom, is the sense of how young some of the members of our group are. Angel and Mimi are the youngest. Angel can't be more than twenty-three, twenty-four at most. And Mimi, she breaks my heart. She reminds me of my little sister, same age and all. She's nineteen. Just a kid. And she's dying.

I confess: I worry about the people here. I worry when I notice the bags under Pam's eyes from another sleepless night. I worry when I hear Gordon coughing, when I see Angel in jeans, when I feel the bones in Ali's back as I hug her thin frame. I worry about all of them, but I don't say it. A therapist is to keep his distance.

I confess: I don't have all the answers. I try to have the answers, I try to pretend I have the answers, but I'm as clueless as they all are.

I confess: I'm sicker than the others know. My t-cells are critically low. I haven't told them because I don't know how they'll handle it. I don't want to see the group fall apart. More than that, I don't want to see if they don't care.

I confess: I let Mark Cohen come film us to have our stories told and also in hopes that he'll take over leading this group when I'm gone. I haven't told him that last part.