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Support groups are like the Avengers of real life. You've got Captain Anxiety, the Hulk of Heartbreak, and Black Widow with a PhD in Loneliness. They even have a support group superhero pose, you know, the one where everyone sits in a circle and pretends they're comfortable sharing deep, dark secrets. I tried to fit in by creating my own superhero persona. I wanted to be Captain Awkward, armed with the power of social discomfort. My arch-nemesis? Eye contact.
But the real challenge is when you encounter the Support Group Overachiever. You know the one. They've conquered all their issues and now come to the meetings just to show off. "Hi, my name is Dave, and today marks 365 days without emotional baggage. I've even got a certificate to prove it!"
I'm sitting there thinking, "Dave, I can't go 365 minutes without tripping over my emotional baggage!
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You ever been to a support group? It's like entering a secret society where the only requirement is having issues. I went to one for a while, but it felt more like a competition. You know, everyone trying to out-sad each other. I walked in, and there's Bob in the corner with his sob story. I'm thinking, "Come on, Bob, we get it, your cat left you for a mouse, but I lost my job because my boss found out I was allergic to overtime!"
And then there's this weird support group shuffle when someone new shows up. Everyone stops talking, looks at the door, and then suddenly we all start rearranging our faces to look more miserable, like we're auditioning for the next season of "Misery Loves Company."
I even tried to lighten the mood once. I stood up and said, "Hey, everybody, let's not call it a support group. Let's call it a 'Misery Mixer'!" Yeah, that didn't go over well. They just stared at me like I suggested we all go bungee jumping without the bungee.
So, note to self: don't bring party hats and confetti to a support group unless you want to be the outcast.
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Support groups have this secret language, like a code only they understand. It's like being in a cult, but with fewer robes and more tissues. I overheard someone say, "I'm really struggling with my 'inner child' this week." Inner child? I'm just trying to deal with my outer adult. My inner child is locked in a closet somewhere, probably playing with action figures and avoiding responsibilities.
And then there are the code words for emotions. "I'm feeling a bit 'unsettled' today." Unsettled? That's a fancy way of saying my life is a chaotic mess, and I'm one bad day away from wearing a sandwich board that says, "The End is Near."
Maybe we should have a support group for decoding support group code words. "Hi, I'm decoding Dave, and today I translated 'inner child' to mean he forgot to pay his electric bill.
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Support groups love their show and tell sessions. It's like kindergarten for broken adults. "Today, I brought my crippling fear of rejection. It's a bit wrinkled because I've been carrying it around since middle school." And then there's always that one person who takes it to the next level. They bring props! Last week, Karen brought in a life-sized replica of her ex-boyfriend, complete with a voice box that played breakup speeches. I thought, "Karen, that's not support group show and tell; that's a puppet show of emotional trauma!"
I decided to participate once. I brought in a rock. Yeah, a plain old rock. I said, "This represents the weight of my insecurities. Also, it's a good paperweight." They stared at me like I just showed up to a potluck with an empty Tupperware.
Lesson learned: in support group show and tell, leave the rocks at home and stick to the dramatic monologues.
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