The School Counselor
I don’t remember why I went to the school counselor. I remember it was 7th grade…I was miserable at school. I didn’t fit in. I was far from popular…I was picked on – my clothes weren’t stylish, I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup or jewelry….I was horribly introverted…I probably had “pick on me!” written all over me.
He was a younger counselor, and an observant one. He saw something in me…saw something was wrong in my situation. I tried to skate around my mom’s craziness…but he prodded a bit. I’d never had an adult LISTEN and not rush to blame me for my mother’s actions. I let down my guard a little. He suggested a group he was facilitating…said it would be a safe place to talk. But…it was 1977. He had to have consent for me to participate. He sent home a form. My mom took one look at the form and blew.
“He thinks your crazy, you know. That’s what this is about. He thinks you are crazy and you need therapy. Well you’re NOT going! I’ll put an end to this.” The next day when I went to school, he called me into his office, told me my mom had refused consent and vaguely said I shouldn’t be coming into his office unless it was an emergency. The next time I did go to his office….he looked up from his desk and an odd look crossed his face and he said “I don’t have time to talk to you anymore Lisa, I’m busy.”
I’ve no idea what she said to him. Whatever it was, it was enough to convince him to shut the door to me. I didn’t bother going back to any more school counselors.
