I shouldn’t have assumed my office hours would be booked up within the first few weeks of class. None of these students know me. And most of the attempts I’ve made to click with any of them have failed. Aside from the faculty, the only person I seem to have connected with is the cafeteria lady, Gertrude.
Although, if all I have to do for the next few months is sit in my office and scroll on my phone all day, I really shouldn’t complain.
But after a few hours of nothingbutscrolling, I found myself praying for someone—anyone—to walk through my office door.
My client pool has only been adults, with the occasional nineteen-year-old who needed a psychiatric evaluation for some sort of job or enlistment. But at this very moment, as I stare at the clock ticking away on the wall, I would take all the children stampeding through the gates to talk about their weekend plans, or classes, or even their boy problems. Those conversations would most definitely be more stimulating than the ones I have been having with Mr. Geer at the coffee pot every morning.
“I brought tomatoes,” he’d say without eye contact.
“Oh, thank you but I don’t like—”
“You’re welcome.”
That’s the entirety of our conversationeverymorning. He brings a new produce item for everyone to partake in. The generosity is sweet but as it seems to rotate through only tomatoes, potatoes, and every other vegetable I find unnecessary, I am caught sweating from guilt as I take whatever offering he has presented with absolutely no intention of consuming it.
I am incapable of telling any of these people “no.”
Even Kate has started filling the fridge with soy creamer because I made the mistake of complimenting her diligence as she refrained from the whole milk Patsy brought in every morning. Their generosity is unmatched and I feel my Grinch heart swell just a tiny bit each time they direct their servitude towards me in any way.
“Hello, Miss Bailey.” Emma appears in my doorway, holding two large iced coffees withregular milkmarked on the cup.
“You’re a lifesaver.”
She laughs as she hands me the glorious bean water, and sits in the large gray loveseat—that has remained unoccupied all day—in front of my desk. “I like what you’ve done in here. Much cozier than what Patsy had. I begged her for years to get rid of those pink felt vintage chairs.”
“They have history,” we both say in unison, mimicking Ms. Pat.
“They’re all rentals, I will send them back in a few months,” I say as I check my phone. Emma snorts a sigh in rebuttal. “I’m sorry”—I pause and look at her earnestly—“would you prefer if I don’t make statements like that?”
“You can say whatever you want.” She waves her hand at me. “I just wish you wouldn’t already be halfway out the door the first week you’re here. I don’t want to regret sticking my neck out to get you here.” She rolls her eyes and sips her coffee.
“You’re right, I’m so sorry.”
Sheisright. I had been giving minimal effort my first week, and even if none of the students had willingly approached my office, I wasn’t necessarily going out of my way to be a welcoming presence to them either. I wasn’t even sure how to get this whole guidance counselor gig started. Ms. Pat left me folders of certain students who were required to meet with me per school policy, but those required sessions didn’t start until next week. Anyone before then would be coming to me of their own volition, with the intention ofactually opening up.
I shudder at the thought of listening to teenagersshare. Someone has issues with their boyfriend? Sure, let’s talk about it.ThatI can handle.
But real problems . . . emotional problems . . . I haven’t listened to anyone share those in months. Am I even ready for that, again?
Surely their problems won’t be as triggering to me as Brenda’s infidelity, or Lorrie’s continued relapse, or even the multitude of manic and schizoaffective disorders I encountered at my old clinic.
I thrived in that chaotic world for such a long time, trying to make sense of these dark thoughts people experience. The world of battling our innermost urges was, in a weird way, life-giving for me. It was jarring when all of a sudden I started feeling uneasy in sessions, like I wasn’t maintaining healthy boundaries like I needed to.
Most of the time, in my client sessions, we could develop a plan to help their stability and implement strategies to prevent manifestations of their symptoms. But the battle in our brains is a constant battle. As much as I wish there was a quick fix for what someone has to wrestle through mentally, there isn’t. Being a psychologist, I had to go alongside my clients in their battles, aware that we have to continuously be chipping away at the problem. And I had to accept that I would witness setbacks on a regular basis. A large majority of my clients would come to one session motivated and feelinghopeful,which in turn made me hopeful. But then in the next session, they could be the complete opposite. The pessimism was starting to impact me.
I was becoming so hyper-focused on solving my clients’ issues that when it wasn’t going as I expected I would spiral out of control.
My clients would decide they just wanted to live with their struggles, ignoring the need for treatment by convincing themselves they could reap some momentary benefit if they indulge in their darkness, rather than seek a lasting solution.
I was getting too attached and a little obsessed with their lack of compliance.
Dealing with noncompliance and the inability to disassociate from it was a tipping point. That, combined with a certain ex-fiancé I was working with, made me a poor choice as a therapist.
So here I am, ahigh school guidance counselor.
The idea that these students need someone likemeto help guide them and work through life problems is laughable.
What could they possibly need regular sessions with a counselor for? Maybe to discuss grades or college applications, or just vent about the weekly locker room drama.
