Therapy is complex, grueling — and rewarding
I don’t need a therapist.
Not me, nuh-uh, I’m totally okay, totally.
That’s what I tell my 11th grade mechaneches when she corners me shortly after my parents’ divorce. That’s what I tell my aunt, the only one I’d ever opened up to about what was going on at home. That’s what I tell my principal, my mother, my grandmother, myself.
But at some point, when I’m so worn down and things have reached new levels of unbearable, I give in. It takes fewer than ten minutes for Mrs. Green, the mechaneches, to hand me a pale green slip: Tuesday, third period.
The school social worker has an office with a separate entrance, no windows overlooking the school grounds, a noise machine humming in the background. It’s safe and private and I feel a tiny stirring of hope. Maybe this will help?
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