My first ever counselling session

I will never forget my first counselling session. After repetitive pleas from my friends to go, I finally booked an appointment. Even then, as I was booking, I was still skeptical. I had deluded myself into believing that I was supposed to do it all on my own, that I needed no help.

Back before I entered uni, I knew something was wrong. I wasn't the same, especially after I graduated high school. Friends were unimportant to me, and I never kept in touch with most of them. I was just disinterested. Then I heard about therapy, and I asked my mother if I could book a session.

What came immediately was a frown. "What do you need therapy for? You're not crazy. Come one tell me what is wrong with you. I'm your mother after all." She said. I knew the moment I told her what was happening to me, she would do two things: One, she would completely invalidate my feelings and tell me nothing was wrong with me, that I was spouting nonsense. Two, she would tattle to my father and we would have a whole discussion of them missing the point. I couldn't have that happen, so I dismissed it, never to bring it up again. Never ask for any form of counselling again.

How wrong I was.

A lump formed in my chest. Then it started becoming heavy. Each time I would fake a smile and act like everything was okay, each time I would forcefully stop myself from crying, each time I would be there for my friends but none would be there for me. It kept getting heavier.

I automatically created this trash can. That was the image I had in my mind, and it quickly started filling up. Each time I faked a smile and acted like everything was okay, when I forcefully stopped myself from crying, and when I would be there for my friends, but none would be there for me. It kept filling up.

Then, it became a norm. I was numb. At that point, it had filled the house in my heart. After six years in high school, one year in preparation for college and a year in university, the load was huge, but I gaslighted myself into believing that I was okay and was overreacting.

Then, I heard you could go for counselling. Of course, it wasn't the first time I heard of it, especially now that I am in my second year, but I didn't care. Like I said before, I wasn't going to concern myself with it. Then someone finally noticed. It was random, it was weird. I didn't like it. I was used to being ignored. she was in my class, very extroverted. She was friends with everyone. She told me back then that I didn't look okay. Of course, my first instinct was to deny it, which I did. "I'm fine." I smiled forcefully. There was nothing wrong with me.

Of course, she didn't believe me. Then she told me to go for counselling, and I was offended. Did she think I was crazy? Noticing my anger, she immediately corrected herself, telling me something shocking. She said I was drowning. I was speechless. No one was supposed to know. Then, I felt ashamed of myself, not because of what she said but because I felt I didn't hide it that well. She gave me a slip. It was the location of the office. I stared at it for a while before telling her I would think about it, then I left.

It wasn't until after a month that I booked my first session. It was early in the morning. 8:30 am to be precise. I went into the office and I felt nervous. I was cold. I felt like I was in the hospital. Then, a lovely lady approached me and told me to fill out my details. I did so quickly, ignoring my hand tremoring. She could see it too but said nothing. She took it afterwards and another lady led me into a tiny room.

I remember the sensation. I couldn't look her in the eye. We hadn't even started, but I wanted to leave. I felt like I was about to be scolded. Then, she comforted me and ensured me that it would stay between us and I nodded, still keeping at the back of my mind not to share too much in case she tattled to my parents.

We got to the basics. What year I was in, what I was studying, and so on. It was getting boring, and then she asked me the dreaded question: "What made you come here?"

I froze. Why was I here again? Then I told her it was because I was crazy and she frowned, immediately negating the statement, and telling me that counselling or therapy doesn't mean crazy.

Before I knew it, I was spewing I was just saying everything, practically vomiting my words. Telling her what was wrong. By the time I was done, I was on the verge of tears, but I wasn't going to allow myself to cry. I was waiting for her to judge, to do anything but she did the exact opposite. She handed me a box of tissues.

"Cry it out." She said.

I shook my head. She nodded.

"Cry it out," she repeated.

By then, a few traitorous tears lipped out, still pursing my lips, refusing to cry. Then she said this.

"It's okay to cry. You are not weak for crying."

I burst, crying, crying that day, for the first time in two years. I let it all out, crying for the next minute. She said nothing, didn't pat me on the back or tell me I was going to be okay, neither did I want to hear it.

When I finished, she smiled. "Are you ready to get started?" and I smiled, nodding, my heart already feeling light. I knew there was a long way to go, but I was well on the way.

Oh, by the way, I am now good friends with the girl and my counsellor.