I was sitting on the blue couch, the one that's way too squishy, and I remembered being there a year ago, explaining everything to the last counselor that had me in that room.
I told the current counselor about how my parents are currently encouraging my alcoholism, and she mentioned that her dad was the same way. I showed her my arm, she said her sister was a cutter. That was when her eyes reddened a bit, and became wet and far away.
She's young, fresh out of college. Still a child, really, in most respects. I know she's come a long way, but she's still a ways to go, too.
"You don't become a counselor without spending some time in front of one," she said.
"Something happens to make you want to be a counselor."
I stared out the window.
Psychologists have the highest suicide rate of any profession.