Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
The day is gloomy, the weather miserable. I park my car as close as possible to the SSC, but I still end up drenched as I dart down the sidewalk and into the building.
I’ve never stepped foot inside the Student Support Center, but it’s clear they put a lot of effort into the interior of the place.
I’m greeted by calm, blue walls and plush, inviting furniture.
Classical music drifts down from the speakers in the ceiling, and the air smells like cinnamon and spice.
It’s a tranquil space despite the rain pounding the roof.
Nervously, I approach the desk, but the woman seated behind it only smiles at me with genuine warmth and compassionate eyes. She welcomes me to the Counseling Center, takes my name, and passes me a clipboard with paperwork attached.
“Alright, hon,” she says, pointing to the page on top. “If you wouldn’t mind filling out this intake form, and we’ll bring you back in a few minutes. Have a seat anywhere that’s open.”
“Thanks,” I manage. Clipboard clutched to my chest, I slowly turn to face the room. There are a few other students sitting on the couches, staring down at their phones, but no one pays me any mind. There’s no judgement or even curiosity, and for that I’m grateful.
I do my best to fill out the paperwork, but as my pen scrapes the page, I feel like I’m floating, out of body.
My hands shake, my foot jiggles, and my knee keeps bobbing up and down, unable to stay still.
I bite my nail between my teeth, trying to convince myself not to walk out of here right now and just take the failing grade.
What if the counselor laughs in my face?
What if she thinks I’m here because of some kind of ploy not to fail my class?
What if I get in that room and nothing comes out?
Or worse, what if I do open my mouth, and she blames me for everything?
Still, I scribble in my medical history and my family’s medical history and copy info off the insurance card Mom gave me when I first left for school.
When I come to the question, what brings you to the SSC?
I can’t decide what to write. It’s hard to put what I’ve been dealing with into words, so I simplify it and write, depression and anxiety.
Then, I circle words based on how I’ve been feeling and how often.
I am angry, irritable, hostile: often
I have excessive feelings of guilt: often
I notice changes in my sleep patterns: often
Normal, daily tasks require more effort: often
I have discomfort in social situations: often
I am experiencing recurring, distressing thoughts about a trauma:
I hesitate over the page. The pen wobbles in my hand. Before I can overthink it, I circle a word.
Always.
I return the form to the desk when I’m done, and then I sit back down.
I wait, counting the pictures on the wall, the patterns in the rug, the leaves of the fern in the corner, the scuffs on my sneakers, the—
“Ivy Combs?” comes a female voice, and my head jerks up.
An older, dark-haired woman stands in the doorway, and she smiles at me.
I can’t make myself smile back, I just can’t, but I do make myself stand up.
She sticks out her hand for me to shake, so I do.
“I’m Deborah. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ivy.
Are you ready?” I swallow, nerves twisting my stomach, and force myself to nod.
Her eyes are kind. Empathetic. She motions me through the doorway, and her voice is gentle when she says, “Follow me.”
She guides me down a hallway and into the second door on the left. The room is small, but cozy, and painted a serene, forest green. There are plants in the corner, and an intricate, woven rug on the floor. A candle burns on the table in the middle, scenting the room in vanilla.
“Take a seat wherever you feel comfortable,” Deborah says, gesturing vaguely at the room.
There are three options available to me—a couch and two chairs. I opt to sit on the right side of the couch, and she takes the chair opposite. It seems very…casual. I expected something out of the movies—a long, leather futon I’d have to lie on while she shrunk my head, maybe.
Once we’re seated, Deborah smiles at me again, but it’s not enough to make me relax. “How are you doing today, Ivy?” she asks, and I’m surprised that she seems genuinely interested in the answer.
I tuck my hands between my knees, unsure of how to sit. How to be. “Um, I’m fine,” I tell her, even though it’s the furthest thing from the truth.
She nods in understanding and looks down at the papers in her lap. “I took a look at the chart you filled out. This is your first time at the Counseling Center at Stratus?”
I nod and tell her, “Yes.”
“And is this your first time in counseling?”
“Yes,” I say again.
She doesn’t react to this information. Just smiles that same warm smile as before.
“Well, I’d like to welcome you to your first therapy session and commend you for taking this step.
It takes a lot of courage to reach out for help, and my goal is to provide a space where you can feel safe, heard, and supported.
I would love to spend our time today getting to know you better, as well as hear some of your reasons for seeking out counseling.
I like to keep my sessions casual, and I want you to feel free to express anything that’s on your mind or speak up at any point if there is something specific you’d like to discuss.
By the end of our time today, I hope to talk about some of the goals you might have for therapy. ”
I frown, panic flaring in my chest. “What if I don’t know my goals?”
“That’s okay,” she assures. “We can figure them out together.”
The panic lessens a little. “Okay.”
“So, I’ll tell you about my background first. My name is Deborah Ferris.
I’ve been a licensed professional counselor for thirteen years now.
Seven of those I’ve spent here, at Stratus’s counseling center, where I specialize in anxiety, depression, trauma, and PTSD.
I have a cat named Charlie and a dog named Bruce, and I spend a lot of my free time tending to the garden in my backyard.
Why don’t you tell me a little bit about you? ”
“Um.” I swallow. “Well, I-I-” I break off abruptly as I stumble over my tongue, but Deborah waits patiently for me to gather myself and continue.
“Well,” I try again, this time with little issue, “I’m a freshman.
I’m from Miller Hill. I’m majoring in graphic design.
I like to read.” I try to think of more descriptors, but my mind blanks.
I tap my fingers against my thigh. “Um, sorry. That’s not much. I’m not sure what else.”
“That’s a great start. Why don’t you tell me a bit about your family and friends?”
My family and friends. Right. I clear my throat a little. “Well, my parents live in Miller Hill. I have two brothers, Noah and Scott. They’re both older than me. We’re not that close, but we get along, I guess.”
“And your friends?”
“I…don’t have many friends,” I admit. The image of Wes’s face pops into my head and my heart cracks open. I rub at my chest. “My roommate, Quinn, is probably my closest, but I haven’t spoken to her much lately.”
Guilt sears through my stomach, and I shift on the couch.
“Oh? Why is that?”
I shrug a shoulder. “I just haven’t felt like speaking to anyone with how I’ve been feeling.”
“And how have you been feeling?”
I search for a word that can possibly encompass my whirlwind of emotions. I settle for, “Down. Really down.”
Deborah’s eyes turn sympathetic. “And how long have you been feeling really down, Ivy?”
I take a moment to consider her question before saying, “Almost two years, I guess. It got better for a while…” I think of Wes’s contagious smile and exceptional hugs, but the memories evaporate, leaving me empty inside. “But then it got worse again.”
“And is this feeling of being ‘down’ what brings you to see me?”
My knee starts to bob. I tuck my hands under my thighs, but when that’s not comfortable, I rest them loosely in my lap. I glance around the room like the words I should say might be written on the walls.
Deborah waits patiently for me to respond, but I suddenly feel the weight of the last couple weeks, crushing the breath out of me. I’m overcome by the feeling of hopelessness, and when I speak, my voice wobbles. “Yes,” I say. “I’ve just been struggling a bit.”
Deborah nods, frowning a little. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” she says. “What do you think has been causing you to struggle?”
I swallow, trying to keep my emotions under control. I will not cry. “Well, it’s a few things. But I worry that it all stems from something…bigger.”
“Something bigger,” she repeats. “Can you explain what you mean by that?”
“I mean something that happened that I haven’t dealt with,” I tell her. “Something maybe…traumatic.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, uncomfortable using the T-word. Deborah jots something down in her notebook before looking up at me again. “Would you feel comfortable sharing the details of what happened?”
My blood starts rushing in my ears. My fingertips begin to tingle. “I want to talk about it,” I say, so quietly I doubt she can even hear me, “but I don’t really know how.”
She nods, thoughtful. “It’s hard to know where to begin sometimes. Do you think you might be able to write it down?”
I blink at her. “Like, in a note?”
“Sure, a note would work. You can give it to me in person at the start of next session or share it with me over email if you’d prefer to type it out.
You can also read it aloud to me next session if you feel comfortable.
Sometimes having the words in front of you makes it easier to share.
Do any of those options sound like they might be doable? ”
I weigh her words. Truthfully, who knows if I’ll be able to execute any of those options when the time comes? But I don’t tell her that, though I probably should. “How, um, detailed do I have to be?”