A Problem Shared

Unusually, there was no-one at Reception that evening, so Mary decided to go straight through to the counsellor’s office. She was running late after yet another row with her husband. She was sure she must look a mess and the counsellor would be able to tell she’d been crying.

She’d been having sessions on and off for some time now at the suggestion of her GP. He’d tried her on antidepressants, which hadn’t helped. He knew, as Mary did deep down, that pills were not the answer. She wasn’t mentally or physically ill, just trapped in a miserable and loveless relationship. Mary wasn’t convinced that counselling would be any good either. None of the counsellors had said much so far – just sat there, nodding and smiling. ‘This is your time… I’m here to listen… This is a safe space for you to share your problems... Tell me what you're feeling.’  No advice, just sympathy.

It hadn’t helped that Mary had seen several different counsellors. The counsellor she’d started with had gone off sick.  Her replacement was a male counsellor, who Mary didn’t feel comfortable with. Then she’d missed some sessions and her case had been closed and reopened with a third counsellor. She hadn’t yet been able to build up a sense of trust with anyone she’d seen. She’d become fed up with retelling the same old story of being married to a husband who kept putting her down, who drank, who did little to help around the house, who she suspected had cheated on her, and who made her feel low and worthless. Even though the counsellors had notes in front of them from other sessions, they usually suggested that she tell her story, in her own words, from scratch. She normally broke down and spent much of the time crying.

Tonight was no different. As she walked into the room, she was confronted with yet another new face. Mary burst into tears.

After a few minutes, she removed her glasses, wiped her face, and regained enough composure to retell her story for the umpteenth time…..

 ‘Your old man sound like a right toe-rag. He’s dragging you down. You’re too good for him. Why don’t you get rid of him, find yourself a decent bloke, start living again.’

Mary was shocked at the forthright and direct way in which she was being addressed. She put her glasses back on and took a closer look at the person opposite.  She was casually dressed in jeans and trainers and was wearing a tabard. Instead of files, she was holding a duster. ‘Well, it’s good to talk, but I’d better get back to my cleaning.’

The power of such homespun, unsophisticated yet blindingly obvious advice hit home. She was right. Mary knew what she needed to do.

As the cleaner left, the counsellor appeared at the door. ’Sorry, Mary. You were late – we thought you weren’t coming so the receptionist and I popped out for a break. Are you alright? Do you want to re-schedule for next week?’

‘No thanks.’ Mary said, smiling for the first time in what seemed like ages. ‘I don’t think I need any more counselling. I’m feeling much better now.’