I’ve seen a professional counsellor exactly once in my life.
He was bald with a trimmed, white beard, sitting behind the big, polished, expensive
desk one would expect, in a quiet, dark room. No couch. My wooden chair was not
completely uncomfortable but clearly calculated to be no more so than required.
He was mild mannered and pleasant, cajoled me into spilling
my guts for half an hour and then pronounced that I was a “good person”.
That was pretty much it for me. I knew everything I needed
to know about him right there — if not as a man, most definitely as a counsellor.
First, he’d known me for precisely 30 minutes, probably less
at that point. Nobody, no matter how perceptive or experienced, can reasonably pronounce on another person
Second, he knew me only from what I’d told him. I could have
been the world’s biggest liar. I could’ve been entirely self-deceived, recounting
things I believed to be true but that anyone who knew me outside of that office
would have dismissed as nonsense in a heartbeat.
Third, after hearing everything I had to say, his first
inclination was to attempt to reinforce my positive self-image to ensure I was
not feeling bad about myself.
That was the kicker for me.
