When I began seeking professional help for my own mental illness, the sketchy health system I went through (as it was the only option in Appalachian Ohio) shuttled me to their counselors/graduate students first. Despite being into all sorts of recreational drugs at the time I could appreciate attempting to talk things out before dumping a bunch of pills down my throat. That is, until I learned what counseling was all about. In a one hour session my guidance professional always managed to ask the same question three or four times, each time expecting a different answer, perhaps a revelation. Problem was I said everything there was to say the first time he asked. (They wanted me to be open, and I was.) Then there was a long, awkward silence until one of us pushed the conversation elsewhere.
All the counselors I’ve seen, even the nine uncomfortable weeks of group therapy, were just like that. It was a bit like fumbling around in a power outage for some matches; after prodding the darkness ahead I did eventually learn some things about myself, but like the match going out soon enough I was in the dark again.
Afro Pick 