Somebody else.

I am honored that they trust me with the deepest secrets of their souls. I think. Sometimes (like today) I want to tell them not to tell me. I want to tell them to tell someone-- anyone—just not me.

I’m their English teacher, though. I’m the one who reads their journals and their personal narratives. My class is the class where life’s “issues” are discussed thoughtfully. I chose to teach English because I knew that English class “mattered.”

Sometimes, though, I just want to remind them of the counseling office. I feel like I’m surviving most days and their "junk" is often too much for my already sore shoulders.

What if they knew that I, too, am hurting? Some days it’s hard for me to keep going, too. Even me--the English teacher who hears their secrets and becomes responsible for getting them help.

I went home with a crazy migraine today. I'm sure it had something to do with reading her gut-wrenching autobiography, which landed me crying in the counseling office. Those poor guidance counselors.