Even today I cannot recall his last name.  He went by some nickname, Art or Andy.  He was the first therapist in our family’s lives.  Just knowing we were “seeing a therapist” felt so strange.  But I was desperate to find someone to help my child.

A colleague had said he was “good with kids.”  I needed to trust this man.

That school day afternoon, the memory still so uncomfortably fresh, I remember sitting in his waiting room with my son beside me, staring at the floor waiting his turn for…?  For what?   A boy who barely said anything would open up to a man he’d never met?  Share secrets that he wouldn’t share with me?

After a few months of bi-weekly sessions, Jacob, then a high school senior, drinking, smoking and ingesting who knows what, turned to me and said, “Mom, if I let you see him and he tells you I’m okay, will you leave me alone?”

So I sat in Art’s office and heard these words:  “Your son is fine.  I told him just to smoke a little less.”’

Years later, after Jacob’s addiction worsened, after days and nights of anguish, fear, isolation, shame and despair,  I recalled Art’s words.   His “advice” not only stunned me then, but also caused my mistrust in every therapist since.

It took several years, and a string of smart, experienced and caring counselors for me to regain  belief in professionals who aided Jacob’s recovery – and my own.  I am grateful I found them.

Like recovery itself, trust takes time.