I almost laughed when the school counselor called and asked if I wanted to pop in for a chat about the whole Amy-Julie bullying saga.
“No,” I wanted to chortle at the absurdity of wasting a counselor’s time on such a tiny matter. “No one asked me if I needed to speak to a counselor when my mum died when I was thirteen, and I managed to deal with that on my own.”
“Golly,” I wanted to gasp at the preposterous proposal that a counselor was required for something schoolyard related. “No one asked me if I needed to speak to a counselor when I was diagnosed with eye cancer, and I managed to deal with that with a little help from my friends.”
“Good Lord,” I wanted to laugh. “If I can deal with death and cancer without any professional help, surely I can cope with this.”
All the same, even I could hear the quiver in my voice as I started to vehemently deny that I needed any help with this one.
Because actually I really did need to talk to someone.
Like I said before, being the parent of a child who is being bullied is an isolating experience. Especially in the school playground, where you are trying to avoid a confrontation with the other child’s mother, and are forced into a confused silence because you don’t want to be the one spreading rumours and gossip about someone else’s child.