Facing out the elephant

Disabled counsellor Libby Webber looks at her own and other people's reactions to her in her work as a therapist

I’m waiting for my new client to arrive at the Marple Cross Centre in Southsea, where I have a private counselling practice. We’ve spoken on the phone to make the arrangements, but other than her name, I know very little about her. She knows even less about me, including the fact that I’m a wheelchair-user. I’m very conscious of my “disabledness” at these moments, because I know it’s probably the first thing that will register for the client when they see me.

The door opens and “Janey” (not her real name) walks through. I smile and say hello, and watch her reaction as she spots the wheelchair. She seems surprised but follows me into the counselling room, sits down and watches carefully as I manoeuvre into position in front of her. Suddenly she’s sobbing and apologising for “wasting my time” with her “trivial” problems – “Look at you”, she wails, “I’ve no right to complain!”.

I don’t advertise the fact that I’m a “disabled counsellor” – it’s one aspect of my identity that’s obvious as soon as a client meets me; unlike other things that make me who I am, I have no choice about whether I disclose it or not. But it’s nearly always there, the “elephant” in the room. As with everything else that comes into the room, I work with it.

I can be sitting with a client, listening to their story, and I’ll become aware of a hesitancy or embarrassment, and I’ll wonder if they’re thinking about me and my “situation” rather than their own. It’s only natural curiosity, after all. I’ll ask “What happened there? You seemed to hesitate...”, and sometimes they’ll say “Why are you in a wheelchair?”. I then have to decide how to handle it. And the decision is always based on what will benefit the therapeutic process for that client.

When disability enters the therapy session, it’s not usually as dramatic as with Janey; her whole life revolved around caring for others, and – subconsciously – she was aghast at the idea that she might have to look after me, her counsellor, as well. I was able to let her know that I can look after myself, and was strong enough to support her too. I felt I was giving her a therapeutic gift; the freedom and opportunity to receive care and support for herself.

It doesn’t always work out so well; one client disap­peared after two sessions and wrote me an apologetic letter saying she didn’t want to add to my problems as I surely had “quite enough to cope with already”. I hadn’t realised at the time that this was what was going on for her, and I regret that.