Why They Call Me the Casual Counselor
- Brainz Magazine
- 6 hours ago
- 9 min read
For nearly 14 years, I've helped individuals navigate the complex landscape of addiction in order to achieve recovery. Nicknamed "The Casual Counselor", my approach is unconventional, but undeniably effective.
I had just launched my private practice, and he was one of my first clients. Just a kid. Nineteen years old if he was a day. He was a young African-American man, an emerging adult, but still a teen, really, from an affluent suburb just down the road from my office. The town he lived in is one of many surrounding communities that bus in students of color from the inner-city to “diversify” the student population.
But he wasn’t one of these inner-city kids. His parents had done just well enough to make this community their home for this young man’s entire life, one of only two black families native to the community. He was court-ordered to do 7 sessions with a drug and alcohol counselor for some minor trouble he had gotten into, nothing too serious, just a typical story of getting caught by the fuzz for underage drinking.
But he had had previous encounters with law enforcement, likely by virtue of the hue of his skin. He favored urban-style “streetwear” baggy jeans, Nike trainers, oversized t-shirts, and unkempt hair. He was a classic teen misfit. And, one of my forever taglines is, “blessed are the misfits”. I love the Misfits. I AM a misfit, even in my middle age, and with some modicum of reform.
But, you know the type of which I speak: the ones who push the boundaries, step over the lines, cross the streets without pushing the walk light button, color outside the lines, bend and sometimes break the rules, and march to the beat of their own drums.
He was also a creative spirit. A kid after my own heart, as I’m a lover of all things art. He got picked up a few times for spray painting walls that didn’t belong to him. He had been busted for trespassing in public spaces after dark. He, within his hometown, walked around with a target on his back, and he knew it.
It didn’t bother him too much, but his very controlling parents were always concerned about his miscreant behaviors, and they were always seeking the assistance of professional helpers to try to figure out why he was doing all the naughty things he did.
Enter Josh.
Our first session: He walked into my office and gave me a quick fist bump, and then started to wander around my waiting room, looking a little perplexed, and surveying the scene. He looked back at me.
“Are you really a counselor?” he asked.
“Last I checked, yeah, “ I replied, “Why do you ask?”
“It’s this room, man. I’ve seen a lot of counselors over the years. I ain’t never seen an office that looked like this.”
“What did the other offices look like?” I asked.
“You know bullshit motivational posters, ‘Live, Laugh, Love’, that sort of thing. White walls. Look at this place. Don’t take this personally, man, but this doesn’t look like any professional therapist’s office I’ve ever seen.”
I assured him, “None taken. Step inside my office! Let the healing begin!” I winked at him.
He smiled.
He stepped inside and was pleasantly confused and taken aback.
“Man, this shit looks like someone’s living room! Looking like an opium den in here,” he quipped.
“I guess I can see that,” I responded, “but, sorry, no opium, I’m afraid.” He smiled. I smiled back.
“Yo, who that dude on that picture on the wall? I've seen that dude before,” he said.
“You ever heard of a band called ‘The Grateful Dead?, I asked, “That was their lead singer and guitarist. His name was Jerry Garcia. He died some years back. One of my musical heroes.”
“Ohhhhhhh! That’s that band with all the crazy people taking acid and wearing tie-dye and shit, right?” He replied.
“That’s the one,” I said.
“You like that band?” he asked.
“Like them? I was one of the crazy people following them around for years when I was a much younger man. They are my all-time favorite band. That’s my heritage right there. I only wish he could’ve found recovery. He had a serious drug problem, among other lifestyle issues. He was only in his early fifties when he passed.”
“You like music, huh?” he said, “What else do you like?”
He hadn’t even taken a seat yet, he was meandering around my office space, examining all of the pictures of musical icons, counterculture artwork, hand-drawn pictures on my big bulletin board, squinting his eyes, getting up close to take a closer look. I invited him to grab a seat.
“I like lots of things. Music, writing, art, poetry, and animals. It’s a long list. I could go on for hours, but we only have like 40 more minutes,” I told him, “What are you into?”
“Same shit, different flavor,” he reported, “I like hip-hop, skateboarding, graffiti, art, all that…Yo, I actually draw and write poems, too.”
“That’s awesome,” I told him, “I rode a skateboard for years. A BMX bike, too. I still ride sometimes, but I’m not trying to do tricks anymore with these old knees.”
“No shit!”, he fired back, with just a touch of enthusiasm, and I saw a tiny glimmer of something appear in his gaze, as he scrutinized me. It looked like he was relating to me, if memory serves.
“Yo, my man. You’re SURE you’re a real counselor, my dude?” he asked again. I laughed.
“So says my credentials. “Now, you tell me, what brings you here to see me?”
He was just a kid, and he showed up weekly to all of his court-ordered sessions with me, and we got to know each other. The first couple of sessions had nothing to do with anything regarding problematic behavior, his family, the cops, or getting busted for drinking. We, instead, talked mostly about pop culture.
I learned that he loved Kendrick Lamar (I do, too), that he could skate a halfpipe and do rail slides & kickflips at the skate park nearby. He enjoyed smoking cannabis and having a 40oz with his friends from time to time. Interestingly enough, he did not meet the diagnostic criteria for a person with a substance or alcohol use disorder by my assessment.
He was a recreational user, sure. But his substance use did not set off any alarm bells in my head. It did not seem dangerous. And, he did not strike me as fixated or passionate about a chemical “fix”. His real passions were those of the creative variety: skating, street art, sketching, music, photography of abandoned buildings, and spending time with his very small circle of friends.
He was constitutionally wary and not quick to trust others, a by-product of how he was treated by those in his household and the people in seats of power, both in his hometown and in the office of “professional helpers” people like me.
Our last five sessions? He went hard in the paint. When I say he opened up, he opened it all up. He started telling me everything. All his frustrations and self-doubt. What it was like to be on the receiving end of prejudice and overt racism at the hands and out of the mouths of both his peers and even some of the teachers whose classes he had the misfortune of being assigned to, just by virtue of being a black teen.
He told me that writing about these experiences, in the prose of poetry and song lyrics, had been an important outlet to helping him survive his upbringing.
I heard many stories about his family dynamics. The controlling parents. The myriad diagnoses bestowed upon him by medical doctors and psychiatrists who had spoken to him for all of 45 minutes, and the prescription medications he was pressured to take daily, because, according to them, and his parents, and his school administration based on some of his misfit behaviors, that he “must be mentally ill”.
I’ve got news for you: He wasn’t. I’m no doctor, but when he opened up his own personal pandora’s box for me, a summarized story of his life up until the age of 19, my assessment of this young man told me that he was really just a typical teenager, and that many of his “problematic behaviors” actually paled in comparison to those of his caucasian peers, many whose powerful parents always seemed to have the power & clout to obscure their kids’ misdeeds from the public eye, while my client’s own story of spray painting a wall in the downtown square was front page news.
A misfit? Sure.
An outcast? You bet.
But, a criminal? If at all, barely, and I lean in the direction of a full-stop “No”.
I’ll never forget our last session together. We were sitting together in my plush recliners, while I provided him with the note to give to his probation officer confirming that he had attended all of our appointments together, when I caught him side-eyeing me. He was giving me a funny look.
“Dude, what the hell are you looking at me like that for?!?” I demanded.
“I dunno, Josh. It’s just”, he trailed off, “I’ve seen a lot of counselors since I was, like, 12. You’re not like those other counselors.”
“Oh, yeah?”, I responded, “Why’s that? How am I different?”
“I mean, look at you, bruh. You’re not wearing some dumb suit and tie, sitting behind a desk, taking notes, asking me, ‘How does that make you feel?”, every time I say something. You got on jeans and a t-shirt, and when we talk, we just talk like a couple of regular people. I’m not trying to give you a big head or nothin’, but I’ve actually enjoyed these sessions with you.”
I smiled and thanked him. “Me, too,” I said.
He reached into his backpack and took out a sketch he had drawn in green pencil. A portrait of a man whose eyes tell a story of a man who has a lot to share, but who has a finger to his lips, as if saying, “shhhhh”.
“I made this for you. You think you could put it up there on that big board?” he asked.
I very nearly got choked up, but held back any visible tears, as I told him, “I’d be honored to, and thank you. I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you.”
He continued, “You’re the only helper I’ve ever felt comfortable telling all that stuff about, you know.”
“No shit?” I said, “Why’s that?”
“Man, I just told you it’s the way you dress, it’s your office. It ain’t all diplomas on the wall. It’s music and culture and dope-ass artwork, all that,” he replied, “You know who you are, man? I figured it out! You’re “The Casual Counselor”, that’s why.”
“The Casual Counselor”, I replied, “You know what, I kinda like that, I think I might use that.”
“Yeah, you probably should. Whatever you did for me, I want to let you know, it helped. I’m not sure how, but maybe it’s ‘cause you dress like me, you into the same shit I be into, and your office is dope.”
“What can I say?” I said to him, “I like to keep it cozy, one of the perks of being your own boss, I guess.”
He packed up his backpack, we bumped fists, and he exited my waiting room. As he started descending the stairs, he looked back in my direction.
“Yo, Josh, my man, keep it casual,” he reminded me.
I never saw him again. But I hung his sketch up on the big board, and I think of him often. He didn’t give me a nickname; he gifted me one. “The Casual Counselor”.
Now don’t get it twisted. As casual as my appearance and my office may be, I take my job extremely seriously. Though I’ve witnessed more clients get better, stay better, and build beautiful lives for themselves by a huge margin, I’ve also experienced the heartbreak of losing several to accidental overdose, and one to suicide. They made a choice and died as a result. I know I’m not responsible for their “stolen lives”, but not a day goes by where I don’t question myself:
“What did I miss during that last session I had with them?”, or something to that effect. I know I did my best to help them, and I always and forever promote radical autonomy with the clients I work with, their lives, their choices, and their outcomes.
I do my best to provide them with education, guidance, love, support, and to be an unwavering ally, wherever they are on their journey through addiction and recovery. Sometimes, people don’t make it. When you work in the field I work in, it’s not a question of “if” that might happen, the death of a client, but “when”.
It is a difficult thing to reconcile.
It is also important to be honest with myself, and the people who reach out to me for help: if it doesn’t feel like a good fit, I’m going to let that person know, “I don’t think that my approach is going to be the best fit for what you need, but I’ve got a great network of referrals with which I can provide you.”
I wish I could help everyone, but if it doesn’t click, there’s never any positive outcome in trying to force it. Round peg, square hole, or some such thing. For the people I do “click” with, my
down-to-earth and laid-back, “Casual Counselor” approach proves to have credibility, efficacy, and a powerful relatability.
My style may differ from my contemporaries, but it works for me, and more importantly, it works well for the people who tune into that casual frequency.
Read more from Joshua Bennett-Johnson
Joshua Bennett-Johnson, Licensed Addictions Therapist
After working for 7 years in an amazing clinic, I launched into private practice in 2018. I love my job. I can say that without reservation. Watching people rebuild their lives is something that is worth more than any dollar amount.
