Unfiltered Story #103338

(I have a seventeen year old cat who has decided that seventeen means she has a fundamental right to be a b****. Also, due to the fact that it is winter, I wear a lot of sweaters/long sleeves. One day, when I raise my hand in class, my sleeve slides down, revealing three long, red scratches from my wrist to my elbow that my cat gave me after I tried to pet her.)

Classmate: Oh my gosh! [My name]! Have you been cutting!?

Me: … what? Oh, these? They’re cat scratches. My cat’s seventeen and a demonic b****. It’s okay.

Classmate: (looking doubtful) Alright then…

(I write it off as a strange experience and continue regularly with my life, but two days later, I get a pass to the school counselor.)

Me: Uh… hi? In the nicest way possible, why am I here?

Counselor: Well, [My name], [Classmate] has informed me that you have been attempting suicide.

Me: I have?

Counselor: She mentioned scars on your arm?

Me: (pulling up sleeve) You mean my cat scratches! Look, they’re gone by now. I do have some here (shows scratch on calf) and here (shows scratch on upper arm).

Counselor: Are you sure? (So follows the most painful half hour I’ve ever experienced, a torturous loop of me insisting that my cat is a demon, and the counselor insisting that I need help. It ends with calling my parents and paging all my friends to assure that I’m not contemplating suicide, and my cat really is horrid. By the end of it, I’m pretty sure she’s still not convinced.)

Counselor: (doubtful) Okay, then. Well, here, have these. (hands me some pamphlets about help with depression, suicide hotlines, etc.) If you ever need help, we’re all here to support you.

(I haven’t been called back since, but I still don’t understand what the interference was about. Sure, try to help those in need, but I don’t need it!)