i'm done with clinic hours for the year, and would just like to wrap up by saying that it was, in many ways, what i expected. scary, primarily; i don't think any of us really felt like we knew what we were doing until fairly late in the year, and the supervisor was not one for positive feedback and support. but many other things too: moving, and sad, and life-affirming, evidence otherwise unobtainable that for all the blackness in this cold world, people still struggle on and claw their way inch by inch towards whatever redemption may be given them.

i think this is because there's something very powerful about sharing stories, and really, in the short time i've had with each client this year, that was one of the key things i had to get people to do. so i've listened to many raw, true stories, told by people who knew we were ethically bound to never pass them on, and being in that assessment room, listening to those narratives, not holding them in judgment, has been one of the most real things i've ever had to do, and i almost felt sometimes that i didn't want to taint them by writing them down, generating a report, diagnosing, arranging the clutter and mess into something organized and meaningful. that was my least favorite part of the job: interpreting. no, nothing compared to the moment, the struggling with words, the tears and the closeness. in my life so far, i don't think anything else has ever been quite so true.