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Having the experience is only a tiny part of it; reflection and then the distillation of said experience alongside the reflection (preferably amusing or enlightening) into mere words is a much larger part of it. It being the telling of a story, the assumption of the elusive character of interesting-and-i-am-my-own-person person.

Have wanted an excoriation. The scrubbing of pumice against dead-skin-cracked-grandmother heels, or steel wool on chemically paint-stripped ugly wooden furniture. Have wanted to feel clean and clear of the past, of mind clutter and attic-brain dust. Of mistakes or impressions of mistakes or hallucinations of impressions of mistakes. What's holding me back? What's holding us all back?

Needing to write...something

"You cannot have certainty and you don't need it." --Psychology Today

Can someone live by that? Can every moment be rife with possibility, heavy and thick with it? Unaccounted for, unforeseen, unpredictable. Possibility. If we surrender the battle for certainty, we lose the security embedded within it and the shelter wrapped about it. So, we surrender a battle we could never win. And, we gain...everything.

I asked him how he knew psychiatry was what he wanted to do, and he replied, dropping the mannerism of doctor/psychiatrist/counselor/suave-gray-tailored-suit-van-der-Rohe-Barcelona-chair-sitting man, "I didn't know...In medical school, we did rotations and you find what fits."

Then, what hit me and resounds still: "It's not a perfect job, but it's not a perfect world."