You might think my choice of a profession as a clinical psychologist was the result of a calling. Not so, at least not in any religious sense. Nor did I experience an irresistible force, from without or within, pushing me to serve and help heal those in pain.

Yet the work fulfilled me. I came to witness heroism among some of the profound and decent people I met. For others, the aim was to show up, live their lives, and try to do better than their parents.

They all deserve my applause.

Some of my clients led the treatment, somehow aware of the direction and effort required. Most sought guidance, while a few put in less labor than I did. When the sessions left me exhausted, but the other had not broken a sweat, I recognized an imbalance that needed to shift.

My duties were not a privilege each day, but on many days they were. I laughed with the afflicted. I shared their tears, without losing control.

The responsibility of carrying and caring for another brought weight and seriousness to my day, but enlightenment, too. Distortion, not unlike a carnival mirror, should be honored if we are to better ourselves. The strange spirit in the glass should never report, “You are the fairest of them all.

I learned that stories sometimes opened the door to insight. On occasion, they altered me.

A young and earnest therapist grows in confidence, experience, and knowledge. Failures in these areas are informative.

We all need mirrors if we expect our patients to peer into their own silvered glass. They must recognize themselves as they are, not what they might aspire to be or the monster declared guilty by their caretakers or themselves.

We are wounded healers whose job demands empathy born of our own injuries, without letting them interfere with the needs of those to whom we minister.

My childhood set before me a meal of dysfunction among relatives. The unintended desert was psychological understanding if I was able to ingest it.

My grandparents all came from Eastern Europe at the beginning of the last century. My mother’s family starved during the Great Depression. Alcohol stole the best of my maternal grandfather. Gramma set her children against each other in a fierce competition for her love.

All of those children, including mom, two aunts, and one uncle, were maimed by the love/hate of their home, poverty, illness, and parents not up for the job.

By my early teens, I grasped that living among them could be hazardous. I beheld my tearful mother beaten down with words by the family member on the other end of the receiver.

A fist delivered through a telephone cable would have caused less damage.

Dad’s family appeared more benign but distant. He worked multiple jobs out of fear of destitution, a tattooed shadow shared by many of his generation who endured the punishing decade of the 1930s economic catastrophe.

My brothers and I all needed a father’s presence, but we didn’t receive it often enough. Life in our home generated differentiated attempts to adapt, becoming an unwritten textbook on adjustment problems.

Therapists often come from complicated backgrounds, but not always. A psychiatric social worker told me about growing up in a loving family, including a kind pastor/father. None of this, she stated, prepared her for the stories of abuse she encountered.

Hearing personal histories, I required no imagination. As extreme as they were, the heartbreaking tales expressed what I came to accept about man’s inhumanity to man.

Reading Holocaust history and survivor testimonies added itself to the wash of unkindness and impulsive malice in my mother’s family. The combination made me more shockproof in the face of suffering by the time I reached my mid-30s.

This capacity was not a matter of indifference on my part, but familiarity with a slice of human nature from which I did not turn away. There is much good and wisdom in us, too, but clinical psychologists obtain a picture of both sides of ourselves and our brethren.

My practice included performing many psychological test batteries, well over 2000. I wrote reports to communicate both diagnosis and treatment suggestions. The patients I evaluated in this way and the psychotherapy clients I tried to bolster presented puzzles.

What contributed to their turmoil? Why had the previous counseling failed? What type of psychotherapy might benefit them? Would psychotropic medication be helpful?

When my efforts in the office stalled, I sometimes trashed my inadequate understanding of the client’s condition and started over. It was like knocking down a four-story structure, floor supporting floor, with a searchlight at the top to shine into another’s mind.

If the searchlight lacked something or the foundation proved wobbly, the wrecking ball would clear whatever stood in the way of healing. Sweeping up, I tried again.

Over time, many psychiatrists, other clinical psychologists, and social workers consulted me for my diagnostic and treatment recommendations. I received the opportunity to serve as an expert witness in about 30 lawsuits.

While the vast majority of therapists shudder at the expectation of cross-examination in a courtroom, I came to view it from a less fearful perspective.

The opportunity offered intellectual combat requiring concentration and detailed preparation. Such work tested the capacity to maintain attention, speak convincingly, and retain confidence in the face of an attorney whose job was to discredit my testimony.

My profession gave me the satisfaction of assisting those who wanted a better life and were willing to change. They, too, widened my understanding of the human condition. Our shared attempt to make a difference in a worthy life enhanced my own.

All of those in the helping professions must create a therapeutic distance between themselves and the sufferer. Concern also needs to be communicated.

That said, one of the challenges of such work is to stay above water when the other, in his own desperation, may pull you down into the world of anguish with which he struggles. We are thereby tested to see whether we will abandon him. The air you breathe in the office sometimes carries misery.

I could go on, but this is sufficient. I continue to live with the human experience gained in service to my clientele. From the position of retirement, the bruising torrent of political information, fake news, and targeting of the most vulnerable remains something from which I do not turn away.

I have learned not to close my eyes as a matter of routine. No one is without faults, and I am not the champion of any competition for the most perfect individual on earth. To the good, I am comfortable apologizing. I continue to ask questions and listen with care and quiet concentration.

On another day, I might write a different version of what you have read above. It is not a complete story, but my purpose is not to write such a book. Recounting one’s life shows how self-reflection can yield malleable insights and helps us create stories that foster our own overcoming.

As Buddhists suggest, retirement offers a path to living more lightly. Reducing responsibility suits me.

I might imitate and modify Douglas MacArthur’s closing of his 1951 speech to Congress by saying, old therapists never die. They retain their desire to examine and question the world. It gives them life.

What the General said, however, was “Old soldiers never die; they just fade away.”

I am not ready for either the death or the fading, but fate will come along one of these days.

At that point, all that will be left to do is to greet the Grim Reaper, shake hands, and smile.

But, knowing myself, I will doubtless ask some questions.

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The top image is Coming into Miami Last November from Argentina by the esteemed photographic artist Laura Hedien, with her permission: Laura Hedien Official Website.

The second picture is Hisa Matsumara at the Tottori Sand Dunes, sourced from jameslucasit@substack.com/ Unfortunately, I cannot find the source for the third image in this sequence. Finally, Ghost Sculpture, also on jameslucasit@substack.com/