THIN SKIN

The session with my supervisor Ann snowballed downhill.

“I’ve wasted three years working for my Masters,” I said to myself as I sobbed in her office.

I went on the think, “And that doesn’t count the thousands of dollars in tuition, books and child car. And the cost of time away from family.”

Ann handed me a tissue, and I tried to settle down.

She waited a while and then said, “You were one of our better counselors, but you don’t seem to realize this.  We can’t let you graduate with such a low opinion of yourself.”

We were both silent as her words sank in.

She let her words sink in.

“Was I really a decent—even a good—beginning counselor?”

Then Ann said, “My one critical remark led you to tears. You need to be stronger.”

Looking back, I can see she hit the nail on the head.  But then, I just wanted to get on with my internship.

“But what about my internship at the Larimer County Mental Health Clinic?” I asked Ann.

“Here’s what we’ll do.  Get permission from your supervisor at the Mental Health Clinic to record your sessions.  Then get the same permission from each client.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Once a week we’ll go over the tapes and evaluate them.”

Ann and I agreed to this plan.

In one week, I would start as an intern at Larimer County Mental Health Clinic.

I was both excited and scared.

 

 

 

 

 

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