I have always wanted to work in social services.  Ever since I was a kid, I can remember wanting to be a ‘helper’.  Like Lucy on Charlie Brown with her Psychiatrist booth, I figured I would be good at it from the beginning. And that’s how at 20 I found myself behind a woman almost twice my age, washing the blood off her back and legs that had been left there by a John unwilling to accept the limitations of her services.  He had carved words into her and thrown her from his car.  I bolted to her when she arrived back at the shelter and she held up her hands.  ” no! I’m positive (for HIV and HepC). Not you Kim. You’re too young to touch it.” I had assured her I had my gloves. She of course didn’t want to answer questions at the hospital so I cleaned her up.  And behind her while I gently wiped the ragged shallow cuts, tears spilled down my cheek knowing the next day I would see her leave back out there. Real poverty, real addiction,  it’s messy and stark and heartbreaking.  But I am fairly practical and I’m not much of a cryer.  Over the years I became less so.  I am still a helper in my heart though, it’s why I took up social work. I’ve worked at shelters and as a child supporter with children’s aid. I’ve worked in harm reduction for pregnant addicts, volunteered at soup kitchens and with exploited women’s groups.  I’m no expert by any means but I…