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<\/p>\nI spent years in therapy slowly learning how to feel safe with another human being. My therapist\u2014let\u2019s call him Eugene\u2014was steady, calm, and kind. He didn\u2019t flinch when I cried, when I dissociated, or when I struggled to believe I was real. He listened with compassion to the parts of me that emerged, each holding different memories of my childhood abuse. For a long time, I believed we had built something strong enough to hold the weight of all I carried.<\/p>\n
But then came the rupture.<\/p>\n
It happened during an online session in early February 2021. I was sitting at my laptop, expectant, a little anxious. I had something important to ask, and something even more important to offer.<\/p>\n
What happened in that session left me gutted.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In hindsight, the rupture had been coming for a while. From October through January, I had been secretly recording our sessions. I didn\u2019t do it out of malice or disrespect\u2014I did it because the recordings anchored me. I used them to revisit Eugene\u2019s words when I was overwhelmed, to ground myself in his tone and pacing when I dissociated, and to help integrate my fragmented parts. But eventually, the secrecy weighed on me. So, in a session in late January, I told him. I came clean and asked if I could begin recording the sessions openly, with his consent. I also asked if I could give him a pair of hand-knit socks\u2014something deeply symbolic to me.<\/p>\n
He said he\u2019d need to consult with his supervisor and would give me his answer the following week.<\/p>\n
I spent the next few days anxious but hopeful. I had already dropped the socks off at his office, trusting the outcome would be positive. I didn\u2019t expect a warm embrace or effusive thanks. I just hoped he\u2019d receive the gesture in the spirit it was given: as a symbol of trust, care, and gratitude. For someone like me\u2014a survivor of profound relational trauma\u2014offering a gift like that was more than personal. It was sacred.<\/p>\n
When the session arrived, I was hopeful. But Eugene\u2019s demeanor was different\u2014flatter, more distant.<\/p>\n
First, he told me I couldn\u2019t continue recording our sessions. Not even with consent. He said I needed to delete all prior recordings. His tone was firm, matter-of-fact. There was no discussion. No curiosity about why the recordings mattered so much to me. No questions about what they helped me cope with. Just a directive.<\/p>\n
Before I could fully absorb that loss, I asked about the socks. I already knew something was wrong, but I pushed forward\u2014surely this, at least, would land.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t accept them,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s too convoluted.\u201d<\/p>\n
Those four words landed like a blow.<\/p>\n
Convoluted. That\u2019s what he called it. Not \u201cmeaningful,\u201d not \u201ccomplicated,\u201d not \u201cintimate.\u201d Convoluted. As if my gesture was somehow tangled, manipulative, or inappropriate. He didn\u2019t say it unkindly\u2014but he also didn\u2019t explain. He just told me I would have to return to his office to pick them up.<\/p>\n
And that was it. No invitation to explore what it meant. No curiosity about the significance of the gesture. Just a closed door. All this occurred within the first fifteen minutes of the session.\u00a0It\u2019s entirely possible that Eugene might have posed those questions, had I been able to finish the session.\u00a0But I couldn\u2019t speak and quickly ended the call.<\/p>\n
What \u201cToo Convoluted\u201d Meant to Me<\/strong><\/p>\n I have complex PTSD, shaped by years of betrayal and abuse in early childhood. My mind is structured dissociatively\u2014parts of me carry different memories and functions, and therapy was the first place many of those parts ever felt safe.<\/p>\n For one part of me\u2014a young, developmentally frozen aspect of self\u2014Eugene represented something she never had: consistent, safe care. She trusted him. She believed he cared. The socks were her way of saying, \u201cI see you. You matter to me.\u201d<\/p>\n For that part, and for others, the rejection of the socks was not about wool or boundaries. It was about something much deeper. It was about being unwanted.<\/p>\n And when the recordings were taken away in the same session\u2014tools that helped me reorient to his presence when I fragmented\u2014it was like being stripped of the last anchor I had.<\/p>\n I spiraled. Within days, I was severely dissociated and psychotic. I couldn\u2019t sleep, eat, or track reality. I was hospitalized soon after. The rupture had touched something primal\u2014something my nervous system interpreted as abandonment and betrayal.<\/p>\n The Cost of Silence<\/strong><\/p>\n What hurt most wasn\u2019t the decisions Eugene made\u2014it was how he made them. There was no process. No curiosity. No attempt to understand what the socks or the recordings meant to me. When I tried to revisit it later, he shut down. Sometimes he got defensive. Sometimes he remembered it completely differently from me. It was disorienting. At times, I felt like I was arguing with a brick wall\u2014or worse, being subtly gaslit.<\/p>\n The most devastating part of it all was this: he didn\u2019t stay. Not emotionally. Not relationally. He couldn\u2019t or wouldn\u2019t join me in unpacking what happened. And that\u2019s what broke me.<\/p>\n In trauma therapy, rupture is inevitable. But repair is not. And when it doesn\u2019t come\u2014especially for survivors of betrayal trauma\u2014it\u2019s not just a therapeutic failure. It\u2019s a reenactment of the original wound.<\/p>\n Understanding the Reenactment<\/strong><\/p>\n Many trauma survivors, especially those with complex trauma, develop a deep sensitivity to relational signals. Polyvagal theory helps us understand this: when the nervous system is constantly scanning for threat, even subtle cues of disconnection or dismissal can trigger a full-body survival response.<\/p>\n When Eugene told me to delete the recordings without asking why I\u2019d made them\u2026<\/p>\n When he said the socks were \u201ctoo convoluted\u201d and declined them without discussion\u2026<\/p>\n When he shut down attempts to revisit the rupture in later sessions\u2026<\/p>\n All of that felt like a collapse in connection. A dorsal vagal freeze. A withdrawal of attunement. My body interpreted it as danger. Not metaphorical danger\u2014real, lived, existential danger.<\/p>\n In betrayal trauma, the wound isn\u2019t just what was done to us\u2014it\u2019s that it was done by someone we depended on. The therapist-client relationship can recreate that dynamic, especially when the therapist becomes an attachment figure.<\/p>\n That\u2019s what happened with Eugene. And when the rupture came, and no repair followed, my nervous system responded as if the past had returned.<\/p>\n Therapists Hold Power\u2014Even When They Don\u2019t Feel It<\/strong><\/p>\n I\u2019m not writing this to vilify Eugene. I believe he cared. I believe he wanted to help. But good intentions don\u2019t shield clients from harm. And therapists often underestimate the power they hold\u2014not because they\u2019re controlling, but because they matter so deeply.<\/p>\n They become lifelines.<\/p>\n When a therapist declines a gift, or says no to a request, it doesn\u2019t mean they\u2019re wrong. Boundaries are essential. But how those boundaries are communicated makes all the difference. Are they spoken with curiosity? With care? With room for the client\u2019s meaning to unfold? Or are they delivered flatly, with no relational invitation?<\/p>\n For me, the abruptness of Eugene\u2019s boundary-setting turned a moment of potential growth into one of trauma. The moment cried out for co-regulation\u2014for attunement, exploration, and repair. What I got instead was distance.<\/p>\n Why This Story Matters<\/strong><\/p>\n Too often, therapists are trained to focus on techniques and interventions. But for survivors of relational trauma, the therapy relationship is the intervention. It\u2019s where the injury happened, and it\u2019s where healing must occur.<\/p>\n If you\u2019re a therapist reading this, please understand: when your client offers a gift, or makes a request that seems unusual, it\u2019s rarely about what it seems. It\u2019s about testing safety. It\u2019s about memory. It\u2019s about whether you\u2019ll stay.<\/p>\n If you flinch, or freeze, or say \u201cit\u2019s too convoluted\u201d without exploring what it means\u2014you may unknowingly reenact the very thing your client is trying to heal from.<\/p>\n You don\u2019t have to say yes to everything. But you do have to stay in the room. Emotionally. Relationally. You have to be willing to bear witness to your client\u2019s meaning, not just enforce your own.<\/p>\n The Invitation<\/p>\n So here\u2019s my invitation: when rupture happens\u2014and it will\u2014lean in.<\/p>\n Ask what it meant to your client. Share what it brought up in you. Be honest. Be human. You don\u2019t have to fix it all. You just have to stay.<\/p>\n Because for many of us, the staying is the healing.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion\u2014broadly speaking\u2014of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers\u2019 own.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"I spent years in therapy slowly learning how to feel safe with another human being. 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