A Client First

Last week I went to the first meeting of the small group undertaking a research master’s in psychotherapy at Leeds Beckett this year. My research idea is still in the planning stage, but I am essentially interested in what happens for therapists when a client comes to them wishing to talk about a previous distressing, harmful or traumatic experience of therapy. One reason I am interested in researching this topic is that it appears to me to be a common presenting issue in therapy, yet I cannot find a single thing written for therapists who work with therapeutic harm (I live in hope that this will change as my research deepens!).

In terms of my research, I don’t want to say anything more until the wheels are in motion, but I do want to talk broadly about what it can be like to experience harm in therapy, because among those who have never experienced it, I imagine it could be difficult for some to appreciate the nuances of this particular issue.

I have touched on the definition of harm in therapy before in this blog, so I won’t dwell on it here, except to say that as an integrative, person-centred practitioner, I believe the phenomenological perspective of the client is of paramount importance, therefore, if a client comes to me saying they have been harmed in therapy, then, as far as I am concerned, they have been harmed in therapy.

Here are some of the themes I have been aware of when in conversation with people who have returned to therapy after a previous harmful experience:

Grief: If a client comes to therapy to discuss harm in therapy, more often than not, this client will have been through a painful termination with their previous therapist. I have heard people in this position speak of carrying the great pain of this disenfranchised grief, and feeling as though those around them see the loss as little different to changing dentist or optician. Carrying this grief alone can be a weighty burden, even accompanied by a sense of shame and ‘unworthiness’ as a result of invalidation from a society that rarely acknowledges the depth and significance of the therapeutic relationship from the perspective of the client. While, of course, the therapeutic relationship does not hold tremendous significance to every client, for many, the relationship is not only central to the work, but also holds a significant, often reparative role in the client’s wider relational landscape. In my experience, it is often (though not always) clients for whom the relationship itself holds greatest significance, who are most vulnerable to experiencing harm in therapy.

Vulnerability: At the root of harm in therapy, as all iatrogenic harm (harm which occurs via contact with the helping professions – therapist, doctor, dentist, surgeon etc)  is vulnerability. When we go into surgery, when we see a doctor, when we meet with a psychotherapist, we inevitably make ourselves vulnerable to some degree. We must trust that the person in front of us wishes to do us good, not harm, and that they will do us good, not harm. When we experience harm in this vulnerable state, whether intentional or, as in most instances, purely accidental, it is shocking and very scary. I can only liken it to the reliance a child has on their caregivers – children are necessarily vulnerable; they rely on those around them to ensure their safety and security. To be in this situation as an adult and for it to backfire is an acute pain indeed.

Fear of a repeat performance: Clients are likely to return to therapy with their defences fortified. I certainly spent the first year or so telling my therapist that I didn’t have any feelings towards him one way or the other and that if I never saw him again, that would be fine by me. I look back on that wondering who I was trying to convince – myself, I am sure. I suspect it was my way of ensuring I was the guardian of my own vulnerability.  As I reflect on what was happening outside of my awareness, I actually praise the wisdom of my unconscious, and I am grateful to my inner world for the way in which it worked to protect me. When this particular defence realised it was safe to step down, it did, and the next phase of therapy could begin, but I learnt much about myself from its presence and the love I showed myself at this time.

I think, when a client returns to therapy after a harmful experience, it’s important that every feeling, even the kind I describe above, which might appear to be a barrier to relating, are recognised and treated as part of the process. In my view, defences are not a barrier to relating, they are a means of relating. As my supervisor says, the unconscious just does it’s thing, and it knows what it’s doing. It shifts as it receives new information, and in my view, there is no more healing a new experience than an unconditionally accepting, patient and trusting relationship.

 

* If you are a UK-based therapist who has worked with clients who have been harmed in counselling or psychotherapy and you would like to express an interest in participating in my research, please drop me an email at erinstevenscounselling@gmail.com . The research is likely to involve exploring your experiences and responses to working with clients who have been harmed in therapy. The focus of the research will be on your experiences and feelings, and not details of your client’s experience of harm in therapy, and will be anonymised. At the moment, the research is in the early stages of planning and I will not be officially recruiting participants until after Christmas. At this stage you would be expressing interest only. Thanks!

I’m sure many therapists can relate to those internal “me too!” moments where a client speaks about a thought, an attitude or an experience that the therapist can relate to on a profound level. Perhaps things  emerge which we might think are improbable, bizarre or inexplicable, which leave us gesticulating in supervision as we emphasise just how incomprehensible the parallels seem.

So how do we explain such experiences?

Synchronicity:

Carl Jung introduced us to the term Synchronicity – meaningful coincidences which, far from being random, are connected by their meaning and without obvious causality. I find this explanation for some of the parallels which have emerged in my own therapy very intriguing. It feels good to imagine a mystical and intangible influence in my choice of therapist, whom I now know to be rather similar to me in unexpected and charming ways. The party-poopingly rational part of me, however, won’t allow me to fully indulge in the pleasure of imagining this explanation to be so (though I do not intend to dismiss the potential existence and influence of synchronicity out of hand).

Unconscious Knowing:

As I have developed a deeper understanding of unconscious processes through my own therapy, my studies, and my work with clients, I have become increasingly interested in the role of our unconscious in our lives and the way in which we form relationships. It is my feeling that unconscious knowing plays a significant role in the way therapeutic relationships are selected and formed, and that our unconscious creates opportunities for parallels to emerge in our awareness.

My therapist once said to me that sometimes it seems as though our unconsciouses are having an entire conversation that we know nothing about. I feel that this is a likely explanation for  many of the feelings that sometimes occur in therapy which appear inconsistent with what I am aware of happening in the room.

My supervisor, quite delightfully, prefers to refer to the unconscious as the “greater mind”, finding the term unconscious does not do justice to its role, its significance and its value to us as organisms. While a large function of my therapy continues to be a process of allowing unconscious material to become conscious, I am also learning that my unconscious knows what it’s doing – that I can trust it, and my ability and willingness to listen to my intuition is growing all the time.

So to what extent do these unconscious conversations influence the way in which we form relationships? I am certain that my unconscious knew that my therapist is as introverted as I am, long before I was consciously aware of it. I am equally certain my unconscious picks up on certain cues from him,  seeking out our similar processes, and that I say things that resonate because my unconscious wants to nurture the connection between us. In my view, this relational process is likely to echo the way in which an infant seeks attunement with their caregiver.

Equally, I have sat in the therapist’s chair and thought that emerging parallels, and the way they are emphasised in my client’s narrative, are likely to be more than mere coincidence.

Coincidence:

Coincidences, of course do happen. One day I showed my therapist a photo on my phone. His response was muted and I noticed. I asked him what was wrong. I watched as he considered whether a disclosure was appropriate, and clearly he came to the conclusion that I had noticed something was up, and he had better tell me rather than risk falsely invalidating my experience of him. “Have you got a new phone cover?” he asked. Indeed, I had a new phone cover, and apparently it was identical to one he had just bought for himself (which I had never seen). As far as I am concerned, it was clearly a coincidence (though it’s still fun to imagine that it has a quality of synchronicity). We enjoyed the curiosity of the situation, and I think my therapist was relieved when I told him he had definitely not seen my phone case before; the notion that his choice had been unconsciously influenced by my phone case would give rise to some interesting reflection in his supervision, no doubt!

Disclosure:

On that occasion, my therapist chose to disclose the parallel between us. In my view there had been a clear therapeutic purpose to doing so, as I have described. This leads me to wonder, how do we go about ascertaining therapeutic purpose when making decisions about whether to disclose similarities between ourselves and our clients?

I imagine there are a number of reasons why it might be helpful to disclose when similarities emerge – validating client experience (as in the case described above), building relational depth, normalising feelings, perhaps even helping to model a way of being. And I suppose there are reasons to be cautious too – there could be a risk of invalidating a client’s experience, taking up too much space in the relationship, assuming to understand the client’s experience, and missing the client’s frame of reference by imposing our own meanings and value to parallels in the work. I think, as with all self-disclosure, it’s a case of being mindful of the client’s process, and having a clear therapeutic purpose.

I like Val Wosket’s ideas, described in her book The Therapeutic Use of Self, where she highlights relational self-disclosure (disclosure about the therapist’s experience of the relationship, and things that are directly pertinent to the relationship) as often having more value to the therapeutic relationship than a biographical self-disclosure. With self-disclosure, I would say: the experiential learning in the here-and-now is usually more valuable than the anecdotal learning from the there-and-then. I feel this is likely to be equally true when parallels emerge in therapy.

Reference :

Wosket, V. (2016) The Therapeutic Use of Self: Counselling practice, research and supervision. 2nd ed. Oxon: Routledge.

One thing that being a client, a therapist and a student of therapy has taught me, is that when we are trusted, we can learn to trust ourselves. When we are allowed to make autonomous decisions, we can grow towards our authentic selves.

Of course, the ethical principle of autonomy is emphasised in the BACP ethical framework. We should, according to the BACP, “respect our clients’ right to be self-governing.”. How does this work in practice, and how do we manage the conflicts this principle raises in the work?

Recently I have been considering the ways in which the counselling profession manages the autonomy of clients, therapists and student counsellors, and where the balance lies between the philosophy of self-determination, and the expectations placed upon those groups.

My interest was recently piqued around a study from the University of Nottingham which found “serious ethical considerations” about mandatory personal counselling for counselling students. One of the prominent issues raised in the study was the conflict mandatory therapy raised with the ethical principle of autonomy. Most therapists would agree that clients get the most out of therapy when they come voluntarily, and that it is important that they seek therapy, and agree to therapy willingly. So it seems like a double standard when it comes to counselling students, with no easy resolution.

I want to qualify this by saying that I think that all therapists should experience counselling as a client. I think that trainee therapists should have a passion for self-exploration and growth, and that ascertaining and exploring this passion should be part of the selection process at universities and colleges. I might be idealistic, but I feel that if that philosophy is communicated and nurtured, we wouldn’t need to mandate therapy – students would feel compelled to sit in the client’s chair and learn about themselves!

I have two friends who went to university with established therapeutic relationships, only to be told that they would have to leave their current therapists and find new ones who had been accredited for a minimum of three years. This experience has been exceptionally upsetting and seems to me to defeat the object entirely. Are universities teaching students to value the therapeutic relationship by arbitrarily causing helpful, established therapeutic alliances to come to a premature and forced end? Where is the autonomy in that? And where is the non-maleficence? It seems that the decision-makers in these situations (at two separate universities) have chosen bureaucracy over common sense and the very values they are aiming to teach.

Many counsellors develop a policy whereby they will not see clients who are also seeing another therapist, even of a different modality. In the spirit of autonomy, I think the therapist has every right to manage their own policies and make their own best decisions about their practice, however I also wonder whether such a policy may miss opportunities for clients to develop their self-determinism and use therapy autonomously, and in a way that works for them.

If a client wishes to see two therapists at once, they may choose to simply not tell their respective therapists, out of fear of termination, which may limit the efficacy of the therapy. My view is that different therapists may be useful to clients for different reasons, and the client is the best person to make decisions about that.

It hasn’t escaped my attention that my philosophy around autonomy poses difficult questions about my pro-regulation stance. If we are to trust in clients to make their own best decisions for their therapy, if we are to trust in students to make their own best decisions about their engagement with therapy, isn’t it incongruent to imply that I don’t trust in therapists to make their own best decisions about their practice?

For me, this is where we have to look at a way to balance our ethical principles where we find them in conflict, and to balance the conflicting needs of clients and those within the profession.

When it comes to regulation, my first thought is the safety needs of clients, because clients are the people we serve, and when harm occurs in therapy, it can have a devastating effect. I feel that it is of paramount importance to mitigate risk of harm however we can without compromising the service we offer. Fears within the profession about regulation restricting the creative and diverse interpersonal way we practice need to be taken seriously in the regulation debate.

It is the danger of therapists losing more autonomy than is necessary to protect the interests of clients, which has led me to the conclusion that compulsory regulation by a range (and choice) of PSA accredited regulatory bodies would be preferable to statutory regulation. I feel that therapy needs to be kept in the hands of therapists, not government regulators.

Autonomy is a tricky issue, and runs through the very heart of our profession at all levels. I don’t have any definitive answers as to how we manage these conflicts, but I hope my thoughts on the matter can provide some platform for reflection and discussion.

I’ve been thinking about dual relationships, what exactly they are and why they sometimes exist between a therapist and client.

I’m going to start by offering my own ideas about what a dual relationship is in the context of counselling. When we form a therapeutic relationship between therapist and client, we do so with the understanding that this relationship will offer something different to other relationships; it will offer confidentiality, an ethical frame and, in particular, carefully considered boundaries which allow the relationship to exist, uncomplicated by the typical demands and counter-demands of human relationships. We do this to allow a safe space for the client to freely express and explore their most difficult experiences, and hidden areas of self.

A dual relationship arises when the client and therapist have an additional relationship which exists outside of the therapeutic frame. Perhaps a business relationship, a family connection, a friendship, a teacher/student role, colleagues or neighbours, members of the same congregation – some relationship which necessitates a different dynamic, different expectations and different boundaries.

My title for this blog acknowledges dual relationships which occur after therapy, and this is because I believe the therapist’s ethical responsibility towards their client exists beyond the termination of therapy. When friendships, business relationships or even romantic relationships occur between therapist and client after therapy, this, in my view, still represents a dual relationship, no matter how much time has passed.

So how do we navigate dual relationships? Well, I suppose I think, for the most part, we ought to avoid them. As anyone who reads this blog regularly is probably aware, I am particularly keen that the counselling profession does more to acknowledge the potential for harm to occur in therapy, and to take collective responsibility for the harm that does occur, and has occurred for many clients.

For me, dual relationships are one, largely avoidable area where harm could foreseeably occur. This is particularly true in relationships where there is a shift from the relationship serving the emotional needs of the client only, to emotional needs of both parties being met within the relationship.

A major benefit of therapy is that the client need not worry about having to hold the emotional energy of the therapist. As soon as the relationship requires two-way emotional holding of the other, there is a shift in the dynamics which is unlikely to meet with the expectations of either party. When this gap between expectation and reality presents itself, there is great potential for hurt to occur, and potentially for this to taint any positive outcomes achieved in therapy.

I find the idea of therapists forming sexual relationships with clients or former clients particularly troubling. The BACP ethical framework states that “exceptionally”, such relationships post-therapy may be permissible, however here I must diverge from the guidance of the framework and say that in my view, there is never a good reason to form a sexual relationship with a former client.

Where an additional business relationship occurs, it is equally important to consider the potential harm to the therapeutic alliance and therefore to the client. Is such a relationship completely necessary? I would think very rarely, and if there is another option, in my view it should always be perused before a dual relationship is arranged.

If a dual relationship is unavoidable, like anything, it needs to be discussed carefully with the client to manage boundaries and reduce the risk of harm. I would also emphasise the importance of ongoing supervision and consultation with colleagues (as per the BACP ethical framework 2018) in order to obtain more objective views on the necessity and ethics of any dual relationship.

Above all, in my view it is vital to be mindful of what it can feel like to be a client. The inevitable imbalance of power in the relationship, the strong feelings that a client can have for a therapist (and vice versa) could easily impact on clear decision-making from either party. Perhaps some clients may feel reluctance to say ‘no’ to a dual relationship, even if they are not sure whether it is what they want – in instigating a dual relationship, I would argue that we cannot always be certain that we are properly upholding the ethical principle of client autonomy.

 

 

How comfortable are we with silence? Are you somebody who will happily sit for hours and enjoy the peace and tranquility of a silent place? Or are you somebody who will immediately switch the radio on the minute things go quiet?

What about in the therapy room? (and I think we can ponder this either from a therapist or client perspective). Do silences bring with them, anxiety? Do you find yourself thinking “Has this gone on too long?”; “Should I speak?”; “I can’t think of anything to say!”; “Aaargh!”?

I think most people can probably relate to that at some time or other. I particularly remember feeling that way in my early experiences of working with clients. I think my anxiety was about not feeling ‘enough’ and that this silence would lead me to be ‘found out’ by the client. What those thoughts did, of course, was draw me away from the present moment. I became so anxious about what was to come next that I probably missed a great deal of what was happening in the here-and-now.

Silence often takes place in my own therapy. My therapist has taught me that I don’t need to have a response straight away, and nor does he. I can now give myself permission to sit with what I am feeling and see what emerges. This gives me an opportunity to communicate with myself, find out what is happening for me, and also to notice what is being communicated, unspoken, in the therapeutic relationship.  I have also grown to be comfortable when silence emerges with clients. In my view it can be a vessel for trust and connection, when its value is recognised, and we remain present, in the moment, noticing our own responses and what we can see occurring for a client. There is also value in discussing silences, how they are experienced and what meaning they hold for the client. Far from being a hindrance or awkward exposure of my impostor status, silence is our teacher and an invisible facilitator of therapeutic movement.

Ancient Chinese philosopher Lao-Tzu told us that “silence is a source of great strength”. I do think it has the power to strengthen our relationships with each other and with ourselves. I think it also provides energy, shifts energy, and allows us to notice where our energy is focused, offering us the opportunity to refocus if we feel stuck, or in need of redirection.

I am not somebody who leaps for the radio when things fall silent, so my understanding of the value of silence in therapy is somewhat shaped by personal attitude to silence in general. But I do want to encourage anybody, not just in therapeutic relationships but anywhere, with anyone, or even by yourself – just notice what happens when things go silent; notice where your thoughts go, what happens to your breathing and where your energy is. So much of what is happening in our bodies and our psyche goes unnoticed as we rush from one thing to the next. Let’s experience the unexperienced, both in therapy and beyond.

This year will be my first time voting in the BACP Governor Elections and I’m really looking forward to having my say on the future direction of the professional body I have chosen for membership.

I’ve read the candidate statements in detail, and there’s one that really stands out for me, so I thought I would just write a little piece about who I am voting for and why.

Karen Pollock is relatively recently qualified (2015) and I find her statement encouraging in a number of ways:

• As a recently newly qualified practitioner, I feel like she is likely to have an understanding of the issues facing newly-qualified therapists today, particularly the lack of paid employment post-qualification. Karen also benefits from a recent experience of being a counselling student – I think it’s really important that we have a governor who can represent the needs and concerns of the BACP’s student members.
• Karen has personal experience and professional training around LGBTQ+ issues and I think it’s important that this expert knowledge is present in the BACP. The BACP has been a leading voice against so-called conversion ‘therapy’; I feel appointing a governor like Karen would compliment and strengthen the ethical framework’s commitment to equality and justice.
• Karen touches upon a couple of areas in her statement which are of particular interest to me as a therapist and as a client. The biggest of these is her commitment to valuing and hearing the voices of those who have experienced harm in therapy. While the BACP has a complaints procedure, I also think it’s important that we hear the voices of those who have been harmed in other, positive and constructive ways, and the fact Karen has the courage to raise this and speak about honouring those experiences is very encouraging to me.
• Karen wrote in her statement about wanting better regulation of the profession. I messaged her to ask some more about her views on regulation and I found her open and positive about the role regulation has to play in the future of the profession. I am hopeful that her appointment will be a boost for client rights and the promotion of ethical practice.
• Karen speaks in her statement about having a personal boundary statement which her clients are able to read, which shows me a deep understanding of the importance of clear and consistent boundaries in her practice. I feel that her commitment to and understanding of ethical practice will be of great value to the BACP and its membership.

Profiles of all the candidates for the upcoming governor election can be found here: BACP Governor Elections 2018

Parallel process is a supervisory phenomenon whereby relational interplay, feelings or experiences which occur in the therapeutic relationship are re-enacted in the supervisory relationship. This can be a result of identification with a client, countertransference processes, or even just an unconscious means of making sense of what is happening in the therapeutic dynamic. I think it is a curious and fascinating occurrence in supervision and that’s why I wish to talk about it here.

I make no secret of the fact that I am deeply intrigued by unconscious processes and the way in which our unconscious minds operate seemingly entirely independently with great complexity and purpose. The fact that parallel process offers us a way to notice, explore and utilise our unconscious functioning to enhance our therapeutic work with clients is absolutely thrilling to me.

Without discussing the work I bring to supervision, I want to briefly explore an example of parallel process which once occurred in my own supervision: One session, as I discussed my feelings around some therapeutic work, my supervisor explained how we could explore this in supervision. I suddenly, unexpectedly and disproportionately became very angry with him for explaining supervision to me. The more cross I became, the more he explained himself, and the crosser I became, until suddenly, in a moment of clarity, I realised we were experiencing parallel process. I reminded my supervisor of the previous session where he had stated that my tendency to over-explain therapy and the therapeutic process to my clients in some situations, particularly when I felt under pressure, may not allow enough space for open exploration and self-direction in therapy. I pointed out that he had been doing exactly what he had advised me not to do, and sure enough I had felt stifled, frustrated and not heard.

I think that, on this occasion my unconscious was looking to find a way to make sense of my own process as a therapist, and what potentially could have occurred for clients, and additionally, I feel there may have been an element of projecting my anger and frustration at my own over-explaining onto my supervisor. Those feelings were brought into the room and unconsciously became part of the interplay between me and my supervisor. My supervisor appeared to take on my feelings – wanting to explain himself – without either of us being conscious of the significance of the exchange in the moment.

This tense and difficult session provided a very worthwhile and productive conversation about what was happening for me (and for my supervisor) in that moment which I was able to hold in mind going forward in my therapeutic work. I felt energised from the supervision session and in awe at what both my, and my supervisor’s unconscious had to offer the supervisory process.

This week is International Supervision Week, and today I have met with my current supervisor for the last time as he moves towards semi-retirement. So this feels like the perfect moment to honour the supervisory process, and to thank my supervisor for his part in my journey as a practitioner. Moments of learning such as the one I describe above, undoubtedly nurture my growth as a therapist and teach me both the value of supervision, and of paying attention to the wondrous unconscious.

 

I’m back to pondering about my comfortable spot on Twitter, engaging with the kind of thinkers, musers and (largely) therapists who inspire me, whom I can relate to and who frankly affirm my world view.

Therapists such as Steph Jones are blazing a trail when it comes to talking about our mental health as therapists. I think it takes a great deal of courage to talk so openly about personal struggle, and I think it important that we recognise the value of our experiences as therapists, whilst of course, remaining mindful of how they might impact our therapeutic work.

My therapist once said to me that my experiences are likely to be the source of my greatest strengths AND my greatest vulnerabilities as a practitioner, and this curious dualism is present in my awareness and my process as a practitioner, as a client and as a supervisee.

In the short time I have been on Twitter, I have seen Steph’s work towards raising awareness of therapists’ mental health go from strength to strength; recently I read her brilliant piece in Therapy Today. She is being heard and that is wonderful. We are talking about our mental health, and the outpouring of support for this topic has been heartwarming. But yet, anecdotally I am still hearing stories of unsupportive colleagues and fellow trainees. I am hearing that judgements on therapists’ competence to practice are being made on the basis of diagnoses, and I think these anecdotal instances indicate that there is still a worrying misconception in some areas about what makes a good practitioner, and the nature of mental health difficulties. While decisions are rightly made about competence at an educational level, employment level, supervisory level and at a personal level, sweeping generalisations, where they still exist are unhelpful and damaging. It is for this reason that I believe we need to be discussing this topic more. We are all managing our mental health. Every human being is managing their mental health. Any therapist who believes themselves to be invulnerable to mental health difficulties is, in my opinion, even more vulnerable to not recognising their own mental health needs, and perhaps susceptible to denial too.

Therapists sometimes say “therapists are human too” and that phrase makes me cringe a little. As I write this, I pause to think about why I have such a response to that idea, and I think it is because of the inference that there is an assumed superhuman quality to therapists. Perhaps it is true that some people do believe therapists to be beyond human vulnerability, and I think I must own my own discomfort when that notion is acknowledged. I am aware that one of my core personal processes centres around rebellion against, and rejection of hierarchical power-dynamics in relationships, therefore it stands to reason that I should feel an intense discomfort around the notion of being thought of as having somehow figured out the secret to eternal happiness. This, of course, is mine to manage and I will undoubtedly further reflect on what is emerging for me as I write this.

As a profession I think we are very good at talking about self-care and yet sometimes less keen to explore why self-care is so important. Burnout, vicarious trauma, and emergence of unresolved material in our own processes all happen, and can be harmful to both ourselves and our clients if we do not address them. I feel that we are headed in the right direction – we are starting to speak up, we are engaging with personal therapy when we need to, we are talking about self-care. I think the key to changing attitudes within the profession is in challenging misconceptions and continuing to speak the truth. As therapists we have the right and responsibility to co-create the kind of profession we want to be a part of.

I am experiencing quite a few endings and transitions at present, and I have more to come over the next few months.

My university course is now finished, and my newly-qualified peers and myself are dispersing and moving on to new and multifarious next steps.

I will change supervisor next month, which brings with it both sadness and excitement; I have enjoyed working with my current supervisor, but I am pleased to have found a new supervisor with whom I believe I will be able to continue to develop and grow as a practitioner.

In the next couple of months I will be leaving one of my placements, which of course means endings with clients, and I am mindful of the difficulties this transition might bring for them, as well as managing my own feelings about ending.

I have recently embarked on a new thread to my career, as a content writer for an online educational counselling resource, which is very exciting and challenging, and represents a wonderful opportunity to bring together my twin-passions of psychotherapy and writing.

Lastly (I think!), I will be moving house in the next couple of months. So the landscape of my life and my routine are likely to look quite different by the time I start my research master’s in September.

So how do we manage endings? With regards to my university, I notice in my own process a sense of unreality about finishing the course. This has probably been reinforced by the fact I am returning for the master’s top up, however I will not be seeing peers, engaging with PD and so on; things will be very different and I don’t think my heart has caught up with my head when it comes to the reality of that.

With ending at one of my current placements, I find myself very focused on managing those transitions in a way which is helpful for my clients. While this is undoubtedly an appropriate focus for the therapy room, I need to be aware of the potential emotional impact which these losses are likely to have, probably in part at an unconscious level, and how those processes might become conflated with other change which is occurring in my life. I am in an ongoing process of examining this in supervision and in personal therapy to ensure that my needs in this regard are met outside of my relationships with clients. This isn’t a perfect science of course, but I hope that my awareness of the challenges ahead, and awareness of my patterns in dealing with loss and change will allow me space to navigate this in a way which is as helpful as it can be for all concerned.

I think it is especially useful to look at how we manage change and loss because we will inevitably come face-to-face with loss, grief, feelings of abandonment, difficulty with change and upheaval, and all the feelings which go along with it – from sadness, powerlessness, fear, anger, to excitement and uncertainty – in our work with clients. So our responses to it, how we manage it, our own discomfort and previous experiences are always present and in need of attention in supervision and beyond.

I know from my own experiences as a client that even extended breaks can feel like difficult transitions in the therapeutic relationship, and it may take time for trust and rapport to reestablish after a therapist returns from leave. Are we sufficiently attuned to our clients’ feelings around breaks and changes to the therapeutic frame? I think endeavouring to hear each client, and an openness to therapeutic meta-dialogue are, as ever, vitally important.  I would argue that even changes to session time or a room change may represent difficult transitions for some clients, and it’s important to be alert to this, and open to therapeutic discussion.

So as I take these floating thoughts and feelings and try to make sense of them in my own process, I return to my own imminent transitions and uncharted territory ahead. As I reflect on what is to come, I feel rather comforted by reminding myself that many of the relationships, experiences and memories I will carry forward with me into my master’s year were, just a few years ago, uncharted territory too.

My latest realisation will probably be old news to anyone who is involved with social media: It has come to my attention that Twitter is something of an echo chamber. That is to say, I have found that my views about issues pertaining to counselling and psychotherapy have been almost completely affirmed by the therapists I have engaged with on Twitter, and somewhat naively, this has lulled me into the false assumption that most therapists in the UK are in accord, particularly when it comes to the issue of statutory regulation of the profession.

My views on regulation of counselling and psychotherapy in the UK have been touched upon in this blog before. I believe that the current situation does not do enough to protect vulnerable clients, and affords too many freedoms to anyone who fancies calling themselves a psychotherapist. I think there is an assumption of accountability which simply does not exist when a therapist in private practice chooses not to be a member of a professional body. For the dissatisfied or abused client, there is nobody to complain to, and nobody to turn to. To me, this is completely unacceptable, and by allowing the status quo, I feel we as a profession are failing in our collective duty of non-maleficence to clients.

So anyway, back to my naive assumption that most therapists think along these lines. Recently, on a closed internet forum, I have been engaging with therapists who are overwhelmingly against statutory regulation. In fact, I believe I have been the sole voice in favour on some of the forum discussions. So much for pottering around my comfortable corner of the twittersphere!

So why the divide? Why is there seemingly this silent split in the profession? And how do we constructively bring these these sides of the debate together for meaningful dialogue?

I do want to say that I think many of the anti-regulation arguments are actually valid concerns that need to be addressed. How, for example, do we ensure that regulation does not lead to homogenisation of the profession? I think it’s very important that any move towards regulation is respectful of the diversity and evolutionary development of psychotherapeutic practice in this country, and does not seek to standardise or snip at the edges of the relational tapestry.

Recently, several professional bodies have come together to work on a framework of competencies for counselling and psychotherapy. I find this encouraging and concerning in equal measure. On the one hand, it seems like common sense that the public should have clarity about what therapy entails, and crucially (to my mind) what the minimum requirements for qualification are. On the other hand, its development has hardly been inclusive; not all professional bodies have been invited to take part (read here for the NCS’s open letter in response to the framework) and membership consultation has been invisible as far as I am aware. I think, if we want to move towards regulation, we need to think carefully about whom we want to do the regulating, and how we ensure that we properly represent the needs of the practitioners who will be impacted by it, as well as their clients.

I have heard a (kind of) compromise suggested, whereby the titles of counsellor, psychotherapist, psychoanalyst etc, become legally protected titles, and anybody wishing to practice under these titles must join a register, justifying their use of the title and stating which professional body they will maintain membership of, adhering to their chosen body’s ethical framework and being accountable to them in the event of complaints. To me this sounds like a promising compromise, avoiding the need for non-expert interference from state regulators, reducing the risk of homogenisation, and also safeguarding clients. While a lot of work would be necessary to realise such an ambitious project, I think it has mileage, and should not be discounted. It has to be preferable to division and mudslinging, which, sadly, I am beginning to feel exists, in pockets, on both sides of the current debate.

From the perspective of a client, I know how a no-regulation system can disenfranchise and disempower. I say this with caution, as I am aware that my own experiences could be used to attempt to invalidate my perspective. I would argue that there is no objective voice in this debate because everybody with investment in the regulatory process brings their own perspectives. So I will say this. My first therapist claimed to be a member of the BACP; this was a lie. Several unethical actions later, I would have liked to have had the opportunity to make a complaint. Of course, this was not possible; there was nobody to complain to. If this individual chooses to practice again, they are free to do so. I have found this set of circumstances extremely difficult to accept, and I sought further therapy, in part to come to terms with this injustice.

I have heard it argued that there are such a small number of these types of cases (I’m not sure how we would know) that mitigating this risk is not worth the risk to the wider profession. I feel that, if there is an identified risk to clients that we can mitigate, then we need to mitigate that risk. If any clients at all face this avoidable situation, we are failing them.

I am still confident that we can find some common ground. That we can work together to achieve something positive. I don’t want a split in the profession, and I don’t think anybody really wants a split in the profession. It will take hard work and respectful dialogue from all sides, but I see no reason why we can’t develop a way forward which both protects clients, and protects psychotherapy, in all of its diverse and creative forms.