Papers

My Licensing Board Complaint: Healing Through the Process

Nancy Daley

When I reported my abuser to my state’s licensing board, I naively believed they would be able to take action within a few weeks and suggested they hurry. I knew his license was due for renewal, and I suspected he would opt not to renew, thinking he might avoid having to answer to my charges. As it turned out, failing to renew did not exempt him from investigation, which was fortunate: as of this writing, it has been 22 months since the investigation into my case was begun, and I am still waiting for the outcome. While I have been told very little about the state’s findings or progress–typical for these processes–I can report that a great deal has developed for me. Most notably, after suffering all the usual angst about whether to file, and my wish for a particular outcome, I am now far less attached to any of it. Even without a resolution, the process of filing, followed by a very long time to reflect, has helped me to heal.

Of course, I am sharing a completely personal experience; my emotional journey may not match that of other survivors. (Further, my experience with "the system” may not apply to non-U.S. readers.) About two years into my recovery I became a TELL Responder. While waiting for resolution of my own case, I have heard disheartening stories from others about licensing board complaints that ended disappointingly. In some cases, the abuser received a slap on the wrist. In others, charges were fully dismissed, supposedly for lack of evidence or without explanation despite clear violations of board standards and professional codes of ethics.

There are many theories about why the system sometimes fails. But the bottom line is that seeing their case dismissed, or reduced to a pointless conclusion, can be a blow to the one reporting. All too often, they feel belittled, unworthy, and re-victimized. Too many will turn the official judgment on themselves, concluding that their perception of abuse was invalid and perhaps even that they ‘deserved’ what they received—from the abuser and then from the state.

A sense of re-victimization is easy to understand. Just as therapists take advantage of their position of power in exploiting patients or clients to meet their needs, corrupt or poorly functioning adjudicatory systems prioritize something (whatever it may be) over the lives of those who have been damaged by licensed therapists as well as the lives of potential future victims. As TELL Responders, we do our best to reassure survivors that these outcomes are not a reflection of them, their worth, or the validity of their experiences. Instead, they had the misfortune to place their trust in faulty systems.

So, given the uncertainties about how board complaints are processed, and the possibility of a disappointing outcome, how can I maintain optimism about my own licensing board complaint? Moreover, how can I claim to be healed enough that the outcome will be incidental to me?

First, note that some licensing board complaints are successful, meaning they result in appropriate disciplinary action for the accused. There are tremendous variations by state, and within various state-level professional boards, in procedures for handling complaints as well as the general tone of the experience and regard for the complainant. It is possible that these administrative variations account more for the wide range of outcomes than the nature of the cases themselves.

Second, I did not reach the point of acceptance described here until I was well into my recovery. It was nearly three years between the time it was first suggested to me that I was being exploited and the day I submitted my licensing board complaint. The journey was circuitous, beset by denial, self-blame, s elf-doubt, and grief. Unfortunately, this is typical for people who are trying to find their footing after therapy abuse.

Awakening to therapy abuse is a process. The reality we must face can be harsh, and it is natural to protect ourselves by clinging to what is familiar, even if it is unhealthy, or absorbing the bad news incrementally. Many victims try more than once to separate from their abusers before they succeed. It is particularly hard to step out of the emotional dependence that our abusers have cultivated. Some describe it as a brainwashed state or an addiction. Many of us are confused at this juncture by other beliefs that our abusers have instilled in us. Examples include the belief that we are too damaged to function without them, that this is not abuse and we are overreacting, that the abuser is acting out of ‘true love’ or some deep concern for us, that we owe them something, and that we are responsible if their marriages, family and social lives, careers, and reputations are ruined as a consequence of our speaking out.

Years before I left my abuser, I sought help from a counselor to explore why I was unable to commit myself fully to the ‘wonderful’ man I had been seeing. When I revealed that he had been my therapist, she was visibly shocked. She spoke gravely of the damage he had done to me and said I must report him. I told him we must end things but reached out again within weeks. We agreed that this counselor simply didn’t understand the special nature of our connection.

Two years later I sought help again, this time from a therapist who guided me to the truth more slowly. By then, negative evidence about my abuser had mounted, and it was much harder to deny that the situation was unhealthy. When this new therapist finally mentioned abuse, I was intrigued. That evening, I discovered the TELL site. I read others’ stories and saw my experience reflected over and over. The ‘scales began to fall from my eyes.’

I knew I had to separate from my abuser, and I did so, immediately and completely. And yet, even with my new awakening, I needed to buffer the bad news for myself. I was not ready to accept that I had been exploited and manipulated for years. And so, in my first email to TELL, I said my story was not about real abuse as this man truly loved me and had just gone off course.I wanted relief from my anxiety. I wanted to understand how what I believed was love could be so horribly tainted. Deep within, I still had affection for my abuser. I wasn’t looking to report him.

TELL volunteers compassionately explained that I had been groomed and exploited in textbook fashion. This news was shocking and confirmed that I was a victim. Yet, it was strangely welcome. It suggested that the forces leading to my exploitation were bigger than I was. It relieved me of the worry that I had brought this ruinous situation upon myself. I braced myself for a bumpy ride and reevaluated my entire experience with my abuse: the big picture, the points of subtle friction and confusion, and what I had clung to as signs of sincere love. There was evidence of manipulation everywhere. Among other findings was support for my suspicion that I was not his first victim. Any leftover compassion for him was swiftly replaced with anger and disdain. I was only a few months into my recovery, but already I knew that I must report him. It was a way to honor my own violation and also to speak for others who might not have the strength or resources to do so. I allowed a few months for my emotions to ebb before addressing the task. Then I studied the licensing board’s website, composed the report, and mailed it off with the sense that I had fulfilled a promise to myself.

I received immediate affirmation from the state. The regional office called the day they received my complaint to say they had classified it as a top priority and assigned it to a senior investigator. Soon after, I had an hour-long Zoom interview with the investigator, the lawyer who would manage the prosecution, and an intern. The purpose of the interview was to gather more facts about the case, explain the process to me, and—I’m sure—establish my credibility and my willingness to testify, should my abuser exercise his right to request a hearing.

Instead of dwelling on my injuries, the team zeroed in on my abuser: his methods, tangible evidence that might be available, and anything that would suggest multiple victims. My role was not to recount my own pain as much as to provide valuable witness. They praised the thoroughness of my complaint. They also thanked me for having the courage to do something that would help other potential victims. The hour provided immense relief and a boost to my morale. In one sitting, I was offered affirmation, gratitude, and assurance that these people were committed to the task before them.

The high did not last. After the Zoom session, I heard nothing for weeks, then months. My confidence faded. I contacted the investigator from time to time to ask about his progress. He would say the investigation was ongoing, and nothing more. Eventually his script shifted—the investigation was nearly complete—but it stayed at that mark for so long that I stopped inquiring, aware that I was only frustrating myself. A few times I prodded a bit, specifically hoping to confirm my suspicion that my abuser had multiple victims. But the investigator didn’t budge, saying he needed to protect the integrity of the investigation. I could not blame him for that, but it was hard to remain confident in the process when I felt shut out.

By the time the one year mark came, I was resigned to the state’s sluggishness and thinking about the investigation less and less. I was also immersed in a major life change. I had left my job and was settling into a new home hundreds of miles from the physical setting of what I now call my “Abuse Chapter.” During the year of fruitlessly hoping for some news from the licensing board, I had continued to work on my recovery, actively and at times almost obsessively. I continued my therapy, journaled, corresponded with TELL, watched videos, and read books and online articles. I learned about the variants of pathological narcissism and how they manifest themselves in therapy abuse. I began to share my story with friends whose compassion helped me tamp out the last little bits of self blame. I still felt the pain of my abuse, and all the losses stemming from it, but the grief was receding. As one year moved toward two, I realized that there had been a shift. I was better at keeping traumatic memories in check. Not everything was tinged with grief. Beauty became more evident. I began to believe in a way forward.

Despite the positives, the state’s inaction continued to irk me. The idea that my case originally had been classed as a top priority now seemed absurd. There was a glimmer of hope one day when I saw the investigator’s name in my email inbox. He was writing only to tell me that he had finally passed the case on to the prosecutor, a milestone I assumed we had already passed. He put me in touch with the prosecutor, who was generous with her time and openly compassionate. She assured me that the case was moving forward and that they “take these things very seriously.” Then, she went on to outline a process involving layers of bureaucracy, committees that met only once a month, and other details that seemed to spell forever.

A year prior, when my confidence was at its peak, I had imagined a Larry Nassar-style confrontation, with my abuser having to sit silently while his victims took the mic and publicly detailed the damage he had done. Now, I recalled that vision and felt defeated. I feared I would never have any sort of closure. Even if there was a disciplinary action, its effect would be diminished by the passage of so much time.

About a year and a half after awakening to my abuse, and a year after filing my complaint, a friend shared a powerful article by Sandra L. Brown about recovery when there is no justice (Brown). She argues that psychological healing cannot hinge on any external condition or on achieving fairness. Interestingly, this article does not focus on therapy abuse; it reminds us that victims are failed by institutions all the time, everywhere. This article had been offered to me before, and I had dismissed it. My pain at that time was raw and intense, but I wanted justice, not an invitation to surrender. I had been clinging to the hope that the state would punish my abuser. Now, exhausted by the situation with the state, and weary of feeling damaged, I reread the article and reconsidered its message.

I saw that the obstacle to full recovery was not the state’s failure to wrap up my case: It was my attachment to the outcome. I needed my abuser to be found guilty of the full range of violations and punished accordingly. I wanted the state to make good on my anger. As time went on, and my confidence dwindled, I found myself at an emotional dead-end. I needed to revise my expectations.

I had done my best for the licensing board by preparing a solid document, engaging fully in my initial interview, and agreeing to testify if necessary. Beyond that, I had, and have, no control. Years may pass, and countless people and committees will play a part in the process. It was never going to be a straight line from crime to consequence—far from it. I laugh when I remember urging the state to take action right away. I do believe there may be a judgment against my abuser eventually, but there are many, many ways the process can go off the rails. And if that happens, it will not be a reflection of me, my worth, or the validity of my experience and my wounds. Most likely, it will not be a reflection of the integrity of the investigator and prosecutor either. It will be evidence of a poorly functioning system, crippled by the weight of its own bureaucracy, history, and influences upon which we can only speculate.

I informed the state that one of their licensed professionals was abusing this privilege in an atrocious manner. If the state cannot, or will not, take appropriate action, that will be their failure to the public.

So is it really that easy to let it go? And how is it a success to throw up one’s hands? What about working to improve the practice of psychotherapy and protections for victims, past, present, and future? What is the point of filing a complaint at all if the take-away is that we cannot expect any good to come from it?

It is not easy to let it go. As is often said, the only way to get past grief is to go through it. My grief consumed me for well over a year. While I suffered, I also worked hard to understand and overcome it. Brown’s article on recovery without justice did not change me or magically free me from all anger, loss, and injury. Rather, it showed me that something had changed within. It pointed to an open door. With time and some measure of healing, I was ready to consider a view that I had rejected earlier, and it was liberating. The damage has not been erased: I am scarred. I am still vulnerable to painful memories. But I am not the person I was when I fell prey to my abuser nor when I first realized I had been exploited. I have moved from victim to survivor. My Abuse Chapter is part of my story. But it does not define me, and I no longer need anyone else to validate it.

Despite the lack of resolution in my case, I believe that filing the licensing board complaint was one of the best things I did to help myself. Preparing the document forced me to think through the entire arc of my abuse, reconstructing the events with a timeframe and objective details as evidence. There was so much there! It also required me to listen to myself, a challenging shift after years of being conditioned to doubt my instincts and blame myself. As I pieced the story together, I recalled and reinterpreted details that I might have overlooked, identified the earliest signs of grooming, and noticed techniques of manipulation. Laying it all out erased any doubt that I was intentionally and skillfully exploited.

Normally a person named in a licensing board complaint will see a copy of that complaint. (Anyone considering filing should keep this in mind.) The document I composed did not just authenticate the experience for me; it authenticated it for my abuser, as well, in all of its unattractive detail. He might have been prepared to explain away individual accusations by calling them misunderstandings, casting doubt on my credibility, or shifting the focus to his supposed sincerity. My entanglement with him lasted for years precisely because he was so good at this. But even he would not have the skill to finesse his way out of the entire story neatly packaged and placed on the table by authorities

By handing my story to the state, I dealt my abuser a blow that may exceed anything they eventually dole out: I exposed him. Like so many exploitative therapists, my abuser was an expert at hiding his pathological side. He operated by his own rules and preferred to be with people who were in his thrall or subordinate to him. Our relationship ‘worked’ insofar as he enforced my dependency. For me to turn to authorities meant that I had broken our unwritten contract. I was no longer playing his game. I would no longer be his victim, and I was saying so in a rather public way. Anything he might have thought was a failsafe—my tendency to blame myself, my overactive sense of obligation and compassion, my own sense of shame—was no longer in effect.

I believe in the public benefits of reporting. Given all the lapses and the glacial pace at which the boards can operate, it is hard to have faith that our actions will prevent our abusers from preying upon new targets. Sadly, there is nothing to stop even those who have lost their licenses from setting up shop in other states or rebranding themselves as, e.g. life coaches and even spiritual gurus. Due to lack of awareness, fear, feeling they should just move on, self-blame, and other emotional impediments, relatively few victims file complaints. But reporting our abusers starts a paper trail. If there is more than one complaint about a particular violator we can hope that the state will be more likely to act. Further, if we allow cynicism to prevail, deciding that it is not worth the bother to report abusers, the system can use the absence of complaints to deny there is a problem. Those of us who are willing and able to file help build a body of data on this problem. At the more optimistic end, we can also hope that someone in authority will, someday, take notice, be alarmed by the pervasiveness of abuse among psychotherapists, and exert some influence that improves the climate for all.

The decision to file a licensing board complaint is personal. There are so many variables to assess: our emotional needs and stamina, our willingness to engage in a process with unknowns, the potential for harm or backlash, how we believe it might affect our healing, and more. There is no shame in deciding not to report! In many cases, if not all, there is no need to rush. If we try to act too soon, our emotions may be too raw, and the process too painful. Taking some time may allow us to settle into the healing process, gain some objectivity, and discern what is motivating us. Is it the desire for justice, the wish to see our abuser punished, the need for closure, the need to feel heard, the wish to honor ourselves, or the sense of doing something good for society or the field of psychotherapy? Any of these may be valid. It is also possible that engaging in the process–constructing the timeline, recalling events, identifying evidence–will reveal our motives to us. It is almost certain to help any victim feel a sense of validity and agency.

Unfortunately, we cannot count on the system to work as it should. Our abusers may never be called to account for their actions no matter how compelling our case or how strong our documentation. The challenge for those of us who report our abusers—an enormous one—is to allow ourselves to hope for an appropriate outcome without making it a condition of our healing. My advice to anyone contemplating a licensing board complaint is to consider it one step on a journey that must, then, continue on its own.

References

Brown, Sandra L. “Recovery Without Justice: An Article for Victims’ Rights Month.” Psychology Today, 11 April 2011, https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/pathological-relationships/201104/recovery-without-justice-article-victims-rights-month

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