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Adult Survivors

How to Choose a Counselor or Therapist

By Noah Rubinstein, LMFT, LMHC

Featured on, May 14, 2007

This article is not bang up to date, but the information is sound. It was created using  ideas from the members of and goes on to outline 14 points to consider when choosing a counselor/ therapist who is the ‘right fit’ for you.

Rubenstein goes on to provide further detail in the full article, but here are those 14 questions well worth considering;

  1. What does it feel like for you to sit with the therapist?
  2. What’s the counselor’s general philosophy and approach to helping?
  3. Can the counselor clearly define how he or she can help you to solve whatever issue or concern has brought you to therapy?
  4. Does the counselor seek regular peer consultation?
  5. Can your counselor accept feedback and admit mistakes?
  6. Does the counselor encourage dependence or independence?
  7. Has your counselor done his or her own therapy?
  8. Does the therapist have experience helping others with the particular issues for which you are seeking therapy?
  9. Does the counselor make guarantees or promises? 
  10. Does your counselor adhere to ethical principles in regard to issues such as boundaries, dual relationships, and confidentiality?
  11. Is the counselor licensed?
  12. Does the counselor have a graduate degree?
  13. Does the counselor have postgraduate training?
  14. Have any complaints been filed with the board?

For the article in full, please select the following link;

Are We There Yet?

I must confess that for part of my healing journey – no, wait, let’s be honest, pretty much all of it so far – I have been somewhat of an unwilling participant. I have been in and out of therapy more times than I can count over the past decade and each time, I go in with the idea that “I’ll just sort out this one abuse-related issue that’s been bothering me and then I’ll get back to my real life”. I just want the pain to be over with already. I’m like the kid in the backseat of a car on a long road trip, endlessly asking “are we there yet?”

The first time I went to see a therapist, I told her a summary of the problems I was experiencing, and she told me she didn’t expect I’d be seeing her for longer than ten months to a year. “Great!” I thought. “If I have to do it, then I’m gonna kick this healing crap’s ass. I’ll go at it like a maniac, and at the end of the year I’ll be a completely different, much happier person. My life = sorted.”

So, for a year, I went at it like I was building Noah’s ark and the flood was due in three months. (Which is probably quite an accurate analogy; now I come to think about it.) I went to three-hour therapy sessions every two weeks. I cried. I screamed. I wrote unsent letters and burnt them ceremoniously. I bought a punching bag and beat the crap out of it on a regular basis. I journalled. I meditated. I lit candles. I drew. I fell asleep to relaxation CDs. I bought and devoured every book on healing and self-development I could get my hands on. I pretty much LIVED therapy. The only other things I was doing (somewhat sporadically) were a) going to work, b) eating and c) sleeping.

Ten months to a year came and went. I was still in therapy.

Two years came and went. I was STILL in therapy. What the?!

Three years came and went.

It seemed that neither I, nor my therapist at the time, had accurately guessed how deep the rabbit hole went. I was still uncovering buried memories of trauma, and what’s more, they seemed to be getting worse and worse as I became more skilled in dealing with them. It was almost like I was levelling up in some horrific computer game I didn’t recall purchasing but was now stuck playing against my will.

And I was getting tired. I finally thought, “Sod this, I’ve had enough therapy”. I quit, moved interstate, and took a job that allowed me to be close to nature. Externally, life was better for a short while. Internally, though, I didn’t feel much better.

As it happened, the game was far from over.

That summer I had my first flashback. Then I had my first panic attack. I realised in one horrifying instant the truth I had known all along but had previously been unable to face: that my father had sexually abused me. My father, whom I had always idealised and placed on a pedestal from a young age. I thought he was so smart, kind, wise and caring. No. I didn’t want to believe what my body was telling me. No. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.

Therapy was supposed to improve my life. Not blow it up.

But in the end, that’s what it did.

All of the stories I believed about my happy childhood, where I was loved and had a normal, healthy family, were false. I had made them all up. They were a fiction I told myself so that part of me could remain innocent and survive.

I felt like I had taken the red pill and woken up on the other side of the Matrix.

This was NOT what was supposed to happen.

Damn therapy. I wanted a refund.

Four years came and went.

Now therapy was different. Now I had been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). I was getting flashbacks all the time, and learning in therapy how to deal with them; grounding techniques, comforting myself, imagining figures protecting my child self from harm. All the while I was thinking, this is nuts. None of this actually happened. What the hell is wrong with me?! Reading literature on PTSD, trying to convince myself I wasn’t actually going crazy even though that’s what it felt like. Coping with that weird involuntary trembling and body shaking that occurs after a flashback. “There was a study done on deer who have been traumatised. They shake and tremble in order to recover,” my therapist told me. “Your body is just doing the same thing.”

But I didn’t want to be a traumatised deer. I wanted to be a completely normal happy average human being, who could get by just fine without therapy, thank you very much. I didn’t want any of this to be happening.

Five years came and went.

The denial lifted, and I finally began to believe what the flashbacks were telling me. I cut both my parents out of my life, and felt a huge sense of inner relief and peace. I decided to quit therapy, again, as the flashbacks were settling, and in any case, I now knew how to deal with them when they arose. By that time I had an army of self-nurturing tools at my disposal from journalling, drawing, posting on isurvive, to calling friends, etc. I had a lot of support around me. I had lost two abusive parents but somehow, amazingly, managed to escape the cycle of abuse and heal. I felt incredibly lucky.

I took a couple of years off from therapy and tried to just get on with my life. For the first time ever, I felt young and happy and free. For the most part. Memories of the abuse would crop up from time to time, but I would deal with them as they arose. I started to believe I had “made it”, I had reached the mythical end to healing that I had hoped for so long ago. Life was better. I felt a deep sense of peace at having finally accepted and believed the truth.

Which brings me to the present.

Now, there is a new memory knocking at my door. Frick. Just when I thought I was done.

It has been coming back in bits and pieces over the past year.

Now, the Game is back on. And boy oh boy have I levelled up now. It is a new and improved sequel with dramatically better special effects, surround sound and more vibrant 3D characters. This memory is far worse than any of the previous ones, and they were terrifying enough to start with. This one is more violent, more horrific, and just plain bizarre to boot. I can’t get it out of my head, and like some kind of debt collector from the past it won’t leave me alone. It keeps sending me letters with big red writing on the front and increasing the interest I owe on my payment. If I don’t deal with it soon it’s gonna come knocking at my door, empty my bank account and cart me away to the law enforcement agencies.

And so begins the sixth year.

But I feel better now. To be honest; by now I feel like a warrior. I have been through a lot the past nine years, and I’ve learned a lot as well. I know that, no matter how painful they are, feelings eventually always pass. I am, finally, learning the importance of nurturing and being kind to myself. I know that I have people I can call and the support of those at isurvive to help me get through the dark places. I know that my mind will not show me anything before I am ready to deal with it. And I know that whatever trauma I’m about to face, I’ve already lived through it, survived and am safe in the present.

I still don’t know when, or if, this healing process ever ends. I don’t know how much more pain I’ve repressed and buried in my unconscious that still needs to come out. If there is a “there”, I’m definitely not there yet. But I’m a lot further along in my journey. I’ve reclaimed so much of myself during this process. I feel a million times better and more whole than I did when I first started therapy all those years ago.

It didn’t feel okay to start with. It felt scary and I just wanted to run away. I feel just as scared now, going into my sixth year. But I think maybe therapy always feels that way in the beginning. Maybe that’s how you know you’re learning, growing, changing, getting out of your comfort zone and challenging yourself. Maybe anything meaningful or worthwhile is scary at first. Maybe life itself is more about growing, changing, and learning how to love ourselves, than it is about racing through or avoiding pain to get to a happier place faster. Maybe there is no mythical happy “there”. Maybe I can just try to be the best me possible while I’m “here”, instead.

Why Survivors Need Each Other

by Christine Cissy White


If I was dissociating, I wouldn’t feel so anxious,” she said.

Or you might – but you just wouldn’t know it,” I replied.

We laughed the PTSD laugh.

I’m not sure I’ve ever said that out loud,” she said.

But I know exactly what you mean,” I said.

I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to have shorthand with someone recovering from developmental trauma.

We were going to meet to talk writing and life but a panic attack took precedence. She called to cancel, apologized as though her panic was an insult to me. It wasn’t.

I was impressed that she didn’t make up a lie. I’m not sure if I would have been so honest. Coping well and seeming calm during tornadoes can be a trademark, a personality trait I dangle like long earrings. It’s difficult to give up because the perks for being accomplished, productive and together pay off big. However, it’s impossible to be a robot and an emotionally healthy human.

In order to be emotionally available and responsive to others, it turns out I have to be emotionally present and responsive to myself.

This is not good news. I recoil a little inside. The spilling of actual emotions is as appealing as snot from the nose or pus from a cut. My own habit is to greet my own feelings with the same, “What do you want?” that I got in childhood.

When I’m post-traumatically stressed out, my self-hate is high and self-acceptance low. In this state, I’m surprised my feelings are defiant enough to show up when I thought they were shamed out of existence. Nope, they had just waited for me to get centered.

This is not the reward I had in mind when I started mindfulness practice. Healing and emotional health require staying present at least some of the time. Staying present is a challenge for a seasoned yogi staring at sunsets and sunflowers.sunflower 4 For those who were helpless as a child, staying present with violence and violation at the hands of relatives during the development of the nervous system, is a hard sell.

As a child, I learned to air lift out of my body and hover at the brain, play dead or pretend to become one with the table, ceiling or door. This didn’t feel like a spiritual shedding of form, a healthy detaching of ego or a glimpse into knowing we are all one.

It felt like a terrifying denial of experience. And now, when I sit to be present in the present, all of those old sensations are stored in the stillness. Doesn’t that seem mean?

I am learning to accept this part of healing. Not the suffering needlessly. I don’t want to do that. But the part where I struggle to figure out how to let the guards down and risk letting others in.

It would be a lie to say I approach my path with openhearted equanimity.

Often, I look for a back-up plan.

When triggered, I do battle with thoughts such as these: Can’t someone do this for me? How old I will be when I can do this with more grace and ease, less forgetting and effort? Can I have a better love life without exploring Daddy issues again?
Inside, I rage and war.

Clearly, my life would be easier if X wasn’t a jerk, if Y was more helpful and Z never happened in the first place.
No, this is a fantasy of the supportive extended family or the perfect lover. Those are the illusions you cling to and others have their favorites.

Don’t minimize abuse and violence. That keeps people from making change. Social change doesn’t happen because people get a crisis of conscience.

It’s called breaking the system because it requires work and effort. It’s not supposed to be easy.

It goes on and on and on.

I’m beyond sick of it – I’m sick of being sick of the process.

I’ve been an adult longer than I was a child. Can’t I circle new drains or upgrade the scenery on this old track? So far, guided imagery before bed is the only thing I can do to stop rumination, dwelling and obsessing. I recommend it.

However, some practices require regular exercise to keep off the emotional pounds even though I want to do it once and be done?
Complex PTSD or developmental trauma isn’t only about calming the nervous system, it’s about undoing the damage of what was learned in toxic family dynamics. Healing is about discovering how to nurture ourselves when violence, neglect and confusion were slathered on us as children.

I have resentment and resistance.

In fact, feeling burdened, exhausted and martyred can be the itchy wool coat of memory. I say it’s uncomfortable, yet, like an old photo album I keep picking it up. It’s how I learned how to be, a default setting I return to when stressed. I say I would love to feel the cool air lift my arm hairs yet I don’t disrobe.

Seeing a pattern does not mean knowing how to change. Knowing action needs to be taken doesn’t mean there are no false starts.

What I have learned recently, is how much better I feel in community. One of the best ways to create an internal shift comes from connecting with others. Yesterday, it was in the laughter shared with a woman with a panic attack talking about how hard it can be to notice, feel and respond to our own emotions. When she shared missing the competent feeling that accompanies numbness I understood and related even though we know the excruciating agony of being emotionally blunted makes it worth the effort. 010

We may have joked about bringing back numbness but we wouldn’t really go back in time. The relief came in understanding one another.

The process of healing, waking up and breaking the cycle is slow and sometimes agonizing. I hesitate to write that for survivors early in the process because so much improves and it’s not always grueling. However, people wouldn’t smoke, drink, stay in unhappy relationships and repeat the cycle if change was easy.

Luckily, we can sustain one another and learn to care for ourselves. Talking, which is all I did with one woman yesterday, made me feel as though I could breathe more easily though not one thing was removed from my to do list. Sharing openly and honestly was medicinal. It was free, didn’t require an expert or an appointment. Yet, I was transformed.

Before we spoke, I was mad at myself for not achieving more. I was a magnifying glass glued to the negative. My brain was a sink full of dirty dishes.

“The only abuser left in your life,” a yoga teacher said to me in a private session, “is you.” You need to parent yourself the way you wish you had been parenting. Criticism, judgment and neglect are not nurturing is what she implied.

Ouch, is what I thought and I worried a bit about who would keep me in line if I got all soft and slouchy.

Now, at midlife, when I see someone being honest about their needs, I’m envious not judgmental. People have symptoms. They can linger for a long time. So what? Who cares? That’s just how it is. I don’t think any less of them. Not at all.

Can I be this way with myself?

With another survivor, I could speak about how exhausting it is to keep getting on the hamster wheel and how hard to get off. We could appreciate our extreme efforts and point out how no new ground is being covered.
It she had not risked being authentic and vulnerable, letting down walls and defenses, I might have never made it to my yoga mat later in the day. Her bravery supported my practice! My relating made her feel less anxious. For those of us who never experienced healthy interdependence this is transforming. We get to practice, however clumsily, with one another and healing happens at lightning speed.

Most days, survivors of childhood abuse are high-functioning warriors building and rebuilding lives and selves. On those days, there is no shortage of people to talk with, relate to and bond with. On those days, it’s easy to be with ourselves.

It is the day we feel tipped over inside by trauma that we need one another most. We need people who get it, who can say, about the same orange, “It’s juicy, tangy, messy and sweet.” It’s a sensory, tactile knowing as opposed to some abstract, “Life can be hard,” comment which doesn’t help.

In yoga, during balance poses, teachers suggest finding a focal point to hold the gaze. Doing so, helps us steady ourselves. Action and rushing in to prevent tumbling aren’t necessary. Rescue won’t help someone learn to get more balanced. Being still and providing focus can.

This is the work of adult survivors. This is the unglamorous healing of developmental trauma. We do not obsess on the cause of our wounds but focus on ways to more fully inhabit the present.

We offer one another acts of caring. We validate, bear witness and can admit how clumsy we feel with the business of being human.

We can allow each other the safety we didn’t have as children to explore and experiment with our developing sense of self. We didn’t have this experience as children.

But we aren’t children any more.

These must be the gifts of practice and healing. More and more, for entire seconds or moments, I remember more, forget less and stay present.


Christine Cissy White lives with her daughter on the coast of Massachussets in the USA.
She’s a writer and former paralegal published in Ms. Magazine online, The Boston Globe, Elephant Journal and Literary Mama. She blogs at
This piece was originally posted on Role Reboot.

Abuse Will Not Define Me

I was born in Melrose Park, Illinois on a cold day in November 1978 to a young woman not willing or ready to have a child.  I would be told later in life that I was supposed to be an abortion, but the hospital called my grandma instead of my mother to give her news of the pregnancy; thus my mother was “forced” to have me.  Looking back now, I think I spent my childhood paying the price for a hospital nurse dialing the wrong number.


Excerpt from Why Me? by Sarah Burleton, CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, 2012


My name is Sarah Burleton and I am the New York Times Bestselling author of my child abuse memoir, Why Me, and the spokesperson for Prevent Child Abuse Illinois. Looking at me now, one would never guess that I endured such a horrific childhood; a childhood full of extreme physical beatings and mental abuse at the hands of my own mother. One would never guess that my own mother pushed me into an electric fence and watched me writhe on the ground in agony. One would never guess that my beloved animals were murdered cruelly at the hands of my mother for her own sick enjoyment. And one would never guess that not once in my life did I hear my mother say the words “I Love You” or feel her arms wrapped around me in a loving, warm, motherly embrace.

One would never guess this about me and my life because I made the conscious choice at a very young age to not let my child abuse define me. I refused to walk around like a victim and wear my child abuse as a badge for the world to see and pity me for. As many of you can relate, the last thing a child abuse victim wants is pity from people who have no idea what we have had to endure.  We don’t want anyone to know what we have been through because there is a shame attached to child abuse, a sense of self-blame as if we deserved to be beaten or called names. Personally, I would bottle my emotions up inside and put on a tough façade to everyone around me, masking my true feelings of pain with sarcasm and aloofness.

When it became too much for me to bottle up my emotions any more I opened my laptop and poured out my life story into a Word document, self-published it and fell over the day I found out my little book had made the NY Times. Being on the list was great; however the most rewarding part of my job has been traveling and speaking to adult survivors, CPS workers and foster children. I realize that there are many of “us” out there, thousands of us who have been hurt by people who were supposed to love and protect us the most. But I’m here to tell you that we are not victims; we are survivors. We are here today because of our will to survive and our determination to overcome the demons from our childhood. Each of us has the power to use our horrible pasts as stepping stones to our bright, positive futures and as examples of how not to act. Every story matters and every voice should be heard. I love you all.

Edit: October 12, 2016

Please note that this article was first published here on isurvive and later on