Fifty years ago, I had just finished my Master’s degree and started my doctorate. I also began seeing clients.
I was excited to begin the work but felt very uncertain about my capability and knowledge (which was wise). Somewhere during that first year a college co-ed [a US term meaning female student] came to see me and after several appointments she took her long hair and threw it forward so it covered her face. That was followed with the words: ‘My father used to do weird things to me.’ I had no idea what she meant. Little by little she taught me what it meant. I went to a supervisor for input because I did not know what to do. I had never heard about or encountered sexual abuse.
The year was 1972. Post-traumatic stress disorder was not even a diagnostic category until 1980. I was told not to believe what I was hearing as ‘women sometimes tell these hysterical stories and your job is not to get hooked by them. You will only contribute to their pathology if you do’. There were very few females in psychology at that time. I was the only one in my doctoral programme. Women would ask to see me because of my gender (certainly not due to my experience or expertise). I began hearing more stories similar to the girl’s story and decided to believe the women rather than the supervisor. That decision changed my life. The victims became my teacher and I have been honoured to walk with them.
