Lisa Hurst Barnhardt Lied
One of the most disturbing parts of being abused is not only what the abuser does, but what happens when you finally speak about it and the person in front of you—someone who is supposed to help—responds in a way that deepens the harm. I needed support, clarity, and a safe space to understand what I was experiencing. Instead, I was met with reactions that felt dismissive, cold, and sometimes disturbingly aligned with the person hurting me. Over time, I realized I wasn’t only dealing with an abusive relationship. I was also dealing with a “helping” professional dynamic that seemed to train me to tolerate abuse, rather than escape it.
There were moments when her reactions were so revealing that I could feel my reality slipping—not because I didn’t know the truth, but because she made the truth feel unsafe to say out loud.
After I told her that he had charged over $700 on my credit card, I expected concern. I expected her to acknowledge that financial abuse is still abuse. Instead, she got upset when she found out that the same abuser was paying for my lunch. It was a strange reaction—misplaced, emotional, and not centered on my safety. In that moment, it felt like the focus shifted away from what mattered: that a man had taken money from me without consent and crossed a serious boundary. Instead of naming it for what it was, she reacted as if the lunch payment somehow changed the moral math. It didn’t.
Then there were moments that felt even more unsettling. When I told her he neglected my birthday, she looked happy—almost smirky. It wasn’t compassion. It wasn’t concern. It felt like she was satisfied in a way I still have trouble describing, as though my disappointment amused her or confirmed something she already believed. And right after that, she wanted me to understand that some people “just don’t recognize birthdays.” She framed my hurt as something childish or unreasonable rather than seeing the deeper issue: the pattern of disregard, the steady message that my needs did not matter.
But the coldest moment came when I described being coerced into sex while I had a bladder infection. That memory was difficult enough to say out loud. It was painful, humiliating, and deeply violating. I didn’t need someone to analyze me in that moment—I needed someone to respond like a human being who understood consent, coercion, and harm. Instead, she gave me a cold stare. There was no softness. No validation. No protective instinct. Just a look that made me feel judged for being harmed. I remember thinking, Even here, even now, I’m not safe to tell the truth.
Whenever I tried to talk about my hesitancy and my instincts telling me something wasn’t right, she shut me down. Her directive was simple and brutal: meet his needs. There was no space for me to process what I felt. There was no curiosity about my fear. No exploration of how coercion erodes a person over time. No room for me to locate my own voice. Instead, her message was that my job was to comply. That my emotions were an inconvenience. That my boundaries were negotiable.
And when I tried to terminate therapy—when I tried to end the relationship because something about it felt wrong—she did not respect that boundary either. This became a pattern. Again and again, whenever I attempted to step away, she would re-enter my space in a way that felt pressuring and persistent. She repeatedly tried to get me to come back into therapy after I had terminated it. It didn’t feel like ethical closure or a respectful ending. It felt like a refusal to accept my “no,” as if my decision did not belong to me. Instead of honoring my autonomy, she seemed focused on pulling me back into a dynamic I was trying to leave.
What made this dynamic even more unsettling was the sense that she seemed desperate for business. I was only one of three providers listed under my insurance plan, and rather than behaving with professional steadiness, she gave off an energy that felt needy and transactional—as if keeping me as a client mattered more than keeping me safe. The relationship began to feel less like therapy and more like retention. Instead of prioritizing boundaries, neutrality, or my wellbeing, it felt like she was willing to bend basic professional structure in order to keep me coming back.
At one point, she even allowed me to build a tab—to owe her money and keep the balance in her office. That arrangement did not feel normal or clinically appropriate. It felt like another sign that the boundaries were loose, that the dynamic was blurred, and that the financial component was being handled in a way that could keep me psychologically tethered to her. Even the money part of it didn’t feel clean. It felt like she was so motivated to keep me as a paying client that she was willing to let the lines stay unclear rather than insist on an ethical, structured process.
What makes this even more infuriating is the financial truth behind it all. Blue Cross Blue Shield of North Carolina was not paying for this. The services I received were not being covered in a way that reflected legitimate, ethical, accountable care. And that matters—because when someone positions themselves as a therapist, they are not simply offering opinions. They are occupying a role that carries power, responsibility, and an expectation of safety. If insurance wasn’t covering it, that doesn’t automatically mean wrongdoing—but in my case it felt connected to the overall pattern: a therapeutic relationship that was not professionally contained, emotionally safe, or clearly accountable.
At the same time, she tried to pull me back in using another tactic: taking credit for the stability of my life when I first met her. She seemed convinced my stable life came from her psychotherapy methods, and she used that idea to convince me I should return to her office. But the reality was the opposite. My life was insidiously unraveling while I was seeing her—emotionally, psychologically, and relationally. I became more confused, more self-doubting, and less anchored in my instincts. Whatever stability I showed at the beginning was not something she created.
The stability I had when I met her came from my journal writing. My journal was the only place where I could speak freely without being shut down, corrected, minimized, or treated like I was “too much.” In my journal, there was no pressure to excuse violations. No manipulation disguised as guidance. Writing gave me the one thing I wasn’t getting from her: a space where my reality could exist without punishment.
Looking back, I can see how dangerous it is when a person is positioned as a helper, but behaves in a way that mirrors the logic of abuse. Abuse thrives in environments where your feelings are treated as inconvenient, where harm is reframed as normal, where coercion is minimized, and where your instincts are silenced. I needed someone who would help me recognize patterns of manipulation and violations of consent. Instead, I was repeatedly guided toward compliance. I was taught—directly and indirectly—that my discomfort didn’t matter.
And that is why I am not writing this gently.
I hope she never practices therapy again.
Because a therapist who smiles at neglect, stares coldly at coercion, dismisses financial exploitation, tells a client to meet an abuser’s needs, repeatedly pressures a client to return after termination, and behaves as if she is desperate to keep business is not neutral. That isn’t “tough love.” That isn’t therapeutic challenge. That isn’t healing.
It is dangerous.
And no one—especially someone vulnerable, confused, or still in the middle of abuse—should ever have to sit in a room with a professional and feel that unsafe.
Below is an excerpt of a letter that Lisa Hurst Barnhardt wrote. She states that her position was consistently that my needs (my school work, family, wish to be treated special" as important. And that she encouraged me to negotiate for more balance in the relationship. This DID NOT happen. Lisa Hurst Barnhardt consistently reprimanded me when she felt that the abuser's needs were not being met.
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