Splitting, Shame, and Supervision: A Psychoanalytic Reflection on Narcissistic Abuse in Counsellor Training

The name "Sandra" is a pseudonym used to protect privacy.

Introduction

Supervision is meant to be a space of reflection, learning, and ethical containment. However, when it is co-opted by unresolved narcissistic dynamics in the supervisor, it can become a site of subtle and overt psychological abuse. This paper explores a personal experience of narcissistic supervision during counsellor training, framed within psychoanalytic theory. It examines the phenomena of splitting, idealisation and devaluation, projective identification, and the weaponisation of shame, situating the experience within the wider challenges of professional power dynamics and developmental vulnerability. The intention is to offer a professional account that may support and guide other trainees who find themselves in similar dynamics, and to contribute to a growing body of literature examining supervision abuse.

Initial Idealisation and Early Signs of Narcissistic Dynamics

When I entered my first supervision group, we were a small cohort of four, overseen by a supervisor—Sandra—who was often late and emotionally distant. Her attitude toward clients raised early concerns. On one occasion, when I described a session in which a client was weeping with visible snot running down her face, Sandra commented coldly that the client “had no decorum.” This lack of empathy stood out but did not yet raise alarm. At that point, I was still, in her eyes, a valuable supervisee—engaged, competent, and reflective.

However, I would later come to understand this initial period as one of idealisation. As Kernberg (1975) observed, narcissistically organised individuals tend to split others into “all good” or “all bad” depending on whether they serve their self-esteem regulation. At this early stage, I was still “good.” My interest in psychoanalytic ideas and my ability to articulate clinical material made me useful—what Kohut (1971) would later call a “mirror object” that helped sustain Sandra’s fragile self-image as a competent, powerful supervisor.

The Breakdown of Idealisation and the Rise of Hostility

Subtle signs of enmeshment and control emerged over time. While Sandra was seemingly indifferent when other trainees missed sessions, I was told by a colleague that she anxiously asked about my whereabouts whenever I was absent. My responses in supervision were often met with contradiction: if I said A, she said B; if I said B, she said A. This unpredictable opposition became a constant undercurrent—what Freud (1914) described as repetition compulsion, a re-enactment of unresolved relational trauma, possibly Sandra’s own.

The turning point came when I sent an email to my personal and professional contacts (including Sandra), sharing that my son was running a cancer fundraiser. It included a light-hearted remark along the lines of “God sees if you don’t donate.” When I returned to supervision, Sandra used this as an opportunity to publicly shame me. In front of the group, she declared that I had crossed boundaries by sending her the email. Though I calmly apologised and said it wouldn’t happen again, she refused to move on—her eyes growing wider, her tone increasingly fixated.

Her inability to accept my non-defensive response led to prolonged humiliation. The group fell silent. Some looked at the floor. No one intervened. When I eventually said, more firmly, “I hear you, and I’ve apologised—can we move on?” Sandra accused me of “always switching things around.” The accusation was both vague and loaded—classic projective identification (Bion, 1962), in which her own confusion or instability was located in me.

Power, Dependency, and the Collapse of the False Self

Sandra had institutional power: she was one of the professionals who would decide whether I passed my training. This structural imbalance—common in counselling education—left little room to challenge her behaviour. During this time, I was also experiencing a breakdown in my personal therapy, which I will explore in a future paper. My husband was working abroad for three years, leaving me to face not only the present distress, but also reawakened feelings of childhood shame and abandonment. Despite this complex emotional terrain, I remained professionally functional, holding clients, attending training, and working reflectively.

Looking back, I see that I was caught in a coercive relational bind: if I submitted, I was rewarded with praise and favour; if I asserted myself, I was devalued and attacked. Sandra’s dynamic fits closely with the narcissistic pattern described by Masterson (1981), in which the caregiver (or supervisor, in this case) creates an emotional environment where the other must continually regulate the narcissist’s sense of self.

When the first half of the training ended and new supervision groups were being allocated, Sandra informed our group—with a visible grin—that everyone would move to a new supervisor except me. “You’re going to be my favourite child now,” she said, half-joking, half-serious. I responded, “I don’t want to be anyone’s favourite child.” Her laughter was unnerving. I felt trapped.

Shame as a Weapon of Control

Ferenczi (1931) wrote poignantly about how shame can be used as a weapon in therapeutic relationships. He argued that pathogenic shame—induced rather than uncovered—serves to control the other through humiliation and confusion. Sandra's use of shame was not revelatory but silencing. Her “feedback” turned into character assassination. A formal report was written, portraying me as emotionally unstable and psychologically unwell—despite previous praise for my clinical insight and theoretical competence.

Alongside this, she wrote a separate, three-page document describing me in degrading terms, which I was never supposed to see. In a rare act of transparency, the training organisation shared it with me, so I could respond. This moment was pivotal: for the first time, I was believed. I suspect I was not the only supervisee who had raised concerns.

At a meeting with the organisation's leadership, Sandra, and my husband present, I was informed that I would no longer be in her supervision group. At that moment, Sandra stood up and shoved her chair back. Her body language betrayed her inner collapse—rage, loss, and perhaps panic. The narcissistic supply had been severed. I was no longer available to stabilise her false self. As Kohut (1977) described, narcissistic rage arises when the self-object fails to mirror or admire, triggering a collapse of the narcissist’s cohesion.

The Power of Documentation and Pedagogical Transparency

I still possess the reports Sandra wrote about me. Though painful, they now serve a new purpose. I have chosen to share them—selectively and privately—with my supervisees via a closed Patreon platform. My aim is pedagogical: to help trainees recognise the signs of supervisory misuse of power, the tactics of institutional gaslighting, and the emotional toll such experiences can take. These documents are not shared to shame, but to teach.

In supervision, we often speak about ethics, boundaries, and emotional safety. But we must also speak about power—the power to shape narratives, the power to destroy reputations, the power to determine who is "well enough" to practice. When that power is misused, especially in environments where trainees are already vulnerable, the damage can be profound.

Conclusion

This paper is offered to the field as both a personal testimony and a theoretical reflection on narcissistic dynamics in supervision. It is a reminder that clinical training does not occur in a vacuum; it takes place within human relationships, fraught with projection, transference, and unspoken power. Narcissistic supervisors, like Sandra, often operate within systems that fail to hold them accountable. But when we name the dynamics—splitting, idealisation, shame, rage—we begin to take back the power they seek to steal.

For trainees currently navigating confusing or disturbing supervisory relationships, may this paper offer both insight and solidarity. You are not alone. Your intuition matters. And you can survive it with your integrity intact.

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References

• Bion, W. R. (1962). Learning from Experience. Heinemann.

• Ferenczi, S. (1931). Confusion of Tongues Between the Adults and the Child. In Final Contributions to the Problems and Methods of Psycho-analysis. Karnac, 1980.

• Freud, S. (1914). Remembering, Repeating and Working-Through. In The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Vol. 12.

• Kernberg, O. (1975). Borderline Conditions and Pathological Narcissism. Jason Aronson.

• Kohut, H. (1971). The Analysis of the Self. International Universities Press.

• Kohut, H. (1977). The Restoration of the Self. International Universities Press.

• Masterson, J. F. (1981). The Narcissistic and Borderline Disorders: An Integrated Developmental Approach. Brunner/Mazel.