In any fair investigation, you expect one thing above all:
That your side of the story will be heard.
Not accepted blindly.
Not treated as gospel.
But at the very least, considered.
That didn’t happen in my case.
According to the Health and Disability Commissioner (HDC), when a complaint is received, there are several pathways available to address it — including options like mediation or referral to the Advocacy Service. These routes are designed to resolve concerns without escalating to a full investigation. The HDC claims to handle complaints in a fair, timely, and effective manner, weighing each case carefully and assessing all available evidence.
But in my case, none of those principles were upheld.
The HDC skipped over any form of consultation or informal resolution. There was no attempt at mediation. No phone call. No opportunity to clarify the events in question. They moved directly into a formal investigation — treating the complaint as fact and the complainant’s narrative as the unquestioned truth.
From the very beginning, it felt like a decision had already been made.
The narrative was set.
And anything I offered to challenge it was either ignored, dismissed, or reframed to fit their predetermined version of events.
This approach wasn’t just unfair — it directly contradicted the HDC’s own stated procedures. It left me feeling presumed guilty, denied a voice, and stripped of any meaningful chance to participate in a fair process.
In one such case, the practitioner sought to explain a highly complex ethical and clinical situation involving a client’s conflicting disclosures. The session in question involved emotionally charged content, shifting narratives, and high-stakes implications for the wellbeing of others. The practitioner raised legitimate concerns about the ethical ramifications of those disclosures — particularly when they included statements suggesting potential misuse of complaint processes to retaliate against others.
These concerns were not speculative. They were drawn directly from clinical interactions and noted disclosures, and carried serious ethical significance. In a fair investigation, such factors would have triggered careful scrutiny — not dismissal.
But none of it was followed up.
None of it was acknowledged.
And none of it appeared to matter.
Instead, the HDC’s sole focus — from start to finish — appeared to be on pressuring and intimidating me into surrendering sensitive client notes and documentation. There was no interest in understanding the context, no effort to seek balance or fairness. Just a relentless push for records, as if the documents alone would justify a conclusion they had already reached.
That admission alone — about previous false complaints — should have triggered immediate scrutiny.
But it wasn’t.
It was never followed up.
Never tested for credibility.
Never even mentioned in their findings.
Because it didn’t fit the story they were determined to tell.
When Evidence Is Inconvenient, It Disappears
The real harm wasn’t just that my evidence was dismissed.
It’s that it wasn’t even meaningfully engaged with.
There was no follow-up.
No questioning of credibility.
No attempt to explore the context of my claims.
No request for a more detailed account.
No peer review to determine if my actions made sense within an ethical framework.
Instead, everything I provided was either sidelined, ignored, or subtly reshaped to support the narrative the HDC had already formed:
That I had caused harm.
That I had acted inappropriately.
That my refusal to release documentation meant I had something to hide.
But here’s the truth:
I offered information that directly challenged the complainant’s credibility — based not on speculation, but on her own admissions in prior sessions.
She had told me she had used complaint processes before, against other men who upset her.
She had described doing it not because they had wronged her, but because she wanted to get back at them.
That’s not hearsay.
That’s not gossip.
That is relevant psychological and behavioural history — the kind that any balanced investigation would want to explore.
But the HDC didn’t.
They ignored it.
And when a regulatory body chooses to ignore evidence that contradicts its conclusions, it ceases to be a neutral authority.
It becomes a participant in a one-sided narrative — one that is no longer about finding truth, but about preserving its own version of events at all costs.
That’s not natural justice.
That’s not regulation.
That’s confirmation bias dressed up as due process.
And for the person being investigated, it feels like screaming into a void.
Because no matter what you say, no matter what you present, no matter how valid your evidence is — if it doesn’t support the outcome they want, it simply doesn’t count.
The Psychological Cost of Being Silenced
There’s a particular kind of trauma that happens when you’re not just falsely accused — but when the evidence that could clear your name is deliberately ignored.
It’s not just disbelief.
It’s erasure.
You speak.
You try to explain.
You offer the truth — clearly, calmly, with as much care and professionalism as possible.
And it goes nowhere.
It’s like watching your reputation burn down while you’re locked outside the building, holding the extinguisher.
That’s how it felt.
The HDC didn’t just dismiss my version of events.
They treated it as irrelevant.
They made no attempt to understand what I actually said.
They offered no pathway to properly present my side in person of over the phone in direct dialogue — no peer input, no interviews, no transparency.
It left me feeling powerless, cornered, and invisible.
Worse than that, it left me doubting myself.
Maybe I hadn’t expressed things the right way.
Maybe I overlooked something important.
Maybe if I’d approached it differently, they would have understood.
Maybe if I had just complied — even though I knew it would compromise ethical boundaries.
That’s what being silenced does.
It makes you second-guess yourself.
It makes you internalise blame for something you didn’t cause.
And when your perspective is dismissed, your intentions are distorted, and your name is exposed to the public regardless, the damage is complete.
Because it tells the world — and it tells you — that your truth doesn’t matter.
That facts are optional.
That justice is conditional.
That justice is conditional.
And that’s a kind of psychological harm most people will never understand — unless they’ve lived it.
What Fair Investigation Should Actually Look Like
A fair investigation doesn’t mean blindly believing one party over another.
It doesn’t mean dismissing allegations either.
It means engaging with all of the information — even when it’s inconvenient, complex, or challenges the assumptions you started with.
In a process with integrity, the HDC should have:
- Asked follow-up questions based on the evidence I provided
- Acknowledged the complainant’s prior behaviour and statements as potentially relevant to motive and credibility
- Consulted with an experienced, independent counsellor to provide a clinical lens on the session and the ethical dilemmas involved
- Considered the pattern of my professional conduct over many years, not just one cherry-picked complaint
- Given weight to context, nuance, and therapeutic complexity, rather than flattening my actions into binary labels like “inappropriate” or “unprofessional”
Instead, they did the opposite.
They created a narrative of guilt, and then curated the investigation to support it.
That’s not an error in judgment.
That’s structural bias.
It’s what happens when an administrative body:
- Protects its institutional image
- Prioritises appearing “decisive” over being accurate
- Avoids uncertainty by doubling down on the first version of the story they hear
- Frames complexity as resistance
- Interprets transparency as guilt
- Punishes nuance as if it were defiance
- Ignores facts that don’t fit the preferred narrative
- Treats questioning as a threat rather than a contribution
- Seeks compliance, not clarity
- Sacrifices truth for tidy conclusions
- Mistakes submission for accountability
And once that narrative is locked in, your evidence doesn’t stand a chance.
They don’t want to complicate things.
They don’t want to admit they might be wrong.
So instead of seeking truth, they seek confirmation.
This is why so many practitioners lose faith in the process.
Because even when we do speak up — even when we offer truth, clarity, and context — it’s easier for the system to pretend it wasn’t said than to reconsider its own conclusions.
That’s not justice.
That’s a cover-up in slow motion.
The System Must Value Truth, Not Just Appearances
When a regulatory body starts ignoring evidence that doesn’t support its conclusion, it stops functioning as a system of accountability.
It becomes something else entirely — a machine of reputation management.
Not for the practitioner.
Not for the complainant.
But for itself.
The HDC claims to act in the public interest.
It claims to uphold standards, protect clients, and promote ethical care.
But how can it do any of those things with integrity if it selectively filters information to protect its own image?
How can it claim to protect the public when it disregards critical context, silences practitioners, and treats nuance as noncompliance?
How can it claim to uphold ethics when it twists professional judgment into assumed wrongdoing — simply because it doesn’t align with a predetermined narrative?
How can a system be fair if it publishes names, reputations, and outcomes based on partial evidence — while ignoring anything that might introduce reasonable doubt?
These aren’t just procedural flaws.
They’re systemic failures.
Failures that damage trust.
Failures that punish transparency.
Failures that chill the very openness and ethical reflection the profession depends on.
How many other professionals have tried — like I did — to offer explanations, only to be disregarded?
How many more will lose faith in the system entirely?
And how long can a body like the HDC claim to act in the public’s best interest, when it refuses to reflect on its own?
What Needs to Change:
1. Independent oversight of investigations
No agency should be allowed to investigate itself — especially when lives, reputations, and professional futures are on the line.
There must be external review mechanisms built into the process to ensure that investigations are fair, impartial, and thorough. An independent body should have the authority to audit decisions, examine whether all relevant evidence was considered, and identify any signs of bias, assumption, or procedural shortcuts.
When no one is watching the watchdog, mistakes become patterns — and patterns become institutional failure.
2. Peer consultation by qualified professionals
Clinical decisions and ethical nuances should never be interpreted by administrative staff without appropriate training, context, or expertise.
Practitioners facing complaints deserve to have their actions assessed by fellow clinicians — people who understand the complexities of therapeutic work, client dynamics, and real-world ethical practice.
Anything less reduces the process to guesswork: administrators making judgments from a distance, stripped of nuance, context, or accountability. This is not safety. It’s systemised misunderstanding.
3. Transparent, balanced engagement with both parties
Practitioners should not be expected to defend their career through a one-way inbox.
There must be meaningful consultation — opportunities to be heard, interviewed, and questioned in good faith.
When one side of a story is taken as fact and the other reduced to paperwork, the result is not an investigation. It’s a foregone conclusion.
Transparency means dialogue, not silence. Fairness requires more than form letters and pre-written outcomes.
4. A culture that values truth over narrative control
Regulatory bodies must stop prioritising tidy narratives over uncomfortable realities.
Investigators should be trained to lean into complexity and ask difficult questions, not avoid them. Questions like:
- “What doesn’t fit here?”
- “What are we missing?”
- “What truths are being ignored because they make us uneasy?”
- “Are we reacting to evidence — or resisting it?”
- “Have we mistaken discomfort for misconduct?”
- “Are we protecting the public — or protecting the process?”
- “Are we investigating with curiosity or with confirmation bias?”
- “If the roles were reversed, would this process still feel fair?”
- “What assumptions are we making that we haven’t tested?”
- “What part of this story challenges our preferred outcome — and why are we avoiding it?”
Because when regulatory bodies stop asking these kinds of questions, they stop seeking the truth.
And when truth is no longer the goal, justice becomes a performance — not a process.
Real accountability means being willing to hold tension, examine contradiction, and remain open to facts that challenge the first version of the story.
Because when truth is inconvenient — but still real — it must be honoured.
Until that happens, the HDC’s investigations will continue to fail those they claim to serve: practitioners, clients, and the public alike.
For those unfamiliar with the background of my situation, I’ve shared the full story in this detailed statement:
👉 Neil Oliver Counsellor – The Truth Behind the HDC Complaint