Weaponized Therapy: The White Wolf vs. The Worst Therapist in the multiverse 5.0
By Noah Zeh — Reader, Logic Defender, and White Wolf Rights Activist
As someone who goes to therapy myself — not a professional, but I am mentally ill — I would actually sob hysterically and nightly if a hypothetical therapist did to me what they did to Bucky. Like any normal person would. Bucky just took it, and we are here to break that down.
Special Thanks: To a licensed therapist (name withheld for privacy but I will say they are my personal therapist yay thank you), who has never seen or read anything Marvel‑related, reviewed the trauma analysis in this essay. Her outside perspective ensured that the clinical interpretations were grounded in real trauma theory rather than fandom familiarity.
Bucky Barnes’ court‑mandated therapy — which doesn’t seem to fit into any real‑world therapeutic model or category
(citation from the article “The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Which Therapy Is That?” on Psychology Today: “The therapist depicted in ‘The Falcon and the Winter Soldier’ may be too eclectic to fit any real-world therapeutic model.”)
— is not simply ineffective. It is a narrative case study in how mental healthcare can be weaponized against a trauma survivor.
The therapist assigned to him violates foundational principles of trauma‑informed practice, prioritizing confrontation over safety, compliance over healing, and government oversight over human dignity.
Dr. Raynor’s approach not only ignores Bucky’s history of coercion, torture, and psychological conditioning, but actively reinforces the very dynamics that harmed him. Some viewers argue the therapist is meant to be comedic or intentionally abrasive, but even if that was the intent, the portrayal still reinforces harmful misconceptions about trauma treatment — especially with how big the MCU fandom is.
This essay argues that the MCU’s portrayal of Bucky’s therapy is a clinical disaster: a system that pathologizes survival instincts, punishes coping mechanisms, and mistakes aggression for treatment. Bucky Barnes does not fail therapy — therapy fails him. And the consequences reveal a systemic misunderstanding of trauma, recovery, and what it means to help a man who has never been given the chance to choose his own healing.
To show how deeply the system fails him, this essay examines the power dynamics, therapeutic violations, and narrative choices that turn Bucky’s mandated therapy into a form of psychological harm.
I. Court‑Mandated “Healing”: The System Was Rigged Before Bucky Even Sat Down
Bucky’s therapy is not voluntary — it is a condition of his pardon (TFATWS, Episode 1).
Psychology Today’s article “The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Which Therapy Is That?” also states:
“Bucky Barnes (a.k.a. The Winter Soldier) must regularly visit with a military therapist as a requirement of a presidential pardon (apparently a conditional pardon) for crimes he committed when previously brainwashed. The character resists divulging much to her and lies at times, to which she indicates that she will report his evasions if he does not start to talk.”
He is explicitly told that missing sessions, evading her, or lying will result in consequences.
The American Psychological Association’s Ethics Code explicitly warns that mandated clients require heightened sensitivity to power imbalance, because the threat of legal consequences can “compromise autonomy, safety, and the therapeutic alliance.” In other words: if the client is scared of punishment, it’s not therapy — it’s surveillance with a couch.
Which is terrible for countless reasons even without the obvious therapy shouldn’t feel like that. If he gets sick, gets stuck in traffic, hits bad weather, or just has life happen to him in general, he’d get in trouble for that.
If he were not ready — which he isn’t ready, because he is too traumatized to talk about it yet — and she pushed him, and he lied or shut down or froze or dissociated or anything like that, he would get in trouble for that too. That is unfair, cruel, and does not build trust. It would make anyone anxious and distrustful, especially given that, as stated in the source below:
“Court‑ordered or other involuntary clients are often less motivated to change and feel less ownership of their own therapeutic progress.”
[Psychology Today. “The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Which Therapy Is That?” 2021.]
And Research by Jennifer Skeem and colleagues on mandated therapy shows that involuntary clients engage less, disclose less, and trust less, especially when the therapist is perceived as an extension of the justice system. Bucky isn’t resisting because he’s “difficult.” He’s resisting because the system is designed to make him feel unsafe.
This is surveillance disguised as treatment.
The therapist is not a neutral party. She is an agent of the same government that:
• hunted him (Captain America: Civil War, 2016)
• imprisoned him (Captain America: Civil War, 2016)
• used him as a political pawn (TFATWS, Episode 2)
Psychologists Carly Smith and Jennifer Freyd describe institutional betrayal as the harm that occurs when an institution someone depends on — like a government or healthcare system — becomes a source of danger instead of safety. Bucky’s therapist isn’t just failing him; she represents the very institution that traumatized him. That’s not a therapeutic relationship. That’s a reenactment of betrayal. Like what did she expect to happen?
This is not a therapeutic relationship.
This is a power imbalance so severe it borders on cruelty.
SAMHSA’s trauma‑informed justice guidelines emphasize that systems working with trauma survivors must prioritize safety, choice, transparency, and collaboration. Bucky’s mandated therapy violates all four. Instead of reducing harm, it recreates the exact dynamics that traumatized him in the first place.
Imagine if you had a therapist who was an agent of the government that hunted you, imprisoned you, and used you — and then expected you to trust them. Judith Herman, in Trauma and Recovery, identifies safety as the first and most essential stage of trauma healing. Without safety, no therapeutic work can begin. Bucky’s mandated therapy starts by removing safety — legally, emotionally, and relationally. It’s the opposite of trauma‑informed care.
That wouldn’t work for you, right?
II. The Missing Foundation: Safety, Trust, and Stabilization (AKA Everything She Skips)
In the very first session that we are shown
(probably not their actual first session, but it’s the first one we see), the therapist immediately jumps to:
Judith Herman, in Trauma and Recovery, identifies safety and stabilization as the first and most essential stage of trauma treatment. No trauma processing, confrontation, or emotional excavation should happen until the client feels physically and emotionally safe. Raynor doesn’t just skip this step — she launches Bucky straight into confrontation, which is the therapeutic equivalent of ripping out messy badly done stitches to “check the wound.”
Even if this were not their first session, she should NEVER have said those things the way she did — so bluntly, so harshly, and so cruelly.
She literally looks through Bucky’s phone, invading his privacy, then mocks him for having only ten contacts, for ignoring Sam’s messages during a mental episode, and points out that he called her all week — for obvious reasons. Like, please put two and two together: he called you all week because he was struggling, and he was isolating because he was struggling, and you were supposed to help him. 1 + 1 = 2 levels of common sense, She then throws the phone at him while mocking him in a sad, condescending tone.
He flinched when she was talking about him and stuff, he was jumpy and anxious-that should never have been their client therapist bond, never.
Dan Siegel’s “Window of Tolerance” model explains that trauma survivors can only process emotions when they are within a regulated, grounded state. Bucky is clearly outside that window — hypervigilant, tense, and overwhelmed — which means any attempt to push him into vulnerability will cause shutdown, panic, or dissociation. Raynor doesn’t check his regulation at all. She just barrels forward.
In a different session, Bucky and Sam are having a staring contest — well, it wasn’t meant to be a staring contest. As stated in the article listed below, the so‑called “soul‑gazing exercise” is described as:
“The ‘soul-gazing exercise’ is a puzzle. A PsycINFO search through psychological literature for the term (with or without hyphen) produces only nine results, none of which concern the process presented in the program. Is this something derived from tantric yoga? If so, what does this therapist perceive as the nature of the relationship between these two soldiers, and what exactly is she trying to achieve with this exercise? The men treat it as an excuse for another staring contest.”
[Psychology Today. “The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Which Therapy Is That?” 2021.]
To clarify, she had assigned Bucky and Sam to do the soul‑gazing exercise basically “to engage in what she would usually use as couples therapy exercises: the ‘miracle question’ and the ‘soul‑gazing exercise.’”
In reality, the miracle question is one of several questions used in solution‑focused (brief) therapy (SFT or SFBT), a goal‑directed approach that some social workers developed to facilitate therapeutic change through direct observation of clients’ responses to those questions (Dolan & DeShazer, 2010; Lutz, 2013; O’Hanlon, 1989; Pichot & Dolan, 2003). Critics charge that research support for SFT/SFBT may be questionable or scientifically unsound (Gingerich & Eisengart, 2000) and that “there is not a strong evidence basis for solution‑focused therapy at this point in time” (Corcoran & Pillai, 2009, pp. 240–241).
A systematic review of SFBT was conducted for its possible role in failing to address problems that led to the death of a child (Woods et al., 2011), after which the investigators deemed:
“Although much of the literature has methodological weaknesses, existing research does provide tentative support for the use of SFBT, particularly in relation to internalizing and externalizing child behavior problems.”
(Bond et al., 2013, p. 707).
Regarding the miracle question specifically, it may not be effective with mandated clients who can feel like, “It’s not my miracle” (Rosenberg, 2000).
[Psychology Today. “The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Which Therapy Is That?” 2021.]
[Practitioner Review: The effectiveness of solution focused brief therapy with children and families: a systematic and critical evaluation of the literature from 1990–2010]
The soul‑gazing exercise is especially harmful for Bucky, it’s simply not the right tool or practice for him because it feels too cold and distant and serious when he needs grounding to get better and not dissociating, which this is doing the exact opposite a better way of helping the situation was separately asking both of them how they felt and then putting together those feelings and working it out with the therapist, not alone. Stephen Porges’ Polyvagal Theory shows that forced eye contact can activate a trauma survivor’s defensive nervous system, especially if they associate scrutiny with danger. Instead of grounding Bucky, the soul‑gazing exercise likely pushed him into a fight/flight/freeze response and he was trying to use humor and play to cope. It’s not intimacy — it’s a threat cue.
But besides that matter, a decent human being — or even just an average therapist — would either let them have their silly moment or join in on the fun to build rapport, trust, and good memories with the client. Instead, she scolds Bucky and Sam, yelling at them to “Blink!” and snapping her fingers to make it stop.
• build rapport, which is important because healing is connection. Therapy requires connection to the client and basic empathy so they feel safe and comfortable opening up. Psychotherapy researchers John Norcross and Michael Lambert consistently find that the therapeutic alliance — the bond between therapist and client — is the strongest predictor of positive outcomes across all therapy models. Without rapport, nothing else works. Raynor doesn’t just fail to build an alliance; she actively damages it.
• check his emotional state, which is needed for obvious reasons — but I’ll break it down: if you don’t check his emotional state and you prod at trauma on a bad day, let’s just say things go kaboom.
• establish safety, which is basic. He has never felt safe, and if he did feel safe, he might actually tell you things. Without safety, he is just going downhill.
• ask permission to explore trauma — if you give him consent and control, he might recover faster. This is important in any practice, and, well… you know… Cough 70 years of torture. Cough Wow who said that? Must’ve been the wind!
• offer grounding techniques — pretty simple, actually. If someone has a wound that needs to be reopened, you give them pain meds to cope with the pain of reopening it, right? Same thing for emotional wounds, except the “pain meds” are grounding techniques and healthy coping skills.
• gently explore his coping mechanisms — KEY WORD: gently. Once he trusts you, you slowly and gently challenge his coping mechanisms and negative beliefs. Very gently. Like petting a skittish deer.
SAMHSA’s trauma‑informed care framework identifies safety, trustworthiness, choice, collaboration, empowerment, and cultural/historical awareness as the six pillars of ethical trauma work. Raynor violates every single one. She doesn’t build trust, doesn’t offer choice, doesn’t collaborate, doesn’t empower, and completely ignores Bucky’s historical trauma. She is the opposite of trauma‑informed.
She skips the entire bottom of the therapeutic needs hierarchy and sprints to the top like she’s trying to speedrun his trauma for a medal.
Bessel van der Kolk’s research in The Body Keeps the Score shows that trauma survivors often live in a state of chronic somatic tension — their bodies literally remember danger. Bucky’s flinching, stiffness, and hypervigilance aren’t “attitude problems.” They’re signs that his nervous system is still bracing for harm. A trauma‑informed therapist would recognize this immediately. Raynor doesn’t even notice.
III. “You’re a Terrible Therapist.” — “Yeah, okay, maybe, but I was a great soldier.”
This exchange occurs in TFATWS, Episode 2.
Bucky expresses a vulnerable, honest feeling — and she responds with:
• sarcasm, in a bad way, and it’s just inappropriate to say that after Bucky admitted something vulnerable
• deflection, which is horrible; a therapist should be open and responsive, not rambling about something unrelated to what the client said — like, actually, what are you doing
• self‑aggrandizement — no, just no. Ego has no place in therapy. Get out. The APA Ethics Code requires therapists to avoid behavior that could “exploit, demean, or harm” clients, and to maintain professional boundaries even when challenged. Raynor’s sarcastic, self‑aggrandizing response violates these standards. A therapist’s job is to regulate the room — not escalate it.
We do not care that you were a great soldier. He opened up and you did that to him. You go away. Get out. Just get out.
• zero curiosity — I am in shock. Maybe ask questions? Maybe figure out why Bucky is saying that? So, Norcross and Lambert’s research shows that the therapeutic alliance is the strongest predictor of positive outcomes across all therapy models. When a client says, “You’re a terrible therapist,” that is a rupture in the alliance — and repairing it is the therapist’s responsibility. Raynor doesn’t repair anything. She widens the rupture. Maybe don’t immediately invalidate his feelings? That’s a good starting point. Also therapists are TRAINED to be curious and ask questions and not shut down
• zero empathy — again, what are you doing as a therapist if you have no empathy? Carl Rogers identified empathy, unconditional positive regard, and congruence as the three core conditions required for any therapeutic relationship to succeed. Without empathy, therapy collapses. Raynor’s sarcasm and defensiveness aren’t just rude — they violate the most basic principles of therapeutic presence. Get out. A main thing therapists need is EMPATHY. You have none. Get out.
Also, just so you know, therapists are trained to handle criticism. Psychologists Jeremy Safran and Christopher Muran — who literally wrote the book on rupture and repair — emphasize that when a client expresses frustration or criticism, it is a critical therapeutic moment. A competent therapist responds with curiosity, openness, and a willingness to repair the alliance. Raynor does the opposite. She treats Bucky’s vulnerability as an inconvenience instead of an opportunity for healing and growth, the fact that Bucky spoke up to say something is a huge deal with all he’s been through. Did she skip that part of training?
To summarize: trained and licensed therapists are taught to handle client criticism as part of their professional development, therapeutic technique, and maintenance of the therapeutic alliance. While criticism may sting, a professional therapist is trained to treat feedback as a valuable tool to enhance treatment, repair ruptures, and adjust their approach to better fit the client’s needs.
As Peter Coster, a relational psychoanalytic psychotherapist, explains:
“When I am being criticized as a therapist by a client, the most important thing I can do is to listen very carefully. I need to hear what my client is telling me and I pay attention to what my internal reactions are to what I am hearing.
My client’s criticism is most likely a combination of something that I am failing to do and the feelings my client has around the unmet needs that are being overlooked. Laying underneath the criticism is the vulnerability my client is unable to express directly and these feelings are being defended against often by frustrated anger.
When I react with my own anger to criticism, then I’m simply meeting my client’s defenses with my own. We have each pulled up the drawbridge to protect ourselves and a stalemate is likely to be the result.
Being a ‘good therapist’ means being emotionally available in the present moment, meeting my client with my authentic self. Being a good therapist means taking responsibility for my feelings by sharing the truth of my reality without shame or blame.
If being a good therapist means empathically mirroring my client, then letting them know that in order for me to really hear their criticism I may need them to lower their voice, speak more slowly and refrain from using abusive language. My honesty is more respectful than my angry defense, and more helpful.
How should a good therapist react to criticism from a client?
‘I want to hear your criticism of me so that I can have a better understanding of what it is I am doing that isn’t working. You’re angry and hurt, I hear that. I’m aware that is how I’m feeling as well. Let’s take a breath so that we can talk about this.’
Why would a therapist react angrily and defensively?
Most likely because the therapist’s self‑esteem and narcissism have been wounded. Their egoic pride has been pricked and this brings feelings of diminishment and shame. The therapist may feel unappreciated and invisible. All the same feelings a client is likely to have as well.”
[Quora. Peter Coster, a relational psychoanalytic psychotherapist, 2023]
She could have — actually, no — she should have asked:
• “Why do you feel that way?”
• “What isn’t working for you?”
• “How can we make this space safer?”
• “What do you want me to change in the practice to make this safer for you?”
Or literally anything other than that, as Peter Coster explains.
Instead, she basically says:
“I don’t care how you feel. I was good at violence.”
(Not her exact words, but absolutely the message and tone.)
Which is… not comforting to a man who was forced to be violent for 70 years. And those words just do not belong in therapy in general.
This moment also shows how she uses authority to shut him down and brag instead of listening to him and supporting him.
IV. Forcing Trauma Out of Him Like It’s a Confession, Not a Wound
She demands he talk about nightmares. He clearly does not want to. He tries to deflect. She pushes harder.
She forces him to read his amends list out loud, even though he is visibly distressed.
Bessel van der Kolk notes that traumatic memory is often fragmented, sensory, and nonlinear, not a coherent story a person can recite on command. When Raynor demands that Bucky articulate traumatic material clearly and calmly, she’s asking him to do something neurologically impossible — and then punishing him when he can’t. His distress isn’t resistance. It’s his brain trying to protect him.
Every major trauma‑processing model — EMDR, IFS, trauma‑focused CBT — stresses the importance of pacing. Clients must remain within their window of tolerance, able to stay grounded and present. Forcing a client into traumatic memory while they are dysregulated doesn’t create insight. It creates shutdown, panic, or dissociation. Bucky is clearly overwhelmed, and Raynor pushes anyway.
Especially Judith Herman emphasizes that trauma processing must happen slowly, collaboratively, and only after safety is established. When a therapist pushes a survivor into traumatic material before they are ready, the result is not healing — it’s emotional destabilization. Raynor doesn’t just rush Bucky. She shoves him off a cliff.
She forces trauma out of him as The American Psychological Association explicitly warns that forced disclosure can cause “significant retraumatization” and should never be used with trauma survivors. Trauma processing must be voluntary, paced, and grounded in safety. Raynor treats disclosure like a compliance test — not a therapeutic choice.
By forcing disclosure, she somehow turns therapy into a compliance test. Litz et al.’s research on moral injury shows that forcing a survivor to revisit moments where they felt powerless or ashamed can deepen self‑blame and identity collapse. Bucky doesn’t need to be dragged through memories of violence he didn’t choose. He needs someone to help him understand that he wasn’t responsible. Raynor’s approach doesn’t heal moral injury — it reinforces it. Also If you know Bucky’s history, you know how bad that is — he was forced to be compliant for 70 years, and he literally says it as the Winter Soldier, in Russian:
[Captain America: Civil War, 2016]
Think about that for two seconds and you’ll see the connection.
She confronts him aggressively instead of building trust. She treats his survival instincts as misbehavior. Stephen Porges’ Polyvagal Theory explains that trauma survivors read tone, posture, and proximity as threat cues long before they consciously register danger. Raynor’s confrontational style doesn’t invite openness — it activates Bucky’s defensive nervous system. His body is preparing for danger, not connection. A trauma‑informed therapist would recognize this instantly. Raynor barrels past it like she’s interrogating a suspect.
Which is so wrong on so many levels, and let me explain why:
Bucky, as we all know, was tortured and brainwashed and etc. etc. So the fact that she treats the things that kept him ALIVE all those decades as misbehavior is cruelty. Isolation and dissociation is what kept him slightly sane for all those decades — he was avoiding his handlers subtly and going to another place Dan Siegel’s Window of Tolerance model explains that when a trauma survivor is pushed outside their regulated zone, they cannot process anything. They either go into hyperarousal (panic, agitation) or hypoarousal (numbness, dissociation). Bucky’s blank stare isn’t resistance — it’s his nervous system protecting him from overwhelm.
because, well, abuse and torture don’t make you want to be around your torturers mentally or physically .
This is interrogation with a clipboard.
Psychotherapist Irvin Yalom warns that coercive therapy — where the therapist uses pressure, intimidation, or emotional force — destroys trust and retraumatizes clients. Therapy cannot function when the client feels cornered. Raynor’s approach isn’t therapeutic; it’s adversarial. She’s not guiding Bucky toward healing. She’s demanding compliance like she’s still part of the carceral system that controlled him.
IV½. “Ready to Comply”: The Phrase That Explains Everything the Therapist Gets Wrong
To understand why forcing Bucky to talk is so harmful, you only need to remember three words he says in Captain America: Civil War:
This is not just a Hydra trigger phrase.
It is the verbal symbol of Bucky’s entire trauma.
For 70 years, “compliance” meant survival.
It meant avoiding torture, avoiding the chair, avoiding another wipe, avoiding punishment.
It meant disappearing into the Winter Soldier persona because resisting got him hurt.
Evan Stark’s work jingle jingle on coercive control explains that abusers create systems where obedience becomes the only path to safety. Hydra didn’t just force Bucky to comply — they made compliance the only way to survive. “Ready to comply” is the endpoint of that conditioning.
Which is why those words matter so much, Judith Herman writes that survivors of prolonged captivity often develop automatic obedience behaviors, because resistance once meant pain or death. Bucky’s compliance isn’t passivity — it’s a survival reflex carved into him over decades. And he resisted longer than anyone else could.
Bessel van der Kolk notes that trauma memories are stored not just as thoughts, but as body‑level reactions — posture, tone, breath, muscle tension. When Bucky is pressured, his body remembers what compliance used to mean. His stillness, his flat tone, his “Yeah, it’s helping” voice — these are not therapeutic breakthroughs. They are survival reflexes!
Including Dan Siegel’s Window of Tolerance model shows that when a trauma survivor is pushed outside their regulated zone, they drop into shutdown or dissociation. “Ready to comply” is the verbal version of that shutdown. It’s the moment his nervous system gives up on resistance and defaults to the only strategy that ever kept him alive.
His bad habits to say the least,
Martin Seligman’s research on learned helplessness shows that when someone is repeatedly punished for actions they cannot control, they eventually stop resisting — even when escape becomes possible. Bucky’s compliance in therapy isn’t trust. It’s conditioning.
Then we have, The fawn response — a trauma appeasement strategy — explains why he tries to make himself agreeable, small, and non‑threatening. It’s not cooperation. It’s self‑protection.
Litz et al.’s work on moral injury shows that survivors who were forced to commit acts against their will often internalize guilt as part of their identity. For Bucky, “Ready to comply” is not just a command — it’s a wound. It’s the phrase that symbolizes every moment he was used as a weapon.
So when his therapist turns therapy into a compliance test — demanding he talk about nightmares, forcing him to read the amends list, punishing avoidance, threatening consequences — she is not just being insensitive.
She is stepping into the exact psychological footprint Hydra left behind.
Trauma‑informed care warns against forced compliance for this exact reason: it reenacts the power dynamics of captivity. It turns therapy into a reenactment of the trauma instead of a path out of it.
• obey authority without question
And the therapist mirrors that dynamic when she:
• confronts instead of collaborates
• demands instead of asks
• forces instead of invites
• punishes instead of supports
• shuts down criticism (and therefore emotion)
• uses court‑ordered authority he cannot refuse
Not because he trusts her.
But because he has been conditioned for decades to submit to authority when pressured.
This is why he shuts down.
This is why he says “Yeah, it’s helping” with flat affect and tension in every muscle — which we get into later.
And the tragedy is that the therapist and other characters cannot see the connection — but the audience can.
The moment she treats disclosure as obedience, she stops being a therapist and becomes another authority figure demanding compliance from a man who has spent his entire life being punished for anything else.
For Bucky Barnes, “Ready to comply” is not a line.
And his therapist keeps poking it, mistaking pain for progress.
V. The Amends List: A Morally and Narratively Disastrous Idea
The amends list is introduced in TFATWS, Episode 1. She frames it as a requirement for his pardon — which is already a red flag, because therapy is supposed to be healing, not a bureaucratic chore. Then she calls herself a “surrogate for society,” which is a horrifying thing to say to someone who has been used as a weapon by governments for decades. Like… ma’am, please read the room. Or read literally any trauma‑informed care guideline. Or read a single book. Something.
Amends are for people who:
[“Amends.” Vocabulary.com Dictionary, Vocabulary.com, https://www.vocabulary.com/dictionary/amends. Accessed 01 May. 2026.]
The entire concept of “amends” assumes you had control, you made a decision, and you could have chosen differently. Bucky had none of that. Hydra stripped him of autonomy, identity, memory, and free will. And As Judith Herman explains in Trauma and Recovery, “Traumatic events overwhelm the ordinary systems of care that give people a sense of control, connection, and meaning.” Under coercion, a person’s agency is destroyed, meaning they cannot be held morally responsible for actions committed in that state. Hydra didn’t just harm Bucky — they removed his ability to choose. He was not a perpetrator — he was a weapon. Evan Stark, Jingle jingle I said the name jingle jingle Stark Tony Stark it’s Evan Stark who pioneered the concept of coercive control, describes it as a system that “strips a person of their sense of self, autonomy, and capacity for independent action.” Hydra didn’t just force Bucky to comply — they engineered a state where compliance was the only possible survival strategy.
So, Giving him an amends list is like handing a gun to someone who was held at gunpoint and saying, “Apologize for what the gun did.”
It is morally and logically backwards.
It also reinforces the exact shame Hydra conditioned into him. Hydra taught Bucky that he was dangerous, that he was responsible for the violence he was forced to commit, that he was a monster. The amends list reinforces that narrative instead of dismantling it. As Bessel van der Kolk sorry if I spelled your name wrong, explains in The Body Keeps the Score, trauma survivors often “take on the blame for events over which they had no control,” because their nervous systems learn to associate survival with compliance and self‑blame. Hydra didn’t just torture Bucky — they rewired his entire sense of responsibility. So when the therapist hands him an amends list, she isn’t helping him heal. She’s activating the exact shame‑based conditioning Hydra spent seventy years carving into him.
So Instead of saying, “You were a victim. What happened to you was not your fault,” it says, “You must atone for things you didn’t choose.” That is not healing. That is retraumatization disguised as accountability. By the way,
The American Psychological Association’s trauma‑informed care guidelines warn that forced disclosure and coerced confrontation can cause “significant retraumatization” and should never be used with survivors of coercion or captivity. The amends list violates this principle at every step. I wonder such a curious thought why they did it then?
And it’s not even what real accountability is! Accountability requires agency, consent, self‑reflection, and the ability to choose differently in the future. Howard Zehr, considered the founder of modern restorative justice, emphasizes that true accountability requires choice, agency, and voluntary participation. None of these conditions apply to Bucky. A coerced apology is not accountability — it’s reenactment of trauma. For one, Bucky cannot “choose differently” because he never chose in the first place. For two, he never had or has agency to do the amends list or do the actions that made him need amends in the first place. For the final one he was didn’t have the voluntary participation to do the amends list and make amends. The show treats accountability like a checkbox list — confront person, say scripted line, smile, done — but real accountability is relational, emotional, and voluntary. Bucky’s list is none of those things.
Narratively, it’s also lazy. Instead of exploring trauma recovery, identity rebuilding, survivor guilt, moral injury, reintegration, trust, autonomy, and healing relationships, the show gives him a to‑do list. It reduces one of the most complex trauma arcs in the MCU to “Go apologize to people.” It’s shallow. It’s simplistic. And it ignores the entire psychological reality of what Bucky went through.
The amends list also sets him up to fail. Some people will never forgive him. Some will react with fear. Some will react with anger. Some will retraumatize him. Some will blame him. And Bucky will internalize all of it. The therapist knows this. She sends him to do it alone anyway. That is not therapy.
That is emotional Russian roulette.
For a trauma survivor like Bucky, the correct approach would be stabilization, grounding, safety, identity reconstruction, processing trauma only when he’s ready, building supportive relationships, reclaiming autonomy, and learning self‑compassion — not “Go apologize to the people Hydra hurt through you.” That is not trauma‑informed care. Only if he wanted to apologize to the victims of his actions under mind control to give them closure and such, he would do it on his terms, knowing that it was not his fault and with a trained therapist to mediate (most likely Sam because Bucky feels safest with him and he is trained) and warning the victims first and asking them if they’re okay with it, without all of that,
it is guilt‑based compliance.
It also ignores the fact that Bucky is still grieving. He lost his entire past, his entire future, his identity, his autonomy, his memories, his friends, his time, his life, Steve, Wakanda, and the only place he ever felt safe. And instead of addressing grief, the therapist hands him a list and says, “Fix it.” He doesn’t need a list. He needs compassion.
The amends list frames Bucky as a problem to be managed, not a person to be helped. It is the government saying, “We will pardon you if you perform emotional labor for us.” It is the therapist saying, “You must prove you are safe.” It is society saying, “You owe us.” But Bucky owes nothing. He was the one harmed.
It even ignores the victims’ trauma. Forcing a survivor to confront the people harmed by their abuser’s actions can retraumatize everyone involved, especially with no mediator. Victims deserve choice, preparation, consent, support, and safety — not a surprise visit from the man who was used as a weapon against them. For example, Yori Nakajima, who Bucky killed his son RJ as the winter soldier, there was no mediator Bucky looked so tired and sad and not relived at all to get that off his shoulders just like it weighed him down more and scared Yori, that is not how it should have gone.
The amends list is unsafe for everyone.
Bucky is not a project, a case file, a weapon, a liability, or a PR problem. He is a person. But the amends list treats him like a malfunctioning machine that needs to be recalibrated. It is dehumanizing.
The amends list is not just a bad therapeutic tool. It is a moral failure, a narrative failure, and a trauma‑informed care failure. It punishes a victim. It reinforces Hydra’s conditioning. It retraumatizes him. It misunderstands accountability. It ignores grief. It endangers others. It dehumanizes him.
Assigning Bucky an amends list is like punishing a hostage for the crimes of their captors.
V½. What Real Restorative Justice Looks Like, and How the MCU Version Harms Everyone Involved
The amends list in TFATWS is not just a clinical failure. It is a complete misunderstanding of how real restorative justice works in legal, therapeutic, and trauma‑informed contexts. In the real world, restorative justice is one of the most carefully structured processes we have. It is designed to protect victims, support offenders who were coerced or traumatized, and prevent retraumatization on both sides.
The MCU version does the opposite. It retraumatizes the victims, retraumatizes Bucky, and reinforces the exact power dynamics that destroyed his life.
1. What Real Restorative Justice Requires
Real restorative justice programs — used in courts, schools, prisons, and community mediation — follow strict, legally defined protocols. Zehr yes we are mentioning him again he’s a smart dude, emphasizes that victim consent is the cornerstone of restorative justice. Without it, the process becomes coercive for everyone involved. So, They require:
• Victim consent. The victim must choose whether they want contact at all. No one is ever forced to face the person who harmed them.
• Victim preparation. Victims meet with a trained facilitator for multiple sessions to prepare emotionally and practically.
• Offender preparation. The person making amends must be emotionally regulated, grounded, and supported before any contact.
• A trained mediator. A neutral professional ensures safety, pacing, and emotional containment.
• Support people. Both sides are allowed to bring therapists, advocates, or trusted individuals.
• A controlled environment. Meetings happen in safe, neutral spaces — never at someone’s home without warning.
• Clear boundaries. No forced disclosure. No pressure to forgive. No pressure to apologize.
• Safety planning. Emotional, physical, and psychological safety are prioritized for everyone.
By the way, According to Umbreit and Armour’s research on victim‑offender mediation, both parties require multiple preparation sessions to ensure emotional safety, stability, and informed consent. TFATWS skips every single step.
TFATWS uses none of these.
Instead, the government sends Bucky — a traumatized super‑soldier — to knock on doors unannounced and confess to killing people’s loved ones.
This is not restorative justice.
It is institutional negligence.
2. How the MCU Version Traumatizes the Victims
Victims of violence often experience:
So when Bucky shows up unannounced:
This is retraumatization, not healing.
The Yori example is the clearest case.
He is elderly, grieving, vulnerable, and alone. He has no therapist present, no advocate, no preparation, and no consent. He is blindsided by the truth of his son’s death in the most destabilizing way possible.
This is emotional harm disguised as accountability.
3. And It Hurts Bucky Too
While yes, The victims are the ones primarily harmed, but Bucky is also deeply retraumatized by this process.
Because of his trauma history, Bucky:
• internalizes other people’s fear
• interprets their reactions as moral truth
• believes their pain defines him
• sees himself through their trauma
• collapses emotionally when he hurts someone
• cannot separate Hydra’s actions from his identity
This is moral injury — the deepest kind of psychological wound.
When a victim reacts with:
Bucky’s trauma‑wired brain interprets it as:
• “I am the monster Hydra made me.”
• “Their pain is my fault.”
Litz et al., who developed the modern framework for moral injury, explains that survivors often experience “profound guilt and self‑condemnation” when confronted with harm they were forced to commit. Bucky’s reactions match this pattern exactly — not because he is guilty, but because he was conditioned to believe he is.
This is identity collapse.
And because he was conditioned for seventy years to believe:
• he is responsible for harm
• he must not express emotion
…he cannot protect himself emotionally from the victims’ reactions.
He absorbs their trauma like a sponge.
He carries it as proof that he is unworthy of healing.
Martin Seligman’s research on learned helplessness shows that when a person is repeatedly punished for actions they cannot control, they internalize responsibility for the harm. Hydra engineered this response in Bucky — the amends list exploits it.
This is why he looks worse after every amends attempt.
This is why he dissociates.
This is why he says “Yeah, it’s helping” with dead eyes.
4. The System Sets Everyone Up to Fail
The victims are retraumatized.
This is not restorative justice.
This is punitive theater — a performance of accountability that harms everyone involved.
The government gets to say, “Look, we’re making him make amends.”
But what they’re actually doing is:
• retraumatizing civilians
• retraumatizing a survivor of torture
• reinforcing Hydra’s conditioning
• denying everyone safety
SAMHSA’s trauma‑informed care framework identifies safety, choice, collaboration, and empowerment as essential pillars of ethical treatment. The amends list violates all four.
It is a systemic failure, not a therapeutic process.
VI. “Yeah, It’s Helping.” — Bucky Barnes and the Tragedy of Not Knowing What Healthy Looks Like
One of the most heartbreaking elements of Bucky’s therapy arc is this: he genuinely believes the therapy is helping. And I told you we would come back to this later — and here we are. He thinks it’s helping not because it is helping, but because he has no frame of reference for what healthy, compassionate, trauma‑informed care looks like. Trauma survivors often mistake discomfort for growth because they’ve been conditioned to associate pain with progress, and that’s exactly what happens with Bucky.
• decades being controlled
• decades being punished for non‑compliance
• decades being told his feelings don’t matter
• decades being treated as an object, not a person
Trauma theorists describe the fawn response which is what Bucky does with Raynor as a survival strategy where the victim appeases the perceived threat to avoid harm. It’s not cooperation — it’s self‑protection. Bucky isn’t opening up. He’s placating her. He’s doing what he’s always done with people who hold power over him: make himself small, agreeable, and non‑threatening.
• confronts him aggressively
• threatens him with legal consequences
• shames his coping mechanisms
…Bucky interprets it as normal.
This is the tragedy: Bucky has never experienced safe, gentle, patient care. He has experienced orders. He has experienced consequences. He has experienced compliance tests. He has experienced pain framed as “necessary.” He has experienced people in authority telling him what he is, what he feels, what he must do. So when his therapist behaves in ways that would make any other client run for the door, Bucky’s brain goes, “Ah. Yes. This is familiar. This is how authority treats me. This must be what healing feels like.”
Judith Herman writes that survivors of prolonged captivity often develop automatic compliance behaviors, because obedience once meant staying alive. Bucky’s flat affect, forced smile, and quick agreement are not signs of progress. They’re signs that he is slipping back into the same survival strategies Hydra beat into him.
When he says “Yeah, it’s helping,” he says it with:
• flat affect, which is a common trauma response
• tension in his entire body to the point of pain (which is somehow normal for him — and we will get into that later)
Sorry if this feels repetitive but,Martin Seligman’s research on learned helplessness shows that when someone is repeatedly punished for actions they cannot control, they eventually stop resisting — even when escape becomes possible. Bucky isn’t agreeing because therapy is helping. He’s agreeing because he has been conditioned for seventy years to believe that resistance leads to pain. “Yeah, it’s helping” is not consent. It’s survival.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t relax. He doesn’t show relief. He doesn’t show trust. He shows compliance. He shows survival mode. He shows the posture of someone who has learned that disagreeing with authority leads to punishment.
James, it really isn’t helping you, pal.
This isn’t progress. This is learned compliance masquerading as recovery. And the saddest part is that Bucky cannot tell the difference — because no one has ever shown him what real, safe, compassionate healing looks like.
VII. Sam Wilson: The Counter‑Example the Show Accidentally Proves Works Better Than the Therapist
Sam Wilson is a former VA counselor — literally trained to help veterans with trauma, grief, and reintegration. The show tells us this, and more importantly, it shows us this. Sam’s background gives him not only professional knowledge but also lived empathy, because he has spent years working with people who carry invisible wounds. He knows how to talk to someone who is hurting without making them feel small. He knows how to sit with someone’s pain without trying to control it. He knows how to be present without being overbearing.
When Sam interacts with Bucky, he does everything the therapist doesn’t:
• he listens, which is important because if someone feels listened to, they are more likely to open up and more likely to listen back when you offer advice or support
• he validates, which matters because feeling understood and allowed to feel what you feel is a core part of healing; as said in Psychology Today (“If Therapy Feels Incomplete, Emotional Neglect May Be Why,” 2026 by Jonice Webb, Ph.D.), “Being seen and validated emotionally is a critical part of healing,” and “Therapy can feel incomplete when your emotions are not the focus”
• he asks questions, which fosters connection; curiosity shows he actually cares, and it counters the trauma‑brain lie that “your friends hate you and you’re bothering them”
• he gives choices, which is huge because Bucky had no choices for 70 years, and giving him choices now helps rebuild autonomy
• he treats Bucky like a person, which sounds basic but is revolutionary for someone who was treated like an object and a weapon for decades
• he uses humor to connect, not belittle, which builds rapport instead of tearing him down
• he challenges only after trust is built, which is crucial because challenging someone without trust just feels like an attack, but challenging someone with trust feels like support
Sam also never uses his authority against Bucky, even when he could. Unlike a certain someone.
Sam doesn’t weaponize vulnerability. He doesn’t demand confessions. He doesn’t use punishment as motivation. He doesn’t treat Bucky like a liability or a ticking time bomb. He doesn’t treat him like a checklist or a case file. He treats him like a human being.
He creates safety — the thing Bucky has never had.
And because Sam creates safety, Bucky actually responds. He opens up. He expresses anger. He expresses fear. He expresses grief. He expresses guilt. He expresses longing. He expresses confusion. He expresses things he has never said out loud to anyone else. Sam is the only person in the show who gets Bucky to talk without forcing him to talk.
And Bucky never argues with anyone early on, first person he argued with after getting out of mind control, was Sam it might seem like a bad thing but that is showing he is gaining autonomy back through Sam, so that’s why he showed a little courage to say to Dr.Raynor that she is a terrible therapist and then got shut down.
Sam is the only person in the show who helps Bucky move forward because Sam is the only one who understands that healing isn’t obedience — it’s connection.
VII½. “Bucky Barnes, Certified Menace”: Why He Only Acts Like a Little Shit Around Sam Wilson
One of the clearest signs that Sam is the safest person in Bucky’s life is something the show never names but constantly shows:
Bucky only acts like a little shit around Sam.
This isn’t “grumpy old man” energy.
This is trauma‑safe regression, emotional unmasking, and developmental catch‑up happening in real time.
Bucky Barnes — the man who spent 70 years being punished for the slightest deviation from obedience — only lets himself be:
And the show gives us the canon receipts.
He Only Argues With Sam — Because Sam Is Safe
Bucky does not argue with Raynor.
He does not argue with the government.
He does not argue with strangers or authority figures.
• The therapy room scene (TFATWS Episode 2):
Bucky refuses to break eye contact, scoffs, rolls his eyes, and snaps back at Sam like a teenager forced into group counseling.
• The “don’t say it” / “I said it” moment (Episode 2):
Bucky practically vibrates with bratty energy, trying to stop Sam from making a point he doesn’t want to hear.
• The boat argument (Episode 5):
He gets defensive, sarcastic, and openly frustrated — something he never does with anyone else.
Arguing is a privilege for trauma survivors.
• “I trust you not to hurt me.”
• “I trust you not to punish me.”
• “I trust you enough to risk conflict.”
Bucky’s bickering with Sam is not conflict — it is attachment.
His Brattiness Is Trauma‑Safe Regression
Trauma survivors often experience temporary age regression around people who feel safe — not in a clinical or infantilizing way, but in a:
• The staring contest (Episode 2):
Bucky refuses to blink out of pure spite. This is not adult behavior. This is “I finally feel safe enough to be annoying.”
• The “I’m right, you’re wrong” energy during missions:
He nitpicks Sam’s plans, complains about Sam’s flying, and makes faces behind his back.
• The way he pokes at Sam just to get a reaction:
“You’re not gonna move your seat up?” (Civil War)
This is pre‑war Bucky peeking through.
• The way he giggled/grinned on the dock when he knew he pissed off Sam like he knows he’s a menace and he feels safe enough to do it anyways even if both of them insulting each other lovingly but being there for life or death is their love language like, pure sibling or enemies to lovers vibes like I can insult and say I hate him all I want, but if you say a word about him I will kill you.
This is emotional thawing.
He Never Got to Be a Teenager — So He’s Doing It Now
• normal emotional development
So when he bickers with Sam like a teenager?
That’s development catching up.
• The “you’re wrong about the shield” fight (Episode 5):
He lashes out emotionally, like someone who never learned how to express hurt safely.
• The way he sulks when Sam calls him out:
He looks away, crosses his arms, and shuts down — classic adolescent emotional behavior.
He is finally getting to be:
This is Bucky reclaiming the years he lost.
Sam Is the Only Person Who Lets Him Be Messy
• doesn’t treat him like a weapon
• doesn’t treat him like a liability
• doesn’t treat him like a project
• doesn’t treat him like a ticking time bomb
Sam treats him like a person.
• Sam laughs at Bucky’s dramatics instead of shutting them down.
The therapy room scene ends with Sam smirking because he knows exactly what Bucky is doing.
Their banter on the plane in Episode 2 is mutual, not one‑sided.
• Sam calls him out gently, not harshly.
“You’re not making amends, you’re avenging.”
He challenges Bucky without humiliating him.
Because Sam is safe, Bucky lets himself:
This is the emotional equivalent of taking off armor.
His Brattiness Is Actually Autonomy Returning
…he is doing something he could NEVER do under Hydra.
So when Bucky argues with Sam?
• The moment he tells Raynor she’s a terrible therapist (Episode 2):
He only finds the courage to say it after spending time with Sam — after Sam models safe conflict and emotional honesty.
Sam gives him the template.
This Behavior Matches His Pre‑War Personality
• a little shit in the best way
• His banter with Steve in The First Avenger
(“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.” / “How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.”)
• His teasing, cocky grin at the Stark Expo
He was always a bit of a menace — in a charming way.
TFATWS Bucky only shows that side with Sam.
Because Sam is the only person who makes him feel like he’s allowed to be that person again.
VIII. Signs He Is Getting Worse — Not Better
The show gives us multiple pieces of evidence that Bucky is not improving — he is deteriorating. These are not subtle hints; they are loud, flashing neon signs that something is deeply wrong, and yet his therapist either does not notice or simply does not care.
• he sleeps on the floor, with multiple examples throughout the series; this is a classic trauma behavior, especially for people who spent years in unsafe environments where beds were not safe
• he keeps the TV on to avoid silence, which is something trauma survivors often do because silence can trigger intrusive thoughts, panic, or flashbacks
• he dissociates — a lot, and it’s obvious; his eyes glaze, his posture freezes, his awareness drops, and he mentally checks out
• he panics and dissociates during the Flag Smashers fight (TFATWS, likely Episode 4 or 5 — the whole arc is a mess of triggers for him), and you can see him slipping into old patterns of hyper‑vigilance and fear
• he isolates completely, except for Sam, Yori, Steve’s memory (in the Endgame timeline), and his cat Alpine; someone please get this man some friends who are not cats or literal memories
• his body language shows chronic, full‑body tension, the kind that comes from years of hyper‑vigilance; he looks like someone who has not taken a full, deep breath in decades
• he panics about Steve’s shield, especially with the line “If he was wrong about you, then maybe he was wrong about me!” (TFATWS, Episode 2), which shows how deeply he ties his worth to Steve’s belief in him — and how terrified he is that he might not deserve redemption
The tension point deserves extra attention, because the show communicates it visually even when the script doesn’t. Bucky’s entire body is tight all the time — shoulders raised, jaw clenched, neck stiff, back rigid. Even when he says he’s “relaxing,” his muscles are still braced like he’s waiting for an attack. In the comics, this is often depicted as him being unable to take a full breath without pain, and the show mirrors that energy. Chronic tension is a common symptom of hyper‑vigilance, and Bucky shows it constantly. He stretches more than the average person, which suggests he’s trying to relieve pain that never actually goes away. It genuinely looks like his baseline is a 4.5/10 pain level, rising to a 9.5 when stressed, and he has simply accepted that as normal. Someone please give this man a massage, a weighted blanket, a nap, and a hug — something cute and wholesome. He needs to relax before he pulls every muscle he has.
And then there’s the emotional panic around Steve’s shield. When Bucky says, “If he was wrong about you, then maybe he was wrong about me,” he is not just upset — he is spiraling. His voice cracks. His breathing changes. His entire sense of self is tied to Steve’s belief in him, because Steve was the only person who ever saw him as human. The idea that Steve might have been wrong is devastating to him. It is not the reaction of someone who is healing. It is the reaction of someone who is barely holding himself together.
These are not signs of improvement.
These are signs of a man who is drowning.
And his therapist does not notice — or just doesn’t care.
IX. The Winter Soldier’s Conditioning: Canon Behavior That Shows How Deep the Wound Goes
In Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014), Bucky places a gun on the table in front of Alexander Pierce — not as a threat, but as obedience. And here’s my theory (just an interpretation/theory, because the movies never tell us why they chose Pierce specifically): they chose Alexander Pierce as Bucky’s handler because he looks so much like young Steve. So in Bucky’s mind, he would be being tortured by his best friend, his safe place, the one person he trusted most. Hydra sucks.
That moment — the gun on the table — is a conditioned behavior that says: “If you need to put me down, you can. I won’t resist.” And if you combine that with the theory above, it becomes even more heartbreaking: he is essentially telling the person who resembles his best friend, “It’s okay to kill me. I won’t fight you.” It’s devastating.
And the psychology of that moment echoes throughout TFATWS, because trauma conditioning often persists long after the abuser is gone. Bucky’s patterns in the show are not quirks or personality traits — they are the residue of decades of coercion. When he shows behaviors like:
• shutting down emotionally
• obeying authority without hesitation
…these are not random. These are not “Bucky being weird.” These are the survival strategies of someone who learned that resistance equals pain, that hesitation equals punishment, that autonomy equals danger.
The therapist never acknowledges this history. She never recognizes the signs. She never sees that Bucky is not resisting her because he trusts her — he is not resisting because he has been trained not to resist. She interprets compliance as progress, when in reality it is the opposite. She interprets silence as cooperation, when in reality it is shutdown. She interprets obedience as healing, when in reality it is fear.
Obedience is a common trauma response in survivors of long‑term coercion. It is not a sign of recovery. It is a sign of survival mode.
And that is the tragedy: Bucky is not healing.
IX½. The Missing Years: The 20‑Year Battle Hydra Couldn’t Break
One of the most overlooked — yet most important — pieces of Bucky Barnes’ trauma history is the 20‑year period between his fall from the train and the Winter Soldier becoming fully operational. The MCU never spells it out in one neat line, but the canon gives us everything we need to understand what happened.
Natasha states in Captain America: The Winter Soldier that:
“The Winter Soldier has been active for 50 years.”
Bucky fell from the train in 1944–45.
If the Winter Soldier was active for 50 of those years, that leaves about 20 years unaccounted for — and those years were not peaceful, compliant, or quiet, Obviously.
Those were the years Hydra spent trying — and failing — to break James Buchanan Barnes.
The MCU gives us the evidence:
• He fights the handlers in every flashback. He thrashes, screams, and struggles. That’s not someone who was instantly obedient — that’s someone who refuses to disappear.
• Zola says they had to “reset” him repeatedly. You don’t reset someone who is compliant. You reset someone who keeps slipping out of your control.
• Hydra escalates their methods over time. The muzzle, the restraints, the electric chair, the sedation, the cryo cycles — these are not first‑step tactics. These are last resorts.
• He remembers Steve after one fight in 2014. That means his core identity was never fully erased. Hydra buried him, but they never destroyed him.
Hydra’s entire approach — the brutality, the repeated wipes, the cryo‑freezing — only makes sense if Bucky was resisting for years. They couldn’t keep him stable. They couldn’t keep him obedient. They couldn’t keep him erased.
This means something devastating and beautiful:
Bucky held on. For twenty years, he held on.
He held on through torture.
He held on through isolation.
He held on through conditioning.
He held on through the loss of everything he knew.
And he held on because somewhere deep inside, even when he forgot Steve’s name, face, and voice, he didn’t forget the feeling of Steve — the sense that someone out there loved him, believed in him, and would come for him.
Hydra didn’t break him quickly.
Hydra broke him slowly, because he fought them for as long as a human being possibly could.
And the tragedy is that the MCU rarely acknowledges this.
The therapist in TFATWS never acknowledges this.
The system never acknowledges this.
And once you understand that Bucky resisted for twenty years, everything about his trauma — his coping mechanisms, his hypervigilance, his guilt, his exhaustion, his need for safety — makes even more sense.
He was a prisoner who fought until he couldn’t fight anymore — and now I’m crying.
And that makes the failures of his so‑called “therapy” even more unforgivable.
IX¾. Stucky: The Accidental Failures of Steve Rogers — And How Bucky Paid the Price Instead
Before anyone sharpens their pitchforks: this is not an anti‑Steve rant. Steve Rogers is a good man, a heroic man, and a character I love. But he is also a man who — canonically, repeatedly — fails Bucky Barnes in ways that shape Bucky’s trauma, coping mechanisms, and attachment patterns for decades.
This isn’t about shipping.
This is about narrative accountability.
Steve Rogers loved Bucky, in whatever way you interpret that.
But he did not understand Bucky.
And Bucky suffered for it.
From the moment they were kids, Steve was the one who needed protecting. Bucky stepped into the role of caretaker, stabilizer, and emotional anchor long before Hydra ever touched him. Canon shows us Bucky comforting Steve after fights, reassuring him when he feels small, showing up for him emotionally, consistently. Steve loves Bucky, but he doesn’t speak the same emotional dialect. And Bucky — who is loyal to a fault — internalizes this imbalance as normal.
This sets the stage for a devastating pattern:
And then there’s the pattern of Steve leaving — not maliciously, not intentionally, but consistently. He leaves Bucky in the Alps after the fall (CA:TFA). He leaves Bucky frozen for 70 years (not his fault, but still a wound). He leaves Bucky in Wakanda to heal alone (Civil War). And he leaves Bucky in 2023 by going back in time without telling him (Endgame). Every time, Bucky is left to survive alone — physically, emotionally, or both.
And Bucky’s trauma brain interprets this as:
“I am only worth saving when Steve needs me.
When he doesn’t need me, I disappear.”
That belief shapes everything about Bucky’s coping mechanisms: his isolation, his self‑erasure, his belief that he is a burden, his fear that Steve was “wrong about him,” his desperate loyalty, his inability to ask for help. It also shapes his panic about the shield, especially the line to Sam: “Maybe he was wrong about you. And if he was wrong about you, then he was wrong about me.” (TFATWS, Episode 2). That line is the sound of a man whose entire worldview is built on Steve’s approval — and who collapses when that approval feels uncertain.
Steve also never acknowledges the depth of Bucky’s trauma. He sees Bucky as his best friend, his brother, the kid from Brooklyn, the man he lost and found again. But he does not see the 20 years Bucky fought Hydra, the conditioning, the torture, the identity fragmentation, the survival‑based obedience, the chronic hypervigilance, the guilt that isn’t his to carry. Steve loves Bucky, but he loves the memory of Bucky — the version he knew before the fall. He never fully meets the man Bucky became.
Because Steve was the only stable relationship Bucky ever had, Bucky’s attachment to him becomes anxious, hyper‑loyal, self‑sacrificing, identity‑defining. So when Steve leaves at the end of Endgame, Bucky’s entire emotional foundation collapses. This is why Bucky spirals in TFATWS. This is why he clings to the amends list. This is why he panics about the shield. This is why he dissociates when Sam gives it up. Steve was his anchor. And Steve cut the rope without warning.
And the consequences fall entirely on Bucky.
Steve gets a peaceful life, closure, retirement, a happy ending.
Bucky gets mandated therapy, government surveillance, retraumatization, isolation, guilt, chronic hypervigilance, and a world that sees him as a threat.
Steve walks into the sunset.
Bucky walks into another system that treats him like a weapon.
Not because Steve meant to hurt him — but because Steve didn’t understand what Bucky needed to heal.
It’s about narrative truth.
Steve Rogers is not a villain.
He is not intentionally cruel.
But he is emotionally avoidant, conflict‑averse, idealistic to a fault, blind to Bucky’s internal world, and unaware of the weight Bucky carries. And Bucky — who would burn the world for Steve — absorbs the fallout every time.
Bucky pays the emotional debt Steve never realized he owed.
X. What Trauma‑Informed Therapy Should Look Like (AKA Everything Bucky Didn’t Get)
Trauma‑informed therapy is built on six core principles — six things Bucky Barnes never receives, not once, in TFATWS. These principles aren’t optional. They’re the foundation of ethical trauma work. They’re the difference between healing and harm. And every single one of them is something Bucky desperately needed.
Safety matters for Bucky because he spent 70 years being forced to be violent. His body is wired for danger. His nervous system is stuck in survival mode. He is hyper‑vigilant, constantly scanning for threats, constantly bracing for pain. A trauma‑informed therapist would have helped him feel safe enough to let his guard down — not pushed him harder when he tensed up.
Trustworthiness matters because Bucky has every reason in the world to distrust authority. Anyone would. He was betrayed by governments, militaries, institutions, and people in power for decades. Trust has to be earned with consistency, transparency, and gentleness. Instead, his therapist uses sarcasm, threats, and invasive tactics that reinforce his fear rather than soothe it.
Choice matters because Bucky had none for decades. Hydra stripped him of autonomy, agency, and self‑determination. Giving him choices — real choices — would have helped rebuild his sense of control. Instead, his therapist forces him to talk, forces him to comply, forces him to perform emotional labor he didn’t consent to. That isn’t therapy. That’s reenacting the power dynamics of his abusers.
Collaboration matters because therapy is supposed to be teamwork, not a power struggle. Bucky cannot be the only one trying to make this work while the therapist drags him down. Collaboration means working with him, not at him. It means asking, “What do you need?” instead of “Here’s what you’re doing wrong.” Instead, she treats therapy like a toxic friendship where one person is desperately trying to hold things together while the other barely shows up.
Empowerment matters because Bucky’s self‑worth is in the basement. He believes he is a monster. He believes he is a burden. He believes he is unworthy of love, safety, or redemption. A trauma‑informed therapist would help him reclaim his humanity, rebuild his confidence, and recognize his strength. Instead, she shames him, mocks him, and reinforces the belief that he is broken.
Historical awareness matters because Bucky was born in 1917. Therapy was stigmatized, rare, and often seen as weakness. The normalization of therapy didn’t happen until the 1960s–1980s, long after Bucky “died” in 1944–45.
As Psychology Today explains in “The Roots of Therapy in America” (2025, Lawrence R. Samuel, Ph.D.):
• “The true beginnings of therapy in America came soon after World War I, when the ‘me’ began to eclipse the ‘we’ in society, and as the modern idea of the self was born.”
• “Therapy in the broader sense exploded in the US in the 1950s… and got a boost during the counterculture years… The self-help movement of the 1970s and the New Age in the 1980s and 1990s made therapy fully mainstream.”
Bucky missed all of that. He went from 1945 to Hydra’s torture chamber to the 21st century with no cultural transition. He might not trust therapy. He might feel guilty for needing therapy. He might feel weak for wanting help. A trauma‑informed therapist would understand that. She would meet him where he is, not where she expects him to be.
A trauma‑informed therapist would have:
• validated his coping strategies
• avoided punitive language
• understood his triggers
• created safety before asking for vulnerability
Instead, Bucky gets a therapist who treats trauma like a disciplinary issue and healing like a checklist.
He doesn’t get collaboration.
He doesn’t get empowerment.
He doesn’t get historical awareness.
He gets compliance tests.
Everything trauma‑informed therapy should be, Bucky never receives.
And everything trauma‑informed therapy should avoid, Bucky gets in abundance.
XI. Coping Skills: The Step She Skipped So Hard She Basically Yeeted Bucky Into Trauma With No Parachute
Before any trauma therapist touches trauma, they teach coping skills.
No trauma‑informed therapist would ever start with trauma processing — or guilt processing — without first teaching coping skills. It’s the therapeutic equivalent of throwing someone into the ocean and saying, “Swim!” when they’ve never even seen water before.
Real‑life example: my brother’s therapist taught him coping skills before touching trauma. My therapist did the same. Every trauma‑informed therapist does this. Coping skills are the foundation of trauma recovery. They come before trauma processing in every major therapy model — CBT, DBT, EMDR, ACT, IFS, all of them.
Bucky’s therapist teaches him none.
Not one grounding technique.
Not one breathing exercise.
Not one strategy for panic.
Not one regulation skill.
Not one safe person to call besides her — which is already a red flag.
She gives him zero tools, then punishes him for not magically having good tools.
Meanwhile, Bucky does have coping skills — not healthy ones, but the ones he invented alone, in the dark, in the cold, in the silence of Hydra’s conditioning:
• sleeping on the floor, which is a survival instinct and a twisted comfort because it’s what he’s used to; the only time he was left alone in Hydra was when he was unconscious
• keeping the TV on, because silence is dangerous in his mind; silence means thoughts, memories, flashbacks, fear
• isolating to feel safe, because avoiding people kept him alive; being invisible meant fewer handlers, fewer resets, fewer punishments
• shutting down emotionally, because the Winter Soldier persona required it; and because somewhere deep inside, even when he forgot Steve’s name and face, he didn’t forget the feeling of Steve — the sense that someone out there cared, and he had to stay sane enough to survive for them
These aren’t “bad habits.”
These are survival strategies.
They are the things that kept him alive when nothing else did.
A competent therapist would have helped him build safer ones — movement, grounding, paced breathing, cold water, sensory tools, opposite‑action strategies, self‑soothing, mindfulness, anything. She could have given him a list, a worksheet, a script, a single technique. She doesn’t.
She doesn’t replace his survival strategies.
She doesn’t support them.
She doesn’t understand them.
She doesn’t even acknowledge them.
She just shames him for having them.
This is negligence dressed up as treatment.
And Bucky — who has survived on scraps of coping for decades — is left to drown with nothing but the tools he built in captivity.
Part 2 coming soon sorry this is really long so it won’t post in one go
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