Little Tim, Big Tim (13 page)

‘The police also informed us that the Army bomb disposal officer identified an anti-personnel mine in your possession, is this true
?
’

‘No. That claymore mine has inert written on it for a reason; it’s a training item. The Army officer involved in the raid on me is totally incompetent and probably got excited about the weight of the Claymore mine. For training, we glued in steel weights to ensure we practiced with an operationally correct weighted load.’
The TV presentation portrays an Army corporal at the nearest Army Base who explains to the journalist about the capacity of an inert claymore mine.

‘Corporal, can you tell me about the item known as an ‘inert claymore mine’?
’

‘The inert claymore mine has the word ‘inert’written, on it. The mine is only used in training.’

I vague out and don’t realise the presentation is finished, until Doctor Evans stops the tape.

‘The hardest patient to treat for paranoia is the one that has reason to be paranoid!’
Doctor Evans states.

‘How do you feel about that?’

He offers a fleeting look and returns to his pad ready to scribe. I look blankly at the Doctor and answer honestly.

‘Tired.’

He raises his head, sympathy seeps from his eyes, his pen remains stationary, as the answer requires respect and acknowledgement. He clears his throat. His professionalism returns and, before he speaks, ensures that we have eye contact. Our eyes interlock as the uncomfortable pause dissipates.

‘Tim, to ensure the validity of your claims to Veteran Affairs we must demonstrate your willingness to recover, therefore,

I want to admit you to hospital today if possible. Is that convenient?
’

I think to myself: ‘I don’t think my life would be so tossed up if I am in hospital for a night or two.’

I start to drift off, but catch it. I answer the question abruptly.
‘Yes, I will come to the hospital. I just need help.
’

‘Good, I will contact Veteran Affairs and tell them of your decision to go into hospital under my care tomorrow. Could you please wait out in my reception room until I have finalised all the necessary details with Veteran Affairs?
’

‘Sure Doc, thanks.
’

I shake his hand briskly.

I return to the reception room and experience another bout of hyper-vigilance: Carpeted floor. One door. Six chairs. Table centre of floor.

My first psych ward admittance under the care of Doctor Evans lasts three days. The absence of numbing substances such as alcohol and drugs unearths a physical response that I can’t fathom. I wake on the third morning experiencing a serious detoxification, and a stinging pain on the back of my thighs means that I cannot stand upright. The psychosomatic intrusion frightens and shames me simultaneously. I feel as if I have been buggered. I quickly pack my bag and wobble to the elevator. I need to get pissed and stoned.

As I exit the elevator I stride onto the shimmering surface of the large foyer. My mobile phone rings, I don’t answer it;

I’m truly perturbed and I must locate an exit. I find one; its’ sign illuminated above the door. I press the receive button on my ringing phone which is now drawing attention from others around me. The number displayed is foreign; more apprehension as the caller knows who I am but I don’t know them, yet.

‘Hello,
T answer as my finger moves to rest on the ‘off’ button.

‘Tim its Stewart. Dads real sick, you better come to Sydney, this could be his last days,
’ it’s my older brother.

‘Ok, I’ll catch the first plane.
T feel a weird sensation as if I’m not linked to the conversation—or anything else. Stewart hangs up.

I’m standing on a shiny tile floor. Trepidation chills my legs. How did I get here? At my feet is a large green duffle bag—the ones soldiers are issued. I know it belongs to me, I believe its mine.

If I keep convincing myself I will soon feel secure enough to pick it up. I lower myself as confidently as I can, expecting the possibility that any minute someone will scream, ‘Thief!’

If this occurs, I will quietly step over the bag and walk briskly to the exit I have been facing since I spoke to Stewart.

The bag is on my shoulder but no one points an accusing finger.

I know that I have left the Army but am confused as to why and when this was. The lost time must be a drug or alcohol blackout; this seems logical to me, but I know subconsciously there’s more to this mystery. Drugs and alcohol bury the truth. I am not ready to own this consciousness. The flight to Sydney must be organised; this feels better, a distraction.

This is the first time my brothers and I meet after many years of estrangement. I’m aware that the primary reason for this reunion is because our father is dying in hospital. We stand around a fire that is burning in the back yard. I watch the embers break away from a burning log; this is a foretelling of events that are about to unfold.

I have two brothers; Stewart is older, and James is younger. James has had a hard life, proclaiming Dad and Mum abused him. Not only that, he also accuses Dad of palming him out to paedophiles. He has approached me only once asking me to verify his truth. I can’t, I have no memory of such things. But now, looking at this fire, a burning hole within me grows stronger. I desperately want this to be extinguished; unfortunately, I have no resources to alleviate this frustration.

It’s hard to deny James’ truth. His adult life has revolved around countless hospital admissions and a multitude of therapies; all trying to arrest the effect of the trauma and the mental states he proclaims we suffered due to the abuse we endured as children.

The contrast of the weather, from rays of sunshine in Brisbane to the bleak cold of Sydney, is obvious. The fire warms my outside but I am feeling ice cold inside. I look at my brothers, realising that my addiction to drugs and alcohol is eventually going to be exposed; the signs and symptoms of withdrawal are becoming evident. They both suspect I use heavily but don’t know that I have stepped into addiction. I myself think I haven’t reached that level of uncontrollability, but if I’m honest I have. My older brother offers me a beer.

‘I’ll need a carton,’
I quickly stipulate.

He sends his wife to the bottle shop. We are completely alone. I look into the fire, hiding the fact I’m hanging out, needing to be stoned or pissed or both. It dawns on me; my alcohol and drug excesses are all about hiding the truth of the past. Some facts of my childhood illuminate themselves as the heat of the coals bums holes into my seemingly impenetrable shield of denial. Memories with no order or logic flood me; God, please let me get stoned.

I understand why three men can have three completely different realities from each other. As children, we were always isolated and put into situations where we couldn’t rely on each other. We couldn’t be confident that the other one wasn’t going to be tricked or manipulated in a subterfuge situation, where the Old Man had created a belief that your own brother had ‘given you up’.

Stewart’s reality is confirmed to us, not by admittance, but by lack of change; he is continuing to ‘swim up the Nile’ (remaining in denial). I decide at that point to get off the boat and join James on the banks of truth.

‘
James I believe you.’
I slowly raise my head and look at the face of a man who just doesn’t trust what he has heard.

I know we have to heal years of denial and mistrust.

Our survival has been independent of one another. We are overwhelmed at the thought of uniting, and now a period of time has to be dedicated to ensure that this realisation isn’t a lie, but time for healing and recovery to begin. I have no idea how to heal myself, just that every fibre within me wants to feel relief. I am willing to take the first enormous step. I know that James and I will now have the opportunity to heal our sibling relationship and learn to trust each other.

So here I am again, facing another death, this time it’s the Old Man’s. But I’m not willing to accept the expectation that I should experience a normal amount of remorse; that it’s appropriate to experience some level of loss. I feel the only feeling I know, numbness.

My brothers and I endure the long hours around the fire—it seems our silence keeps the flames flickering. There is awkwardness and an uncomfortable space between us. The brothers can barely remain in each other’s company. Nothing else is said. A pile of bottles litters the ground at my feet.

Ultimately, James leaves to be with his family. Stewart and I sit in silence looking into the fire, probably jointly dreading having to face the Old Man the next day. We finally go to bed not speaking another word to each other.

The next afternoon we visit the Old Man. James looks extremely distressed and ask me to stay close to him. He takes on the appearance of a young boy. I am shocked at the effect that the Old Man holds over him. I feel honoured that he wants me close by as I feel that I have let him down in the past—although it’s a reality I’m not ready to completely acknowledge.

I ask the Old Man to relieve my misunderstanding of past situations and incidents; he remains silent. James is very uneasy; Stewart is withdrawn and tries many distractions to stop me probing for the answers I want. Being totally deflated, I return to Stewart’s place. I feel drawn to the only belongings the Old Man has left. It’s pitiful; he only has a small suitcase with a novel inside, and carbon-copied books containing correspondence—six in total. I open one and find the dates go back to thirty years ago.

I pour myself a drink and scan the diaries; I take a lot of alcohol to ensure I am comfortably numb.

The diaries, in the form of carbon copies of letters, are written to a well-known Australian personality. The more I read, the more I become aware that the letters are referring to paedophile activities. The final drafts relate to how my father is blackmailing dozens of influential people in Australia.

These facts completely smash the layer of cement that covers the torment I have avoided for years: the complete stark and utter reality is exposed. James has lived with the memories every day of his life; I had suppressed them every day of my life until now. Almost immediately I want to know where Stewart stands.

My insistence to get some acknowledgement from Stewart leads him to snatch the diaries from me. We start having a physical fight in front of his family. His denial is deeply entrenched; he wants me to be complicit in this. And he wants the diaries detailing our depraved childhood to go away.

Quite rightly, he kicks me out of his house. James picks me up, and as we drive off we hear him yell something. I ask James if he heard what Stewart had said.

‘I think he said he burnt the diaries
.
’

I fly out the next day for my hometown.

A month later I get a phone call.

Tim, James here. The Old Man is dead. You didn’t get invited to the funeral because the family didn’t want a drug addict turning up.’

‘James, I’m three weeks clean.’

‘Good for you mate. You wouldn’t have wanted to be there anyway. I wish you were though.
’

‘Sorry man.’

Tim I have to go.’

He hangs up the phone but not before I hear him sob.

He is alone again on his journey of recovery. This is something I dread; the more clean and sober I get, the more the memories and the pain of being robbed of a childhood bubble to the surface.

I don’t hear from anybody over the Christmas period. I hear from James again in mid February.

Tim, Mum’s dead. Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier but I have been in hospital for the last six weeks. She died Boxing Day.’

I hang up the phone and two brothers sob simultaneously.

A friend notices that I am rapidly deteriorating and contacts the Veteran Affairs head psychiatrist. I am rapidly sliding into death-wish mode. The townsfolk dread the outcome of an ex-SAS operator losing the plot. The bike club members in town are no match for my madness—I taunt them to waste me or at least give me some physical pain to alleviate the emotional pain I am swimming in.

Paranoia encapsulates me. I honour its power; it almost acts as a friend, distracting me from the effects of the continued discoveries of a damaged childhood. I flee the mental damage by focusing on the perceived abandonment and rejection I endured whilst being employed as a Special Forces operator. Memories of these incidents fuel paranoia. I am also faced with the fact, which until now I have not acknowledged, and must openly admit that I lose time and memory.

I used to attribute lost time and memory to the alcohol and drug-use, but this is not a valid excuse now that I am clean and sober. Admiration pours out of me for James who has thrown down the gauntlet and walked this path before me. I have so much respect for him—for enduring countless visits to psych wards and for undergoing every type of therapy known to the mental health profession.

The impact of my parent’s deaths and the family’s decision to exclude me from their funerals, because of a belief that I would be an embarrassment as a clean and sober addict, drives me forward to seek my own recovery.

The only embarrassment I may cause to the family now is that I believe James’ and my own unsuppressed truth of how sick our parents were. Their last wish for me to be excluded demonstrates to me their guilt. The realisation that all their sick secrets have gone to the grave with them really hits home.

I am very sick from the detoxification (detox) I am suffering. It’s the seventh month of detox. I have needed to be completely clean for this period to give my physical system a chance, and for me to have a manageable life. I live in a state of fear that to use drugs or alcohol again will only lead to homicidal or suicidal actions: homicide against the paedophiles and suicide against the madness within that escalates with no sign of relief.

My mental state and emotional emptiness creates an imbalance that needs professional assistance. My GP sends me back to my Psychiatrist, Dr Evans. The primary reason for this referral is that I am still not dealing with PTSD symptoms from my service with the SAS. Without the drugs and alcohol, the deaths of colleagues and friends during peacetime accidents feeds the emotional pain that is alien and suffocating. Little do I know that the iceberg of past pain has barely been scratched.

I am admitted to the Wesley Hospital in Brisbane. I understand the reason for the admittance: I need some rest as it is politely explained to me when I inquire as to why I am now a patient in a psych ward. I know that the deaths of my mates has led to this; however, it doesn’t explain why, since my admittance and interview, I am walking bent over with severe pain to the back of my upper legs. I feel as if I have been buggered all over again. The repeating sensation is extremely obscure.

I am diagnosed as having Bipolar Disorder (Manic Depression). The Doctor explains how, prior to the Boys falling out of the sky and dying during the Blackhawk disaster, my movements were very rapid, I had extremely high energy levels, and how intolerant I was to others who didn’t operate on an unsustainable or flat-out (fast) level. I acknowledge the truth of his comments.

Little do I realise that this behaviour is a mental illness that disguises itself as a resource, but like with everything in life, equilibrium will eventually demand that one must endure the equal and opposite reaction. Naturally, depression follows and the ‘Speedy-Gonzalez’ behaviour is frozen and trapped. As a consequence I have the experience of battling with a four tonne boulder that presses me into the couch. The realisation that I don’t have any zest for life hurts me more than the pain of immobility.

Hospitalisation gives me an opportunity to decipher the mental confusion I am living with. My first lesson back to clarity is that I have to learn to grieve. I have to feel the pain and the anger for the deaths of the men from the Blackhawk disaster, but also for the deaths of friends, military and civilians to whom I owe my remorse.

The non-emotional commitment, taught to me superbly by the military in matters of death, is now totally dysfunctional in my life. I reflect on time spent with the ones that have passed over and feel the grief I denied myself at the time of their deaths. Clarity enters my world. I too am vulnerable to emotion.

The removal of drugs and alcohol becomes the foundation of my new existence. The twelve-step program and a belief that a power stronger than me is leading my life gives me direction.