Little Tim, Big Tim (14 page)

Miracles start to occur—events and coincidences rapidly push and guide me along an unknown path. An amazing journey presents new awareness. Of course part of me would prefer not to have to undergo this transformation, but I figure that what doesn’t kill me will make me stronger. The Pandora’s Box is opened. Hidden memories receive confirmation. Miraculously I meet someone who is the same age as me and we have a conversation.

‘What have you been up to?’
Bill inquires.

‘Out and about, up and down, mostly down,’
I introduce the topic with my last word.

‘Whats got you down, Mate?’

‘A long story,’
I hesitate.

‘So is life, I might be able to help,’
he offers generously.

‘Well it’s funny you say that, it is my life story. A story I hid from for years. Recently I came across some documents that hold undeniable evidence that my father was involved in a paedophile ring. My brother and I suffered sexual abuse by our father and these men who are extremely powerful and rich.’

I fall silent. Bill respects the need for me to pause. Something seems to be welling up inside of him, surging at an uncontrollable pace. I feel he too has secrets that he has never revealed to anyone. A family man, with a wife and a little boy, I suspect that what has happened to him in the past has always been regarded as inconsequential.

Decades have passed until the path of two little boys, now men, (one that society deemed as bad, the other, good,) now meet at their destined crossroad. I continue.

‘My Father kept thirty years of documentation in the form of diaries. My Father, being a mule for the paedophile ring worked at a place called Daruke Boy’s Home for delinquent children.
’ I sit looking over Bill’s shoulder.

Bill sits there listening intently. His colour changes to a shade of green; he spits out a large amount of sputum and begins to tremble slightly as liquid from his coffee cup spills onto the floor.

I watch the drops of coffee forming patterns on the concrete, raise my head and gaze at Bill. The beam that predominantly belongs to Bill’s exterior has disappeared, his usual rosy glow absent from his face, replaced by a grey tinge.

‘Are you all right mate?
I sympathetically inquire.

‘Daruke…Daruke…fucking Daruke, I haven’t heard that name in years,’
Bill recalls.

‘Were you at Daruke, Bill?
’

‘Mate, I spent three years there. I got busted painting the school headmaster’s office one night. The pricks gave me three years for attempting to educate him on the cool colour scheme I produced. I got there when I was nine years old. I hated every minute of it, especially the guards. Was your Old Man a guard at Daruke, Tim?’

‘Mate, his last name was Brant. I changed mine from his name a long time ago.’

‘Brant. Fuck do I remember that name. That prick raped me on my first night at Daruke.
’

‘Fm sorry mate. Fm really sorry.’
I respond ashamedly.

Bill doesn’t answer; his own Pandora’s Box has been opened. I know where his mind has taken him—flung back decades to that night; recalling the experience of how he was violated; and feeling the anger and bitterness that results in deep hatred for a society who lacks responsibility to protect him. Bill has cocooned himself from the effects of that night and many other nights that followed—I assume. The anger directed to the men that this society dictated were safe to foster him, is deeply etched in his face. He has come a long way. He has found solace in the 12-step program and assists others to obtain the wisdom of the 12 steps. Today he is reminded of evil. I feel responsible.

I have reached out to my mate for support and comfort to inadvertently bring him to the same space that I am now enduring. Within my mind a memory explodes of being taken to Daruke on Sunday afternoons to socialise with the boys of my own age. The memory opens another door; the guise of socialising with these delinquent children also made my brothers and me available to suffer the incredulous deeds that these men felt entitled to perform on their charges and children.

I realise the possibility that, due to being the same age, we could have met on these ‘anti’-social days and possibly have suffered the abuse with each other. I reach for confirmation.

‘
Do you remember the Sundays at Daruke?’
I inquire.

‘Sure mate. Sundays with the visitors. Some were good, others were fucked. I was just thinking what you might have looked like at age nine. I always felt sorry for the sons of Brant and always thought to myself that at least I don’t live with the prick.’

‘Shit, I have to go. Look at the time; I have to catch my plane.’

I look at my watch purposefully to create an exit to save my kind, gentle friend from having to relive and correlate of our life’s journeys any further. Bill springs to his feet and gives me a sincere hug. I return the gesture. We both look at the other with watery eyes. The festering sore has been well and truly opened. Denial is futile and disrespectful of my true self. From now on my recovery will be inspired by the courage of two people— Bill and James!

I will follow Bill’s lead and crave for the courage he lives with in his everyday commitment to leading a clean life; he is my first 12-step Sponsor. From then on we would have coffee together from time to time and I would hang onto his every word. He would occasionally enquire as to whether I had started to write. ‘No’ was always my answer. He would giggle and reply, ‘when the pain gets too much you will.’ I feared more than anything picking up a pen and releasing the words that were starting to choke me. The military had drilled and enforced the rule: don’t write anything down, it could always be used against you. I fought that concept with every ounce of servitude that encased me.

Coffees in the mall with Bill gave me another of life’s pleasures; for possibly the first time I experienced a true belly laugh. It’s infectious and brings immense relief, even now to think of the sight, as two grown men sit at their table and laugh and laugh.

I have begun to feel something. I discharge myself from hospital with the blessing of Dr Evans and inform him that I’m going home to start writing.

I write and I write and I write. However the fear is still everpresent so at first I do not delve into the deep past. This gives me the option not to write about the childhood abuse. Instead I write about the events that happened in my Army life, events that I feel have been detrimental. This also helps me explore the possibility of why my PTSD is so rampant. I write my first book, in fact/fiction form, to purge the events that need expression. The title ‘Switch Me Off’ impresses Dr Evans. He understands that the writing helps me to look at things differently; he reads the ninety thousand word manuscript.

My belief in mankind and the caring nature of the mental health professionals I encounter leads me to develop a new attitude. I apply myself diligently to every suggestion given, hoping to lead to a quicker recovery. Dr Evans assures me that I am ready for the PTSD to be treated. This starts with an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder course, where they take me out and put me atop of high buildings and place me amongst people who suffer OCD.

I don’t feel I need to face any phobias—I fear virtually nothing. My clever psychiatrist though says that he’d like to see me walk into a church; he finds a fear. It’s difficult to do. I know I was placed in a lot of Christian circles that my parents, being staunchly religious, considered was the lifestyle into which we needed to be indoctrinated. The underlining feeling that is making me uncomfortable can’t be identified.

The next challenge I am inducted into is a combat related Post Traumatic Stress Disorder course and I am very fortunate to be with other out-going veterans awaiting discharge. Some have been to Somalia, Rwanda, and East Timor and one has served in the SAS. In my opinion, the reason these soldiers have found themselves on these courses revolves around the lack of acknowledgment of a job well done. The government has neglected them in regards to their veteran status. Their service is not acknowledged because it’s deemed as a non-service area. These soldiers would go to dangerous locations, believing that they were going to be looked after if things went wrong, but there has been no compensation. There is no actual acknowledgment of their participation in a field or theatre of war, just because a bureaucrat deemed so.

They are also deeply affected by the horrific places they have been sent to and the atrocities they’ve witnessed. The stories I heard would allow any reasonable person to believe that the soldiers who dealt with these incidents couldn’t be anything but traumatised. So that was the prerequisite to be given a space on the course.

The facilitators presenting the course are civilian psychologists. The content revolves around an understanding that military thinking is a lot different from civilian thinking.

They have great difficulty explaining to soldiers that the type of thinking that saved their lives in countless dangerous situations is now deemed to be dysfunctional. Black and white thinking is the only type of thinking they have done all their adult lives, but now this is seen as wrong. Within the civilian world they are required to accept there are shades of grey.

For the course duration of six weeks they try to get this concept across with various forms of Cognitive Behaviour Therapy (CBT). The curriculum includes physical exercise, learning relaxation techniques and other activities that soldiers normally don’t get the opportunity to experience. Personally, I believe the course should be offered to all military members prior to being discharged. If given this experience the soldier will be allowed to realise how hard it is to adjust to the civilian world.

At the end of the course, as far as the facilitators are concerned, I have achieved all competencies, and they are pleased with the result obtained. I still have issues that hadn’t been addressed by the course. I’m referred to a Clinical Psychologist, Dr Jan Ewing, who determines and admits to me quite quickly that I have complex PTSD. I don’t enquire what she means by

‘complex PTSD’. I feel honoured to be one of her clients/patients. The Vietnam Veterans bestow high praise for her ability to assist former soldiers back to a functional life.

I see her once a week and I am happy to do so. Dr Jan teaches me how to deal with the pain and the stress I live with regarding not dealing with the grief of losing mates, and of being abandoned on the beach. She also points out that if I had not gone through the SAS and all that training that the dysfunction may not have surfaced. I contemplate what might have been if I had been given the opportunity of remaining on active duty, awaiting retirement age.

Dr Jan again shares with me the possibility that a diagnosis of complex PTSD would be more accurate. This time I question Dr Jan about the understanding of complex PTSD. She explains to me that for PTSD to surface usually it is predetermined by a trauma event that isn’t processed in my childhood; hence ‘complex’.

The time has arrived when she feels free to expose another assessment that is going to illuminate the reason for dysfunctional behaviour: time being lost and memories not connecting up. It has been a tw elve-month period of therapy and a lot of energy spent learning how to obtain and display self-esteem. The bombshell is dropped.

Ultimately Dr Jan presents a possible diagnosis of DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder), formerly known as Multiple Personality. This diagnosis is best described in my case as fragments/personas controlling the mind and body without the personas/fragments being aware of transitions, usually triggered by an overwhelming emotion that can’t be or doesn’t get processed. Signs and symptoms in the past are unknown, as the DID system operates within the individual who is totally convinced that the reality of life each persona has is exactly the same as it is for others.

The recovery work takes a completely different tack. I am dealing with a new education, that is, to have feelings without switching to different Personas or Fragments and to learn that this is normal behaviour. Previously I was dealing with a complete misunderstanding of what I thought was real. And I am now being made aware that Personas or Fragments of me have experienced different realities. This means that all of me does not experience the same reality at the one time. Confused? I was.

I ask Dr Jan if I can attend a self-help group that is a pilot program for people who have suffered addiction and the many forms of child abuse. With the blessing of Dr Jan, and the relief I feel for some reprieve to not have to face the confusion that revolves around the DID diagnosis, for the moment, I induct myself into the course.

I sit in the comer of the room of the self-help group that offers peer support for recovering addicts with abuse issues. I am propelled into an environment of sharing and exposure. Mr Martin Challis introduces himself as a lecturer from Queensland University of Technology’s Acting Department. As he looks at me, I portray a cold facade. His first question to the group is,

‘How do you feel?’

I shrink into the armchair, listening to the others in the group as I examine myself to see if I am able to recognise a feeling; I now understand why Dr Jan agrees to this type of exposure. My answer to the large man sitting in his chair smiling at me is:

‘I’m sorry, I feel numb.
’

No shame follows my answer, as Martin explains that he can offer a model of facilitation that can help me grow an awareness of how to connect to my feelings.

His understanding, and also that of the mental health professionals, is that it is a well-known fact that most people have roles with which they function. The roles they choose to function within have a certain persona that takes on that role. I assess, with the help of Dr Jan, that those who suffer from DID have no memory of the switches, whereas the normal functioning woman, for example, can chose to be in mother role, socialite role, business role or wife role. There are subtle changes to personality but continued awareness; they are connected-up, well-informed parts of the person, all of which know that these shifts have taken place. I have to find some strategy to link the changes that happen within me automatically, I have to understand how my DID system works.

The sessions are constructed with two individuals sitting opposite each other. One person allows him/herself to transfigure the person opposite, who in my case is my father, my perpetrator. I allow myself into a zone, to believe that I have an opportunity now to ask him why he did what he did to me.

The exercise eventuates as I exhaust myself, pleading with the transfigured form to say sorry. Martin at this point informs the person sitting opposite me, transfigured as my father, to say ‘sorry’. The impact is enormous. Just one word from this kind person and I begin to feel some closure. I am honoured by this supportive intervention. I can’t explain its impact, however, I have the opportunity to see this technique used many times and the result is incredible.

It’s hard to accept that paedophiles can put a person through such degradation without ever coming around to apologising. The experience of having a feeling/sensation when I hear that word ‘sorry’, gives me new wisdom. The fear of discovery for someone who has hidden the truth for decades cannot be qualified—I’d rather be shot at.

By the end of the course I am strong enough to say that the paedophiles are never going to control me mentally, physically or spiritually. The truth is that I forgive myself and therefore I carry no shame or guilt.

So I start working with Martin one-on-one. He offers to be my public speaking coach and we enter into a world of growing self-awareness. He graciously gives his time and the opportunity for me to work towards integration as an individual. We become strong friends. The trust he shows in me opens up another world for me to understand—not everybody has an agenda. I now have the courage to change the conditioning; and the conditioning for me is the DID system.

We are not given anything we can’t handle. This truth is following me now, as courage has been reborn. This acceptance spirals and escalates in me the need to purge. The importance and impact of this process could never be overstated.

At five o’clock in the morning I enter the building where the peer support program is held, bent over from the cramps that have plagued me throughout the night. I lay the cushions onto the floor and adopt the foetal position. A bucket is placed near my head as the nausea I’m experiencing is longing to rise. Better out than in; at the completion of this thought my head is located in the bucket.

The fluid being deposited is not the usual stuff from a body discharging unwanted matter; the bucket is filling up with bile.

I assume its bile; black and thick liquid fills the bottom and inches up the sides. The process has no stop button, I heave and involuntarily arch my back as the bile projects into the bucket; tears of relief flow for the first time in decades.

The head facilitator is another individual whose agenda is only love and kindness. She sits with me while I vomit up the filth, making room for a forgotten necessity—love for myself.

I am not such a disgusting little grot—the perception I had of myself. I am enveloped by an amazing sensation; I know from this point I have something to give others. The angels of my past re-introduce themselves again. I must in some way re-live and face the nightmare. I know what I have to do; I have to go back to the bricks and mortar. I have to return to the places where I was abused: mentally, physically and sexually.