Little Tim, Big Tim (15 page)

I arrive at the Bible College my family lived in for sometime during my childhood. The college was specifically designed to teach its students how to spread the word of God in third-world countries. It is located on a salt water bay north of Sydney; the water lapping the oyster-encrusted rocks brings back a pleasant memory. I am grateful to have some images like these—I remember how I would fish out of this bay and run carefree along the gravel road to reach my favourite solitary spots.

These thoughts bring me crashing back; the reality was that both good and evil existed in this place. But my goal now is to reach a more positive outcome. I need to acknowledge the places where the evil occurred, lurking behind closed doors. I desire liberation and I long to visit the places that hold the secrets of my survival.

It is Sunday lunchtime. Extremely poignant, as in most Christian households the family would be sitting down for a roast lunch. The College held the same protocol, with a difference; all families would sit together in a large dining room. The size of the meal would be relatively large compared to the rationed size of meals throughout the week. Due to the size of the meal, a walk after lunch was a mandatory activity for college students and their families.

Another shocking reality dawns on me: this was when my father took the opportunity to parade his children to those who were sick enough to procure his merchandise.

I am sitting in the car looking at the building that once housed convention guests and campers. Two-hundred campers in one-hundred double bunk beds would be crammed into this large wooden structure. My presence outside its large double doors opens me to a forgotten memory.

There were two male college students who were always hanging around the kids and showing off. They would play games by tensing their stomach muscles and getting the kids to punch them. I avoided them; when I saw them playing this game I just wanted to kick them in the balls, repeatedly.

I had the instinct to avoid them, however back then, I did not have the knowledge to understand why. These two men would give me death stares every now and then, especially when nobody could observe their actions.

Four of the younger kids were upset, for some reason. I asked them what had happened. They told me that the two men I avoided had locked them into a storeroom and done sick and disgusting things to them. I was able to tell my Mum and the Old Man because it happened to someone else, but still they told me to stop lying. The other kids did the same and were also told to stop lying.

The two boys and two girls who were attacked, all of them under the age of ten years, were looking up to me to relieve their pain and anguish.

‘What are we going to do?’
one asked.

‘I know what we are going to do. If no one is going to believe us, then we are going to make this night a night they will never forget. We’re going to trash the place!’

The kids’ spirits lifted.

‘Yeah, lets trash the place, let’s trash the place!’
they chanted.

I looked at these kids and saw the wild excitement in their eyes as I mirrored their jubilation. I had a wrecking crew; I only had to point the way. Our anger had been built up by adults hurting us and others denying that our truth was real, and I quickly assessed what damage we could do before we got busted.

I came up with the idea of trashing the camp dormitory. The adults had spent hours making up beds for about two hundred visitors to the college, expected to arrive the next day. I found a way into the highly presentable dormitory and opened the door for the little ones to extract their revenge on the adults who had deaf ears to their pleas for relief from abuse. I insisted that they just strip the beds and toss a few pillows around, and then we would get out before we got caught.

‘Go to it
,
’
I said as they released their fury.

They went berserk. They quickly ran from bed to bed in the large dormitory, stripping each one with ease and flying the pillows into the air. What took five adults hours to accomplish was destroyed in a couple of minutes. The little ones were being too loud. I tried to hush them. Some of the older kids arrived to see the place in complete disarray. Again I tried to calm down the little ones who were now unstoppable. The assault on the place escalated.

The kids found new strength in their determination to be destructive. The double bunk steel beds were being toppled after rocking for a period of time. The majority of the beds had slammed onto the ground, the noise drowned out by the hysterical children who danced around the floating feathers that were falling to the ground. Within five minutes the place was trashed. Rows of bunk beds were now entangled beyond recognition. What were once beds and bedding in well-disciplined rows was now tangled debris and utter chaos.

Sure enough, the noise attracted attention. The older kids who had witnessed the majority of the destruction just stood inside the doorway, shocked, with expressions of disbelief. College staff members were the next to arrive and the parents of the culprits followed. Then all hell broke loose.

Dad gripped me by the armpit and my flesh pinched between his fingers. We led the procession to the bamboo patch. Select pieces of bamboo were chosen, and then we were marched home.

The screams, as bamboo lengths were used as swishes against our bottoms, echoed through the buildings; the children’s cries shrilled with the impact of bamboo hitting flesh. The cries in the night took hours to subside, however, eventually all children that had been flogged finally fell asleep.

I leave the car and the large building and stride purposefully across the grounds towards a little wooden building. Its primary function was that of a boat shed. Anger wells inside me; I wish for some person to ask me why I am here. My response would be to dictate a story, to tell a tale, which would turn their stomach.

No one inquires. I reach the boat-shed and release the anger so I am able to complete the main purpose for the visit—to heal myself.

I remember that I would wait for hours in the boat shed after an attack, until the pain subsided enough to able to walk back home so that no one would notice that I had embarrassing injuries. As a child I was more worried about what I looked like to adults instead of worrying about what they were doing to me. I would cry until exhausted. With the assistance of the fumes from the paint and thinner cans, I would eventually pass out and would awake to believe that it wouldn’t happen again.

The sanctuary of the boat shed did give me some relief; I would look out over the bay and wish that I could find myself on the other side, and just the thought that I could possibly manifest that reality kept me strong. This safe zone was more than just somewhere to go. It also gave hope.

I leave the boat shed and move along the rocks on the shoreline. I arrive at a special rock—it sands alone in the shape of a chair. I squeeze into it and laugh. How things change; when I was a child I would always sit dwarfed in this rock chair. I would have to wait my turn when the other kids were using it; I always hid until it was free. I wonder if they were doing the same when I was in the chair.

I know the rock chair as the Judgment Throne. I would sit there and, as Judge and Jury, pass sentence on those who had violated me. The rock chair is another place where I was the winner.

The drive south opens the memory banks to when I was five years old; the town—situated on a river—offered space to grow and play. My family home was two-hundred metres back from the river, with bush and a grass bank dividing them. As we drive through the area I am not too surprised to see the two-hundred metre gap now covered in houses, shops, cafes and a restaurant.

The family home is still there, although dwarfed by the size of the affluent residences that now occupy this ritzy end of town. My partner Brooke, who has come along to support me, parks the car as I look at my old family home for the first time in decades.

I sidle over in the car seat to study the area that is obscured by houses, remembering how the ground meandered down to the river.

‘That’s where I used to run to keep safe.’
I share with Brooke.

There is one more address that I want to see in this town. I feel confident about how I am going to deal with reliving the past, however I need to temper the experiences and only expose myself to as much as I can handle. To move forward I have to turn the negatives into a positive. The way I am choosing to do this is to not only return to the places where the abuse happened but also visit the places I ran to as a kid to keep safe. We drive along the end of the road to the last house on the right I and remember an attack by a church member.

The process requires me to expose myself to whatever sensations and memories surface. I am totally committed to staying in the moment and to not regress or switch. So far, so good. I sit down on the path with my feet in the gutter at the front of the house. With my head down I remain in this position for about thirty minutes. Throughout this period my body shakes and sometimes shudders as I relive the memories and the emotions associated with the grief that I am now letting go. I apply a simple understanding that Dr Jan shared with me. When I feel I am slipping away, I will look down at my hand and acknowledge that it’s a big hand and it can only belong to a man—I am no longer a child.

I’ve recalled the incident with the dog. That dog possibly saved James’ life by sacrificing his own. That’s freaky! If only those cops investigated further, we could’ve been given a different family. I wonder what has happened to those cops.

Still sitting in the gutter, I stand, turn and look at the house. Symbolically I step out of the gutter and realise that the degrading experience has paled to an event that is now a memory, not a trauma.

The building that the shop was in still stands in Sydney, possibly the only city in Australia that still tolerates one-hundred year-old buildings. These buildings are a nostalgic image, however extremely impractical; most other cities have moved into the modem era and replaced relics such as these with more functional dwellings. Sydney is the only place where landlords can charge the highest rents in the country for hundred-year-old buildings with hundred-year-old problems.

My family paid rent to live in this property over three decades ago. As a pungent smell enters my nostrils I am reminded of one of the hundred-year-old problems resurfacing: sewage. Before we left, a bout of dysentery and hepatitis was the final diagnosis for some family members. Thirty years later the same unsanitary situation exists.

I wonder how many other people suffered because the greedy landlords didn’t update their buildings and amenities throughout the years. If I had a sledge hammer in my hands I would like to commence the job. I wonder why I feel such hatred towards this collection of bricks and mortar.

Breaking the trance that the memories of the building has put me into, I find myself sitting on the set of steps that leads to the side doorway. The graffiti on the opposite wall gives a true indication of how ‘tags’ and spray painted artwork over the decades hasn’t really changed much.

What am I meant to do here?’
I ask myself.

‘Think about how you feel, express it.
’ I remember.

I’m a trained SAS operator and I’m really starting to understand what being truly scared feels like. I am taken back to childhood memories—memories I’ve managed to place a dark cloak over, so as to not interrupt my life. They surface at a rapid rate and fortunately the ‘I Feel’ [a technique for identifying feelings] process allows me to feel the anger and hatred. Although emotionally draining, I am aware that this technique ultimately gives the participant relief as they suffer the fear, pain, hatred and degradation that the child within hasn’t properly processed. My trust in the process eventually bums the negative emotions. The process ultimately reverses as I become drained emotionally. Placing myself back into these environments gives me the opportunity to nurture my inner child.

I sit on the step and visualise my inner child standing in front of me. I reach out my arms and draw Little Tim into my chest.

A moment in time rectifies a lifetime of moments of neglect and rejection that the past holds.

I promise the little bloke as I hold him that he will always be safe now and nobody can hurt him. I proclaim it to the building that has caused the memories to surface. I laugh quietly, a little embarrassed that I am talking to my inner child.

We pull up outside the first home I remember the Brant family living in at the Blue Mountains. The park down the road is of most interest to me. I look at the house and then scan down to the entrance of the park. Standing on the road outside my old family home, I realise how short the distance is from the house to the park; it’s about fifty metres. It has been over three decades since I have trodden that route which I thought was more like two-hundred metres away. I keep looking from the house to the park, wishing it to return to the way that my memory dictates.

A green corrugated iron roof and a wide front balcony abuts the weatherboard house. The exterior has been neglected and the paint is peeling; the state of the house is close to how I remember it. To see this house sends shivers up my spine. I have returned to expose myself to specific memories, hoping they will assist me in accepting what went on. I have to find some way to move through the past and open a future that is going to be fruitful.

I am unaware of where this process is going to take me but I am committed to giving it every opportunity to work. The feeling I’m getting is that I’m quite scared of my father. He would often lock me away under the house to spend hours on the dirt embankment. The cupboard and possibly a pantry were other spots where he’d lock me up. I would be separated from family members, especially James, for long periods of time.

My father abused me sexually, physically and emotionally. Most often the attacks could not be predicted or avoided. However, occasionally I could pre-empt an attack and would run down to the park; it was safe and no one looked for me there.

I turn my back on the house and leave it behind forever.

I search for a memory where, as a child, I might have made a similar decision of defiance; but none surfaces.

I walk towards the park and reach the entrance of the sanctuary I used to avoid my father. The archway that serves as the entrance was known to me as the gates of heaven. I knew if I got here I was safe for a while.

The park is about thirty metres wide by eighty metres deep; it is well overgrown with trees and brush. A walking track slices through the middle. I move into the park swiftly as if the urgency will unravel the twisted secrets enabling me to move through the process more quickly. I stand under a sixty-foot tree that offers sanctuary. I contemplate the analogy of the tree, of letting go and growing. I honour the tree by acknowledging its strength and height, and I dedicate myself to achieving a relatively similar stature. As this awesome member of nature welcomes my energy and commitment, an awakening occurs.

The lowest branches are now too high for a man to quickly scale. I wonder if this majestic tree was planted at the perfect time; thirty years ago her limbs were low enough for her to offer safe haven for a scared little boy. Some force was looking after me.

I quickly move down the walking track, negotiating the bush as if I own the property. I stop in a spot that I recall was covered by brambles. Kneeling behind them, I could look up and down the track. There was also a spot off the track that I could slide down and be completely hidden—this was my favourite spot, I felt the safest here.

Even as a child I had skills relevant to staying alive which my military life was yet to re-enforce. I intuitively knew where to be to see if anybody was approaching, and what escape routes I had available to me and I instinctively knew when to run. I would sit here and cry until exhausted and convince myself it wouldn’t happen again.

Revisiting this place gives me an understanding that I was meant to survive.

‘Maybe I was meant to survive so I would get this opportunity to come back and understand how much this safe place meant to me. Or maybe I survived so I could tell others of my story which may in turn help them to heal,
’ I whisper to myself.

I sit silently for a good while and allow the tears to trickle down my face.