Little Tim, Big Tim (16 page)

I stand outside a nondescript toilet block twenty-five years after the torment and torture; twenty-five years after the cruel and depraved grabbed us with their dirty hands, the stall doors swinging closed, trapping James and I for their pleasure.

We were the meat in our father’s sandwich. He would arrange for the paedophiles to be at these locations when we arrived. One of us would be sent in first whilst the other was held by the Old Man to ensure that he didn’t lose half the money he’d arranged as payment.

I tell myself I need to go through the ‘I feel’ process. I start to shake from the knees up.

‘How do I feel?’

‘I feel nauseated, I feel scared, I feel used, I feel angry, I feel expendable, I feel hurt, I feel lost, I feel vulnerable, I feel frightened.’

‘I’m seeing myself bent over the toilet bowl as the man is holding me down with one hand and is pulling my pants down with the other. The pain is indescribable; the stench of the toilet sickens me as much as the depraved act I am suffering.’

‘How do I feel about that?’

‘I feel hopeless; I feel like a piece of shit; I feel like someone’s sex toy.’

‘How does that make me feel?’

‘That makes me feel angry, that makes me wonder why was I born into this family, that makes me feel that I should be able to find something positive by now. ‘Should’ is a shaming word. I survived; I survived… that’s the only positive that I can take from revisiting this place. I survived, I survived.’

My breathing returns back to normal from a hyperventilated state. My legs begin to stop shaking. I look at the toilet block and declare to the bricks and mortar, as if they are able to register,

‘I survived.’

My breathing slows, my muscles relax and I feel warm.

This is bizarre to me as I am in the open mountain air, the wind howling around me; the chill stings my skin, however I feel warm inside. The technique I used, like others I have been shown, has helped me get through this today. I have no idea how they function, I just know that they work.

Samford, Brisbane: the location of Dr Jan Ewing’s psychology practice. Nestled outside the rural township of Samford, the wooden cottage provides a haven for her clients. My relationship with Dr Jan has grown. I am in a place of no return. I wait for her to finish with the client that currently holds her undivided attention. Not usual for me, I pace her carpeted floor attempting to distract myself by absorbing the titles of the books on her bookshelf. The majority of the written material relates to wartime conflicts that Australian military personnel have been involved in.

My apprehension with this particular visit revolves around pre-empting Dr Jan informing me that she would like to continue a therapy technique known as Eye Moment Desensitisation Response, EMDR. The technique of EMDR, in layman’s terms, allows the subject to access and identify dormant memories of traumas suffered in the past, and enables them to be processed into memories without the overwhelming, debilitating emotions attached. This helps the participant find relief from the irrational responses that surface from various psychological triggers. A lot of progress has already been achieved with the treatment of PTSD related to my military service. However, the journey into suppressed memories is extremely frightening and emotionally and physically exhausting.

The fear, the cold clammy skin, the nausea arising within, forewarns me that once again the suppressed, forgotten childhood issues that I have previously not ranked as having any importance are to be revisited.

The journey back to the bricks and mortar that housed the nightmares I experienced is presented to Dr Jan in the form of a video. The viewing brings us closer as she sees that I am diligently applying myself to my recovery, and as much as she attempts to be the consummate professional, her emotions are noticeable.

The progress to date has opened my mind to accept that my continuity of memory is not similar to other peoples, as I have falsely convinced myself I live with a reality that most rational people would never be able to conceive. As with most good therapists, Dr Jan is more aware of what I need to go through to heal, and also of the denial I need to shed. The intense sessions, often terrifying, at times leave me numb—so much so that I can’t recall all that transpires.

Dr Jan knows more about me than I do; she realises I’m awaiting EMDR and her reassuring look lightens the sensation that is squeezing my chest. Her expression shifts as she studies my face; she is determining which one/part of us is sitting before her. I am comfortable in her plush chair in the session room as she takes me into an EMDR trance. An infant voice within a grown man answers her.

‘Hi Dr Jan it’s me.’

‘Little Tim, do you realise what we are going to do today?’

‘Yes, but I’m a bit scared.’

‘I’ll be there with you. I’ll keep you safe.’

This is the first time in decades that Little Tim has ventured from the psyche into the present. As Dr Jan guides him to memories, the relocation and sudden appearance back to his parent’s bedroom overwhelms him. His senses indicate to him that this is the past, however somehow it is still the present. The initial smell of talcum powder is then overpowered by perfume, known as ‘White Linen’. This reminds him of nice mum when it was safe to approach her and be encompassed by her ever-present scent. The shuffling of his feet is the only sound in the room; the fibres from the carpet between his toes feel strange and new. His little hand rests on the end of the bed, which is chest high; it vibrates from movement in the bed. The movement belongs to two people, one being his mother, the other a teenage child.

He is shocked as he looks at the teenage child whose facial features alter from those of a boy to those of a girl. He realises that he is looking at himself as a teenager, as Little Big Tim.

He runs and hides his face into the comer where the cupboard abuts the wall. As this event transpires, the trance is broken and I am suddenly bunched up into the comer of the session room armchair. I am shaking and my face muscles contort to exhibit terror.

‘I want you to wake up now,’
Dr Jan requests.

My mind has never been more ‘mush’ and the unconnected information stirred by the EMDR session needs to be given the chance to be organised and arranged. I look deep into Dr Jan’s eyes and without any reservation request to be admitted to the Psych ward until I can find some reality as to what has happened in my life. The Psych ward is the safest place to be because if the supreme fear engulfs me I become catatonic.

I am admitted to the ward and processed. I reiterate to the nurse who is doing the interview what I have discovered about myself. She takes notes as I explain the pain.

‘As a child I suffered emotional, physical and sexual abuse for a period of at least ten years. The primary abuser was my father, who additionally farmed my brother and me out to other paedophiles for money. These rapes occurred within high society homes in Sydney in the form of satanic rituals.

After the age of ten, the rapes were predominantly held at church members’houses, also the degrading experience of being prostituted inside public toilets.’

I pause as I catch my breath; the truth of the words has lost its sting. I feel that the confusion of emotions needs an example to illustrate my true misery.

‘I remember lying in filth on the floor of one of these toilets and I started to believe this was the only existence I deserved.

This belief was reinforced by the greatest betrayal of all that I suffered; my mother also used me as a sex toy.’

I study the nurse to see if there is a level of acceptance of my dysfunctional life story. She is rapidly taking notes when she raises her head and smiles a smile of all knowing. She is patient and allows no intrusion to the progress of my induction into the ward. Wisdom flickers from her eyes—it’s an unmistakeable sign that all the information I have presented is believed. Her previous exposure to this subject has given her intelligence that these events did transpire. I assume from one look that this is why she chose to be a mental health worker, to help people deal with their damaged past; and I believe these are the majority of her charges.
‘You’re very eloquent Tim, please continue.’

‘Anger inflamed my existence and behaviours. To manage the anger in my adult years, I abused myself with alcohol, drugs and other associated behaviours, all to numb-off any emotions.

The suppression of emotions has been the key to my survival, but now I am ready to step out of denial and face the fears which are dominating my life.

‘Denial is inappropriate. My brother has lived with the memories for twenty years, which have led to numerous psych ward hospitalisations. Recently I opened my own Pandora’s Box and have had four hospital admissions within a three-year period.

Since I was referred to Dr Jan Ewing, my Clinical Psychologist, truly, for the first time, I have had reason to wake up without vowing T wish I were dead!

‘Recently I was introduced to a technique known as Eye Movement Desensitisation Response (EMDR) technique.

‘I understand the technique allows the mind to release the dormant traumatic memories and lessens the fear to allow the patient to feel safe to release his or her pain. With me it’s been highly successful as the memories lose their fog’properties: the shadows became recognisable figures and the blurred images have new clarity. The suppressed becomes crystal clear.’

‘That sounds like you have a good grasp on the treatment you are getting
,’ the attentive nurse adds.

‘I’m facing the fear. Thats what I’m here for,’
I explain.

‘Yes, and you have been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder,

Acute Delusional (Persecutory Type) Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (Complex), Disassociation Identity Disorder. Is that correct?’

‘Yes
.
’

‘Good, is there anything else you would like to tell me?
’

To survive the ordeal I suffered, my response to the bizarre world I grew up in, was to create friends. Not the type that children confidently expose to their care-givers as imaginary friends, but in my case, I created complete personas to carry the functions of the body and the memories of the experiences that the mind and body endured. The trigger to create each persona was an emotion that finally became too overwhelming for me to absorb. I’m here to identify who they are now that its safe for us to become one. Also, when Little Tim saw himself at different ages
and as a girl, we decided that it was time to find some answers.’

‘You referred to yourself as we, Tim,’
her wise eyes bore into mine.

‘Sometimes we do that. It makes us feel comfortable.’

‘Ok Tim, I have finished the interview, now get some rest.’ ‘Thank you nurse, but we are here to do work.’

‘Rest tonight Tim, I will see you in the morning.’

The nurse closes her file, however not before we glimpsed her last note, it reads: ‘Patient refers to himself in multiples and when questioned doesn’t retract or rectify’

We know that referring to ourselves as ‘we’ is unusual, strange or frightening to the majority of the population. We know we are not normal and we have functioned within the world in the past because we believed everybody had the same madness in his or her head and had the same reality as our reality.

The Oxford dictionary definition for normal is: ‘conforming to a standard, usual, regular, ordinary and sane’. We stripped the belief that we were sane, ordinary, regular and normal and accepted that our realities are not similar to those of the general population.

The disassociation was a pseudo-sanity which allowed me to survive the nightmare which was my childhood. The irony being, what others would call abnormal is the only process we have had to ensure that we don’t become mentally dysfunctional.

The solitary technique (disassociation) resolves around belief that I wasn’t there and it didn’t happen. At the time, I have no evidence of the missing event, or knowledge of the missing gaps in my life, only memories of others looking at me strangely and reacting cautiously around me.

I can now admit to the dysfunctional and destructive periods that plagued and intruded my life. Until now I have managed to cover my mistakes, by not admitting to myself that they happened. The truth is: I am unaware of time and space when the dysfunction occurs, and to convince others to believe my unreal reality requires skill. Often I have to think on my feet and rapidly twist and turn the relative/normal reality. This process is acute and finely tuned.

To reverse this behaviour I understand that I need to apply strategies and diligently observe people’s reactions. If people are reacting to me adversely, I need to sit back and realise that a situation has occurred and that it is possible that the most appropriate persona is not present at the time. The pause creates time for a reassessment of the situation to be conducted, and for a rational response to be found.

I have an intuitive understanding that the personas need to be named and, not only do they need to be named but also they need to know each other. The acceptance from the personas that an integrated self can be achieved presents a goal for all the personas to discover when and why they arrived. This is an enormous relief, for now there is an opportunity to really validate each of the personas.

How does a child cope living in an environment gripped with fear, knowing that the parents he lives with are there to torment and torture him; abandoned by the other adults who live next door, down the road, at the church and at the school, who all know that this goes on? These other adults, seeing my parents as an embarrassment, just forced them to leave town so they wouldn’t be affected by their bizarre behaviour. The town folk had banished the madness again and again. Without conscious choice, I created my own survival system. Disassociative Identity Disorder (DID) had become my system of survival; that is how this child coped! Segregation is the old madness; now we need to break down the walls to plough through the pain, filth and scarring to eventually absorb the delusion and create the true reality. Integration becomes the new madness.

I have an overload, too much information that I don’t know what to do with. I don’t know how to decipher it, I don’t know what or who it is, and I don’t know what or who it was or what time-line it was. I know the memories are there, but I am not completely able to grip a clear understanding. I need to attempt to name all the personas and build a time-line. I disobey the directive from the nurse. I start to write.