Dancing with Demons

by Tim Watson-Munro

  I was happy with this arrangement. I wanted to ease myself into the process, a bit like testing the temperature of a warm bath with your toes.

  The session then ended with me marvelling at how quickly the time had passed. Although I had been uncomfortable and had found it very difficult to discuss the complexities of my emotional state, I left the session feeling less burdened. I prayed that this day heralded my psychological renaissance.

  The next few sessions were uneventful. I was predictably defensive, effectively staying mute for the clinical hour, and Dr Smith was highly non-directive in his approach.

  Eventually the psychological impasse was broken when I revealed that I had a recurring fantasy concerning running away to sea on a yacht. (This is evidently a popular fantasy of escape among middle-aged blokes in crisis.)

  ‘I just want to piss off,’ I lamented. ‘I’m sick of my life. I can’t bear the notion of facing the day each morning. I just want to be left alone.’ Frustrated tears of despair welled in my eyes.

  Dr Smith sensed that my petulant outburst, erupting as it did from the bowels of my soul, represented a significant breakthrough.

  ‘Where do you want to escape to?’ he gently enquired.

  ‘Dunno,’ I responded. ‘I just want to go away . . . away from all this shit . . . all my problems. I just want some peace!’ My despair was palpable.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure that you do. It seems to me, however, that what you essentially seem to be communicating to me is that you not so much want to geographically remove yourself but, rather, that your fantasy of escape reflects a desire to escape from or rid yourself of something that lies within you.’

  I was gobsmacked. I understood that analysis attempted to delve beyond the obvious and to interpret the message being given, rather than focusing on the actual content of what was being said. But to leap from my little escape fantasy of running away in a boat to this? I found his interpretation very confronting.

  And yet, despite my initial defensiveness, I knew that Dr Smith had touched a nerve. It was true. I desperately wanted to escape from that part of me which, as a consequence of my behaviour, I had now come to despise with such venom. This was the first time that I had come face to face with my inner demon.

  As the weeks and months progressed, many issues pertaining to my developmental history were explored. I wanted to assess my childhood more thoroughly in an attempt to possibly stumble upon some psychological clue that may provide the key to my psychological woes.

  Between sessions, my emotions tended to roller-coast. I left each session feeling a paradoxical mix of relief and agitation and generally spent the rest of the day processing what had emerged during my hour ‘on the couch’.

  Clearly something deep within my unconscious mind was being given a shove.

  Although Professor Schweitzer and Dr Smith agreed that I didn’t need to be an inpatient, they both thought I should have some time away from work. Shortly after I started seeing Dr Smith, Carla organised for us all to stay at her friend’s seaside retreat at Sorrento, a relaxing peninsula village about an hour’s drive from Melbourne. The chance to escape the city for a week or so, and to dry out while enjoying long walks along the picturesque coastline with my family, was too good an opportunity to pass over.

  My spell at Sorrento was also an opportunity for me to avoid the gathering storm of media interest in my situation, despite the fact that, at that stage, no formal charges had been laid.

  There were times, especially during those early days at Sorrento, when I felt very sorry for myself. This self-pity was generally short-lived, in no small measure because of the love and support that I received from my family and friends. They collectively empowered my resolve to kill the demon of my addiction.

  I kept in regular contact with my support team. David Stanley and Brian Rolfe would ring at random hours to check on my state of emotional and physical health. Occasionally Brian’s wonderful wife Kalli would also offer encouragement and support.

  ‘We all believe in you, Doctor, hurry up and get well,’ she’d say.

  ‘The first days are the hardest, hang in there, Tim,’ David would advise with genuine concern.

  Although I experienced the inevitable cravings for cocaine, these were largely offset by the fact I was physically removed from my suppliers and also by my overwhelming tiredness and desire to sleep. I had been chronically sleep-deprived for a very long time, thanks to my addiction. Sorrento was ideal for indulging in ‘catch-up footy’, so I slept with a vengeance. The tiredness continued for several months.

  When I wasn’t catching up on sleep, I enjoyed long beach walks. It was spring, a glorious season in Melbourne, and I was determined not to squander the opportunity to soak up the sunshine and – modestly to begin with – I commenced a fitness program. By the end of the first week, I was feeling a lot better. My sleep, although interrupted at times by dreams involving cocaine, was more consistent and restful.

  Carla was wonderful to me. She sensed my commitment to stay ‘clean’ and supported my efforts without qualification. Along with our decision to avoid reading newspapers while at Sorrento, we decided to postpone telling the kids about my plight.

  Eventually we returned to Melbourne, with me feeling better equipped to embrace my responsibilities and the long road to recovery that lay ahead. The sojourn by the sea had coincided with the September school holidays and the children were keen to return home to be with their friends and pets.

  Before Andrew’s arrest, my appointment diary had always been bursting at the seams with new referrals. Although in the months before the arrest I had reduced the tachometer of my working day from overdrive to about third gear, there was still enough work for me to survive.

  My temporarily buoyant mood, elevated by my abstinence from drugs at Sorrento and a conviction that I could drive my addiction into a state of permanent remission, was blown to smithereens when I returned to work after about three weeks.

  ‘All this shit in the papers has nuked your practice,’ my dispirited secretary Louise advised. ‘When do you think I should start looking for another job?’

  Like many of my close associates, Louise had had no idea about my cocaine addiction. The public way in which she learned of my ‘secret’ hurt her immensely, and in my absence her sense of betrayal had transformed into a quiet, seething rage.

  She was an unbelievably capable and loyal personal assistant, and although her tendency to call a spade a shovel occasionally stuck in my craw, I valued her for being a great and honest mate and for her ability to get the job done. The thought of her leaving at this difficult juncture was enough to give me hives. I knew that I had to square off with her if I was to have any chance of getting through this latest crisis.

  ‘Turn it up, I’ve not been charged yet,’ I said.

  ‘You may as well have been,’ she gleefully retorted in her inimitable way. ‘Have a look at your diary, it’s fucked. All I’ve done for the past fortnight is field calls from your media mates and accept cancellations. Your schedule has been halved!’

  Reluctantly, I peeped at my diary. The pages were covered with red lines.

  Well, it can only get better, I thought.

  My visit to the office that day was brief. One or two of my ‘regulars’ arrived, heartening my deflated spirit with their expressions of loyalty. However, my assessment referrals, the ‘meat and potatoes’ of my practice, had evaporated. After discussing the situation with Louise and apologising profusely for all of the recent fuss, I headed home, berating myself along the way for having totally blitzkrieged my life and what had once been an enviable and prosperous practice.

  The next couple of months were uneventful. My workload started to regain some of its lost momentum with the arrival of some forensic assessment work and the occasional Supreme Court appearance. Despite my situation being very public knowledge around the legal corridors of Melbourne, the Office of Public Prosecutions continued to treat me with respect when I was providing expert
testimony in the courts. I realised that this unspoken accord was, at best, temporary, and that there were some among its ranks who would have dearly loved to further humiliate me by hurling a few Molotovs my way while I was under oath in the witness box. Still, even they seemed to respect the fact that an accused person is entitled to the presumption of innocence until proved otherwise.

  I greatly appreciated this.

  On 14 November 1999, Brian rang me.

  ‘Your “bluey” has arrived,’ he chimed, referring to the arrival of the summons from the police. ‘The first mention date is exactly a month from now, December 14th. I reckon we should bowl it over then, get it out of the way this side of Christmas.’

  ‘Well, you don’t buy a dog and bark yourself, whatever you think,’ I responded.

  ‘And if you pay peanuts, you’ll get a monkey,’ Brian chortled.

  This was his subtle way of letting me know that the team would not countenance me putting my hand in my pocket to secure their services on the day. I was overwhelmed by their generosity, which was imparted in such a way as to leave what was left of my crumpled sense of dignity reasonably intact.

  ‘If nothing else, I’m blessed with great mates,’ I reflected as I ended the call in order to phone Carla with the news.

  The evening meal that night was a solemn affair. We had decided that this was the time to tell the children. As predicted, their reactions were far from pleasant.

  ‘Will you go to jail, Dad?’ asked Tom, his trembling voice attempting to hold back the tears that were welling in his eyes.

  ‘I hope not, mate,’ I quickly responded.

  While it would have been easier and no doubt more psychologically palatable to dismiss the seriousness of my plight, our household has always been framed around complete frankness. My lawyers believed a non-conviction bond was the appropriate disposition, but I took nothing for granted. If I received a harsh result in court, the impact on the kids would be much worse. I hugged Tom and attempted to hug the others.

  Gabby was furious with me. ‘How could you do this?’ she spat, before rounding on Carla to demand further explanation. ‘Did you know what was going on, Mummy? Why did you let him do it? What’s going to happen to us?’

  Jessica, too, vented her spleen. ‘And you carry on with me about the perils of alcohol. You’re a hypocrite, Dad,’ she exclaimed before bursting into tears.

  Sensitive little Laura was too young to fully appreciate the gravity of it all but sensed the seriousness of the moment. She hugged Tom and joined the cacophony of tears that had overwhelmed the dining room.

  I felt lower than a gravedigger’s pick. What could I say? They were right and their anger was well justified. The true selfishness of my drug use finally dawned upon me and I vowed to maintain my drug-free status for the rest of my life.

  The next month passed uneventfully. In addition to seeing Professor Schweitzer and my analyst, I also started seeing a drug and alcohol counsellor, Dr Alan Gijsbers. I continued with my exercise plan – a regular Sunday morning bike ride with David Stanley, Brian Rolfe and Philip Dunn, and a twice-weekly stint at the local gym. David was the driving force behind my physical recovery. He would regularly collect me in the early hours to ensure that I would be out of bed and punctual for the personal trainer he had organised.

  I found the gym attendance to be about as uplifting as root canal therapy. Years of sedentary slothfulness had taken the shine off my physique, which in an earlier life had proudly burst through the winner’s tape at school athletics meets. The bike rides, in contrast, were relaxing affairs, which provided a chance for me to unwind with my friends, who I suspected were silently assessing my mood and looking for any signs of relapse, either real or potential.

  As the court hearing approached, my levels of anxiety, sleeplessness and general distractibility rose. The gradual recovery in my mood state was seriously challenged about a month before the summons arrived. My much-loved mentor Dr David Sime died unexpectedly from a heart attack while relaxing at home one Saturday evening. His tragic death presented the first acid test of my recovery.

  The shattering confrontation of his loss could easily have led to a relapse, but I was graciously asked by his widow Pamela to deliver the eulogy at his funeral, and this task distracted me sufficiently from my grief.

  My resolve to stay drug-free was also strengthened at that time by the birth of my fifth child, Nicholas. The long hours that I spent with Carla in the labour ward sheltered me from the pain of David’s death. The amazing juxtaposition of my joy at being asked to assist the obstetrician with the delivery and the backdrop of my escalating grief is still impossible to adequately articulate.

  The night before my long-awaited court appearance, I was unusually relaxed. The kids seemed to have accepted the situation and, with great maturity, were prepared to deal with the stream of adverse publicity which was bound to erupt once my formal plea of guilty had been entered and dealt with. For my part, I believed that I had done everything possible to demonstrate my remorse and a consistent approach to recovery. There was no argument; my recovery was progressing well and the opprobrium of the preceding three months had steeled my resolve to forevermore follow the right path.

  ‘Please stand up, Mr Watson-Munro,’ commanded the sympathetic though appropriately formal magistrate, Mr Bruce Cottrill. This was the moment of reckoning, the fraction of time that would determine whether or not my career would shatter around me or if I would be spared the ignominy of a very public perdition. I was well represented that sunny Tuesday morning, 14 December 1999. Brian Rolfe had briefed Terry Forrest QC who, like Brian, had been a close mate for years.

  Mr Cottrill, too, was generous of spirit that day. Notwithstanding the seriousness of the charges (one count of use and one count of possession of cocaine) he was ‘moved’ by the strength of the testimonials regarding my professional practice and character. He kindly suggested that my ‘integrity was beyond reproach’ and signalled his wish to see a ‘significant and important career’ continue. He ultimately accepted that my woes were a function of a debilitating medical condition, and adjourned my case without conviction subject to my agreeing to be of good behaviour for the next twelve months and agreeing to pay the sum of $1000 into the court poor box.

  As I departed the court in the company of Carla and my father-in-law Hans, I was overwhelmed by the number of media people waiting on the steps, at least five deep. Microphones were thrust in my face, seeking a comment. Brian had cautioned me against giving a speech, but I nonetheless felt it was my responsibility and obligation to say something about my situation. I thanked the court for its compassion, stating that I had learnt a valuable lesson and that I wished to move forward with my life. As a closing comment I added, ‘For those of you who think there is anything glamorous in drugs, think again, have a look at me . . .’ With that, we proceeded down the street with numerous cameras in tow.

  We returned to Brian’s office and I felt a huge sense of relief that I had not been convicted. In my desire to make a clean break from my prior addiction, I had made admissions against my own interest about the protracted and intense nature of my cocaine use. I was enormously grateful for the compassion of the court and the messages of support which were pouring into Brian’s office as well as my mobile telephone. The story was the lead on the midday ABC news.

  The relief of the moment, and the ruling itself, lulled me into a temporary sense of closure. I now had an opportunity to get on with rebuilding my life and my practice.

  The Psychologists Registration Board of Victoria, however, had other ideas.

  CRUEL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT

  The morning following my appearance and plea at the Melbourne Magistrates’ Court was uneventful. I knew that the morning papers would be carrying the story and yet, in a strange way, I was so relieved at the result that I was more or less indifferent to the sensationalism which I suspected would characterise any reporting of the matter. So much so that I slept in before casually wa
lking to the local milk bar to ‘read all about it’. And besides, there were only ten days until Christmas.

  I eventually found myself at the office, where the phone was running hot with calls from well-wishers. As I expected, there were also a lot of calls from media outlets hassling me for my story. Later in the day, after discussions with Carla, I decided to talk to Woman’s Day. I liked the sound of the journalist who had approached me. He was bright and sympathetic.

  I had no qualms about negotiating a fee. Frankly, we needed the money. By this stage I had been drug-free for several months and was no longer haemorrhaging $2000 a week to fuel my addiction. But after my appearance in court, I knew that there would be no more work coming through until at least early in the new year. And it could take six to twelve months for my practice to resuscitate itself.

  In the meantime, I spent most of the working day at my office. Long gone was the constant chirping of the telephone announcing a steady stream of new referrals. In contrast, when the telephone did ring it was usually a disgruntled creditor at the end of the line seeking payment.

  Towards the end of December, a letter from the Victorian Psychologists Registration Board arrived, advising that before my registration for the following year could be ratified, it would be necessary for me to attend an ‘interview’ to discuss my addiction and what steps towards recovery had occurred since its discovery. The tone of the letter was stern, but I didn’t feel too worried. A number of my friends in the legal profession had told me about other cases of psychologists who had managed to secure professional registration even though they had a criminal record of conviction – unlike myself, who had escaped with a bond without conviction.

  As it turned out, the letter was feeble in comparison to the Molotov which arrived from the board in the middle of February, advising of its intention to proceed with the ‘interview’ on 9 March.

  My heart sank.

  I knew it hadn’t helped that news of my cocaine use had erupted a mere six months after I had been reprimanded for my professional misconduct. The board had invested a small fortune in that enquiry and I suspected that they now had me squarely in their sights.