Dancing with Demons

by Tim Watson-Munro

  My client had lost his sense for the future, with him expressing considerable despair: ‘People and lives were destroyed by the militia . . . the war took away my life and my dreams . . . I wanted to be an architect.’ As his subsequent attempts at university reflected, he was sufficiently intelligent to have taken up this option had it been available to him. I argued that these issues established the platform for his ongoing, escalating psychological malaise in Australia.

  Nonetheless, for a time Al-Kutobi settled into life in Australia and he enrolled at RMIT University in Melbourne, where he studied an Advanced Diploma of Aerospace Engineering. It was a two-year course but, regrettably, he left after a semester because of his emotional travails and financial issues.

  Al-Kutobi then relocated to Sydney where he secured shared accommodation with the co-accused, Mohammad Kiad, and got a job in the security industry, which he held until late 2013. Following that, he had a range of brief casual jobs before gaining employment as a truck driver’s offsider, a job he held until his arrest in July 2014.

  My assessment indicated a spiralling emotional state during this time involving escalating depression and significant anxiety. In the absence of social or family support, and any type of treatment, he drifted into a pattern of abusing ice, cocaine, alcohol and pot. It was clear that he was experiencing some features of post-traumatic stress disorder arising from his memories of his time in Baghdad. In this context, Al-Kutobi was vulnerable and emotionally fragile, rendering him susceptible to adverse peer group dynamics and radicalisation and propaganda.

  Al-Kutobi’s story is not unique. The explosion of refugees from Syria into Europe and elsewhere has been a direct consequence of the destabilisation of the Middle East region, arising in my view from the initial invasion of Iraq in 2003. Ordinary lives characterised by prodigious employment, study and a sense of the future have been traumatically removed in an instant for millions of people. Families have lost loved ones. Refugees understandably fear for the future and live with the burden of uncertainty and the spectre of death on a daily basis. It is also true that, among many, there is a simmering resentment, if not hatred, regarding what has happened to their countries of origin. Rightly or wrongly, the US and its allies are blamed for this.

  Al-Kutobi was sentenced in the Supreme Court at Parramatta. The grave nature of his intended actions was clearly reflected in a heavy sentence of twenty years with a non-parole period of fifteen years. Consequently Al-Kutobi is not eligible to be released to the community until 2031. By the time he was sentenced, the radicalisation which he had previously expressed had dissipated. I found him to be an individual who had reflected long and hard upon his position and expressed deep remorse for his behaviour. I felt in many ways that if he had not been separated from his family at such a tender age, in all likelihood he would not have fallen into such grave error. In real terms his life has now come to an end and his prospects for the future are very bleak. Adding to his despair, it is unlikely that he will ever see his family, who have continued to live in Germany, again.

  DOPAMINE COWBOYS

  It may surprise some to learn that Sigmund Freud waxed lyrical about the miraculous curative powers of cocaine, as a tonic for everything from impotence or low libido to a cure for heroin addiction.

  As far back as the 1880s, he was experimenting with the drug. As legend has it, Herr Freud (no April Fool), scored his first bag of ‘The Other’ at Angel’s Pharmacy in Vienna on 2 April 1884. His last bag was discovered in a sealed envelope in the US Congress Library Reading Room in 1995. It was among a mate’s papers.

  Unlike most users, Freud evidently was happy to share. He had learned of the drug through The Therapeutic Gazette, a medical journal, sponsored by Parke Davies. Not to be left out, a major competitor, Bayer, captured the legal heroin market. Never slow to recognise an opportunity to seize a buck, Parke Davies paid Freud a handsome fee to spruik cocaine’s miraculous medicinal properties. As Big Kev was to white goods, Freud became the poster boy for cocaine.

  Such was his rapture in 1884 he published ‘Über Coca’, a self-proclaimed ‘song of praise’, extolling the exhilaration associated with cocaine use. He waxed lyrical and high about the benefits of a regular ‘toot’ during the day. These included reduced fatigue and a sharpened crystallised intellect. He also spoke of its libidinous properties.

  Coke became readily available in pharmacies throughout the land, no doubt fuelled by an escalating band of devotees and patients who had, with the imprimatur of their physician Dr Freud, developed a strong affection for its use. Not to be outdone, the liquor industry incorporated coke into their wine range. Vin Mariani was one major supplier of coca wine, a product which was endorsed by none other than Pope Leo XIII, who awarded the company a gold medal in recognition of its service to society.

  It was, after all, touted as a miracle drug, which could also cure morphine addiction. Some suggest that some of Freud’s most brilliant theories occurred at times when he was in a euphoric coke-induced state. Sadly, little was written at the time about its devastating addictive properties, including psychosis and profound rebound depression. It was eventually banned in the USA in 1920.

  *

  We are all potential junkies. In my opinion, it is really just a question of degree and poison of choice. Who really thinks they will end up an alcoholic when they take their first sip of wine?

  I have assessed individuals who are addicted to all sorts of things. Porn, gambling, the theft of underwear from clotheslines (which is more commonly described as ‘snow dropping’), religion, Coca-Cola, chocolate and illicit drugs. Anything that activates the pleasure centres in the brain – clickity clack – once the connection to the stimulus is made, all bets are off.

  The neurochemistry of addiction is simple. We take our poison because it makes us feel better. This is because the reward system in the brain is triggered, releasing the powerful neurochemical dopamine, among others. In other words, we self-medicate. Even if it only works for a nanosecond.

  A dramatic case in point relates to a highly successful businessman I once assessed. He was becoming increasingly run down due to long and onerous work hours. He was chronically fatigued and running out of puff. It was at about the time that ice was gaining a foothold in Australia. Of all the junk poison people choose to hoover up their nose, whack into their arms or stick up their arse, ice is the worst. It has no fear. The padded cells or hospitals wards could not stretch far or fast enough to accommodate the truckloads of newly initiated devotees. Their fried brains hear voices, see visions and perpetuate unbridled paranoia, often leading to a berth in a nut house. In these so-called ’safe havens’, imaginary bugs infesting subcutaneous areas can be picked, drilled and poked at ad nauseum.

  For this bloke, his tragic decline began from the moment he tasted the powerful ice elixir. His energy restored, his neurones firing on supercharged dopamine, he felt unassailable, inevitably leading to dangerous and overwhelming delusions, in particular a belief that he could commune directly with nature and her creatures.

  Among the many effects of ice, users report an enhanced Formula 1 libido, which for some draws them into the murky world of internet pornography. Sadly, this was the case for the businessman. As his use and his addiction increased, his poor judgement, arising from his delusions, escalated to the point of a rampant psychosis. Eventually his platonic love for the beasts escalated to the physical. He frequented pet shops all over the city to procure the objects of his affection. However, what was a deeply felt, albeit psychotic, expression of love for him was, sadly, a fatal act for the creatures he communed with. Eventually, he was brought before the court. In my view it was abundantly clear that he was highly disturbed. It was equally apparent that his behaviour had arisen against a backdrop of the impact of his drug use, and that the psychosis which ice induced in him dramatically changed his perception of reality and consequential thinking. At the time of his offending, he had no real comprehension of his behaviour, but when he sto
pped using, he was horrified by his actions.

  Unfortunately, at that stage the ice epidemic had not fully exploded in Sydney and consequently its toxic, deadly addictive properties were not necessarily fully understood; these days the courts would have no difficulty in understanding that protracted ice use can lead to psychotic episodes. The magistrate was not persuaded by the argument that the businessman’s addiction had affected his judgement, and sentenced him to over a year’s imprisonment.

  Over the past decade I have assessed thousands of individuals who have developed an addiction to this insidious drug. Many, if not most of them, describe intense psychotic breaks under its influence. They report being terrified by the visions they see and the voices they hear. It’s little wonder that they then respond at times with extreme violence in the delusional belief that their own lives are at risk.

  *

  Every now and then, even with my vast experience of the unusual, I am thrown a curve ball, which severely challenges my expertise.

  One such case arrived in early 2005. The client was a well-presented female, and a professional. She was not your run-of-the-mill client. Highly articulate but edgy, I invited her to take a seat.

  ‘Your lawyer hasn’t sent me a letter of instruction,’ I said, wondering why she had been referred, ‘this generally happens before I see clients.’

  ‘That’s because I’m not in trouble, well not yet,’ she responded. ‘I don’t have a lawyer, but I need help, I know of you and thought you may be able to assist me, I am so embarrassed about this.’

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed, I’m not here to judge you . . . I’ve heard it all.’ This was my regular response to this type of comment and it led to the usual reaction.

  She began to weep.

  ‘I am not a treating psychologist,’ I gently continued, ‘my expertise lies in assessment, but seeing you’re here, why don’t you tell me about the issue, I can then perhaps recommend a practitioner who may be able to help.’

  And so, with all the force of a fully discharged bazooka, she let it rip.

  ‘I love to suck,’ she blurted. ‘It’s beyond my control, I can’t help it, I get the urge and go to the local park to wait. I sit on benches at dusk.’

  ‘Is that it?’ I responded, feeling somewhat confronted by her candour.

  ‘No, it’s not.’ She smiled, having partially regained her composure. ‘I have a real thing for men in pinstriped suits.’

  I blushed, fortunately, upon double-checking, I confirmed my suit for the day was plain charcoal grey.

  ‘How often does this happen?’ I enquired, trying to gauge the strength of her compulsion.

  ‘Well generally on Fridays, after I’ve finished work.’

  ‘Are you sober at the time, or is it more likely to happen when you’ve had alcohol, or drugs?’

  By this stage of my life, I knew that the type of uniform a person wears, be it professional or otherwise, had little to do with their choice of substance.

  ‘Oh, I never do drugs,’ she exclaimed, somewhat taken aback by my line of questioning. ‘No, it’s generally after a few drinks. I get the urge, I start fantasising and before I know it, I’m at the park.’

  ‘What happens next?’ I had to avoid sounding voyeuristic, but I needed to know so I could understand her ritual and offer advice.

  ‘Well, it started with one bloke. I felt disgusted afterwards, but it was really exciting for me, he was tall, well-coiffured and cute . . . he was wearing a pinstriped suit and it kinda went from there.’

  At that point, I realised this was how the attraction to this type of suit had commenced. She had associated, through her sexual rapture, pinstripes with orgasmic pleasure.

  She continued, ‘I told him I liked his suit, it suggested he was clean and professional, he loved the random nature of it too. It was quick, dangerous and exciting.’

  She was well aware that her behaviour and his, if discovered in such a public setting, would inevitably lead to criminal charges being pressed. Despite the possibility of losing her reputation, her relationship (yes, she had a partner!) and her career, she felt compelled to finish the job. Indeed, the dangers were a big part of her accelerating drive, enhancing her arousal and the power of her climax. She described his pleasure, believing that the spontaneous anonymity of the act led to his almighty knee-trembling groan when he came. She added, ‘Very little was said, no real interaction . . . beyond the act itself.’

  When it concluded, he zipped up his fly and nonchalantly, without a word being exchanged, disappeared into the fading light. She returned home feeling troubled but highly elated. Her dopamine levels were off the dial. By this stage, she had my full attention as she continued.

  ‘The following Friday he turned up again . . . it became a regular thing.’

  It was clear she was excited by the anonymous danger attached to her behaviour. As the history unfolded, it also became apparent that the bespoke pinstriped bloke, despite his polished attire, was far less than a gentleman. It was obvious that this cad had shared his exploits with his mates.

  She continued, ‘After the third encounter, other men, dressed just like him in pinstriped suits, started to appear on nearby park benches. I smelt a rat, but I couldn’t help myself, I blew the lot of them one by one, bench by fuck’n bench.’

  I sensed she was getting aroused when recounting the tale.

  I also realised this woman was in trouble and that this certainly wasn’t my area of expertise.

  ‘Sounds like you have an addiction to sexual excitement,’ I said. ‘It’s not my area, but you could try attending Sex Addicts Anonymous.’

  In the early ’90s this type of therapy was evolving, based on the principles of Alcoholics Anonymous. It allowed the afflicted to share stories of their encounters, with others, in a warm, supportive and totally anonymous way. I had wondered, however, if the mutual sharing of hot salacious tales of random sexual confrontations may be counterintuitive in terms of its mission statement. However, from what I had read, the fellowship of the sexually addicted seemed to assist.

  ‘Why don’t you give it a try and, in the interim, I’ll make some enquires about who has the expertise in this field.’

  And so, with a handshake and a strong sense of purpose and commitment, she left.

  Sex can be highly addictive. The survival of our species depends on it. Burnt-out business executives, immersed in an exciting world of predatory sex, willingly throwing a few hundred at a rent boy while away from the family on a convention. Academic lawyers who enjoy nothing more than the simpering, grunting release of their repressed tension into a snug, fitted nappy. I’ve examined them all. It is real and probably happening in your neighbourhood. Beyond a knowing smirk, it is never discussed, nor judged. Porn is the one driver that has made the internet so powerful and lucrative. One Australian study suggested the largest observers of porn are bored Australian housewives. Trapped in loveless, sexless marriages, it provides a safe, anonymous outlet for them.

  Many years ago, I was asked to assess a bloke in his early thirties, a well-educated professional pharmacist. Neatly attired and articulate, he had fallen into catastrophic error due to his addiction of stealing women’s panties from clotheslines. Back in the day when every suburban quarter-acre block proudly sported a Hills Hoist to dry clothes on, visions of fluffy, laced women’s underwear being gently buffeted by a lingering zephyr was, for him, overwhelming.

  During the day his professional obligations provided some distraction as he dispensed scripts to the physically and mentally frail. But in the background, his love of a lacy gusset was spiralling. ‘Just one last time . . .’ was his refrain as he confessed to me the progression of his addiction. And yet, one last time was never enough. As it happened, there was a very special clothesline in suburban Melbourne that caught his attention and desire with its display of erotic, magnificent panties and associated lust, danger and excitement. He was hooked.

  The compulsion to return day after day skewered hi
s mind and eventually sowed the seeds of his demise. Although panty-pinching can be mere sport for some, for others, when the thrill is gone, it can escalate into more confronting, aggressive forms of sexual release.

  The victim was understandably worried about her safety and that of her family. VicPol decided to stake out her yard with a closed-circuit television camera. They patiently waited in the certain knowledge that the offender would return.

  It was an undignified end. A perversely aroused man, eyes on stalks, cautiously entered the yard. His anticipation and excitement leapt from the screen. It was not, however, the visual image which captured me. Rather, in keeping with the French ambience of his adventures, a scarcely audible ‘Voila’ could be heard, beyond his quivering climax.

  When the police ransacked his home searching for more evidence they found a ‘secret room’ and were confronted with floor-to-ceiling stacks of panties. A veritable Aladdin’s cave of lingerie. Even for hardened, seasoned detectives, it was overwhelming. In the words of one officer, ‘Sick cunt, mate. A sick cunt . . .’

  This was a very sad case in many respects. It clearly demonstrated the capacity of a person’s sexual drive to override their judgement. The man’s wife had no idea about his panty addiction. It was another example of a highly intelligent, well-educated individual prepared to risk all in the pursuit of sexual pleasure. Fortunately, the courts shared my view that with support, supervision and treatment, the man’s overall prognosis was positive and accordingly he was dealt with in a compassionate and lenient way.

  But back to my patient with a taste for good tailoring. A fortnight after our initial consultation she telephoned my office. I asked if she’d followed my advice and, if so, had it helped. By then I had located a therapist who was prepared to speak with her. I was keen to move on.