‘Yes,’ she responded. ‘It was unbelievable, we all sat around in a group sharing stories of our sexual exploits during the week. It really helped knowing that I was not alone, that I was not some sort of freak.’
She added that she had not felt sufficiently confident to share her own tale. But listening to others had certainly helped, albeit with unintended consequences.
She described another member who liked to hang by his legs from the rafters of a public pool change room, watching women undress. And another, whose main game was to defecate at night in the gardens of inner-city parks as people walked by, oblivious to his perversion.
By comparison, she felt comparatively measured and in control. Her addiction was confined to Friday evenings.
She sounded relieved.
‘Well that’s just great,’ I responded.
‘Wait there’s more,’ she interjected. ‘At the end of the meeting, I was walking to my car and one of the participants drove by, honking his horn. He asked if I needed a lift. My car was only fifty metres away, but I realised all the sex talk had aroused me. I accepted his offer and before I knew it, we were screwing in the back seat.’
With this, I realised the all-consuming power of her addiction. Despite her pleas for assistance, she was hooked.
Eager to end the phone consultation in a professional manner, I closed by giving her the contact details of the therapist I’d located.
She thanked me profusely and rang off. Weeks later, the psychologist rang me to advise that his potential patient had not contacted him.
I wasn’t surprised. Clearly, the pleasure derived from the excitement of the random danger she experienced was too much to relinquish. I never heard from her again.
*
Whatever the addiction, junkies love the anticipation. Gamblers are no exception – the excitement of the race and, even if rare, the thrill of the win. The brief misery of a loss is rapidly offset and forgotten by the repeated process of anticipation and the excitement of another punt. An endless, exhausting treadmill until your money runs out.
Before you know it, the week’s wages, rent and groceries have vaporised.
‘Oh well! There’s always next week.’
Self-loathing, denial and avoidance inevitably follows until the secret little urges, often triggered by in-your-face marketing, rise once again, Phoenix-like from the ashes of a desiccated soul, to take command and resume the cycle. And so the pattern of self-deceit, the lies, the double life for some, continues.
Punters often describe being in a state of dissociation during this time. A place where time and animation are suspended for hours. For some, who mix their addiction with drugs or booze, this state can last for days.
Alan Bond was addicted to ‘the deal’. A gambler of sorts, he pursued new ventures with all the zeal of a drunken sailor on a bender.
When I asked him why, his response was unambiguous.
‘Mate, it was never the money. It was always the deal.’
Even when stricken in bed in Perth’s St Margaret’s hospital, under strict judicial order to rest during a critical adjournment hearing, he made in the order of 2000 business phone calls (all duly noted and recorded by the Crown), in addition to flying with his son Craig to St Bees Island off the Queensland coast to negotiate its multimillion dollar purchase. Ahh . . . dopamine, the rush . . .
Consider also the celebrated case of Harry Kakavas. Harry was referred to me in the 1990s suffering from a severe gambling addiction. So much so that he sought a letter to have him excluded from Melbourne’s Crown casino. Harry is an extraordinarily intelligent bloke who made a fortune selling houses on the Gold Coast. However, despite his intellect, he could not resist the urge to punt.
When the higher-ups at Crown learned that Harry was being flown to Vegas to gamble vast sums, it was resolved to get him back to Crown, through the back door, secure in the knowledge he would wager the world in order to satisfy his lust for the baccarat table. And he did. Despite losing a personal fortune of more than $30 million, as part of his pleadings for damages in a subsequent court battle, an analysis of his spend over a twelve-month period revealed he had moved in excess of $1 billion. He lost the case because the bench was not satisfied he was not responsible for his actions.
Comfort eaters feel better when they binge on sweets, especially chocolate. The major constituent of chocolate of course is cocoa. I recently assessed a recovered cocaine addict who dealt with his cravings by devouring chocolate, washed down with five litres of Coca-Cola per day. A novel approach. He relinquished his habit, gained thirty kilos and borderline diabetes in the process.
The government spends extraordinary amounts of money in the detection, incarceration and punishment of individuals who suffer a mental illness manifested by addictive behaviour. The hypocrisy is mind-boggling. We are actively encouraged to gamble with disregard to the devastating cost to the community and families who are affected by this type of addiction. We encourage drinking, which has a dramatic impact upon the community in terms of the road toll, violence, industrial accidents and failed families. The neurochemical pathways for these addictions and problematic behaviours are no different to those encountered in individuals who have used drugs. And yet one is stigmatised, criminalised and effectively banished from mainstream society while the other is not.
Given the wrong circumstances, we all have it in us to become prisoners, if not slaves, to our brain chemistry. Both drugs and gambling have dire, horrendous consequences for the afflicted and their families. Both can lead to escalating antisocial behaviour and imprisonment. This begs the question; why do we ascribe greater blame and less sympathy to the addict than the gambler?
*
Sadly, in 2017 substance misuse is ubiquitous. On a daily basis we read about the falls from grace of football stars, media stars and ordinary Australians who have succumbed to their addictions.
For me, cocaine use was symptomatic of a far more insidious malaise. Over many years of deep reflection, I realise that back then, in the absence of checks, balances and supervision, I could not cope with the reality of my world. A world which occupied the darkest side of the human psyche. Exposure to murder, rape and child abuse was my waking reality. Every single day and night. There was no respite.
While booze offered some palliative relief, coke transported me to another dimension. A world where emotion was warehoused. Where the horrors of my professional life lost their immediacy. It was highly seductive. I felt less alone when using the drug. It became my confidant and, for a time, constant companion. A strong, insane symbiotic love affair. Cocaine has a powerful ability to take over all rational thinking and to land you in the gutter quicker than Greased Lightning. Once I tried it, it was virtually inevitable, given my propensity to undertake all I do with focus and passion, that a habit and then addiction would follow. For a time, it was an occasional thing. Something shared in company, a Faustian pact among the narcissistic lonely. Highly successful people who, like me at the time, with all the hubris which fame and freight bestows, felt it was all perfectly reasonable.
One highly regarded legal professional would eagerly await an opportunity to indulge his rapacious enthusiasm for a bag of ‘Bolivian refreshment’. The glass covering one of his artworks was so overused from squashing and cutting up lines of coke, it was covered with long, deep grooves. A testament to a passionate, timeless tradition.
And he was not the only one. During the late ’90s the Melbourne criminal bar was pustular with closet coke users. It was a secret society. Subtle, knowing nods in the court corridors. Such was the coke-fuelled contempt of one addled barrister, he regularly, methodically, secreted ‘a bag’ under his wig to fortify himself during morning tea breaks.
Caroline Wilson described the phenomenon on Australian Story as ‘the Melbourne cocaine set’. This included not only leading silks, but also their juniors. They, too, were seduced by the glamour and keen to earn the approval of their masters with a view to advancing their
careers.
Not all whom I interacted with shared a love of coke. Others enjoyed booze or cannabis. I recall several dinner parties during the ’90s where bags of leaf were produced by the host and guests. With deft skill, which can only be acquired through decades of practice, a ‘Jonnie’ was rolled and passed around the table. This is not new behaviour. Alcohol abuse and associated mental instability has been well-recorded in the legal profession, including the judiciary.
The reality is that many individuals lead double lives which inevitably impact upon their judgement and consequently their capacity to objectively discharge their duties. It is a great pity that mental illness, including depression and drug addiction, cannot be more honestly and openly discussed without being stigmatised.
The point is we are all human, but some are treated more humanely than others.
SNAKE OIL AND OTHER THERAPISTS
The ice issue was fermenting during the dying days of my past life. In early 1999 a ‘coke drought’ was in play. My dealer (or one of them) spoke of an alternative.
‘Ice, mate. Fuck’n rocket fuel, mate. Ya smoke it . . . It travels forever and ya only need a small bit. More expensive than the other at $400. But, fuck, it’s the grouse.’
Perhaps I have a guardian angel. Perhaps not. In any event, to my eternal good fortune, I declined his offer. This decision, certainly not made on the basis of rationality but rather, raw, gut instinct, probably saved my life. No doubt it ultimately saved my sanity.
Since I returned to practice in 2004, a vast majority of offenders I see are habitually using or addicted to ice. It doesn’t discriminate and it takes no prisoners.
The cost, both accounted for and hidden, is astronomical. The daily tearing of our social fabric. Tax dollars drained on extra police resources, ambulances, and hospital emergency wards. An endless stretch and strain on the public purse to restrain and contain the afflicted and to protect the affected.
Despite the accelerating problem there is a treatment vacuum. There are limited public facilities, and even fewer which comprehend the complex dynamics associated with this highly addictive, dangerous drug. Families of addicts are overwhelmed by fear and uncertainty. They are vulnerable, with nowhere to turn.
Waiting lists for facilities can stretch to months. Lives are lost through delay.
Enter the bourgeoning industry of snake oil therapists and their perpetual cash cow: the rehabilitation clinic.
In a recent judgement in the Supreme Court of Victoria, His Honour Justice Coghlan made a none too subtle reference to the lack of accountability of these clinics and the individuals who run them. The government needs to ‘fill the breech’ and establish rehabilitation centres that are mandated by the courts for addicts, while simultaneously coming down hard on those individuals who seek to maximise huge profits by exploiting the vulnerabilities and miseries of others.
The lack of professionalism displayed by these ‘pop-up’ clinics disgusts me. There is an absence of any regulation at all by seemingly indifferent, incompetent health authorities. Literally anyone can put up a shingle to become a rehab clinic: plumbers, ex-footballers, dealers who have done jail time, former junkies whose only claim to expertise is their continuing recovery (or not); it is a horrifying market. I have heard tales where an upfront, non-refundable fee of $30,000 is demanded for thirty days. If the patient absconds, there is no refund. Desperate parents take out second mortgages to give their kid another chance.
There are also whispers of clinics where proprietors demand sexual favours from residents. The victim can’t complain because if they are forced to leave, they may have their bail revoked.
On the flipside, there are also dedicated, highly experienced recovered addicts who are trying to save souls. One facility I visited in recent times was run by a dedicated, charismatic counsellor who had been in recovery for decades. She was fully accredited in the Twelve Steps program and countenanced no bullshit. At all.
She had taken a lease on an old guesthouse. Masonite walls separated the residents. Well regarded by the courts, she enjoys a deserved and strong reputation for keeping addicts straight and keeping mothers with their children. I have nothing other than deep, unqualified respect for her and her team.
Sadly, her merciful, big-hearted approach was not shared by the landlord. His insatiable lust for a dollar saw the rent increase to the point where the margin on each person was three dollars per day. None of the money he ripped was channelled back to maintain the building and infrastructure. It was truly a sight from Dickens. In comparison, Oliver Twist had it good.
My friend faced an impossible task. She struggled in stoic silence until one winter morning a group of bikies, whistled up by the landlord, arrived. They strong-armed her and the vulnerable residents out of the facility. Frantic phone calls to local government and the media were completely stonewalled. No one is interested in a story where junkies are being stomped on. Better when they disappear. Twenty-five recovering addicts, with kids, thrown onto the street. Some returned to jail as their bail was breached by having no accommodation. No doubt others drifted into relapse. A heartbreaking story. And a stupid, short-sighted one.
The cost to the community in rendering these poor folk homeless, the cost of feeding some in jail, the systemic intergenerational toll of fragmented families can never truly be measured. And yet, when it comes to comprehensively and intelligently addressing society’s drug problem, we hear the talk, but rarely experience the walk from government. There are no votes in rehabilitation.
Better to lock ’em up. Better to stall the problem through mindless punishment. It’s not until one of their family is in strife that the bleating and conniptions about social justice commence.
My close friend Richard Smith, a recovered addict who established The Haider Clinic in Melbourne more than two decades ago, has a solution. Regulate, educate, legislate and medicate. The acronym RELM is gaining currency and respectability. More enlightened countries such as Portugal and the Netherlands realised years ago that the war on drugs was a febrile joke that achieved no more than growing the prison industry. The jails in those countries are shrinking, their keepers are now searching for work and their courthouses, freed from the pressures of ever-expanding criminal lists, are running more efficiently. It is a no-brainer.
Simply put, I am advocating for the regulation of treatment facilities. This will ensure proper supervision of the practitioners who, by mandate of law, should be properly trained and registered. Anything less makes a mockery of the process. Secondly, there needs to be a dramatic rethink by government concerning the ways in which people are managed. There is no place in the criminal justice system for people who are struggling with a mental disease.
Eventually, the cascade of my despair forced me to seek proper help: enter Professor Schweitzer. Carla and my inner sanctum, who were aware of my condition, also supported me enormously with this. Seeing him and others regularly helped me to address my severe depression.
Even exemplary and nuanced treatment has consequences. During the time I saw him to treat my depression, Professor Schweitzer monitored my medication and offered a rational, supportive framework for my recovery. The levelling of my mood through pharmacological means, however, came at a price. My libido, already severely challenged by my depressive illness, vaporised. Not only did I lose sexual desire, but on the rare occasions it materialised, I couldn’t finish the job. Ejaculation became a distant, faded memory. We are sexual beings. Our sense of self – and, for males, our sense of masculinity – is very much determined by sexual prowess. The inevitable consequence of not wanting a root and not experiencing the pleasure of orgasm further eviscerated my already shredded self-esteem. A vicious cycle. A constant battle between two negatives. Life-threatening depression or the tedium of medication. This, I believe, is why so many people who should maintain their medication become non-compliant. The price of the psychotropic killing of your humanity is to lose the joys which being human provides.
At times, Professor Schweitzer suggested I could have a ‘serotonin holiday’ – a brief cessation of the meds to allow some normal sexual interaction at home. The comedown from the meds, however, was horrible. Dizziness, nausea, irritability. In the end, I opted for virtual celibacy.
In hindsight, I realise that my depression and drug use had clouded my judgement about being supervised. My current position is much to the contrary. It is vitally important for psychologists and other mental health professionals to share the burden of their work under professional supervision from their peers.
To this day, I have regular supervision and discussions with a highly qualified clinical psychologist. This has made an enormous difference to the way that I approach my practice and, in particular, the work–life balance, which was singularly lacking in my life for many decades beforehand. The difference it has made to the quality of my work has been quite astounding.
My quality of life has also been enhanced, my relationship with others dramatically improved and, although it has happened at a late stage in my career, the priority of my children is now tantamount. In the past, I never had time to process what was occurring around me nor indeed to make changes to the way I conducted my life. Now I feel far more in control of what is occurring on a day-to-day basis in both my professional and personal life, and that is a liberating experience.
THE OSMOSIS OF EVIL
I have lost count of the number of times I have been asked the question ‘Doc, are some people just born evil?’
It is a question frequently posed to me in court: ‘Witness, do you have an opinion as whether or not the accused is mad, or simply, bad?’
If only it was that simple. I have examined more than 30,000 clients over the past thirty-nine years. The answer is complex and multifaceted. Mad, crazy people are obvious. You don’t need any sort of qualifications to spot a loon in the supermarket or on a bus. Their insanity is generally immediately apparent. When it comes to assessing baddies, however, the process is more challenging.
Dancing with Demons Page 26