Little Tim, Big Tim

Tim Roy is much more than a survivor of ritual child abuse. He is an inspiration to those who seek a path of healing. He is living testament to the victory of love.

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.

The ultimate betrayal
of innocence

Tim Roy

Edited by
Martin Challis & Charlotte Strong

Little Tim BIG TIM

By Tim Roy

Published by JoJo Publishing

‘Yarra’s Edge’

2203/80 Lorimer Street Docklands VIC 3008 Australia

Email: [email protected] or visit www.jojopublishing.com

© 2007 JoJo Publishing

No part of this printed or video publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner:

JoJo Publishing

CIP DETAILS: Roy, Tim.

Little Tim big Tim.

ISBN 0 9802836 0 4 (pbk).

1. Roy, Tim.

2. Adult child sexual abuse victims—Australia—Biography.

3. Child sexual abuse—Australia.

I. Title.

362.764

Edited by Martin Challis & Charlotte Strong

Cover illustration by Melissa Egan

Designed & typeset by R. J. Ryan

Printed in China by Everbest

Part 1
little tim

Part 2
BIG TIM

Part 3
BRICKS AND MORTAR

Part 4
THE AWARENESS

EPILOGUE

Appendix—Transcripts

Some of the names in this book have been changed in order to maintain the dignity, privacy and anonymity of others.

At stages throughout this book the language and vocabulary depicted presents itself relevant to the age and intellect of the child’s part/persona that is offering the truth.

I decided, for authenticity, to present their truth as it was presented to me.

This book is dedicated to my daughter

Sophie

Special Mention

Jan Ewing

Martin Challis

Brooke Fehlberg

Amerie Davenport

Jan Ungerer

Ashley Kennedy

Deborah Glover

Melissa Egan

Thank you for your belief and assistance to get this project completed. You have all touched my life indescribably.

You have given me a wonderful gift.

True friends are real, not imagined.

The Painting ‘Broken Journeys’ is an allegorical depiction of Tim Roy’s 17 split personalities. Although far from a fairytale, Tim’s life parallels the journeys of the characters from his favourite book, ‘The Wizard of Oz’.

Sexually abused from the age of five, Tim’s method of survival was to develop personalities to emotionally and physically cope with different situations. The Tinman represents Big Tim whose innocence was cruelly taken from him during childhood. He is now trying to find and repair his heart.

In response to severe physical pain, Tim developed a couple of characters, Troy and Mark, who were constantly embroiled in a dichotomy of whether to fight back or to keep the peace during onslaughts from their abusers. Tim received his medal of courage by way of soldiering but, like the Courageous Lion, his true bravery was found in confronting his own truth.

To handle everyday practical situations and keep his life running as smoothly as possible, the dumb one emerged. Like the Scarecrow, the dumb one was always looking over his shoulder, apparently brainless and insignificant but nevertheless one of his most important personalities.

Recently, through therapy, Tim has become aware of Lusty, a female personality. Lusty is like Dorothy, living in the hearts of all his other characters. She has been the one who has endured Tim’s shame and guilt and consequently, she has been the one hardest to confront and bring out of his heart.

Although there are a number of other characters that have helped Tim on his ‘Broken Journey’ these are the ones that I have met and painted.

It is only in recent years, through therapy with people that he could finally trust, that Tim has been able come to terms with his mental injury. Both his wizard within and the Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Doctor Jan, have helped him on the road to find his Emerald City. During the healing and recovery process Tim has written a book, titled ‘Little Tim BIG TIM’. While initially as a cathartic experience, he hopes the book will encourage victims of abuse to seek help both for themselves and future generations.

Melissa Egan
(
artist
)

The huge steel structure painted grey, criss-crosses the view of the Sydney Harbour. I playfully punch my four-year-old brother James as I strain to see the top of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. What a view! The smile on my face is just as big. Dad hasn’t said much about where we are going; just that we’re to visit some of his friends!

His friend’s house is a wealthy residence: big concrete pillars on either side of the path and steps to the entrance of a huge wooden door with a big metal knocker. The door swings open as the metal clang echoes through the neighbourhood. Stewart, my older brother, expresses a fearful look that freezes James and I still, until his face finally relaxes, as we realise his eight-year-old humour is scaring us.

‘Could be haunted,’
he smiles, knowing his younger brothers absorb every word he says.

Inside the entrance runs a plush red carpet the length of the hallway, which is adorned with antique furnishing.

A middle-aged lady beckons us to the left of the hallway. Atop an antique side-stand are glasses of milk and biscuits. I gaze at Stewart as he watches Dad move towards a doorway on the right hand side of the opulent hallway. I turn to see what his eyes are trained on. Dad disappears behind the hat stand holding numerous hats and overcoats.

I raise my head to look Stewart in the eye; he is a foot taller and three years older. A tear escapes from the comer of his eye and trickles down his cheek. He quickly wipes it away and attempts to prove that he isn’t scared. James burrows his head under my armpit; his little arms tightly grip my chest as his body trembles.

‘Lets eat the bickies and milk,
’ Stewart breaks the silence as we stand alone in the daunting hallway. Unaware of the basis of the fear Stewart is struggling to suppress, I follow his directions, but feel my fear intensifying as I quickly munch on the biscuits as a distraction from what I am not able to comprehend.

The lady returns wearing a red cloak and has black material draped over her arm. She leads us down a set of stairs, hastening James, who is shoving the last of the biscuits into his face.

At the bottom of the staircase, to the right, black curtains drop to the floor. The lady ushers us behind individual curtains, where we are greeted by tall figures in black robes and hoods. James is crying next to me, now obscured from my view due to another curtain hanging between us. I want to comfort him but I am literally petrified.

The black figure is rough and strips me completely. In less than one minute I am dressed in a small black robe, naked underneath, with a hood on my head. I am obscurely given an onion to carry. I can’t see a great deal, but I feel my brothers’ brush against me momentarily. As soon as I smell their familiar scent, another invades me.

I am raised off the ground to be cradled in a strange man’s arms, to be overwhelmed by tobacco breath and putrid body odour. From the height advantage I now have, with my hood slipping off, I notice James being carried the same way and Stewart gripped by two figures either side of him. We are escorted into a candle-lit room.

The illuminated room reveals its secrets. A podium with animal skulls and bones dresses it. A large number of people dressed in black cloaks are in a position forming a human ring. At their feet lie candles formed in a circle. A square of red carpet is placed in the centre of this human circle, where we are deposited.

A chant begins. At first no words spoken can be deciphered; however, the volume increases and truly terrifies me. The room vibrates due to the volume of the chant. As systematically as it starts and having reached its crescendo, it fades. A new chant begins.

‘Great Satan, we take these boys virility to give us vitality to be successful in your name.’

‘Great Satan, we take these boys virility to give us vitality to be successful in your name.
’

‘Great Satan, we take these boys virility to give us vitality to be successful in your name.’

The chant increases in volume, rising to a crescendo again.

As the room vibrates once again, I tremble violently, standing in the middle of this madness. I have no idea what they are chanting; I feel I am going to wet myself soon if they don’t stop. They maintain the volume of the chant. I am placed on my hands and knees and my hood removed, as are my brothers’. We are now pointed towards the podium, which has animal bones on it, illuminated by candlelight.

The sweaty onion is removed from my hand and pushed roughly into my mouth. I feel sick. The chant continues and somehow gets louder. My arms are held behind me and my cloak is raised and placed on my back; my bare bum tingles in the cool air.

The pain is searing. I think that if I had done something wrong to deserve this, I would be happier to receive an hour flogging with the jug cord. The pain is unbearable. I wet the floor and feel shame, sure to attract some form of discipline-anything than what I am suffering now. The screams being forced from me intertwine with the screams my brothers are releasing.

My body goes limp; however the violent action behind me doesn’t stop. Suddenly a ball of light appears to my front; I focus on the light piercing the blackness of the ritual.

I wish. I plead. I pray for an angel to appear and whitewash this nightmare from my existence. My angel appears. The ball of light dissolves into a pure winged angel who holds out her arms to me. She says,

‘Come to me Child, its safe here.’

I have no concept how I am going to leave my body and obey the angel’s direction. I just keep looking at her and concentrate on her purity and my deep desire to be pure again. The pain starts to subside and I grasp my angel’s arms and she pulls me into her. I feel protected.

At times I find the courage to look back at the satanic ritual that I have just escaped mentally, and painfully observe my brothers being held with their arms behind them and someone violating their bottoms. A glimpse of my physical-self gives me no anxiety for I totally understand that only my body is suffering the torment, not the real me-my mind and soul.

My angel reluctantly removes her sanctuary and asks me to return to my body, explaining that my brothers will need my strength to help them through more of these situations. She leaves me with the mantra,

‘Look for the colours my child. Tell your brothers the same, and look for the colours.
’

The pain rapidly makes me aware that I am back in the body I no longer want to be in. The searing heat being produced at my rear end over-stimulates my brain to produce colours in front of my eyes. A kaleidoscope of colours beckon me, as did the angel. Once again I find an escape from my body; my mind and soul are mine.

As Little Tim slips into the place of many colours, I find myself experiencing a searing heat and something hard and fleshy stuck up inside of me. Big fingers slice deep into the sides of my bottom; I’m pushed forward and slammed back viciously as my knees rub raw on the red carpet. I’m scared. I don’t know how I got here, and the skin, tissue and muscle overstretched in my bottom hurts-really hurts! I look over and see two other boys, one bigger and one smaller. Who are they?

Then I remember who they are. They are my brothers, but I don’t know them or more truthfully, I have never met them. Where am I? The self-questioning has to wait, for as the hard thing inside me goes soft another one, bigger this time, intrudes the space in between my legs. The pain arches my back and forces my face into the carpet that I am on. I now know what the searing heat is called. I know from that moment that
Pain
is its name.

‘Will you stop whingeing about the car seat,’ my father snaps at my brother.

His gruff voice brings me back to reality. I don’t know where I’ve been except that the place had many colours, and I could float, not feeling any sensation other than that I was safe. My angel was there and said that I had a friend that would help when the bad people interfered with me. Additionally, she informed me that there were lots of friends who could help me.

Stewart is asleep, with his head resting against the rear right passenger window. James is between us, squirming on the hard leather seat. I suddenly start doing the same, reminded how uncomfortable my bottom feels. To ease the pain I notice that James is sitting on his hands, I do the same.

‘Good idea,’
James states.

‘Yeah you’re clever,’
I offer.

‘Not me silly, you told me to do it.’

I have no memory of what James has just proclaimed. A distant thought; I didn’t give it much substance. Maybe that was the friend that the angel told me about.

The car pulls into our driveway then we are ushered inside the house to our bedroom to be lent against the wall. James starts to slip from the standing position and I assist him back onto his feet. My hands are covered in blood, still dripping from my bottom. Our parents are putting plastic sheeting on our beds so that we don’t ruin the bedclothes.

‘Don’t wet your bed now,
’they order with force as if in another reality.

Our reality is: our bottoms hurt and they are bleeding. Their reality is: ‘they’re only kids, they will forget.’ Ours is: ‘please, please, let me forget!’