I had my first smoke of dope in the mid-1980s. I had some friends who enjoyed partaking and we used to catch up on a regular basis. One night there were four of us sitting around the lounge, just talking shit and having a laugh, when a bong appeared. I had actually never even seen one before. The bong was passed around and I watched as one mate after another ‘pulled a billy’. I didn’t think anything of it. Eventually it was passed to me. I had smoked the occasional cigarette in my day, but never dope. I told the guys that I had never pulled a bong before and they just laughed and encouraged me. I had been watching them inhale with ease and it was quite funny seeing them get stoned and becoming jovial. How hard can it be? I placed it to my lips, lit the cone and inhaled.
I immediately coughed up a lung. The smoke was acrid and seared its way into my body. It felt as though my throat and lungs were on fire. I held the bong outstretched in one hand as if pleading with the others to take it away from me, while continuously coughing up what seemed to be my second lung. It was painful. I couldn’t take in a breath and I struggled for air. I thought I was going to die. This went on for about a minute until the pain subsided and I returned to some form of normality. Everyone was rolling on the floor laughing at me – to them it was hilarious – to me, not so. I was regretting my actions for the next few minutes and telling myself I would never do that again. Then something strange happened.
I began feeling light-headed and I got the giggles. The pain in my throat eased. I looked around the room at my mates and I just burst into uncontrollable laughter. The smallest of things became hilarious. A guitar came out as one of the guys could play and we started making up songs as he strummed away. It was the funniest night I had ever had. My stomach was sore the following day from laughing so hard and I felt okay. Fresh – unlike a day following a heavy drinking session.
It became a regular occurrence whenever we caught up. We smoked, drank, played guitar, sang and laughed. It felt harmless to me. To this day I have never seen anyone become violent after smoking some dope, unlike alcohol which causes many people to become violent. Alcohol also causes more than 6000 Australian deaths in a year, yet it is legal, and marijuana is not. I am a firm believer that marijuana use should be decriminalized, for several reasons. Medical benefits first and foremost. Medicinal cannabis is slowly becoming mainstream, which is great. I have seen the benefits first- hand of what it can do for sick people. Secondly, the government could charge a tax. People who wish to grow cannabis for their own personal use would be charged a licence fee by the government to grow plants for themselves. Cap the maximum number of plants grown by any one household to a reasonable number. Imagine the tax revenue! It would destroy criminal enterprise involved in large-scale cannabis cultivation. Greedy criminals would no longer have a market to sell their product. Finally, it would free up endless hours of police investigation into cannabis cultivation and/or the everyday guy growing one or two plants at home. Police could concentrate on bigger and more important things. Everyone would be a winner.
At that early stage of my career, I had no knowledge of other cops who smoked dope. Later, my eyes were opened to that fact. I had never tried anything harder than marijuana – not until my send-off from City West. There were several members leaving and we held a function at a venue in North Melbourne. It was well attended, the alcohol flowed and the atmosphere was great. I was having some casual sex with one of the policewomen at City West. She was there, as was her sister, and she introduced me to her sister that night. Let’s call the sister Andrea.
During the function Andrea got my attention from across the room and motioned for me to follow her into the ladies’ toilet. It felt a bit weird but I went in. It was just Andrea and me. She indicated to the bench where the wash basins were and I saw two big lines of white powder. I knew what it was even though I had never tried it before. Andrea rolled up a twenty-dollar note and snorted one of the lines. She then handed me the note and said, ‘Try it, it will make you horny. We may as well keep it all in the family.’ I understood that comment to be a reference to her sister and that Andrea wanted to have sex with me. So, I snorted the powder and we returned to the function.
I had no idea how it would affect me or make me feel. Thirty minutes or so passed and I still didn’t feel any different. I looked around the room, trying to find Andrea again but I couldn’t see her – she had left. It was getting late so I decided to leave as well. Sex with Andrea was obviously not going to happen that night.
I walked to my car and that was when it hit me. Hot flushes, a sudden energy burst, buzzing, the rush. I could feel my blood pumping through my body. I felt high. I was high. It felt awesome. I didn’t know what to do, though. The only thing I could think of was to drive home and deal with my situation there. I still didn’t know what to really expect and I was a little anxious being alone. I hit speeds of 120 kph driving down St Kilda Road. It wasn’t pretty. I lived in Gardenvale at that time and I think I made it home in eleven minutes. I have no memory of what happened after I got home.
That was my first taste of ‘speed’ – and I liked it. It would be years before it ruled my life and ruined my career and mental health. The spiral was slow and gradual and began at Frankston after my transfer.
I became tight with a few of the cops there. Very tight. I had bought my house in Frankston and left my other friends behind. We still remained friends and caught up but nowhere near as often as we used to. I had a new group of mates and we called each other ‘brother’. Several of them lived together in the party house I previously mentioned. We all smoked dope. We had fun. I still have fond memories of our times together and always will. We will remain brothers until our final breath.
I hung out with my mate from karate quite often as well. He smoked pot every night. I would visit him most nights and we would pull bongs together and laugh and play silly jokes on each other. Like heating up the cigarette lighter without the other person’s knowledge, then tossing it to that person when it was their turn for the next bong. They would catch it and burn their fingers. Or someone would fart while you were in the middle of pulling a bong which made you laugh and cough into the bong. Most of the time this resulted in taking a gulp of bong water or the bong water would spray out of the cone onto the ceiling. It happened often and was always hilarious. Unless you were on the receiving end.
My smoking began to become a daily ritual. I made my own bong and was smoking at home when I wasn’t visiting mates. I still didn’t feel I was doing anything wrong. I always turned up to work and I worked hard. The smoking wasn’t affecting me at that stage. I suspect there were a number around the station who knew who the smokers were. I dabbled very occasionally in speed/amphetamines but not very often.
My daily smoking continued even when I applied for the SOG in 1994. I only stopped while I was training to get fit. But I still had not taken control of my life. It wasn’t until I became a member of the SOG that my drug taking became a major issue. Homer and Bugs re-introduced me to the joys of amphetamine use. I can’t blame them, though. I have since learned to accept responsibility for my own actions and reactions. Acceptance. They did not force drugs down my throat. Sure, they were hypocritical, two-faced, back- stabbing liars, but it was me who made the decision to take drugs, no one else. During my alcohol rehabilitation I have come to lean on the Serenity Prayer often.
God, grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can, And the wisdom to know the difference.
The first line is most important to me personally. There are many things in life I wish I could change, yet I cannot. I cannot control what another person says, feels, thinks or does. Before seeking professional help, I often became angry when people treated me with disrespect, disdain, lied to me or even had a differing opinion on certain matters. I know now that doesn’t matter. People can do or say whatever they wish: I cannot change that, it is not in my control, I do not worry about it or lose any sleep. Not anymore. All I can do is control what is under my control. My actions and reactions. I have become a better person for it. It is a constant process of working on myself, physically and mentally, and I am in a better place because of this.
I was targeted by some people in the SOG during my time there. In hindsight, it may have been justified to a degree. I have come to accept it and have since moved on. Bullies have their own insecurities and need to be bullies to feed their self-esteem. At the time it caused me an enormous amount of stress. So much so, that I began taking more drugs as an escape. I was self-medicating, running away from the problem, hoping it would go away, that the following day would be better. But the next day would be the same. In fact, the situation only became worse. I could see these two people up the chain were trying to push me out the door, force me to leave, but I refused to give in. I had worked too hard to get there. I still loved the SOG and what it stood for. I wasn’t leaving just because a few people were making life difficult for me. Fuck that, I was going to stay just to piss them off more.
It was a long day for me by the time I travelled to and from the office. I was still living in Frankston so I was getting up at
5.30 a.m., riding my push bike to the railway station, catching the 6.19 morning train and arriving at Spencer Street around
7.20 a.m. It was then a ten-minute walk to arrive at the office at 7.30 a.m. Even though our morning shift didn’t officially start until 8 a.m., it was an unwritten rule that everyone was to be there at 7.30 a.m. to have breakfast and coffee together. It was a shit rule. During the winter months I was leaving home in the dark and it was dark when I returned home. I hated the travel. I was a night owl and rarely went to bed before midnight. I was surviving on less than six hours sleep each night. I fell asleep a lot at work. Whenever we drove to our training facility I would sleep in the car. I fell asleep during debriefings after a job and the guys gave me a good ribbing for it, but that didn’t bother me.
After a couple of years commuting, I thought it would be a good idea to move closer to the office. The idea appealed to me for several reasons: the drugs were beginning to take hold, I could distance myself from my mates and therefore the drugs, and I could get more sleep and operate on a higher level at work. I purchased a house in Port Melbourne and moved there in late 1996. The intentions for moving never eventuated. I was hooked on marijuana by then, well and truly, and I was bored shitless. I knew no one and was very lonely. Most nights I hopped on my Honda 900 Fireblade and rode back to Frankston to spend the evening with my mates, before returning home to Port Melbourne. The cycle continued.
By this stage I had been re-introduced to harder drugs – LSD, ecstasy, cocaine and even magic mushrooms. Every second weekend we would pop ecstasy tablets all weekend and walk to St Kilda where we attended our favourite bar/ nightclub. Some nights we just stayed at my place and partied there. It was getting out of hand. I was in the grasp of the drugs and eventually there was only ever going to be one outcome. I stayed in Port Melbourne for a year before I returned to Frankston. I was too lonely there.
In hindsight, I wish I had tried harder to make it work. It was a great spot. I could have made new friends. I should have confided in my superiors about my situation and sought professional help. Certain people had been begging me for years to seek help for my addiction. I always refused. I didn’t think professionals would be able to help. After all, I knew what I had to do – just stop the drugs. Simple. But it wasn’t simple. Any addiction is insidious, developing so gradually
that it becomes well established before ever becoming apparent. No one can understand unless they also suffer from an addiction. It grabs you tight and doesn’t let you go without a fight. And you need to fight hard. Constantly. It never goes away. But I was also in denial. Telling myself it wasn’t affecting my performance. But it was. Sure, I still got the job done, but I could have been so much better and achieved so much more had I been sober.
I returned to Frankston and continued where I left off. By this stage mates had cut down on the harder drugs and marijuana was again the drug of choice. I was back to travelling to and from the city. My relationship with certain people at the SOG deteriorated further, to the point where I no longer wanted to be there. But the main reason I left was that I wasn’t enjoying it anymore. I used to get that adrenalin rush on every job. I no longer had that. In fact, the jobs bored me. Here I was: dressed in black, kitted up with semi-automatic weapons and kicking in doors, arresting the most dangerous crooks in Australia. Everyone looked up to us – it was the most prestigious position held in Victoria Police – and I was bored. I didn’t want to be on a job. I didn’t care about a job. I knew at that moment it was time to leave before I became a danger and liability to myself and my work colleagues. I had done four years at the SOG. It was time to move on.
A vacancy opened at the Frankston Sexual Offences and Child Abuse Unit and I gained the position after sitting on an interview panel. I was back home, in my old town and just five minutes to the office. The SOG boys contacted me to organise my farewell function. There were several members
of the group who had left and we were to have a send-off for all of us. I told them I wasn’t interested in coming as I would end up punching anyone – including any superiors – who had bullied and harassed me during my time there. I was done. Yet I remained proud of achieving my dream and always will.
I was excited about my new position, and felt that because of my previous history with sexual assault as a child, I would have some insight and capabilities to perform well in the role. It was totally the opposite. In hindsight this was not a good move. I found the job extremely difficult and challenging. Not to mention the fact that it brought memories flooding back. Investigations varied greatly but it was the small children being abused that was most difficult – they were too young to give evidence in a court of law and a medical examination almost never revealed any evidence. It was their word against the word of an adult. We knew the abuse was taking place, but there was never sufficient evidence to take the matter before a court. It was unbelievably frustrating.
I was lucky that I was upgraded most of the time to acting sergeant at various stations in the district – Frankston, Mornington and Chelsea. I enjoyed the position and should have already been promoted to sergeant, given the ranks of members around my era. It had always been a process of sitting the promotional examination when you were eligible. The pass mark was 60 per cent. Then you waited your turn to complete the sub-officer’s course and you could then apply for vacancies. The department in their wisdom changed the goal posts. The pass mark was still 60 per cent, but they
were only taking the top 10 per cent, or a figure around that mark. The first year I sat the exams was 1995. My mark was 83 per cent. The department only accepted those with a pass mark of 84 per cent and above. I had missed out by 1 per cent. I had to sit the exam again the following year – I missed out by 2 per cent. Same again in my third attempt.
By this time, I was becoming disillusioned. I was a good cop, experienced and able to think on my feet, yet the department wanted to promote people who were academic achievers, not necessarily street smart or able to make split- second decisions on the ground. It was ridiculous. People who had no idea of leadership and decision-making were promoted to sergeant. It was at this time that I seriously thought about resigning – I had almost had a gutful.
I began to spiral further out of control. I smoked more and more marijuana. I began smoking during my shifts again. I was the acting sergeant. I had my own car as I was required to supervise the members out on the road and attend major incidents. I would occasionally drop in to see mates during a shift and we would sit and chat and smoke dope. I recall a time I had been smoking and returned to the station at the end of the shift. I was quite stoned and just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. I made a concerted effort not to look anyone in the eye, but one of my mates was in the station at that time getting ready for his nightshift.
He caught a glimpse of me, gave me a wry grin and yelled, ‘You’re a fucking disgrace!’ He walked off laughing – he knew. I scurried out of there very quickly.
I began taking regular sick days. I just didn’t want to go to work anymore. I thought leaving the SOG and heading
back to Frankston would rejuvenate the passion I used to have for the job. It didn’t. It came to a head when I decided to take some stress leave to figure out my next move; I had plenty of sick days owed to me. I walked into the boss’s office and sat down. I told him I needed to talk and then I immediately broke down – it came out of the blue. Uncontrollable sobbing with tears streaming down my face. He knew what I was there to talk about. I eventually calmed down and we spoke at length. He listened to what I had to say and also gave me some advice. It was decided that I would take three months of sick leave to see which direction I would go – return to work, or resign.
I took the three months. I had a business I had been running for quite some years while I was still employed with Victoria Police. I concentrated on the business and built it up over that three-month period. I put my heart and soul into it and was enjoying the change. I decided I would continue with the business. I was done with VicPol. I rang the boss and told him of my decision. I kept some sick leave up my sleeve on the advice of my boss, just in case I wanted to come back later. It would look better if I had not used all my sick leave. After three months, I walked back into the office, typed my resignation and walked out. Never to return.
It was 2000 and I threw myself into my business. It thrived. I still played hard, smoked dope and took hard drugs occasionally. I was an addict, yet remained high functioning as I was enjoying my new job. I worked 12–14 hours each day, seven days a week, and employed a mate to assist. I tried to stop the drugs several times. I was getting older
and I began to worry about my health and was particularly concerned about cancer. I continued to work out at the gym and go running, among other things, and my diet was good. Yet I still couldn’t give up the drugs.
Eventually, over the following years, it destroyed my relationship. My first and only son was born to the world in 2003. By 2006 I was separated from his mother and our dream house overlooking Port Phillip Bay from the water’s edge had been sold. I was a single man again at age forty.
Apart from a couple of brief relationships, I remained single for a long time. Nothing changed in my life until 2010 – that’s when it changed for the worse. I woke up one day determined to give up the drugs. I had tried before and failed. How would I succeed this time? I came up with a genius plan. I would replace the dope with alcohol. Just drink until I was over the withdrawal effects of the marijuana and then stop drinking. Problem solved. Move on again with life.
It was the worst decision I ever made. Sure, I managed to stop smoking, but now I was hooked on the alcohol – it was worse than the dope. Over the next ten years I almost drank myself to death several times. I found myself on the opposite side of the law on two separate occasions. I treated those closest to me with anger and hatred and almost pushed everyone away from me. I had run out of excuses.
