by Frank Tallis
‘It seems to me that there are two possibilities. The first is that your problems are the result of demonic possession, and the second is that your problems are—let’s say—psychological. You’ve always favoured the first explanation—and for all I know you might be right.’
He was surprised: ‘Really? You think that.’
‘Yes.’
Jim’s expression was apprehensive. ‘You think I might be possessed?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know everything. I can’t say for certain what is and what isn’t possible. Obviously, my preference is to opt for a psychological explanation, but it might be more useful to keep an open mind. We shouldn’t accept either theory—the supernatural or the psychological—not until we’ve conducted a few experiments.’
He was interested but sceptical. ‘Experiments? How can we do experiments?’
‘Okay,’ I continued. ‘Let’s take your headaches, for example. You believe that they’re caused by demonic possession. But really, they might be caused by something else, something quite ordinary. What’s the most common cause of headaches?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Have a guess.’
‘Tension, stress…’
‘That’s right, stress. And if your headaches are caused by stress, what should we expect to happen when you relax?’
‘They should go away.’
‘And what would that suggest?’
He balked at the final corollary. ‘But I do relax, sometimes—and it doesn’t make any difference.’
‘You think you’re relaxed—but maybe you’re not. Maybe your body is still tense.’
I opened my desk drawer and took out a biofeedback device: a white plastic cylinder with rounded ends, circled by two metal bands. Unfortunately, its phallic appearance suggested that its principal purpose might be to arouse rather than relax.
‘What’s that?’ asked Jim, slightly discomfited.
I thumbed the wheel-switch and the device began to emit a low tone. ‘It detects sweat gland activity. When you’re stressed, you sweat—sometimes in very tiny amounts—and when this happens, the pitch of the tone rises. When you’re relaxed, the pitch drops. It’s a biofeedback machine. How do you feel right now?’
‘Okay.’
‘Not stressed.’
‘Not particularly—no.’
I handed Jim the device. ‘Just hold it with a loose grip—that’s all you have to do.’
Immediately the tone began to rise. ‘Oh… more stressed than I thought.’
‘Not necessarily. This is a new situation for you—and novelty makes everyone mildly anxious. The device is very sensitive. Let’s just wait a few minutes and see if the tone levels off.’ The tone kept rising. ‘Okay—I want you to close your eyes and empty your mind. I want you to concentrate on your breathing—notice how when you breathe in, your stomach moves out a little, and when you breathe out—the reverse happens. Try to breathe from your stomach, not from your chest.’ Jim followed my instructions and the pitch of the tone began to drop. ‘Good,’ I said. ‘You’re doing fine.’
We practised a series of relaxation exercises: more diaphragmatic breathing, some simple meditation techniques and guided imagery (listening to descriptions of peaceful scenes). All of these exercises were effective and the tone continued to drop.
‘Whenever you get a headache,’ I continued, ‘I want you to use this device. Then we can be absolutely sure that whatever you’re doing to relax is working. Afterwards, I want you to make a note of what effect relaxation has had on your pain.’ Jim reversed the wheel-switch and the tone died. ‘Okay?’
Jim nodded. ‘Okay.’
Jim’s fundamental problem was a delusion—consolidated after a frightening episode of sleep paralysis and subsequently maintained by misinterpretations of symptoms associated with stress and anxiety. If Jim stopped believing in Azgoroth he would have no one else to blame for his poor self-control and he would have to take full responsibility for his actions. He would have to grow and mature. My expectation was that if treatment was successful, there would be a realignment of character and sexual behaviour. He would see himself as less freakish, and therefore eligible to enjoy a more conventional existence. He would meet women, fall in love and form meaningful relationships. One day, he might even become a caring, sensitive husband and father. But all this could happen only if the delusion was dismantled.
I was restless, waiting for Jim to arrive for his next session. I paced up and down the length of the small office, feeling a sense of confinement every time I turned to face the barred window. Much depended on the outcome of the biofeedback experiment. A good start inspires confidence.
When Jim appeared, he shook my hand and apologised for being two minutes late. ‘I’m sorry. The buses…’ He was wearing jeans, a denim jacket, a checked shirt and desert boots. There were no outward signs of change. I reviewed our previous conversation and then said: ‘So, how did things work out with the biofeedback device?’
‘Well, every time I got a headache, I relaxed until the tone went down—and the pain wasn’t so bad.’
‘Did you ever succeed in getting rid of a headache entirely?’
‘Yes… it happened twice.’
‘So, what are your conclusions?’
He sighed. ‘I suppose I might have been wrong…’ I could see the admission was grudging, difficult. ‘With respect to the headaches, anyway.’
‘There are a great many books written about demons and their influence. Do you think any of them mention biofeedback as a means of curbing demonic power?’
‘Probably not…’
‘However, there are numerous academic articles on the beneficial effects of relaxation on tension headaches.’
He was silent. A forceful outbreath coaxed a note of affirmation from his throat. The prospect of freedom from demonic influence—a possibility that he had been unwilling to acknowledge for fear of being disappointed—suddenly seemed credible. A ray of light penetrated his darkness and he made a peculiar noise, which was—I believe—tentative, probationary laughter. He was a man who hadn’t experienced joy in a very long time.
‘Are there other things we can do?’ he asked. ‘Other experiments?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘if you’re willing to try them?’
In the sessions that followed, I adopted an attitude of persistent, gentle inquiry. We collected data, evaluated evidence and drew conclusions. At no point did I dismiss or belittle his belief in demonic possession. I simply asked Jim to consider the alternatives.
I presented him with my formulation, a diagram comprised mainly of vicious circles that illustrated how his physical symptoms and misattributions maintained and strengthened his underlying delusional belief.
‘It wasn’t all in my mind then.’
‘No. You didn’t imagine anything. The problem is one of interpretation.’
The devil—as they say—is in the detail.
Over the next two months, Jim became less and less convinced of the existence of Azgoroth and he stopped visiting prostitutes. I wanted to ensure that the gains we had made were consolidated and I still had many questions: Why had he thought about demonic possession in the first place? Was his family more religious than he’d suggested—was he another Achilles? And why was he so unprepared to accept responsibility for his sexual transgressions? As so often happens with psychotherapy patients, I never got the opportunity to answer these questions or bring his treatment to a satisfactory conclusion. He cancelled the next two appointments and then left a message saying that he was feeling a lot better. That was our last contact.
I know Jim didn’t attend the genitourinary medicine clinic again. And I know that he didn’t use similar services based at local hospitals. I think it’s reasonably safe to assume that he managed to resist the lure of telephone box business cards in the short term. But I have no idea what happened to Jim thereafter—and the reality of mental health problems is that relapse rates are relatively high.
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I hope I succeeded in exorcising his demon. And I hope that Jim is now happily married and not lying in some dilapidated hovel—his head crowded with hellish visions—with a prostitute sprawled at his side.
But that is all I can do: hope.
When Freud was studying at the Salpêtrière in Paris, his favourite leisure activity was visiting the elevated walkway that connects the two towers of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. He liked going there so much he made the ascent whenever he was free. The walkway is also known as the Galerie des Chimères and it is world famous for its gargoyles. Although these grotesques look like the product of an authentic medieval imagination, they are in fact mid-nineteenth-century simulacra. They were hoisted into their current positions when the cathedral was being restored by the architect Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc and his partner Jean-Baptiste Lassus. Notre Dame has a long-standing association with the demonic. In the eighteenth century, a pagan altar carved with the image of a horned god was discovered beneath the choir, and the north portal tympanum depicts a bishop making a pact with the Devil.
Fifty-four gargoyles are perched on the walkway balustrade and all of them have names. The most celebrated is a pensive, winged demon known as the Vampire. Another is called the Devourer. Like all great works of art, the gargoyles are deceptive. In spite of appearances, they are very ‘modern’ insofar as their design alludes to contemporary scientific thinking. The Vampire, for example, has a pronounced bulge at the back of his head. This is a reference to phrenology—the study of correspondences between the shape of the skull and the mental faculties. The bulge indicates intemperate desire and excessive passion. His lascivious character is further emphasised by his swollen lips and pointed tongue. Other demons on the balustrade take the form of frenzied animals, clawing and screeching at the square below. They embody a fear that was becoming increasingly widespread—largely because of Darwin and his precursors. This was the fear of bestial regression. Theoretically, evolution might stop and go into reverse.
I find it easy to picture Freud, standing among the demons, looking out over Paris, a city renowned for its decadent pleasures: a dapper young man with a somewhat restless manner—thick, well-groomed hair and quick eyes. He would have been thinking about all kinds of things: his lab work, hypnosis, the brain, hysteria and his new boots with laces and English soles that had cost him an exorbitant 22 francs. And he would have been wrestling with his own demons. Obliged to endure a long separation from his fiancée, he must have been anxious to get back to Vienna, and marriage—the marriage bed—and his ‘precious sweetheart’, his ‘little princess’, his ‘beloved darling’.
Perhaps this is the true beginning of the Freudian project: a sexually frustrated young doctor surrounded by lustful, animalistic companions; a figure in a dreamscape—a lonely man—the urgency of his need given symbolic substance by a troop of demons. And what is the id, if it isn’t the habitat of demons? According to Freud, we are all possessed. Biological demons slide down the spinal cord and set our loins on fire—they fill our heads with pornography—they trip us up and we fall on all fours. They get us into trouble.
Demonic possession is the perfect metaphor for wayward sexual desire. This explains why ever since Eve tasted forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, sex and all things Satanic have been so strongly associated. Freud may have sanitised our demons with the language of science—but they still exist—albeit within a shifted paradigm. When tempted to transgress, we still feel them prodding us with their forks—moving us forward—goading us ever closer to the line.
Chapter 10
The ‘Good’ Paedophile
Tainted love
I have two sons, born twenty-three years apart—the products of two marriages. That explains why given my age (I’m nearly sixty) memories of looking after a baby are still quite fresh. With the birth of my second son, I was reminded of how much I’d forgotten of raising the first, and what saddened me most was how much I’d forgotten of the day-to-day routine—the life that was happening when nothing much appeared to be happening. Writers and philosophers assign special value to the seemingly insignificant. They suggest that most of us are destined to arrive at a juncture where we look back and belatedly realise that all of the small things were, in fact, the big things. Fortunately, when my second son was born, I was old enough to appreciate this simple truth.
I was lying on the sofa. It was dark, and the blinds were down but the glow of the streetlights outside filtered into the room through a narrow gap. My baby son—only a few weeks old—was asleep on my chest. He had a tendency to slip forward so that his soft fragrant head touched the bottom of my chin. I was always pulling him back again. When I did this, he would stir. He would make little sucking noises—kiss, kiss, kiss—and root around before settling again.
I placed my hand lightly on his back and noticed how it covered most of his body. He was so tiny, so fragile and so very, very vulnerable. If he rolled off my chest and dropped to the floor the consequences might be catastrophic: retinal haemorrhages, broken limbs, brain damage, skull fractures—or even death.
Suddenly, my heart was expanding. The love that I felt was so great, so improvident, so vast and boundless, that its containment seemed impossible. I thought my ribs would crack and splinter. And then this love—this fierce, animal love—acquired universal significance. The two of us were spinning around on a blue-green marble in a cold, inhospitable void, and the whole of defenceless humanity was spinning around with us. Tears streamed down my face and they kept coming. I cried and cried and cried.
Love like that takes you by surprise. I can explain it with reference to neurotransmitters, oxytocin, theories of attachment and evolutionary psychology, but that doesn’t diminish its personal significance or power. I have spoken to many parents who have had much the same experience.
We would do anything to protect our children. We would die for them without a moment’s hesitation. And if we believed that they were at risk—we would readily kill to ensure their survival.
Treating a person who might potentially harm a child is extremely challenging. It raises problems of enormous moral complexity.
A room on the third floor of a grim hospital outpatient clinic: dun-coloured walls, a redundant notice board, a hideous green carpet and tired office furniture. Through the dirty window, an expanse of rooftops and chimneys, high-rise tower blocks and a low-flying passenger jet.
‘I’ve always been attracted to children.’
‘Sexually attracted?’
‘Yes… I suppose so. But that word…’
‘Sexually…’
‘In a sense—I don’t really know what it means.’
He was a man in his late thirties, conservatively dressed with brown curly hair and large, tinted spectacles. His shoulders were dusted with small flakes of dandruff and his expression—although neutral—had a sagging quality that recalled the face of a blood-hound. His skin was unusually pale and his white neck was aflame with a red rash.
‘You said that you’ve always found children attractive…’
‘I wasn’t interested in the girls at school. When they matured, I found them… unattractive. When they developed,’ he sculpted the air with his hands, ‘I found what was happening to them—to their bodies—a turn off.’
‘Were you repelled?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. I just thought they weren’t pretty any more. And the more mature they got, the less interested I became. I knew I was different, even then.’
‘How do you feel about adults now?’
‘I’m indifferent to them.’
‘You never feel attracted to adult women?’
‘Occasionally, I’ll be flicking though a magazine and I’ll see a model. A slim, young looking model—and then I’ll feel something. But the feeling isn’t very strong.’ The rash on his neck darkened. ‘I hate being this way. I hate it.’ He grabbed his hair with both hands, as if he meant to rip it out of his scalp. ‘It’s wrong. I know. But I was bor
n like this—I didn’t choose to be like this—it’s just how I am.’ He let go of his hair and more dandruff collected on his shoulders. ‘I fight it—I fight it all the time—and so far I’ve been able to control myself.’
‘You’ve never offended.’
‘I know it’s wrong. I haven’t laid a finger on anyone.’
Did I believe him? I wasn’t sure. ‘Have you ever been in a relationship?’
‘I’ve never had any sexual experiences.’ He reconsidered the accuracy of his statement and added, ‘Well, that’s not strictly true. I masturbate.’ He turned away and looked out of the window. ‘But that’s just as bad as offending.’
He was referring obliquely to his questionable fantasies.
‘Do you use any materials?’
‘I have done.’ The strain of acknowledging the irregularity of his predilection showed on his face. He looked genuinely distressed. ‘Children’s clothing catalogues.’ (This conversation was pre-internet.) His head bowed under a weight of shame. He continued speaking, but he was addressing the floor. ‘I’ve been fighting it for so long. But it’s not getting any better and in some ways it’s getting worse. I’m worried that one day I won’t be able to control myself any more.’
He reached into his pocket and removed a neatly pressed handkerchief. He unfolded the blue square and was ready to wipe the first tear away when it appeared. Then he blew his nose. ‘I’m sorry.’
Why do people become paedophiles?
Biological factors, such as hormonal or brain abnormalities, may have a role to play. Individuals have been known to transfer sexual interest from adults to children after brain injury. The orbitofrontal cortex and left and right dorsolateral prefrontal cortex areas have been implicated—as well as temporal lobe disturbances (which have also been linked to hyper-sexuality). Broadly speaking, biological accounts place particular emphasis on disinhibition. A putative and uncomfortable corollary of disinhibition theories is that paedophilic urges are more common than we are usually prepared to acknowledge. The critical difference between a paedophile and non-paedophile is not fundamental, but is dependent on the efficiency of secondary restraint mechanisms. Impulse control is mediated largely by the frontal lobe of the brain, an area that is particularly vulnerable to the effects of drinking alcohol. This is why we see a strong association between alcohol consumption and the sexual abuse of children. When the frontal lobe fails, the id finds full expression and our monstrous potential is revealed. There must, of course, be naturally occurring variability in the efficiency of frontal lobe functioning, and those at the lower end of this spectrum will be more likely to act on socially unacceptable urges. Although the prevalence of paedophilia is between 3 per cent and 5 per cent of the general population, one American study—conducted under conditions of strict anonymity—found that 21 per cent of men admitted some degree of sexual interest in children.
