Trigger Point by FN Karmatz, PhD 
(Chip@optusnet.com.au)

Assessing and counseling cons, ex-cons and mental hospital cases has always been part of my practice. These are not my preferred clients, but the government funds for these services sure pay a lot of bills. I can't help feeling uneasy tonight, with Bull Barker coming to see me. He said it was the only time he could get here.

His parole board said he had to see a clinical psychologist monthly. He named me, because he told them I had helped him before. I didn't really, I was simply asked by the Court for my assessment of him. I think he thought I was helping him by explaining his impulses and why he reacted violently to implied threats or why he had to hurt certain people. Don't see why Bull couldn't have called me earlier. But of course I do. He would put off contacting me until the last moment or after a warning from his Parole Officer. Well at least there's the security guard at entrance who will log him in. I left word that he will be here with me an hour or less.

I went over to my file and pulled out his case folder and skimmed the pages. I couldn't forget how massive he was. He had the maturity of a ten year old. His body was as big as his brain was small. I recalled that he was a passive psychopath, a person who could only watch the pain of others with indifference, without pleasure or revulsion. On the other hand, he could manifest extreme paranoia, a frenzied autonomic response if there were an implied threat. The abuse he suffered as a child created explosive and violent reactions if someone unexpectedly touched him.

Being as he was, he thought he found an ideal role in life. It was carrying out little jobs for shadowy underworld figures. He could watch one of his bosses extinguish a cigarette on someone's hand or look at a victim being sliced up or being kicked in the face and feel nothing. His bosses would use him as a gopher, to bring them back takeaways. He was allowed to keep the change. With his stature, he graduated to being an enforcer, a standover man. For that, they gave him a room to live in, in the empty tenement in which their organisation met daily.

That's what got him his sentence in the first place. At three in the morning, he was standing in front of one of his underworld boss's night clubs. A police officer told him to move on. The officer made the mistake of prodding him with his truncheon. Bull grabbed it with one hand and the officer's collar with the other, lifting him straight into the air, feet dangling. The second constable had to belt Bull on the head with his club several times before Bull relaxed his grip.

Ah, that's him now. I can see the shadow of his hulk on the smoked glass door. He knocks and I let him in. His frame almost fills the door.

"Come in, Mr Barker."

"S OK Doc, you can call me Bull. They all do."

"Well then," I try to smile, "come in Mr Bull Barker.

"That's why I like you, Doc. You talk to me right." I couldn't imagine who wouldn't. Bull is carrying his usual shoe box-his oversized hand half covers it. Bull was known for carrying his torture toys with him, the little steel devices he used in carrying out his jobs for his mob bosses. "Sit down," I say. I point to a wide comfortable lounge chair next to my desk. I want to make sure I record every word of our session. He fills the chair like an orange fills its skin. "I guess you are here because your parole officer said you had to see me."

"Yeah, Doc. I don't mind cuz I like the way you talk to me. Wuda come sooner, but my bosses have been keeping me pretty busy day times."

"Are you working for the same people you worked for, before you did your time at Bogga Road?"

"Yeah, it ain't like I could get any other job."

"I hope you aren't hurting any one. If you do, you know what will happen."

"No Doc, I just tell them 'Tony's sending you a warning. Or, you better cough up what you owe Angelo and I take one of my tools out from my box. I hand them a note if I can't remember" He hesitates, trying to find the words to express about how the victims react to his visitations. "Dey all seem to go along with what I tell them to do. Then I go back to the meetin room and one of my bosses will slip me a fiver. You sure I should be telling you this, Doc? I been told to say nothin to nobody about my job. It's a secret."

"What you say to me, Bull is private. All I have to tell your Parole Officer is that you are gainfully employed, have a residence and that you aren't hurting anyone."

We talk for about 30 minutes or so. Bull tells me about his violent urges and the situations that brought them on. And I tell him in a quiet way how to keep how to keep the urges under control. I gave him little phrases to say three times to himself, like: "This is not a threat." I print them out, and say he should carry them just like the notes from his bosses.

I can see Bull is having trouble concentrating and that he has reached his memory saturation point. So I suggest we take a breather. Bull leans forward and lifts the cover off his shoe box, which was sitting on his lap. He reaches into it with his right hand. I can see the wide short wide blade of his box cutter, along with an object covered with a velvet cloth. He grabs the blade and the velvet object, holding them up.

"I did this for you, Doc." I am reluctant to move, until I figure out what Bull's on about. "Here, take it." He shoves the taped velvet object at my face. I take it in my hand. But before I can open it, he waves his knife before my face. " I carved it with this in the prison shop. It's a good wooden holder for your mobile phone."

I find a smile from somewhere. I thank Bull for thinking of me and I make a show of taking my cell phone from the drawer and placing it in his wooden holder. "Fits perfectly", I say.

We continue the session. I let him talk about his nightmarish dreams. The recurring theme was that he was always trying to escape from some undefined dark figure that tries in slow motion to tear his guts out. I see no point in telling him that it is part of what he suffered as a child. I see no point in telling him that he would have to change his attitude toward violence for his dreams to change. Instead, I tell him that when the dream comes, he must take a deep breath and turn towards the figure. I tell him to hold up his strong hands so they face one another. He must crush the dark figure between them. He chokes it as if it were real--again and again.

"OK Bull. That's what you do, even if you are not fully awake." "Yeah, Doc." He chokes the air with his thick fingers.

The session is over. He picks up his box. I walk alongside him toward the door. I want to show him my empathy. I pat him on the back as I reach for the door handle. I see an elbow coming at my face, but I can't react quickly enough. My head hits the wall behind the door, and I slump down, watching Bull exit as his hand and fingers throttle the dark forces in his mind.

ends