I don’t actually want to die. I need to die. There is a difference.
My brain is hopelessly damaged beyond salvage. You may agree with this or you may not agree with this. But it’s only my opinion that matters on this. I’m the one who has lived with this. And I’m the one more than willing to die to end it.
I’ve had no one advocating for my mental health over the years. So it is quite perplexing the number of people that want to suggest ways that I can take care of my mental health.
It wasn’t like my mental health hadn’t been flagged in the aftermath of the CFB Namao fiasco.
My mental health had deteriorated to the point that I was supposed to have been institutionalized. When you’re nine-years-old and psychiatrists are recommending that you be institutionalized you know that there is something seriously wrong. The fact that I wasn’t institutionalized doesn’t mean that I got better on my own. It just means that my deteriorating mental health was ignored.
Who kept me from receiving the help I required to treat my mental health issues? Was it my father? Was it Captain Terry Totzke? Was it someone else up the chain of command in the Canadian Armed Forces? I don’t know. And due to the loosey-goosey record retention policy of the Canadian Forces I don’t think that we’ll ever know.
And you know damn well that someone in the Canadian Armed Forces hierarchy interfered. On January 26th, 1983 Captain Totzke was told that Alberta Social Services was getting ready to place me into foster care or residential care. On January 28th, 1983 Captain Totzke told Alberta Social Services that my father was withdrawing me from the program and that my father had just receive a posting to Ontario.
And at this point in my life does it really matter?
For just over 42 years I’ve been left to cope with the following:
- Major depression;
- Severe anxiety;
- Gender identity issues;
- Sexual Orientation issues;
- Inability to form relationships;
- Inability to trust;
- Feelings of hopelessness;
- Feelings of helplessness;
- Feelings of worthlessness;
- Vividly reliving the sexual abuse of me, my brother, and all of the other kids I witnessed P.S. molesting;
- Grappling with being blamed by my father for allowing the babysitter to molest my younger brother;
- Grappling with being called a homosexual apparently because I participated in the abuse for as long as I did;
- The endless replaying of the man in the sauna;
- The abuse at the hands of Earl Ray Stevens;
- Existing in a dysfunctional household.
I’ve managed to fall through the cracks for a majority of my life. That’s the double edged sword of being intelligent. The people that I worked for were more than willing to overlook my issues because I brought so much benefit to their organizations. So what if I broke down and cried at random times, or so what if I blew up when I’d get frustrated because my depressed brain wasn’t capable of handling stress, or what if I didn’t come in for days at a time. When I could do electronic repairs, electrical repairs, mechanical repairs, HVAC repairs, the meltdowns and breakdowns were tolerable.
Being highly functional with mental illness is not fair. People just write off your mental illness as being “melodrama”, or “just being an asshole”.
And the sad thing about mental illness is that it doesn’t show up on a blood test, it really doesn’t show up on an MRI.
Mental illness can only be diagnosed by a psychiatrist. But psychiatrists have their own options and biases. So the fact that I’ve never been unemployed or locked-up in psychiatric care, or in trouble with the law means that I can’t really be that ill.
Throw into that the “Just Society” bias that many people have which results in doctors and psychiatrists being of the opinion that if something did happen to me then surely someone would have done something about it, right?
The other side of the “Just Society” bias means that many other people are of the opinion that if the military police didn’t lay charges in 1980 or 2018 that obviously nothing occurred. Because if something did occur, surely somebody would have done something, right?
The only problem is that as the years went by and I learnt to “cope” and “hide” my issues. And as the years went by I could feel the desire to die building inside.
It is so very tiring keeping my “happy” face on while my brain turns into a cancerous tumour full of rot.
There’s no fixing my brain. The damage is done. The damage has had time to set and solidify.
I’m not suddenly going to find a magical counsellor or magical pharmaceuticals that will erase the past, and erase the memories from CFB Namao, and erase all of the other shit that I went through before I turned 16.
My brain is not your “fix-it” project. My emotional well-being is not your hobby.
When I was first interviewed by master corporal Robert Jon Hancock back in 2011, I told him during the interview that I understood that there was not going to be a magical time machine that would send me back and undo all of the things that happened to me.
Life honestly has no joy and offers me no pleasure. It never has.
And this is where things get interesting.
I have had people tell me that my desires to die make them feel uncomfortable. That maybe if I stopped thinking negative thoughts and just thought happy thoughts that everything would be okay.
But that’s not how this works.
Bobbie, you’re such a “warrior”.
You’re a “champion”.
You’re so “brave”.
“You can’t be serious”.
Yes I am.
“You’re just doing this for attention”.
No I am not.
I’m somebody who got caught up in some very bad situations that were far beyond their control.
I came from a dysfunctional home.
I was exposed to adults that were suffering from their own intergenerational traumas.
I was sexually abused for a prolonged period.
The blame for this abuse was placed upon my shoulders like some sort of mantle of shame to wear.
I was then brain fucked by an organization that should have known better than to fuck with a child’s brain.
I didn’t receive the psychological help that I should have received.
In fact, my father’s methods of dealing with my issues were the exact opposite of what I required.
Do I really want to live for another 20 to 30 years?
Sure the escitalopram is doing a great job with my anxiety and my depression. But it hasn’t fixed them. They’re still there. They always will be there. Just like the memories of CFB Namao, of P.S., the visits to the chapel, of the abuse, of Captain Totzke, of Alberta social services, of my father’s anger and temper. Those will be with me until the day I die.
I’m single. I’ve never really been attached to anyone. I have no family to speak of. I have no one dependent on me.
Death, I am not afraid of. It’s the dying that I’m afraid of.
When you’re dead, that’s it. You’re dead. There is no happiness. There is no sadness. There are no memories. There is no regret. There is nothing. You don’t exist anymore. You don’t feel anymore. You don’t think. You don’t contemplate. You sure won’t be aware that you’re dead. And no, you won’t feel your corpse decompose.
Everything that you felt, saw, heard, touched, tasted, learnt, dreamt about, longed for, or cherished dies along with you.
Existing longer than you need to in the hopes that you’ll eventually find some supposed meaning in life is pointless, especially if existing brings pain and not joy.
You don’t get extra bonus points for enduring life longer than you needed to.
I am an atheist. I do not believe in a supreme being, an afterlife, a heaven, a hell, or a purgatory. I do not believe in reincarnation.
Dying is the hard part of death. Transposing from living to dead is often quite painful and traumatic. I’ve seen the end result of vehicle collisions. I’ve been aware of failed suicide attempts. I’ve seen people slowly die from brain injuries and strokes. I’ve known people who have died from incurable disease.
Life itself is not special. There are over 7.5 billion humans on the planet right now.
The value of human life varies depending on the situation. If a car driver makes a right hand turn on a red light and strikes a pedestrian, ooopsie.
If I’m out riding my bicycle and a car driver runs a stop sign and kills me but didn’t have the intention of killing me, ooopsie.
Society seems more than willing to tolerate deaths from motor vehicle collisions as a small price to pay for the convenience of fast travel.
How many lives have been lost in civilian aviation due to bad designs (737MAX) or a cutback in maintenance (Alaska Airlines)?
How many innocent civilian lives were lost in wars since the year 2000 due to bad intelligence and questionable motives?
How many people have died due to simple preventable diseases?
How many people have died from starvation?
Even when it comes to drug users, society seems to have little concern.
There seem to be only two times when a human life is lost that society loses its collective marbles. Murder or Suicide.
When it comes to murder, murder is almost universally reviled. The amount of revulsion shown is a sliding scale that seems to vary depending on who is being murdered and who is doing the murdering.
Suicide on the other hand is often seen as a selfish act perpetrated by someone just acting out for attention. Suicide is often seen as an overreaction to a silly issue. Suicide is rarely seen as the end result of events for which the person committing suicide felt that they had little control over.
My death will not be a suicide. Unlike a suicide, which is often random and unpredicted, my death will be scheduled. My death will be sanctioned by medical professionals, and my death will be overseen by medical professionals even though technically it will be me starting the dosing pumps.
Unlike a suicide, even a suicide with a note, there will be no unanswered questions about my death and why I’ve chosen death as opposed to living.
Everything will be explained along the way. There will be no chance for misinterpretations.
When I go, there will be no loose strings. Everything that needs to be closed off and addressed will be closed off and addressed.
You’re all more than welcome to come along with me on this journey.
Not all of the posts on my blog will be about my death. But I will warn you that a majority of my posts will be. I was hushed up about the child sexual abuse on Canadian Forces Base Namao. I will not hush up about my death.
Remember this, all of our journeys end with our own death. Mine will only be different in the sense that I am going to hopefully be able to schedule mine and choose the location.