February 2022 – Beeshive

The Actual Procedure.

I’ve been conversing with the nice people at the BC Assistance in dying program.

As of this time I am talking with them anonymously due to the fact that I am associated with a health care facility and I don’t want any repercussions.

They’ve cleared up one matter that I wasn’t too clear about. I had also thought that the drugs required for death in the IV method would be administered by a set of dosing pumps. This is in fact not the case. The attending physician will manually inject the drugs one after the other.

And as I mentioned previously, I won’t have to go to a hospital or a clinic to obtain this procedure. I can go through with this procedure from the comfort and familiarity of my own bed.

Not that there is anything wrong with a hospital or a clinic, but being able to leave from familiar surroundings seems to be much more preferable to leaving from the strange and odd surroundings in a hospital or a clinic.

The process I wish to undergo involves four common drugs.

Each province in Canada has its own protocol for dealing with Medical Assistance in Dying.

This is the protocol used in British Columbia.

From the Canadian Association of MAiD Assessors and Providers

Recommended protocol from the Canadian Association of MAiD Assessors and Providers.

They three main drugs are Midazolam, Propofol, Roccuronium.

Lidocaine seems to be used as a painkiller.

Bupivacaine seems to be used to ensure cardiac arrest.

These drugs are used every day in health care.

And unlike for prisoner executions, the manufacturers of these drugs have not objected to their use for MAiD.

Prior to this date I will have to have undergone 3 different interviews with different psychologists and they will have to agree to allow me to undergo the procedure.

And as the date of the procedure approaches, my physician is supposed to ask me a few more times if I am certain that I wish to undergo a procedure that will result in my death.

And then on the day of my procedure, I will be asked a couple more times if I understand that I will die as a result of the procedure and if I wish to continue.

My last day is sure to be odd.

This would definitely be a day of “lasts”.

So far I’m planning to die in the evening.

Have a good breakfast. Go for a long walk. Maybe around the seawall. Might go for a bike ride.

Not sure what music I’d be listening to. Doesn’t matter really.

Go for a nice supper. Absolutely nothing too fancy, probably just the Old Spaghetti Factory, Earl’s, or even the White Spot.

Enjoy the nice long walk home.

I would arrange to be home in time to meet my physician.

While the physician is getting set up I’d be going to the washroom for the last time.

I’d also take my final shower.

I’m not sure if anyone else would be attending to watch me go.

Probably just me and the doc.

And then, when the time feels right I’d get into my bed for the very last time.

The doc would then ask me again if I understood what I was doing, and I would tell them that I understood.

The doc would then insert the main catheter as well as a “back up catheter”.

The first drug that would hit my system would be the midazolam. Midazolam is a sedative. At the recommended dosage it will not render me unconscious nor will it kill me. The midazolam will just relax me.

The next drug to enter my system will be the doozy. This is the drug that will pretty well turn my brain off like someone switching off a computer. Propofol is typically used prior to surgery to render a person into a very deep state of unconsciousness. However, in surgery the typical dosage for propofol is 2mg/kg. Meaning that the average human will receive 2 milligrams of propofol for every kilogram of body weight. I weigh 90 kg, so if I was being prepped for surgery I would receive a dose of 180 milligrams. However, because the goal of this procedure is my death, the recommended dosage that I will be given in 1,000 milligrams of propofol. At this level all brain activity will cease. I will no longer be me. I will be gone. The odds on my brain ever recovering from this dosage are none existent.

The next two drugs to be administered will be the rocuronium and then bupivacaine.

The rocuronium inhibits skeletal muscles. What this means is that my body would no longer be able to breath as my diaphragm muscle would become paralyzed.

And if bupivacaine is used as the fourth drug once the bupivacaine is injected it will stop my heart.

I don’t know if the lidocaine would be used or not, but if it is it really isn’t going to be that big of a deal.

As my brain will have been completely shut down by the propofol I will not experience any pain associated with the inability to breath nor will I be aware that my heart has stopped.

And that will be that.

After this there will be no more me. I will no longer exist.

And trust me, that’s a very small price to pay.

As I’ve said before, my existence is a very small and insignificant blip in the history of the known universe.

Whether I die in 2023, 2024, 2025, or even if I had lived to 70 or 80 years of age, on the cosmic time scale this is insignificant.

What is significant is the constant torment that my brain experiences on a daily basis.

Seemingly random things will slam me right back into P.S.’s bedroom on the day he was caught buggering me. Other things will transport me right back into the rectory of the base chapel when I was being given the tumbler full of “sickly sweet grape juice”. The baths that P.S. made me take with him so that he could try to get my rectum to loosen up so that he could fuck me still randomly pop into my brain. What P.S. did with the blonde haired girl are still in my mind. Watching P.S. do things to my brother will stay with me for life. The day my father was working on his motorcycle and I was watching him and P.S. came by and asked my father if he wanted him to look after me. My father told me to go with P.S.. P.S. took me straight to the chapel and into the rectory. There’s the man in the sauna that P.S. provided me to so that I could perform oral sex on this man.

The intense torment and abuse that I suffered at the hands of the kids on Canadian Forces Base Namao after I had been discovered in P.S.’s bedroom will live with me until I draw my last breath.

My sessions with “Terry” still pop into my mind at random, and it’s due to Terry that I am unable to sit down and deal with psychiatrists or psychologists. Put yourself into my shoes. You’re nine years old, you’re being dealt with by a military social worker who is convinced that you are showing signs of a mental illness called “homosexuality” because of what you and P.S. had been caught doing on CFB Namao.

The way in which my father blamed me for allowing P.S. to touch my younger brother will always be with me. The way in which my father blamed me for “fucking with his military career” will be with me until the day I die.

My father in general. My grandmother in general.

The diagnosed but untreated major depression that I’ve lived with since CFB Namao has cost me so much in life.

Earl Ray Stevens will always live with me until the day I die.

So will the unknown man from CFB Griesbach, and the unknown man from Toronto who tried to strangle me in his car.

Dreams that were taken away from me will always haunt me. I will never learn to fly an airplane. I will never fly a helicopter. I will never be what I wanted to be because after CFB Namao all I was told was that I was a worthless piece of shit. So there are no dreams or aspirations.

I just exist. I have no pleasures, I have no hobbies. I have mo dreams, I have no desires.

Talking about these matters doesn’t make them go away.

Not talking about these matters doesn’t make them go away.

Nothing will make them go away.

And if that’s what it takes, then nothing I will become.

The world will go on without me.

However, when I die, P.S. dies, Captain McRae dies again, Captain Terry Totzke dies, Richard Gill dies for a second time, all the people in the Canadian Forces chain of command that knew what happened from 1978 to 1980 they all die. Earl Ray Stevens dies again. And Al M. dies.

Never again will they haunt me or torment me.

I will be out of their reach.

Forever.

And I will finally be at peace.

Death

Why am I so fascinated with death?

I want to make it very clear. And I need you dear reader to understand this.

This blog will detail my journey towards my death.

I am creating this blog specifically as a way to explain myself, even though really I don’t owe anyone an explanation.

My life will end long before what it would have had I never gone through the hell I went through as a child.

I will be availing myself to Medical Assistance in Dying for psychiatric reasons.

If you don’t like the topics of dying or death, or if you feel that I am only being melodramatic or only playing for attention you should probably find a different blog to follow.

This blog will be my testament. It will be around long after I am gone. I have no family or friends to explain to others why I’ve done what I’ve done. So I’m going to explain it myself. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the Canadian Forces get the last fucking word on my life and my death.

For as long as I live I will never understand the fear of death.

Dying, yeah I can understand being afraid to die. Will it be painful? Will it be slow? Will it linger for weeks? Or will it be over quick? Will you have your affairs in order? Or will there be things left undone?

Being dead?

Nope.

We will all be dead one day. Being dead is nothing to be afraid of.

Being dead is very natural.

You didn’t exist prior to your conception. And you’ll go back to not existing when you’re dead.

You honestly only get one life to live. There is no coming back for a “do over”.

I only had one chance at experiencing what my live could have been.

Anyone who tells me that others had to give up their dreams as well are being very disingenuous and shallow.

My dreams, hopes, and aspirations were taken away from me long before I even knew that I was allowed to have dreams, hopes, and aspirations.

Age 40, or 50, or 60 is not the time to start dreaming about what one could be in life.

When I say that I’m tired, I mean it.

I lived through 1-1/2 years of horror on Canadian Forces Base Namao.

I lived through 2-1/2 years of horror on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach.

On Canadian Forces Base Downsview, Earl Stevens dragged me right back into hell.

There were more incidents after Earl, but these men I don’t remember enough about to even bother going to the police about.

Sure, I fully understand now that sexually abused and neglected children tend to be very easy targets for pedophiles, but that doesn’t make my past any easier.

I remember being frequently late for school staring on CFB Griesbach and on CFB Downsview. I couldn’t sleep. I’d always wake up in terror. And when the morning came I didn’t want to get out of bed.

There were half hearted suicide attempts on CFB Griesbach and CFB Downsview. But in an environment like the Canadian Forces, especially back in the ’80s, attempting suicide or even just voicing your desire to attempt suicide is often met with mockery and derision.

Sure, what kid wants to get out of bed in the morning.

But my reluctance to get out of bed was different.

I had diagnosed, but untreated major depression.

Was it my father’s decision to not have my depression treated, or was it Captain Terry Totzke’s decision? I’ll never know. And at this juncture I don’t care.

Untreated major depression is a bitch.

It’s not sexy or cool lie it is on TV or in the movies.

Untreated depression is a fucking killer in the literal sense.

Depression, treated or otherwise is the leading cause of suicide.

There were time in my life both as a teen and as an adult where I’d break down and cry. Literally for days sometimes.

And this was suffering in silence.

My father, in addition to having his own demons, was being told by the likes of Captain Terry Totzke that my issues weren’t depression, or anxiety, or the fallout from child sexual abuse. Terry’s concern was homosexuality.

So no, there was no treatment for my depression or anxiety or anything else while I was living under Richard’s roof.

See, depression is an illness that only tends to get diagnosed if others complain to your doctor about it. If you go to your doctor and complain about the symptoms of depression without the support of family or other you get brushed off as being a hypochondriac.

Depression rots your brain. It’s toxic. It changes the way your brain behaves and operates. It changes the way your brain responds to stimulation.

If I cried or if I acted as any other emotionally disturbed child with untreated major depression or severe anxiety could be expected to that would be rectified with a backhand or a belt.

I would miss days and weeks from work with mystery illnesses.

There were other suicide attempts over the years. 1994, 2000, 2006, 2011, 2012.

The closest I came was the 1994 event.

I legally changed my name in 2008. I thought that with a new name I could escape my past and reinvent myself and leave Peter, the chapel, the man in the sauna, Terry, Pat, Wayne, Earl, Allan, the man who tried to strangle me in his car, my father, my grandmother, my mother, and my stepmother all in the past.

Yes, I had my new name. But all the shit from my past was still there. And now my father was beyond fucking pissed that I changed my name. He never did talk to me after that.

And reinventing oneself is impossible unless the past is reconciled.

In addition to the shit I had gone through as a child, I was now about to encounter a fresh new shit show from an organization that was more about keeping the past a secret.

I had investigators from the CFNIS call me an outright liar. I had investigators from the CFNIS suggest to me that I was making stories up. I had investigators from the CFNIS tell me that I was exaggerating things and confusing incidents that happened on other bases with incidents that I remembered happening on the bases I lived on.

Sure, obtaining Captain McRae’s court martial records and the CFSIU investigation paperwork in 2018 and 2020 respectively ultimately proved that I was right. But it also amplified the pain and the anguish knowing that the Canadian Armed Forces fucking knew what Peter had been doing on Canadian Forces Base Namao from 1978n until 1980. And the Canadian Forces knew that I wasn’t lying when I said that Captain McRae had given me a “sickly sweet grape juice” on the visits that Peter would take me on to the rectory at the chapel. It was in the court martial transcripts, right in fucking black and white. The military police knew in 1980 that Captain McRae was bringing children to the rectory and was giving them beer or wine before moving them into the bedroom of the rectory to “fool around with them”.

In August of 2011 I obtained my social services records that absolutely shattered my reality as I knew it and made me realize that I was a pawn in someone else’s game, a game that I never even realized that I was playing in.

All I really want from this is to clean my name.

Peter was allowed to grow up as the victim of Captain McRae.

When I spoke with his father Jack back in 2015. Jack loved and adored Peter.

Jack would have moved the fucking world for Peter, whom Jack viewed as an innocent victim of Captain McRae.

Jack even blamed himself for letting Peter become involved with Captain McRae.

This was even though Peter had gone on to have criminal convictions for criminal offences involving children.

I’d learn from the MPCC in 2013 that Peter’s entire family had gone to the wall in his defence and did everything possible to cover for Peter.

For instance Peter’s sister told the CFNIS in 2011 that she never heard of anything involving her brother sexually abusing children. But that’s how the whole fucking investigation into Captain McRae started, the base military police had received numerous complaints from various parents on the base that Peter was touching their child inappropriately.

Me?

I was always the filthy homosexual that made Peter touch my younger brother.

I was the filthy homosexual that enjoyed what Peter was doing so much that I never told anyone what he had been doing for almost 1-1/2 years.

See the difference?

Suicide amongst childhood sexual abuse isn’t unheard of. Even if that victim receives justice.

Child sexual abuse fucks with the brain in so many horrific ways its not funny.

Am I gay? Am I straight? Will I be a pervert like Peter? If I have sex with someone, will they use it against me? If I have sex with someone, do I owe them something?

Is my viewing of sex as being something dirty and disgusting a result of Peter, or was it a result of Captain Terry Totzke, or was it the way my father reacted?

So no, there will be no “normal” for me.

There will always be this gnawing in the back of my brain telling me that I will be a pervert like Peter.

There will always be this battle in my head “Am I gay”, “Am I straight”, “Am I just fucked up?”.

I know that I didn’t force Peter to molest my younger brother. But that scar is deep into my brain.

So death it is.

And I don’t understand why this is so controversial.

Life is about quality over quantity.

For some reason we look at life in the sense that the longer you live, the better life you have.

I can promise you that is absofuckinglutely not the case.

In my books, someone who had a happy well adjusted life and who died prematurely in their 20’s is far off better than someone who had a tormented life that lived well into their 70’s.

We willingly accept the high death toll on our public streets because car culture is just too damn convenient. Little Sally would still be alive is she looked both ways and made eye contract with the driver operating the 5000kg vehicle. Silly Sally!

We tolerate starvation and disease in the world because the free market will solve it. If we feed them or if we cure them they’ll just expect more free handouts.

We tolerate death in extreme sports because at least they died doing what they loved. Yeah, sure, he died because he jumped his motorcycle and crashed, but fuck was it awesome!

Guys drive race cars around a track at ridiculously high speeds and kill themselves doing something that was easily preventable, and we honour them as heroes.

But yet someone like me says that they intend to seek Medical Assistance in Dying to escape the horrors of a dysfunctional childhood, childhood sexual abuse, and inappropriate conversion therapy, as well as the constant and never ending torment and loneliness that goes along with those horrors and suddenly premature death is wrong and evil.

What the actual fuck?

Why is society so intent with the idea that I have to live to a ripe old age of 80 or 90 with the horseshit from CFB Namao, CFB Griesbach, and CFB Downsview playing non-stop randomly in my brain?

Why is slamming your F1 race car into a barrier at 260km/h seen as a noble death, whereas laying down in the comfort of your own bed and taking an IV solution seen as being the “loser’s way”?

Why is skiing out of bounds seen as an acceptable way to die, “he died doing what he loved”. Where as taking four prescription drugs is seen as being evil?

We send soldiers off to meaningless conflicts. We don’t treat the loss of their lives as a travesty.

Stunt performers die in the creation of movies. Movies for fuck sake. And no one cares. It’s just the cost of doing business.

You want to know what’s evil?

Evil is forcing someone to live longer than they wish to because it will make you feel better.

Evil is forcing someone to live longer than they wish to because death make you feel scared.

I don’t believe in god.

I don’t believe in heaven or hell or purgatory.

As I’ve said on other postings, once the blood flow stops to my brain, and once my brain depletes the oxygen it has, I am gone. Me, Bobbie Garnet Bees, will no longer exist.

I won’t be sitting on a cloud crying about not being alive.

I won’t be wandering around on the Earth in purgatory because I ended my own life.

I will be gone. Free of Peter. Free of my father. Free of Angus McRae. Free of Captain Terry Totzke. Free of everything.

And I think this is what drives the other survivors of child sexual abuse to commit suicide or seek to end their lives.

You can’t undo what the brain has been through, especially not 40 or 50 years later.

And “coping” and “thinking happy thoughts” isn’t the answer.

Martin Kruze, the man who exposed the child sexual abuse that had been rampant at Maple Leaf Gardens in the 1970s and 1980s committed suicide at age 35 by jumping off the Bloor Street viaduct and onto the Don Valley Parkway in Toronto in 1997. This even though his perseverance and overcoming the resistance within the Toronto Police Service led to the sentencing of Gordon Stuckless for numerous cases of child sexual abuse.

But even though Martin had been victorious and had been compensated, the years of living with this secret and then the anguish of dealing with a police force that didn’t believe Martin’s claims of sexual abuse ultimately proved too much for Martin.

I have no doubt that there are many other military dependents who have committed suicide over the years due to abuses they endured on the bases in Canada. The Canadian Forces are lucky in the sense that the adult deaths of military dependents are not linked back to their time as children living in the private married quarters on the bases in Canada. Actually I don’t even think the suicide death of a child in the PMQs on the bases in Canada will ever be linked back to abuses in the bases.

Again, that’s why I’m doing this blog.

This is so that when I draw my last breath and my heart ceases to beat my death will forever be linked to:
The Canadian Armed Forces
The Department of National Defence
The Canadian Forces Special Investigations Unit
The Canadian Forces National Investigation Service
<discharged with disgrace> Captain Father Angus McRae
<retired>Warrant Officer Richard Gill
<retired> Brigadier General Daniel Edward Munro
<retired> Captain Terry Totzke
<retired> Colonel J.B. Fay
<retired> Lt.Gen. K.E.Lewis
<retired> Col I.H. Firth
<retired> Lt. Col. M.M. Nash
<retired> Lt. Col. J.D. O’Blenis
<retired> Major R.G. Parks
<retired> Major M.M. Lehmann
<retired> Warrant Officer Frederick Cunningham
<retired> Major D.J. Boan
<retired> Major G.L. Brais
Minister of National Defence Joseph-Georges-Gilles-Claude Lamontagne (1980 – 1983)
Minister of National Defence Peter MacKay (2007 – 2013)
Minister of National Defence Rob Nicholson (2013 – 2015)
Minister of National Defence Jason Kenney (2015)
Minister of National Defence Harjit Sajjan (2015 – 2021)
Minister of National Defence Anita Anand ( 2021 to present)

I can’t promise you that this will be a thrilling ride.

I can’t even promise you that it will be an interesting ride.

But it is my journey.

You’re more than welcome to come along.

Maybe you have a morbid curiosity, don’t be ashamed, death is a curious thing.

Maybe you’ll learn some things along the way, maybe you won’t.

I don’t think my death will offer any insights as to how to prevent other deaths due to child sexual abuse.

But maybe you’ll understand the devastating effects that child sexual abuse and inappropriate therapies have on the victims of child sexual abuse.

And maybe my death will compel you to seek to treat the victims of child sexual abuse better than they have been treated in the past.

And maybe, just maybe you’ll be inclined to pester the government to acknowledge child sexual abuse within the Canadian Armed Forces and to help those victims get assistance.

I case you’re wondering, in the next post I will talk about the process of M.A.i.D. and the procedure that I wish to obtain.

Normal

Will things ever go back to normal for me?

That’s the problem, things were never normal for me.

It’s not like I got touched inappropriately one day and that was it.

The abuse went on for 1-1/2 years.

The subsequent psychological abuse then went on for another 2-1/2 years with my father’s knowledge and participation.

My family was dysfunctional before the events of CFB Namao.

The dysfunctionality became far worse after CFB Namao.

There are no drugs I could take to make me “normal”.

There is no therapy that will make me normal.

I don’t have a normal to go back to.

And there is nothing that will undo what was done without causing significant brain impairment.

I’m in a career that isn’t something that I would have chosen if I had been given a chance. The career that I’m in is one that I was able to fall into because the requirements were low enough and I had the intelligence to meet them.

I’ve spent the last 35+ years of my life working just to keep a roof over my head and keep food in my belly.

I’ve never once had the opportunity to be something that I wanted to be.

I was either too busy working, or I was too emotionally dead and self loathing to do anything.

Just like everyone else, when I was young I must have had dreams of what I wanted to be when I grew up, but that was so long ago I can’t even remember what they were.

What happened on CFB Namao and the way it was handled by the Canadian Armed Forces sent my life off on a trajectory for which there is absolutely no recovery.

What is the Government of Canada willing to pay?

Definitely not enough to ever undo the damage that was done. There is no amount of money that can ever undo what I’ve suffered through.

Definitely not enough to ever give me back the time that was stolen from me.

Even in 2011 the Canadian Forces via the National Investigation Service were trying to convince me that I was just making things up and exaggerating things. To them I was just collateral damage from a decision made 30 years prior by persons no longer in the Canadian Armed Forces.

How does the Government of Canada and the Canadian Forces ever make up for the lies they told me and the humiliation they made me suffer due to their farcical investigation in 2011.

The Canadian Forces took away the only chance that I would have ever had to have my father apologize for the lies he told me and the hell he put me through as a child.

My father had a choice.

In 1980 my father could have raised a stink about how the Chain of Command had buried most of the charges brought against Captain McRae.

In 1980 my father chose to go along with the chain of command decisions.

In 1980 my father chose to play along with Captain Terry Totzke.

In 1980 my father chose the Canadian Forces over his own children.

In 2011 my father again chose the Canadian Forces over his children.

When my father gave his statement to the CFNIS in 2011, there was absolutely no way that he would have forgotten to mention the fact that grandma had resided with us since early 1977 and that she had been living in Richard’s PMQ on base and was raising my brother and I.

Either he was too much of a fucking pussy to admit that he wasn’t man enough to raise his own children and that he needed his mother to raise his children for him or the CFNIS suggested that he not mention grandma.

Either way, someone knew that grandma was going to be a very big problem.

Richard wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t remember hiring a babysitter.

He didn’t, it was his mother. He even admitted as much in 2006.

Richard wasn’t lying when he said that he didn’t remember a babysitter being in the house.

He wasn’t home very often while we lived on CFB Namao. He was always off on training exercises or living with his girlfriends off base. But then again, both he and Sue stopped by one weekend for a visit when Peter was sexually assaulting my brother and I in the basement. So Richard was obviously cognizant that Peter was looking after us.

But Richard did lie none the less.

He knew who the babysitter was as he would freely use Peter’s name while we lived on CFB Downsview.

He knew who the babysitter was when I spoke to him in 2006 about the babysitter. He pleaded with me to not blame him, after all it was his mother that hired the babysitter.

So, he lied.

And he lied because I was worthless to him.

Richard was the only person that mattered in Richard’s world.

After all, I was the kid that fucked with his military career. It was my apparent frequent homosexual relationships with Peter that got us bounced off CFB Namao to CFB Griesbach. It was my mental health issues that got us bounced from CFB Griesbach to CFB Downsview. It was because I was only concerned about myself that at 8 years of age I allowed the 14 year old babysitter to molest my 6 year old brother.

My father knew who the babysitter was because every time my brother got into trouble while we lived on CFB Downsview, it was my fault for letting Peter touch my younger brother.

And yet in 2011, he lied through his teeth. He lied either at the request of the CFNIS, or he lied to cover up for the fact that he was a very incompetent father.

Either way he chose the Canadian Forces over me.

That’s not something that I’ll ever forget, or forgive.

He’s not here to apologize for it.

Sexual relationships to me have always been about having to surrender my body to someone older than me and doing what they tell me to do.

To me, sex is not about pleasure or fun.

Sex is something that others use to control you.

Sex is only something you have when others want something from you.

Sex is dirty.

Sex is filthy.

Sex was a very confusing subject for me when I was growing up.

From age 9 until age 11 I was in the care of a military social worker who was trying to help me with the mental illness I was exhibiting. At the time I had no idea he was in the Canadian Forces. I only knew him as Terry.

Terry was upset with me for having had homosexual sex with Peter. Terry would tell me time and time again that he had the military police watching me and that if I ever kissed or touched another boy that I would be sent off to the Alberta Hospital.

My father would parrot everything that Terry had to say.

In August of 2011 I would learn that Terry was Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Terry Totzke.

In 2018 I would learn that the Canadian Forces had viewed what Captain McRae had done in 1978 to 1980 as being “acts of homosexuality”. This meant that in the eyes of the Canadian Armed Forces all of the children involved with Peter And Captain McRae were homosexuals.

And with the time of me being caught being buggered in Peter’s bedroom coinciding with the start of the investigation of Captain Father Angus McRae I would say that it had been my being caught with Peter as being the catalyst for the investigation into Peter that eventually led to the investigation of Captain McRae.

But again, I wasn’t a victim. I was a homosexual.

See, that’s the difference between someone who was sexually assaulted as a child and never told anyone and me.

I may have kept my mouth shut about what had happened.

But people knew what happened. Hence why I was put in the care of Captain Totzke.

Yes, I was diagnosed as being beyond despair and beyond depression. I was noted as being severely anxious. I was noted as being terrified of men. I was convinced my father was going to kill me. And I did not like being physically touched. But looking back, this isn’t what Captain Totzke was concerned with.

For almost 2-1/2 years all Terry was concerned about was what I had done with Peter on CFB Namao.

For the entirety of the time I lived with my father until I moved out of his house when I turned 16 he was always pissed off with how I had fucked with his military career and how I had allowed Peter to fuck with my younger brother.

I had found an escape via cadets.

But Earl Ray Stevens took cadets away from me and reaffirmed to me that I must be a homosexual.

Somehow Earl knew that I was a military dependent and that I lived in an environment in which the threat of being exposed as a homosexual was enough to keep a kid’s mouth shut.

It wouldn’t be until years later that I realized why Earl had chosen me over any of the other kids in cadets is he knew that I was a base brat. He knew that my father was in the Canadian Forces.

Earl was in the Canadian Corp of Commissionaires. Earl had been in the Canadian Armed Forces himself. I wasn’t the first military dependent that Earl sexually abused. He knew that military dependents would be more inclined to keep their mouths shut.

How many other children did Earl sexually abuse on the various bases that he had been stationed on during his career.

I learnt from Earl that no one ever really tells the truth, that people will lie and deceive to get what they want, and that people will pay money for silence.

So, after all these years, will I ever be normal?

No, normal is not something that I will ever be.

Normal is such a foreign concept to me.

Yes, not being normal has allowed me to do things that I wouldn’t ever have tried if I was “normal”.

Facial tattoos? I love them. I’m proud of them. But they don’t belong in the world of the “normals”.

Dresses? I love them. They’re very comfortable to wear. They’re also very practical as well. But men don’t wear dresses in the world of the “normals”.

Lonely? Yep, I’m lonely. But this is something that I’ve had 40 years to get accustomed to.

In the period of Nov 1981 to Apr 1983 my civilian social workers had noted that I was completely unable to form friendships. It wasn’t that I was unfriendly. It was noted that I was afraid of others and that I preferred to keep to myself and just read books. I couldn’t express emotions such as happiness or sadness. I was unable to cry.

What will money bring me? Nothing really.

It will give me some breathing room, maybe do some of the things I’ve always wanted to do but was unable to do.

But it will also bring out those who feel that I was just grifting the military all along.

So, it’s really a no-win situation.

My Affidavit

My lawyer just sent me a copy of my affidavit. It has been stamped and accepted by the courts.

So, this is another step closer to the end.

There will be no happy ending at the resolution of this matter.

Money isn’t going to undo what I endured through my childhood.

The events in question occurred on CFB Namao from the fall of 1978 until the spring of 1980, but the repercussions have been felt for years after. Whether it be Captain Terry Totzke interfering with my mental health care and my chance to escape from Richard’s household, or whether it be enduring the derision of my father, these abuses have haunted me for my entire life.

Money isn’t going to erase a lifetime of suffering.

Money isn’t going to erase a lifetime of self doubt and self hatred and confusion. And I would assume that this is true for a lot of the other victims from Canadian Forces Base Namao.

I’m sure that in agreeing to settle, the Canadian Armed Forces, the Department of National Defence, and the Attorney General of Canada will be sure to have language added to the settlement that makes clear that any settlement that they agree to is not an admission of guilt on their behalf.

Sadly, any settlement reached will not ever get me an apology from my father.

I’ll never really get to hear from him what exactly it was that he despised about me the most. Was it I reminded him to much of his ex-wife? Was it being his first born that I represented the end of his ability to go sailing around the world with the navy or flying to exotic places with the air force? Was it really the sexual abuse that I “allowed” the babysitter to commit against my young brother.

Richard’s dead, he’ll never be able to apologize nor will he ever be able to explain. But then again, with what I learnt about him from my foster care records, he was a very troubled man with a lot of issues, so even if he did apologize would he have meant it? If he tried to explain what his issues with me were, would that be the truth or would it just be him telling me what he thought I wanted to hear?

At this point in time the Government of Canada hasn’t replied yet. According to the rules of the court the have a certain amount of time to respond.

Once the Government of Canada responds, then the negotiations commence.

I’m tired.

My brain is literally burnt out.

Yes, the Canadian Forces and the Department of National Defence have succeeded in keeping me from ever obtaining criminal convictions in this matter.

But with this settlement at least my name can be cleaned.

And really, that’s all a person has is their name.

When I do die, it’ll be my name that will live on.

There is no afterlife. There is no heaven. There is no hell.

There is just the here and now.

If I hadn’t been so bound and determined to clear my name, my name would have been stained with the events of CFB Namao.

Now when I die, I get to die knowing that my name will live on after I am gone and people will understand why I was the way I was. People will know my story. And people will know the story of the other kids from CFB Namao.

Falling through the cracks again.

I find myself falling through the cracks even more in planning for my death

Well, just found out that the Douglas Brain Bank in Montreal isn’t interested in my brain.

Here I was thinking that someone with a traumatic background, who was diagnosed at a young age with Major Depression and Severe Anxiety, who survived into their 50s without any type of psychiatric help would have been of interest.

Nope.

Apparently you have to live in Quebec to be considered for the donation program and you also have to have been in the care of a mental health professional prior to your death.

So, that rules me out.

The UBC body donation program only accepts cadavers that meet some undisclosed criteria. I’m going out on a limb here, but that will probably be bodies between 20 and 30, toned, muscular, below average BMI.

So, not only is medical science not interested in me while I’m living, but apparently my corpse isn’t worth shit to anyone after my death either.

And I’m beginning to put extra credence on something that Dr. T. my nurse practitioner has warned me about.

I may not actually qualify for M.A.i.D.

Sure, I was diagnosed at a young age with Major Depression and Severe Anxiety after 1-1/2 years of depraved sexual abuse on Canadian Forces Base Namao. Then I had to deal with 2 years of conversion therapy at the hands of the military social worker who was convinced that I was a homosexual because of the abuse. Plus further events of child sexual abuse. And neglect. And torment.

But this matters all for naught.

Being “functional” may prove to be my biggest undoing.

Because I didn’t see any mental health professionals between April of 1983 and the present day I’m obviously not tormented by depression, anxiety, or CPTDS.

Well, I did see mental health professionals , but they were mental health professionals provided by my employer, so they don’t count as I had to be very careful with what I told them so that I didn’t get my sorry ass fired.

Growing up in the military, living on military bases, and my father’s reactions to Captain Terry Totzke and Pat and Wayne taught me that mental health professionals, head shrinkers as he called them, were to be avoided.

My father taught me via slaps, backhands, and belts how to hide my depression and my anxiety. Well, not hide them, just internalize them where they’d eat me alive from inside.

When I grew up on the bases being mentally ill was just one step above being a child molester. In the 1980s you never, under any circumstance, let anyone on base know that you were having mental problems.

And it really doesn’t help that when I go to speak with counsellors, all I get are crystal clutching chakra chanting bobble heads that want to talk about my difficulties without talking about my difficulties.

And without any type of military trauma experience these crystal clutching chakra chanting assholes only make the problems worse.

Children didn’t live on military bases.
Children didn’t serve in the military
Children couldn’t be affected by military mental health issues because they weren’t in the military.
Children weren’t sexually abused in the military because soldiers would protect children.
Military dependents can’t have PTSD or CPTSD from events on base.
Child sexual abuse is a “learning experience” and nothing more than “childhood curiosity” and experimentation.
If something happened, the military police would have done something.

Now, getting military grade trauma counselling is out of the question as I don’t qualify. See, I’m not in the military and the Canadian Forces won’t pay for civilians to receive treatment. And as I’ve said fucking civilian counsellors are the goddamn worst. Sure, they mean good, but trying to bring these fuckers up to speed on what military life was like on the base is a major fucking downer. Too many of these counsellors learnt all they needed to know about military life on base from watching “Major Dad” on TV back in the 1980s.

“Bobbie, you’re being too hard on these people, they’re only trying to help”

Shit or get off the fucking pot.

Give me a fucking solution to my issues or stop fucking talking.

Tell me what to do, do give me some horseshit about “peering inside”

It’s that simple.

Tell me how to stop the fucking flashbacks from back then.

Tell me how to undo the fucking conversion therapy at the hands of Captain Terry Totzke.

Tell me how the fuck to undo 40 fucking years of living with untreated mental fucking illnesses.

Don’t tell me to love the fucking child inside – that’s the fucking quickest turnoff going.

Don’t call me a fucking warrior – I’m not a fucking warrior. I’m someone who had their fucking brain fucked with by people more concerned with keeping fucking secrets than helping me overcome the trauma.

Don’t fucking tell me that I should be happy that I wasn’t a girl because girls have a much harder time in life. I’ve lost count of the number of cocks and fingers I had inside my asshole before I turned 8, so fucking stuff that horseshit. Just because I’m male doesn’t mean that what happened on Canadian Forces Base Namao was any less traumatic or was just fucking “childhood curiosity and experimentation”.

You want to help me?

Help me fucking die.

Let me get my Medical Assistance in Dying so that I don’t have to live with this horseshit.

The time for fixing this crap was back in the early 1980s.

The Canadian Forces shat all over that idea.

So the only way to fix this now is to allow me to die a dignified death.

A death that will be recorded properly in the records as being due to psychological trauma due to childhood sexual abuse on a Canadian Armed Forces base.

Don’t force me to die by suicide where I get written down in some coroner’s ledger as being a suicide due to “unknown circumstances”.

Understand the difference?

An interesting issue.

Planning for the sweet release of death leads to some interesting realizations

It’s odd.

I understand that to many of you that my death is probably playing out like the longest suicide in the history of humankind.

Death will offer me the escape from my constant companions Depression & Anxiety as well as eliminating all of my memories of the sexual abuse on Canadian Forces Base Namao, the subsequent treatment that I received at the hands of military social worker Captain Terry Totzke, and the memories of the far too many years of suffering alone and being blamed for CFB Namao.

However, I’ve just realized that I’m probably not going to see the completion of various projects. Some that I am involved in and some that I am not involved in.

And it’s kinda a weird feeling.

Take the new hospital. I’ve been involved with the design and procurement committee for the new hospital.

Am I sad?

No. Not really.

My name will live on in the project documents.

I was here. I did something.

Even the existing hospital. I’m still running the physical plant there, and I will do so right up until the date I chose.

Now, to be honest, I’m not going to work right up until the chosen date of my death. If things work out correctly, I’ll be able to take some time off work, get an early payout on my pension that will allow me further time off.

But still, I’m going to work right up to the end. And why shouldn’t I. Work keeps my mind from wandering into my past.

I’ve worked on various projects, and I’ve got more projects and improvements lined up.

Why do these projects and improvements if you’re going to die?

Why not? Gotta do something with my time anyways. And besides, let’s say that I wasn’t planning for my death. Should I not do any improvements at work just incase that I get run over while I’m riding my bicycle one day?

The Skytrain extension out to Arbutus, or even the recently announced extension out to Langley. The Broadway extension started recently and it’s expected to be in service by 2025.

Sure, it would have been interesting to have been able to take the Skytrain from Arbutus to Coquitlam, or even from Arbutus to Langley. But this doesn’t outweigh the war and the damage that are in my head.

The new hospital? It’s supposed to be completed around 2027 or 2028. So nope, won’t live to see that.

Am I sad?

Nope.

I used to joke during the planning meetings that the rear lane behind the new hospital that had yet to be named should be called the “Bobbie Bees Memorial Lane”. As no one at work has any ideas about my plans, they all laughed it off as just a joke. But it would have been nice for that to have been named after me and dedicated to all of the children who grew up on Canadian Forces bases in Canadian and whom ended up committing suicide to escape the demons they encountered in the military environment.

I’ve come to realize over the past little while that it’s our attachment to the here and now that makes it so hard to let go.

After I draw my last breath, the world will keep on spinning. Why shouldn’t it?

It’ll be like I was never here and that I never existed.

I won’t miss anything because I won’t exist.

Those who knew me might miss me, but within 50 years everyone who knew me will be gone as well.

Except for a very few people in the world, my death will go unnoticed. Just another of the of the 60 million deaths per year. 64 million per year by 2025.

There’s a lot of work in death.

Well, for the last couple of days I’ve been having a little bit of a back and forth with the local health authority trying to gain more knowledge about Medical Assistance in Dying.

The actual dying process I understand.

But it’s all the other matters surrounding my death that I definitely need to start planning for.

I need a will.

I had never really thought about that.

I was planning on giving my belongings away to those who wanted them. It’s not like I need to take money into the afterlife. But, to prevent squabbles, I was told to get a will and put everything in writing.

Really, my will would come down to who gets my ebike, who gets my motorcycle, who gets my computers.

My pension and other benefits would be handled via the instructions on my policies.

Other than that, I have nothing.

No property, no assets, zip, zilch, nada.

I guess depression and anxiety always kept me anchored in the here and now.

It’s not like I don’t have savings or other financial instruments. It’s just that I never had any desire to collect things like cards, or cars, or motorcycles, or homes, or condos.

When you have severe and deep depression you’re not really looking into the future as you’re expecting to die any day.

My affairs will be pretty simple, except for my brother there’s no next of kin or any other “family” that I have to worry about appeasing, so no “Game of Thrones” type family politics.

Needing a will is apparently even true for the disposal of my body.

It’s not enough to sign forms with medical schools and institutes expressing my desires for my body to go to medical research.

That has to go into a will as well.

One copy would go to a lawyer. One copy would go to my physician.

As I have no family or relations to rely on I need to go the extra step and arrange for the transfer of my body. As my death will be what is known as an “expected death” the coroner will not attend. Nor will my physician remove my body. Would look kinda funny with my doctor lugging my corpse down the elevator and then strapping it into the passenger seat of his car and driving it over to UBC. So that means that I have to make arrangements ahead of my death to have someone remove my body and deliver my body where it needs to go.

Thankfully the IV method is available at home.

It turns out that whether I use the oral method or the IV method, both methods require the attendance of a physician or a nurse practitioner.

The nice thing is that it was confirmed that if I want to die in my own bed in my apartment that I can do so.

And no. My landlord legally cannot prevent me from dying in my apartment.

I guess that once I pick a date and time I’ll have to notify the landlord. If I time everything correctly, there won’t be anything really to remove from my apartment. My Bed. Maybe some clothes.

No special cleaning of my apartment will be required because my body will be removed from my apartment before I even cool down to room temp.

Gotta be sure to close all of my financial accounts. Sure, I could leave everything open, but why be an asshole?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

A little fly landed into my ointment as I was writing this post.

I got a reply email from the body donation program at UBC. They’ll only accept whole body donations. They will not remove my brain and send it off to a different research lab.

So……. maybe I won’t be able to die at home in my own bed.

Shame. It’s a really nice and comfy one.

I might have to go die in Montreal if I want my brain to go to the research lab that I have in mind which would be an adventure in itself. I have been to Montreal a couple of times. Renting an apartment for a couple of months might be in the cards.

Now, if I do have to end up going to Montreal to die that changes what I do with the rest of my body.

I’ve always been intrigued with the concept of giving my body to a “body farm”. And so far Canada only has one body farm in operation and that’s also in La belle province.

As I said, I had never really put any thought into my death. And now that I can see my death within my near future, there sure are a lot of matters to iron out.

Beyond help.

The Nurse Practitioner that I’ve been seeing since May of last year has been wonderful to date. He set me up with the escitalopram. Which I am thankful for.

But he’s nearly fallen into the same trap that some of my previous counsellors have fallen into.

He thinks that counselling will help me with my demons.

Sadly, he couldn’t be further from the truth.

The rot and malignancy in my brain is toxic and it was left untreated, ignored, and minimized for so very long and it is killing me on a daily basis.

One of the problem that I encounter with getting help is my previous experience of having been caught in between Captain Terry Totzke, my military social worker from Canadian Forces Base Namao, and my civilian counsellors from Alberta Social Services.

Now, of course at the time back in 1980 through 1983 I had absolutely no idea that Terry was actually Captain Terry Totzke.

But still.

That fucker hurt me, he destroyed me, he killed me.

I was 9 to 11 years old when I was in that asshole’s care.

That’s a pretty critical time in a child’s development life.

I had been sexually abused for 1-1/2 years at the hands of my babysitter. I had been taken over to the base chapel and given alcohol.
And as we now know, Captain McRae admitted to the military police to giving the children wine and beer before “fooling around” with them in the bedroom of the rectory.

Not only was I caught being buggered in P.S.’s bedroom, but I got the shit beat out of me before I got back home which was literally across the street.

I spend the rest of the summer hiding in my house. I didn’t dare step foot outside ’cause of the other kids.

But then school started up and I was beat up almost non-stop every day.

My family was relocated from CFB Namao to CFB Griesbach and as soon as I start going to the school on CFB Griesbach I start seeing a guy name Terry who was concerned that I was a homosexual and that homosexuality was a mental illness.

He even went so far as to tell me that the military police were watching me and if they reported back to him that I had kissed another boy, I was going to be sent off to the Alberta Hospital.

My own father started blaming me for what P.S. did to my younger brother. And I have absolutely no doubt that as my father was a master corporal and that Terry was a captain that my father was placing undue emphasis on Terry’s words.

As I’ve learnt, my father had a backbone made of jello. Sure, he could beat the shit out of me and my brother. But when the chain of command gave him an order he was as firm as milquetoast.

Then I start going to a special school off base. A place that Terry says that I’m going because I’m attracted to boys and I won’t stop trying to kiss boys. My father echoes Terry with the constant refrain that if I stop trying to kiss and touch other boys that I can go back to normal school.

Pat and Wayne, my civilian social workers are always trying to be my friend. They’re always trying to get me to talk about my father and what things are like at home. They want me to express my feelings. They want me to talk about what’s going on in my head.

I remember every morning at Westfield having to do “Temperature Check” which was basically you telling the class how high or low your emotions were and what was making you happy or sad. Fuck did I ever hate temperature check. I couldn’t express my emotions.

Terry and my father would tell me to be very careful with what I said to these “head shrinkers”. That I need to be careful. That Pat and Wayne will twist my words and make me say things that I didn’t really say. That if I’m not careful I’ll be taken away from my father. And considering that my mother had “run away with a man named Gus” because I didn’t love her enough, the last thing I wanted was to be taken away from my father.

Being caught in a war between the Canadian Armed Forces and Alberta Social Services was not a pleasant experience.

Living in the household of Richard who was drilling into my head that he was sick and fucking tired of me fucking around with his military career was not a pleasant experience.

There was no one to help.

So I learnt to keep my mouth shut. To keep the tears inside. To smile even though my fucking brain was on fire.

What else could I do?

I have attempted to go to counselling over the years, but one thing always seems to pop up. That is the ignorance the general public have towards the Canadian Forces and what life was like on the bases.

Most of the counsellors that I’ve seen over the years have no idea that children lived on the bases. The idea of children living on military bases is a very foreign idea.

When I tell people that what probably affected me more and harmed me more than the sexual abuse was the way in which Terry and my father reacted to the sexual abuse.

“There’s no way that your father would have blamed you”.

Sure there is.

At the time the Canadian Armed Forces had viewed male-on-male sexual assault as homosexuality. And the Canadian Armed Forces viewed homosexuality as a mental illness. That’s just the way things were. Sure, this was a policy towards military personnel, but in military families the serving member didn’t check their military attitudes at the door. Their military attitudes and the attitudes of the Canadian Armed Forces came right into the PMQ.

I know why my father told people what he thought they wanted to hear. It’s much easier that way.

When I was much younger I would often tell people that I was happy when I was on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.

With absolutely no family for support in my late teens, my twenties, my thirties, or my forties, there was absolutely no way that I was going to tell anyone that I was having mental crises. I couldn’t afford to miss time from work, no could I afford to lose my employment. It’s one thing to hide mental illness, it’s another thing to be mentally ill and living on the streets. When you’re mentally ill and living on the streets you’re even more invisible to society than a sexually abused military dependent.

As my foster care records indicate, in the aftermath of the sexual abuse on CFB Namao, I had no ability to make friends. I couldn’t express emotions. I could’t express happiness or sadness. I was terrified of men.

Those issues have affected me into my adult life. I still have no friends. I have co-workers, but that’s it. I have had two partners in my adult life. And both of those, one male and one female, were absolute disasters.

I have absolutely no idea of what I am. Gay? Bi? Straight? Not a fucking clue. I’ve had gay sex. Don’t like it. All I can think of is P.S.. I’ve had straight sex, but all I can visualize is what P.S. was doing to the little girl who was about six years old. Bi? Well, if I don’t like gay sex and I don’t like straight sex, bi isn’t going to be an option.

Asexual? Don’t know. More than likely I’ve just got way too much fucking trauma from Canadian Forces Base Namao in my head to ever be able to have a “normal” relationship. And in our society you need to belong to one team or the other.

I don’t really belong to any team, which is why I don’t have a problem with things like wearing dresses. To me a dress is a comfortable piece of clothing. I don’t associate it with being male clothing or female clothing. It’s just clothing. And I like it. And it doesn’t touch my body.

All these years later and I still don’t like people or things touching my body.

That’s honestly one of those things that make any type of relationship impossible is I don’t like being touched.

That, and I think that sex is disgusting and perverse.

It’s something that only sick people do, or something that you do if you want something from somebody else, or you allow someone else to do to you if you’re trying to make them happy.

And this is the hardest thing to make doctors and counsellors understand. I’m not okay. I’m not a fucking “warrior” or what ever sappy feel good terms are being thrown around these day.

I’m fucking damaged.

I have my father’s depression. I have my mother’s anxiety. I have the memories of what P.S. did to me, to my brother, to the little blonde haired girl, to some of the other kids I watched him molest.

I have Terry permanently burnt into my brain, and he’s not going anywhere.

I have my father constantly telling me that I can’t go swimming at the Kinsmen Sports Centre in Edmonton when I was 11 because there’d be other naked boys in the change room and that I wouldn’t be able to control myself.

I have the beatings at Richard’s hands that would get so extreme that I’d try to hide under my captain’s bed to get away from Richard burnt into my brain.

I have Richard’s sarcasm and putdowns burnt into my head.

I have the memories of opportunities taken away from me because Richard wanted to “teach me a lesson” and get me to “stop showing off”.

I know now that my father was identified by a psychologist hired by the Canadian Armed Forces of not taking any responsibility for his family. But that doesn’t lessen the memories of the beating Richard laid on my when my brother took the Pontiac for a joyride.

Yes, Richard was ill equipped to be a father, his own mother had issues which no doubt were handed down to Richard, but that doesn’t erase the memories of Richard’s anger from my brain. Nor does it lessen the effects of the damage from all those years ago.

There’s so much more.

And I can’t get any help with these issues.

Mr. Bees, we can’t move on if you’re stuck in the past.
Mr. Bees, children were never in the military
Mr. Bees, I’ve never heard of children living on military bases
Mr. Bees, why didn’t you tell your father
Mr. Bees, if you were a victim, surely the military police would have done something.
Mr. Bees, you’re talking about the military. Surely there’s no safer place for a child than being on a military base.

It’s all of these ill conceived notions about the reality of the life of a military dependent that have conspired against me receiving help.

My greatest fear right now is that due to my reluctance to not seek psychiatric counselling in the past that this might harm my attempts to obtain medical assistance in dying.

Outside of me wanting to clear my name in the CFB Namao fiasco I really don’t have a reason to continue living.

I am tormented non-stop by the memories of CFB Namao, CFB Griesbach, Terry, Richard, Earl, and all of the other horseshit that went on in my life before I had even turned sixteen.

These don’t go away. These won’t go away.

Even on the escitalopram I still get brain fog, although the escitalopram does help with the frustration that used to come with the fog. I can feel the anxiety there, below the surface.

It’s not like I’m griping about a dead goldfish from when I was 12, or that I haven’t gotten over a glass of spilt milk when I was 10.

The events on CFB Namao have driven a couple of the other victims to suicide.

And yes, I have tried suicide myself before.

Two things have pulled me back at the last minute.

I hate pain, I really do. Death doesn’t frighten me. Not existing any longer doesn’t scare me or frighten me. Dying scares the fuck out of me. Not being successful scares me even more than the pain of dying. Being a gimped out vegetable after a botched attempt really doesn’t appeal to me.

M.A.i.D. is my ticket out of here. I don’t want to live until I’m 70 with the crap from Namao playing non-stop in my skull. I don’t want Terry in my head anymore. I don’t want P.S. in my head anymore. I don’t want to constantly be caught in the endless loop of wondering if I would have been half the fuck-up that I currently am if I had told someone about what P.S. was doing to me and my brother or the other kids.

I’ve rarely talked about any of my suicide attempts out of fear of losing employment or being locked up. Don’t forget it wasn’t until 1972 that the criminal offence of attempting suicide was removed from the criminal code. The stigmatism against suicide and those who attempt suicide is still very prevalent in society. Those who attempt suicide or commit suicide are seen as losers, or mentally disturbed, or just weak.

What’s kept me going since 2011 is the faint hope that I will be able to clear my name and that CFB Namao would no longer be my fault.

And now, to be so close, but yet so far away is maddening.

Medical Assistance in Dying for psychiatric issues is supposed to be legalized in March of 2023.

One of the accepted mental illnesses is “depression”.

And to be so close only to find out that the fact that I stayed away from counsellors and therapy over the years due to my experience with Terry back in 1980 through 1983 might prevent me from receiving M.A.i.D. just doesn’t seem right or fair.

The fact that I’ve kept my suicide attempts to myself out of fear of losing employment opportunities and that this secrecy may keep me from my goal of M.A.i.D. also doesn’t seem right or fair.

I know that I’m probably reading too much into this.

But M.A.i.D. is what I really want, and I don’t want to be denied this procedure all because of issues that Captain Totzke set into motion years ago.