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?
Beeshive 