Who would I be getting cured for?

One issue that has been clear to me for quite some time is that it’s really not me that people care about.

It’s themselves that they care about.

And I don’t mean in a rude and selfish manner.

It’s just comes from from a feeling of powerlessness they feel when they can’t imagine not being able to right wrongs.

People fear death as it’s the great unknown, and people generally can’t understand how death could be an answer.

When has no real purpose other than getting up everyday to go to work, what’s the point?

People don’t tell me to get counselling so that I can feel better.

People tell me to get counselling so that they can feel better about themselves.

Empty platitudes as they say.


I’m tired, so very very tired.

As I’ve said, I will always remember what I lived through.

I will always understand what was taken from me.

I will always remember the abuse.

I will always remember how the abuse was handled.

My brain was already fried as a result of the sexual abuse and then the manner in which Captain Totzke dealt with the abuse.

But, dealing with the CFNIS from 2011 onwards fried my brain even more.

I think what made the CFNIS investigation so much more depressing was that they went out of their way to humiliate me, to discredit me, and to make sure that I understood that no one was ever going to own up for what I endured on Canadian Forces Base Namao from 1978 to 1980 or on CFB Griesbach from 1980 to 1983.

Even though they’re both dead and gone, the memories of my father and my grandmother linger on.

If the memories weren’t so fucking painful, the idea of Richard calling his mother an alcoholic that was cruel to his children would have been a fucking laugh riot.

Let me make a few things very clear.

I was never allowed to be the victim. I made things happen. I allowed things to happen. I was a pervert. I was a homosexual. I was old enough to know what I was doing. I was supposed to be raising my younger brother.

It wasn’t like nobody knew that I had been abused.

Captain Totzke knew.

My father knew.

The military police in May of 1980 started investigating the babysitter for what he had done to younger children on the base as a result of numerous parents complaining. I have no doubt that the military police back then knew about my brother and I.

The fact that both my father and Captain Totzke knew and yet blamed me means that I didn’t suffer in silence since 1980.

It means that they both shoved a sock in my mouth to keep me silent.

One did it because of orders from the chain of command

One did it to hide his dysfunctional household.

In the end, I’m the one left with the burnt out brain.

I’ve lost.

And I’ve lost big time.

The least you could do is admit that I should have the ability end my life if I want to.

I had no input in the matter of being born.

My parents had sex.

That was their choice.

The adults in my childhood were either absent, dysfunctional, alcoholic, or they had agendas.

One line from a song that has always resonated with me since I heard it is:
“You know where it ends, yo, it usually depends on where you start”, Everlast, What it’s like.

I wasn’t given every advantage in life only to piss it away in my college years because I got into drugs or drinking.

During my adolescence all I could do is sit and wonder why I was so fucking stupid and so fucking dumb. Nothing I did ever seemed to work out. Everything I did I fucked up.

In my early adult years I realized that my electronic skills and my computer skills were not going to amount to anything. No degrees, no certificates, no decent pay.

As I said in another post, I could use my mechanical reasoning, my electronic skills, and my interests in computers to get an advantage over other candidates for jobs that were basically just over minimum wage.

It was in the mid to late ’90s that I realized that I was never going to amount to anything.

All those years, wasting away at jobs that I didn’t really like, but they were jobs that allowed me to eat and sleep in a bed.

What makes this even worse is all the years of listening to people telling me that I was crazy, that I was insane, that I was a fucking retard, that I was a fucking loser, that I was psychotic, that I was an asshole, that I was a snob.

The crazy is what the kids in school called me.

The insane was what my father called me.

The fucking retard is what my stepmother called me.

The fucking loser was from my time living on the streets and in emergency shelters.

The fucking psycho was from when a female customer was trying to get a response out of me when she accused the machines of intentionally damaging her personal equipment.

The fucking asshole and the snob come from the fact that I don’t get worked up over shit, nor do I give a shit about TV programs, or sportsball teams, or movies.

And please don’t respond telling me that I’m not the above. It would be meaningless empty gesture.

All my life people have told me that I should be very happy that as shitty as my life was, that at least I wasn’t born in some 3rd world country.

I’ve never underfuckingstood what they bullshit is supposed to mean.

I wasn’t born in some mythical 3rd world country. I was born in this country. A country where children are supposed to be safe. A meritocracy where one can go as far in life as they’re willing to go. This shit all turned out to be a fucking lie. But I’m supposed to pretend that I’m the luckiest boy in the world for all of the opportunities that were thrown at my feet.

Author: bobbiebees

I started out life as a military dependant. Got to see the country from one side to the other, at a cost. Tattoos and peircings are a hobby of mine. I'm a 4th Class Power Engineer. And I love filing ATIP requests with the Federal Government.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: