Dying and death.

I honestly don’t know why death frightens people.

Sure, the manner in which you die can be pleasant and peaceful or horrific and terrifying.

But death is death. There is no more sensation, there is no more comprehension, there is no more awareness.

Everything stops.

And everyone dies at least once in their life.

And I really don’t understand why people get so upset about my desire to die and my desire to obtain medical assistance in dying.

You only get one life to live. There are no restarts. There are no do-overs.

My life isn’t going to suddenly get better.

My depression and my anxiety aren’t suddenly just going to disappear.

The memories of what I’ve endured aren’t going to go away.

I’m not going to instantly find a significant other.

I’m not suddenly going to take on interests and hobbies.

I wake up every morning with an intense desire to stay in bed.

On my days off I can sleep, and sleep, and sleep.

Sleep is much better than being awake as dreamland is much more interesting than reality.

There is nothing here for me, there honestly isn’t.

If I die tomorrow or if I die ten years from now, it wouldn’t make a difference other than I would endure ten more years of living with the shit from Canadian Forces Base Namao and Canadian Forces Base Greisbach in my head.

In many ways I wish I hadn’t sent that fateful email to the Edmonton Police Service in March of 2011.

Sure, I had wanted to die before then. I’ve wanted to die since 1980. But I was too afraid of the pain of dying and of botching up my death to go through with it.

But after having dealt with the Canadian Armed Forces and the Department of National Defence my desire to die has become a mission.

People tell me that I am being silly. That I can’t die. That I have too much to live for.

Maybe if things in my youth had been different, then yes, maybe my desire to die would be silly.

I have absolutely nothing to live for. And that’s the truth. And I’m not being melodramatic.

I obtain no real joy from life.

Life just keeps repeating, day in, day out, the same shit. The same memories. The same depression. The same anxiety. The same hopelessness. The same worthlessness.

I don’t like the fact that one of the reasons that I’m still alive is that others have determined that I shouldn’t be allowed to determine when I’ve had enough.

Not thinking about the depression won’t work.

It’s been with me for far too long, and it wasn’t that I never wanted to seek treatment for it. It was that I was actively denied treatment for it. Fuck, I didn’t even know that I officially had issues until the summer of 2011 when I received my social service records.

Up to that point in time I had always believed what my father told me. That I was acting up. That I was doing this for attention. That I didn’t have friends because I thought that I was better than everyone. That I had fucked with his military career. That I was a cock-sucking homosexual because of what I had been caught doing with the babysitter. That I was a fucking pervert for what I allowed the babysitter to do to my younger brother.

Not thinking about the sexual assaults on Canadian Forces Base Namao won’t make them go away. I wasn’t allowed to be a victim. I was a pervert. A homosexual. I “wanted it” because I never told anyone about it.

But, there was no one to tell about it.

My grandmother was an emotionally damaged piss-tank alcoholic Indian Residential School survivor.

My father was a misogynistic womanizer who was just as much of an alcoholic and who was just as emotionally damaged as his mother.

And when people did find out about it I was labelled a pervert and a homosexual by my father and by military social worker Captain Totzke.

Knowing the truth about back then doesn’t make any of this go away.

Knowing that I was caught up in the Captain Father Angus McRae child sexual abuse scandal in which over 25 children were abused by Captain McRae for more than two years on four different bases, doesn’t make me feel like a hero or a champion.

How can I feel good about this mess knowing that men in positions of power made a decision to sacrifice my mental health and wellbeing in order to save the image and prestige of the Canadian Forces and that even my own father stood aside and put up no resistance.

If you respect me, you will respect my desires.

I had no choice in the matter of being born.

That was a decision made by two very irresponsible adults.

I didn’t chose to be raised by my emotionally damaged grandmother.

I didn’t chose to be raised by my just as equally damaged father.

I didn’t chose to be sexually abused on CFB Namao.

I didn’t choose to have a military social worker.

At least let me have a choice over when I’ve had enough.

Respect my choice when the time comes.

Support me in my quest to obtain peace through Medical Assistance in Dying.

Don’t shame me, or ridicule me for wanting to die. Take your energy and direct it towards agencies that hide child sexual abuse. Use your energy to try to eradicate child sexual abuse.

Ensure that no male victim of child sexual abuse is labelled as a homosexual or blamed for their own abuse.

Don’t come after me for making “irrational decisions”. I’m not angry. I’m not upset. This isn’t a spur of he moment thing. I’ve wanted to die since back in 1980. I’m tired. I’m burnt out. I want to go. I want to go peacefully. I want to die with dignity as opposed to dying like an injured animal.

That’s it.

That’s all I ask.