Bobbie and Medical Assistance in Dying

It should come as no surprise that I want to undergo Medical Assistance in Dying when it becomes legal on March 17th, 2027.

I’ve wanted to die every day of my existence since as long as I can remember.

My childhood was definitely not a pleasant one.

Alcoholism ran strong in my family with both my father and my paternal grandmother being piss tank alcoholics. Both had anger and rage issues. My grandmother’s issues were due to her time in Indian Residential School. My father’s rage issues were inherited from his mother.

My grandmother whom raised my brother and I from 1977 until 1981 was a literal Jesus freak. She lived by the maxims “Children are better seen and not heard” and “Children only speak when spoken to”.

My father was of the mindset that children are for the women to raise, and that even though he threw my mother out of the PMQ and off the base, it was her that saddled him with her kids.

And these desires only became amplified with the events from Canadian Forces Base Namao and how I was dealt with not only by my own family, but by how I had been dealt with by the military social worker that had been assigned to deal with my brother and I.

The untreated major depression, severe anxiety, and haphephobia that I’ve been saddled with for pretty well the entirety of my life has not been easy to deal with.

Why didn’t you get help?

After being stuck in a battle between my military social worker and my father on one side, and my civilian social workers on the other, asking for help was not in the cards. This is especially true once you understand that the military social worker and my father both blamed me for not only what happened to me on CFB Namao, but also what happened to my younger brother as well.

I’ve come close with suicide before, but suicide is hard to go through with as you know that it’s either gonna hurt like hell, or you’ll survive. I’m fucked up mentally enough, I don’t also need to be physically fucked up as well.

The closest I came to actually going through with suicide was back in ’94.

But that’s what I like about the idea of Medical Assistance in Dying.

Three, sometimes four drugs are used, administered by a professional, and away you go. Freed from all of my burdens. No more memories. No more second guessing. Just nothing.

And no, unlike some of the bullshit that’s being spread around, there is no “sensation of drowning”. Makes me fucking sick when people spread lies and bullshit.

I’m at that point in life where I’m close to the grave than I am to the cradle.

And even if the Canadian Armed Forces and the Department of National Defence were to admit that the military fucked up back in 1980 when they tried to minimize the number of charges in order to control the damage and avoid a public relations nightmare it won’t undo all of the suffering and negativity that I’ve endured.

I didn’t ask for this life. Existing isn’t a choice that I made. Two intoxicated people had sex in late December of 1970.

I didn’t join the Canadian Armed Forces, that was my father’s mistake.

I didn’t have a say in any of the decisions related to the courts martial of captain McRae.

I didn’t have a say in how captain Totzke and my father, master corporal Gill, decided to deal with me.

But I’ve lived with the outcomes of those decisions.

The time and manner of my death should be for me to decide on.

That’s the way it should be for anyone.

I shouldn’t have to live with “Bobbie, just smile and everything will be happy”, or “Bobbie, if you weren’t so negative then everything would be fine”, or “Your just saying this for sympathy”, or “people depend on you, you can’t just abandon them”.

Fuck ’em.

Below you will find my blog posts related to M.A.i.D for mental illness.