Child neglect – Beeshive

Psychiatry, Silence, and the Cost of Survival

Let me be very clear about something.

Modern psychiatry is not primarily about repairing damaged minds. In practice, it is far more often about teaching damaged people how to function quietly—how to mask distress, suppress history, and remain acceptable to everyone else. Recovery is measured less by relief from suffering than by how little discomfort one causes others.

If you’ve followed my story, you’ll know that my first sustained contact with psychiatry and social services came in 1980 during the aftermath of the Captain Father Angus McRae child sexual abuse scandal on Canadian Forces Base Namao.

Three Systems, One Child

During that period, I was trapped between three systems, each with competing priorities:

the military social work system,
the civilian child welfare system, and
a deeply dysfunctional family, headed by a low-ranking CAF member struggling with untreated psychiatric issues, alcoholism, anger, and fear for his own career.

My civilian social workers recognized that my home environment was harmful and attempted to remove me from it. My military social worker, however, worked just as hard to prevent that outcome—not because civilian foster care was inherently worse, but because civilian intervention threatened military control of the situation.

This distinction matters.

Because my family lived in military housing on CFB Griesbach, Alberta Social Services could not simply enter the base and remove me. Civilian court orders had little practical force on base. Jurisdictional ambiguity worked entirely in the military’s favour.

Containing the McRae Scandal

At the same time, the Canadian Armed Forces and the Department of National Defence were doing everything possible to keep the McRae scandal minimized and out of public view. The decision to move McRae’s court martial in camera—despite the general rule that courts martial are public—was not incidental.

From an institutional perspective, it was far more convenient to present the case as involving a single fourteen-year-old boy, the then-legal age of consent in 1980, framed as “homosexual activity,” than to acknowledge the reality: more than twenty-five children, some as young as four.

Under military law, sentences were served concurrently. Whether McRae abused one child or twenty-five, the maximum punishment remained the same. The difference lay only in public perception.

Blame as a Containment Strategy

This context explains much of what followed.

Captain Totzke, the military psychiatrist assigned to me, appeared deeply invested in ensuring that I—not the system, not the institution—was framed as the source of dysfunction. Civilian social workers were treated as adversaries. The unspoken fear was that if I were removed from my father’s care and placed into foster or residential care, I might stabilize, improve, and begin speaking openly about what had happened on CFB Namao.

Instead of being treated for trauma-induced depression, I was told—explicitly—that I suffered from a mental illness called “homosexuality.” I was warned that I would end up in jail. I was told I was a pervert for having “allowed” my brother to be abused.

I was informed by Captain Totzke that he had the military police watching me, and that any expression of affection toward another boy would result in confinement at a psychiatric hospital. I was barred from change rooms, removed from team sports, and excluded from normal childhood activities under the justification that I could not be trusted to control myself even though I had been the victim of the abuse and not the abuser. In the military’s lens at the time, any sexual encounter between two males, no matter the age difference or the lack of consent, was treated as an indication of homosexuality. The victim was just as guilty as the perpetrator.

Age and Diagnosis

I was six years old when my family arrived on CFB Namao. I was eight when the abuse was discovered. Psychiatric intervention began about four months later just after my 9th birthday. By that point I was diagnosed with major depression, severe anxiety, haphephobia, and an intense fear of men. My father was so angry with me for having been found being abused that I was terrified that he was going to kill me.

None of these conditions were meaningfully treated.

What I did learn was how to perform wellness—how to mask distress just well enough to avoid punishment. That skill would define my later interactions with mental health professionals and the world in general. When I’d go for counselling with my civilian social workers, my father and Totzke would often warn me to watch what I said to the civilian social workers as they’d “twist my words” to make it sound as if I had said things that I didn’t say.

The Mask Never Comes Off

For decades afterward, my attempts at counselling followed a familiar pattern. My history was unwelcome. My symptoms were reframed as resistance. The stock phrases appeared reliably:

“Stop living in the past.”
“Move on.”
“You don’t want to change.”
“You’re playing the victim.”

It was not until 2011, when I finally received my own records, that I understood how early—and how thoroughly—my life had been derailed.

Group therapy or one-on-one it didn’t matter. Especially back in the days before I had obtained my social services paperwork. My inability to get out of bed on consistently was just because I’d stay up too late. My ability to sleep for days on end and miss work was just because I was a lazy asshole. My preference to be left alone was nothing more than my superiority complex. My debilitating fear of courses and exams wasn’t due to low self esteem, hell no, it was that I thought that I was too good.

Medical Assistance in Dying

For a while now I have been very open about my desire to access Medical Assistance in Dying.

What continues to astonish me is how many people believe this wish can be dissolved through optimism, pharmacology, or spiritual novelty. Ketamine infusions, microdosing, mantras—anything except acknowledging that some damage is permanent, and that survival itself can be a form of ongoing harm.

Don’t forget, in my case it wasn’t that the sexual abuse was unknown and no one ever knew about the issues I was facing. The CFB Namao child sexual abuse scandal was well known about in the military community. My diagnoses were known to my father and to Captain Totzke. But I wasn’t allowed to receive any help due to the desire to keep the proverbial “lid on things”.

Statistics and Comforting Fictions

This is why much of the anti-MAiD commentary rings hollow.

Recent opinion pieces lean heavily on selective statistics about suicide attempts and “recovery,” while ignoring the realities of under-reporting, stigma, misclassification of deaths, and survivorship bias.

Suicide statistics rely on narrow definitions: notes, explicit intent, immediate death. Overdoses are coded as accidental. Single-vehicle crashes are ambiguous. Deaths occurring months or years after catastrophic attempts are often excluded entirely.

The result is a comforting fiction.

A failed suicide attempt is not a victory. Often, it is survival driven by fear—not of death, but of catastrophic impairment. That fear should not be celebrated as evidence of restored hope or desire to live.

What Psychiatry Refuses to Admit

If psychiatry were being honest, it would admit what it does not know: the precise causes of depression, why some people do not recover, why treatment sometimes merely dulls experience rather than alleviating suffering.

It would also acknowledge the role of compliance and performance—the pressure to appear “better” so as not to be labeled the problem.

Instead, responsibility is quietly transferred back onto the patient.

And that, more than anything, is what I am unwilling to accept anymore.

Recently in the Toronto Star was an opinion piece

M.A.i.D. really isn’t an issue that requires “both sidesing”, but that’s what this opinion piece strives to do. It tries to mush a person’s right to self determination with personal opinions. And sadly the writer of the opinion piece concludes that if Canada could only fix its mental health system, then everyone would live happily ever after

Dr. Maher is dead set against M.A.i.D., to him any psychiatric illness can be easily treated, and if it can’t then the person should simply hold on and wait for a treatment that might possibly eventually work.

Dr. Maher was interviewed for an article published by the Canadian Mental Health Association.

https://cmhastarttalking.ca/from-pallbearer-to-psychiatrist-how-childhood-loss-propels-one-of-canadas-leading-medical-ethicists/

I have some questions for Dr. Maher.

23% of what? What is the number of Canadians that attempt suicide? 10 people, 100 people, 1,000 people, 100,000 people? How many people are we talking about?

Do we even know how many people attempt to commit suicide every year?

How many overdoses or single vehicle collisions are actually suicides?

How many people killed during risk taking activities are actually suicides?

How many work place “accidents” are actually suicides?

How many times does the coroner resist calling a death a suicide to spare the family the stigma of a suicide death?

How many times does the lack of a note cause the police and others to overlook a suicide?

How many people attempt suicide only to back away at the last moment, not out of the fear of dying, but out of the fear of fucking it up and ending up living for 20 years as a vegetable in a nursing home?

How many people that have attempted suicide never try to commit suicide again, not because they don’t want to take another attempt, but because their first attempt left them either physically or cognitively unable to make another attempt?

I guess we’ll never know.

And that’s sad.

This lack of understanding allows suicide to be pawned off as some random irrational behaviour that is driven by temporary bouts of sadness that some people just get too hysterical about instead of admitting that the human brain has an actual breaking point that once crossed can never be uncrossed.

Broken Bones

I have WordPress set up to give me reminders to write blog entries twice a week.

Today’s prompt was “Have you ever broken a bone”.

The only time I ever had broken bones was on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach in Edmonton.

This would have been in the spring / summer of 1982.

The was just after my father and my step mother had their civil union in our PMQ.

Richard took Sue to Jasper for a honeymoon.

Richard and Sue went to Jasper, my father dropped my brother and I off with our mother in Calgary. Yes, the same mother that Richard told social services that had just up an abandoned her family.

My father had borrowed a pick up truck with a camper from one of his air force buddies named Tim.

Representation only, but Tim’s truck was a 4×4

The pickup truck was a 4×4, so with the camper on the back the camper sat up pretty high. I’d say the roof of the camper was about 3m off the ground.

Due to my father’s inability to look after my brother and I my brother and I had devolved into trying to find the best way to get the other in trouble with Richard.

This was more of a survival technique than just childhood brattiness because if Richard was dishing out physical punishment to the other, that meant that you weren’t getting punished.

Anyways, my brother had decided to pack the pop-up vent in the roof of the camper full of leaves. Richard was at work. I knew that I was going to be in for the beating of a life time if Richard came home and found the vent packed full of leaves.

Why?

In Richard’s mind, I was my brother’s keeper. And even though Richard couldn’t look after his two sons, I was somehow supposed to be my brother’s father.

So, I hurried my ass up the ladder on the camper and cleaned all of the leaves out. Made sure that the vent was like spick and span.

On my way down the ladder I slipped and landed on my back.

I had the wind knocked right out of me.

One of the neighbours came over and helped me up.

Somebody called the military police and the military police called my father at the squadron.

My father hated being interrupted at work.

When he came home he wasn’t too pleased.

First, I was a stupid asshole for having played on the roof of the camper.

Then after the neighbours had told him that they saw my brother on the roof of the camper stuffing leaves into the vest I was a stupid fucker for not keeping an eye on my brother and for allowing my brother to get on top of the camper.

Did Richard take me to the hospital or even to our family doctor over in North Town Mall?

Nope.

I spent two days at home in an extreme amount of pain.

I couldn’t even wipe my ass after taking a shit, that’s how painful my wrists were.

Finally three days later he took me to the Charles Campsell hospital where it was found that I had numerous fractures in my right wrist and that my left wrist was heavily sprained with hairline fractures in the bones.

He told the doctors that I had only told him this morning about me having hurt my wrists a couple of days ago but that I didn’t seem to be in any pain.

As the doctors were setting my arms in casts he kept telling me that I should have told him sooner.

I shudder to think how long I would have had to suffer with my broken wrists had my family not been under the supervision of Alberta Child and Family Services.

I don’t think that Captain Terry Totzke would have given a flying fuck about my predicament, but Alberta Social Services wouldn’t have been none too pleased.

I was Richard’s “little buddy” for a couple of days afterwards, but that didn’t last too long. I guess that wiping my ass took a toll on him really quickly.

One of the things he did say is that I should have just left the leaves in the vent and that he would have made my brother clean them out.

There’s no way he would have handled things so calmly. Sure, he probably would have beat the shit out of my brother for having fucked around, but he would have beat the shit out of me for not looking after my brother and allowing my brother to do what he did.

I was only supposed to have my casts on for 6 weeks.

Richard decided that I was going to keep my casts on until the start of school so that I’d learn my lesson and not fuck around like I had.

I can still feel the fractures when I have to do heavy lifting or use large wrenches.

I can still remember Richard feigning surprise when he was told about the damage to my wrists.

My brother.

In a recent text message, my brother Scott said that it was okay for me to use his name and his pictures.

I had no idea that these pictures existed until I visited Marie in December of 2013.

Even though Richard had very decent camera equipment for the time, there really doesn’t exist any pictures of my brother or I. Richard had tons of pictures of military aircraft, pictures of him and his buddies drinking on training exercises, and pictures of lots of other things that weren’t my brother and I.

Scott had texted me asking about the class action and we messaged back and forth for a bit.

I sent Scott a meme that I had gleaned from twitter:

That’s when he responded that Sue had given him a few pictures a while ago, but that he shredded them.

That’s when he said that I could use his name and share his pictures.

Left – Robert Gill (7 yrs) and Right – Scott Gill (4-1/2 yrs)
Picture taken in late summer of 1978
on Canadian Forces Base Namao
in PMQ #11 – 12th street

Yeah, we were about the same size as kids. Lots of people on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach and Canadian Forces Base Downsview mistook him as being the older sibling while I was mistaken for the younger sibling.

Scott Gill (rear row, 5th from the left)
Grade 1, Guthrie School
Canadian Forces Base Namao

Scott Gill
at Downsview Public School
sometime between 1984 and 1986

(l-r) Margret Mary Waniandy Anderson, Marie Annette Jacquline Dagenais Gill, Scott Dwayne Arthur Gill, Robert Wayne Gill.
About September / October 1978
While Richard was away on training exercises.

I’ve never mentioned Scott’s name for two reason.

The first reason is that I have no idea who he actually is.

The second reason is a lot of people really don’t want their names mentioned in matters like this.

When I say I don’t know who Scott is, I mean that.

The only thing that we really have in common is that we were sexually abused by the same person.

Yes, we have the same sperm donor.

Yes, we had the same egg donor.

Yes, we popped out of the same vag.

But we were raised feral.

I was born in Sept of ’71

He was born in Feb of ’74

Our mother was only around until early 1977, so he knew her about three years. I knew her for about six years.

I knew Richard’s anger and his drinking. I don’t think Scott remembers too much of that.

During our time on CFB Shearwater and CFB Summerside Richard was only around periodically, but when he was it usually wasn’t a pleasant time for anyone.

Once on CFB Shearwater, Richard was drinking and watching hockey and yelling at the TV like he always did. Scott was still in a walker and obviously bothering Richard. Richard told me to take Scott to his mother for her to look after him. Marie was downstairs doing laundry. I don’t think Richard realized this. So, I did as Richard said, I tried to take Scott to his mother. That didn’t work out too well, and down the stairs Scott went. Richard denied to Marie that he asked me to take Scott to Marie.

And that’s par for the course in Richard’s house.

Grandma came to live with us on Canadian Forces Base Summerside. Richard was rarely home.

And this is when Scott and I went full feral.

Grandma had a lot of issues from her time in Indian Residential School and from her rampant alcoholism. So she was never really around to raise my brother and I if you know what I mean. Yeah, she kept food in our bellies, and she kept darning our clothes no matter how worn out they had become, but she wasn’t their for Scott and I, so we just drifted around in our own spheres.

When you grow up in a household like that, especially a household on a military base where everyone minds their own business, you tend to go wild.

And wild we did go.

People have asked me if I am serious about the number of times that our babysitter abused my brother and I on CFB Namao. When I tell them that I am they give me an incredulous look as if I am lying. “Why didn’t you tell someone” is what they always ask. Even Alberta Crown prosecutor Jon Weribicki asked this in 2011. The entire time of our stay on CFB Namao, grandma was the only constant in the house. Richard was rarely home. And the one constant about grandma is that she was usually pissed drunk.

The older kids on base used to make “chugga, chugga” sounds when grandma was around. I wouldn’t learn until later in life that “Chug” is a derogatory term for an intoxicated Indian.

So, that’s why Scott and I were the babysitter’s favourite playthings. He knew we were practically on our own and that there was no one for us to tell.

I know Scott was hoping that I could make the babysitter stop, but that was well beyond my abilities.

I think our lack of parental units on CFB Shearwater, CFB Summerside, CFB Namao, CFB Griesbach, CFB Downsview set my brother and I on a collision course with the likes of Captain McRae and his teenaged accomplice as well as the others on the other bases.

Because of Richard’s well documented issues and his refusal to accept responsibility for his family, and his need to blame others, a massive rift was created between Scott and I as kids.

Richard didn’t love either of us, and he didn’t like the either of us.

Richard’s family wasn’t like one of those families you hear of where the mother and father have issues, but they love their children and they try their best.

Richard never actually had legal custody of my brother and I. He took advantage of the National Defence Act in 1977 to have our mother thrown out of the PMQ and off the base. Marie wanted to take my brother and I back to Nova Scotia to stay with our uncle, Al Dagenais. The reason for this was due to Richard’s drinking and physical abuse getting out of hand. Richard wasn’t concerned in the least about losing Scott and I. He was terrified of having to pay child support.

Around 1986, when we were living on Canadian Forces base Downsview in Ontario, one of Richard’s air force buddies asked Richard “Rick, if these fucking kids are driving you nuts, why don’t you give them back to their fucking mother and let her deal with the stupid fuckers”. Richard’s reply was that by doing so he’d be signing his paycheque over to that bitch and that as long as Scott and I lived with him he could control the costs.

So yeah, the household that Scott and I grew up in was completely devoid of any type of loving relationship.

Everything about Richard was penny pinching for my brother and I, but extravagance for Richard and his friends and relations.

Christmas was almost non-existent for Scott and I as kids as were birthdays. Anything we did get was usually from our mother (but secretly paid for by our uncle Doug).

Socks and underwear day is how Scott referred to christmas.

So yeah, it’s no wonder my brother and I don’t really know anything about each other.

When we lived on CFB Downsview in Toronto, my brother and I ran with totally different crowds.

I got further sexually abused and I got introduced to child prostitution. I know that I came damn close to being on a child pornography tape.

I don’t know if any of the men who took advantage of me while I lived on Canadian Forces Base Downsview got their hands on Scott, but I do know that Scott was familiar with one of these guys.

I’m almost 100% certain that Scott never turned tricks like I did, but I have no doubt that he got sexually abused as well.

I moved out of the house in late 1987 just after I had turned 16.

I never saw Scott again until the spring of 1990 when I was home on a layover on a six month contract job. My father took me up to Uxbridge, Ontario to see him.

I moved to Edmonton with my father in June of 1990 after my six month contract had ended. Richard said that “we could try to be a family again”. Scott didn’t move with us due to his obligations in Ontario at the time.

I lived on Canadian Forces Base Greisbach for about 1-1/2 months before my father bought a house in Morninville, AB.

The thing about “being a family again” didn’t work and I had my own apartment by October of 1990. I can’t remember when my brother finally arrived in Edmonton, but it was after I had my apartment.

Just as things didn’t work out between Sue and I in “her” new house in Morinville, things didn’t work out between Sue and Scott in Sue’s new house.

I guess that my brother and I were too uncouth to be in “her” house.

It’s probably a good thing that she got her kid off the bases before he got too old.

Scott ended up at my apartment with Richard stating that “I owed it to him (Richard)” after all he did to raise my brother and I without the help of that “silly bitch of a mother” of ours.

Richard absolutely refused to help with groceries or anything else, so Scott ended up going out to our mother’s acreage.

I left Edmonton in February of 1992. The economy sucked, I was unemployed and on welfare. I moved to Vancouver, BC.

I forget the actual sequence of events, but one day on the way to work Scott and his girlfriend were riding the Skytrain.

I think this was when Scott was attending “Columbia Academy of Arts” to be a mixing technician for music recording.

I’m thinking that this was around 1996ish. We didn’t stay in contact for more than a month or two.

Around 1998ish, Richard called me up at my place of employment and told me that Scott needed help to fix his car and because I owed Richard for all that he had provided to us when we were kids this was expected. Again, Scott and I didn’t stay in contact.

I know that Scott and his girlfriend celebrated New Year’s eve 2000 in Vancouver.

The next time I saw Scott was in 2003 when I went to Edmonton with my then girlfriend to see Richard. Richard had no time. I spent more time hanging out with my stepmother than I did with Richard.

That was the last time that I’d ever see Richard alive.

I saw Scott maybe once or twice during the week my girlfriend and I were in Edmonton.

I never did see Scott again until the summer of 2013. I had to contact Scott due to a Federal Court matter I had going on in which I had read his statement to the CFNIS in 2011 and I had some questions to ask him about his statement and the notes that were taken by the investigating officers. I also wanted to share with him the contents of our previously unknown Alberta Social Service Records and our Children’s Aid Society of Toronto records and my foster care records.

We hung out over the course of a week. That was something that I never thought would have been possible before. But after having read the social service records I realized that Scott and I turned out the best we could considering the defective household that we grew up in.

The highlight of the visit was Scott and I stopped for coffee and donuts at a coffee shop in the east side of Edmonton. Anyways, we’re sitting there and this elderly gent comes up to the two of us and asks us if we could please stop swearing as it’s too much for him and his wife.

Yeah, that’s one thing Scott and I did pick up from Richard and his mother. I’m not sure who swore worse, grandma or Richard. Grandma could unleash her profanities and put Richard to shame.

What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you want something to fucking cry about? I’ll give you something to fucking cry about. You fucking little asshole. You goddamn silly fucker. You little fucking cocksucker. That was from both grandma and Richard. Richard wasn’t afraid to let go with “you stupid cunt”, “you’re a fucking stunned cunt” and other choice words directed to his mother and other women around him.

In the fall of 2013 things fell apart between Scott and I, no doubt due to my brother’s recent re-aquaintence with my father.

My father had contacted my brother via our stepmother as Richard wanted to know about the Written Examination for Federal Court that I had subpoenaed Richard with. I guess Richard never thought that I would have seen the statement he gave to the military police in 2011 in which he denied that my brother and I had ever been sexually abused on CFB Namao, and in which he totally erased our grandmother from our past. I also don’t think that Richard thought that I would ever get my foster care records or my social service records.

But nonetheless Richard had to cover his ass.

I don’t blame my brother. I’ve known for a long time that Richard was a skilled and masterful manipulator. I’ll readily admit to being manipulated by Richard. Richard could manipulate anyone. I have no doubt that his manipulation skills were the only thing that allowed him to enjoy a 30 year career in the Canadian Armed Forces.

My brother and I didn’t really speak again until 2019. Since then we’ve had sporadic conversations. Nothing too in depth or extensive, and I honestly don’t think things will ever get better. That’s the way Richard raised us, and that’s what Richard wanted.

Scott and I were two strangers living in the same household.

I don’t think that Scott ever realized as a kid that our family was in as much trouble as it was, I know I sure as hell didn’t have the foggiest idea until I got my social service paperwork in 2011.

No doubt Richard had lied to Scott over the years and convinced Scott that nothing had happened on CFB Namao.

I don’t think Scott honestly believed anything of what I had to say about CFB Namao until the Canadian Armed Forces finally released the 1980 CFSIU investigation paperwork and the 1980 Courts Martial transcripts in November of 2020 which indicated that the military police in 1980 were very well aware of what the babysitter and Captain McRae had been doing to young children on the base.

It also helps that I have my class action going on at the moment because if I was Scott I wouldn’t believe a single fucking thing that came out of my mouth.

Do I blame Scott?

No.

How could I?

I know the household that Scott grew up in.

Fuck, I wouldn’t believe anything that came out of my mouth if I was him either.

As kids, when things went wrong in the house Richard would simply blame either Scott or I for what went wrong.

It was like he was doing everything to keep us at each other’s throat.

Gabor Maté observed that “no two children have the same parents” meaning that parents treat each child differently no matter how much they try to treat each child the same. Richard took that observation to the extreme. Not only did Scott and I not have the same father, but the father we had changed on an almost daily basis.

One day I was Richard’s little buddy, and the next day Scott was Richard’s little buddy.

Richard wouldn’t give the slightest fuck about Scott watching cartoons, but if I watched cartoons I’d get berated for watching that fucking horseshit. What the fuck is wrong with you, that shit is for little kids, why the fuck are you watching this?

So of course there would be animosity and resentment between the two of us.

Scott would break something, and I’d get blasted for not watching Scott and keeping him from breaking the thing. So of course I resented Scott. It’s what I was taught.

And I sure wasn’t in any position to raise or care for my brother no matter how much my father insisted that raising my brother was my responsibility.

I was diagnosed at age five as having anorexia due to “societal issues” in the house. At age nine, after having been sexually abused for 1-1/2 years I was found to be severely emotionally disturbed and suffering from major depression, severe anxiety, and haphephobia.

I was in no position to “raise” my brother or to take over as my brother’s father.

So yeah, there really isn’t much of any connection between Scott and I.

Hopefully whatever settlement we get from the Department of National Defence and the Canadian Armed Forces is enough to help him out because that’s all that I can really do.

There will be no magical time machines to jump into and to go back in time and redo our lives.

I don’t connect easily with people.

I have no emotions to offer.

And I’m undergoing M.A.i.D. sometime in 2024.

Our father never taught us how to love or how to be loved.

Richard taught us how to hate, and how to despise, how to show contempt, and how to be isolated.

It’s no big secret.

(( I will preface this post by stating that I am not speaking in an official capacity for my employer, Providence Health Care)))

If you’ve paid attention to the news over the last little while you’ll be familiar with the fact that St. Paul’s Hospital does not offer Medical Assistance in Dying on the premisses due to the fact that Providence Health Care is a Christian faith based organization.

Bobbie, you’re an atheist, how can you work there?

The same way all the other employees that follow different religions and faiths do.

Due to media attention that was generated over the transfer of end-of-life patients to other non-Catholic facilities to obtain their M.A.i.D. procedure, the Ministry of Health was being called upon to take action.

And action they did, they sat down with Providence and came to an agreement.

M.A.i.D. will still not be provided at St. Paul’s Hospital.

However, M.A.i.D. will be provided in a brand new facility being built directly adjacent to the hospital.

So far what I know is that the new building will not physically touch the Providence buildings, but will be close enough that a small walkway will connect the new facility to the Providence 2 building.

The new building will belong to and will be operated by Vancouver Coastal Health.

Patients at St. Paul’s who are requesting medical assistance in dying will be “transferred” from the care of St. Paul’s to the care of the VCH M.A.i.D. program.

I know more or less the exact location of this new building.

I know that it is supposed to be in full operation by the summer of 2024.

The oddly interesting thing about where this facility is going is that it is being connected to the Providence II building where the Providence IV building was supposed to connect. Due to the government in the ’80s and ’90s failing to provide the required funding, only half of the modern St. Paul’s Providence buildings were built.

Providence 1 was built, the funding fell through for Providence 2 so Providence 2 was built in two stages. Parking levels P2 to 1st floor. 2nd floor to 10th floor came a year or two later. However Providence 3 and Providence 4 were never built.

Will I obtain my M.A.i.D. procedure there?

Nope.

First, I believe that the M.A.i.D. facility will only be available for patients on site.

Second, this would terrorize my co-workers.

I once joked with the chief pathologist on site that I wanted my autopsy done on site……. the replied “Don’t even joke about that. I wouldn’t let my staff do an autopsy on someone they knew”.

With the exception of one electrician, no one at work knows what I’ve gone through and no one except for that same electrician knows that I wish to avail myself to M.A.i.D.

As I’ve said, I have two options.

One option is to arrange to donate my organs, in which case my procedure will occur in a hospital like Vancouver General where my corpse can be taken to an operating room immediately after my death so that my organs can be harvested.

The other option that I have, and this is the one that I am favouring, is to have my M.A.i.D. procedure take place in a funeral home.

This would be the easiest for me to set up. A one stop shop if you will.

Put to sleep

Store my corpse for the required 48 hours.

Cremate my corpse.

As of today it is 14 weeks and 5 days until I see my doctor to make my formal application for M.A.i.D.

I don’t seem my two assessments as being completed before anytime before June or July of 2024.

After that comes the 90 day cooling down period.

Then comes the prescription.

The prescription for M.A.i.D. is apparently valid for 1 year.

I don’t think I’d want to linger for the full year.

I’ll definitely want to take some time off work, not too long, maybe about 6 months.

And then I’d like to undergo my procedure.

In the meantime the new M.A.i.D. facility will be in operation.

Photography.

I took this past Friday off from work to be photographed by a professional photographer.

I met Albert back in 2017 when he came to the hospital to document an energy savings program that phsycial plant had implemented.

He was brought in by the planner that had looked after the project.

He didn’t say anything to me at the time, but he asked the manager to contact me and to tell me that he was interested in taking some photos of me in his studio.

I went over and we did a photoshoot for a few hours.

It was interesting.

So, I decided that I’d like to have some more photographs taken seeing as how my wardrobe has become far more than second hand dresses. Also, my tattoos cover far more than what they did back in 2017.

I contacted Albert about a month ago and we set up an appointment on Friday.

I took four dresses over in addition to the dress that I was wearing.

I also took my favourtie heels.

Rode the scooter from Braid skytrain station over to Albert’s place.

Albert should start a therapy / photography service.

We talked for about 30 to 40 minutes before going into the studio. He seemed to want to flesh out why I wanted to pay to get my photographs taken.

I explained to Albert that I have a decent camera setup, and I like taking photographs of mechanical things, and odd things. I don’t like to photograph people and I don’t like people in my photographs.

I also explained that I am far too self concious and far too critical to take pictures of myself.

Albert asked me what happens when people want to take picture of me.

I told him that for some reason my brain reacts different.

For example, when I was in Iceland over the summer no matter where I went, both tourists and Icelanders were asking to take my picture.

I think the reason that I love dresses and colours and designs is they offset how absolutely dead I am on the inside.

Let’s face it, with what I’ve been through in life, I have the ultimate “resting bitch face”. People think that I’m angry. I’m not. I’m just completely dead on the inside.

As social services indicated back in 1982, I couldn’t express emotions, I couldn’t express happiness or sadness. Whenever they tried to get me to express my emotions it would usually end up in a temper tantrum. I had no idea of how to make friends. I was completely isolated. Captain Totzke and my father had no interest in getting me the help I needed at the time, so things were just left to fester.

I should have the photographs in a week’s time. Albert has to process the images. I’ll get them in RAW format, but he’ll also render JPG versions of the photos. Most of the portrait full frame shots were taken with a Medium Format digital camera.

Other people.

One thing that I have realized is that people living in our society really don’t have as much control over their lives as people believe that they do.

For some reason people have more control over the lives of others that they do over their own.

I don’t remember being asked if I’d like to be born.

My parents were horny, they fucked, he ejaculated and didn’t pull out, and nine months later I popped out.

Did I ask to be born to two parents that were already suffering mental illnesses? My father battling depression and alcoholism, my mother suffering from anxiety.

Did I ask to be born to an alcoholic father?

Did I ask to be raised by a residential school survivor who had her own severe mental health issues?

And puhlease, don’t tell me that I should be happy that I was blessed with the miracle of life.

There’s over 7.8 billion people on the face of the planet.

Pregnancy, birth, and life are not a “miracle”.

And if your argument is that I should be happy that I don’t live in an underdeveloped country, well fuck you. I live in this country. I was raised in this country. I was abused by fellow citizens of this country. I was fucked over by institutions of this country. You don’t get to negate the shit I live through by erecting fanciful strawmen and bad faith fallacies.

Contrary to the teachings of Captain Terry Totzke and master corporal Richard Gill, I didn’t deserve the sexual abuse from Captain McRae and his teenage accomplice, P.S.

And contrary to the opinions of Captain Terry Totzke and my father, I didn’t deserve 2-1/2 years of conversion therapy.

I was a concious decision of Captain Totzke to deny my of the treatments I required for my mental health issues.

Sure, Totzke may have only been following the orders of his superiors. But he still made a decision. I had no say in the matter.

My father went along with the decision to deny me my treatment. Yeah, sure, Totzke outranked my father, but my father still had choices at his disposal. He made a choice to play along.

When my father had his meltdown in the PMQ on Canadian Forces Base Downsview in Ontario, somebody within the military police made the decision to not notify the Metropolitan Toronto Police Service thereby ensuring that Richard’s inability to control his anger wouldn’t be reported to the Children’s Aid Society of Toronto.

Somebody in the Canadian Forces chain of command made the conciousous decision to run a “dog & pony show” investigation in 2011. Somebody made this decision even though they knew full well that due to limited resources, only victims of crimes have access to mental heatlh treatments.

Somebody in the Canadian Forces chain of command made the conciousous decision to hide the information contained in the CFSIU DS 120-10-80 investigation paperwork from the Alberta Crown prosecutor in 2011 thereby forcing the Alberta Crown to make a horrific decision.

Somebody in the Canadian Forces chain of command decided to hide the existence of CFSIU DS 120-10-80 from the Military Police Complaints Commission in 2012 thereby ensuring that the MPCC wouldn’t discover until 2020 that the CFNIS in 2011 knew all about the criminal exploits of P.S..

Somebody in the Office of the Judge Advocate General made the decision to not allow the CFNIS to talk to former base commander Daniel Edward Munro in 2017 due to the inability to lay charges against Munro due to the 3-year-time-bar that existed only in the military prior to 1998.

So, as you can see, a lot of people made decisions for me or they made decisions that directly affected me.

Hopefully I get to make the one decision that I should be allowed to make, and that is to end my life through Medical Assistance in Dying.

Tuesday October 24th, 2024

Well, this doesn’t bode well for me.

Dying with Dignity Canada had a webinar earlier today that I had submitted some questions to.

Two of my questions were asked to the guests, but they were editied in such a way as to remove most of the meat from the question.

Regardless, I didn’t get the answer that I was looking for.

The sense that I get is that Dying with Dignity is trying to stay very far, far away from the topic of Medical Assistance in Dying for Mental Illness.

And what the two providers had to say wasn’t promising at all.

Basically, I’m functional. I can function on a daily basis. So therefore I will probably be unable to obtain medical assistance in dying.

In basic terms, I’m a fucking industrial robot. As long as I can perform the tasks required of me I’m A.O.K.!

Get to work Bobbie…. you have work to do.

Even if I was “non-functional” I would have had to undergo years and years of counselling and therapy in order to obtain M.A.i.D. for mental illness.

Now, you might be wondering, just like the M.A.i.D. assessors will probably be wondering……. “Bobbie, why didn’t you obtain treatment for your mental illnesses?????”

Well, remember, even though I was diagnosed at age 9 with major depression, severe anxiety, an intense fear of being touched, a fear of men, etc., my social worker at the time, Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Terry Totzke actively and intentionally prevented me from obtaining mental health treatment as it was a risk for the Canadian Armed Forces.

The Canadian Forces conspired to do everything possible to keep the story of Captain Father Angus McRae out of the media. The military even moved the entire courts martial “in-camera” citing the need to “protect the morals of Canadians”.

The last thing that Captain Totzke was going to allow was for me to obtain treatment for me mental health issues. That would involve me going for counselling, or therapy, maybe even time in a psychiatric facility for children.

The risk this posed is that I would open my mouth and start talking. And back then there was still enough interest in the media over the Captain McRae courts martial that the media would have torn into the Canadian Armed Forces.

So, instead I recevied “conversion therapy” at the hands of military social worker Captain Terry Totzke.

For 2-1/2 years I was labelled as a mentally ill homosexual by Captain Terry Totzke.

For 2-1/2 years I was blamed by Captain Totzke for what had happened to me on CFB Namao. I was blamed for what happened to my brother on CFB Namao. I wasn’t allowed to play sports.

Home life at the time and thereafter was a fucking nightmare for two reasons.

First was that my father was a lowly master corporal at the time. Captains greatly outrank master corporals. If a captain says that your son is a pole smoking homo, then your son is a pole smoking homo.

Second was that at the time the Canadian Armed Forces was an extremely homophobic environment. No service member wanted it known that they had a homosexual living in their PMQ.

Even after Alberta Social Services became involved with my family, Captain Totzke interfered with the attempts of Alberta Social Services to remove me from the home and appears to have been instrumental in assisting my father flee the jurisdiction of Alberta for Ontario.

And even though Captain Totzke had declared that I was a mentally ill homosexual, I was still dealing with major depression, severe anxiety, and a plethora of other issues on my own.

My father had his own helpful therapies to help me with these issues. One therapy involved backhands across the face. One therapy involved bare ass spankings with a leather belt. Another therapy was the “get the fuck up to your room and you’re not having supper” therapy. And of course there was the all time favourite “yelling and screaming like a drill instructor” therapy.

So, from my diagnoses in in October of 1980 until the discovery of my social service records in August of 2011 I was left to my own devices dealing with the wars and the shit and the terrors and the memories in my brain.

And as I learnt in 2011, dealing with this shit 30 years after the fact doesn’t do anything.

I did counselling with counsellors from Practitioner Renewal and even the Employee and Family Assistance Program.

I tried therapy with the BC Society for Survivors of Male Sexual Abuse.

I even went to meetings with the local chapter of SNAP.

None of this works.

Absolutely none.

Trying to explain what I’ve been through is a fucking nightmare. Civilians have no fucking idea of what life was like on the bases, especially for sexually abused children.

The fact that it is legally impossible to bring charges against persons subject to the Code of Service Discipline for Service Offences committed prior to 1998 means that absolutely no one has heard of child sexual abuse on the bases.

The fact that the Canadian Forces can be so very secretive with the information that they have means that the truth never gets out.

So when people like me try to get help, we’re literally laughed at.

And then there’s the fact that I don’t have a crack habit, or a heroin habit, or a drinking habit……..

YOU’RE NOT AN ADDICT!!!

YOU DIDN’T SUFFER!!!!

ONLY ADDICTS SUFFER YOU FUCKING WHINY ASSHOLE!!!!

We spend so much on addicts that there is sweet fuck all left over for those suffering from mental illnesses who aren’t addicts.

Chemical therapy and self blame is all that is offered these days.

Back around 1985 the Children’s Aid Society of Toronto said that due to staffing levels, budgetary constraints, and my father’s refusal to participate with the case workers that the CAST wouldn’t be able to get involved with my family unless there were credible reports of abuse from the community. We lived on Canadian Forces Base Downsview at the time. There never would be “credible reports from the community”. Military members don’t rat out other members and the military washes its own laundry. This secrecy is how John Ryan Turner was starved to death and beat to death in his father’s PMQ on Canadian Forces Base Gagetown in 1994 and no one heard a thing.

And now it looks as if Medical Assistance in Dying is going to be beyond my grasp.

There are no therapies to fix my brain or to erase my memories.

I’m not going to subject myself to psychiatrists and psychologists blaming me for my problems.

I don’t want elctrocunvulsive therapy.

And don’t even mention to me sham “therapies” like CBT and mindfulness and other “we don’t really know how to fix the human brain so we’re going to set you up so that we can blame you for not trying”

My practitioner has said that he’s more than willing to help me with my application in March, but after watching the Dying with Dignity webinar today I don’t think that my application will go anywhere.

I guess I’m going to have to start getting serious about “alternative methods”.

I don’t remember asking my parents to fuck in December of 1970.

I don’t remember being asked if I’d like to be born.

I don’t really remember being asked if I’d like an alcoholic residential school survivor as a primary care giver.

I don’t really remember being asked if I’d like a rage prone alcohol fueled piss-tank for a father.

I don’t remember being asked by the babysitter if I’d like to have his penis in my mouth, or in my ass, or to have any of the other sexual acts that the did to me done to me.

I don’t remember being asked by Captain McRae if I would like to get intoxicated off a glass of wine so that he could do whatever he did while I was blacked out.

I don’t really remember being asked if I’d like to have conversion therapy from a military social worker.

But what I don’t want is to go on living with the remnants of untreated depression, untreated anxiety, and all of the other issues gifted to me by the events back then.

I do want to die.

I don’t want to be here any longer.

I am fucking tired.

I am fucking burnt out.

With all of the fucking horseshit that I’ve been through I’d like to be able to go out on my own with some form of dignity.

Dignity that I’ve never had in my entire life.

Surely going by M.A.i.D. or going by suicide will be the same thing, right?

Nope.

Suicide is painful.

Suicide is cruel.

Suicide is not always successful.

Suicide gives the Canadian Armed Forces what they want.

If I am forced to go by suicide then the CAF can point to me and tell everyone that will listen that I was just some “societal malcontent with an axe to grind against the military” and that I was just a fucking crazy nutbar.

If I am allowed to have Medical Assistance in Dying, I get to die without pain, I get to die with dignity. And the Canadian Armed Forces wouldn’t dare say fuck all.

What about the babysitter’s other victims

One thing that I hope doesn’t get overlooked in this matter is how many victims did the babysitter abuse while he was moving base to base with his father.

As I learnt from the Military Police Complaint Commission’s report in 2020, 1984 was not the babysitter’s first arrest and conviction for child sexual abuse.

The MPCC expanded on the little information about the babysitter that I was given in 2012 by James Paluck when James told me to go looking for a news story from the Edmonton Journal in August of 1985.

It turns out that the babysitter’s first arrest and conviction for molesting a child was no in 1984 as the Edmonton Journal news story had indicated. He was actually arrested and convicted in 1982 for molesting a young boy in Deep River, Ontario.

Missing from that list is the 1984 charge and conviction that was brought up by the Alberta Crown Prosecutor in the 1985 hearing. Also, the 1985 conviction related to TWO boys. One was a 9-year-old from Canadian Forces Base Namao, and one was a 13 year old from the City of Edmonton.

CFB Petawawa is 31 KM away from Deep River, Ontario. The babysitter would have been 17 in December of 1982 and by this time would have more than likely had a driver’s licence.

How many other towns did the babysitter molest children in that he wasn’t apprehended for?

How many other kids over the years have come forward to the Ontario Provincial Police with tales related to a weird teenager in a car that befriended them and then molested them? How many of these investigation were stymied by the fact that the weird babysitter lived on a military base and that the perpetrator was moved around with his father’s postings. The babysitter ended up back on Canadian Forces Base Edmonton in 1985.

It’s been confirmed that the babysitter’s father received his posting to CFB Petawawa after the babysitter had been interrogated by the base military police in early May of 1980 but well before the suspicious and tragic fire at the babysitter’s PMQ on June 23rd, 1980.

The house fire only accelerated the transfer of the babysitter’s family to CFB Petawawa in Ontario.

When I spoke to the babysitter’s father in July of 2015 he said that once they arrived at CFB Petawawa, the Canadian Forces wanted the babysitter to return to Edmonton, unaccompanied, to testify against Captain McRae. The babysitter’s father protested and was allowed to return to Edmonton with his son, but contrary to Canadian Law at the time, the father was barred from being in the court martial hearing room with his son.

We know that the babysitter returned to Edmonton with his father, but this was early in the year. Military families are typically moved in the summer months to not affect their children’s school attendance.

However the babysitter was charged in May of 1985 with molesting a 9-year-old on Canadian Forces Base Namao in Alberta. According to the babysitter’s father it was at this time that the Canadian Forces gave the father an ultimatum. Either the babysitter moved out of military housing, or the Canadian Forces would eject the entire family from military housing.

The father then rented the babysitter an apartment in the west end of Edmonton where he molested a 13-year-old newspaper boy.

But remember the 8-year-old that the babysitter was charged and convicted of for molesting according to the Alberta Crown Prosecutor?

This was in Manitoba in 1984. This was apparently on a Canadian Forces Base in Manitoba.

The charge related to the 1985 molestation of the 9-year-old on CFB Namao don’t show up in the CPIC check, nor does the charge related to the 1984 molestation of the 8-year-old on the CFB in Manitoba show up.

If these charges don’t show up in the CPIC record system that would seem to indicate that it was either the base military police or the CFSIU that had investigated the babysitter for these crimes. Historically the military justice system very reluctant to share anything with the civilian authorities.

Or, it might be the Young Offenders Act is prohibiting the publication or even acknowledgement of these and other sexual assaults.

But again, how many kids did the babysitter diddle within a given proximity of the bases his father was stationed at?

How many kids on the bases that his father was stationed at did the babysitter molest that haven’t come forward to lay charges either because their family was posted to a different base shortly there after due to operational requirements -or- because much like in my matter the military police knew the history of the babysitter and the risk it posed to exposing the Captain Father Angus McRae matter from Canadian Forces Base Namao.

And this whole matter raises a couple of issues that will forever haunt me to the day I die.

The babysitter wasn’t placed in the care of a military social worker.
I was placed in the care of a military social worker who was convinced that I was a “homosexual” and that’s why I never told anyone of the abuse.

The babysitter’s father allowed the babysitter to get a driver’s licence and possibly allowed the babysitter to use the family car. I had to wait until I moved out of the house and was living on my own before I could swear to a notary that I was living on my own and needed a car before I could get a driver’s licence.

When I spoke with the babysitter’s father in July of 2015, he was convinced that his son was the only victim in all of this, that his son never received proper care.

My father and Captain Totzke were adamant that I enjoyed the abuse, that I also allowed the babysitter to molest my younger brother.

When I spoke to my father in 2006 about the whole babysitter affair my father couldn’t understand why I didn’t just “move the fuck on” and “stop living in the past”. He even warned me about sticking my nose into this matter as I “might not like the smell”.

The babysitter’s father has looked after him for all of his life, renting him apartments, helping with housing, etc.

There were times in my life when I was homeless and on the streets and yet I knew better than to ever call Richard up to ask him for any money. First, he was very unlikely to “loan” more than a token amount. Second, if I were to have taken money from him this would have been proof to him of how fucking worthless I was and more proof that I was insane like my mother’s side of the family.

In 2011, 2015 to 2018, and 2020 to 2022 the CFNIS “investigated” my complaints.

In the 2011 and the 2015 to 2018 CFNIS investigations the CFNIS were more concerned with proving me to be a liar as opposed to helping me obtain justice. There was nothing stopping the CFNIS from linking the crimes and actions of the babysitter to the crimes and actions of Captain McRae even if McRae was deceased. The CFNIS had the CFSIU paperwork and the Court Martial transcripts from 1980, so they knew of the intimate connection between the babysitter and Captain McRae. But as the CFNIS investigation can be directly controlled and influenced by the agency that I would have to sue for compensation there was absolutely no way the truth about Captain McRae and the babysitter would ever come to life.

In the 2020 to 2022 investigation the CFNIS was more intent on proving that the man I had accused wasn’t the man in the sauna as opposed to trying to figure out who the adult male was that the 15-year-old babysitter had pimped an 8-year-old boy out to.

My world is a world of existence where up is left and down is right and right is backwards and up is impossible.

Death

What does death feel like?

Nothing actually. Death feels like nothing. You have to be alive to experience and feel.

Can you remember what it was like before you were conceived? The universe has existed for about 13.7 billion years.

Do you remember any of that?

No?

Well, death is the exact same.

Without a functioning brain, you cannot have a consciousness, you cannot feel, you cannot experience.

You are dead.

To be dead is to be at peace.

The dead have no memories.

The dead have no trauma.

The dead have no fears, no phobias, no mental health issues, no self hatred, no self loathing, no low self esteem.

Why do people fear death so much?

Well, death is the only thing that the human brain has never experienced. The human brain is terrified of the unknown. The human brain likes to have the answers. And if it can’t have the answers, then it creates the answer. See “gods” for an example of this phenomenon.

This is why humans have spent so much effort to convince themselves that there is a life after death. There isn’t. This life is all you get. There will be no other.

Humans like to think of themselves as individuals, each unique in their own special way. But we’re not. What is so special about humans is that we can transcend death not by living after our death, but by passing on our knowledge to the next generation. It is our knowledge that transcends death while our corpse rots and festers.

I am comfortable with my death.

I know that my experiences will live on long after I have been put to sleep.

Yes, I am afraid of dying. But this is more due to the fear of potential pain or of the procedure being botched.

But death, death I welcome it. My death will settle my anxiety and my death will release me from the grips of my depression.

My death will forever erase the memories of the babysitter and of Captain McRae. My death will remove from me the memories of my sexual, physical, and mental abuse at the hands of the various persons who were supposed to be looking after me, caring for me, and keeping me safe from harm.

Am I sad that I see death as my only option?

No.

Death is all around us. Try as we might to pretend that death does not exist, it does.

And life is not as valuable and unique as we’d like to pretend that it is.

America has already had 35 mass shootings in less than 23 days of the year so far. But reducing the death toll by implementing gun control would be to much for the 2A supporters to endure.

Car culture in Canada has killed 45,582 people between 2001 and 2020. Changes could easily be made to reduce this death toll, but this would inconvenience car drivers.

In the 10 year period of 2008 until 2018, there were 6,102 deaths by suicide in the province of British Columbia.

These figures don’t include deaths due to illnesses, or any other means.

And as of this writing there are well over 7,888,000,000 people existing on the face of the Earth. We’re not unique.

Is my life unique?

No.

Is my life special?

No.

Is my life enjoyable?

No.

Will my life ever be free from the turmoil and grief that was bestowed upon me by others?

No.

My time has come.

I am tired.

I should be allowed to leave when I want.

I should be allowed to leave via a painless method administered by a professional who is trained to properly induce death in a compassionate manner.

Death cannot hurt me any worse than what I’ve endured.

In fact, death can release me from the pain and the torment.

A little change in my plans

Okay, still waiting to hear whether or not Parliament will ask the Senate to agree to delaying the implementation of Medical Assistance in Dying for reasons of Mental Health.

So in the meantime I’m still proceeding as if March 17th, 2023 is the date that M.A.i.D. for reasons of Mental Health is allowed to proceed.

To that end I’m still planning out the arrangements for the disposal of my body.

I’ve come to the conclusion that cremation would be the easiest method to plan for. And by opting for cremation I can plan for a “one stop shopping” experience.

I’ve been in contact with a few funeral homes in the lower mainland. These homes have allowed the M.A.i.D. procedure to be carried out on their premises. They typically have a room set-up and nicely furnished where a person can undergo the procedure in the company of their close friends and family.

Once the procedure has been completed and the person is legally pronounced deceased the body is usually then prepared for disposal whether it be by burial or by cremation. And usually the funeral that the M.A.i.D. procedure occurs at will deal with the cremation or the burial.

I had wanted a green burial. Just my body in a shroud in a hole in the ground left to decompose the way bodies have done since time immemorial. The problem that I ran into with this desire is that there aren’t many cemeteries between Vancouver and Hope that allow for bodies to be buried without a casket and without a cement grave liner.

So, cremation it is.

And this really simplifies things.

I arrive at the funeral home. Get into bed. Undergo the procedure. Pass away peacefully. Be officially declared as deceased. Then my corpse is loaded into the cremator. I’m incinerated. My bone fragments and other ash residue are pulverized into a fine powder. The my ashes as put into a little plastic bag and the placed inside a container.

And that’s it.

My funeral arranger will look after filing for the required death certificate and other papers.

Except for my legacy at work and my legacy of being one of 25 children fucked up by Captain McRae and the Canadian Armed Forces, it will be as if I never existed.

The universe will continue on as if I was never here.

Within one generation I will have been forgotten like so many others that have led solitary lives.

And that’s fine.

I will finally be free of my daemons, all of my mental illnesses, all of the horrors and memories that torment me, and all of the issues that were gifted to me by my dysfunctional household, by my molester Captain Father Angus McRae and his teenage accomplice, and the mind fucking I endured at the hands of my military social worker, Captain Terry Totzke.

None of these will plague me anymore once my brain is dead.

And honestly, it’s not like I’m going to be angry or upset about being dead. I’ll be dead. Matters of the living will no longer be of ant concern to me as I will no longer exist.

All I have to do is to make sure that I remember M.A.i.D. first, cremator second. I don’t think going into the cremator alive would be too enjoyable.