So, did I do the right thing?

I this video I ponder if I did the right thing and if it was worth it at all.

So, did I do the right thing?

Well, I sure got played for a sucker, didn’t I?

Was it worth it?

Should I just have kept living my life with the opinion of Captain Totzke and my father that I was a homosexual and that I “allowed” the babysitter to molest my younger brother rattling around in my skull?

As my father said, did I go and make things worse by sticking my nose where I had no business to?

Right now it’s seven months until I find out if Parliament will follow through with the recommendations of the committee overseeing further amendments to the Criminal Code of Canada to allow foe Medical Assistance in Dying for mental health issues such as depression.

If you remember, I did submit a brief to the Committee reviewing Medical Assistance in Dying.

So, did I do the right thing?

The Department of Justice pt. 1

Just because it says “justice” in the name doesn’t mean that it’s concerned with actual justice.

On Friday May 6th, I was examined by the Department of Justice in preparation for my upcoming Class Action lawsuit agaist the Canadian Armed Forces for the events which occurred on Canadian Forces Base Namao from 1978 until 1980 and then from 1980 until 1983.

One of the issues that the DOJ seems to have is that I have a desire to undergo the M.A.i.D. procedure.

The D.O.J. seems to be of the opinion that I am not a suitable representative plaintiff for this class action matter as I have a desire to die.

Needless to say, my lawyer was a little taken back by this and he objected to counsel even asking me this question.

I had no problem explaining to the counsel for the D.O.J. that I could see myself holding on until the Class Action matter is settled. The D.O.J. wanted to know if that would still be the case if this matter was expected to take 10 years to resolve.

To be honest, I would really like to avail myself to M.A.i.D. much sooner than 10 years. But if 10 years is what it will take to resolve this matter then 10 years is what it will take. This of course means that my mental trauma and mental suffering will have to endure longer than anticipated, but so be it.

I need my name cleaned before I go. Right now I’m still the kid from CFB Namao that allowed, if not encouraged the babysitter to molest his younger brother. According to the military social worker, I was suffering from a mental illness called “homosexuality” and this is why I allowed the abuse to go on for over a year. According to the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service I am a “societal malcontent with an axe to grind against the Canadian Armed Forces”. According to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police I have an “Agenda”. And according to former Minister of National Defence Harjit Sajjan I “have an angle” and I’m playing “games”. And according to the Alberta Crown, what happened on Canadian Forces Base Namao was nothing more than “childhood curiosity and experimentation”.

Now, this isn’t my first tangle with the Department of Justice.

I dealt with the D.O.J. during my appeal to Federal Court to have the 2012 findings of the Military Police Complaints Commission quashed.

It must be remembered that I had absolutely no access to the CFNIS investigation paperwork during the period of the 2012 Military Police Complaints Commission investigation into my complaint against the CFNIS.

During the MPCC investigation the MPCC asked me no questions based upon information that was contained within the CFNIS documents.

So, when I received the un-redacted copies of the CFNIS investigation paperwork in February of 2013 I went through the roof.

So, I should have won right?

Just provide evidence such as emails, documents, and other information that would show that the CFNIS had conducted a very bad and biased investigation and the Federal Court would quash the findings of the MPCC.

Nope, that’s not the way an application for Judicial Review works.

See, any evidence that I provided in court to show that the CFNIS had conducted a laughably bad investigation which was not before the MPCC during its investigation of the CFNIS is considered “New Evidence” and is not allowed.

So, how was I supposed to know what was or what wasn’t before the MPCC? Who knows? Crystal ball maybe?

Sure, I could have filed an Access to Information request with the DND for the CFNIS paperwork for investigation GO 2011-5754, but that would have easily exceeded the deadline for requesting an MPCC review. In 2018, after the conclusion of the second portion of CFNIS investigation GO 2011-5754, I requested the documents from the entire investigation from 2011 to 2018. It took 18 months for the DND to deliver the records to me.

The paperwork that I received in 2020 was redacted to the point of being absolutely useless. Even my own statements to the CFNIS were redacted. What else was redacted from the CFNIS records I received in 2020? My father’s statement, my brother’s statement, the fact that the CFNIS knew that there was a fire in PMQ #26 on June 23rd, 1980. Also, most of the log entries from the investigating officers were removed. In 2011 the CFNIS finally bothered contacting my babysitter and he told them that “anything he was involved with as a youth has already been handled by the military”, that was removed from the records I received in 2020. Also missing from the records I received in 2020 was the statement of a certain Warrant Officer who had stated well before any other victim had been contacted that this case was going nowhere due to a lack of evidence.

Now, you would think that an agency with the word “justice” in its name would be interested in the law and ensuring justice was seen to be done.

Nope. Don’t kid yourself.

The Department of Justice is an agency that is dedicated to ensuring that the Government of Canada is not held responsible for the actions of its departments or its employees.

The Department of Justice is anything but.

During my Federal Court hearing in 2013, the attorney for the Department of Justice didn’t care one iota about what had happened on Canadian Forces Base Namao, nor did she care about how the CFNIS had actually bungled the case, nor did she care about how the CFNIS knew about the direct connection between my babysitter P.S., and Canadian Armed Forces Regular Force officer Captain Father Angus McRae.

In fact, as the D.O.J. represented the DND and the CAF in the civil action between P.S. and the DND, one can only imagine how much information the D.O.J. actually had in their possession related to the actions of P.S. back in 1980. The D.O.J. in representing the DND and the CAF from 2001 to 2008 would have obviously have had access to the court martial transcripts. Court martial transcripts that show that Captain McRae’s defence counsel in 1980 was well aware that P.S. had been investigated by the base military police and that P.S. had been receiving treatment for molesting young children on CFB Namao.

What did the D.O.J. care about during my application for Judicial Review?

Just striking the “new evidence”.

That’s it.

Even though it was public knowledge due to the Lamer Report and the findings of the Somalia Inquiry that the pre-1998 military justice system was a complete shambles, and even though military personnel in the 2000’s and early 2010’s were voicing bitter concern about the inability of the military justice system to function properly, the only concern the D.O.J. had was to demand that the court strike all of the new evidence that I had introduced to show that the CFNIS had conducted a horrific investigation and that the MPCC had conducted a “dog and pony show” review.

The lawyer from the D.O.J. didn’t care one bit about the evidence that I had produced to show that the CFNIS had an agenda right from the start.

So long as my matter stays within the realm of the military and the military justice system, the CAF and the DND get to tell the Canadian public what did or did not happen on Canadian Forces Base Namao.

And this brings us to what happened on May 6th, 2022.

It is readily apparent that the D.O.J. is afraid of me.

The D.O.J. is afraid of the documents that I have, documents that prove with very high probability, that what I contend occurred in 1980 is more than likely what did occur.

The D.O.J. is afraid that my documents also imply that what happened on Canadian Forces Base Namao in 1980 also happened on various other Canadian Forces Base from 1950 until 1998. I don’t mean military chaplains molesting children. I mean commanding officers minimizing or dismissing charges related to child sexual abuse that had been laid against their subordinates.

Don’t kid yourself into thinking that the D.O.J. cares for one minute if I live or if I die.

They only care about the risk that I present to the Department of National Defence.

The D.O.J. has no concern about my desire for Medical Assistance in Dying.

To the D.O.J., my desire for M.A.i.D. is just a fact for the D.O.J. to argue that I should not be allowed to be the representative plaintiff. And by doing so, the D.O.J. can eliminate the threat that the CAF and the DND currently face.

I don’t mean to sound like I’m full of myself.

I went through so much pain from 1978 until 1980 at the hands of P.S. and Captain McRae. I then went through just as much pain, if not more devastating pain at the hands of Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Terry Totzke and my father, Master Corporal Richard Wayne Gill.

I have suffered greatly since those days plagued with never ending confusion over my gender and my sexual orientation.

I have suffered with very low self-esteem, self-hatred, and a very low opinion of myself.

I have flashbacks of the abuse.

I have suffered with never ending depression and anxiety.

But the one thing that has seen me through is my determination to clear my name.

Being limited with my social skills means that I have no problem dedicating time to researching.

The military justice system prior to 1998 was a disaster.

It was too prone to abuse, it was too easily manipulated.

Commanding officers had way too much power in matters of Criminal Code offences.

Yet no one to date has ever bothered to look at how those defects impacted the children that lived on the bases.

Until now.

And the D.O.J., the DND, and the CAF don’t like this.

For example the DND and the CAF will often parrot that the CAF couldn’t prosecute for “Murder, Manslaughter, and Rape”.


Rape was a crime that didn’t apply to children when it was on the books. Boys couldn’t be raped as far as the criminal code was concerned. And for that matter girls under the age of 16 couldn’t be raped either.

For girls under the age of 16 there were two different charges applicable:
Sexual Intercourse with Female under the age of 14, or;
Sexual Intercourse with Female between 14 to 16.
These were crimes that the military COULD conduct a service tribunal for. And more alarmingly these were crimes that a commanding officer could simply dismiss the charges for.

For boys there were the crimes of Gross Indecency, Indecent Assault, and Buggery. What was a little different for boys though was that the Canadian Forces could only conduct a courts martial if “consent” was a possibility. Consent was the age of 14. But, the commanding officer could simply dismiss any charge for molesting a boy under the age of 14, much like was apparently done in the matter of Captain McRae in the lead-up to McRae’s courts martial in 1980.

And what really scares the D.O.J. is that in civil court all I have to do is convince a judge or jury that what I have to say is more believable than what the D.O.J. will say on behalf of the DND and the CAF. Civil litigation relies on the “preponderance of the evidence” unlike a criminal trial that relies typically on “beyond a reasonable doubt”.

Once my case is settled, the arguments that I made and the evidence that I used will be of public record, freely available for anyone else to use in either their own personal civil action or their own class action.

In a civil action I get to dispense with all of the gobbledygook and legalese that the D.O.J. will undoubtedly use to try to argue that the DND and the CAF acted properly.

Who knew that it would be this hard.

Disposing of a body is harder than one could imagine.


It doesn’t look as if I will be able to donate my brain after my death.

And this kinda saddens me a bit.

I had always envisioned that my brain would serve some useful purpose.

After all I survived:
– sexual abuse
-mental abuse
-physical abuse

I have lived with and coped with:
-Major Depression
-Severe Anxiety
-The effects of military conversion therapy

The thought of death has never been very far.

Depression runs in my family.

And yet not once have I stuck a needle in my arm or snorted anything up my nose or toked on anything. The last time I had a drink was in July of 2011 and even then I was a very infrequent drinker.

I’ve had to deal with personality issues caused no doubt by the various traumas and abuses.

And yet I’ve somewhat navigated life and ended up with stable employment even if it is not at the level of employment that I could have risen to.

This rise is something that I’ve done on my own with absolutely no help from my father or my family. During all of the times I was unemployed in the early ’90s Richard was of no use. Even when I was on Skid Row in Vancouver and Toronto my father was of no assistance.

I did this all on my own.

You would think that research labs would want to know what it was inside my brain that allowed me to go from basically non-functional and requiring psychiatric institutionalization at age 10 to being the Chief Engineer of a hospital at 47.


It’s like the field of depression research is oblivious to confirmation bias. By this I mean that researches are obviously looking for answers where they expect to find them, in the brains of depressed people who have not fared well in life. Or the researches go looking for the answers to drug addiction in the brains of those who were abused and who succumbed to drugs and other forms of self medication. They often use the brains of those who have never suffered from depression in their lives as a reference point. And that’s great if you’re only concerned about the two extremes, but it gives you absolutely no data about those in between the two extremes.

Where my body goes after my death? Don’t know really. So long as it isn’t cremated or buried, I’m cool with that.

Medical school would be nice.

But medical schools like UBC pose a problem in the sense that they only take “whole body” donations for their medical students to dissect. If my brain were to be removed immediately after my death, then UBC wouldn’t take my body.

Conversely, no brain research program would take my brain after it had been removed from my skull by medical students.

Now, of course this is all really silly when you think about it isn’t it?

After I’m dead they could launch by body into space and I wouldn’t have the foggiest clue, would I. What they do with my corpse and my brain after I’m dead and gone is really a matter of trust. But still…….

Pot, Kettle, Black.

A tale of two different Access to Information requests.

On Tuesday April 12th, 2022 as I sat in my apartment being examined via ZOOM by the defence counsel for the defendant, counsel asked me a question based upon my foster care records from the Alberta Government.

Counsel’s assistant did a screen share and an image similar to this image appeared on my screen:

A bit of a surprise

I had seen this document before. This was the interview of my father by Judith James, a psychologist that had been hired by the Canadian Armed Forces to evaluate my family after our school teachers and our principal complained to the military social worker about the issues my brother and I were having in school immediately after we arrived at CFB Griesbach from CFB Namao.

Confidential – Parent Interview
Re: Robert and (my brother) Gill

I met with Richard on Nov. 6 1980 to discuss the level of emotional distress demonstrated by his sons Robert and (my brother). <blank> Richard acknowledged and confirmed many of the family problems cited by Robert and (my brother) <blank>.

What was new to me was the following text:

<blank> appeared concerned about <blank> drinking, suggesting <blank> emotionally abusive towards both children, especially when inebriated. As well, <blank> suggested that <blank> attempts to undermine any closeness between <blank> and <blank> by telling them false stories.

After the meeting was over I searched my copy of my foster care records, but I couldn’t find this paragraph anywhere. I found the page, but the section where this paragraph should have been was redacted.

This paragraph would have been devastating if it had been included in the copy of my foster care records that were released to me in 2011. As it is, I am so emotionally numb and dead now that this paragraph is nothing more than an amusing curiosity.

Let me fill in the blanks to the best of my ability based on some basic assumptions.

<Richard> appeared concerned about < Margaret’s> drinking, suggesting <she was> emotionally abusive towards both children, especially when inebriated. As well, <Richard> suggested that <Margaret> attempts to undermine any closeness between <him> and <his sons> by telling them false stories.

Fuck me Richard you stupid fucking asshole.

Both Richard and my grandmother drank excessively.

When they both got shitfaced, which was often, they’d stay up all night drinking and then spend the next day passed out. After that came the hangover phase. You didn’t want to be around either of these two when they were recovering from a hangover.

And yes, this all occurred on an active Canadian Armed Forces base in the Private Married Quarters on that base. And no, my father wasn’t the only alkie in a Canadian Forces uniform back then.

It was probably a very good thing that Richard was seldom living with us on Canadian Forces Base Namao. I couldn’t really imagine living in a house with these two drinking each other under the table any chance they got.

For Richard to tell Judith James in November of 1980 that he was concerned about his mother’s drinking is fucking hilarious.

As much as Richard despised his mother, he needed his mother to look after my brother and I while he was off playing G.I. Fucking Joe in the Canadian Forces for weeks and months at a time.

There are three DUIs that I clearly remember. One from CFB Shearwater, one from CFB Summerside, and one from CFB Namao.

There were all of the times he’d come home from the base mess three sheets to the fucking wind and he’d wake me and my brother up and keep us up at night to keep him company when he was drinking.

There was the yelling and hollering that he’d do when he was well past the point of intoxicated. When Richard was like this on Summerside and Namao there was absolutely no sleeping for my brother and I.

Grandma would do similar things when she’d get drunk. Luckily she didn’t have a driver’s licence, so we never had to worry about being in the car with her when she was drunk.

It was Richard’s drinking and abusive behaviour that led to my mother leaving and Grandma being brought in to look after my brother and I.

It was Grandma’s drinking that led to my brother and I needing to be babysat by P.S..

They were both alcoholics more in love with the bottle than the children they were supposed to look after.

So all I can say is “FUCK YOU RICHARD!”.

What a pathetic excuse of a man you were.

Blaming your own mother’s alcoholism for the problems your own children were exhibiting when your alcoholism was just as fucking bad.

And when I tell you that there was absolutely no one that my brother or I could tell about the abuse, I mean, there was no body that we could tell. The two adults in our lives were damaged beyond all hope.

The second examination for discovery.

Today was the second and final day of my examination by the defence in the matter involving Earl Ray Stevens.

The lawyer for the defence was a pleasant enough chap. “Just doing his job” as they say.

Over the course to the two days my lawyer only really had one objection. And the defence lawyer and I had a quibble about the meaning of a word.

But that was it.

I’ll have to produce further documents for the defence. My lawyer is going to put together a list of the undertakings that were requested of me. The nice thing is that the documents that I have to produce for the defence are scanned and are on my online drive, so sharing these documents is simple. As I said, I never really got into computers, but scanning and archiving is something that I got into. Really has come in handy at work where I took four old file cabinets of documents and manuals and scanned them into the shared drive at work so that they’re available to all plant engineers.

How this matter will work out is anyone’s guess.

So, until next time.


The pros and cons of messing with my mind.

So, I’ve been on escitalopram for seven months now.

It has been both a blessing and a curse.

It looks like escitalopram will be with me for the rest of my life.

The pros are:

  • Far less depression. It’s not that I am happy. It’s that my emotions are completely blunted. And trust me, blunting is better than nothing.
  • My anxiety has been turned down. I can still feel the anxiety, but it doesn’t destroy me like it did before.
  • Disrupted trains of thoughts don’t cause headaches or nausea.

The cons are:

  • Disturbed sleep patterns.
  • Day long sleepiness.
  • Acne the likes of which I haven’t seen since I was a teen.
  • A general sense of ennui.
  • Weight gain.
  • Loss of appetite.
  • Can’t orgasm, but sex has never been a major deal breaker in my life.

So far, the benefits of escitalopram outweigh the negatives.

No. The escitalopram hasn’t caused increased thoughts of suicide or suicidal ideations.

But it also hasn’t taken away my desire to die.

The one thing that I have realized, and that you’re going to have to realize, is that the 40 years of untreated depression and anxiety have done some long term damage to my brain. And I’m okay with that. Not that the damage was done to my brain, but the fact that my brain is damaged.

40 years is a very long time to go without treatment.

So here I am, riding out the last few years of my life, and writing about it as I go.

By March of 2023 year we should know what the Parliamentary committee will recommend for guidelines for those wishing to apply for Medical Assistance in Dying for Mental Health issues.

After that I’ll have to apply. This will probably consist of convincing 3 psychologists that I am of sound mind in making this choice.

Just recently my N.P. has realized that I am serious. He’s the one who set me up with the escitalopram. I guess that he was hoping that the escitalopram would fix things for me. But it hasn’t. It can’t.

No matter how often my father passed my issues off as being nothing more than my attempts at attracting attention. They weren’t.

Just because my father chose to ignore my issues, and refused to get me timely treatment, doesn’t make his opinion that I was just making things up any more valid than the diagnoses that I had been given early in life.

The fact that my father loved to blame my issues on my mother and her “insane brothers” doesn’t make what I’ve suffered for the last 40 years a trivial matter.

If my father and Captain Totzke had allowed the ticking time bombs of depression, anxiety, and CPTSD to have been diffused all those years ago things would have worked out completely different.

Time machines do not exist. There is no going back into the past to undo things.

Again, to be very clear, wanting to die is nothing new. My wish to die has been with me since CFB Namao.

No one can live through that type of shit and not want to die.

I know of two men who died by suicide as a result of the CFB Namao affair. And as I’ve only met a few people who were affected by the CFB Namao affair, I have no idea how many others have ever tried suicide or have ever succeeded at suicide.

And I know of many more men who have committed suicide later in life, even after they have received “justice” for what they endured.

Bobbie, you just need some hobbies.

No. No I don’t. Hobbies won’t stop the memories of CFB Namao or my treatment at the hands of Captain Terry Totzke from popping up.

Cycling! You love to ride your bicycle. Yes, yes I do love riding my bicycle. However I can’t ride my bicycle 24 hours a day seven days a week.

Electronics! Take a course in electronics. I never really liked electronics. Learning electronics was one way that I thought that I could get closer to my ever distant father. That was a bad strategy.

Cars! You loved cars! You owned a car! Actually I’ve always been terrified of cars. I hate being in cars. I got a membership at the base autoclub on Canadian Forces Base Downsview as I thought that my father and I could spend time together at the base auto club. Again, another one of my very wrong ideas.

I really hated the idea of working on other people’s cars after the night my brother and his buddy Greg brought a 6 cylinder Chevy up to Bob Beckers workshop with the idea that I could make the car run again after Greg and his buddies had pulled all the plugs, the wires, the distributor and other things off the engine.

I forget who all was there. There was my brother, Greg, an older guy in his 40s named Dom, and two older teens that had to be about 19 or 20.

Greg at the time was no small kid. Even though Greg and my brother were both younger than I was, both were physically larger than me in both mass and height. My brother at the time was so large that my father wouldn’t dare raise a hand to him.

Two thing about that night really pissed me off.

The first was that I moved Bob’s van outside so that Greg and his buddies could push the car in. When Bob’s van was outside someone just happened to steal Bob’s mobile phone from the van. Fuck was Bob ever pissed with me. And no, it wasn’t some rando walking by that stole the mobile phone.

The second thing that pissed me off was that even though I told Greg that I hadn’t worked on anything other than 4 cylinder Volkwagen engines, he was going with what my brother had told him, that I could work on anything and that if I didn’t fix his engine it was because I was being selfish and stuck up and a self centred asshole.

Greg and his buddies ended up taking the car away that evening.

Greg and his buddies caught up with me a few days later.

They beat the sweet fucking jesus out of me in the parking lot of the laundromat on Keele street. All I really remember about that night is two of Greg’s friends holding me down while Greg stomped on my head. I could barely walk after. I headed over to Billy Bee donuts on Wilson Ave. The owner of the donut shop wanted me to go to the hospital to get looked at seeing as how my eyes were getting bloodshot.

But yeah, that’s one of the reasons that I will never work on anyone’s car for any reason. And there are similar reasons as to why I don’t fix any thing electronic anymore or why I don’t really do much with computers.

March 17, 2023

The clock has begun ticking.

Less than a year now before I start the process of applying for Medical Assistance in Dying.

It’s a weird kinda of sereneness.

Now that I know approximately when the end of my life will be, and that I won’t have to endure being tormented into my senior years with the flashbacks and memories from Canadian Forces Base Namao, I feel relaxed and calm.

And unlike suicide, being that M.A.i.D. is a medical procedure carried out with clinical precision, I don’t have any fears of botching the job and not doing it correctly or even ending up a vegetable for the remaining 30 years of my life.

All of the mental suffering and anguish that I have endured for the last 40 plus years will finally be over.

Captain Terry Totzke will no longer reside in my brain, nor will Captain Father Angus McRae, Peter S., my father Warrant Officer Richard Wayne Gill, or Earl Ray Stevens. Every member of the Canadian Armed Forces that hurt me will be gone from my brain, forever.

My time spent being torn asunder between Alberta Social Services and Captain Terry Totzke will come to an end.

It’s not that Alberta Social Services did anything wrong, Captain Terry Totzke just made sure that I didn’t tell anyone in the civilian world what had occurred on Canadian Forces Base Namao. He tried to portray himself as my friend, the guy who was trying to help me. He, and my father, both portrayed my civilian social workers as being the enemy. People that weren’t to be trusted. People that were trying to hurt me. There was no way that Captain Totzke or his chain of command were going to allow me to tell my civilian social workers about what had transpired on Canadian Forces Base Namao from October 1978 until May of 1980. Especially not with Captain Father Angus McRae having admitted during his Ecclesiastical trial in June of 1980 that he had been molesting children for years. McRae molested 25 children on CFB Namao. How many did he molest on CFS Holberg, or CFB Portage La Prairie, or even CFB Kingston. 50 kids total? 100 kids total?

The Canadian Forces and the Canadian Forces Special Investigations Unit were well aware at the time that McRae was bringing children over to the chapel and giving them beer and wine before escorting them into the bedroom of the rectory to “fool around”. How many kids like me were there that have vague memories of being escorted to the chapel by our babysitter, playing games and watching TV, and then being given a “sickly sweet grape juice” and not remembering anything after that?

Children’s Aid Society of Toronto records.
The blacked out info is my father’s name Richard and Rick.

Reading my foster care record from November of 1981 until April of 1983 shows that my father was outright hostile towards Alberta Social Services. No doubt this was encouraged by Captain Terry Totzke.

This is my grandmother that Richard “forgot” to tell the CFNIS about in 2011.
I still don’t know if Richard didn’t tell the CFNIS of her by his own decision or if the CFNIS suggested that it would be best if he didn’t mention her as her presence in the PMQ would complicate things for the CFNIS in 2011.
Grandma had issues from her time in Indian Residential School when she was a child.
This no doubt contributed to her hostile personality.
Alberta Social Services Observation of my father Richard Wayne Gill.

So, why wasn’t my father too eager to work with Alberta Social Services considering how emotionally disturbed I was?

Captain Terry Totzke would have already explained to my father, Master Corporal Richard Wayne Gill, that I had obviously been having sex with Peter because I was a homosexual and that I had allowed this to go on for over a year because I was a homosexual.

Section 70 of the 1970 National Defence Act.
Sure, my father could have done the right thing, but that would have taken a backbone.

Captain outranks Master Corporal. And the National Defence Act and its section on “Insubordination” would have meant that my father would have paid attention to the words of a captain.

This is why my bedroom door had been taken off both on CFB Griesbach and on CFB Downsview. This is why I wasn’t allowed to participate in sports. Even though it was my father that said that he wasn’t going to allow me to go swimming with my class at the Kinsmen Sports Centre “because there’d be other naked boys in the change room and that I wouldn’t be able to control myself”, I have absolutely no doubt that it was Captain Totzke that told my father to keep me away from other boys. After all it was Captain Totzke, or Terry as I knew him, that had warned me early on that he had the base military police watching me and that if I ever tried to kiss or touch another boy that I’d be sent off to the Alberta Hospital for treatment.

And homosexuality was a major no-no in the Canadian Forces back in the 50s through to the ’90s. The official military policy was that homosexuality was a mental illness. CFAO 19-20 was the official CF policy toward homosexuality.

Yes, CFAO 19-20 would have only applied to persons subject to the Code of Service Discipline. But once you’ve been trained the in military way and trained to enforce military policies you can’t just turn that training on and off at will.

So yes, it will be so nice to finally be free of Captain Totzke and my father.

You have absolutely no idea of what it’s like to navigate through life not knowing why you don’t like sex with women, but you also don’t like sex with men. Everyone assumes I’m gay because I don’t have sex with women. The problem is that I’m not into guys either. I actually find sex and the concept of sex to be disgusting.

I wear dresses, not because I consider myself to be a woman. I wear dresses because they’re comfortable and I believe that pants are stupid considering male anatomy. I also wear dresses I believe because I had been told all of my life that I wasn’t allowed to play on the men’s team because of what I had done on CFB Namao with P.S. and Captain McRae.

When you’re told that your not good enough to play by the rules, you play by your own rules.

To further complicate things, I had been diagnosed as having major depression and severe anxiety. And no doubt I was suffering from what would now be termed “Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder “.

After CFB Namao and CFB Griesbach I learned to live in solitude.

I legally changed my name in 2008 thinking that I could get a fresh start and leave CFB Namao behind.

I honestly do love my chosen name, but it didn’t erase my past as I had hoped.

I’m still Robert Wayne Gill, the 8 year old who was caught getting fucked in the ass by his almost 15 year old babysitter on Canadian Forces Base Namao in May of 1980. I’m still Robert Wayne Gill, the 7 and 8 year old boy that allowed the 14 year old babysitter to molest his younger brother. I’m still Robert Wayne Gill, the 9 to 11 year old boy who received “conversion therapy” at the hands of Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Terry Totzke. And I’ll be that Robert Wayne Gill until the day I draw my last breath.

Knowing the truth about CFB Namao and the direct connection between my babysitter and Captain McRae doesn’t erase the past. I just made me understand that I have very little control over my life and that other people made some very fucking horrific decisions about my life even before I had a chance to begin living my life.

I’ve had to work so fucking hard in my life just to get to where I am. And I am still so fucking vulnerable it’s not funny. One simple little fucking mistake in life and I fall and I fall hard. There is no safety net for me. There is no inheritance for me to rebound off of. There is absolutely no family for me to be able to depend on.

So I took the path in life that was very carefully navigated.

Every day of my life up to this point I have wondered where I life I could have gone had I been encouraged to finish school, an go on to college or university. Even trade school. Almost every successful tradesman started out on an apprenticeship when they were young and living at home and they didn’t have to worry about paying for the course, or the books, or anything else.

CMAC says that the majority of first time home buyers get help from the Bank of Mom and Dad. So I missed out on that.

It drives me up the wall the number of times that coworkers, or managers, or even outside trades, contractors , and suppliers say to me “Bobbie, you’re wasting your time/talents here, you’ve got the smarts you should be over there doing that and making a fortune”. Fine, sure, you gonna let me move in to your house so that you can pay my bills and feed me while I take the 4 or 5 year full-time program to get the degrees required to pursue that line of work? Didn’t think so.

And after having been what I’ve been though in life, and with my depression and anxiety, I’m not exactly a pleasant person to be around. No, I’m not offensive or unpleasant. But I have no hobbies, and I have no interests. I don’t care about sportsball teams. I don’t care about TV shows. I don’t gossip. I like music, but I keep my interests to myself. I’m an odd fucker that just doesn’t fit in. I have no interest in hearing about your family. I don’t care about your kids. I was never taught the art of small talk. This makes a person very fucking vulnerable.

As I’ve said in other blog entries, I picked up electronics, automotive, and computer skills as a kid in the hopes that it would create some sort of connection between my father and I. But that connection was so damaged that nothing was ever going to fix it.

I haven’t wrenched on a car since I stopped driving back in 1998.

When it comes to electronics or computers at work, I pretend to be abso-fucking-lutely stupid.

Up until recently I had about $1k worth of soldering equipment at home for electronic projects that I always wanted to start on, but never did. There is no passion or drive inside anymore. Any interest that I had in electronics died back in the mid ’90s when I realized that no matter how good I was at troubleshooting and repairing electronics I was never going to be an electronics technician. “We can’t pay you a technicians wage, you’re not certified”. “We can’t hire you for the technician’s position as you don’t have a diploma”. “Sure, you’ve got electronic skills and you beat a licenced technician in a test, but you’re not qualified without a diploma”. Basically what I was hearing all of my life was “You let the babysitter abuse your younger brother, we can’t hire you, it’s your fault”

I had a friend that used to get me to work on motorcycles for him. I told him that I despised doing mechanical or electrical work on motorcycles. But he kept on pushing me as he was certain that I’d get to like repairing motorcycles as I had a natural talent for fixing mechanical and electrical problems. This friendship died about 10 years ago. Yes, I have an unnerving ability to troubleshoot electrical, electronic, and mechanical problems, but it doesn’t mean that this is what I would have liked for a career.

So many possibilities were on my horizon, but the way in which the Canadian Armed Forces reacted to Captain Father Angus McRae stripped away from me any of the possibilities that could have been mine. And that’s the knowledge that I am going to live with until I draw my final breath.

So, I’m where I am, not because I want to be, nor because I deserve to be here. I’m where I am because it pays the bills and keeps me fed.

I have never sought help with my depression or my anxiety primarily because I had no idea that I had depression, or anxiety, or cptsd. I was told that I was acting the way I was and behaving the way I was because I was a homosexual that allowed my younger brother to be molested.

Battling the CFNIS and the Canadian Forces since 2011 sure hasn’t helped matters much.

And to be told recently that my former babysitter P.S., and the man in the sauna both have more legal rights than I do is just one of the many nails the CFNIS have driven into my coffin since 2011.

These are the reasons that I am looking forward to M.A.i.D.

Yes, M.A.i.D. will result in my death, but that’s the price I am more than willing to pay to erase the memories of:
My father and his drinking and his anger issues;
The fact my mother ran off and left me with my father;
Being raised by my grandmother, who had her own issues;
Peter S.;
The memories of watching Peter S. abuse the other children, including my brother;
The 5 visits to the chapel on CFB Namao;
The sickly sweet grape juice;
The fact that my father sent me on one of these visits with Peter;
My involvement with Captain Terry Totzke;
Being called a homosexual by both Captain Totzke and my father for what I had “allowed” to happen on CFB Namao;
My confusing involvement with Alberta Social Services;
Being blamed by my father for “fucking with his military career” and for being the cause of our April ’83 posting to Canadian Forces Base Downsview that “ruined his fucking career”;
My involvement with Earl Ray Stevens, a former member of the Canadian Forces and a then current member of the Canadian Corps of Commissionaires;

I’m tired, I’m burnt the fuck out, my brain is fried, and it’s time for me to go.

Sure, I could live until I’m 70 or maybe even 80. But the fuck for?

So that I can remember that Minister Sajjan accused me of trying to scam the Canadian Forces for a quick buck?

So that I can remember MWO Eisenmenger calling me a liar in July of 2011 and accused me of making up the story about Peter S.?

So that I can constantly remember how horrific of a fucking liar my father was?

So that I can remember all of those nights as a kid when I’d cry myself to sleep wishing that I’d be dead in the morning? And the times I tried to make sure that I was dead in the morning.

So that I can remember all of the times Peter would get me to bathe with him so he could stick his fingers in my ass to get me ready for his penis?

So that I can remember all of the times that Peter would hit me, slap me, and kick me if I didn’t perform oral sex on him they way he liked it?


Departure time is coming.

I’ve got my ticket.

And nobody is going to stop me from turning my brain off and leaving this shit of a life behind.

Falling through the cracks again.

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.


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.

I hated this fucking TV show.

“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?