I’ve come to the realization that I suffer from a bad case of “Resting Bitch Face”.
Here’s an album of my “Resting Bitch Face” in Canada, America, and Iceland…..
What causes Resting Bitch Face?
Probably a life time of being dead on the inside.
It’s hard at work because I gotta fake a smile all the time otherwise people seem to think that I’m going to snap.
It’s not that I hate or despise perky people. I just don’t feel the need to run around all day with an insane grin on my face.
In my house there was no need to smile.
The best thing around grandma, Richard, or Sue was to just adopt a blank face.
And growing up keeping a blank face also work at school as it kept the other kids and the teachers from knowing that anything was wrong at home.
When I went to the Westfield program in Edmonton from June 1982 to March 1983 we had to talk about our “feelings”. We also had to do “temperature check” every morning before classes so that we could express our feelings and emotions.
This did not go over well with me. I hated it. I hated talking about feelings.
Richard, Grandma, and the events of CFB Namao had killed off just about every emotion that I ever had.
Even to this day the worst thing that you could do is ask me to express emotions, or talk about my feelings, of talk about personal things.
“You don’t like to talk about personal things?”
Get the fuck outta here!
What the fuck is this blog then?
This blog is therapy and a testament.
Besides, I talk about what I want to talk about when I want to talk about it.
But Bobbie, you gotta talk about your feelings if you want to get better……..
Nope.
That’s not how this works.
You don’t get to ignore the past and then wash your hands of my dysfunction by further blaming me for being me.
Don’t forget, a lot of my dysfunction didn’t come from bad personal choice. Almost all of my dysfunction can be traced back directly to bad decisions made by members of the Canadian Armed Forces.
You didn’t honestly think that what I endured wasn’t going to have an effect on me, did you?
And blaming me for the dysfunction wasn’t going to cure me.
I think that this may be one of the reasons that I embraced an eccentric manner of dressing, what I lack on the inside I cover up with nice colours, patterns, and designs on the outside.
One of the problems that I’ve always had is answering these things truthfully as I had always been told as a kid to answer these types of tests with whatever I thought that the person administering the tests wanted to hear.
And besides, as a kid I had it drilled into my head that the abuse that I endured on Canadian Forces Base Namao was because I was an out of control homosexual. So of course I wasn’t going to answer anything correctly.
So, I gave this test a quick go, and I think I aced the ACEs test pretty well.
I scored a perfect 10 out of 10 on this test, and I didn’t even have to study for it.
This one’s from California, but they all generally ask the same questions.
The only one that I really couldn’t answer is #6. I know that Richard had been in the brig at Stadacona before I was born. His service file doesn’t say for what. I don’t honestly know if he had ever been locked up after I was born. Makes me wonder if any of his “training exercises” were actually 1 or 2 week sentences.
Anyways, I’m hungry, so I’m going out to get something to eat.
So, sold off my 2020 Macbook Pro 13 today.
I think he was a college student, but needed a computer, so I gave him the Macbook for a good deal.
He seemed happy.
Now that everything is in a wind down phase I really don’t need to keep much anymore.
Time to start shedding all of my physical possessions.
The only real purpose that any of my computers served was for me to search for information, make FOI requests, and store and sort information.
But now that we are officially in the year 2024, none of this stuff matters anymore.
I have an iPad Pro 10″ that I’ll be getting rid of next.
So far I’ve gotten rid of anything that I had in relation to electronics.
Got rid of my soldering and desoldering stations, my parts bins, cross reference guides, etc. As I said before, electronics wasn’t something that I was really interested in, but I persisted in it thinking that one day a spark would light inside. That spark never came.
Same thing with computers. I just never had the creativity to create write programs.
Same thing with motorcycles. I’d ride them for a while and then get bored.
I donated all of my hand tools and power tools to a local shop that loans tools out for next to nothing to low income families that need to use tools.
Got rid of my Play Station.
There were only a very few games that I liked to play.
Didn’t want to go through the hassle of selling it so pulled the hard drive from it and put the play station in the computer recycling cage at work.
Got rid of my CD collection last fall.
Got rid of my movie collection at the same time.
Now, don’t think I don’t have anything left.
Still have my iPad, and I still have my desktop.
But there will come a time when I will get rid of the desktop and my drives of data.
I won’t have much use for any of the information that I’ve compiled over the last twelve years.
Disposing of the desktop and the drives will probably be done later in the year.
I’ve already disposed of reams and reams of hard copies. We have a shredding service at work that shreds all documents that are put into recycling.
I would have thought that the media would have shown the slightest interest, but it looks like consolidation and foreign ownership have turned Canadian media into nothing more than stenographer services for the institutions with secrets to hide..
I’ve eliminated a lot of my dresses. That still leaves me with a lot of dresses.
I’ll probably start whittling down the number of dresses that I have until the final weeks.
Then I’ll probably hold on to a good pair of heels and a few dresses.
Haven’t decided which dress and which heels I wanna wear at my procedure, maybe I don’t even yet own the dress that I want to wear.
I want a real intense ruffle dress. Maybe something with a robust petticoat.
I make my application in March of this year.
I have absolutely no doubt that time will fly past really fucking quick from this point onwards.
But, I’m already enjoying the peace and serenity that my approaching death offers.
The one thing that I’ll have to wait for until I obtain my approval from the two assessors is at which funeral home will I undergo my procedure and cremation.
Yesterday while I was cleaning out some of my belongings…………
Yep, I figured skated from about 2006 until about 2014Got rid of some old clothes.
…….I came across a Freedom of Information package that I had submitted to the Alberta Government last year in September of 2022. I received this package in May of 2023 and promptly forgot about it.
I had submitted this request as the oposing counsel in a civil matter that was wrapped up in 2022 had shown me quotes from my Alberta Social Service records that were redacted from the documents that I had obtained in August of 2011.
I had forgotten that I received these as they had been sitting on a shelf in my closet, unopened.
Reading through this version sure was eye opening.
It doesn’t say anything much different than what I already knew, but it does officially attach names.
I still can’t believe that I was actually in the first stages of foster care / residential care.
Children’s Aid in Toronto wasn’t able to get any help from the Canadian Armed Forces with contacting my father when we moved to Canadian Forces Base Downsview in Toronto. CAST had to go through the public school system to find my brother and I.
Yeah, this was after our trip from Edmonton to Toronto over the xmas break in December of 1982. We stayed with Richard’s estranged father Arthur Herman Gill in Oshawa. There wasn’t a lot of closeness between Richard and his Father.
Richard’s “work schedule” often had him out of town on training exercises. I’m pretty sure that he was just signing up for as many training exercises as he could as that would get him out of the house. To Richard, raising children was “woman’s work” and not something for a man to waste his time on.
“In a loud and vociferous fashion”…… That’s one thing that Richard could do. He could turn on the drill instructor attitude and bellow his opinions. I remember when I was in grade 7 at Elia Jr. High and the music teacher, Mrs. Donskov, was pushing for me to take up bass guitar as my asthma made it difficult to play any type of wind instrument. She went so far as to load up her Volvo with one of the school guitar amps and one of the bass guitars. When well pulled up to the PMQ on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach, Richard came storming over to us and told Mrs. Donskov to get that shit back in her car and that I was never to think of doing a stupid stunt like this again.
Richard always had a weird relationship with my teachers. He always wanted “more homework” so that I could spend more time learning and studying, but if I ever asked him for help with said homework he’d explode in a rage. When my teachers would call him trying to get me into extracurricular activities or arrange for me to go on trips, Richard would rage out. I feel sorry for any of my teachers that ever had to deal with him.
There’s no way that Richard would have really agreed to this program. Richard had a tendency to just say yes to everything with the hopes that the person asking would soon forget. I know that my opinion may be a little biased, but Rchard was not someone you could count on or depend on.
“A smack across the face or time in their rooms”. Richard was the master of the leather belt on bare ass. He had no problem with open handed smacks to the face or the head. He also saw nothing wrong with kicking either. Sue would grab and pinch, or use the fly swatter. Believe me, the fly swatter from Sue was far preferable to the leather belt from Richard. There were times when he lost control and blood was drawn. Both from the leather belt and from the smacks across the face.
“Robert’s prospects appear poor”. Yeah, they sure as fuck weren’t kidding.
Due to Richard’s and grandma’s superb parenting skills, not only were my brother and I fully feral. But we were at each other’s throats on a non-stop basis. When you have to fight for the slightest bit of affection you become like Hyenas. Even though we grew up in the same military housing on the same military base in Toronto, I don’t think my brother and I saw each other on a regular basis. He was off in his world, and I was off in mine.
Not surprising. Par for the course actually.
“She should be home making supper”. Way to go Richard! Richard and Misogyny went together like hand in glove. On numerous occasions Richard would refer to Sue as a “stupid bitch” or a “fucking cunt”. I will never for the life of me ever understand what Sue saw in Richard and why she stuck around. She was better than average looking and she was in her very early 20s when she moved in with Richard on CFB Namao. She could have easily done much better than Richard.
Yeah, I don’t think there was an external source large enough for Richard to focus his anger and his hate.
“Mr. Gill states that his mother is an alcoholic who refuses to seek help or treatment for her condition”. What an asshole. Richard was just as much of an alcoholic as Grandma was. Funnything was, Grandma’s alcoholism didn’t deter Richard from asking grandma to come live with us on Canadian Forces Base Summerside. And it didn’t deter him from asking Captain Lynda Tyrell for a compasionate posting in the summer of 1978 so that we could move to Canadian Forces Base Namao so grandma and her husband Andy Anderson could move into the PMQ on base to raise my brother and I. And no, Richard didn’t see anything wrong with expsoing Scott and I to grandma’s alcoholism from spring 1977 until spring 1981. Grandma’s alcoholism only became an issue when Richard had some explainging to do with Social Services.
See, my issues had nothing to do with 1-1/2 years of sexual abuse on CFB Namao. Nor did my issues stem from a dysfunctional family. No, my issues were the fault of the school on base and the fault of mr grandmother. Nothing to do with Richard.
Understatment of the Year Award goes to “The Gill family is a rather confused and insular unit”.
This is the same mother that either Richard forgot to tell the CFNIS in 2011 was raising my brother and I from 1977 until 1981 or that the CFNIS asked Richard to forget in 2011. Either way, grandma had a major inpact on my brother and I.
This part was still redacted, but let me unredact this for you ” Mr. Gill appeared concerned about his mother’s drinking, suggesting she was emotionally abusive to both children, especially when inebriated. As well, Mr. Gill suggested that his mother attempts to undermine any closeness between him and his sons by telling them false stories”. The only stories that grandma used to tell me, I can’t speak for my brother, but grandma always told me not to believe what Richard had said about our mother leaving, that when I was older I would learn what the truth was.
The thing was, grandma was a nice person when she was pissed drunk. She’d take my brother and I over to the base Canex to buy a toy or two. She’d take us to the base groceteria to grab treats. She’d even take us on the military shuttle bus into the city of Edmonton to go buy toys at Army & Navy. It’s when grandma was sobering up or even sober when she was cruel and angry.
Richard was the exact same thing as his mother. Nice guy when he was pissed drunk. Asshole when he was sobering up. Unpredictable when he was sober.
As per court records from PEI, Richard did in fact NOT have legal custody of my brother and I.
It should come as no surprise that I have absolutely no friends.
And I’m not including co-workers, superiors, or subordinates at work.
Throughout my life I could never understand why I couldn’t make friends.
Was I too stupid?
Was I fucked in the head?
The other kids on CFB Namao, CFB Griesbach, and even CFB Downsview loved beating the shit out of me on a regular basis.
I just couldn’t fit it.
No matter how hard I tried.
When I received my social service paperwork in 2011 I found two entries that really stood out.
“Robert does not have the ability to make friends”
“Robert is always left out and is often made the scapegoat by the other children”
“Robert is terrified of men”
With my depression, my anxiety, and my documented fear of being touched by other people it should probably come as no surprise that I couldn’t make friends.
I got beat up one day coming home from Pierre Laporte when I was in grade 8. Seems one of the jock boys had decided that my hips swung too much when I walked so therefore I was a faggot. This kid and his friend were fellow base brats from Canadian Forces Base Downsview.
In the aftermath of this I was so self conscious about how I walked. I think I did hip damage trying to walk like a “man”.
There were times at Pierre Laporte that I did get beat up over my lack of interest in girls.
The one time that I stood up to one of these assholes and was able to have a fair fight with my worst antagonist, my father threatened to knock the teeth out of my mouth if I ever fought again.
I guess that he was happy with me getting the shit beat out of myself, but if I dared fight back then I was going to get a beating that I’d never forget.
Maybe he was afraid that if I started fighting back against the other kids that I’s also start standing up to him and fighting back against him.
It wasn’t always like this.
I don’t remember much about Canadian Forces Base Shearwater, but I do remember that I had friends. Sure, they were mainly girls, but girls were nicer to play with.
As a kid I was never in to the “rough ‘n tumble” stuff. Reading, walking, playing on the swings, that’s what I liked. Jumping out of trees or climbing over the fences on base was never something that piqued my interests too much.
Same thing with Canadian Forces Base Summerside.
Even at the start on Canadian Forces Base Namao, things were okay, but the longer the abuse went on the harder it was to make and keep friends.
Once I had been discovered in the babysitter’s bedroom, that was the end of that.
When my family arrived on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach I started working at the mall cleaning pet cages in the pet store. It was here that I began to realize that adults were better than kids my age. Sure, they weren’t interested in playing. But as long as I did my work I’d get rewarded. And they didn’t want to beat me up.
Kids my age were supposed to be watching goofy TV shows on TV and then talking about them at recess during school. I wasn’t allowed to watch the goofy TV shows. It was either “get the fuck out of the house and go play” in -25C weather, or it was “Jesus H. Fucking Christ you’re too fucking old for that shit”.
Other kids would be invited to play with other kids. I wouldn’t. At least not on CFB Griesbach as I’d always smell like piss.
Sleepovers were obviously out of the question as I obviously wouldn’t be able to control myself sleeping with other boys. And of course there was my fear of pissing the bed.
By the time grade 6 and grade 7 rolled around, boys were supposed to be interested in girls. I wasn’t. Due to my experience with the babysitter, and Terry, and my father, sex was a disgusting thing and even just looking at a girl was wrong. Looking at boys was even worse.
The guys at Pierre Laporte started taunting and teasing me with pictures of figure skater Katarina Witt. To this day I still don’t understand what the fuck this was about, I really don’t.
Gym in and of itself wasn’t bad. But team sports were a disaster.
Having untreated depression and anxiety meant that I was an unmitigated disaster of uncontrolled crying and rage.
Public school is the worst place for someone with an untreated fear of being touched to be. Once the other kids know that they can get a reaction from you by simply touching you or even just threatening to touch you school quickly becomes a nightmare.
And you can bet your bottom dollar that when the teachers and principals at Sheppard Public, Elia Jr. High, and Pierre Laporte Jr. High would reach out to my father, he’d be of absolutely no use…….. “No sir, no ma’am, I have no explanation for why my son is behaving like that. He must be acting up for attention”
And these issues really hurt me in my adult life.
People are very leery of the guy who doesn’t have a partner, or a family.
Most companies view people without significant others as being undependable and unreliable.
Coworkers view you as highly suspect if you don’t want to hang around and talk about sportsball, or the see through dress that some female actor in a movie wore.
When you’re alone, you don’t have anyone to keep an eye on your depression. Doctors that I’ve seen in the past have always brushed off my mental health concerns as my family and others have never voiced a concern.
I bought a home cam a couple of years ago. As I live in a bachelor apartment the one camera sees everything. One night I left the camera on to record me when I slept. I was shocked at the number of times I’d grind my teeth over night, or the number of times that I’d wake up and just sit there before going back to bed.
But, by not sharing my bed with anyone meant that no one was there to point out just how fucking bad my bruxism actually was and how bad my insomnia really was.
Some people are envious of my bachelor lifestyle.
The life that I’ve led is nothing to be happy about and nothing to be jealous about.
What makes this whole matter much worse for me is the fact that people knew.
As I’ve said before.
My father knew about the assaults.
He may not have known about them when they were happening as he was always living off base.
But he knew about them when he eventually had to move back into the PMQ with us on CFB Namao.
Richard used to wear wool sweaters at the time and I used to refer to him as “wooly bully” at the time as in the song by Sam Sham and the Pharos.
When Richard moved back in with us, he was a different man. I was certain at the time that my real father had died on a training exercise and that the Canadian Forces had replaced my father with a look-alike.
Richard may not have known the true extent of what had happened on the CFB Namao, but knew what the babysitter and I had been doing as my father would be in the “counselling” sessions that I started having with Captain Totzke when we were moved down to CFB Griesbach in October if 1980.
Richard was present when Terry told me that he had the base military police watching me and that they’d tell him if I ever kissed or touched another boy.
When Terry said that I shouldn’t play sports because of the change rooms, my father ran with that. Richard never once questioned it. In fact Richard used this logic to deny me permission to go on a swimming trip in Edmonton.
And I know that Richard also used this logic when I was going to Sheppard Public School in Toronto while we were stationed at Canadian Forces Base Downsview. My grade 6 class was going on an end of the year school trip to Quebec City in Quebec. The school was covering the costs of the transportation, and the meals, and the accommodations. Richard didn’t want me going on this trip out of fear that I was going to be uncontrollable with other boys in their beds. Somehow Mr. Cross and Mr. Blair convinced Richard to allow me to go.
It’s obvious that Richard knew.
And it’s obvious that Richard’s attitude towards me was heavily influenced by his knowledge that from age 7 to age 8 I had been sexually abused numerous times over the course of a year and a half.
The fact that Terry had described me as a homosexual at age 9 and that if I didn’t change my ways that I’d be going to prison wouldn’t have really been very beneficial to the relationship between my father and I.
What I wouldn’t know though is how many people knew.
But suffice to say, a lot of people knew.
It’s not the fact that people knew that is driving my desire to die.
It’s the fact that people like Captain Terry Totzke and my own father, Mcpl Richard Gill knew, but allowed my mental health problems to fester untreated.
It the fact that my gender identity and my sexual identity were destroyed by Totzke and my father.
At this point in time, I really don’t give a fucking rat’s ass as to why it was decided to keep me from receiving proper psychiatric counselling for my issues. But, just remember that the DND and the CAF did throw a “wall of secrecy” over the entire Captain McRae matter.
Were they afraid that if I receive counselling for my mental health issues that I’d blab about what had happened on the base, and that this would get the civilian authorities asking questions that DND and the CAF didn’t want asked?
a “Wall of Secrecy”
In fact, I would say that the actions of my father, Mcpl Richard Gill, served to amplify my mental health issues and my suffering.
Just because I didn’t know until 2011 that I had been diagnosed with Major Depression and Severe Anxiety, or that my condition had deteriorated by the summer of 1982 to the point that I was supposed to have been institutionalized in a psychiatric facility, doesn’t lessen the damage.
In fact, not knowing what was really wrong in my head made things that much moe fucking worse as I always blamed myself for being a fucking loser and a fucking fuckup.
There were times in my life when I couldn’t believe how fucking stupid I really was.
The fact that I didn’t know until 2011 that I was in the process of being removed from the home and placed into residential care or foster care doesn’t lessen the fact that the house that I was living in was emotionally and physically abusive.
As I’ve said previously, my father had his own treatments for my depression and anxiety. It was literal kicks in the ass, open handed smacks across the face, hits to the back of the head, the leather belt on my bare ass.
My step mother had her own treatments for my bed wetting and my depression.
My grandmother had her own treatments for my issues.
If I wasn’t left to suffer all of these issues on my own, and if I had received timely help with my issues, what would my life have been like?
Boyfriends, girlfriends?…….. who knows.
Trans, gay, straight, bi?……. again, who knows.
In a way I wish that I didn’t have any sex organs as I really don’t like the idea of sex. Since Namao I’ve always really despised my genitals.
Nowadays there is emasculation surgery, which would remove my penis, my testicles and my scrotum. Absolutely nothing down there save for a little hole for me to pee from.
At least I wouldn’t have that fucking thing down there. That fucking thing that caused so many problems in my life.
The reason I changed my name back in 2008 was more than just to get away from the Gill clan. I had no idea what my gender was. My gender has always confused me. I’ve never really identified as a male. I’ve never identified as a female. I don’t like having sex with women. I don’t like having sex with men.
Actually, that’s not true. Sex with men is great, I prefer sex with men over sex with women. But I don’t have it very often because Totzke and my father are screaming at me in my head. Sex is really unenjoyable with that shit going on.
And as much as I like having sex with men I can’t stop wondering if I’m a homosexual because of what happened on CFB Namao.
So, it really is a no win situation with me.
In 2008 I changed my first name to Bobbie. Bobbie is the unisex spelling. Bobby is the male spelling, Bobbi is the female spelling, and Bobbie is the unisex spelling.
I really loved having a first name that didn’t indicate the junk between my legs.
Is Namao alone my reason for my gender issues. Probably not, but Namao and Totzke really didn’t help with my issues.
There were so many opportunities that I missed out on in life.
Finishing high school?
Trade school?
College?
University?
Theatre?
Arts?
I have no idea of what I could have been or what I should have been.
And remember, I wasn’t able to make these choices because I was lazy, or because I was scatterbrained.
I wasn’t able to make these choices due to intentionally untreated mental health issues that I was left alone to struggle with.
Drugs won’t fix my fucked up brain.
Drugs won’t fix my gender issues.
Therapy, nope, been through a lot of therapy since 2011.
Maybe if I had therapy back between October of 1980 and 1990 things would have worked. But I’m 52 now. The rot in my brain has been allowed to fester since 1980. That’s 44 years now. And it’s not 44 years of issues that no one knew about. That’s 44 years of issues that were started off by 1-1/2 years of sexual abuse and 2-1/2 years of very inappropriate counselling.
I know that there are those who will say that I have to simply try harder. That I need a positive attitude. That I need to be thankful for every day that I am alive. And that I need to stop whinging about something that happened over 40 years ago.
Nope.
I just want M.A.i.D.
If society doesn’t want people like me obtaining M.A.i.D. to escape our pain and our torment, don’t let us suffer this pain or this torment in the first place.
Finger wagging at me, and tut-tutting me are completely inappropriate responses.
I don’t owe it to you to suffer another 20 years so that you can say that you saved me, like I’m some fucking pet project of yours.
My life is my life, I lived it, and I don’t want to live it any more.
I really was hoping to do more videos and blogs, but at this point in my life I am a one topic person.
And it’s not like this was the easiest story to find out.
The vast majority of it, in fact well over 90% of it had remained hidden from me all of these years.
I was the homosexual, I was the pervert, I ruined everything.
Do you understand how fucking mind destroying it was to discover the truth in August of 2011?
Discover that everything that I had known up to that point in time was an absolute lie?
I suffered so much.
Even though I had been diagnosed with major depression, severe anxiety, and a host of other mental health issues, I was never allowed to receive treatment.
Instead I’d be on the receiving end of my father’s mental and physical abuse and my stepmother’s mental and physical abuse.
Even when my mental health had deteriorated to the point that my civilian social workers were calling for me to first be placed in a psychiatric facility for children, and then removed from the home for my own welfare, those options were denied to me.
So, I suffered alone through grade school and junior high school.
Always getting picked on.
Always getting beat up.
I was an easy target for sexual abuse as what happened with the babysitter was obviously my fault, so any older man who wanted to sleep with me while I lived on Canadian Forces Base Downsview in Toronto was obviously my fault, right?
I asked for it. I mean I obviously asked the babysitter to molest me and my brother, so I must have been asking for what happened in Toronto.
Even when I was just about 16 and I nearly got strangled in High Park, I never said anything as it was obviously my fault.
I was forever hesitant to bring up the topic of Earl as I was sure that no one would believe me and that my own father would blame. During Earl’s criminal trial his defence counsel tried to imply that because I was over the age of 14 that everything had been consensual.
When I dropped out of school back in 1987, it wasn’t because I was having major difficulty with major depression or severe anxiety or because I had a “funny walk” or because I was an obvious faggot because I didn’t like girls. Nope, I dropped out of school because I was a lazy self centred asshole who thought of no one put himself.
Two years later when Mr. Bowles, Mr. Ford, and Mr. Aitken wrote letters to the North York Board of Education vouching for me to allow me to enter the Alternative and Independent Study Program (AISP) Richard didn’t give a shit. He said that if I wanted to live under his roof I had to go to a “real” school and fucking sit there, stare at the blackboard, and take some “fucking basket weaving courses”.
I ended up having to move out and quit school for the second time when I refused to leave AISP and go to a “normal school”.
See, what I was enduring from my father wasn’t just neglect. It wasn’t just physical abuse. It was mental destruction.
I had fucked with Richard’s career goals, and I was going to pay the fucking price.
It was my fault that I couldn’t keep the babysitter’s hands of my brother’s body.
Me? I was a homosexual so no wonder I allowed the babysitter to molest me.
It was my fault that Richard and Sue had to move into the PMQ with us on Canadian Forces Base Namao even through Richard was more than happy living off base with Susan.
It was my fault we moved from Canadian Forces Base Namao to Canadian Forces Base Griesbach.
It was my fault that we became involved with the military social worker in October of 1980.
It was my fault that we became involved with Alberta Social Services in November of 1981.
It was my fault that we had to move to Canadian Forces Base Downsview in Ontario in April of 1983 to avoid my apprehension by Alberta Social Services. This of course ruined Richard’s plans so far as being a Boeing VTOL factory trained maintenance technician on the CH-147 Chinooks.
So, it’s not that Richard didn’t care or give a shit.
Richard was actively seeking retribution.
And I was going to pay the fucking price for what I had done.
It’s not just the never ending depression that I have to deal with.
It’s not the never ending anxiety.
It’s the memories of back then.
It’s Captain Totzke telling me that I was a homosexual.
It’s Captain Totzke telling me that I’d end up in prison.
It’s Captain Totzke telling me that I was going to be just like the babysitter.
It’s Captain Totzke telling me and my father that sports were not an option for me as I’d be sexually aroused by naked boys in the change room.
It’s my father telling me that I couldn’t go swimming because there’d be naked boys in the change room and that I wouldn’t be able to control myself.
It’s the memories of pissing the bed and going to school smelling like piss.
It’s the memories of sitting in school on CFB Griesbach and being able to run my hands through my hair and having clumps of hair come out.
It’s the memories of having to play outside in the Edmonton winters with clothing that was not even suitable for spring.
The physical and mental abuse at the hands of my grandmother, my father, and Sue don’t help much either.
I think the real final nail in my coffin so-to-speak was the sham 2011 CFNIS investigation which “couldn’t find any evidence that the babysitter was capable of what I accused him of” even though the CFNIS had the 1980 CFSIU DS-120-10-80 investigation paperwork that literally backed up everything I had said about Captain McRae and the babysitter.
As you can see, there’s more to my desire of death than just some silly little bit of depression.
It’s almost exactly 3 months until the day I make my application for M.A.i.D.
Today I bid farewell to my motorcycle.
It was a 2013 Suzuki 650cc Bergman.
I bought it in March of 2020.
2013 650cc Suzuki Bergman
It was a fun machine to ride.
It could move.
But depression crept in like it always fucking does.
Depression has to be the cruelest part of the abuse from CFB Namao and the subsequent fuckery that happened.
It’s like I keep getting punished over and fucking over for the events on Canadian Forces Base Namao.
Up north near Lillooet BC There’s a really fun hair pin just at the start of the descent.
I’d been riding motorcycles since my mid 20’s.
As a kid, Richard would often take me on motorcycle rides.
There was something magical about riding on a motorcycle.
My first motorcycle was a Honda CB-750-four.
I didn’t realize why I was drawn to the CB-750-four, but then one day when I was out riding I realized that my father’s motorcycle had been a mid ’70s CB-550-four
I’ve had various bikes over the years, including a brand new 2001 Triumph Sprint RS.
But, as with everything in my life, depression quickly comes in and steals the last bit of joy from my life.
It’s usually Richard in my head screaming at me for being a fucking idiot and that I’m too fucking stupid to own these things.
Anyways, another tenant in the building had been hounding me for the parking spot.
And to be honest, the parking spot was costing me $110.00 / month. $110.00 for my motorcycle to sit there gathering dust and bird shit and mocking me every time that I went to take the garbage out or to ride my scooter to work.
So on Sunday I placed an ad for it on Craigslist. I had been dreading do this. I hate people coming over to buy things from me. That’s one of the reasons that I’d much rather just recycle my old stuff than try to sell it.
Another reason that I don’t like to sell things of mine is that I feel that I’m ripping the person off that I’m selling my goods to.
I’m deathly afraid of selling my stuff to someone and then it breaking and the person then thinking that I’m some sort of scam artist.
So, I listed the bike for $500.00 “As Is” with the stipulation that I was selling it as a parts bike, but that if the buyer felt so inclined they could probably ride it.
But I wasn’t selling a bike to be ridden.
I was just selling a “parts bike”.
The eventual buyer came by with a new battery just to see if the bike would even turn on.
So, even though I hadn’t started it since December of 2021 it fired up within 3 cranks of the engine.
It idled nicely and smoothly.
I explained certain aspects of the bike to the buyer such as the Manual and Automatic transmission modes, the heated grips, the heated seats, the electric mirrors, the electric windshield that raises and lowers,the ABS, etc.
He couldn’t believe that I was selling the bike for $500.00
I explained to him that due to my depression that I was certain that I was never going to ride a motorcycle again. And that to put new tires on the bike, and new brakes, and a new battery, and to change out the fluids was going to run about $2k.
And the bike was costing me $110.00 / mnth just for parking.
So, I’m cutting my loses and letting it go to someone who wants to ride it.
He mentioned that he had some friends that were dealing with depression and he knew how it fucked them up.
I didn’t go to far with him into my fucked up world of depression
He doesn’t need to know what caused my depression.
He doesn’t need to know that I’m counting on that I will be allowed to die next year to be free of my depression.
I sensed that he was worried that he was taking advantage of a someone with depression who wasn’t thinking straight.
I assured him that this wasn’t a miscalculation, that I was selling the bike for $500.00 so that I could cut my loses, and that I didn’t want the bike sitting around rotting out.
I was happy to see him ride away with a once in a life time deal.
And I know that I am making the right decisions and the right choices.
It’s no use holding on to dreams that will never be. Doing so will just drive a person fucking insane. And I’m already more than insane enough.
Next week I’m going to go to ICBC and surrender my driver’s licence, I’ll trade it in for a BCID card.
Outside of my scooter, I don’t think I’ll be driving vehicles again in the time I have left, so why hold on to a driver’s licence?
Two weeks ago I went to see a photographer who took some pictures.
The last time Albert took some pictures of me was back before COVID-19
I honestly have no idea of where I would have ended up in life had I not been raised in a severely dysfunctional family.
Richard was not the type of parent to foster any type of growth.
Shut you fucking mouth. Why the fuck do you have to listen to that shit? Just go to school and take some fucking basket weaving courses and stare at the fuclking blackboard.
I learnt electronics from Richard? Not fucking likely.
I learnt automotive mechanics from Richard? Definitely a big fucking no there.
Surely Richard instilled a love of computers in you? Between 1987 and 2000 I didn’t own a computer. Never really had an interest in computers. Sure, I use the internet for my blogs, and doing research and such, but nope, no great love for computers
I was into make-up in the period of 2006 to 2011, but my dealings with the Canadian Armed Forces destroyed me emotionally and mentally. In a way I probably should have listened to Richard.
Wearing make-up died.
But my dresses never left.
Anyways, enjoy the pictures…………
This dress has a ton of fabric.MeMe againYep, me againGuess who?BlueYet another dressUh-oh my slip is showing…..
Beeshive 