Dying – Page 3 – Beeshive

March 17, 2023

The clock has begun ticking.

https://www.canada.ca/en/health-canada/services/medical-assistance-dying.html#b11

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?

Nope.

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.

Only the military can investigate historical child sexual abuse.

Well, this one is bound for the toilet as well.

This is where most CFNIS investigations end up.

In 1980 in the period of time between May of 1980 and June 23rd, 1980, my babysitter, P.S., had intercepted me in the change room at the base swimming pool. He escorted me to the sauna where there was an older man waiting for me to perform oral sex on him.

This obviously wasn’t a random chance. This had been planned out. Especially with the man asking P.S. if I was as good as P.S. said that I was.

When I went to the CFNIS in 2011 with my complaint against P.S. I was envisioning cleaning up a bunch of things from my past:

P.S. and the abuse from CFB Namao;
Terry, the man who called me a homosexual;
The man from the sauna;
Earl Ray Stevens from the Dennison Armouries;
And Alan M. from North York.

Of course, as we know now, the Minister of National Defence, the Vice Chief of Defence Staff, the Provost Marshal, and the CFNIS had ample reasons to deep six the investigation into P.S. as it threatened to resurrect the whole sordid Captain Father Angus McRae fiasco along with exposing the 3-year-time-bar and the summary investigation flaw.

So that delayed my complaint against the man from the sauna.

The delay might have worked in my favour as when I was given a copy of the CFSIU investigation paperwork it gave me the very likely name of the man from the sauna. This man had in fact had his own involvement with underaged children.

But at the same time the CFNIS and the military justice system were coming under attack for their failure to actually solve sexual assault crimes.

In November of 2021 Minister of National Defence Anita Anand announced that she was instructing the CFNIS and the Provost Marshal to hand over all sexual assault investigations to the civilian authorities.

But, can you guess who’s case is NOT going to the civilian police?

Yep, that’s right, the CFNIS are keeping my case.

Apparently the Civilian Police aren’t as qualified to investigate child sexual assaults like the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service is.

So, if you’re wondering why I have absolutely no desire to live, this is it.

The CFNIS aren’t holding on to my investigation because they’re qualified to look after child sexual abuse matters.

The CFNIS are holding on to my matter because the 3-year-time-bar would make it legally impossible to ever charge the person I accused. This person was a major in the Canadian Forces and was a member of the regular force. They were subject to the code of service discipline 24/7/365 on duty or off duty.

The 3-year-time-bar applied to all service offences. Service offences included all criminal code offences including offences such as gross indecency, and indecent assault.

The civilian police would have encountered this the moment they went to the provincial Crown to lay charges. The civilian police would not have kept quiet about this.

The CFNIS on the other hand know exactly how to deal with this issue. They’ll submit such a laughably weak case to the Crown knowing full well that the Crown will decline to prosecute.

The CFNIS can also delay the case to the point in time that the person I accuse simply dies of old age. “Golly geez Mr. Bees, if only you had come to us sooner we could have charged him, but he’s dead now, oh well”.

And if the person I accused hasn’t kicked the bucket, the CFNIS can go harass P.S. and frighten him with the possibility of prosecution for his participation in providing me to the man that I accused. This will absolutely shut P.S. up guaranteeing that we’ll never know who the man in the sauna was.

And this my friend is why I want to die.

To know that I will never receive any form of justice is a bitter pill to swallow.

To not receive any acknowledgment for the hell I lived through is maddening.

To have the guilty portrayed as innocent, and to have the innocent judged as being not worthy of even a simple apology, tells me just exactly how valuable human life is.

You don’t understand how anxious I am for the Criminal Code of Canada to be further amended in March of 2023 to allow for Medical Assistance in Dying for Psychiatric issues.

Midazolam, Propofol, Rocuronium, and Bupivacain injected through a catheter will erase these memories and will release me from my past and from my suffering.

If I can’t get justice, if I can’t even just get simple acknowledgment for the hell I went through, give me mercy and just let me go into peace where these memories and the Canadian Armed Forces can no longer haunt me.

The Actual Procedure.

I’ve been conversing with the nice people at the BC Assistance in dying program.

As of this time I am talking with them anonymously due to the fact that I am associated with a health care facility and I don’t want any repercussions.

They’ve cleared up one matter that I wasn’t too clear about. I had also thought that the drugs required for death in the IV method would be administered by a set of dosing pumps. This is in fact not the case. The attending physician will manually inject the drugs one after the other.

And as I mentioned previously, I won’t have to go to a hospital or a clinic to obtain this procedure. I can go through with this procedure from the comfort and familiarity of my own bed.

Not that there is anything wrong with a hospital or a clinic, but being able to leave from familiar surroundings seems to be much more preferable to leaving from the strange and odd surroundings in a hospital or a clinic.

The process I wish to undergo involves four common drugs.

Each province in Canada has its own protocol for dealing with Medical Assistance in Dying.

This is the protocol used in British Columbia.

From the Canadian Association of MAiD Assessors and Providers

Recommended protocol from the Canadian Association of MAiD Assessors and Providers.

They three main drugs are Midazolam, Propofol, Roccuronium.

Lidocaine seems to be used as a painkiller.

Bupivacaine seems to be used to ensure cardiac arrest.

These drugs are used every day in health care.

And unlike for prisoner executions, the manufacturers of these drugs have not objected to their use for MAiD.

Prior to this date I will have to have undergone 3 different interviews with different psychologists and they will have to agree to allow me to undergo the procedure.

And as the date of the procedure approaches, my physician is supposed to ask me a few more times if I am certain that I wish to undergo a procedure that will result in my death.

And then on the day of my procedure, I will be asked a couple more times if I understand that I will die as a result of the procedure and if I wish to continue.

My last day is sure to be odd.

This would definitely be a day of “lasts”.

So far I’m planning to die in the evening.

Have a good breakfast. Go for a long walk. Maybe around the seawall. Might go for a bike ride.

Not sure what music I’d be listening to. Doesn’t matter really.

Go for a nice supper. Absolutely nothing too fancy, probably just the Old Spaghetti Factory, Earl’s, or even the White Spot.

Enjoy the nice long walk home.

I would arrange to be home in time to meet my physician.

While the physician is getting set up I’d be going to the washroom for the last time.

I’d also take my final shower.

I’m not sure if anyone else would be attending to watch me go.

Probably just me and the doc.

And then, when the time feels right I’d get into my bed for the very last time.

The doc would then ask me again if I understood what I was doing, and I would tell them that I understood.

The doc would then insert the main catheter as well as a “back up catheter”.

The first drug that would hit my system would be the midazolam. Midazolam is a sedative. At the recommended dosage it will not render me unconscious nor will it kill me. The midazolam will just relax me.

The next drug to enter my system will be the doozy. This is the drug that will pretty well turn my brain off like someone switching off a computer. Propofol is typically used prior to surgery to render a person into a very deep state of unconsciousness. However, in surgery the typical dosage for propofol is 2mg/kg. Meaning that the average human will receive 2 milligrams of propofol for every kilogram of body weight. I weigh 90 kg, so if I was being prepped for surgery I would receive a dose of 180 milligrams. However, because the goal of this procedure is my death, the recommended dosage that I will be given in 1,000 milligrams of propofol. At this level all brain activity will cease. I will no longer be me. I will be gone. The odds on my brain ever recovering from this dosage are none existent.

The next two drugs to be administered will be the rocuronium and then bupivacaine.

The rocuronium inhibits skeletal muscles. What this means is that my body would no longer be able to breath as my diaphragm muscle would become paralyzed.

And if bupivacaine is used as the fourth drug once the bupivacaine is injected it will stop my heart.

I don’t know if the lidocaine would be used or not, but if it is it really isn’t going to be that big of a deal.

As my brain will have been completely shut down by the propofol I will not experience any pain associated with the inability to breath nor will I be aware that my heart has stopped.

And that will be that.

After this there will be no more me. I will no longer exist.

And trust me, that’s a very small price to pay.

As I’ve said before, my existence is a very small and insignificant blip in the history of the known universe.

Whether I die in 2023, 2024, 2025, or even if I had lived to 70 or 80 years of age, on the cosmic time scale this is insignificant.

What is significant is the constant torment that my brain experiences on a daily basis.

Seemingly random things will slam me right back into P.S.’s bedroom on the day he was caught buggering me. Other things will transport me right back into the rectory of the base chapel when I was being given the tumbler full of “sickly sweet grape juice”. The baths that P.S. made me take with him so that he could try to get my rectum to loosen up so that he could fuck me still randomly pop into my brain. What P.S. did with the blonde haired girl are still in my mind. Watching P.S. do things to my brother will stay with me for life. The day my father was working on his motorcycle and I was watching him and P.S. came by and asked my father if he wanted him to look after me. My father told me to go with P.S.. P.S. took me straight to the chapel and into the rectory. There’s the man in the sauna that P.S. provided me to so that I could perform oral sex on this man.

The intense torment and abuse that I suffered at the hands of the kids on Canadian Forces Base Namao after I had been discovered in P.S.’s bedroom will live with me until I draw my last breath.

My sessions with “Terry” still pop into my mind at random, and it’s due to Terry that I am unable to sit down and deal with psychiatrists or psychologists. Put yourself into my shoes. You’re nine years old, you’re being dealt with by a military social worker who is convinced that you are showing signs of a mental illness called “homosexuality” because of what you and P.S. had been caught doing on CFB Namao.

The way in which my father blamed me for allowing P.S. to touch my younger brother will always be with me. The way in which my father blamed me for “fucking with his military career” will be with me until the day I die.

My father in general. My grandmother in general.

The diagnosed but untreated major depression that I’ve lived with since CFB Namao has cost me so much in life.

Earl Ray Stevens will always live with me until the day I die.

So will the unknown man from CFB Griesbach, and the unknown man from Toronto who tried to strangle me in his car.

Dreams that were taken away from me will always haunt me. I will never learn to fly an airplane. I will never fly a helicopter. I will never be what I wanted to be because after CFB Namao all I was told was that I was a worthless piece of shit. So there are no dreams or aspirations.

I just exist. I have no pleasures, I have no hobbies. I have mo dreams, I have no desires.

Talking about these matters doesn’t make them go away.

Not talking about these matters doesn’t make them go away.

Nothing will make them go away.

And if that’s what it takes, then nothing I will become.

The world will go on without me.

However, when I die, P.S. dies, Captain McRae dies again, Captain Terry Totzke dies, Richard Gill dies for a second time, all the people in the Canadian Forces chain of command that knew what happened from 1978 to 1980 they all die. Earl Ray Stevens dies again. And Al M. dies.

Never again will they haunt me or torment me.

I will be out of their reach.

Forever.

And I will finally be at peace.

Death

Why am I so fascinated with death?

I want to make it very clear. And I need you dear reader to understand this.

This blog will detail my journey towards my death.

I am creating this blog specifically as a way to explain myself, even though really I don’t owe anyone an explanation.

My life will end long before what it would have had I never gone through the hell I went through as a child.

I will be availing myself to Medical Assistance in Dying for psychiatric reasons.

If you don’t like the topics of dying or death, or if you feel that I am only being melodramatic or only playing for attention you should probably find a different blog to follow.

This blog will be my testament. It will be around long after I am gone. I have no family or friends to explain to others why I’ve done what I’ve done. So I’m going to explain it myself. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the Canadian Forces get the last fucking word on my life and my death.

For as long as I live I will never understand the fear of death.

Dying, yeah I can understand being afraid to die. Will it be painful? Will it be slow? Will it linger for weeks? Or will it be over quick? Will you have your affairs in order? Or will there be things left undone?

Being dead?

Nope.

We will all be dead one day. Being dead is nothing to be afraid of.

Being dead is very natural.

You didn’t exist prior to your conception. And you’ll go back to not existing when you’re dead.

You honestly only get one life to live. There is no coming back for a “do over”.

I only had one chance at experiencing what my live could have been.

Anyone who tells me that others had to give up their dreams as well are being very disingenuous and shallow.

My dreams, hopes, and aspirations were taken away from me long before I even knew that I was allowed to have dreams, hopes, and aspirations.

Age 40, or 50, or 60 is not the time to start dreaming about what one could be in life.

When I say that I’m tired, I mean it.

I lived through 1-1/2 years of horror on Canadian Forces Base Namao.

I lived through 2-1/2 years of horror on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach.

On Canadian Forces Base Downsview, Earl Stevens dragged me right back into hell.

There were more incidents after Earl, but these men I don’t remember enough about to even bother going to the police about.

Sure, I fully understand now that sexually abused and neglected children tend to be very easy targets for pedophiles, but that doesn’t make my past any easier.

I remember being frequently late for school staring on CFB Griesbach and on CFB Downsview. I couldn’t sleep. I’d always wake up in terror. And when the morning came I didn’t want to get out of bed.

There were half hearted suicide attempts on CFB Griesbach and CFB Downsview. But in an environment like the Canadian Forces, especially back in the ’80s, attempting suicide or even just voicing your desire to attempt suicide is often met with mockery and derision.

Sure, what kid wants to get out of bed in the morning.

But my reluctance to get out of bed was different.

I had diagnosed, but untreated major depression.

Was it my father’s decision to not have my depression treated, or was it Captain Terry Totzke’s decision? I’ll never know. And at this juncture I don’t care.

Untreated major depression is a bitch.

It’s not sexy or cool lie it is on TV or in the movies.

Untreated depression is a fucking killer in the literal sense.

Depression, treated or otherwise is the leading cause of suicide.

There were time in my life both as a teen and as an adult where I’d break down and cry. Literally for days sometimes.

And this was suffering in silence.

My father, in addition to having his own demons, was being told by the likes of Captain Terry Totzke that my issues weren’t depression, or anxiety, or the fallout from child sexual abuse. Terry’s concern was homosexuality.

So no, there was no treatment for my depression or anxiety or anything else while I was living under Richard’s roof.

See, depression is an illness that only tends to get diagnosed if others complain to your doctor about it. If you go to your doctor and complain about the symptoms of depression without the support of family or other you get brushed off as being a hypochondriac.

Depression rots your brain. It’s toxic. It changes the way your brain behaves and operates. It changes the way your brain responds to stimulation.

If I cried or if I acted as any other emotionally disturbed child with untreated major depression or severe anxiety could be expected to that would be rectified with a backhand or a belt.

I would miss days and weeks from work with mystery illnesses.

There were other suicide attempts over the years. 1994, 2000, 2006, 2011, 2012.

The closest I came was the 1994 event.

I legally changed my name in 2008. I thought that with a new name I could escape my past and reinvent myself and leave Peter, the chapel, the man in the sauna, Terry, Pat, Wayne, Earl, Allan, the man who tried to strangle me in his car, my father, my grandmother, my mother, and my stepmother all in the past.

Yes, I had my new name. But all the shit from my past was still there. And now my father was beyond fucking pissed that I changed my name. He never did talk to me after that.

And reinventing oneself is impossible unless the past is reconciled.

In addition to the shit I had gone through as a child, I was now about to encounter a fresh new shit show from an organization that was more about keeping the past a secret.

I had investigators from the CFNIS call me an outright liar. I had investigators from the CFNIS suggest to me that I was making stories up. I had investigators from the CFNIS tell me that I was exaggerating things and confusing incidents that happened on other bases with incidents that I remembered happening on the bases I lived on.

Sure, obtaining Captain McRae’s court martial records and the CFSIU investigation paperwork in 2018 and 2020 respectively ultimately proved that I was right. But it also amplified the pain and the anguish knowing that the Canadian Armed Forces fucking knew what Peter had been doing on Canadian Forces Base Namao from 1978n until 1980. And the Canadian Forces knew that I wasn’t lying when I said that Captain McRae had given me a “sickly sweet grape juice” on the visits that Peter would take me on to the rectory at the chapel. It was in the court martial transcripts, right in fucking black and white. The military police knew in 1980 that Captain McRae was bringing children to the rectory and was giving them beer or wine before moving them into the bedroom of the rectory to “fool around with them”.

In August of 2011 I obtained my social services records that absolutely shattered my reality as I knew it and made me realize that I was a pawn in someone else’s game, a game that I never even realized that I was playing in.

All I really want from this is to clean my name.

Peter was allowed to grow up as the victim of Captain McRae.

When I spoke with his father Jack back in 2015. Jack loved and adored Peter.

Jack would have moved the fucking world for Peter, whom Jack viewed as an innocent victim of Captain McRae.

Jack even blamed himself for letting Peter become involved with Captain McRae.

This was even though Peter had gone on to have criminal convictions for criminal offences involving children.

I’d learn from the MPCC in 2013 that Peter’s entire family had gone to the wall in his defence and did everything possible to cover for Peter.

For instance Peter’s sister told the CFNIS in 2011 that she never heard of anything involving her brother sexually abusing children. But that’s how the whole fucking investigation into Captain McRae started, the base military police had received numerous complaints from various parents on the base that Peter was touching their child inappropriately.

Me?

I was always the filthy homosexual that made Peter touch my younger brother.

I was the filthy homosexual that enjoyed what Peter was doing so much that I never told anyone what he had been doing for almost 1-1/2 years.

See the difference?

Suicide amongst childhood sexual abuse isn’t unheard of. Even if that victim receives justice.

Child sexual abuse fucks with the brain in so many horrific ways its not funny.

Am I gay? Am I straight? Will I be a pervert like Peter? If I have sex with someone, will they use it against me? If I have sex with someone, do I owe them something?

Is my viewing of sex as being something dirty and disgusting a result of Peter, or was it a result of Captain Terry Totzke, or was it the way my father reacted?

So no, there will be no “normal” for me.

There will always be this gnawing in the back of my brain telling me that I will be a pervert like Peter.

There will always be this battle in my head “Am I gay”, “Am I straight”, “Am I just fucked up?”.

I know that I didn’t force Peter to molest my younger brother. But that scar is deep into my brain.

So death it is.

And I don’t understand why this is so controversial.

Life is about quality over quantity.

For some reason we look at life in the sense that the longer you live, the better life you have.

I can promise you that is absofuckinglutely not the case.

In my books, someone who had a happy well adjusted life and who died prematurely in their 20’s is far off better than someone who had a tormented life that lived well into their 70’s.

We willingly accept the high death toll on our public streets because car culture is just too damn convenient. Little Sally would still be alive is she looked both ways and made eye contract with the driver operating the 5000kg vehicle. Silly Sally!

We tolerate starvation and disease in the world because the free market will solve it. If we feed them or if we cure them they’ll just expect more free handouts.

We tolerate death in extreme sports because at least they died doing what they loved. Yeah, sure, he died because he jumped his motorcycle and crashed, but fuck was it awesome!

Guys drive race cars around a track at ridiculously high speeds and kill themselves doing something that was easily preventable, and we honour them as heroes.

But yet someone like me says that they intend to seek Medical Assistance in Dying to escape the horrors of a dysfunctional childhood, childhood sexual abuse, and inappropriate conversion therapy, as well as the constant and never ending torment and loneliness that goes along with those horrors and suddenly premature death is wrong and evil.

What the actual fuck?

Why is society so intent with the idea that I have to live to a ripe old age of 80 or 90 with the horseshit from CFB Namao, CFB Griesbach, and CFB Downsview playing non-stop randomly in my brain?

Why is slamming your F1 race car into a barrier at 260km/h seen as a noble death, whereas laying down in the comfort of your own bed and taking an IV solution seen as being the “loser’s way”?

Why is skiing out of bounds seen as an acceptable way to die, “he died doing what he loved”. Where as taking four prescription drugs is seen as being evil?

We send soldiers off to meaningless conflicts. We don’t treat the loss of their lives as a travesty.

Stunt performers die in the creation of movies. Movies for fuck sake. And no one cares. It’s just the cost of doing business.

You want to know what’s evil?

Evil is forcing someone to live longer than they wish to because it will make you feel better.

Evil is forcing someone to live longer than they wish to because death make you feel scared.

I don’t believe in god.

I don’t believe in heaven or hell or purgatory.

As I’ve said on other postings, once the blood flow stops to my brain, and once my brain depletes the oxygen it has, I am gone. Me, Bobbie Garnet Bees, will no longer exist.

I won’t be sitting on a cloud crying about not being alive.

I won’t be wandering around on the Earth in purgatory because I ended my own life.

I will be gone. Free of Peter. Free of my father. Free of Angus McRae. Free of Captain Terry Totzke. Free of everything.

And I think this is what drives the other survivors of child sexual abuse to commit suicide or seek to end their lives.

You can’t undo what the brain has been through, especially not 40 or 50 years later.

And “coping” and “thinking happy thoughts” isn’t the answer.

Martin Kruze, the man who exposed the child sexual abuse that had been rampant at Maple Leaf Gardens in the 1970s and 1980s committed suicide at age 35 by jumping off the Bloor Street viaduct and onto the Don Valley Parkway in Toronto in 1997. This even though his perseverance and overcoming the resistance within the Toronto Police Service led to the sentencing of Gordon Stuckless for numerous cases of child sexual abuse.

But even though Martin had been victorious and had been compensated, the years of living with this secret and then the anguish of dealing with a police force that didn’t believe Martin’s claims of sexual abuse ultimately proved too much for Martin.

I have no doubt that there are many other military dependents who have committed suicide over the years due to abuses they endured on the bases in Canada. The Canadian Forces are lucky in the sense that the adult deaths of military dependents are not linked back to their time as children living in the private married quarters on the bases in Canada. Actually I don’t even think the suicide death of a child in the PMQs on the bases in Canada will ever be linked back to abuses in the bases.

Again, that’s why I’m doing this blog.

This is so that when I draw my last breath and my heart ceases to beat my death will forever be linked to:
The Canadian Armed Forces
The Department of National Defence
The Canadian Forces Special Investigations Unit
The Canadian Forces National Investigation Service
<discharged with disgrace> Captain Father Angus McRae
<retired>Warrant Officer Richard Gill
<retired> Brigadier General Daniel Edward Munro
<retired> Captain Terry Totzke
<retired> Colonel J.B. Fay
<retired> Lt.Gen. K.E.Lewis
<retired> Col I.H. Firth
<retired> Lt. Col. M.M. Nash
<retired> Lt. Col. J.D. O’Blenis
<retired> Major R.G. Parks
<retired> Major M.M. Lehmann
<retired> Warrant Officer Frederick Cunningham
<retired> Major D.J. Boan
<retired> Major G.L. Brais
Minister of National Defence Joseph-Georges-Gilles-Claude Lamontagne (1980 – 1983)
Minister of National Defence Peter MacKay (2007 – 2013)
Minister of National Defence Rob Nicholson (2013 – 2015)
Minister of National Defence Jason Kenney (2015)
Minister of National Defence Harjit Sajjan (2015 – 2021)
Minister of National Defence Anita Anand ( 2021 to present)

I can’t promise you that this will be a thrilling ride.

I can’t even promise you that it will be an interesting ride.

But it is my journey.

You’re more than welcome to come along.

Maybe you have a morbid curiosity, don’t be ashamed, death is a curious thing.

Maybe you’ll learn some things along the way, maybe you won’t.

I don’t think my death will offer any insights as to how to prevent other deaths due to child sexual abuse.

But maybe you’ll understand the devastating effects that child sexual abuse and inappropriate therapies have on the victims of child sexual abuse.

And maybe my death will compel you to seek to treat the victims of child sexual abuse better than they have been treated in the past.

And maybe, just maybe you’ll be inclined to pester the government to acknowledge child sexual abuse within the Canadian Armed Forces and to help those victims get assistance.

I case you’re wondering, in the next post I will talk about the process of M.A.i.D. and the procedure that I wish to obtain.

My Affidavit

My lawyer just sent me a copy of my affidavit. It has been stamped and accepted by the courts.

So, this is another step closer to the end.

There will be no happy ending at the resolution of this matter.

Money isn’t going to undo what I endured through my childhood.

The events in question occurred on CFB Namao from the fall of 1978 until the spring of 1980, but the repercussions have been felt for years after. Whether it be Captain Terry Totzke interfering with my mental health care and my chance to escape from Richard’s household, or whether it be enduring the derision of my father, these abuses have haunted me for my entire life.

Money isn’t going to erase a lifetime of suffering.

Money isn’t going to erase a lifetime of self doubt and self hatred and confusion. And I would assume that this is true for a lot of the other victims from Canadian Forces Base Namao.

I’m sure that in agreeing to settle, the Canadian Armed Forces, the Department of National Defence, and the Attorney General of Canada will be sure to have language added to the settlement that makes clear that any settlement that they agree to is not an admission of guilt on their behalf.

Sadly, any settlement reached will not ever get me an apology from my father.

I’ll never really get to hear from him what exactly it was that he despised about me the most. Was it I reminded him to much of his ex-wife? Was it being his first born that I represented the end of his ability to go sailing around the world with the navy or flying to exotic places with the air force? Was it really the sexual abuse that I “allowed” the babysitter to commit against my young brother.

Richard’s dead, he’ll never be able to apologize nor will he ever be able to explain. But then again, with what I learnt about him from my foster care records, he was a very troubled man with a lot of issues, so even if he did apologize would he have meant it? If he tried to explain what his issues with me were, would that be the truth or would it just be him telling me what he thought I wanted to hear?

At this point in time the Government of Canada hasn’t replied yet. According to the rules of the court the have a certain amount of time to respond.

Once the Government of Canada responds, then the negotiations commence.

I’m tired.

My brain is literally burnt out.

Yes, the Canadian Forces and the Department of National Defence have succeeded in keeping me from ever obtaining criminal convictions in this matter.

But with this settlement at least my name can be cleaned.

And really, that’s all a person has is their name.

When I do die, it’ll be my name that will live on.

There is no afterlife. There is no heaven. There is no hell.

There is just the here and now.

If I hadn’t been so bound and determined to clear my name, my name would have been stained with the events of CFB Namao.

Now when I die, I get to die knowing that my name will live on after I am gone and people will understand why I was the way I was. People will know my story. And people will know the story of the other kids from CFB Namao.

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.

Nope.

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.

“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?

An interesting issue.

Planning for the sweet release of death leads to some interesting realizations

It’s odd.

I understand that to many of you that my death is probably playing out like the longest suicide in the history of humankind.

Death will offer me the escape from my constant companions Depression & Anxiety as well as eliminating all of my memories of the sexual abuse on Canadian Forces Base Namao, the subsequent treatment that I received at the hands of military social worker Captain Terry Totzke, and the memories of the far too many years of suffering alone and being blamed for CFB Namao.

However, I’ve just realized that I’m probably not going to see the completion of various projects. Some that I am involved in and some that I am not involved in.

And it’s kinda a weird feeling.

Take the new hospital. I’ve been involved with the design and procurement committee for the new hospital.

Am I sad?

No. Not really.

My name will live on in the project documents.

I was here. I did something.

Even the existing hospital. I’m still running the physical plant there, and I will do so right up until the date I chose.

Now, to be honest, I’m not going to work right up until the chosen date of my death. If things work out correctly, I’ll be able to take some time off work, get an early payout on my pension that will allow me further time off.

But still, I’m going to work right up to the end. And why shouldn’t I. Work keeps my mind from wandering into my past.

I’ve worked on various projects, and I’ve got more projects and improvements lined up.

Why do these projects and improvements if you’re going to die?

Why not? Gotta do something with my time anyways. And besides, let’s say that I wasn’t planning for my death. Should I not do any improvements at work just incase that I get run over while I’m riding my bicycle one day?

The Skytrain extension out to Arbutus, or even the recently announced extension out to Langley. The Broadway extension started recently and it’s expected to be in service by 2025.

Sure, it would have been interesting to have been able to take the Skytrain from Arbutus to Coquitlam, or even from Arbutus to Langley. But this doesn’t outweigh the war and the damage that are in my head.

The new hospital? It’s supposed to be completed around 2027 or 2028. So nope, won’t live to see that.

Am I sad?

Nope.

I used to joke during the planning meetings that the rear lane behind the new hospital that had yet to be named should be called the “Bobbie Bees Memorial Lane”. As no one at work has any ideas about my plans, they all laughed it off as just a joke. But it would have been nice for that to have been named after me and dedicated to all of the children who grew up on Canadian Forces bases in Canadian and whom ended up committing suicide to escape the demons they encountered in the military environment.

I’ve come to realize over the past little while that it’s our attachment to the here and now that makes it so hard to let go.

After I draw my last breath, the world will keep on spinning. Why shouldn’t it?

It’ll be like I was never here and that I never existed.

I won’t miss anything because I won’t exist.

Those who knew me might miss me, but within 50 years everyone who knew me will be gone as well.

Except for a very few people in the world, my death will go unnoticed. Just another of the of the 60 million deaths per year. 64 million per year by 2025.

There’s a lot of work in death.

Well, for the last couple of days I’ve been having a little bit of a back and forth with the local health authority trying to gain more knowledge about Medical Assistance in Dying.

The actual dying process I understand.

But it’s all the other matters surrounding my death that I definitely need to start planning for.

I need a will.

I had never really thought about that.

I was planning on giving my belongings away to those who wanted them. It’s not like I need to take money into the afterlife. But, to prevent squabbles, I was told to get a will and put everything in writing.

Really, my will would come down to who gets my ebike, who gets my motorcycle, who gets my computers.

My pension and other benefits would be handled via the instructions on my policies.

Other than that, I have nothing.

No property, no assets, zip, zilch, nada.

I guess depression and anxiety always kept me anchored in the here and now.

It’s not like I don’t have savings or other financial instruments. It’s just that I never had any desire to collect things like cards, or cars, or motorcycles, or homes, or condos.

When you have severe and deep depression you’re not really looking into the future as you’re expecting to die any day.

My affairs will be pretty simple, except for my brother there’s no next of kin or any other “family” that I have to worry about appeasing, so no “Game of Thrones” type family politics.

Needing a will is apparently even true for the disposal of my body.

It’s not enough to sign forms with medical schools and institutes expressing my desires for my body to go to medical research.

That has to go into a will as well.

One copy would go to a lawyer. One copy would go to my physician.

As I have no family or relations to rely on I need to go the extra step and arrange for the transfer of my body. As my death will be what is known as an “expected death” the coroner will not attend. Nor will my physician remove my body. Would look kinda funny with my doctor lugging my corpse down the elevator and then strapping it into the passenger seat of his car and driving it over to UBC. So that means that I have to make arrangements ahead of my death to have someone remove my body and deliver my body where it needs to go.

Thankfully the IV method is available at home.

It turns out that whether I use the oral method or the IV method, both methods require the attendance of a physician or a nurse practitioner.

The nice thing is that it was confirmed that if I want to die in my own bed in my apartment that I can do so.

And no. My landlord legally cannot prevent me from dying in my apartment.

I guess that once I pick a date and time I’ll have to notify the landlord. If I time everything correctly, there won’t be anything really to remove from my apartment. My Bed. Maybe some clothes.

No special cleaning of my apartment will be required because my body will be removed from my apartment before I even cool down to room temp.

Gotta be sure to close all of my financial accounts. Sure, I could leave everything open, but why be an asshole?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

A little fly landed into my ointment as I was writing this post.

I got a reply email from the body donation program at UBC. They’ll only accept whole body donations. They will not remove my brain and send it off to a different research lab.

So……. maybe I won’t be able to die at home in my own bed.

Shame. It’s a really nice and comfy one.

I might have to go die in Montreal if I want my brain to go to the research lab that I have in mind which would be an adventure in itself. I have been to Montreal a couple of times. Renting an apartment for a couple of months might be in the cards.

Now, if I do have to end up going to Montreal to die that changes what I do with the rest of my body.

I’ve always been intrigued with the concept of giving my body to a “body farm”. And so far Canada only has one body farm in operation and that’s also in La belle province.

As I said, I had never really put any thought into my death. And now that I can see my death within my near future, there sure are a lot of matters to iron out.

The Art of being Insignificant.

or how I realized that to be at peace with one’s self you have to realize that none of this matters.

It’s interesting how little people actually matter.

I could disappear tomorrow and to be honest not a single person would miss me. And that’s not being glib, it’s just being realistic.

Sure, there’s the pleasantries that would be exchanged. “Where’s Bobbie? Anybody seen Bobbie? No? Okay, who wants to go watch a hockey game next week?”

But me, like you, and like everyone else, are completely expendable.

As long as a person proves to be useful to someone else and we fill their requirements, then we matter.

But the instance you stop being useful, and the instant you stop fulfilling the needs of other, you’re dispensable.

In March of 2011 when I went to the Edmonton Police Service with my complaint against P.S., I honestly had no idea of just how putrid this was going to turn out to be.

The more that I uncovered, the more blown away I was that I was actually part and parcel of something much larger than I could ever have imagined. I was no longer the little homosexual faggot that made the babysitter molest my younger brother.

I was now one of at least 25 children, if not many more that Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Father Angus McRae molested on the three Canadian Forces Bases and one Canadian Forces Station that he had been stationed at from 1973 until July of 1980.

I thought that with the uncovering of the Captain McRae court martial transcripts and the CFSIU investigation paperwork that this would get the ball rolling. That people would start asking “If this could happen to a schmuck like Bobbie, how many other kids were sexually abused by members of the Canadian Forces?” and “How many other kiddie diddling priests were in the Canadian Forces bouncing from base to base?”

I thought that with the Military Police Complaints Commission noting that the CFNIS in 2011 and 2015 to 2018 had in their possession the paperwork from the 1980 investigation of Captain Father Angus McRae and the 1980 court martial of Captain Father Angus McRae which indicated that the military police in 1980 were well aware of the antics of P.S. that this too would get the ball rolling.

Nope.

Outside of one story by David Pugliese, not a single bit of interest from the media or anyone else for that matter.

And with that I think that I’ve reached the final conclusion of my engagement with the Canadian Armed Forces.

Child sexual abuse obviously did not occur on the bases.

Children were obviously not sexually abused on base.

The Canadian Forces military police were obviously competent enough to protect the children living on base even though they couldn’t protect the adults.

My brother was not abused by P.S.

I was not abused by P.S. or Captain McRae.

P.S. didn’t have me provide oral sex to a much older man when I was 8 years old.

None of that happened.

And that’s okay.

I am not the person to expose this.

Not within my skillset.

So now I just have to concentrate on what’s going to happen in 2023.

We’ll have to see how my application for M.A.i.D. goes.

As I’ve said before, suicide isn’t for me.

Too much pain and too messy.

M.A.i.D. is ideal from the look of it.

Very painless, very quick, no mess, no fuss.

I don’t want to be the poster boy for M.A.i.D. for psychiatric issues.

But it is what it is.

I get to leave on my own terms.

I get to tie up all loose ends.

I get to fulfil my “bucket list” if you will.

And then I never have to worry about anything ever again.

And I promise you, no one will be the wiser when I’m gone.

Sure, you may say “but Bobbie, aren’t you letting the Canadian Forces off the hook too easy?”.

Nope.

Not my fight anymore.

Not my concern anymore.

I’m probably going to take some time off from work before I go through with M.A.i.D..

I found out that my pension will actually pay out early if I’m about to die, and yes M.A.i.D. is an acceptable cause of death for early payout.

Won’t be much, but it’ll be enough that I can do somethings.

Maybe travel.

Maybe just disappear right up until the day before the procedure.

But yeah, I’m not working to the end. And I have no intention of letting my pension go to waste.

My corpse can go to UBC medical school.

I’m hoping that my brain can go to the Montreal Brain Bank.

And in the end, when I’m gone I’ll be just as missed as I was prior to being conceived.

Once you realize just how truly insignificant you are you begin to realize that everything in the universe will carry on just fine without you.

You don’t need to be here.

You’re free to go anytime you wish.

You do not owe it to anyone to continue to exist.

The never coming apology.

Over the last ten years I’ve come to fully understand just how horrifically the kids from Canadian Forces Base Namao got fucked over by the leadership of the Canadian Armed Forces from May of 1980 until July of 1980.

And the one thing that the Canadian Armed Forces and the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service have made very fucking crystal clear to me is that under no circumstance is the Canadian Armed Forces or the Department of National Defence going to ever acknowledge that children were ever sexually abused on defence establishments by persons subject to the Code of Service Discipline.

In the 2020 final report of the Military Police Complaints Commission the MPCC remarked that the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service had in its possession the Court Martial transcripts of the 1980 court martial, as well as the 1980 Canadian Forces Special Investigations Unit paperwork for the 1980 investigation of Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Father Angus McRae.

This is important for a few reasons.

On May 3rd, 2011 I told Mcpl Christian Cyr about the visits to the rectory at the chapel and the “sickly sweet grape juice” that P.S. would give to me. The next day Mcpl Cyr called me and told me he checked historical records and there never was a rectory at the chapel, the priest lived in other places.

Well, both the CFSIU paperwork and the court martial transcripts make it known that Captain McRae was known to have been taking children over to the RECTORY at the chapel and giving the children ALCOHOL.

The MPCC also indicate that it is very clear that the military police and the CFSIU knew that P.S. was molesting children as this is what initiated the investigation into Captain McRae in the first place and that Captain McRae’s defence counsel tried attacking the credibility of P.S. by raising the issue of P.S.’s habit of molesting children during the court martial hearings. McRae’s defence counsel also raised during the court martial hearings that P.S. had been sent for treatment with a psychologist due to his predilection of molesting children. The Court Martial transcripts describe one of the incidents where P.S., then 14, had forced anal intercourse with a ten year old boy behind the recreation centre in the “horseshoe forest”.

The MPCC also indicated that P.S. had a very lengthy criminal history for molesting children. One conviction in 1982, one conviction in 1984, two convictions in 1985. Three of these convictions were for molesting children while P.S. resided on Canadian Forces military bases in military family housing.

This is important as on November 4th, 2011 I was contacted by the CFNIS and told that they couldn’t find any thing to indicate that P.S. was capable of molesting children.

I don’t know who coaxed the statement out of my father, but his statement to the CFNIS in 2011 was easily disproved by readily available social service records. Was he coaxed into saying what he said, or did he say what he said to cover up for something in the past. Did he take a promotion in trade for keeping quiet about what happened to my brother and I. Or was it something else.

Anyways, back to the topic of this post, which is:

To “survivors” so long as they were not military dependents.
Military dependents can go piss up a rope.

It looks as if the adult members of the Canadian Armed Forces are getting an apology.

I know that I’m going to probably sound crass and out of line, but these are people that CHOSE to join the Canadian Armed Forces. Yes, they shouldn’t have been sexually assaulted. But they had the choice to join the military.

Children living on Canadian Forces Base didn’t have that choice. The choice of where we lived was that of our serving parent. We we put on these bases into housing provided by and administered by the Canadian Armed Forces which was often located on secured Defence Establishments that the Canadian Forces supplied security for.

We were often sexually abused by members of the Canadian Forces. We were sexually abused by other military dependents. Our matters were investigated by the same defective military police that couldn’t protect the adult members of the Canadian Armed Forces.

I received two-and-a-half years of conversion therapy at the hands of military social worker Captain Terry Totzke due to the “homosexuality” that I had apparently exhibited when I had been abused by a boy twice my age and the base chaplain.

Military dependents are basically told be successive governments that we don’t matter and that we didn’t matter and that the abuse that we suffered didn’t matter because we weren’t serving members of the Canadian Armed Forces.

And people wonder why I’m depressed and why I’ve given up.

When that midazolam, and then the propofol, and then the rocuronium, and then the bupivacaine flow through my veins I will finally be free of this ‘life’, this shitty fucked up and rather meaningless existence that the Canadian Armed Forces sentenced me to for no other reason that I was a child living on a Canadian Armed Forces Base and I had the audacity to get molested by a 14 year old boy and a 45 year old member of the Canadian Armed Forces.