Medical Assistance in dying – Page 6

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.

My Brain.

Yes, as fucked up as it is, it still fascinates me.

I am hoping that after I die that my brain is removed and sent off to one of the many institutions in Canada that study human brains to try and decipher mental illness and addictions.

I’ve suffered from major depression and anxiety for the majority of my life. I endured sexual assaults for over 1-1/2 years. I endured what would be tantamount to “conversion therapy”. I endured more sexual assaults before I turned 16. I grew up in a dysfunctional household.

So my brain should be interesting.

What I have always found to be very interesting is that I am not addicted to anything. Nor am I living on the streets.

Where I work, we have various programs to help addicts. One of the things that becomes apparent to me is that addiction and mental illness go hand in hand.

I’d say that most of the clients of these programs started off with mental illness first, found themselves on the streets, and then ended up with addictions.

It’s stunning how many mentally ill people are just discarded by society like trash.

The problem there I think is that unless you’re talking to the chinaware or unless you believe that everyone is a lizard person from the future out to kidnap you no one believes that you’re mentally ill.

My father would often rail on to no end that “my moods could be whatever I wanted them to be” and that “I was just doing this to get his attention”. And there are a lot of people like my father in the world. People who believe that mental illness is a scam, that people who claim to be mentally ill are liars, that people with depression are just weak wimpy cry babies who want to take the easy way out.

But even if you are one of the “lucky ones” with a “real” mental illness, you too are at an elevated risk of being tossed to the street when those close to you get tired of your “drama” and your “bullshit”.

At an early age I found myself with mental illness, diagnosed but untreated mental illness.

I found myself homeless for a number of months for most of 1992 and then the early part of 1994.

For the first few years of my adult life, I was always one or two pay cheques away from losing it all.

Help from home was out of the question, so I knew even better than to ask.

As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months at the Catholic Charities men’s hostel numerous of my fellow bunk mates would offer drugs. Wasn’t interested. Didn’t want drugs. Didn’t want booze.

I didn’t consider myself superior to my bunk mates. I just wasn’t tied up in making friends with them.

Maybe my inability to make friends actually saved me from a life of addiction. Nobody becomes addicted on their own. There is always an enabler involved.

I was flagged by social services both in Alberta and Ontario as not having the ability to make friends or to associate with others. Also, I really despised being touched. And that is still the way things are to this day. Don’t touch me.

To tell you the truth, I just find it so hard to trust people. I’m not paranoid. I think that after CFB Namao and CFB Griesbach, I just learnt that there was no one there for me, that I was always going to be on my own.

If you ask my brother, he’ll tell you that I was just a stuck up little asshole who thought himself better than anyone else. But that’s not my brother talking. That’s Richard speaking. Richard had a million and one opinions on my mental health issues, none of them helpful.

But yeah, I assure you that I wasn’t “stuck up”.

So was it the inability to form friendships that allowed me to stay off drugs?

My self worth has always been lower than shit, so it’s not that I considered myself too good for drugs.

So there has to be something else going on in my brain. Something that researchers may find of interest.

I haven’t cried since I was about 30. I’m too emotionally numb on the inside to cry anymore.

I used to cry a lot trying to figure out what the fuck was wrong with my brain and why I couldn’t fit in no matter how hard I tried and why I was always susceptible to days on end of feeling completely unmotivated and unable to think.

Employers were always impressed with my technical skills and my dedication to work, but I just lacked the “people skills” to deal with people therefore I was always going to be the guy behind the scenes who just wasn’t presentable to the public.

At the time I didn’t have access to my Foster Care records from the Alberta Government so I had absolutely no idea that I had already been diagnosed with depression and anxiety so bad that I was supposed to have been institutionalized.

I wouldn’t get my hands on those records until August of 2011. Almost 30 years after the fact. 30 years I was allowed to participate in society as some sort of experiment to see if I would succeed or fail.

And no, there was no going to “head shrinkers” or talking to a doctor about my issues. Not after my experiences with Terry and my father and the various psychologists that I had seen while we lived on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach from October 1980 until April 1983.

The fact that Terry and my father would both get me to say lies and bullshit to my civilian counsellors means that I don’t think that I could ever be honest with these people. My emotions and my inner turmoil were always something that I was taught to be ashamed of and to hide behind a wall of lies.

My father had told me during those years that I was making up all of my problems, that I was only “acting up” to get attention.

With no family support, no professional support, no community supports, here I am at 50 years of age.

My brain is fried and burnt out.

I don’t really have anything much to offer other than my brain for research.

The brain is a fascinating organ.

It is who we are. It is what we are.

It’s where our thoughts, our memories, and our dreams live and die.

The more researchers learn about the brain, the more it becomes apparent that it functions similar to a computer in the sense that it has specialized portions of the brain that do specific tasks.

I view my brain as a biological computer with over 250,000 years of innovation behind it. I view myself as the operating system. Unfortunately my operating system was corrupted by various hacks over the years that led to irreparable hardware damage.

Sure, there are patches that could sorta maybe kinda work, but an operating system that is held together by patches is unstable.

That’s one of the reasons I have no issue facing my death. As long as my brain is rendered unconscious and is denied oxygen I won’t experience my death. It will literally be like turning off the power switch on your computer. A power switch that can never be turned back on.

Still, it is very interesting how the brain processes information.

One thing that I’ve always found interesting is that you don’t actually live in the real world. Yes you and your body are present in the real world, but what your consciousness “sees”, “hears”,”tastes”, “touches”, and “smells” is AFTER the various cortexes have processed the information presented to them. What you are experiencing are the outputs of your cortexes. This is why hallucinations and dreams can appear so lifelike and vivid. The brain can’t tell the difference. To it everything is real.

But this apparently is the best way for the brain to function because if your brain had to process the raw information from your senses by itself without the automated processes of the cortexes your brain would become severely overwhelmed.

For instance how the brain processes visual information. One part of the visual cortex looks for shapes, another part isolates written languages or symbols even if we’ve never seen that language or symbol before, another part looks for faces and the emotions on those faces, another part looks for movements, and yet another part uses our stereo vision to calculate distances between objects. Our brains rely on contrast between light and dark for depth perception, even though we see in colour. We perceive all of these processes happening all at once. But they’re being processed by different parts of the visual cortex.

Car makers know that the visual cortex can be easily manipulated to elicit emotions. This is why car makers now spend so much time putting anthropomorphic features on to car and truck grilles and head lights. By making the car or truck appear happy or angry they can sell vehicles to people based upon their primary emotion.

Our hearing has many different sub processes as well. One part of the auditory cortex is listening for speech. One part has something similar to a comb-filter that is designed to be sensitive to certain frequencies. One part seems to love music. Another part gets triggered by rhythm. A different part of the auditory cortex is used to pinpoint the location of a sound in 3-dimensions even though we only have two ears. I was diagnosed at a young age with an auditory memory problem. And it’s true. I have a very hard time remembering things that are verbally told to me in a specific sequence. However I can easily remember written phrases, concepts, and details. This is one of the reasons I don’t do telephone calls unless I absolutely have to.

Then there’s the interconnection between all of these different processes. Your steady eyesight comes because the inner ear also coordinates your eye movement so that as your head moves your eyes are able to move in a direction to counter the movement of your head. Without this communication you eyesight would be very blurry.

Your ability to turn your head in the direction of a sound comes from the ability of your auditory cortex to direct your head muscles and your eye muscles towards the direction of the sound.

Your visual cortex processes you central vision and your peripheral vision in two different process, but presents this to your brain as one image. You visual cortex fills in the blind spot in each of your eyes with made up data so that you don’t see two black spots in your vision. These black spots are where your optic nerve connects to your retina. You can’t see there. Your peripheral vision sucks at detail, but it is really great at detecting motion. Your peripheral vision can direct your eyeballs and your head into the direction of motion.

Your ability to listen to music on headphones without constantly turning your head in every direction is because your auditory system has realized that what you are hearing is not a threat.

Emotions are another interesting part of the brain. Your brain can control its emotions by releasing or not releasing certain chemicals. And it has been discovered that your brain can damage itself if it releases to many of these chemicals for a prolonged period, or doesn’t release enough chemicals for a prolonged period.

Sadly, when these chemicals go out of whack, the brain often isn’t able to bring itself back to “normal” without external help. The longer the brain is without help, the more substantial the damage will be.

So yes, you can suffer actual physical brain damage due to traumatic events such as emotional trauma, psychological trauma, or physical trauma.

The brain is plastic in the sense that it can try to overcome the damage by using different portions of the brain.

I’ve never seen the actual removal of a human brain from the skull during an autopsy, but there are hundreds of autopsy videos available on the net. And I’ve seen quite a few. All you really need to remember is that the body is dead and feels no pain.

Once the skull is removed and then the dura mater is cut open, the brain is ripe for the picking so to say. Gently tilt the brain outwards from the skull, sever the olfactory nerves, the optic nerves, the facial nerves, the auditory nerves, the neck and throat nerves, and the spinal cord, and out pops your brain. Do Not Try This At Home, especially not on yourself.

It’s a good thing that you’re typically dead when this happens otherwise might be a little on the painful side. Plus might also cause a panic attack.

Now, I don’t know what exactly can be learnt from my brain. Probably nothing substantial. But maybe something incremental. And incremental would be far better than nothing, eh?

I would imagine that having a somewhat fresh brain would be beneficial to the researchers.

I would much rather prefer that my brain go to somewhere where it can be of some use rather than just tossed into an unmarked grave, or a crematorium, or a resomation chamber.

Then at least my suffering will be over and something beneficial will have come of my life.

And I’ll be able to say that “I’m going to medical school!”

I really wish that I could donate my skull to whomever I wanted to.

I have a few people in mind that I would love to give my skull to.

Updates…..

Not much going on this week.

I thought for sure that I was going to hear from Munro’s kin about the last two posts.

Nope, not a single word.

I’ve already got time booked off from work for the discovery hearing in my matter against the commissionaire from the Denison Armouries in Toronto at Canadian Forces Base Downsview.

Still in the early stages of my class action against the Canadian Armed Forces for the trail of destruction that Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Father Angus McRae left in his wake as he moved from CFB Kingston, to CFB Portage La Prairie, to CFS Holberg, to CFB Namao.

The escitalopram is doing what it’s supposed to be doing. It’s not fixing anything. It’s just keeping my major depression and my severe anxiety in check. Which I guess is better than nothing.

My brain is so tired and so burnt out at the moment. I think this is the result of a lifetime of neglected mental health issues. It’s clearly obvious that although I’ve spent a lifetime enduring major depression, severe anxiety, and who the hell knows what else, it was probably dealing with COVID last year that really pushed me over the edge.

March is coming up, and this is when the Parliamentary committee is supposed to release their recommendations for M.A.i.D. for psychiatric issues. I’ll be sure to keep you posted.

“But if you win your actions against the Commissionaires and the Canadian Forces, surely you’ll reconsider, won’t you?”.

Nope.

Just far too tired and far too burnt out. Far too neglected. And apologies will never be coming.

I’ve lived far too long with being blamed for things that were far beyond my control.

I’ve also gone for far too long being called a liar by the media.

Richard will never apologize. He’s dead.

Brigadier General Daniel Edward Munro will never apologize, he did what the National Defence Act allowed him to do.

Any apology that I get from the Department of National Defence and the Canadian Armed Forces will be a meaningless cookie cutter jumble of mumble bullshit words approved by the Department of Justice and the Solicitor General of Canada. Used toilet paper will have move value than anything from the DND or the CF.

So, it really is a no-win situation no matter what happens.

On a different tangent, I’m set to get some new tattoos on February 4th. More facial tattoos. I started tattooing my face around 2016. Started off with just a couple of small excursions on to my face.

Most tattoo artists won’t touch a person’s face no matter how many other tattoos a person has.

Bill was more than willing to.

Then Bill moved out to the valley.

I found another artist who was willing to get more involved, but then with the start of COVID Liam moved out of town.

So, I found another artist.

I’m going to try to get as much work done in a session or two with Eduardo as possible.

The nice thing about secure employment and working where I work is that they tolerate tattoos so long as they’re not offensive or profane.

I’m going to stay with the line motif. But Eduardo wants to change the direction of the lines and maybe go much thicker. He also wants to go over my eyelids if I’m able to stand it.

Something long the lines of this.
But working with what I currently have.

I really wish that I had gotten into tattoos a lot earlier in life. But being as that I had absolutely no family safety net to catch me if a previous employer decided that they didn’t like my tattoos, I was really hesitant to get anything that could be seen.

And with Richard’s voice in my head always asserting that I was completely useless I was always very reluctant to do anything nice for myself as I fully expected Richard to find out and then chastise and berate me for being a fucking idiot and trying to show off.

Honestly, I think that my tattoos and my piercings are my “Fuck You” to the society that practically shat upon me my entire life because I didn’t fit in and I wasn’t “normal”.

It’s not my fault I’m not normal. I tried so fucking hard in my younger days to be “normal” that I think I ruined any chance of ever actually being normal. My not being normal is a choice that my father and the Canadian Armed Forces made for me when I was a kid in need of psychiatric care. The Canadian Forces decided that secrets needed to be kept, and my father was too much of a fucking pussy to tell the Canadian Armed Forces to go get fucking stuffed.

Anyways, that’s this post for now.

I’d really like to post about other stuff, but I really don’t have any interests.

I don’t like sports.

I like music, but I’ve never been wrapped up in fandom.

I like bicycles, but I just ride them.

I like motorcycles, but again, I just ride them.

I don’t keep up with current entertainment trends. I actually just started watching “Game of Thrones” this past Sunday. I’m up to Season 1 Episode 6. So that’s what, 11 years behind?

I haven’t read a good book in ages. Just don’t have the interest. As a kid I loved reading. Even in my teen years I loved to read. I think mu interest in reading waned sometime in my 20’s. Too busy at work trying to keep up and keep my employers happy.

I like road trips on my motorcycle. Just me, myself, and the bike. But COVID put road trips on the back burner. So nothing to write about there.

And talking about work would probably put ya’ll to sleep.

The Three Year Time Bar

Another hideous flaw in the pre-1998 National Defence Act

In 1998, another flaw was removed from the National Defence Act.

This flaw in a way was even more hideous than the Summary Investigation that I talked about in a previous blog entry.

The problem with the 3-year-time-bar is that it prohibited the laying of charges more than 3 years after the date of the alleged Service Offence.

You’ll remember from the previous post that the National Defence Act enumerates Criminal Code offences as Service Offences. As such crimes such as Gross Indecency, Indecent Assault, and Buggery were service offences that could be tried by Service Tribunal. This is why Captain McRae was tried in a military court martial for committing “Acts of Homosexuality” such as “Gross Indecency”, “Indecent Assault”, “Buggery” with boys under the age of 15 on Canada Forces Base Namao.

The interesting thing about this 3-year-time-bar is that it applies to ALL service offences prior to 1998.

Also, even if a member of the Canadian Armed Forces is currently retired and no longer subject to the Code of Service Discipline, if the member was subject to the Code of Service discipline when they sexually abused a child on a military base they would still enjoy all of the rights that the National Defence Act bestowed upon the service member at the time of the offence.

What this means is that even if the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service were to find the man from the sauna who Peter provided me to for the purposes of oral sex this man could never be charged if he was a member of the Canadian Forces regular force in 1980.

If this man by some small miracle is a civilian with no connection to the Canadian Armed Forces and was never subject to the Code of Service Discipline, then he could be charged under the criminal code.

Don’t believe me?

In 2017, in a telephone call with Sergeant Damon Tenaschuk of the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service Pacific Region, I asked Mr. Tenaschuk if he could try to talk to Colonel Dan Munro. I thought that this would be a simple matter seeing as how Sgt. Tenaschuk was on CFB Esquimalt just outside of Victoria, BC and Daniel Edward Munro lived in a suburb of Victoria, BC.

Instead, I received the following email from Sgt. Tenaschuk:

So there you have it.

The three year time bar is real, and it affects all Service Offence and all Criminal Code matters that occurred prior to 1998.

All I had asked for was for Sgt. Tenaschuk to talk to Daniel Edward Munro to see if Daniel had improperly bent the rules when he preferred the charges that Captain McRae faced in court martial and dismissed the other charges.

For Tenaschuk’s legal officer to say right of the bat that the 3-year-time-bar would prevent the laying of charges makes me wonder how many Canadian Forces personnel got away with Service Offences / Criminal Code offences prior to 1998.

Anyone who was subject to the Code of Service Discipline prior to 1998, and who sexually abused a child on a defence establishment, will NEVER face their accuser in court. Their victim will NEVER receive justice.

And this suits the Minister of National Defence and the Chief of Defence staff just fine. As it stands right now, you don’t hear anything about children being sexually abused on military bases by military personnel from the pre-1998 days. And as it turns out this isn’t because no child was ever sexually abused on base. It’s because if these kids didn’t report their crimes within the period of three years they would never be able to report their crimes..

In 2010, charges were brought against retired Brigadier General Roger Bazin. He was accused of sexually abusing a child on Canadian Forces Base Borden in the early 1970s. The matter made it so far as court, and then suddenly everything was dropped. No explanation was ever made to the media as to why the charges were dropped. You’d think that if the Crown has just smeared someone’s name through the media that they’d be obligated to explain to the public why the charges were dropped at the last minute.

No lawyer in the media claiming “my client has been vindicated”. Nothing. Radio Silence.

In my matter, Captain Father Angus McRae was alive until May 20th, 2011.

The investigation into my complaint started on March 5th, 2011.

The CFNIS knew about the connection between my babysitter, Peter, and Captain Angus McRae right from the get-go.

This means that the JAG, the Provost Marshal, and the CFNIS were aware at the start of the investigation that even if they were able to arrest Peter, that they’d never be able to charge Captain Father Angus McRae. This must have posed quite the dilemma for the Canadian Forces.

They had the CFSIU paperwork from 1980. They knew what Peter had been doing.

But they also knew that they would never be able to charge Angus McRae.

This would be quite the scandal, no?

When the CFNIS started the investigation in March of 2011, they couldn’t have possibly known that Captain McRae would have been about to die. They would have had to structure the investigation with the knowledge that Angus McRae was alive.

Anyways, here’s what Legislative Summary LS-311E had to say about the 3-year-time-bar-flaw.

These are the PDF pages of the images above.

Pages from Printable LS-311E Download

This is LS-311E (1998) in its entirety.

Printable LS-311E Download

Daniel, what did you do?

What did you do that the Judge Advocate General won’t allow an officer of the Canadian Forces Special Investigation Unit to talk to you about the events that occurred on your base from May of 1980 until July of 1980?

Can you actually sleep with this on your conscience?

Or do you rest well at night know that the Canadian Forces and the Department of National Defence will cover your ass, not because you’re a great guy, but because if they uncover something unsavoury from Canadian Forces Base Namao that this will snowball into unsavoury events on many of the other Canadian Forces Bases where men such as yourself were able to hide things that had occurred on the bases that you were commanding.

How many kids did commanding officer bury on the bases?

Only time will tell.