mental illness – Page 3

Vince and Ravi

I don’t remember exactly how I started working for Vince and Ravi, but it was sometime after the start of grade 8.

I was in grade 8 for the ’85 to ’86 school year.

I would have been 14.

Vincent was involved with swimming at the University of Toronto. I forget exactly what Ravi did. But for the two of them video games were a sideline from their main jobs.

I’m pretty sure that I was working for Vince and Ravi before I even met Bob Becker from Trans American Video Amusements.

I would go and do service calls after school. At first I would call Vince after school and he’d pick me up and take me to the locations that needed service. After a while though Vince got me a pager and a set of master keys for the video games.

During school I’d keep the pager in my locker. Kept it on silent so as not to attract attention. But this was back in the day when the paging service didn’t record the messages, they’d just send numeric messages to the pager. And if the pager wasn’t on you didn’t get the message.

The keys were far too much of a risk to take to school. So I used to keep the keys at home in my basement bedroom. Because of my untreated severe depression and anxiety and habit of keeping to myself I was often a target for beatings at school. And the last thing I needed was to get beat up and have the keys taken away from me.

Vince and Ravi didn’t have many locations. A couple of convenience stores on Yonge north of Sheppard. They had a few locations around Dundas and Bloor near the Junction Triangle. And a few more locations out on the Danforth. They also had games in the “Studio” arcades that were owned by a guy named Andrew. I can’t remember them all, but there was Studio ’84, and Studio ’85.

I had always hoped on getting a Platt toolkit like the real technicians, but I had to make due with a kit that I made up with a kit made from Active Surplus in Toronto.

Carried around with me a soldering iron, a desoldering pump, desoldering wick, a digital voltmeter, a logic probe, some nut drivers, and a couple of screwdrivers.

I learnt then that it was better to carry around the tools that you frequently used as opposed to carrying everything.

I’d also carry a couple of coin mechanisms, some microswitches, some blade switches.

It was fun.

As I said it before was nice feeling like I belonged and that I was needed for something.

I think that’s why I always had jobs when I was a kid.

Looking back, there actually wasn’t a single year since about 1982 that I wasn’t working somewhere.

I quickly got the nickname “the kid”.

Troubleshooting logic problems wasn’t a problem, actually tracking down logic problems was pretty simple back then. Fixing power supplies, video monitors, etc. all turned out to be within my abilities.

I remember the time Vincent insisted that I bring a machine home that I was having trouble fixing. Around 22:00 hours we pull up to the back of the PMQ on CFB Downsview in a white rental van with a Williams Space Shuttle pinball machine in the back.

Richard woke up and he wasn’t too impressed.

I got the machine set up in the basement of the PMQ and worked on it for the next couple of days. Turned out to be a broken wire under the playfield.

I’ve never known to this day why, but I had the playfield up on the prop rod while I was working under the playfield. I don’t know if it was an accident, or if it was intentional, but my brother knocked the prop rod out of place and dropped the playfield on my head and back.

The playfield isn’t light. With all of the solenoids and other hardware on it I’d say the playfield probably weighs about 50 lbs. The power for the general illumination isn’t all that great. 6.3 VAC for the general illumination. The DC power supply for solenoids on the other hand are about +28 VDC. The 28 VDC is distributed to all of the solenoids on the playfield and then the returns from the solenoids goes back to the TIP120 darlington on the logic board.

So that meant that not only was the playfield digging into my head and back with all of the solenoids underneath the playfield, I was also getting minor shocks from the machine as the terminals for the solenoids were cutting into my skin.

Never did get an explanation from my brother.

My father laughed. Said I deserved what I got for not watching my back.

One day I got a series of pages from Vince. So I called him right after school

Vince was furious. Seems the owner of the little hamburger shop on Ridge and Wilson had called Vince stating that a bunch of kids had been opening the machine and taking money out of them and had been playing free games for hours. The owner of the hamburger shop had grabbed one of the kids and grabbed the keys from him. The owner of the hamburger shop threatened to call the police if the kid didn’t explain how he got the keys. The kid, C.C. said that my brother had sold him the keys for $20.

I thought that Vince was going to fire me. Nope. He saw no reason for this other kid to have lied. But he wasn’t too happy that my brother was able to get my keys so easily. Vince said that I’d have to be more careful with my keys. Vince suggested that I should put a lock on my bedroom door. I told Vince that my room didn’t have a door.

That’s when I started to learn how to hide my personal belongings. I’d keep the keys hidden in the exhaust ducting for the dryer or even under the control panel for the washing machine. When I started doing collections at the locations I’d have to keep the money hidden. The money I’d keep hidden in a soup can that I’d hide inside the floor drain in the basement.

The only problem this hiding caused is that I’d have to be very careful that no one discovered what I was doing.

I stopped working for Vince and Ravi when I went to work for Bob Becker.

Moonlighting wasn’t tolerated too well in the amusement machine industry back in the ’80s. It was a very cut throat business with a lot of unsavoury business practices.

So, not too many company owners were willing to allow their technician to work for other companies.

I don’t know what ended up happening with Vince and Ravi.

I doubt that they’re in the amusement machine business anymore. The amusement machine industry was decimated in the ’90s with the advent of home machines that far outperformed the most expensive arcade machine.

But still, I often look back at how carrying around my toolkit and fixing arcade machine at various locations across metro Toronto made me feel like anything was possible.

I guess we’re all allowed to be fucking idiots when we’re young, right?

Hoping that you never got what you wanted.

As a kid I learnt an odd behaviour of mine that still sort of continues on to this day.

However, now that I more or less have control over my life I find that I don’t often fall prey to this line of thinking. But it’s still there in the deep dark recesses of my defective brain.

When I was a kid, especially living on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach in Edmonton I had developed a perverse way of dealing with Richard’s stinginess and hatred-by-proxy of Marie.

When it would get close to xmas or my birthday I would secretly start wishing that I wouldn’t get what I had asked for.

And it worked.

Never once did I ever get what I had asked for, and by wishing that I wouldn’t get it I actually felt in control.

Looking back it was obviously a really weird coping mechanism, but it did allow me to cope none the less.

This obviously wasn’t a very healthy coping mechanism.

I would often pretend to not be interested in the latest and greatest thing.

And that would often set me on a collision course with the popular kids who thought that I was just trying to be “smarter than them” or who were convinced that I was just a fucking faggot loser.

At school the kids were into the Blue Jays, the Maple Leafs, the Argonauts, “pro” wrestling was a major thing in southern Ontario back then. The kids at school would have the latest jerseys, or other sports related paraphernalia.

I had nothing like this, I don’t even think my brother had anything contemporary back then.

When we lived in Edmonton from 1978 to 1983 this was practically the top of the Edmonton Oilers dynasty. Richard never once took us to a hockey game.

Our grandmother had actually taken us to some Edmonton Eskimos games with tickets that she’d get from the Bissell Centre for disadvantaged families.

Richard loved the Toronto Maple Leafs.

But in the 7-1/2 years that we lived in Toronto on Canadian Forces Base Downsview not once did we ever go to a hockey game.

And no. There was no watching hockey with Richard. If you wanted to watch hockey with Richard, that was fine, you just had to shut the fuck up and not say a single fucking thing. And don’t ask him stupid fucking questions either.

And it wasn’t like I didn’t play hockey as a kid. On CFB Namao my grandmother had enrolled me in beavers, swimming, hockey, bowling, and basketball.

Me before the fallout of the Captain Father Angus McRae child sex abuse scandal on Canadian Forces Base Namao.

Apparently I **never** played team sports.
There was no team photo for 1979 – 1980 as I was kicked out of hockey
as a result of the CFB Namao Child Sexual Abuse Scandal

“But Bobbie, what if your father had no money, he was in the Canadian Forces”.

Sure, the pay was bad in the ’60s and the ’70s. But this was offset by the lowered housing costs of living in the PMQs on base. Also, ranks tended to be very close in pay grade. Privates made one rate, Corporals made another, Master Corporals made another rate, Sergeants made another.

I don’t have access to the historical pay schedules. But even going with the current pay schedule the ranks make basic monthly rates based primarily upon rank, but modified by number of years at that rank level and any special qualifications.

The end result is that my father as a Master Corporal wasn’t making $1k per month while the Master Corporal living next door was making making $2.5k per month.

Where’d his money go?

Not to my brother or I. That was for sure.

I know he had no issue spending money on the latest and greatest knickknack or computer toy for himself.

Was he paying child support on the sly? This honestly wouldn’t surprise me in the least. He did have a habit of skirt chasing.

Was he paying an out-of-court settlement for one of his drinking and driving collisions? Again this is a possibility as his insurance would have been very expensive given the number of collisions that he had over the years.

Other than that I don’t know.

But Bobbie, it’s his money, he can spend it any way that he wants to. You can’t tell him what to spend it on.

That may be true. But he should have worn a condom. Or pulled out. Or even just have asked for oral or a handjob. Would have obviously saved a lot of grief.

You don’t get someone pregnant and then wash your hands of the responsibility claiming that your responsibility ended at conception.

You don’t take your hatred of your former spouse out on your children as if being cruel to your kids was going to make your former spouse realize how much she inconvenienced you by leaving you to look after the children you fathered.

So yeah, birthdays mean nothing to me. And xmas means nothing as well.

I won’t stop you from celebrating.

But hopefully you understand why I don’t celebrate.

And no. Please don’t think that you’re going to “fix me” by inviting me to xmas parties or birthday parties. Nothing makes me feel more awkward and out of place. And it’s so fucking tiring pretending like I fit in or like I’m enjoying myself.

The Canadian Forces Ombudsman’s wings are clipped.

Or how an Independent at arms length agency is controlled by the agency that it is supposed to be overseeing and is supposed to be independent from.

It looks as if the Canadian Forces is getting slagged in the media again. This time not for its abysmal ability to investigate matters of sexual assault within the Canadian Armed Forces.

No, the Canadian Forces is getting slagged for interfering with the Office of the Ombudsman for the Canadian Forces.

The Office of the Ombudsman has powers that the Military Police Complaints Commission doesn’t have. The Ombudsman can compel members of the Canadian Armed Forces to appear before any of its investigations. One would think that this matter would also extend to retired service members who were subject to the Code of Service discipline at the material time of the investigation.

The Ombudsman is supposed to have unfettered access to DND and CF records and can compel the Canadian Forces and the Department of National Defence to hand records and documents over to the Ombudsman for their investigation.

Why does the Ombudsman have these powers? Because no criminal charges can flow from a Ombudsman review. The Ombudsman can only make non-binding recommendations to the Minister of National Defence, the Department of National Defence, and the Canadian Forces.

For example

In 1974 there was a group of teenagers on Canadian Forces Base Valcartier in the province of Quebec. These teenagers were all between the ages of 12 and 18 and were members of various army cadet corps from across Canada. Somehow a live grenade found its way into the hands of one of the teenagers during a class session on ordnance. One cadet even asked the instructor, a captain of the regular force if it was a real grenade, the captain responded that no it wasn’t. So the teenager did what any curious teenager would have done, they pulled the pin and released the handle.

The grenade exploded.

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/montreal/valcartier-grenade-incident-survivors-1.5235226

https://www.thestar.com/news/canada/2009/07/26/coroners_inquest_found_a_climate_of_negligence.html

In 2013 the Office of the Ombudsman for the Canadian Forces received the permission of the then Conservative Minister of National Defence Rob Nichols to undertake an investigation of a pre-mandate issue.

http://www.ombudsman.forces.gc.ca/en/ombudsman-reports-stats-investigations-valcartier/valcartier-index.page

https://legionmagazine.com/en/2015/11/ombudsman-condemns-handling-of-cadets-after-1974-grenade-accident/

I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that the Ombudsman would not have been allowed to conduct this pre-mandate review in the era of Harjit Sajjan or for that matter Justin Trudeau. After all, it was Harjit Sajjan that accused me of playing games and having an angle when I went to speak with him in February of 2016 just after he became the Minister of National Defence.

Even my local MP, Dr. Hedy Fry says that she can’t become involved in my matter because there are “no military bases” in Vancouver Centre.

And it was under Sajjan’s command that the Department of National Defence and the Canadian Armed Forces refused to release to me the court martial transcripts of Captain Father Angus McRae along with the Canadian Forces Special Investigations paperwork all because they indicated that the Canadian Forces chain of command was well aware in 1980 that my babysitter, P.S. had been molesting numerous children on Canadian Forces Base Namao and that Captain Father Angus McRae, who the MPCC called a known pedophile in 2020, was enticing children over to the rectory at the base chapel and getting them drunk before “fooling around” with them.

I have absolutely no idea as to why the Liberal Party of Canada refuses to allow the Office of the Ombudsman of the Canadian Forces to conduct an investigation into historical child sexual abuse in the era of the pre-1998 National Defence Act but neither Harjit Sajjan, Dr. Hedy Fry, nor Justin Trudeau seem to show any inclination to uncover what was hidden by a well known defective military justice system.

And I’m not imagining this interference.

Lo-and-Behold, it would appear that the Minister of National Defence and the Deputy Minister of National Defence have been interfering with the Office of the Ombudsman of the Canadian Forces.

https://twitter.com/wardrachel/status/1469327707410366465?s=20

https://twitter.com/davidpugliese/status/1469304939851632640?s=20

Jesus H. Christ….

A few years ago Randal Garrison, the MP for Esquimalt-Saanich-Sooke and then the Vice Co-Chair of the Standing Committee on National Defence asked Lt. General. Christine Whitecross during a committee hearing who had jurisdiction for the investigation of child sexual assaults on the bases in Canada. She blathered out some meaningless drivel about all child sexual abuse matters being handed over to the civilian authorities.

You can watch or download the video below.

Standing Committee on National Defence (1)Download

Sure, I wasn’t a member of the Canadian Armed Forces. But my father was.
And under the Ombudsman’s mandate I am allowed to ask the Ombudsman to review a matter in relation to my involvement with the military justice system back in 1980.

Section 12(f) allows me to avail myself to the CF Ombudsman

These are the policies that guide the office of the Ombudsman.

https://www.canada.ca/en/department-national-defence/corporate/policies-standards/defence-administrative-orders-directives/5000-series/5047/5047-1-office-of-the-ombudsman.html

5047-1-office-of-the-ombudsman Download

Hrrmmmm. So the Ombudsman can review military police investigations.
Interesting.

During a Military Police Complaints Commission investigation the CFNIS and the MPs can tell the MPCC to go piss up a rope.
Not so with the CF Ombudsman.

The Military Police Complaints Commission has no such authority.

According to the above Annex B, the Canadian Forces are preventing the Ombudsman from conducting criminal investigations. But the Canadian Forces are also stating that there is nothing stopping the Ombudsman from conducting an investigation while a Military Police or CFNIS investigation is underway. So there would have been nothing stopping the Ombudsman from reviewing how military dependents are treated by the military justice system which is set up to deal primarily with perpetrators and victims that are subjected to the Code of Service Discipline and not civilians with no connection to the Canadian Forces other than they were military dependents at the time of the alleged crimes.

For instance the Ombudsman could review how the 3-year-time-bar or the Summary Investigation flaw actively prohibits the Canadian Armed Forces or any civilian court from bringing Code of Service Discipline charges against any person who was subject to the Code of Service Discipline prior to December of 1998.

The Ombudsman could also review how military dependents and other civilians availing themselves to the military justice system receive no actual victim services from the Canadian Forces as they are not members of the Canadian Forces and how often these military dependents receive no help from the provinces as the provinces consider sexual abuse on the military bases to be a Ottawa issue.

The Ombudsman could also initiate an inquiry to look at the rates of child sexual abuse on the bases prior to 1998 and determine if the 3-year-time-bar and the Summary Investigation flaw denied justice to children and also served to present an artificially low incidence of child sexual abuse on the bases in Canada.

The Ombudsman could also look into how the appalling homophobic attitudes of the Canadian Forces and the Department of National Defence resulted in male children being subjected to “conversion therapy” at the hands of the Canadian Forces military social workers.

I never wanted to CF Ombudsman to judge P.S. and determine if P.S. was guilty of what I accused him of.

I only wanted the CF Ombudsman to review child sexual abuse on the Canadian Forces Bases in the era of the pre-1998 National Defence Act and to have the CF Ombudsman urge the Minister of National Defence and the Department of National Defence to do the right thing.

And you wonder why I am so looking forward to my date with death in 2023.

A person can only be told “Up” is “Down” and “White” is “Black” for so long before all of the demons from the past urge one to just give in an fall into the eternal slumber where none of this shit will ever haunt a person again.

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.

A song that I’ve liked for a while.

I forget when I first hear this song, it was before I started working at the hospital, but I’ve loved it since first hearing it.

And yes, while the song is apparently about bipolar disorder, I think it can easily apply to good ol’ fashioned depression.

I’m fairly certain that I am not bipolar as I don’t get the manias.

I only get stomach turning brain spinning depression.

My father used to call me a “lazy ass” for not getting out of bed in the morning. But between waking up at least once a night with nightmares, and the crushing realization that I didn’t die in my sleep, it was so hard to muster the energy to get out of bed. I still have that to this day. Sure, the nightmares of my father, of P.S., and of all of the other shit from my childhood have faded over the years, but it’s still such a bear to get out of bed in the morning. So much so that I have to have two alarm clocks set for three alarms each as well as automated lights to come on.

Being that my depression is caused by trauma and genetics I don’t think that I will ever be free of this demon.

It’s “A Better Son/Daughter” by Rilo Kiley

Sometimes in the morning I am petrified and can’t move
Awake but cannot open my eyes
And the weight is crushing down on my lungs
I know I can’t breathe
And I hope someone will help me this time
And your mother’s still calling you insane and high
Swearing it’s different this time
And you tell her you give in to the demons that possess her
And that God never blessed her insides
Then you hang up the phone
And feel badly for upsetting things
Crawl back into bed to dream of a time
When your heart was open wide
And you loved things just because
Like the sick and the dying
And sometimes when you’re on
You’re really fucking on
And your friends they sing along
And they love you
But the lows are so extreme
That the good seems fucking cheap
And it teases you for weeks in its absence
But you’ll fight and you’ll make it through
You’ll fake it if you have to
And you’ll show up for work with a smile
And you’ll be better
And you’ll be smarter
And more grown up
And a better daughter or son
And a real good friend
And you’ll be awake
You’ll be alert
You’ll be positive though it hurts
And you’ll laugh and embrace all your friends
And you’ll be a real good listener
You’ll be honest
You’ll be brave
You’ll be handsome and you’ll be beautiful
You’ll be happy

Your ship may be coming in
You’re weak but not giving in
To the cries and the wails of the valley below
And your ship may be coming in
You’re weak but not giving in
And you’ll fight it
You’ll go out fighting all of them

Depression sucks.

Major depression is a killer.

Severe anxiety doesn’t help.

The pills kinda help though.

And I mean the legal pills.

I think that one of the things that has really hindered me so far as receiving treatment for my major depression and CPTDS is that I’ve never self medicated. No booze, no needles, no illegal pills, nothing.

And I think this is what’s kept me from being taken as serious.

As a kid, the doctors and the psychiatrists were telling my father and Captain Terry Totzke that I was having serious problems and that I should be institutionalized. My father didn’t care as he “knew” that it was all an act. Captain Totzke didn’t care as he had his orders.

And now as an adult no one takes me serious because I don’t push a shopping cart up and down the alleys and scream at telephone poles.

Not having anyone “on my team” i.e. friends (I don’t have any), family ( don’t have that either), there’s been no one there to alert my health care professionals or to vouch for what I’ve told my health care professionals.

So here I am at 50. Everyone who knows me and the issues that I am going through and the trauma that I’ve suffered are wandering around telling me to “Don’t worry, be happy”. As if I were to just smile then my life would be all fucking happiness and sunshine and rainbows.

All I can do is reflect upon what was taken from me, what was stolen from me, what was denied to me. This is shit that I’ve never getting back.

Everybody has an easy fix for my life…..

Bobbie, why don’t you find a boyfriend / girlfriend?

Bobbie, why don’t you just go out for drinks with the boys?

Bobbie, why don’t you go to a sportsball game?

Bobbie, why don’t you take trade training?

Bobbie, if you like electronics why don’t you take a course?

None of these things have ever been an interest to me before, and they’re sure not going to be an interest to me now. Especially the drinking. With the way that my father and my paternal grandmother were both raging alcoholics, drinking alcohol is the last thing I need.

How can one person be so fucking stupid?

Self doubt is crippling and deadly.

One of the recurring issues that I’ve always had to deal with throughout my life is the incredible amount of self doubt and self hatred that I have inside.

“But Bobbie, you’re so smart”.

No, actually I’m not. Never have been. Never will be.

I’ve just managed to float along for most of my life.

Sure I can do things and fix things. So can anybody else.

Absolutely nothing special about what I can do.

People can sniff and smell my failings and inadequacies like a horrific stench that permeates everything around me.

I can weld. So can everyone else.

I can repair electronics. So can everyone else.

I’ve programmed in BASIC, Fortran, Cobol, C++, Python, Java. Again so can everyone else.

I can use Word, Excel, Open Office, Pages, etc. And so can everyone else.

I can use computers. So can everyone else.

I can find information. Big deal, did that change anything? Nope.

I discovered that my father actually legally kidnapped my brother and I.

Did anything come of that?

Nope.

I discovered that my father was actually a bigamist.

Did anything come of that?

Nope.

I discovered that the person who had molested my brother and I had criminal convictions in 1982, 1984, 1985, and 1986 for child molestation.

Did anything come of that?

Nope.

I discovered that Donald Joseph Sullivan was molesting children prior to joining the Canadian Armed Forces. He molested more children once he joined the Canadian Armed Forces.

Did anything come of that?

Nope.

I learnt that my family moved in April of 1983, not because my father wanted to “protect me” from the drugs that Pat and Wayne wanted to give me to make me stop trying to kiss boys. As it turned out it wasn’t Pat and Wayne that had concerns about my apparent homosexuality, that was my father and Captain Terry Totzke. We moved because my father was fleeing Alberta so that I wouldn’t be removed from his care and placed into foster care or residential care which would have exposed the fact that my father didn’t have legal custody of my brother and I.

Did anything come of this?

Nope.

I discovered that my father was known to lie and to bullshit and to kiss ass. To actually see in writing that my father “often told people in positions of authority what he thought the wanted to hear”,”or that Mr. Gill often told conflicting stories from on meeting to the next”,”or that Mr. Gill has a tendency to blame others for his problems and often expects others to solve his problems for him” was a beautiful fucking relief.

But did it change anything?

Nope.

I discovered that I had been diagnosed as suffering from major depression, severe anxiety, was terrified of men, was convinced that my father was going to kill me. I even discovered that I had been anorexic as a child. I also discovered that doctors at the IWK children’s hospital in Halifax, Nova Scotia had severe concerns about my father and my mother.

Did anything come of this?

Nope.

As my father once told me, “Be very fucking careful of sticking your fucking nose where it doesn’t fucking belong as you might not like what you find”.

Well, I stuck my nose where it didn’t fucking belong and just as Richard warned me, I didn’t really like what I found.

Sure, I’m not a fucking insane basket case, but I’ve realized that my life has been one very tragic fucking joke.

Left to suffer from untreated major depression, severe anxiety, and trauma from sexual abuse all because people people with political ambitions decided that it was politically expedient to sweep the full extent of the Captain McRae fiasco under the rug.

Nobody gave a single fucking shit about me my entire life.
Not Richard Gill;
Not Marie Dagenais;
Not Al Dagenais;
Not Susan Zwolle;
Not Captain Terry Totzke;
Not Colonel Dan Munro;
Not Colonel J.D.Boan;
Not Gilles Lamontagne;
Not Jason Kenny;
Not Jody Wilson-Raybould;
Not Harjit Sajjan;
Not Sgt. Robert Jon Hancock;
Not Sgt. Christian Cyr;
Not Glenn Stannard;
Not Robert Howard;
Not the Canadian Armed Forces;
Not the Department of National Defence;
Not the Royal Canadian Mounted Police;
Not the Summerside Police;
The fucking worthless media in this country that killed the idea of investigative journalism years ago.
Not a single fucking one of these fuckers or worthless fucking entities gave a single flying fuck.

People who cared, but who couldn’t overcome the systematic bullshit.
Pat M.;
Wayne W;
Aviva D;
Richard Ford;
Mrs. Donskov;
Jonathan Bowles;
Mr. Atkins;
Mr. Richard Brown;
The Casson family;
Bob Becker;
The Toronto Police Service;
Constable Dustin Wilkins;
David Pugliese;
Nora Loreto;
And many others.

2023 can’t come soon enough.

Trauma Counselling……

falling through the cracks again.

If there’s one thing my current nurse practitioner doesn’t seem to understand is how difficult it is for me to find trauma counselling.

I had “counselling ” from October of 1980 until January of 1983.

This involved a military social worker, Captain Terry Totzke, convincing me that I was responsible for what happened to me on CFB Namao, that it was my fault that P.S. abused my younger brother, and that I was a homosexual for having allowed the abuse to go on for so long.

Now, the thing is at the time I didn’t realize that Captain Totzke was in the Canadian Forces.

When I became involved with Pat, Wayne, Aviva, and Mrs. Washylesko in the spring of 1982 Terry would often tell me that I couldn’t trust these people. My father often took the same tack as Terry. Terry and my father were adamant that I had to watch what I was saying to Pat, Wayne, Aviva, and Mrs. Washylesko as they’d twist what I had said to them and use my words against me.

My father would often refer to Pat as a “stunned cunt”. Wayne was a “fucking cock sucker”. As I grew older I began to realize that Richard referred o a lot of people like this. Anyone he didn’t agree with was usually labelled with these epithets.

And here I was from 9 years of age until 11 years of age caught in a war with my military social worker and my father on one side and my civilian social workers on the other side.

At home any punishment I received was blamed on Pat or Wayne telling my father that he had to punish me. Of course I know now that that was an absolute lie. But still, when you’re that young you don’t understand that your father can be a liar with psychiatric issues.

So here I find myself in the year 2021.

My nurse practitioner wants me to find a counsellor that I can talk to.

The first counsellor that he suggested had a magical waitlist that just kept getting longer and longer the more detailed my issues became.

This counsellor referred me to a second counsellor. This second counsellor said that I would need specialized trauma counselling.

Fair enough.

The problem is though, I come from a military family.

A military family that lived on military bases during the ’70s and the ’80s.

An era when mental health issues were denied. An era where mental health issues were seen as personal failures and weaknesses.

An era where psychiatrists were seen as “head shrinkers” and “fucking quacks” and “feel good friends for pussies”.

Counsellors, psychologists, and psychiatrists were not viewed too nicely by military personnel back then.

So, put yourself in my shoes.

You try to find a “trauma counsellor” and this first problem that you run into is that most people won’t believe a single word you have to say. Sexually abused children on military bases? Get outta here! Next you’ll be trying to tell me that the moon is made out of cheese.

And then there’s the magical, mystical, chakra cleansing counsellors. The ones who know you can improve your life with lavender and candles.

The counsellors that I like the best are the ones who are certain that if you try hard you can come to term with your past, and if your don’t it’s because you’ve failed.

Which trauma do I work on first:

Intergenerational trauma that started with my grandmother and passed on down through my father which resulted in both being rage fuelled alcoholics?
The year and a half of sexual abuse at the hands of my 14 – 15 year old babysitter who had also been delivering me to Captain McRae at the base chapel?
The two and one-half years of “counselling” and conversion therapy at the hands of military social worker Captain Terry Totzke?
The sexual abuse on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach?
The sexual abuse at the Dennison Armouries?
Living with my emotionally unstable father until my 16th birthday?
Being attacked by Jacque Choquette in the basement of our house on Canadian Forces Base Downsview while Richard looked on with complete indifference?
My father’s periodic threats to end my life. There’s a reason why when I was interviewed by the psychologist hired by Captain Totzke in October of 1980 that I said that I was terrified of my father drowning me in a toilet. In the aftermath of CFB Namao he made a couple of threats. His most serious threat was in the spring of 1982 when Sue was threatening to leave. He said that if Sue left him that he stuff my brother and I into a duffle bag and that no one would ever find us.
The beatings and the spankings. I guess it’s true, you never fuck with a man’s military career.
Richard’s constant beratement for “not looking after my brother and not raising my brother properly”.
Richard’s drinking prior to Sue.
The three cars crashes when Richard was DUI.
Richard’s meltdown on CFB Summerside when he destroyed everything in the basement.
Grandma’s drinking while she lived with us.
There’s the guy in Toronto who tried to strangle me in his car when I was about 15.
And many many many more other issues.

There’s so much shit that went wrong. Where to start?

Hot tantric yoga therapy isn’t going to do anything.

Chanting mystical psalms isn’t going to do anything.

Fuck, I can’t even get the military to admit that Captain McRae and P.S. were up to no good on that base because DND and the CF are fearful of civil actions.

It’s always going to be me, the kid who made is 14 year old babysitter molest him and his younger brother. I’m always going to be the guy that didn’t raise his brother properly and who allowed the babysitter to molest his younger brother, who was accused of giving his younger brother drugs which caused his brother to have a seizure. Sure, I know now that Richard was a dysfunctional parent who took absolutely no responsibility for his own family, blamed others for problems with his family, and expected others to solve the problems with his family. But I’m the guy who lived through all of Richard’s bullshit. Richard’s bullshit is burnt into my brain.

Dancing around with magical crystals isn’t going to undo what Richard did.

Writing poems and painting trees and Suns isn’t going to remove P.S. from my memory. Fuck, after watching what he would do to the other kids, that shit’s burnt into my brain. You can’t watch what he did to your own brother and not have issues from that. It’s one thing when he does it to your own body. You can “go to a different place” and not be there. But to watch it, and watch what he victims were doing, you can’t erase that, you can’t block it out.

Even though I was given wine in McRae’s rectory, it doesn’t take an over active imagination to realize what was happening there. You don’t give a 7 or 8 year old child a tumbler full of wine just because you want to be the cool Padre on base. You give that 7 or 8 year old kid wine because you don’t want him to remember you sticking your fingers up his arse. Or that you gave him a blow job. Or that you put your penis in his intoxicated mouth.

And to say that dealing with the Canadian Armed Forces over the last 10 years hasn’t been a trauma all on its own would be a lie. I’ve never seen such a dishonest organization that is hellbent on keeping secrets a secret no matter the cost. The fact that someone decided to erase the fact that my grandmother raised my brother and I from 1977 until 1981 is pretty un-fucking-believable.

So yeah.

There’s just so much fucking wrong upstairs.

And no one is willing to help.

Psychiatric Help

I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.

So, I often get asked “Bobbie, if you’re having such problems, why don’t you get help?”

Well, truth be told I have tried to get help in the past. I honestly have.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been turned down, and I have a sneaking suspicion that this won’t be the last time that I am turned down.

My current nurse practitioner had arranged for me to see someone on the north shore. But once this counsellor found out about my history and my issues, they suddenly weren’t taking bookings until next year.

My nurse practitioner has actually been the only one so far who has shown an interest in my issues. When I started having severe problems back in May of this year he had no reservations about getting me on escitalopram.

I’ve had counsellors over the years. Some were good, a few were bad, but most were indifferent.

The problem that we run into is not a single counsellor has ever run into a high functioning person with so many issues.

Dysfunctional household – check
Intergenerational issues – check
Abandonment issues – check
Sexual abuse – check
Prolonged sexual abuse – check
Multiple perpetrators of the sexual abuse – check
Graphic and depraved sexual abuse – check
Blaming the victim for their own abuse – check
Blaming the victim for someone else’s abuse – check
Receiving unwarranted “conversion therapy” – check
Parent threatening the victim with physical harm or death – check
Untreated major depression – check
Untreated severe anxiety – check
Untreated CPTSD – check
Inability to form relationships- check

So, it’s obvious that I’m not going to be a case that any counsellor is going to want to engage with. Counsellors, just like everyone else, want the cases that will end in success. Nobody wants to take on cases that are almost certain to end in failure.

People like me are not supposed to hold down employment or keep our noses clean. We’re supposed to be barely functional wrecks.

People like me are supposed to be dead from suicide. I know of three from the CFB Namao matter who meet that criteria. I know others who have had a very rough run at life as well.

And if we’re not dead from suicide we’re supposed to be alcoholics, or heroin junkies, or on crack, self medicating ourselves into an early grave. I’m still amazed in all honesty that I’m not pushing a shopping cart down the alleys collecting bottles and junk to trade for money.

I would guess that another issue that prevented me from receiving counselling is that I’ve never had anyone advocating for me.

My father should have advocated for me back in 80 – 83, but he couldn’t take responsibility for his family and would often insist to me that I was only acting up in order to get out of what I had allowed the babysitter to do to my younger brother. In other words I was faking “major depression”, “severe anxiety” and a host of other issues as a way to shed the blame I deserved for what had happened to my younger brother.

My mother couldn’t advocate as I don’t think she knew bugger sweet all about CFB Namao or my life thereafter.

My stepmother? I don’t think she honestly knew what was going on as I don’t think that Richard had ever been truthful with her about the events of CFB Namao, or why Marie left in 1977, or just about anything else.

So as I stumbled and bumbled through life from one breakdown to another, there was never anyone there for me ensuring that I was getting the help that I needed.

And I’ll bet you that most of these counsellors, upon hearing my issues, can’t help but wonder what it is I expect to accomplish at the age of 50.

It’s not like I’m 15, or 20, or even 30. I’m 50.

I’m not suddenly going to find a boyfriend and get married and live happily ever after.

I’m not suddenly going to find a girlfriend and get married and live happily ever after.

I’m not going to become less disgusted by sex and sexual intercourse and start having sex.

I’m not all of a sudden going to become everyone’s best friend and start drinking and hanging out in bars with them.

I’m not suddenly going to stop having recurring nightmares about the abuse on CFB Namao or my father’s own anger outbursts.

These counsellors must be thinking to themselves “WTF? Why Me? I’m not a fucking miracle worker”.

So, my journey for a counsellor continues.

And please no, I don’t need healing crystals, or magical chants.

A lonely existence.

Yeah, my childhood after CFB Namao was a very lonely existence.

I guess the trauma and the shock of what I had been through on Canadian Forces Base Namao at the hands of P.S, along with the dysfunctional household that I was growing up in really fucked with my emotional well-being.

Being involved with Captain Totzke couldn’t have really helped with my self worth very much.

My father had convinced anyone that would listen that I was how I was because it was all an act so that I could shirk the responsibility of allowing the babysitter to molest my younger brother.

The fact that most of the kids on CFB Griesbach knew who I was and what I had done didn’t help the situation very much.

The nice thing is that most people who got to know me saw that there were problems and they weren’t all mine.

And at age 50 I can see why people like Captain Totzke and my father did what they did.

As a child you simply can’t understand the biases, the prejudices, or the politics at play.

Even still, I find myself at age 50 completely unable to make friends. Sure, I’ve got co-workers and superiors and subordinates at work. I also deal with contractors, trades, and suppliers at work. But these are professional relationships.

I’ve met many people on my journey to receive justice and acknowledgment for what happened on CFB Namao. But other than the fact that we were all sexually abused on Canadian Forces Base Namao by the same two people, I can’t relate to anyone.

It’s not that I’m a loner by any definition. I like being out and about. I like going to coffee shops, and malls, and events.

I still can’t properly read or express emotions properly. When people appear to be upset or angry I get scared and afraid. That’s probably one of the reasons I hate any type of conflict at work. Maybe that makes me too accommodating, I don’t know.

I take no pride in my work. And by this I don’t mean that I don’t take care with my work. It’s just that no matter what I do all I can hear is my father yelling and screaming that I have to stop showing off, that I’m a stupid worthless piece of shit, and that anyone could do what I do, that I’m not special in any sense of the word.

So yeah, at age 50, what is going to be fixed?

The time for fixing these issues was 30 to 40 years ago.

The time for banishing Captain McRae, P.S., Captain Totzke, Colonel Munro, Richard Gill from my skull was years ago. Trying to evict these fuckers at the age of 50 is almost pointless.

And that’s the thing, my whole life has been nothing but enduring the self doubt and self hatred caused by these people.

If I didn’t listen to Richard’s negativity for the majority of my adult life, could things have been better. Probably not as there would have still been lots of issues given to me by the others.

If I didn’t listen to Captain Totzke’s thoughts on the apparent homosexuality I had exhibited when I had been molested by P.S. and Captain McRae, would my gender identity and sexual orientation been less fucked up? Possibly, but there were still a shit load of other issues fucking me up.

And that’s one of the problems. There wasn’t just one thing fucking with my psyche. There were numerous issues fucking me up and robbing me of a future that could have or should have been mine.

Dealing with these issues in the here and now may unleash fresh new self doubt, self hatred, and regret.

In other words I think I just have to make peace with these issues.

I’ve got my dresses, my tattoos, and my bicycle to keep me company.

Speaking of tattoos, I finally got my right ankle finished.

My goal is to have all parts of my body covered with ink by the time 2023 / 2024 rolls around.