mental illness – Page 4

My dentist

So, today I was in to see my dentist for some filling / bonding work on my canine teeth.

My teeth are in bad shape from years of grinding. And recently my canine teeth started to get sensitive which meant that they were not far away from getting cavities or worse.

My dentist bugged me again about getting root canals and caps, both of which my insurance would cover 100%.

I told her again that I wasn’t interested, that I only wanted to do the work that was required to keep my teeth from getting worse, but that I wasn’t interested in spending $20k to $30k to fix all of my teeth.

“But why not?”

So I said to her that if everything goes as planned, I won’t be around in two to three years.

“You’re moving somewhere?”

No, I’m applying for medical assistance in dying for psychiatric reasons.

“But I thought that your escitalopram was working, I thought you were feeling better”.

Escitalopram is like a pain killer, it numbs the pain, but it doesn’t fix it.

“What about therapy?”

Won’t fix the issues, and I don’t want to continue living with the damage in my head. If I was younger, maybe, but not at this stage in my life.

She just looked at me for a bit. Then she said “Do you want to get started?”.

I said sure, and she reclined the chair, and we started on my fillings / bondings.

Money isn’t the issue. I’m not poor. And I have good medical / dental coverage at work. I just don’t see the point.

I had my first dentist when I worked for the Elashi family in East Richmond.

Prior to that I had never had a real dentist. My dentists were usually from public health programs for disadvantaged children. I remember going to the dentist in a trailer that would pull up outside the school I was attending in Summerside, PEI. I think those were my first fillings.

The next time I went to a dentist was when we lived on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach in Edmonton. This was a program for low income families run out of the Northern Alberta Institute of Technology “N.A.I.T.”. Kids that went to this program had their teeth worked on by dental students.

I don’t remember going to a dentist once while we lived on Canadian Forces Base Downsview in Ontario.

Richard had promised me that he’d enroll me into the Young Driver’s program on my 16th birthday. Of course he lied. He had no intention. He gave me some excuse about his insurance going up if anyone under 18 had their driver’s licence in his house. When he saw that I wasn’t buying this he started justifying his lying by saying that his Mustang was too powerful for me to learn in. Young drivers had their own cars. I told him that he was a liar, that he had absolutely no plan of letting me take driver’s training, that this was more of his bullshit. I didn’t duck fast enough and I caught his wedding ring in the front of my mouth. He chipped my front tooth.

I didn’t start working for the Elashis until 1994. I don’t think my insurance kicked in until late ’94, so it was around 1995 when I finally got the chipped tooth fixed. So yeah, about 8 years.

I had all of my wisdom teeth yanked around 1995 as well.

So, it’s not that I’m afraid of the dentist, or dental work.

I just don’t see the point of it.

Not now.

Maybe 30 years ago.

Maybe even 20 years ago.

Even if I had been on anti-depressants / anti-anxiety medications 20 or 30 years ago my teeth would be in far better condition than they are today.

But 30 years ago was just 12 years removed from the CFB Namao fiasco and my father’s anger at how I had fucked with his military career and how I had allowed the babysitter to molest my younger brother was still very fresh in my mind. Captain Totzke’s lectures at how I exhibited homosexual tendencies because the abuse went on for so long was still rattling around in my skull.

20 years ago was 22 years removed from CFB Namao. And again all of the horseshit from CFB Namao and the subsequent fallout was still fresh in my mind.

It really wasn’t until I started learning the truth about CFB Namao 10 years ago in 2011 that I begun to realize that the issues I was living with were not of my own creation. These issues had been gifted to me. The Canadian Forces anointed my abuser as the “sole” victim of Captain McRae and chucked about 25 children under the bus.

Maybe if I had known the truth 20 or 30 years ago I would have wasted my time fixing my teeth.

Not now.

Just not worth it at this point in my life.

A Lack of Interests

I’ve always been kind of an odd duckling at work. “Not one of the boys” as they often say.

I don’t really talk about sportsball. I don’t talk about TV. I don’t talk about Hollywood stars, or movies.

I really don’t have many interests to be honest.

But then again Richard wasn’t known for instilling a love of hobbies or activities in my brother or I.

Anything my father did take an interest in he quickly lost interest in.

He had a camera with all of the doodads and gizmos. Never really took an interest in it other than snapping a few pictures on the television of a hockey game.

He had a private pilot’s licence. And except for when we lived on Canadian Forces Base Shearwater, he never went flying again.

He owned a motorcycle, but rarely rode on it. It was usually hauled out of the garage and ridden just for the sake of keeping the fuel from going bad.

Broomball? Yeah he’d play broomball, but not very often.

Was it his depression or his PTSD that kept him from taking up interests?

And when he did take up interests it was almost like he was being forced to take them on, like he was pushing himself to find an interest that he liked because if he found the interest that he liked then he’d stick with it. But he never did find the proverbial interest. He’d try something new, get fed up, and move on to something else.

I didn’t develop any hobbies as a child. It wasn’t like my father had ever encouraged my brother or I to take on any hobbies. And even if we had developed hobbies, who was going to pay for them? Surely not him.

Richard built a few model airplanes, but that was it.

He didn’t really have any favourite bands or musicians.

The only thing that he really liked was hockey. He seemed to love the Toronto Maple Leafs. But he’d get so angry and upset when he’d watch them on TV. For the entire 7 years that we lived in Toronto I don’t think he ever attended a hockey game at Maple Leaf Gardens. I know that he sure as hell didn’t ever take my brother or I to a hockey game. Even when we lived in Edmonton during the early ’80s when the Oilers and Gretzky were owning the NHL we never once went to a hockey game at the Northlands Coliseum.

Things we never did together as a family……

Camping
Skating
Bowling
Bicycle riding
Watching hockey games
Watching football games
Watching baseball games
Fishing
Going to amusement parks
Going to museums
Going to movies
School plays
Cadet nights
Cadet award ceremonies
Working on cars
Working on electronics
Working on computers
Going to parks
Going to the beach

Mr. Gill does not feel a family support worker would benefit kids as he claims to take them out rollerskating and to cubs.

Yeah, I can promise you that he never took us rollerskating or to cubs. I was in beavers on CFB Namao, and that was it.

Even just sitting down and trying to watch TV with Richard was an exercise in futility. You had to “shut your damn mouth and watch the TV”. You didn’t ever ask him to explain a TV show to you. That could invoke a rage almost as bad as if you asked him how hockey worked or why that guy got a penalty or why that puck was offside.

It was a lonely and boring childhood.

So yeah, I think this is why I never developed any hobbies.

Why do I want to die?

I don’t actually want to die. I need to die. There is a difference.

My brain is hopelessly damaged beyond salvage. You may agree with this or you may not agree with this. But it’s only my opinion that matters on this. I’m the one who has lived with this. And I’m the one more than willing to die to end it.

I’ve had no one advocating for my mental health over the years. So it is quite perplexing the number of people that want to suggest ways that I can take care of my mental health.

It wasn’t like my mental health hadn’t been flagged in the aftermath of the CFB Namao fiasco.

It was.

My mental health had deteriorated to the point that I was supposed to have been institutionalized. When you’re nine-years-old and psychiatrists are recommending that you be institutionalized you know that there is something seriously wrong. The fact that I wasn’t institutionalized doesn’t mean that I got better on my own. It just means that my deteriorating mental health was ignored.

Who kept me from receiving the help I required to treat my mental health issues? Was it my father? Was it Captain Terry Totzke? Was it someone else up the chain of command in the Canadian Armed Forces? I don’t know. And due to the loosey-goosey record retention policy of the Canadian Forces I don’t think that we’ll ever know.

And you know damn well that someone in the Canadian Armed Forces hierarchy interfered. On January 26th, 1983 Captain Totzke was told that Alberta Social Services was getting ready to place me into foster care or residential care. On January 28th, 1983 Captain Totzke told Alberta Social Services that my father was withdrawing me from the program and that my father had just receive a posting to Ontario.

And at this point in my life does it really matter?

For just over 42 years I’ve been left to cope with the following:

CPTSD;
Major depression;
Severe anxiety;
Gender identity issues;
Sexual Orientation issues;
Inability to form relationships;
Inability to trust;
Feelings of hopelessness;
Feelings of helplessness;
Feelings of worthlessness;
Vividly reliving the sexual abuse of me, my brother, and all of the other kids I witnessed P.S. molesting;
Grappling with being blamed by my father for allowing the babysitter to molest my younger brother;
Grappling with being called a homosexual apparently because I participated in the abuse for as long as I did;
The endless replaying of the man in the sauna;
The abuse at the hands of Earl Ray Stevens;
Existing in a dysfunctional household.

I’ve managed to fall through the cracks for a majority of my life. That’s the double edged sword of being intelligent. The people that I worked for were more than willing to overlook my issues because I brought so much benefit to their organizations. So what if I broke down and cried at random times, or so what if I blew up when I’d get frustrated because my depressed brain wasn’t capable of handling stress, or what if I didn’t come in for days at a time. When I could do electronic repairs, electrical repairs, mechanical repairs, HVAC repairs, the meltdowns and breakdowns were tolerable.

Being highly functional with mental illness is not fair. People just write off your mental illness as being “melodrama”, or “just being an asshole”.

And the sad thing about mental illness is that it doesn’t show up on a blood test, it really doesn’t show up on an MRI.

Mental illness can only be diagnosed by a psychiatrist. But psychiatrists have their own options and biases. So the fact that I’ve never been unemployed or locked-up in psychiatric care, or in trouble with the law means that I can’t really be that ill.

Throw into that the “Just Society” bias that many people have which results in doctors and psychiatrists being of the opinion that if something did happen to me then surely someone would have done something about it, right?

The other side of the “Just Society” bias means that many other people are of the opinion that if the military police didn’t lay charges in 1980 or 2018 that obviously nothing occurred. Because if something did occur, surely somebody would have done something, right?

The only problem is that as the years went by and I learnt to “cope” and “hide” my issues. And as the years went by I could feel the desire to die building inside.

It is so very tiring keeping my “happy” face on while my brain turns into a cancerous tumour full of rot.

There’s no fixing my brain. The damage is done. The damage has had time to set and solidify.

I’m not suddenly going to find a magical counsellor or magical pharmaceuticals that will erase the past, and erase the memories from CFB Namao, and erase all of the other shit that I went through before I turned 16.

My brain is not your “fix-it” project. My emotional well-being is not your hobby.

When I was first interviewed by master corporal Robert Jon Hancock back in 2011, I told him during the interview that I understood that there was not going to be a magical time machine that would send me back and undo all of the things that happened to me.

Life honestly has no joy and offers me no pleasure. It never has.

And this is where things get interesting.

I have had people tell me that my desires to die make them feel uncomfortable. That maybe if I stopped thinking negative thoughts and just thought happy thoughts that everything would be okay.

But that’s not how this works.

Bobbie, you’re such a “warrior”.

No.

You’re a “champion”.

No.

You’re so “brave”.

No.

“You can’t be serious”.

Yes I am.

“You’re just doing this for attention”.

No I am not.

I’m somebody who got caught up in some very bad situations that were far beyond their control.

I came from a dysfunctional home.

I was exposed to adults that were suffering from their own intergenerational traumas.

I was sexually abused for a prolonged period.

The blame for this abuse was placed upon my shoulders like some sort of mantle of shame to wear.

I was then brain fucked by an organization that should have known better than to fuck with a child’s brain.

I didn’t receive the psychological help that I should have received.

In fact, my father’s methods of dealing with my issues were the exact opposite of what I required.

Do I really want to live for another 20 to 30 years?

No.

Sure the escitalopram is doing a great job with my anxiety and my depression. But it hasn’t fixed them. They’re still there. They always will be there. Just like the memories of CFB Namao, of P.S., the visits to the chapel, of the abuse, of Captain Totzke, of Alberta social services, of my father’s anger and temper. Those will be with me until the day I die.

I’m single. I’ve never really been attached to anyone. I have no family to speak of. I have no one dependent on me.

Death, I am not afraid of. It’s the dying that I’m afraid of.

When you’re dead, that’s it. You’re dead. There is no happiness. There is no sadness. There are no memories. There is no regret. There is nothing. You don’t exist anymore. You don’t feel anymore. You don’t think. You don’t contemplate. You sure won’t be aware that you’re dead. And no, you won’t feel your corpse decompose.

Everything that you felt, saw, heard, touched, tasted, learnt, dreamt about, longed for, or cherished dies along with you.

Existing longer than you need to in the hopes that you’ll eventually find some supposed meaning in life is pointless, especially if existing brings pain and not joy.

You don’t get extra bonus points for enduring life longer than you needed to.

I am an atheist. I do not believe in a supreme being, an afterlife, a heaven, a hell, or a purgatory. I do not believe in reincarnation.

Dying is the hard part of death. Transposing from living to dead is often quite painful and traumatic. I’ve seen the end result of vehicle collisions. I’ve been aware of failed suicide attempts. I’ve seen people slowly die from brain injuries and strokes. I’ve known people who have died from incurable disease.

Life itself is not special. There are over 7.5 billion humans on the planet right now.

The value of human life varies depending on the situation. If a car driver makes a right hand turn on a red light and strikes a pedestrian, ooopsie.

If I’m out riding my bicycle and a car driver runs a stop sign and kills me but didn’t have the intention of killing me, ooopsie.

Society seems more than willing to tolerate deaths from motor vehicle collisions as a small price to pay for the convenience of fast travel.

How many lives have been lost in civilian aviation due to bad designs (737MAX) or a cutback in maintenance (Alaska Airlines)?

How many innocent civilian lives were lost in wars since the year 2000 due to bad intelligence and questionable motives?

How many people have died due to simple preventable diseases?

How many people have died from starvation?

Even when it comes to drug users, society seems to have little concern.

There seem to be only two times when a human life is lost that society loses its collective marbles. Murder or Suicide.

When it comes to murder, murder is almost universally reviled. The amount of revulsion shown is a sliding scale that seems to vary depending on who is being murdered and who is doing the murdering.

Suicide on the other hand is often seen as a selfish act perpetrated by someone just acting out for attention. Suicide is often seen as an overreaction to a silly issue. Suicide is rarely seen as the end result of events for which the person committing suicide felt that they had little control over.

My death will not be a suicide. Unlike a suicide, which is often random and unpredicted, my death will be scheduled. My death will be sanctioned by medical professionals, and my death will be overseen by medical professionals even though technically it will be me starting the dosing pumps.

Unlike a suicide, even a suicide with a note, there will be no unanswered questions about my death and why I’ve chosen death as opposed to living.

Everything will be explained along the way. There will be no chance for misinterpretations.

When I go, there will be no loose strings. Everything that needs to be closed off and addressed will be closed off and addressed.

You’re all more than welcome to come along with me on this journey.

Not all of the posts on my blog will be about my death. But I will warn you that a majority of my posts will be. I was hushed up about the child sexual abuse on Canadian Forces Base Namao. I will not hush up about my death.

Remember this, all of our journeys end with our own death. Mine will only be different in the sense that I am going to hopefully be able to schedule mine and choose the location.

Mental Health Treatment

Sometimes nothing can be done.

Over the course of time that I have been running my blogs people have come forward and have suggested that I just need to seek counselling to deal with the cancer in my brain and that everything will be just fine. And I know that these people mean well. But sometimes there is nothing that can be done.

I know that I am going to sound like a broken record, but sometimes the damage is unfixable due to the severity of the damage, the spectrum of the damage, and how long the damage was allowed to fester.

In my case not only did I come from a family with intergenerational dysfunction, I was sexually abused repeatedly from 1978 until 1987 by various people. I was blamed for the abuse which occurred from 1978 until 1980. I was blamed for my brother’s abuse that occurred from 1978 until 1980. I was labelled a homosexual even though I more than likely was not one. I was pitted in a war between my military social worker and my civilian social workers. I grew up being spoon fed lies by my father. My educational endeavours were severely curtailed due to my father’s belief that what was good enough for him was more than good enough for me.

My father also seemed to be the kind of person that would destroy anyone he felt was a challenge to his intellect or authority. Sarcastic putdowns were a hobby of his. He could wield his putdowns like a machete and inflict massive wounds.

I know that my untreated depression and my untreated anxiety were probably what led to me being sexually abused frequently as a kid. How many times was I sexually abused? More than you’d probably care to know.

See child sexual abuse, dysfunction, and mental illness go hand in hand.

A dysfunctional household means that you often have no one to confide in as the adults in your house are wrapped up in their own drama and are dealing with their own demons.

My mental illnesses meant that I was often alone, scapegoated, and ostracized. Kiddie diddlers and perverts love ostracized children. They’re often alone and by themselves. Children who are depressed often have such low levels of self esteem that these creeps and perverts only have to make basic overtures to these kids in order to get these kids to comply. Also these creeps and perverts know that children with low self esteem can be made to believe anything and can be easily manipulated. All they have to do is offer a compliment on how handsome you look or how smart you are and they’ve got you in their traps.

If I had been allowed to receive treatment for my depression and anxiety would I have not appeared so odd and bizarre to the other kids? And if I had been accepted by the other kids would I have been such an easy target for the creeps and pervs?

I remember as a kid frequently crying because I couldn’t figure out what the fuck was wrong with me and why I was such a fucking freak. The last time that I had actually broken down and cried with these thoughts was back in 2008.

Dying was a frequent wish of mine as a kid. I would often hope that I would get kidnapped and murdered and that during the police investigation my father would go to jail for neglect. I remember the 1984 McDonald’s shooting in San Ysidro , California and how I wished that I could be killed in a similar manner. I really didn’t want to live as a kid. I was just too chicken to do anything about it.

I wish that I could say that “talking” was going to fix my issues. But I know that I can’t be honest with counsellors. After all I spent three years of my childhood being manipulated by military social worker Captain Terry Totzke and my very own father. And by being manipulated I mean that every time that we went to counselling sessions at the Westfield Program my father and Terry would tell me to be very careful with what I said to the counsellors and that I should check with them before saying anything to my counsellors. Sure, I’ve learnt recently that both my father and Terry had their own agendas. The fact that I now know of these agendas doesn’t change the fact that the rot and cancer of mental illness was allowed to permeate the far reaches of my brain from 1980 until 2011. And I understand that my father may have had no option but to follow the instructions of Terry as Terry was a captain in the Canadian Forces and my father was only a master corporal.

Another problem with talking freely with counsellors is that they honestly don’t listen.

Children don’t live on military bases.
Military bases would have been the safest place for children to live.
Military police are real police officers and can’t be interfered with.
All you had to do was tell someone.
You’re successful, you can’t have any mental issues.
You never sought help before, how bad can your issues be.
You’re blowing things out of proportion.
You’ve adapted to your depression, you can tough it out.

Also, I have various people residing in my skull. And they’re not going anywhere. And no, they’re not there for trivial reasons. Who are these people?

P.S. a 14 / 15 year old male from CFB Namao
Captain McRae from CFB Namao.
The mystery man from the sauna on CFB Griesbach.
The man from CFB Griesbach
The man from Kingsway Garden Mall in Edmonton, AB.
Earl Ray Stevens, the retired member of the Canadian Forces who was a commissionaire at the Dennison Armouries in North York.
The guy who lived on Centre Island.
The University of Toronto student who conned me into a “human sexuality” study.
A guy from North York who tried to get me to participate in the filming of a child porn video.
The married guy who threw me out of his apartment when his wife came home.
The man who tried to strangle me in his car in High Park in Toronto.
A guy that I worked with in Toronto who threatened to “out me” to my employers if I didn’t look after him.

So, while I appreciate the urgings for me to “get help”, there honestly is no help.

One of my “gifts” if you will is that I am extremely pragmatic. Not everything can be fixed. Not everyone can be “cured”.

Sometimes the best thing to do is to learn how to cope. But sometime even coping isn’t good enough.

If you want to prevent people from suffering from complex mental health issues, the best thing to do is to prevent those issues from occurring in the first place.

The one thing that I have learnt over the last ten years is not to blame myself for what happened.

The other thing that I learnt over the last ten years is that our lives are so intricately. There’s a collective delusion in North America that everyone is their own person and that everyone is responsible for their own destiny. That I can promise you is the furthest thing from the truth.

Persons involved with the Government of British North America and later Canada, as well as members of the various Catholic organizations decided how to deal with the Indians. This of course had massive repercussions for the paternal side of my family.

Members of the Canadian Armed Forces from NDHQ in Ottawa, ON, to Western Command in Winnipeg, MB, as well as the local chain of command on Canadian Forces Base Namao decide that the best way to protect the image of the Canadian Armed Forces was to sweep the Captain Father Angus McRae child sexual abuse scandal under the rug.

In 2011 members of the Canadian Armed Forces all the way from NDHQ in Ottawa, through the Provost Marshal in Ottawa to the CFNIS Western Command at Edmonton Garrison were fully aware of the connection between the person I accused of molesting my brother and I, and Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Father Angus McRae, but the decision was made to gaslight me and try to convince me that there was no way that P.S. could have ever possibly sexually abused me.

As you can see, there are many people, people whom I’ve never seen in my life, people that I’ve never met, that have made decisions that have had drastic effects on my life. I guess the “one man army” appeals to a lot of people because they don’t like the idea that they are not in control of their lives.

The truth is none of us are truly in control of our lives. Our lives are so interdependent on others.

My father was a grade 8 drop out who had a successful career in the Canadian Armed Forces. He went to school in a single room school house in Fort McMurray where science class was probably spent learning the boiling and freezing temperatures of water and music class consisted of signing “God Save the Queen”. So my educational career was determined for better or worse by my father.

Where could my life have gone if my father had encouraged my academic adventures?

The Canadian Armed Forces chain of command in 1980 decided that they needed to limit the fallout from the Captain Father Angus McRae child sex scandal and evoked the “protection of public morals” to hide the court martial and the evidence “in-camera”. How would my life have ended up had I been acknowledged to be a victim of Captain McRae and of P.S. and that I wasn’t responsible for P.S. molesting my younger brother?

Captain Totzke didn’t work on his own. His agenda with me would have been set by the Canadian Forces. What would my gender identity and sexual orientation be like today if Captain Totzke’s mission back then hadn’t been to convince me that I was sexually abused because I had exhibited signs of homosexuality?

If the decision wasn’t made to get my family out of Alberta before I was placed into foster care, what would my life have been like today? Again, another decision made by people who were working against people who were trying to help me.

So many people made decisions about my life, and they made these decisions without any concern for the consequences of their decisions.

And the reality is, there are a lot of people that make decisions on a daily basis that affect the lives of others.

Yes, people can make decisions that affect their own lives, but these usually work in conjunction with the decisions that others had made.

Better watch where you stick your nose.

You might not like what you find.

As a kid, my father Richard would often tell me that I needed to be really careful with the questions that I asked suggesting that I wasn’t going to like the answers that I was going to discover.

Even when I had my series of telephone calls with Richard back in 2006 he suggested that I forget about the babysitter from CFB Namao and just “move the fuck on” and quit worrying about the past. The past was the past and there was no changing it.

At the time I didn’t understand what he meant. Well, I kinda understood what he meant, I made the babysitter molest my younger brother, and therefore I was just trying to blame the babysitter for something that I was ultimately responsible for.

None the less, I had to go and kick the hornet’s nest in 2011.

Do I regret kicking the hornet’s nest.

No. Not one bit.

As soul crushing as this has been, I’ve learnt that I was a victim, just as my brother was. I didn’t make the babysitter molest my brother. If anyone was responsible for my brother being molested it was ultimately Captain Father Angus McRae and the Canadian Forces chain of command that was responsible for transferring Captain McRae to CFB Namao even though they knew he was having issues.

So, in a way I’m happy to know the truth.

But the truth also kills me.

Knowing the truth has shattered some very longstanding illusions that I grew up believing. These were illusions that formed my life.

Now, let’s be very clear, it’s not knowing the truth that makes me want to seek M.A.i.D. in 2023. It’s all of the mental health issues surrounding my untreated major depression and my severe anxiety that were known about and left untreated between 1980 and 2011. It’s all of the memories of the sexual abuse of not only me, but of my brother, and of the other kids that P.S. would abuse and the manner in which he would abuse them.

Yes, learning the truth has been a very painful journey. But it also has been very liberating at the same time too.

Some of the truths that I now know that I didn’t prior to 2011 are:

Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Father Angus McRae confessed in 1980 during an ecclesiastical trial to having had sexual relationships with young boys for years prior to his arrest and court martial in 1980.
The Canadian Forces Military Police and the Canadian Forces Special Investigations Unit were both aware of the fact that P.S. was sexually abusing children on Canadian Forces Base Namao.
The Canadian Forces Military Police and the Canadian Forces Special Investigations Unit were both aware that Captain McRae had been bringing children to the rectory at the base chapel and that Captain McRae was giving these children alcohol and then “fooling around” with them.
That P.S. was molesting children was of no doubt as Captain McRae’s defence counsel was trying to discredit the testimony of P.S. by bringing up the fact that P.S. himself had been molesting young children on the base, in many cases performing anal intercourse on children under 10.
Prior to 1998 there existed two flaws in the National Defence Act which meant that even if I had come forward prior to 1998 with complaints against P.S. and Captain McRae that Captain McRae could never be charged for any crime he committed against a child which occurred on a defence establishment while he was subject to the code of service discipline.
Even though the Canadian Forces were prohibited from holding a service tribunal for the crimes of Murder, Manslaughter, and Rape from 1950 until 1985 and Murder, Manslaughter, and Sexual Assault from 1985 to 1998, they could oddly enough hold a service tribunal for sexual crimes committed against children.
My father was known to be a liar who would frequently change his stories.
My father was known to tell people he perceived to be in positions of authority what he thought they wanted to hear.
My father had issues with his role as a parent and showed very little in the way of responsibility towards his own family.
It was known since 1980 that I was a severely mentally ill child in need of help, but Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Terry Totzke for some reason didn’t ever seem to follow through with the recommendations that I receive help.
I was actually in the foster care system and it appears that Captain Totzke assisted my father with obtaining a posting out of the jurisdiction of Alberta so that Alberta Social Services couldn’t apprehend me and place me into care.
My mother hadn’t abandoned the family. Flaws in the National Defence Act and the Defence Establishment Trespass Regulations meant that spouses and children were defect “visitors” on base that were only there at the pleasure of the serving member.

I can only wonder what my father truly knew about the events on CFB Namao from 1978 until 1980. Events he knew of but pretended that didn’t happen.

How could my father “forget” in 2011 that he was rarely home from 1978 until 1980 and that he had brought his own mother into the PMQ on CFB Namao to raise my brother and I. This seems like quite the omission does it not? It’s not like grandma popped in for a weekend or two and babysat my brother or I once or twice in the two years we lived on CFB Namao. She moved into the PMQ on the same day we moved in. She moved with us from CFB Namao to CFB Griesbach in October of 1980. Her husband Andy Anderson didn’t die until 1983.

My brother suggests that maybe the CFNIS leaned on Richard to get Richard to say what the CFNIS wanted him to say. I have a different thought. I remember when Richard was dating Vicki, he kept asking my brother and I if we would like to live in Wetaskiwin and he would get a job working as a mechanic locally. There were times when Richard was home for visit before he and Sue moved into the PMQ in August of 1980. We’d go for drives around the base and he always seemed to be certain that he was going to be out of the military and that he’d have to get a civilian job.

I think that in 1980 Richard sold my brother and I down the river in trade for what ever deal the Canadian Armed Forces was offering to service members if they would keep their mouths shut about what happened on CFB Namao. This would explain why I had to be blamed for my brother being sexually abused as well as me “liking the abuse” because it went on for so long which proved that I was a “homosexual”. We couldn’t pretend like nothing happened. Something happened, and alternative realities had to be created in order to get everyone to shut up about things.

When Richard was interviewed in 2011 he forget that grandma lived with us and he completely forget about P.S. even though he named P.S. on his on in 2006. Why? I think it would have killed Richard if what he had done in 1980 became known. What did Richard do in 1980? We will never know. He died in 2017 and he took his horrific secret to the grave with him. Was it the promise of some good promotions? He was a master corporal in 1980. He became a warrant officer around 1989. He had a problem with drinking and his anger. Did the Canadian Forces promise him that there would be no disciplinary actions taken against him for pending matters or that his previous history would be over looked at promotion time?

As I said, he’s dead and we’ll never know the truth about 1980 even though the military police the CFSIU, and the chain of command knew full well what both Captain McRae and P.S. were doing.

So yeah, I guess that in the end Richard was right.

I stuck my nose into the business of the Canadian Armed Forces and I smelt some rather rancid shit and this stench doesn’t wash out no matter how much detergent you use.

Wetting the bed……

I honestly can’t remember when I started wetting the bed. It was definitely in the aftermath of the sexual abuse on Canadian Forces Base Namao.

I can’t see me having wet the bed too frequently when grandma was living with us.

But it did start towards the end of our stay on Canadian Forces Base Namao.

By the time I was living on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach I was frequently wetting the bed. So much so that I even had plastic sheets on my bed.

Now, this period of time was right after the sexual abuse on CFB Namao and it was also when my father’s anger with me was beginning to peak because I allowed the babysitter to molest my younger brother and I had fucked with Richard’s military career. Not bad for a 9 year old, eh?

Actually, I’m pretty sure that I wet the bed one time when Richard had taken my brother and I to spend the night at Sue’s apartment by Londonderry Mall in Edmonton before she moved into our PMQ in August of 1980, so I would have been wetting the bed sometime after the summer of 1979.

So yeah, this would have been around when I was at and the abuse was starting to get bad.

They tried diapers on me. Didn’t work, couldn’t get adolescent sized diapers I guess.

Richard was supposedly looking at a device that would give me a mild electric shock when it had detected that I had wet the bed.

Sue had gotten so fed up with my wetting the bed that she rubbed my face in my own urine soaked sheets.

Initially when I started wetting the bed I’d get a fresh change of sheets and some new pyjamas. But as my bed wetting wore on I’d have to sleep on the same sheets. As there were no more pyjama changes, I started sleeping naked.

I still remember waking up in the middle of the night or the early morning with my sheets soaking wet and cold and smelling like pee. I remember learning to sleep around the wetness.

When I was allowed to take showers, no one at school would notice that I had slept in my own urine. But when it was determined that the best way to get me to stop pissing the bed was to make me go to school without a shower that when things started to get really bad at school. Who the fuck in their right mind wants to be anywhere near a kid that smell like piss?

And kids at that age can be very vocal in their opinions of someone who smells like a rancid onion.

So no, not changing my sheets, nor not allowing me to shower, nor any of the other humiliation techniques were successful in getting me to stop wetting my bed.

I did eventually stop pissing my bed.

I was 16 when I stopped.

I had found a room to rent locally and I moved out of Richard’s house.

That would have been around January or February of 1988.

I was terrified that first night that I lived “on my own”.

Know what?

My bed sheets have been dry ever since.

As a kid my beds were always the cheap disposable foam mattress type of beds. Not too long ago, actually earlier this year, I bought my first real bed. It has a frame and a box and a mattress that’s almost 8 inches thick. The box that the mattress lays upon has a solid flat surface. And there’s a head board. And real pillows. Why didn’t I buy a real bed before? I don’t know, I really don’t. Foam mattresses with cheap boxes were always what I had. Maybe that’s what I always thought that I deserved. Maybe I was also afraid that I’d just ruin a new bed by pissing on it.

To say that I was terrified of Richard would have been a grave understatement.

Did the sexual abuse on Canadian Forces Base Namao play a role. Certainly, of that there is no doubt.

With Richard being unable to take responsibility for his family, and with Richard needing to blame others for the problems with his family, it wouldn’t be too far out of line to say that the anger, disdain, and ridicule that Richard directed towards me for having allowed the babysitter to touch my younger brother as well as for me having “fucked with” Richard’s military career was taking an emotional and psychological toll on my young and developing brain.

Am I embarrassed to share this? No, not in the slightest. I’ve gone so far beyond the point of being ashamed that I no longer care.

Anxiety

The evil twin of major depression

I’ve suffered from severe anxiety since at least 1980.

I have no doubt that my anxiety comes from my mother’s side of the family. My hospital records make note that she was extremely anxious at times and was close to a nervous breakdown after the death of her father.

Just as my father’s genes have predisposed me to suffering from depression and that the events of Canadian Forces Base Namao triggered and amplified that depression into full blown major depression I have no doubt that my mother’s genes predisposed me to anxiety and the events of Canadian Forces Base Namao triggered and amplified this into full blown anxiety.

Just as when I’d have a depressive episode when I was a kid, my anxiety attacks were seen by my father as being nothing more than a childish attempt for e to gain attention. For much of my life I internalized my anxiety attacks and my depressive crashes.

Not having friends and not having close associates means that I was able to hide a lot of these episodes. When you don’t hang out with people and when people don’t visit it’s so very easy to hide your issues and to slip through the cracks.

I’m not sure which ones were worse. The anxiety attacks or the depressions.

Some of my anxiety attacks have been brutal. They typically last for about 45 minutes to an hour. And they start of suddenly out of nowhere. I can be riding my bicycle, I can be riding my motorcycle, I can be walking, I can be watching a movie, I can even be at work when suddenly I’m overtaken with a general fear of dread. Then my heart rate will start to increase. And my heart starts to pound harder. Or at least it feels like my pulse rate is increasing. I’ve checked my pulse during an anxiety attack and my heart rate only goes up a little bit. It’s just the adrenaline amplifies everything. I get tunnel vision. And my fight or flight response takes over and I have to flee where I am.

It feels like death is upon me. I know that sounds like something that I would be happy about, but not like this.

When I have an anxiety attack I usually have to get out of any building that I am in. It feels like the walls are squeezing in on me. In my apartment that means that I have to go down the stairs. All 16 flights.

Once I get outside I just head for the widest open space I can find…….

But even outside it just feels like the sky is about to collapse on me.

5 things I can see
4 things I can touch
3 things I can hear
2 things I can smell
1 thing I can taste.

This is called “grounding” and for the most part it seems to work even though some of my more recent anxiety attacks seem immune to the grounding.

The taste one is the difficult one, I usually end up skipping that.

And just as suddenly as the anxiety attack comes, the attack goes away often leaving me completely exhausted.

Not all of my anxiety attacks happen when I’m awake. I’ve woken up with such horrific anxiety attacks. It feels like I can’t breath or it feels like my heart has stopped.

One of my most recent sleep attacks ended up with me grinding my teeth so hard that I cracked a molar and had to have it removed. My dentist was pushing me to get an implant to replace the molar. I don’t see the need to. From here on if and when I crack teeth I’m just going to have them removed. I have an appointment coming up in a couple of weeks. My dentist wants to apply filling material to the insides of my canine teeth as they’re heavily worn from grinding. If the filling material doesn’t work I’ll have the canines removed preemptively to keep from cracking them.

How long has my anxiety been going on.

When my father was stationed at Canadian Forces Base Downsview I lived in the basement of the PMQ. My bedroom used to be upstairs, but sometime in early 1986 my bedroom got moved to the basement to make way for my step brother who had been born in August of 1985. Richard would often come over to my bed and wake me up because I was making so much noise grinding my teeth. Richard had a work area in the basement across from my bedroom. Due to housing regulations on base my bedroom wasn’t allowed to have a door because military rules said that no one was allowed to sleep in the basement for fire reasons. Richard had a problem with insomnia. Which no doubt went hand in hand with his depression. Richard would often go to bed around 10 or 11 at night. He’d be awake again by 2 in the morning. He’d come downstairs to the basement to watch TV and have some cigarettes. And if he heard me grinding, he’d wake me up.

But not once did he ever take me in to get me counselling or any other help. And this is even more upsetting now that I know that as far back as 1980 I had been diagnosed as having major depression and severe anxiety.

Was Richard really this fucking stupid?

Did I suffer my entire life because Richard was just too fucking stupid to see that his son needed help?

When I read my foster care records in August of 2011 I cried.

I could have been normal, or at least a lot more normal than I am now.

Maybe I’d have teeth.

Maybe, maybe, maybe…… so many fucking maybes.

I can only dream about what could have been because I sure as hell wasn’t allowed to have what should have been.

So yeah, much like my depression, my anxiety has been a constant companion of mine.

I wonder what life would have been like if I had known that there were medications that could have treated this.

That may sound funny, but it isn’t. See, when I was a kid living under Richard’s roof my depression was just an attempt to be the centre of attention. My anxiety was just because I worried too much.

Maybe it was the military environment. I know that back in the day mental illness was a sign of weakness. Mental illness indicated that you couldn’t get your shit together.

All I know is that I’m 50 years old now and my depression and my anxiety and my fight with the Canadian Armed Forces have worn me right down to nothing.

Yes, the escitalopram has helped, but I can hear and feel my depression and anxiety demons clawing at their cage waiting to be freed when my body builds up a tolerance to the increased serotonin levels. And I’ve been told that when my anxiety and depression come crashing out of their jail things will be worse than they were before.