Uncategorized – Page 27

Vagina vs. Penis.

The battle of the sexes has some really bad side effects.

One thing that everyone should take into consideration with male child sexual abuse is the general perception the public has that as boys have penises, they can only be perpetrators, not victims.

Take the crime of buggery for example. Buggery was the offence of anal intercourse with another male. As the law was written, buggery was a victimless crime. Both parties were seen as being guilty. And the age difference between the parties didn’t matter.

In May of 1980 Captain David Pilling of Canadian Forces Base Namao requested that Warrant Officer Frederick R. Cunningham investigate Captain Father Angus McRae for having committed “Acts of Homosexuality ” with teenaged boys on the base. This came as a result of an investigation military police officers Mossman and Clark had initiated against 14 year old P.S. as a result of numerous parents on the base complaining about P.S.’s inappropriate actions with younger children on the base.

This would have also been about the time I had been caught being fucked in the ass by P.S. in the bedroom of his family PMQ. And as the court martial transcripts indicate for Captain McRae’s court martial, P.S. had been caught trying to bugger some boys in the “horse shoe” forest behind the rec centre and he had already been sent for psychological treatments due to his attractions to younger boys.

“Acts of homosexuality” is a very curious phrase, is it not?

But, that’s the way things “were back then”.

Boys have penises.

Boys can only be perpetrators.

Boys cannot be the victim.

This is why Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Terry Totzke was adamant that the issues I was exhibiting in October of 1980 were due to a mental illness that I had that he called “homosexuality”. It was because of this illness that he told me that he had the base military police watching me.

I have no doubt in my mind that Captain Totzke’s insistence that I was a homosexual contributed not only to my father, master corporal Richard Gill’s treatment of me, but also contributed grossly to my sexual and gender confusion throughout my life.

I wasn’t a victim of P.S.

I wasn’t a victim of Captain McRae.

I was a homosexual who had allowed P.S. to stick his penis into my ass of my own free will. Sure, okay, I was only 7 and 8 and he was 14 when P.S. was abusing me, but that’s not the point, right?

I have a penis. P.S. has a penis. If I didn’t want P.S. to do to me what he did, then I just had to say for him to stop. But because I didn’t stand up to him and stop him from abusing me or from abusing my brother, I’m just as equally to blame.

When I was being examined by Earl’s defence counsel for discovery prior to the setting of Earl’s criminal trial date this is the line of argument that was used. It wasn’t that I was terrified of my father finding out that I was still engaged in “homosexual behaviour”. I willingly had sex with a man that was older than my father because I was gay, a homosexual, and I wanted to have sex with him.

It was even implied that the because I was over the age of consent that I had obviously consented to the abuse.

Even today things really haven’t much changed from back then.

If you have a penis and you’re being affected by abuse that occurred 40 years ago, you’re just being a melodramatic crybaby who simply won’t grow up.

The counselling available for men today basically consists of “manning up” and admitting that the abuse was nowhere near as bad as it could have been if you were a girl.

Look at it this way. A 30 year old male school teacher has sexual intercourse with a 15 year old female student and everyone is calling for the teacher’s head on a pike. A 30 year old female school teacher has sexual intercourse with a 15 year old male student and everyone is patting the student on the back for being such a lucky horn dog.

A 15 year old male student gets abused by his 30 year old male school teacher and he’s seen as a queer, a homo, a fag, or a cocksucker.

And in our society it really doesn’t seem to matter the age of the abused. If the victim has a penis they were obviously a very willing participant in the “homosexuality”.

I’ll have more to say on this starting Wednesday after my final examination by the defence counsel for the Commissionaires on Tuesday.

Now, of course I know that this is all bullshit. But I only started to realize this when I was in my 30s.

What didn’t help though was having Minister of National Defence Harjit Sajan call me a liar to my face insinuating that I “had an angle” and that I was “playing games”. You could see from the look in his eyes that he had absolute contempt for males that allowed themselves to be sexually abused.

Minister of National Defence Anita Anand hasn’t been much better. She’s only allowed sexual assault investigations involving women to be handed off to the outside civilian police agencies. She is allowing my investigation to stay with the CFNIS. She obviously shared the same mindset that Harjit Sajjan has, that males cannot be sexually abused, and even if they are, it’s not really a crime. The two investigators currently looking after my matter have said that when they go talk to the witness in this matter, that they’re going to tell the witness that if he talks to them that he will be subject to arrest for the Criminal Code offence of “child kidnapping”. These two really don’t want it discovered that at age 8 I gave a blow job to a major of the Canadian Armed Forces. Why should the reputation of the Canadian Armed Forces get smeared because I was a cocksucking homosexual at the age of 8?

And discovering in 2020 in the final report of the Military Police Complaints Commission report that the CFNIS in 2011 knew full well about the connection between P.S., Captain McRae, and that the investigation into Captain McRae was started because the military police in 19 fucking 80 knew damn well what P.S. had being doing with children between the ages of 5 and 10 on Canadian Forces Base Namao made me realize that male victims of child sexual abuse are not seen as victims, just “societal malcontents with axes to grind against the military*”.

And it’s this indifference towards the male victims of child sexual abuse in our fake, phoney, bullshit strewn, conformist, and hyper masculinized society that leads many victims of male child sexual abuse to kill themselves.

(* yes, in 2011 the CFNIS implied this when they interviewed another of the potential victims of P.S.)

Escitalopram.

The pros and cons of messing with my mind.

So, I’ve been on escitalopram for seven months now.

It has been both a blessing and a curse.

It looks like escitalopram will be with me for the rest of my life.

The pros are:

Far less depression. It’s not that I am happy. It’s that my emotions are completely blunted. And trust me, blunting is better than nothing.
My anxiety has been turned down. I can still feel the anxiety, but it doesn’t destroy me like it did before.
Disrupted trains of thoughts don’t cause headaches or nausea.

The cons are:

Disturbed sleep patterns.
Day long sleepiness.
Acne the likes of which I haven’t seen since I was a teen.
A general sense of ennui.
Weight gain.
Loss of appetite.
Can’t orgasm, but sex has never been a major deal breaker in my life.

So far, the benefits of escitalopram outweigh the negatives.

No. The escitalopram hasn’t caused increased thoughts of suicide or suicidal ideations.

But it also hasn’t taken away my desire to die.

The one thing that I have realized, and that you’re going to have to realize, is that the 40 years of untreated depression and anxiety have done some long term damage to my brain. And I’m okay with that. Not that the damage was done to my brain, but the fact that my brain is damaged.

40 years is a very long time to go without treatment.

So here I am, riding out the last few years of my life, and writing about it as I go.

By March of 2023 year we should know what the Parliamentary committee will recommend for guidelines for those wishing to apply for Medical Assistance in Dying for Mental Health issues.

After that I’ll have to apply. This will probably consist of convincing 3 psychologists that I am of sound mind in making this choice.

Just recently my N.P. has realized that I am serious. He’s the one who set me up with the escitalopram. I guess that he was hoping that the escitalopram would fix things for me. But it hasn’t. It can’t.

No matter how often my father passed my issues off as being nothing more than my attempts at attracting attention. They weren’t.

Just because my father chose to ignore my issues, and refused to get me timely treatment, doesn’t make his opinion that I was just making things up any more valid than the diagnoses that I had been given early in life.

The fact that my father loved to blame my issues on my mother and her “insane brothers” doesn’t make what I’ve suffered for the last 40 years a trivial matter.

If my father and Captain Totzke had allowed the ticking time bombs of depression, anxiety, and CPTSD to have been diffused all those years ago things would have worked out completely different.

Time machines do not exist. There is no going back into the past to undo things.

Again, to be very clear, wanting to die is nothing new. My wish to die has been with me since CFB Namao.

No one can live through that type of shit and not want to die.

I know of two men who died by suicide as a result of the CFB Namao affair. And as I’ve only met a few people who were affected by the CFB Namao affair, I have no idea how many others have ever tried suicide or have ever succeeded at suicide.

And I know of many more men who have committed suicide later in life, even after they have received “justice” for what they endured.

Bobbie, you just need some hobbies.

No. No I don’t. Hobbies won’t stop the memories of CFB Namao or my treatment at the hands of Captain Terry Totzke from popping up.

Cycling! You love to ride your bicycle. Yes, yes I do love riding my bicycle. However I can’t ride my bicycle 24 hours a day seven days a week.

Electronics! Take a course in electronics. I never really liked electronics. Learning electronics was one way that I thought that I could get closer to my ever distant father. That was a bad strategy.

Cars! You loved cars! You owned a car! Actually I’ve always been terrified of cars. I hate being in cars. I got a membership at the base autoclub on Canadian Forces Base Downsview as I thought that my father and I could spend time together at the base auto club. Again, another one of my very wrong ideas.

I really hated the idea of working on other people’s cars after the night my brother and his buddy Greg brought a 6 cylinder Chevy up to Bob Beckers workshop with the idea that I could make the car run again after Greg and his buddies had pulled all the plugs, the wires, the distributor and other things off the engine.

I forget who all was there. There was my brother, Greg, an older guy in his 40s named Dom, and two older teens that had to be about 19 or 20.

Greg at the time was no small kid. Even though Greg and my brother were both younger than I was, both were physically larger than me in both mass and height. My brother at the time was so large that my father wouldn’t dare raise a hand to him.

Two thing about that night really pissed me off.

The first was that I moved Bob’s van outside so that Greg and his buddies could push the car in. When Bob’s van was outside someone just happened to steal Bob’s mobile phone from the van. Fuck was Bob ever pissed with me. And no, it wasn’t some rando walking by that stole the mobile phone.

The second thing that pissed me off was that even though I told Greg that I hadn’t worked on anything other than 4 cylinder Volkwagen engines, he was going with what my brother had told him, that I could work on anything and that if I didn’t fix his engine it was because I was being selfish and stuck up and a self centred asshole.

Greg and his buddies ended up taking the car away that evening.

Greg and his buddies caught up with me a few days later.

They beat the sweet fucking jesus out of me in the parking lot of the laundromat on Keele street. All I really remember about that night is two of Greg’s friends holding me down while Greg stomped on my head. I could barely walk after. I headed over to Billy Bee donuts on Wilson Ave. The owner of the donut shop wanted me to go to the hospital to get looked at seeing as how my eyes were getting bloodshot.

But yeah, that’s one of the reasons that I will never work on anyone’s car for any reason. And there are similar reasons as to why I don’t fix any thing electronic anymore or why I don’t really do much with computers.

Well, today was interesting

Today I was interviewed by the lawyer for the defence.

Today was interesting.

Thankfully I’m on escitalopram. I’d hate to think how today would have turned out if I was my good ol’ self.

Being depressed and suffering from severe anxiety means that today would have been an absolute nightmare if I wasn’t medicated.

Sorry to say, but I can’t discuss anything that was discussed today. Not even supposed to discuss the evidence presented today with my lawyer who was also present during the examination.

Yesterday was interesting.

Yesterday was the first “in office” visit with my nurse practitioner since the start of the pandemic back in March of 2020.

My N.P. is the one who set me up with escitalopram last year when my brain started to seriously crack.

So yesterday was the first time that I had seriously talked to him about medical assistance in dying. We had talked on the phone various times over the last year as he was doing monthly check-ins to see how I was doing and we would discuss M.A.i.D..

However I was in person this time and we had a much better conversation. I explained to him why counselling couldn’t or wouldn’t work for me. No civilian counsellor would understand the mess I went through as kid. And no civilian counsellor or even a military counsellor would be able to sweep the crap out of my brain.

The damage is there, the damage is permanent, and the damage isn’t simply going away.

And no, I don’t want to learn how to live with it. I’ve lived with it long enough.

But I am getting way ahead of myself. I still don’t know what the specific criteria will be. And those criteria won’t be released until March 2023.

So, we’ll have to wait and see.

I’ve also had the opportunity to start shooting pictures in RAW mode with my camera.

I know, large jump from death to cameras, but hey, what the heck.

Movieland Arcade — RAW image converted to PNG.

RAW images are interesting in the sense that they can be truly manipulated. These images in RAW are the actual data unprocessed from the sensor.
These images have not been processed or compressed.
This RAW image is converted to PNG just for the sake of being able to be uploaded to my blog. The PNG format does have some compression.

If you have a Mac or an image program capable of viewing RAW files, here is the original RAW image.

https://www.dropbox.com/s/imnb8frl603f3u6/DSC03189.ARW?dl=0

Anyways, enough for now.

Empty on the inside

“What do you like to do Bobbie?”

“What are your interests?”

“You must have hobbies”

“What music do you like?”

“What do you and your friends like to do?”

The truth is that I don’t actually have any interests, any hobbies, or any friends.

I don’t like TV.

There are very few movies that I like.

I don’t like electronics.

I understand electronics. But I don’t like dabbling in electronics.

I bought various electronic kits over the years. For example I used the Raspberry Pi for a bit, I’ve also used the Arduino kits. Setting them up and programming them is easy enough. There’s just nothing inside of me that gives me any joy programming these devices.

I don’t like computers.

I can use computers. Computers are a tool just like any other tool. I can set them up. I can use them for writing reports. I can scan and archive. But I really don’t care for computers.

When my brother came to visit last year he said that he was sure that I liked cars. Nope. I understand how they work. I can work on them. But I don’t like them.

Music. I really had no interest until I was in my 20s. This I think was due to the way Richard belittled me for any interest that I had shown in music at school. Throw into that the fact that Earl Ray Stevens had used my desired to learn how to play drums as a way to sexually abuse me.

Also, as a form of punishment for causing our relocation from CFB Griesbach to CFB Downsview, Richard had thrown out my stereo, my records, and my 8-track tapes as punishment. This was a record collection that Uncle Doug, grandma, and my weekend job at Pizza Plus had allowed me to build. It wasn’t large. Maybe about twenty or thirty albums and 45s. The 8-tracks were mostly Uncle Doug’s. I was 11 when Richard threw out my stereo. The stereo had belonged to grandma, and it was mine when we moved from CFB Namao to CFB Griesbach. Uncle Doug bought grandma a new stereo system for her bedroom.

When we were younger and living on Canadian Forces Base Downsview, my brother always accused me of picking on him and making fun of the groups that he listened to. Even when I went up to Edmonton in 2013 and saw him over the summer he quizzed me to see if I knew the songs he was playing. And then he told me that he was always ashamed to sing along with his bands because I used to “tease him” when we were younger.

Tease him? Nope. I was going to Junior High in the period of ’84 through ’87. Poison, Cinderella, Guns ‘n’ Roses, Twisted Sister, Motley Crue, et. al. were standard fare at school and on the radio. I liked Van Halen, Quiet Riot, Slade, Queensryche, all the way to Supertramp, Bruce Hornsby and the Range, Peter Gabriel. So, it wasn’t that I didn’t like his music, or that I thought his music sucked. What I deeply despised him for was that he could play his music at any volume in his bedroom and neither Richard nor Sue would give a flying fuck. If I turned my music up above barely audible, Richard would fly off the fucking handle. My brother was allowed to have a stereo. I had to scrap together a used stereo out of a van. So yeah, there was some angst created there. I don’t know if Richard intentionally created this rivalry, or if he was just so fucking stupid that he didn’t realize what he was creating. What my brother also seems to forget is that Richard would make non-stop snide comments about the music we listened to. The comments didn’t seem to have much impact on my brother. It was like he was oblvious to Richard’s contempt. For some reason I was super sensitive to Richard’s snide comments and his put downs. C’est la vie I guess.

I think my lack of interest in TV comes down to two things.

The first was having a stunted imagination as a child. After the events on CFB Namao, and after being involved with Captain Terry Totzke, and with my father’s reaction to the events on CFB Namao, any imagination I had as a child was killed. Richard’s demeaning comments and his frequent sarcastic putdowns would kill the imagination in just about everyone he came in contact with. But the weird thing was he loved the original Star Trek, he loved the original Dr. Who, he loved Bug Bunny, and he loved the Batman TV series. I’ll never figure him out. He’s dead and gone. All I can put it down to is his self centred perspective and his superiority complex.

The second was that Sue would insist that we play outside which was fine with me as on Downsview I was mostly heading off to work at my after school jobs. On Griesbach things were a little worse as I only had my weekend job at Pizza Plus so week nights were spent wandering around North Edmonton no matter what the weather was like, and yeah, Edmonton can be quite cold in the winter.

So yeah, I’ve never really formed an attraction to TV.

When I met up with my brother last year, we went for a long walk around the seawall. He wanted to talk about whether or not I was really serious about wanting to undergo medical assistance in dying. I assured him that I was very serious about this and I explained to him why as well as my justifications for wanting to die.

I don’t know if he honestly believes that I was a psychiatrically fucked up as I was, or if Richard’s frequent assertions that I was just “acting up to get attention” have made it impossible for him to understand.

As we walked around the seawall we talked about other things, such as my skills with fixing cars. We ended up on the topic of electronics. He wanted to know why I wasn’t more involved with electronics. I told him that I was never very good at electronics to begin with, and that as I had no diploma in electronics any skills that I had were nothing more than a “hobby”. He replied that I had built so many things as a kid that he was sure that I liked electronics.

I told him that the one time it became very crystal clear to me that electronics was never to be in the cards for me was when I was in grade 8 and I had put together a helium-neon laser for science fair. I had salvaged the parts out of a couple of old Pioneer Video Laserdisc players. Mr. Bowles, my grade 8 science teacher was very impressed with the project and my writeup of how ionizing gas laser tubes worked. My father was pissed off because Mr. Bowles called my father at work to try to convince him that I should enter my project at the National Science Fair in Ottawa. My brother replied to me that I didn’t really build that laser, I just took it from a laserdisc player.

****insert abrupt vinyl record scratch noise here***

Narrator: It was at this point that Bobbie realized that maybe he was wrong, that maybe there was an afterlife, and that his dysfunctional father had risen from the grave and had gained control of his brother’s vocal cords in order to issue insults from beyond the grave.

Yeah, that was Richard’s thing back then. That I was just too fucking stupid to make anything on my own. That I was too fucking dumb to do anything with my life. That I was a liar. That I was fucking insane like my mother. That I had fucked with his military career.

And sure, it’s true the parts came from two non-functional video laserdisc players. But it took me picking the parts out of two players to make one functional 5mw helium-neon laser. These lasers, because of how much energy they emitted were under very strict control of the laserdisc player CPU. This meant that the laser power supply had to be modified to allow the laser to start and run without the CPU controlling it.

I had also built from scratch the twin 20watt push-pull power amplifiers that would drive the radial and tangential correction mirrors that I had repurposed into scanning mirrors. I could feed audio into the amplifiers and have the laser make patterns on the wall. I could feed the output of a frequency generator into the amplifier and make shapes on the wall. I could even feed the analog X-Y signals from an old Vectrex video game into the amplifier and play vector scan graphic video games on the wall. Was quiet messy though as I couldn’t figure out how to blank the beam.

It was basically Richard belittling and ridicule of my electronics skills that made me turn my back on electronics.

The final knife in my back came a few years later when I was servicing arcade games, pinball machines, and jukeboxes. I would have been around 16. The company that I worked for, Rainbow Games, had a Championship Sprint game in the shop that their technician couldn’t fix. This technician had a diploma from DeVry and a diploma from ITT Tech. He had been working on the game for weeks and couldn’t solve the problem. They were about to give up on this machine and scrap it for parts. I went through the schematics, went through the error codes list, and found that the problem was caused by a faulty 8-bit bi-directional latch on the data bus between the mother board and the graphics processor board. It took me two days to do what this DeVry / ITT tech trained technician couldn’t do. Hey Bruce, hey Ed, can I get a pay raise seeing as how I’m fixing more equipment than Len. Nope, sorry Rob, but you’re not a certified technician, it wouldn’t be right for us to pay you more without a diploma.

So, that drove the final nail into the coffin of my interest in electronics.

Computers honestly were never a thing for me.

So…… what are my interests?

Nothing.

Really.

I have no interests or desires.

I think that the depression that I inherited from Richard also explains why Richard was the way he was. He really didn’t have any interests either. What he had though was a gun pointed at his head. He had to learn avionics / aeroframe mechanics / electronics / computers if he wanted to be able to stay in the Canadian Forces. When Richard joined the Royal Canadian Navy in 1963 at the age of 17 with a grade 8 education and a remark from the enrolment officer stating that Richard was developing into a bit of a “rebel” in school, the Navy was more than happy to accept people like Richard. As the years went by though, the requirements to enlist went up and the expectations placed on the currently enlisted went up as well.

Richard’s education level is debatable. When I examined him for federal court in 2013, he claimed that he had grade nine. His enrolment records into the military also say grade nine. However, when I met Marie in 2013 I asked her how Richard and she met. She said that her brother, my uncle Al, and Richard had both attended the same grade 9 remedial program in Nova Scotia before they were allowed to join. Either Richard’s grade nine marks were too low to meet the requirements, or he only completed some of his grade nine.

By the time I tried to enlist when I was 18 grade 10 was the absolute minimum and there weren’t many trades in the military open with that minimal qualification. Grade 12 was preferred. And university or college was desired.

I don’t think that my father really had an interest in electronics or computers as his depression wouldn’t allow for it. My father did have the ability to learn electronics and computers, but that was mainly so that he could save his career in the military. In the ’70s and the ’80s there really wasn’t much need for a unilingual anglophone with a grade nine education.

I know first hand just how crushing depression can be, especially major depression.

Where did Richard’s sarcasm, his pettiness, and his desire to mock and ridicule come from? That I will never know. With my depression I’ve never felt the desire to ridicule or mock anyone. I just want to be left alone when I hit one of my crushing depressions. I know that grandma could be cruel. But I don’t remember her as ever being the type to mock or into ridicule. She was a very authoritarian type person who loved to discipline. I don’t know when exactly Arthur Herman Gill left grandma. I remember that Richard and his father were not close at all. Is that where Richard picked up his need to ridicule and mock? I don’t know when exactly Roy William Anderson and grandma hooked up. I honestly don’t remember much of Andy as he was only with us a short time before he slipped in the bathtub and suffered severe brain damage. Was Andy married to my grandmother when Richard was young? Did Andy mock and ridicule Richard?

Not my concern where Richard got his issues from.

What is my concern is that Richard, his defective parenting skills, his depression, his sarcasm, his need to feel superior, his need to ridicule, and his need to mock left a trail of destruction in his path.

And that is why I mainly feel completely void and empty and for the most part worthless.

And please, I’m not trying to be rude, but don’t try to cheer me up. Compliments are the hardest thing for me to accept. You could say that I have major trust issues. And when I was young, compliments were a way that people got their hands into my pants, or got me to do things for them.

So, as truthful as you may be with your compliments, my trust issues are burnt so deeply into my brain that I will never be able to accept a compliment without assuming that you’re buttering me up for something.

And trust me, it’s not you.

It’s me.

I know that.

Haven’t you tried?

Bobbie, why don’t you try to be happy? Bobbie, just don’t think about the past.

I’ve tried lots of things in my life to get over the past.

Pinpointing what has gone wrong in my life isn’t really all that simple. I wish that it was. Maybe that one thing that went wrong, I could get therapy for and then everything would be fine.

But it’s not just one little thing here, or one little thing there.

It’s an avalanche of things.

And it wouldn’t be so bad if these were things of my creation.

But they weren’t.

These were things that were gifted to me even though no one in their right mind would want these gifts.

Captain Father Angus McRae created a monster with P.S., and I have absolutely no doubt that it would have been Captain Father Angus McRae, in his role as base padre, that was recommending his very special altar boy to help out with families in need. Families like mine.

According to the court mail transcripts and the CFSIU investigation paperwork, the Canadian Armed Forces knew full well what had happened on that base from 1978 to 1980. And yet instead of helping out the abused children, the Canadian Forces circled the wagons.

The Canadian Armed Forces needed to get rid of Captain McRae with the least amount of publicity possible.

There is no way that the Canadian Forces were going to allow the Canadian public to discover that an officer of the Canadian Armed Forces had preyed upon and abused the children of junior rank personnel. And there was no way that the Canadian Forces were going to allow the Canadian public to know that Captain McRae had molested children on previous bases that he had been stationed at.

In 2020 when the MPCC released its final report of the 2nd portion of CFNIS GO 2011-5754, the MPCC stated that they couldn’t see how I could accuse the Canadian Forces of trying to hide what Captain McRae had done. Well, the simple fact is that there were over 25 children abused by Captain McRae no doubt with assistance from his altar boy P.S.. The military police and the CFSIU were well aware that Captain McRae was abusing more children that just P.S.. The court martial panel was well aware. But all Captain McRae was charged with was for abusing P.S.. The court martial was moved “in-camera” to protect “public morals”.

Now, it’s not like my father didn’t know. He knew. I became his scapegoat for anything that went wrong with my brother. I think that’s the reason I despised my brother so much when we were kids. Richard couldn’t and wouldn’t take responsibility for his family. So instead of raising my brother the way any decent father would have, he made me responsible for my brother.

Me, a kid who had already been found to be suffering from major depression and severe anxiety. Me, a kid who was terrified of being touched. Me, a kid who was so emotionally disturbed at the time that by the time Alberta Social Services became involved was supposed to be sent to a psychiatric hospital for emotionally disturbed children.

“Sent away” would have been to the “Alberta Hospital”

Yep, I looked after my brother, had to, Richard sure as fucking wasn’t.

Explains why my brother and I had such an intense sibling rivalry that we had to constantly be sent to separate schools.

Captain Terry Totzke knew. But instead of helping me with the trauma I had been through, and helping me with my depression and my anxiety, he decided that what I really needed was to work on not being a homosexual.

It really didn’t help that the Canadian Forces considered what Captain McRae had done with children between 5 to 15 as being “Acts of Homosexuality”. We all got tarred by that brush.

So not only was I not a victim that endured 1-1/2 years of childhood sexual abuse and a neglectful home life with a frequently absent father and an alcoholic grandmother. Instead I was a homosexual that enjoyed the abuse so much that I allowed, nay, encouraged P.S. to molest my brother.

In the aftermath of CFB Namao I tried suicide so many times, but I could never pull it off. You can’t go through what I did on CFB Namao and not want to kill yourself. My father was blaming me for what happened. Captain Terry Totzke was blaming me for what happened. The kids from CFB Namao and CFB Griesbach were tormenting me with what happened.

When you have severe depression and severe anxiety, you tend to cry and break down. Crying or just being sad was a trigger for Richard. So at home I would get all of the negative reinforcement that a child with major depression and severe anxiety should never have been exposed to. It was like a horrific negative feedback loop. The more I’d cry, the more backhands or belts I’d get, which would in turn result in more crying, which would result in more hits.

Wash….rinse…..repeat.

At the time, I had no idea of what the fuck was wrong with me. Why I was such a fuck up. Why I was such a loser. Why I couldn’t do anything right. Why I had no friends.

You honestly have no idea how badly I wanted to die. Or how many times I’d cry myself to sleep.

I used to suffer from frequent episodes of “derealization”. This is where, and it’s still hard for me to explain, but it was like I wasn’t myself, but I was watching myself like I was a movie or TV character, like I was seeing through the character’s eyes. And this shit used to creep me out. It turns out that “derealiztion” happens with sexual abuse, physical abuse, and neglect. All of which I had in spades.

There was a reason why my father told the Children’s Aid Society of Toronto that the involvement of Alberta Social Services was unwarranted.

And there’s a reason why my father kept telling Alberta Social Service that there wasn’t anything wrong with me.

Richard Gill knew what the problem was.

I had caused the problem by being a homosexual and by allowing P.S. to molest my younger brother.

That’s why neither Captain Totzke or my father followed through with any type of help for me from October of 1980 until November of 1981. And that is also why Captain Totzke and my father were at war with Alberta Social Services after my school teacher and school principal called Alberta Social Services in due to Totzke’s lack of action. I didn’t need help. I just needed to stop being a homosexual.

This telephone call was two days after Albert Social Services informed Captain Totzke
that if my father didn’t start participating in family counselling that I was going to be removed from the home and placed into foster care or residential care.

So, it wasn’t just that I had been abused sexually, physically, and mentally by P.S. and Captain McRae for 1-1/2 years on CFB Namao. I also spent 2-1/2 years being psychologically abused by Captain Terry Totzke and my father Master Corporal Richard Wayne Gill on CFB Griesbach. On Canadian Forces Base Downsview things never got any better between my father and I. In fact they spiralled down the shitter at an even faster rate.

And then there was Earl Ray Stevens. The commissionaire at the Denison Armouries who took the one thing that I really loved away from me. That was cadets. It was the only thing I cared about. But Earl could sense, like most pedophiles can sense, an abused child from a dysfunctional home. Even worse, Earl knew right from the start that my father was in the Canadian Forces and that I’d do anything to keep “our secret” a secret so that the military police and my father wouldn’t find out. Being that Earl was in the Canadian Corp of Commissionaires it’s a pretty good chance that Earl was in the Canadian Armed Forces prior to retiring and joining the Commissionaires. So I have no doubt that Earl would have had abused kids living on base, and Earl knew that abused military dependents keep their mouths shut, especially if they’re males.

So it’s not that I’m a loser, or a quitter.

I’m tired.

I’m burnt out.

And I’d like to go.

There is absolutely nothing holding me here.

And this isn’t a rash decision.

This is something that I’ve been pondering since the early 2000s when I first heard of people in Europe requesting medical suicide not for terminal medical conditions, but for depression.

Up until Canada passed its law, I had always wondered if I could save up enough money for a one way trip and go to sleep in a nice touristy town in Europe.

Now I don’t have to.

I can receive medical assistance in dying right here.

I wish there was a way to fix my brain, but there isn’t.

I don’t want electroconvulsive therapy, I don’t want mind altering drugs.

It’s not a matter of being unwilling, it that I’m not someone’s “fix-it” project.

Captain Terry Totzke and my father both taught me that “head shrinkers” are useless and cause nothing but trouble.

My father taught me the fine art of telling people what they want to hear.

And this shit is burnt so deep into my brain that it’s not going to be fixed.

And no, I don’t want to learn how to “cope”. I’ve had a lifetime of coping. Coping doesn’t do anything except ensure that you don’t upset others with your personal traumas.

I don’t believe in the afterlife. I don’t believe in heaven or hell.

There will be no punishment.

There will be no regret.

What there will be is the cessation of existence.

You can only suffer and carry regret and be in pain when you exist.

March 17, 2023

The clock has begun ticking.

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

Less than a year now before I start the process of applying for Medical Assistance in Dying.

It’s a weird kinda of sereneness.

Now that I know approximately when the end of my life will be, and that I won’t have to endure being tormented into my senior years with the flashbacks and memories from Canadian Forces Base Namao, I feel relaxed and calm.

And unlike suicide, being that M.A.i.D. is a medical procedure carried out with clinical precision, I don’t have any fears of botching the job and not doing it correctly or even ending up a vegetable for the remaining 30 years of my life.

All of the mental suffering and anguish that I have endured for the last 40 plus years will finally be over.

Captain Terry Totzke will no longer reside in my brain, nor will Captain Father Angus McRae, Peter S., my father Warrant Officer Richard Wayne Gill, or Earl Ray Stevens. Every member of the Canadian Armed Forces that hurt me will be gone from my brain, forever.

My time spent being torn asunder between Alberta Social Services and Captain Terry Totzke will come to an end.

It’s not that Alberta Social Services did anything wrong, Captain Terry Totzke just made sure that I didn’t tell anyone in the civilian world what had occurred on Canadian Forces Base Namao. He tried to portray himself as my friend, the guy who was trying to help me. He, and my father, both portrayed my civilian social workers as being the enemy. People that weren’t to be trusted. People that were trying to hurt me. There was no way that Captain Totzke or his chain of command were going to allow me to tell my civilian social workers about what had transpired on Canadian Forces Base Namao from October 1978 until May of 1980. Especially not with Captain Father Angus McRae having admitted during his Ecclesiastical trial in June of 1980 that he had been molesting children for years. McRae molested 25 children on CFB Namao. How many did he molest on CFS Holberg, or CFB Portage La Prairie, or even CFB Kingston. 50 kids total? 100 kids total?

The Canadian Forces and the Canadian Forces Special Investigations Unit were well aware at the time that McRae was bringing children over to the chapel and giving them beer and wine before escorting them into the bedroom of the rectory to “fool around”. How many kids like me were there that have vague memories of being escorted to the chapel by our babysitter, playing games and watching TV, and then being given a “sickly sweet grape juice” and not remembering anything after that?

Children’s Aid Society of Toronto records.
The blacked out info is my father’s name Richard and Rick.

Reading my foster care record from November of 1981 until April of 1983 shows that my father was outright hostile towards Alberta Social Services. No doubt this was encouraged by Captain Terry Totzke.

This is my grandmother that Richard “forgot” to tell the CFNIS about in 2011.
I still don’t know if Richard didn’t tell the CFNIS of her by his own decision or if the CFNIS suggested that it would be best if he didn’t mention her as her presence in the PMQ would complicate things for the CFNIS in 2011.

Grandma had issues from her time in Indian Residential School when she was a child.
This no doubt contributed to her hostile personality.

*Alberta Social Services Observation of my father Richard Wayne Gill.*

So, why wasn’t my father too eager to work with Alberta Social Services considering how emotionally disturbed I was?

Captain Terry Totzke would have already explained to my father, Master Corporal Richard Wayne Gill, that I had obviously been having sex with Peter because I was a homosexual and that I had allowed this to go on for over a year because I was a homosexual.

Section 70 of the 1970 National Defence Act.
Sure, my father could have done the right thing, but that would have taken a backbone.

Captain outranks Master Corporal. And the National Defence Act and its section on “Insubordination” would have meant that my father would have paid attention to the words of a captain.

This is why my bedroom door had been taken off both on CFB Griesbach and on CFB Downsview. This is why I wasn’t allowed to participate in sports. Even though it was my father that said that he wasn’t going to allow me to go swimming with my class at the Kinsmen Sports Centre “because there’d be other naked boys in the change room and that I wouldn’t be able to control myself”, I have absolutely no doubt that it was Captain Totzke that told my father to keep me away from other boys. After all it was Captain Totzke, or Terry as I knew him, that had warned me early on that he had the base military police watching me and that if I ever tried to kiss or touch another boy that I’d be sent off to the Alberta Hospital for treatment.

And homosexuality was a major no-no in the Canadian Forces back in the 50s through to the ’90s. The official military policy was that homosexuality was a mental illness. CFAO 19-20 was the official CF policy toward homosexuality.

Yes, CFAO 19-20 would have only applied to persons subject to the Code of Service Discipline. But once you’ve been trained the in military way and trained to enforce military policies you can’t just turn that training on and off at will.

So yes, it will be so nice to finally be free of Captain Totzke and my father.

You have absolutely no idea of what it’s like to navigate through life not knowing why you don’t like sex with women, but you also don’t like sex with men. Everyone assumes I’m gay because I don’t have sex with women. The problem is that I’m not into guys either. I actually find sex and the concept of sex to be disgusting.

I wear dresses, not because I consider myself to be a woman. I wear dresses because they’re comfortable and I believe that pants are stupid considering male anatomy. I also wear dresses I believe because I had been told all of my life that I wasn’t allowed to play on the men’s team because of what I had done on CFB Namao with P.S. and Captain McRae.

When you’re told that your not good enough to play by the rules, you play by your own rules.

To further complicate things, I had been diagnosed as having major depression and severe anxiety. And no doubt I was suffering from what would now be termed “Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder “.

After CFB Namao and CFB Griesbach I learned to live in solitude.

I legally changed my name in 2008 thinking that I could get a fresh start and leave CFB Namao behind.

I honestly do love my chosen name, but it didn’t erase my past as I had hoped.

I’m still Robert Wayne Gill, the 8 year old who was caught getting fucked in the ass by his almost 15 year old babysitter on Canadian Forces Base Namao in May of 1980. I’m still Robert Wayne Gill, the 7 and 8 year old boy that allowed the 14 year old babysitter to molest his younger brother. I’m still Robert Wayne Gill, the 9 to 11 year old boy who received “conversion therapy” at the hands of Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Terry Totzke. And I’ll be that Robert Wayne Gill until the day I draw my last breath.

Knowing the truth about CFB Namao and the direct connection between my babysitter and Captain McRae doesn’t erase the past. I just made me understand that I have very little control over my life and that other people made some very fucking horrific decisions about my life even before I had a chance to begin living my life.

I’ve had to work so fucking hard in my life just to get to where I am. And I am still so fucking vulnerable it’s not funny. One simple little fucking mistake in life and I fall and I fall hard. There is no safety net for me. There is no inheritance for me to rebound off of. There is absolutely no family for me to be able to depend on.

So I took the path in life that was very carefully navigated.

Every day of my life up to this point I have wondered where I life I could have gone had I been encouraged to finish school, an go on to college or university. Even trade school. Almost every successful tradesman started out on an apprenticeship when they were young and living at home and they didn’t have to worry about paying for the course, or the books, or anything else.

CMAC says that the majority of first time home buyers get help from the Bank of Mom and Dad. So I missed out on that.

It drives me up the wall the number of times that coworkers, or managers, or even outside trades, contractors , and suppliers say to me “Bobbie, you’re wasting your time/talents here, you’ve got the smarts you should be over there doing that and making a fortune”. Fine, sure, you gonna let me move in to your house so that you can pay my bills and feed me while I take the 4 or 5 year full-time program to get the degrees required to pursue that line of work? Didn’t think so.

And after having been what I’ve been though in life, and with my depression and anxiety, I’m not exactly a pleasant person to be around. No, I’m not offensive or unpleasant. But I have no hobbies, and I have no interests. I don’t care about sportsball teams. I don’t care about TV shows. I don’t gossip. I like music, but I keep my interests to myself. I’m an odd fucker that just doesn’t fit in. I have no interest in hearing about your family. I don’t care about your kids. I was never taught the art of small talk. This makes a person very fucking vulnerable.

As I’ve said in other blog entries, I picked up electronics, automotive, and computer skills as a kid in the hopes that it would create some sort of connection between my father and I. But that connection was so damaged that nothing was ever going to fix it.

I haven’t wrenched on a car since I stopped driving back in 1998.

When it comes to electronics or computers at work, I pretend to be abso-fucking-lutely stupid.

Up until recently I had about $1k worth of soldering equipment at home for electronic projects that I always wanted to start on, but never did. There is no passion or drive inside anymore. Any interest that I had in electronics died back in the mid ’90s when I realized that no matter how good I was at troubleshooting and repairing electronics I was never going to be an electronics technician. “We can’t pay you a technicians wage, you’re not certified”. “We can’t hire you for the technician’s position as you don’t have a diploma”. “Sure, you’ve got electronic skills and you beat a licenced technician in a test, but you’re not qualified without a diploma”. Basically what I was hearing all of my life was “You let the babysitter abuse your younger brother, we can’t hire you, it’s your fault”

I had a friend that used to get me to work on motorcycles for him. I told him that I despised doing mechanical or electrical work on motorcycles. But he kept on pushing me as he was certain that I’d get to like repairing motorcycles as I had a natural talent for fixing mechanical and electrical problems. This friendship died about 10 years ago. Yes, I have an unnerving ability to troubleshoot electrical, electronic, and mechanical problems, but it doesn’t mean that this is what I would have liked for a career.

So many possibilities were on my horizon, but the way in which the Canadian Armed Forces reacted to Captain Father Angus McRae stripped away from me any of the possibilities that could have been mine. And that’s the knowledge that I am going to live with until I draw my final breath.

So, I’m where I am, not because I want to be, nor because I deserve to be here. I’m where I am because it pays the bills and keeps me fed.

I have never sought help with my depression or my anxiety primarily because I had no idea that I had depression, or anxiety, or cptsd. I was told that I was acting the way I was and behaving the way I was because I was a homosexual that allowed my younger brother to be molested.

Battling the CFNIS and the Canadian Forces since 2011 sure hasn’t helped matters much.

And to be told recently that my former babysitter P.S., and the man in the sauna both have more legal rights than I do is just one of the many nails the CFNIS have driven into my coffin since 2011.

These are the reasons that I am looking forward to M.A.i.D.

Yes, M.A.i.D. will result in my death, but that’s the price I am more than willing to pay to erase the memories of:
My father and his drinking and his anger issues;
The fact my mother ran off and left me with my father;
Being raised by my grandmother, who had her own issues;
Peter S.;
The memories of watching Peter S. abuse the other children, including my brother;
The 5 visits to the chapel on CFB Namao;
The sickly sweet grape juice;
The fact that my father sent me on one of these visits with Peter;
My involvement with Captain Terry Totzke;
Being called a homosexual by both Captain Totzke and my father for what I had “allowed” to happen on CFB Namao;
My confusing involvement with Alberta Social Services;
Being blamed by my father for “fucking with his military career” and for being the cause of our April ’83 posting to Canadian Forces Base Downsview that “ruined his fucking career”;
My involvement with Earl Ray Stevens, a former member of the Canadian Forces and a then current member of the Canadian Corps of Commissionaires;

I’m tired, I’m burnt the fuck out, my brain is fried, and it’s time for me to go.

Sure, I could live until I’m 70 or maybe even 80. But the fuck for?

So that I can remember that Minister Sajjan accused me of trying to scam the Canadian Forces for a quick buck?

So that I can remember MWO Eisenmenger calling me a liar in July of 2011 and accused me of making up the story about Peter S.?

So that I can constantly remember how horrific of a fucking liar my father was?

So that I can remember all of those nights as a kid when I’d cry myself to sleep wishing that I’d be dead in the morning? And the times I tried to make sure that I was dead in the morning.

So that I can remember all of the times Peter would get me to bathe with him so he could stick his fingers in my ass to get me ready for his penis?

So that I can remember all of the times that Peter would hit me, slap me, and kick me if I didn’t perform oral sex on him they way he liked it?

Nope.

Departure time is coming.

I’ve got my ticket.

And nobody is going to stop me from turning my brain off and leaving this shit of a life behind.

The Actual Procedure.

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

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

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

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

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

The process I wish to undergo involves four common drugs.

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

This is the protocol used in British Columbia.

From the Canadian Association of MAiD Assessors and Providers

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

They three main drugs are Midazolam, Propofol, Roccuronium.

Lidocaine seems to be used as a painkiller.

Bupivacaine seems to be used to ensure cardiac arrest.

These drugs are used every day in health care.

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

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

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

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

My last day is sure to be odd.

This would definitely be a day of “lasts”.

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

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

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

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

Enjoy the nice long walk home.

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

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

I’d also take my final shower.

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

Probably just me and the doc.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that will be that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My father in general. My grandmother in general.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing will make them go away.

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

The world will go on without me.

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

Never again will they haunt me or torment me.

I will be out of their reach.

Forever.

And I will finally be at peace.

Normal

Will things ever go back to normal for me?

That’s the problem, things were never normal for me.

It’s not like I got touched inappropriately one day and that was it.

The abuse went on for 1-1/2 years.

The subsequent psychological abuse then went on for another 2-1/2 years with my father’s knowledge and participation.

My family was dysfunctional before the events of CFB Namao.

The dysfunctionality became far worse after CFB Namao.

There are no drugs I could take to make me “normal”.

There is no therapy that will make me normal.

I don’t have a normal to go back to.

And there is nothing that will undo what was done without causing significant brain impairment.

I’m in a career that isn’t something that I would have chosen if I had been given a chance. The career that I’m in is one that I was able to fall into because the requirements were low enough and I had the intelligence to meet them.

I’ve spent the last 35+ years of my life working just to keep a roof over my head and keep food in my belly.

I’ve never once had the opportunity to be something that I wanted to be.

I was either too busy working, or I was too emotionally dead and self loathing to do anything.

Just like everyone else, when I was young I must have had dreams of what I wanted to be when I grew up, but that was so long ago I can’t even remember what they were.

What happened on CFB Namao and the way it was handled by the Canadian Armed Forces sent my life off on a trajectory for which there is absolutely no recovery.

What is the Government of Canada willing to pay?

Definitely not enough to ever undo the damage that was done. There is no amount of money that can ever undo what I’ve suffered through.

Definitely not enough to ever give me back the time that was stolen from me.

Even in 2011 the Canadian Forces via the National Investigation Service were trying to convince me that I was just making things up and exaggerating things. To them I was just collateral damage from a decision made 30 years prior by persons no longer in the Canadian Armed Forces.

How does the Government of Canada and the Canadian Forces ever make up for the lies they told me and the humiliation they made me suffer due to their farcical investigation in 2011.

The Canadian Forces took away the only chance that I would have ever had to have my father apologize for the lies he told me and the hell he put me through as a child.

My father had a choice.

In 1980 my father could have raised a stink about how the Chain of Command had buried most of the charges brought against Captain McRae.

In 1980 my father chose to go along with the chain of command decisions.

In 1980 my father chose to play along with Captain Terry Totzke.

In 1980 my father chose the Canadian Forces over his own children.

In 2011 my father again chose the Canadian Forces over his children.

When my father gave his statement to the CFNIS in 2011, there was absolutely no way that he would have forgotten to mention the fact that grandma had resided with us since early 1977 and that she had been living in Richard’s PMQ on base and was raising my brother and I.

Either he was too much of a fucking pussy to admit that he wasn’t man enough to raise his own children and that he needed his mother to raise his children for him or the CFNIS suggested that he not mention grandma.

Either way, someone knew that grandma was going to be a very big problem.

Richard wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t remember hiring a babysitter.

He didn’t, it was his mother. He even admitted as much in 2006.

Richard wasn’t lying when he said that he didn’t remember a babysitter being in the house.

He wasn’t home very often while we lived on CFB Namao. He was always off on training exercises or living with his girlfriends off base. But then again, both he and Sue stopped by one weekend for a visit when Peter was sexually assaulting my brother and I in the basement. So Richard was obviously cognizant that Peter was looking after us.

But Richard did lie none the less.

He knew who the babysitter was as he would freely use Peter’s name while we lived on CFB Downsview.

He knew who the babysitter was when I spoke to him in 2006 about the babysitter. He pleaded with me to not blame him, after all it was his mother that hired the babysitter.

So, he lied.

And he lied because I was worthless to him.

Richard was the only person that mattered in Richard’s world.

After all, I was the kid that fucked with his military career. It was my apparent frequent homosexual relationships with Peter that got us bounced off CFB Namao to CFB Griesbach. It was my mental health issues that got us bounced from CFB Griesbach to CFB Downsview. It was because I was only concerned about myself that at 8 years of age I allowed the 14 year old babysitter to molest my 6 year old brother.

My father knew who the babysitter was because every time my brother got into trouble while we lived on CFB Downsview, it was my fault for letting Peter touch my younger brother.

And yet in 2011, he lied through his teeth. He lied either at the request of the CFNIS, or he lied to cover up for the fact that he was a very incompetent father.

Either way he chose the Canadian Forces over me.

That’s not something that I’ll ever forget, or forgive.

He’s not here to apologize for it.

Sexual relationships to me have always been about having to surrender my body to someone older than me and doing what they tell me to do.

To me, sex is not about pleasure or fun.

Sex is something that others use to control you.

Sex is only something you have when others want something from you.

Sex is dirty.

Sex is filthy.

Sex was a very confusing subject for me when I was growing up.

From age 9 until age 11 I was in the care of a military social worker who was trying to help me with the mental illness I was exhibiting. At the time I had no idea he was in the Canadian Forces. I only knew him as Terry.

Terry was upset with me for having had homosexual sex with Peter. Terry would tell me time and time again that he had the military police watching me and that if I ever kissed or touched another boy that I would be sent off to the Alberta Hospital.

My father would parrot everything that Terry had to say.

In August of 2011 I would learn that Terry was Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Terry Totzke.

In 2018 I would learn that the Canadian Forces had viewed what Captain McRae had done in 1978 to 1980 as being “acts of homosexuality”. This meant that in the eyes of the Canadian Armed Forces all of the children involved with Peter And Captain McRae were homosexuals.

And with the time of me being caught being buggered in Peter’s bedroom coinciding with the start of the investigation of Captain Father Angus McRae I would say that it had been my being caught with Peter as being the catalyst for the investigation into Peter that eventually led to the investigation of Captain McRae.

But again, I wasn’t a victim. I was a homosexual.

See, that’s the difference between someone who was sexually assaulted as a child and never told anyone and me.

I may have kept my mouth shut about what had happened.

But people knew what happened. Hence why I was put in the care of Captain Totzke.

Yes, I was diagnosed as being beyond despair and beyond depression. I was noted as being severely anxious. I was noted as being terrified of men. I was convinced my father was going to kill me. And I did not like being physically touched. But looking back, this isn’t what Captain Totzke was concerned with.

For almost 2-1/2 years all Terry was concerned about was what I had done with Peter on CFB Namao.

For the entirety of the time I lived with my father until I moved out of his house when I turned 16 he was always pissed off with how I had fucked with his military career and how I had allowed Peter to fuck with my younger brother.

I had found an escape via cadets.

But Earl Ray Stevens took cadets away from me and reaffirmed to me that I must be a homosexual.

Somehow Earl knew that I was a military dependent and that I lived in an environment in which the threat of being exposed as a homosexual was enough to keep a kid’s mouth shut.

It wouldn’t be until years later that I realized why Earl had chosen me over any of the other kids in cadets is he knew that I was a base brat. He knew that my father was in the Canadian Forces.

Earl was in the Canadian Corp of Commissionaires. Earl had been in the Canadian Armed Forces himself. I wasn’t the first military dependent that Earl sexually abused. He knew that military dependents would be more inclined to keep their mouths shut.

How many other children did Earl sexually abuse on the various bases that he had been stationed on during his career.

I learnt from Earl that no one ever really tells the truth, that people will lie and deceive to get what they want, and that people will pay money for silence.

So, after all these years, will I ever be normal?

No, normal is not something that I will ever be.

Normal is such a foreign concept to me.

Yes, not being normal has allowed me to do things that I wouldn’t ever have tried if I was “normal”.

Facial tattoos? I love them. I’m proud of them. But they don’t belong in the world of the “normals”.

Dresses? I love them. They’re very comfortable to wear. They’re also very practical as well. But men don’t wear dresses in the world of the “normals”.

Lonely? Yep, I’m lonely. But this is something that I’ve had 40 years to get accustomed to.

In the period of Nov 1981 to Apr 1983 my civilian social workers had noted that I was completely unable to form friendships. It wasn’t that I was unfriendly. It was noted that I was afraid of others and that I preferred to keep to myself and just read books. I couldn’t express emotions such as happiness or sadness. I was unable to cry.

What will money bring me? Nothing really.

It will give me some breathing room, maybe do some of the things I’ve always wanted to do but was unable to do.

But it will also bring out those who feel that I was just grifting the military all along.

So, it’s really a no-win situation.

My Affidavit

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

So, this is another step closer to the end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m tired.

My brain is literally burnt out.

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

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

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

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

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

There is just the here and now.

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

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

An interesting issue.

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

It’s odd.

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

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

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

And it’s kinda a weird feeling.

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

Am I sad?

No. Not really.

My name will live on in the project documents.

I was here. I did something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Am I sad?

Nope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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