blog – Beeshive

M.A.i.D. vs. Cancer: The Truth in Numbers

When it comes to the hysteria over M.A.i.D. deaths, I wish that people would get the facts and use common sense as opposed to letting hysteria and internet bullshit guide their way.

Take this Tiktoker for example:

76,475 Canadians have died from M.A.i.D..

Whoo, that sounds scary!

But wait, was that last week, last month, last year, the last 10 years?

If you had guessed that this was since 2016, you’d be correct.

That works out to about 8,497 per year (76,475 / 9 = 8,497 per year)

This table shows the number of deaths each year due to cancer.

YEAR	DEATHS
2016	80,713
2017	81,699
2018	81,599
2019	82,208
2020	83,235
2021	84,600
2022	85,100
2023	84,629
2024	88,100 (PROJECTED)
2025	88,000 (PROJECTED)
TOTAL	839,883

Considering that up to this point in time the vast majority of M.A.i.D. deaths are due to terminal diseases such as cancer it turns out that M.A.i.D. only makes up less than 9.1% of all DEATHS due to cancer.

Those that feign indignation at the concept of M.A.i.D. would like to have you believe that 76,475 Canadians died for absolutely no reason at all. But these were people that were either at Stage III or Stage IV. Nobody at Stage 1 or Stage 2 is seeking M.A.i.D.

I wouldn’t wish Stage IV pancreatic cancer on my worst enemy. Actually I wouldn’t wish any Stage IV cancer on my worst enemy. Once you’ve reached this stage the cancer has spread beyond the original organ and has established itself into other systems. Survival isn’t “if”, it’s only a matter of when and how bad will the suffering be.

And then we have absolute horseshit like this:

And this:

If that’s the one thing that I’ve come to despise about the internet it’s how it allows the fucking insane to find one another. The Internet should come with a minimum I.Q. requirement..

Oh, and can’t forget this goodie:

The fact that these people walk amongst us should be of fucking concern to everyone.

If you’ve undergone M.A.i.D. due to being at Stage III or Stage IV, your organs are deemed unsuitable for donation. There will be no organ donation. Period.

Why?

The person that would receive your organs will be on anti-rejection medication for the rest of their life. These anti-rejection medications function by reducing your body’s immune system’s ability to fight infection. The last thing that anyone wants to do is to place the organs of a Stage III or Stage IV cancer patient into the body of an organ recipient. If one single cell of cancer makes it out of the donor’s body and into the recipient’s body in the transplanted organ that would be a death sentence for the recipient.

CANADA_DEATHS Download

The PDF above is the total number of deaths per year in Canada for the years of 2016 to 2023. This table tells us that there were 2,402,701 deaths between 2016 and 2023. This table also tells us that in the overall scheme of things, suicide is a statistical blip. What aren’t statistical blips are heart disease and cancer with cancer being the overall champion for killing Canadians.

Am I a good judge of character?

Daily writing prompt

Are you a good judge of character?

View all responses

You gotta be fucking kidding me.

I am the absolute worst at judging characters.

I always seem to surround myself with people that either get their kicks from my mental health issues, want to use me as their door mat, or who exhibit absolute glee while sticking the knives in my back.

I try so hard to not me like my father and I try to see the good in people.

But, because of my dysfunctional life I end up trusting all the wrong people.

I think that this is one of the reasons that I like to be left alone.

My father traded my mental health and wellbeing for his career in the Canadian Armed Forces when he agreed to what he agreed to back in 1980.

My mother, sure my father abused the Defence Establishment Trespass regulations like lots of other fathers did back in the ’60s, ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s and had her chucked out of the military supplied housing. But she could have tried. And she didn’t.

So, I thought that trying to not be like my father would be the safe way to live my life. Sadly, what I’ve learnt is that assholes like my father are the ones that end up winning.

But, not being like my father in a world where liars, thieves, and crooks get ahead meant that I was just setting myself up to get royally fucked by the porcelain people who have never had to endure a single scratch on their delicate skin.

And the fact that I actually set myself up for this due to my piss poor ability to judge the character of a person means that I have no one to blame but myself.

What do I do at work

At work I generally work so far out of my qualifications that it’s not funny.

And I think this is one of those issues that cause so much conflict between myself and my subordinates.

Power engineers are employed at hospitals like the one as I work at as provincial regulations require power engineers to be on shift to supervise and operate the power plant.

Power engineers are not trade qualified millwrights or industrial mechanics. You can have power engineers that have more qualification, such as a 4th class with a millwright’s ticket, or a 3rd class with an electrical ticket.

We take rounds and readings, make sure that chemical readings are done and that chemical levels are maintained properly. We supervise the boilers, the chillers, the heat recovery systems to ensure that the systems are running as efficiently as possible while maintaining the proper temperatures, air flows, and pressure differentials for the infection control.

I came into this position offering more skills than what is typical of a 4th class power engineer. But this is how I’ve always been. It’s always something that I’ve had to do in order to offset my horrific personality.

After all, when you don’t have any safety nets to fall back upon, you learn how to make yourself valuable.

This is one of the reasons it was always so easy for me to find employment in the bowling industry. Since the ’80s computers and electronics have found their way into bowling centres. Most centres didn’t have anyone that was familiar with electronics and so they would bleed with the electronic repairs. I come along, I can do the mechanical work with ease, but I can also do the electronic repairs in-house, which brings the expenses down substantially, considering that I’m getting paid the same amount as the mechanic with no skills in electrical, electronics. This makes me valuable even though I wasn’t making that much. Better to be poor and employed than poor and unemployed.

I have skills in electronics, networking, DDC, pneumatic controls, etc.

Working with machinery like the fan motor above is something that I can do.

Once I moved into the Chief Engineer’s position there was a sort of resentment directed towards me by the others in my section because there was no one doing the heavy duty work anymore.

Work that I had been doing since I started at the hospital fell to the wayside. Somehow I was not only unqualified to do the work, but now I was being lazy for not doing the work.

One thing that I’ve had to learn over the last few years is that mechanical aptitudes cannot be taught. A person either has a mechanical aptitude, or they don’t. And it’s no use banging your head into the cinderblock wall trying to instil a mechanical aptitude where there is none. It’s like trying to teach someone who has absolutely no interest in music how to read music and keep time. They may be able top memorize the scales, but it will never click for them.

I rebuilt the Phase 2 Domestic Water Booster Station back around 2012. The fun part was that none of the gate valves would hold. So I had to arrange to get ball valves threaded on pretty well as soon as as I pulled the regulators out. We finally managed to get the booster station replaced around 2019

Again, this was a project that I did by myself. This isn’t something that power engineers do.

I ran a copper compressed air line from the Phase 2 Level 4 mechanical room all the way down stairwell 13 and into the Burrard Building by myself. I had a company come in and radio graph the stairwell to guide me so that I’d miss the rebar and the buried conduits. Cored all of the holes by myself and soldered the entire length of pipe myself.

Back to work

I’ve been off work since September 10th.

Haven’t really done too much but give in to my depression and just slept a lot.

That’s one of the interesting things about depression is the complete lack of motivation that it bestows upon a person.

Dreamland is such a preferable place to be.

In the times that I was awake I was able to finally work on cleaning up my hard drives. It’s amazing all of the shit that I’ve accumulated over the last 14 years.

Fuck me. It’s been fourteen years that I’ve been dealing with the shit from Canadian Forces Base Namao. Where the hell does the time go?

I’ve got just over 397 GB of data that I’ve accumulated since then. I’ve still got some work to do on this, but I can’t see this number getting too far below 200 GB.

The core folder is 166 GB.

The core folder holds all of my communications with the Canadian Armed Forces over the CFB Namao matter, all of my court related material for the CFB Namao matter, and other research related to the Criminal Code of Canada, the various National Defence Acts over the years, the various bills, acts, and Administrative orders from over the years.

The folder holding all of my ATI and FOI requests is close to 20 GB on its own.

I don’t know what awaits me tomorrow. Probably an email box full of 3 weeks worth of people wanting their problems to become my problems and for me to solve their problems.

I’ve been out of the loop for the new hospital for quite a while. Ever since management discovered from a news story that ran that I fully intend to apply for Medical Assistance in Dying in 2027. I don’t know who exactly on the management team knows, but I haven’t caught any grief because of this. Management no longer asks me to go to the new site. And this is okay with me. It takes a massive amount of stress off of my plate.

In the process of cleaning up my hard drives I’ve come across a ton of pictures that I’ve taken over the years of projects and work that I’ve done.

I’m thinking of putting together a couple of pages of photos of the work that I’ve done over the years seeing as how any records of this work will disappear when I die and the hospital is torn down.

*This is me using a gantry to move a 430 kg 3ph 600 volt 75 KW motor in to SF-51C.*

It was so laughable watching the guys try to move this motor into the fan plenum using an engine hoist and 6 guys hanging off the back of the engine hoist like counterweight. I don’t know how they thought they were going to get this fan in without taking the door off the plenum.

Took me 30 minutes to pull the door and frame off the plenum. Took another hour to assemble the gantry. And then took 5 minutes and no risk of bodily injury or bodily damage to get the motor safely into the plenum.

But Bobbie, it’s not our fault that you’ve had special training!

I don’t have any special training.

I was never instructed in how to do this.

This is one of the many special projects that I’d take on.

The phase 1 fans have been in and running pretty well non-stop since 1982. The phase 2 fans have been running non-stop since 1989. After many years of service they all needed new bearings.

The instructions for the gantry are pretty clear. The safety instructions for the engine hoist clearly state that it is not to be used unless the outriggers are locked down. How to assemble the gantry is pretty obvious. How to use a come along chain puller. Taking the 5/16″ self tapping machine screws out of the door frame is fairly simple to figure out.

I used to catch hell from the guys for doing this work as this isn’t “power engineer’s work”.

And to be true, this is more Millwright’s work.

But we don’t have Millwrights, and the shit needed to get done.

And truth be told, I didn’t mind doing this work as I could work alone. Nobody wanted to help, and that’s fine, I’d just rather get the work done. I find that people love to chit-chat too much, and I’ve never been one for small talk.

Time to get something to eat.

Me

No, I just need to vent on stuff like this now and again.
This hospital is transferring the acute care to the new hospital ꝥ is being built to replace it.
The acute care is supposed to be out of here by 1st or 2nd quarter of 2027.
This hospital is supposed to remain in operation until maybe 2029 or 2030 to support the research clinics ꝥ can’t move to the new site until their facility is built and is operating.
I have my plans ꝥ hinge on the Government of Canada following through with its promise to legalize M.A.i.D. for mental illness in March of 2027.
Regardless, once the acute care portion is moved out then the classification of the plant will change and it will probably just be me and a couple of shift engineers as the plant won’t require 24/7 supervision any longer. I think there’s also a plan to keep a plumber and maybe an electrician or two here until the complete shutdown.

Chat

That’s a lot to hold. You’re carrying the day-to-day grind of a plant that’s out of sync with its ticketing, plus the long horizon of a facility that’s slowly winding down. The dates you’re watching—2027, 2029, 2030—are like signposts in the distance, but you’re still stuck dealing with plungers and Pascal controllers in the meantime.

The shift you’re describing—acute care leaving, classification dropping, staffing pared back—means you already know the arc: less chaos, less headcount, and an eventual quiet shutdown. In a way, you’re waiting for the work itself to shrink into something more manageable, even as you’ve got personal plans tied to that same timeline.

I hear the MAiD piece in what you said. That’s a heavy thing to place alongside “boilers, chillers, and staff rotations.” Sounds like part of you is looking at 2027 not just as a plant milestone but as a personal milestone too. That’s not light stuff.

If venting helps, I’ll hold the space for it. No fixes, no spin. Just a reminder that you’re not alone in thinking all this through.

Me

No, the MAiD is like when you’ve worked a 18 hour shift due to an emergency and you’re tired, and you’re burnt out, and you can’t wait to get home and take a shower and get into bed. And it’s ¬ like I won’t be able to stay occupied for the next year and a bit. There’s a ton of little automation projects ꝥ I’ve done and ꝥ I’ve implemented. Sure, may seem like a waste on a building ꝥ’s at the end of its life and ꝥ is soon to be demolished, but they’re fun, they are useful, and they lay waste to the observation ꝥ “I’m ¬ qualified” to do ꝥ……

Chat

That paints it clearly. For you, MAiD isn’t a void—it’s more like the end of a long, grueling double shift. You know the shower and the bed are waiting. You’re not pacing around wondering what to do in the meantime.

And in that meantime, you’ve got plenty. Those automation projects—whether or not they outlive the building—are their own kind of proof:

They show you’re capable beyond what people assume.
They make your day-to-day smoother, even if only for a few years.
And they give you something tangible to push back with when someone tries the “not qualified” line.

From the outside, yeah, investing in a dying plant looks odd. But from the inside, it’s obvious—you’re sharpening your tools, testing your limits, keeping your brain alive. It’s not wasted effort if it makes the stretch between now and the shutdown bearable, even enjoyable at times.

Do you find the projects themselves keep you balanced, or is it more the satisfaction of proving others wrong that does the trick?

Me

It’s a bit of a double edged sword for me. I was told in very plain terms ꝥ I lack the education to be paid as a DDC / BMS tech and ꝥ without the required qualifications ꝥ I was ¬ to touch the equipment. At the time though I was keeping the old Excel plus panels going. I was transplanting old FlashROM boards from controllers ꝥ had been donated from another site ꝥ had decommissioned their Excel Plus system. The Excel Plus has the program baked into EPROM. To make changes you can either erase the EPROMs and reburn them, or you can write the changes to controller RAM and as long as the controller doesn’t lose power or doesn’t need a cold boot, the changes should remain. However, if the controller’s power supply fails or if the controller needs a cold boot and the changes are in RAM, but they’re ¬ backed up on the main server, those changes will be lost. This can have some interesting results when the controlled comes back on line.
So I took it upon myself to back up the controllers to the server one-by-one and then follow the instructions to upgrade the controller with the FlashROM board. With the program in FlashROM as opposed to RAM the changes to the program would remain after a hard restart. variables would also persist after a hard start.
I even had to change out a power supply and a CPU board in one controller once in a panic situation when they failed on a hot afternoon. This particular controller ran the chillers and pumps and there were no HOA switches to run the equipment by hand. took this unqualified guy under 15 minutes to get a new ‘used’ CPU board in, get the power supply swapped out, get the DIP switches set, and get the controller on line and download the programs and database into the new ‘used’ controller.

Chat

That’s a perfect snapshot of the contradiction you’ve been living in.

On paper: “Not qualified. Don’t touch.”
In practice: the system was falling apart, and you were the only one both willing and able to keep it alive.

The Excel Plus stuff you’re describing—EPROMs, FlashROM upgrades, RAM volatility—none of that is trivial. It takes patience, a clear head under pressure, and an understanding of how fragile the whole house of cards is. Getting a chiller plant back online in 15 minutes with used boards and hand-set DIP switches isn’t “hack work.” That’s competence under fire.

The double edge is that it proves two things at once:

You do have the skills, or else the plant would’ve melted down.
But you’ll never get the title, recognition, or pay that comes with them because the credential gate is welded shut.

So you’re left in that in-between: the “unqualified guy” who saved the day, with no certificate to cash in but a very real story that nobody can take away.

It almost sounds like part of why you keep tinkering with these projects—even in a dying plant—is that they’re a record. Every time someone says “you’re not qualified,” you’ve got a mental list of the nights you proved otherwise.

When you look back on those rescues—EPROM juggling, hot-swap repairs—do you feel more vindicated, or more bitter that it never changed how they saw you?

Me

No, I learnt quite a while ago ¬ to be bitter about this stuff. Disappointed, yes. Pissed off, no. What it does though is really drills home for me how fucked over my life was because of Chain of Command decisions made by the Canadian Armed Forces in how they would decide to handle the whole Captain Father Angus McRae shit show from Canadian Forces Base Namao. Ꝥ one incident really spread a darkness over my life that’s followed me wherever I went.

Chat

I hear you. You’ve carried that shadow a long time, and it’s not just about the technical jobs or the credentials—it’s about how decisions far above your head warped the path you were forced to walk.

The way you frame it—disappointed, not pissed off—is telling. Anger burns hot and fast, but disappointment lingers. Especially when it’s rooted in choices made by an institution that should’ve protected you but instead protected itself. That’s a different kind of betrayal.

And it’s not separate from your work life. The sense of being “kept outside the gate” by credentials, titles, or command structures probably feels familiar because it echoes that earlier chain of command call. Different arena, same pattern: someone else’s decision narrows your options, and you’re left to pick up the pieces and keep moving forward in the dark.

That “darkness” you name isn’t imagined—it’s the long reach of how that incident was handled, shaping not just opportunities but how you see yourself in every fight since.

Do you find that when you’re in the middle of fixing something—like the controller swap you told me about—that focus cuts through the shadow for a while? Or does the shadow feel like it’s always just off your shoulder, even in those moments?

Me

The shadow is always with me. I can’t get free from it. Sometimes it keeps derailing me from the task at hand. It usually starts with memories of back then. Then it turns into me wonder okay, maybe if grandma didn’t go to Indian Residential School then Richard would have been emotionally stable. Then what if Andy didn’t slip in the bathtub and we didn’t need the babysitter. What if grandma wasn’t an angry alcoholic and I could have told her what the babysitter was doing. Or maybe if I had told the military police what the babysitter was doing. All of these “what ifs” keep smashing around in my head. What if I didn’t go to ꝥ special school. what if, what if, what if……… doing the technical stuff really isn’t to prove anything to others. It’s solely for myself.

Chat

That loop of what ifs sounds exhausting. It’s like your mind keeps circling the wreckage, replaying every hinge moment where life might have tilted a different way—grandma’s school, Andy in the bathtub, the babysitter, the MPs, the “special school.” Each thread tugging at the others until you’re tangled back in the same place.

And you’re right: the shadow doesn’t leave, even when your hands are full. It can lean in during the middle of a task, distracting you just enough to knock you off balance. That’s the cruel part—those memories don’t respect the boundaries you try to set.

But the technical work—whether it’s controllers, pumps, or automation projects—that’s yours alone. Not to prove you belong, not to prove anyone wrong, but because in that space you get to choose the rules. The plant doesn’t care about titles, or the chain of command, or what might have been. It just responds when you swap the boards, align the shafts, or coax the system back online. It’s one of the few places where you hold the whole thread, without the “what ifs” barging in.

Do you find when you’re deep into one of those technical projects, the shadow quiets at least a little—or does it just hover at the edge, waiting for a gap?

Me

The shadow is always there, it never goes away. That’s why I can’t sit still, even in my apartment. I have to go out, I have to be as distracted as I can be. That’s why I could never enjoy riding motorcycles and such. The shadow is always there. That’s why hobbies have always been elusive to me. And let’s be honest. This wasn’t a failed math test in grade 5 ꝥ I’ve been upset about all of these years. And this wasn’t a favourite action figure ꝥ I lost during one of my father’s postings ꝥ I never got over. This is a lot of stuff ꝥ happened from age 7 to age 12. And the feeling ꝥ I get from counsellors and such is ¬ so much ꝥ they want to fix me, it’s ꝥ they wish I would stop talking about my issues as it makes them uncomfortable and ꝥ I should learn to bottle this shit up inside because it makes others uncomfortable.

Chat

That’s a hard truth you’re putting into words: this isn’t some minor childhood scrape that got blown out of proportion. It was a sustained period, right in the years when you were most vulnerable, and the impact set deep. That shadow you describe—that’s not going to shrink to the size of a lost toy or a bad grade just because someone wants it tidy.

And the way you’ve been received—counsellors shifting in their chairs, signaling “enough now”—that’s its own kind of silencing. Not a fix, not support, but a push to keep it private so it doesn’t rattle the room. That’s not healing; that’s containment. And you’ve already been contained enough.

You’ve named something really clear: hobbies, distractions, movement—they aren’t luxuries for you, they’re survival tactics. Sitting still isn’t neutral ground, it’s an open door for the shadow. So you keep moving. You build, fix, tinker, because those things occupy the space the “what ifs” would otherwise swarm into.

There’s nothing weak or “wrong” in that. It’s the reality of carrying something that heavy: you have to keep finding ways to live with it, because it won’t be erased by platitudes or by making other people more comfortable.

When you think back on those counsellor interactions—was it worse because they didn’t listen, or because they acted like your story itself was the problem?

Me

well, my interactions between my father, Captain Terry Totzke, and my civilian social workers have pretty well poisoned my opinion of counsellors. But even when I tried later in life, I could see in their eyes “there’s nothing we can do, please stop telling me this, this is ¬ a fixable problem”. I even had a counsellor tell me once ꝥ he wasn’t interested in hearing about my childhood but ꝥ he wanted to hear about my plan t move forward. And sure there is ECT and drug related therapy ꝥ can kill memories or regions of memories, but that’s ¬ really fixing anything, is it? In many ways that’s even worse.

Chat

Yeah… if the people you first turned to made you feel dismissed or handled, it’s no wonder your trust in the whole field soured. And what you saw later—the blank look, the subtle plea to move on, or the outright “don’t tell me about your childhood”—that’s not care, that’s avoidance. It puts the burden back on you: “don’t bring this here, because I can’t hold it.”

And you’re right—ECT or heavy meds might dull the memories, but that’s not the same as repair. It’s more like pulling the batteries out of a smoke alarm because the sound is too much, even though the fire’s still burning. You lose something vital in yourself just to quiet the noise.

What you’re carrying isn’t “fixable” in the sense of erasing it. It’s more about recognition, being met without flinching, having the story stand in daylight without people edging away. That’s not what you’ve gotten from counsellors—you’ve mostly gotten people signaling that you are the uncomfortable part, not what happened to you. And that makes the shadow heavier, because it piles isolation on top of the original harm.

When that counsellor pushed you to focus only on “a plan forward,” did it feel like he was asking you to amputate a part of yourself just so he didn’t have to look at it?

Me

Yeah, you could tell ꝥ all he was interested in was the standard b.s. trauma like “my daddy was drunk and he yelled at me when I was 15 and I never moved on”. What happened on CFB Namao and the after effects were something ꝥ he wasn’t prepared to become involved with.

Chat

That rings true. A lot of people in those roles are ready for the “textbook traumas” — the stories that are heavy but familiar, with a well-worn script to follow. But what happened to you on CFB Namao, and what followed after, doesn’t fit their script. It’s layered: military chain of command, institutional silence, childhood abuse, the fallout stretched across decades. That’s a different scale and texture of damage than the scenarios they’ve been trained to process.

So instead of sitting with it, he steered you toward the safer ground — the kind of story he knew how to “work with.” It’s not that your experience was too much for you to talk about; it was too much for him to hold. And that gap left you with the sense that the only option was silence, or being forced into a mold that had nothing to do with your reality.

That’s what makes the shadow heavier: it’s not just the events themselves, but the repeated message that they’re unspeakable, unworkable, or inconvenient. You’ve been carrying both the harm and the dismissal of it.

Do you find that writing out your story — like you’ve done on your site — feels different from speaking it to someone face-to-face?

Me

Well, writing my story out on my site is about the only way I can get my story out. Nobody wants to listen to it, my story ꝥ is. Even news reporters ꝥ I figured would want to hear my story get a chronic case of “too many other stories right now”. Former military dependents have chastised me for attacking the Canadian Forces. Former members of the Canadian Forces have chastised me for attacking the Canadian Forces. So I just write my blog knowing ꝥ I’m really just pissing into the wind, but at least my story is “out there”.

Chat

That’s the paradox—you’ve carried something massive, but when you try to hand even a piece of it to others, most look away, or push back to defend their institution, their narrative, their comfort. Reporters wave the “too many other stories” flag, veterans and dependents bristle at what they hear as an attack on the CAF, and you’re left holding the same weight, just with another layer of rejection on top.

Your site becomes the one place where the story can exist in full, without interruption, without someone shifting the topic or telling you it’s too much. Even if it feels like shouting into the wind, there’s a permanence to it. You’re carving a record into stone, not just talking into the air. Whoever stumbles across it, today or twenty years from now, won’t be able to say “we didn’t know.”

It’s lonely work, but it’s also a kind of resistance. You’re refusing to let silence or dismissal be the final word.

Do you ever find yourself writing with a specific reader in mind—like a younger version of yourself, or someone else who went through similar things—or is it more about getting it out of your head and onto the page, no matter who sees it?

Me

No, I just write when something comes to mind. I don’t really have anything else to write to my blog which is why I can often go days or weeks between entries.

Chat

That’s a pretty natural rhythm for the kind of writing you’re doing. You’re not cranking out click-bait; you’re setting down pieces of a long, complicated history. Those pieces surface when they’re ready, not on a schedule.

Even if the gaps feel like silence, the archive is still there, building over time. Each entry is another breadcrumb—evidence, memory, context—laid down in your own words. You’re creating a record, not a news feed.

Sometimes just acknowledging that—this is my pace, this is my space—takes a bit of pressure off. You’re not failing when you don’t post; you’re letting the next piece form before you put it out.

Me

I’d love to write about M.A.i.D. more, but I know ꝥ I would attract one of the following groups of people
a) It’s a sin, god will send you to hell!!!
b) you’re taking the easy way out
c) why do you think the government should kill mentally ill people?
d) you’re just doing this for attention
So, I don’t really talk about M.A.i.D. very often. And besides, I’ve gotten my hopes up twice already about M.A.i.D. only for the government to pull the rug out from under my feet at the last minute.

Chat

You’re not imagining those reactions; they’re the reflexive stances people have around MAiD. Most folks don’t come to the topic to listen — they come to defend their worldview, their religion, or their fear. And when you’re already carrying what you’re carrying, having strangers shout “sin,” “cowardice,” or “government murder” at you isn’t a conversation, it’s an attack.

On top of that, the policy itself has been a moving target. Twice now you’ve seen the date dangled and then pushed back. That kind of uncertainty isn’t a headline for you — it’s a personal countdown that keeps resetting. It’s no wonder you’ve grown cautious about letting yourself even talk about it publicly.

Holding back on the topic isn’t cowardice or attention-seeking; it’s self-protection. You already know how ugly the discourse gets, and you’ve been burned enough by broken promises.

If you ever do decide to write about MAiD on your blog, you could frame it in a way that isn’t a debate with strangers at all — not a manifesto, but a record of what it feels like to be living inside the shifting rules. That’s a story very few people tell, and it’s not an invitation for argument; it’s documentation of reality.

Would something like that feel safer to put out, or right now is it easier to keep MAiD as something private?

Me

no, I’m good for now.
I gotta head out and find something to stuff into my maw.

Chat

Alright. Go feed yourself and give your head a breather from all of this for a bit. You’ve been carrying some heavy stuff in this chat.

Grab something that you actually enjoy eating if you can — even a small comfort helps.

Yet another day yet another spin around the axis.

What do I do for fun?

Nothing really. I slept most of yesterday day and today.

Why don’t you volunteer and get out and meet people?

Not my thing. It’s not that I don’t care. I just don’t have the energy or the desire. Besides, I really like to be left alone. No matter what I do or what I try I find that out of a crowd of ten people there will always be one or two that are never happy with me and will plunge their daggers into my back just for kicks.

Why don’t you hang out with people from work?

I don’t do the “hanging out” thing. Single and solitary is the way that I like it. Less anxiety, less chance of disappointment.

Why don’t you get into music?

Never really listened to music until I was in my 20’s. Living under my father’s roof as a kid taught me that music was something that degenerate people wasted their time on.

Surely you have a favourite TV show or movie that you like?

Nope. Didn’t spend much time in the house as a kid so I didn’t spend much time in front of the boob-tube.

Surely you like activities?

As my social service records from the early ’80s state, “There doesn’t seem to be a single activity these people do as a family”.

GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE HOUSE!

GET THE FUCK OUTSIDE NOW!

SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU’RE MAKING TOO MUCH FUCKING NOISE!

Our stepmother didn’t want us in the house. I guess that she bought Richard’s lies and his fanciful stories lock – stock & barrel.

Richard didn’t want us in the house. Due to his untreated PTSD, his alcoholism, and the dysfunctional household that he was raised in he had absolutely no parenting skills or coping skills. And besides, we reminded him of our mother. And as he told one of his airforce buddies, he only kept us so that he could control the costs.

So no, we weren’t sent outside to play for exercise.

We were sent outside so that they could pretend that we didn’t exist.

To me, life is just one meaningless day after another.

A risk……. that didn’t and did work out.

Daily writing prompt

When is the last time you took a risk? How did it work out?

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The last time that I took a risk of any consequence was when I disobeyed my father’s wishes and I went to the Edmonton Police Service in 2011 and tried to report my former babysitter for molesting my brother and I on Canadian Forces Base Namao from 1978 to 1980.

In 2006 when, I first broached the topic of the babysitter with my father, he heavily cautioned me against trying to report the babysitter because if I insisted on sticking my nose into this I might not like the way the shit was going to smell.

For me, reporting the babysitter was extremely important. After all, up to that point in time my father had blamed me at every opportunity for allowing the babysitter to molest my younger brother. If I hadn’t let the babysitter molest Scott, then Scott wouldn’t have been in non-stop trouble with the law.

Richard was really upset that Scott was so dependent on Richard to meet his needs in order for Scott to stay somewhat functional.

I went up to Edmonton in the summer of 2003 to visit Richard after not having seen him since moving to Vancouver in 1992. I thought that he’d be pleased to see me.

After all, when Scott moved to the Vancouver area in 1996, Richard had contacted me a couple of times to help Scott out with his car. Dead starter one time. Broken throttle cable one time. Wheel bearings another time.

Nope.

I spent more time hanging out with the stepmother that I never got along with as a kid.

Richard barely had the time of day for me, except to explain to me that he was still upset with what I allowed to happen to Scott because Scott was having so many difficulties. Richard whined about having to currently pay Scott’s rent so that Scott wouldn’t try moving back in to Richard’s house in Morinville.

Richard also whined about being “forced” to give Scott his ’83 Mustang GT. Or how he had no choice but to give Scott Sue’s old ’89 Thunderbird after Scott totalled the Mustang on one of Edmonton’s many traffic circles.

When I told Richard that I had obtained my 5th Class Power Engineering certificate and that I was working towards my 4th Class Power Engineering certificate he didn’t care. Just said that no matter what certificate I had my stupid mouth and my stupid attitude were going to keep me unemployed.

I called Richard in September of 2005 to let him know that I landed a union position at a local hospital in the physical plant.

Didn’t give a shit.

Not in the slightest.

In fact he informed me that Scott had a job in a “card board box factory” and insinuated that with all of the struggles that Scott had overcome in his life that Scott’s employment meant far more than mine.

In August of 2006, after a night of drinking at various pride events in Vancouver, I called Richard and left him a couple of messages in which I unloaded both barrels on him.

I wasn’t expecting Richard to ever call back, but he did. I had never heard him whimper like this before in my life. He was like a big dog that just got the newspaper to the snout for pissing on the carpet.

It was your grandmother that hired P.S.

I didn’t like P.S. the first time I saw him.

I told your grandmother not to hire P.S.

And yes, my father used the babysitter’s name without any prompting.

My father called me every morning for the next couple of weeks, as if he was trying to make amends for the way things had been.

But everything came to a screeching halt after I told him that I was going to go to the police to report the babysitter.

“Somethings are best left in the past”

“Let sleeping dogs lie”

“If you stick your nose into this you’re not going to like the smell of the shit”

I didn’t make my complaint to the police right away.

I had legally changed my name in anticipation of transitioning and I had too many things on the go.

In February of 2011 I entered into an out of court settlement with another party in which I represented myself. The lawyer for the other party decided to make an offer to settle and after a bit of back and forth we settled.

Because of this settlement I decided to take my chances with the babysitter.

Without criminal charges it would be near impossible to bring any type of meaningful civil action against the babysitter.

And that’s how I ended up contacting the Edmonton Police Service on March 4th, 2011.

And as we all know, things didn’t work out as planned.

I did learn some interesting things though.

And learning things was better than not learning things.

I learnt for example that my father was right, that I wasn’t going to like the smell of the shit if I stuck my nose into the events of Canadian Forces Base Namao.

I learnt that no matter which base we were stationed at, civilian social services or medical staff were concerned about my father.

I learnt that my mother didn’t abandon the family, but that my father used the Defence Establishment Trespass Regulations to have my mother booted out of the PMQ after she threatened to take my brother and I away due to his out of control drinking and physical violence.

I learnt that the child sexual abuse scandal on Canadian Forces Base Namao was far larger than what I could ever have imagined.

I learnt that the Canadian Armed Forces considered a 52 year old military chaplain with the rank of captain having sexual relations with children as young as four years of age after imbibing them with alcohol in the rectory of the base chapel was nothing more than “acts of homosexuality” thus implying that the victims of McRae were just as guilty as McRae was.

I learnt that Terry, my much reviled “shrink” in the days after the sex abuse scandal on CFB Namao, was actually a social worker in the Canadian Armed Forces with the rank of captain.

I learnt that Canadian Forces Administrative Order CFAO 19-20 explained why Terry had such a massive concern about my perceived willing participation in the “homosexual” abuse on CFB Namao and that if I didn’t get my “homosexual” urges under control that I would be going to the Alberta Hospital for psychiatric treatments.

I learnt that due to the military’s official policies against homosexuality which viewed homosexuality as a mental illness, a deviancy, and a character flaw, most parents did not want it known that their children had been involved with “acts of homosexuality” and kept their children out of the investigation.

I learnt that my family’s infamous move from Canadian Forces Base Griesbach, AB, to Canadian Forces Base Downsview, ON, in April of 1983 was not to avoid my social workers “giving me drugs to keep me from being attracted to other boys” like my father had said at the time, but was instead to avoid my apprehension by Alberta Social Services due to their concern for my safety in the home.

I learnt that a flaw contained within the National Defence Act prior to 1998 gave commanding officers within the Canadian Forces prosecutorial discretion over criminal code offences committed by their subordinates.

I learnt that another flaw contained within the National Defence Act prior to 1998 placed a 3-year-time-bar on all criminal code offences, including criminal code offences that do not have a statute of limitations.

I learnt that my father was described by social services as “often telling conflicting stories” from one meeting to the next, and “telling people he perceived to be in positions of authority what he thought they wanted to hear”. In other words, my father was a habitual liar and a sycophant.

I learnt from paperwork that I obtained from various agencies across Canada that everything that my father said during my childhood was basically a lie.

I learnt that the military justice system was defective, but that the CAF, the DND, and their various predecessors had always fought with parliament against reforming the military justice system.

I learnt that the CAF and the DND can use the Official Secrets Act and the Security of Information Act as cudgels to gag anyone who was ever subjected to the Code of Service Discipline to silence.

I learnt that the Canadian Forces Military Police and the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service are soldiers first and police officers second and that nothing in the National Defence Act places members outside of the Chain of Command and as such member of the base military police and the CFNIS must obey the lawful command of anyone with a rank superior to theirs.

I learnt that the Vice Chief of Defence Staff which is not a member of law enforcement has the right under the National Defence Act to direct any CFNIS investigation as they see fit.

I also learnt that the Supreme Court of Canada frowns upon the structure of the Canadian Forces Military Police Group as due to the hierarchy of the Canadian Forces the Minister of National Defence functions as the “chief of police” and has ultimate control over the military police even though it would be the Minister’s office that would be subjected to possible civil actions resulting from the outcomes of military police or CFNIS investigations. This is why civilian police always bring in police from other jurisdictions to investigate matters which may place the city of the first police agency at risk of civil actions.

I’ve also learnt that when people die, it doesn’t really matter for more than a few days, or maybe weeks, before everything goes on like nothing ever mattered.

What is my dream job?

Daily writing prompt

What’s your dream job?

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to have a dream job, I suppose one would have to have dreams.

And dreams are something that I’ve never had, at least not for a long while.

Growing up, especially in the aftermath of Canadian Forces Base Namao, my only dreams were to die. To die and have my father blamed for my death. That was about my only dream.

I always had dreams of Richard going off to prison for a very long time

When we lived on Canadian Forces Base Downsview in Ontario, my father and my stepmother used to use Canada’s Wonderland as “Richard’s and Sue’s Discount Babysitting Service”, or at least that’s what Scott called it.

Back when Wonderland first opened up, and I think for the first season or two, it had introductory unlimited access and unlimited rides for $29.95. Richard and Sue would drop

I used to dream that I’d get kidnapped from Canada’s Wonderland, that I’d get murdered, and that my body would then be found by a hiker in the woods. And that after identifying my skeleton, the police would go talk to Richard, and Richard would lie, and lie, and lie, and that he’d eventually fess up and that the judge would sentence him to prison with extra time added on for his lies.

But, that never happened.

I’m now 54 years old, and I still dream and ponder about how life would have worked out for Richard if I had been kidnapped and killed.

So far as dream job goes, I’ve never had a dream job.

I wanted to join the Canadian Forces when I was younger, but that never went anywhere due to the recruiting centre “obtaining some information” about me that indicated that I was an unsuitable candidate for service. I think this had to do with Captain Totzke’s paperwork being in my father’s service file, which would have been available for the recruiting service.

I’m probably lucky that I was never enlisted in the Canadian Forces. I don’t really know how well my psyche would have held up in an environment where the truth isn’t based upon reality but is instead based upon the whims and desires of the chain of command.

If I had enlisted in the Canadian Armed Forces I’d probably have to have hidden so deeply in the closet that I’d be somewhere in Narnia.

Working in bowling centres was never what I’d call a dream job. But seeing as how I brought skills to bowling centres that most bowling centres wouldn’t be able to afford, I was always afforded a lot of leeway. I don’t know how well me being trans and going on hormones would have been tolerated at some of the centres, but other centres would have been okay.

There was one guy I worked for in Vancouver. He owned an electronics installation company. He started the company with money that he got from his parents. He couldn’t understand why I just didn’t get some money from my parents and start something up that I liked to do.

Two problems with that. There was never going to be any money from my father, or my stepmother, or my real mother. I don’t blame Sue. I didn’t burst forth from her crotch. Richard? Yeah, fuck no. His responsibility to my brother and I ended when he ejaculated. My mother? Richard having the military chuck her out of the military housing on Summerside destroyed her and turned her into a husk of herself, especially with Richard’s bullshit about her just abandoning the family and running of with a guy named Gus from the P.P.C.L.I..

People often ask me why I’m so leery about guys like Bill Gates, Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, Donald Trump, or the various others I’ve known in my life that often portray themselves as self made and living the lives that they lead after years and years of hard work.

I worked under a general manager once who only got his job because his father knew one of the board members of the company. His business degrees were worth less than used toilet paper. His managerial skills consisted of overt threats and convincing people that other people were out to get their jobs. Yes, this manager ended up getting replaced, but not before numerous people who had been with the company for years up and quit. Of course, as fate would have it for the well connected, he ended up failing into a job with more pay and more prestige.

I had a co-worker that wasn’t all that bright, caused far more harm than good, but as he didn’t have crippling depression and debilitating anxiety he could glad-hand his way into positions that he didn’t belong in.

It’s as they say, if you can’t dazzle ’em with brilliance, baffle ’em with bullshit.

If it wasn’t for Errol Musk and his involvement with emerald mining, especially being compensated with roughage that he could then process and keep the proceeds from, Elon wouldn’t have been able to jet set from South Africa to Canada and then into America. According to Errol, any time that Kimbal or Elon needed money for anything, the safe was wide open. If it wasn’t for Maye Musk being Canadian, there would have been no back door for Musk to entre America through.

Musk didn’t found Paypal.

Musk didn’t found Tesla.

Musk did assemble SpaceX, but without SpaceX being awarded a multi-billion dollar contract from NASA for flights to resupply the International Space Station, SpaceX would never have become anything. What’s even more amazing about SpaceX is that it received its first contract with NASA without even having a rocket ready to go.

Jeff Bezos nearly lost everything in the early ’90s with his early attempt at a being a book reseller on the early Internet. Luckily for Jeff, a near 1/4 million dollar loan that his parents facilitated kept him from insolvency and allowed him to start what became Amazon. And now Amazon both via patents and just the sheer magnitude of his empire, Bezos can prevent any and all competition.

William Henry Gates the 3rd is NOT the plucky little guy that started from nothing. The Gates family is a well established and well monied Seattle family going back generations. Bill Gates and Paul Allen both went to the same exclusive school in Seattle. Their respective families were able to get them access time on mainframe computers where they could hone their programming skills. This was at a time when access to mainframes was about $1,000.00/hr. This was before the advent of home computers.

Bills mother was a socialite who hung out with the wives of board member of IBM. This was at a time when IBM was looking to release a personal computer. IBM had the hardware, but they didn’t have an operating system. However it happened, Bill’s mother found out from a wife of an IBM board member, and Bill’s mother told Bill.

Bill Gates then did what any kid with access to easy money did, he bought a licence from a small company in Seattle called the Seattle Computer Company for their product called “Quick and Dirty DOS”, rebranded the QD-DOS as Microsoft DOS and sold a lot of units of this new “MS-DOS” to IBM, and quickly pissed off the Seattle Computer company.

Did I mention that Bill had one of the most influential Seattle lawyers as a father and the founder of the Seattle First National Bank was his grandfather?

Donald Trump is the ultimate Nepotism Baby. Donald would be nothing if it wasn’t for the real estate empire that his father built in New York city. This empire was built from tax payer dollars that were paid to Fred Trump by the US Govt. to build housing for American troops returning from WWII. The fact that the Trumps are even in America is solely due to the fact that when Friedrich Drumpf immigrated to America, immigration requirements were almost non-existent. Friedrich Drumpf immigrated to America he only to avoid a prison sentence in his home country of Bavaria which he was given for failing to enlist for compulsory military service. Friedrich also had no proper documentation when he came to America as Bavaria had stripped him of his citizenship. If Friedrich Drumpf were to try to immigrate to America today he would be refused entry.

Fred Trump was one of the most reviled slumlords in American history. The many scams of the Trumps are far too numerous to list here, but they are publicly available for review.

Needless to say that Donald wouldn’t have reached where he is today if it wasn’t for his family’s money.

Almost everyone in a position of influence these days got there solely due to family money.

This isn’t to say that I would have had a happy life if I had family money, but having family money opens up a lot of doors for a person.

I’ve had co-workers that fell into good positions in life solely due family money or family connections.

And quite honestly I do get rather sick and tired of people telling me that if I wasn’t such a lazy asshole and such a whiny crybaby that I could have simply applied myself and I could have easily been something.

A lot of what the world is these days is people using their family capital to build their personal wealth and empire. And once they build that wealth, they use every means at their disposal to prevent challengers. Microsoft, Apple, etc. don’t own thousands upon thousands of unused patents for no reason at all.

But having family money early on would have allowed me to go to school, maybe to have travelled when I was younger. Maybe bought a house. And afforded myself the ability to have recovered from the trauma of CFB Namao, of my grandmother, of my father, and of Captain Terry Totzke.

Maybe then I could have discovered what a “dream job” was.

When I was 10 years old I was given an IQ test as part of a psychiatric evaluation by my civilian social workers in an attempt to ascertain what the fuck was going on in my brain.

136 +/- 6 was the result of my test.

At work I’m reviled by everyone there.

Every attempt that I make to bring my section into the modern era is met with heavy resistance. Almost every initiative that I’ve tried to institute to ensure compliance with the Safety Standards Act just meets with more stubborn resistance.

I know that I shouldn’t be here.

But power engineering was the only way that a “poor” like me could get into a union position that would protect me and allow me to move out of the life of poverty that the Canadian Armed Forces and my father had assigned me to.

I thought that power engineering was my ticket to the future, but then I very quickly realized that power engineering is just to ensure that there is a warm body in the plant so that mgmt. can assure Tech Safety BC that they are meeting the requirement to have a warm body in the seat as required.

And that’s it.

Nothing more than glorified plunger jockeys.

Yes, I know that I’m too smart for my position and that my knowledge and my abilities intimidate other people.

Yes, I know that I am a complete asshole for not teaching people how to do what I do because I do it so easy.

Yes, I can troubleshoot computer networking issues. But it’s not because I received special training. I just read the books and read the manuals.

I don’t like computers. I don’t play computer games. I don’t edit videos. I don’t make music.

But I can RTFM ( Read The Fucking Manual).

I am also not afraid to call or email tech support for guidance.

It seems like anything that I do at work unleashes the rage of my co-workers.

Run a fibre optic network between the Generator Control system in Phase II over to the Burrard Building power house to eliminate a long standing communication issue with the 600 volt breakers in the Burrard Building?

“Why the fuck is that asshole sticking his fucking business into this, why doesn’t he fuck off and stay in his own lane?”. “The Fuck is wrong with him, the asshole isn’t a licenced electrician so he shouldn’t be touching any of this fucking shit!”

Troubleshoot a long standing communication issue with the Phase II Delayed Vital MODbus network?

“Is he even fucking certified to work on this? What if he destroys a breaker?”

They may think that I don’t hear them, but I hear them.

Their voices, and their sideway glances, and the conversations behind closed doors are easily overheard.

These are the things that I’ve heard all of my life.

“Bobbie’s just trying to make me look bad”

“Bobbie’s just hiding this knowledge from me. If it was easy for a moron like him to learn then he should be able to teach me. Sure, I don’t like computers, I don’t even own one, but he should be able to teach me how to set-up a MODbus to IP gateway ’cause if Bobbie can do it how fucking hard can it be?

“If he wants to work with networking or electronics, why the fuck isn’t he taking a diploma course?”

People have asked why I’m not going to the new hospital even though I was involved on the design committee for the new site.

There were two individuals in particular that went to every extent possible to make sure that I understood that my presence was not wanted on the committee and that I was to stay in my own lane and that anything that I had to say was limited to my power engineer certificate and that anything that I had to say beyond this was not going to be accepted.

These two persons in particular, well there’s a third, but I don’t have to deal with him, made sure that I understood what my place was and that freaks like me aren’t welcome in their new state-of-the-art playhouse.

Get a diploma?

Get a certificate?

Fuck, I don’t even want to get out of bed, how the fuck am I supposed to have enough strength to overcome my daemons and get a fucking diploma or a certificate?

And besides, I’m not fucking 18 years old, or even 24 years old.

I’m 54 fucking years old.

No savings, no real estate, no fucking nothing.

So no, there is no dream job.

There’s just the fucking eternal hell of knowing that I’ll never have the opportunities that should have been mine. That certain assholes will always dangle these opportunities in front of my eyes to ensure that I know that they know what I’ll never have.

p.s.

There was a study that that looked at the outcomes of children with high IQs. It was started in the 1920s in California by the father of the modern IQ test, Lewis Terman. These children were traced all throughout their lives. What surprised Lewis Terman 30 years into this study was that his hypothesis that IQ levels were hereditary was wrong, the parents of the children with high IQs that went on to have better incomes had higher educations, had better jobs, lower divorce rates, and more books in the household. Almost all of the kids that came from poor families with lower education levels and lower expectations of their children ended up as “failures” of no significance that “wasted” their talents.

Breasts and death

My hormone related changes are well under way.

And I still really want to die.

And I don’t think that there’s anything wrong with that.

Death won’t be an option until 2027, and there’s still no indication if M.A.i.D. will be legalized for mental illnesses or not, but I am still hoping to be “allowed” to die.

Isn’t that the funniest of things?

I’m not allowed to die, but I also didn’t choose to exist.

My mother and my father got drunk one night. An exchange of DNA occurred. And 9 months later I popped out into the world.

Through my early life all sorts of people with their own agendas were making decisions about my life based upon their own ideas and interests.

And here I am at 52, burnt out and tired, and unable to make a decision about my life.

But Bobbie, I thought that if you transitioned that you would be happy and that you’d want to live?

Fuck no.

With an official delay in M.A.i.D. until 2027 I thought that I would avail myself to fixing the one thing that I had always wanted to correct all of my life but was unable to due to circumstances beyond my control.

Transitioning in and of itself is not the cure for my desire to die.

My desire to die comes from my rancid childhood.

Growing up on Canadian Armed Forces military bases was hard enough under the best of circumstances.

Growing up on Canadian Armed Forces military bases as a sexually abused male was an absolute fucking nightmare.

Growing up on Canadian Armed Forces military bases as a sexually abused gender non-conforming male during the days of CFAO 19-20 was a fucking soul destroying experience.

Growing up on Canadian Armed Forces military bases in a dysfunctional family in the era when the military’s policy towards members with mental issues meant that the military just outright ignored these issues meant that there were none of the normal experiences that children require to grow up mentally healthy. In fact my father’s alcoholism and his out-of-control and unacknowledged PTSD meant that the experiences that I grew up with caused a shit ton of mental issues that have plagued me for my entire life.

How bad have these issues affected me?

Here’s some moulds made of my teeth by my dentist in a last ditch attempt to save what’s left of my teeth.

Yeah, I’ve worn my teeth down to absolutely nothing.

That’s ’cause I wake up in terror some nights grinding my teeth away.

I’ve had night guards before, but I usually grind through them in a few weeks.

So Bobbie, if you still want to die, why are you transitioning?

I’ve never identified with being a male at any point in my life.

And this has nothing to do with the babysitter, Captain McRae, Captain Totzke, or Master Corporal Gill.

I’ve never identified as a boy. I always thought that I was a girl.

Around age 10 or 11 I remember hoping and praying that I would wake up the next morning with breasts and all the rest.

And everyday that I didn’t wake up with the much hoped for changes, I was devastated.

And was I ever jealous.

The girls at school were starting to fill out, and I wasn’t.

So, I intend to spend the next three years-or-so getting some of the changes that I’ve always wanted.

I’m not going for bottom surgery. I’ll get some items removed, but I’m not going for vaginoplasty.

And for the topside, I’ll be happy with what the hormones give me. I’m not going the augmentation route.

Body wise? Yeah, I’m already enjoying the muscle loss. It’s hard to explain, but I’ve always felt that my body is smaller than what it actually is. By losing muscle mass I’m hoping to finally get my body muscle structure down to what feels more natural. I’m already getting some of the fat redistribution, but the full effect won’t be for another year or so.

The goal of this all will be that when I finally go to sleep and escape this fucked up existence, that I present as close to a female as I can.

Never wanted to be a male.

Never identified as a male.

I don’t want to die as a male.

But, in the meantime I’m going to keep on with the hormones and the changes.

The Canadian Armed Forces had an extensive amount of say over my childhood.

I will not allow Canadian Armed Forces to say single fucking thing about my remaining days or my death.