Tag: Bobbie

So, sold off my 2020 Macbook Pro 13 today.

I think he was a college student, but needed a computer, so I gave him the Macbook for a good deal.

He seemed happy.

Now that everything is in a wind down phase I really don’t need to keep much anymore.

Time to start shedding all of my physical possessions.

The only real purpose that any of my computers served was for me to search for information, make FOI requests, and store and sort information.

But now that we are officially in the year 2024, none of this stuff matters anymore.

I have an iPad Pro 10″ that I’ll be getting rid of next.

So far I’ve gotten rid of anything that I had in relation to electronics.

Got rid of my soldering and desoldering stations, my parts bins, cross reference guides, etc. As I said before, electronics wasn’t something that I was really interested in, but I persisted in it thinking that one day a spark would light inside. That spark never came.

Same thing with computers. I just never had the creativity to create write programs.

Same thing with motorcycles. I’d ride them for a while and then get bored.

I donated all of my hand tools and power tools to a local shop that loans tools out for next to nothing to low income families that need to use tools.

Got rid of my Play Station.

There were only a very few games that I liked to play.

Didn’t want to go through the hassle of selling it so pulled the hard drive from it and put the play station in the computer recycling cage at work.

Got rid of my CD collection last fall.

Got rid of my movie collection at the same time.

Now, don’t think I don’t have anything left.

Still have my iPad, and I still have my desktop.

But there will come a time when I will get rid of the desktop and my drives of data.

I won’t have much use for any of the information that I’ve compiled over the last twelve years.

Disposing of the desktop and the drives will probably be done later in the year.

I’ve already disposed of reams and reams of hard copies. We have a shredding service at work that shreds all documents that are put into recycling.

I would have thought that the media would have shown the slightest interest, but it looks like consolidation and foreign ownership have turned Canadian media into nothing more than stenographer services for the institutions with secrets to hide..

I’ve eliminated a lot of my dresses. That still leaves me with a lot of dresses.

I’ll probably start whittling down the number of dresses that I have until the final weeks.

Then I’ll probably hold on to a good pair of heels and a few dresses.

Haven’t decided which dress and which heels I wanna wear at my procedure, maybe I don’t even yet own the dress that I want to wear.

I want a real intense ruffle dress. Maybe something with a robust petticoat.

I make my application in March of this year.

I have absolutely no doubt that time will fly past really fucking quick from this point onwards.

But, I’m already enjoying the peace and serenity that my approaching death offers.

The one thing that I’ll have to wait for until I obtain my approval from the two assessors is at which funeral home will I undergo my procedure and cremation.

A touchy subject.

Because I wish to obtain Medical Assistance in Dying and because I post about it on social media, the algorithms keep filling my feed with posts that deal with M.A.i.D.

There are those who are convinced that the government’s intention with M.A.i.D. is to save money on mental health treatment by forcing people with mental illness to undergo M.A.i.D. instead of living on social assistance.

Others are convinced that the government is going to send white vans around in the cities of Canada to euthanize the homeless and the elderly.

One of the major problems that mental health care faces in Canada is that our general population is overwhelmed by American media. American media is dangerous in the fact that it pushes an imaginary economic reality that does not exist. Americans believe in low, low, low taxes. Which is why they have massive infrastructure problems, crappy schools, non-existent social safety nets, and almost non-existent health care. That, and America’s defence spending is completely out of control.

Fellow Canadians see the low taxes that Americans pay, and so they demand from our governments that we pay the same stupidly low taxes up here as they do down there.

Which is why our health care is crumbling. Which is why mental health care is almost non-existent. And which is why mental illness is vilified as being due to laziness and poor personal choices.

America has had homeless mentally ill people wandering the streets and living in tents on the street for years, like since back in the ’70s and ’80s. And this problem is coming up to Canada.

American style austerity is a cancer.

But Canadians love their low, low taxes and their cheap imported goods, so don’t look for any kind of funding increases any time soon.

A lot of disabled rights groups and mental health rights groups want mental illness yanked as one of the criteria for being able to access Medical Assistance in Dying.

But the problem with doing so is that you deny people such as me the right to end our lives as we see fit. You also ensure that I suffer mental pain for 10, 20, or even 30 more years.

Better mental health funding wouldn’t have done anything for me. As I’ve said before, I was a “dirty little secret” and my lack of mental health treatment was due to the desire for secrets to be kept from the Canadian public. No amount of public mental health funding was going to change that.

And having the government of Canada rescind the right of Canadians such as myself to avail ourselves to a humane and painless death at the time of our choosing isn’t going to increase the funding for mental health treatment and housing for persons with mental illness.

To get Canada on track again, Canadians would have to eschew American style disaster capitalism and embrace full democratic socialism. Canadians would have to learn to understand that higher taxes do lead to overall better outcomes as any of the Nordic or Scandinavian countries can attest.

But changes like that would take years, especially when you consider how much money American right wing think tanks pump into Canada on a yearly basis to try to convert us into a mini-USA.

I don’t know what the solution is for the time being.

As I’ve said, I make my application in March of this year. Hopefully I get my two assessments by no later than July. So hopefully I can undergo my procedure and cease living sometime in December of 2024 or early 2025.

I don’t want to be forced to suffer as a casualty in someone else’s war.

Banning M.A.i.D. for mental illness isn’t going to cause 500k new low income houses to be built.

Banning M.A.i.D. for mental illness isn’t going to cause 500k new assisted living homes to be built.

Banning M.A.i.D. for mental illness isn’t going to give those living with disabilities or mental illness $100k in yearly income assistance.

But banning M.A.i.D. for mental illness will prolong the suffering that persons like me have to endure, and I would envision that it would increase the number of suicide attempts and suicides as persons try to escape their pain and torment.

I don’t envy the struggle the mental health and disability advocates face, but please don’t fuck with my ability to die peacefully and painlessly.

My last and final FOI request

Yesterday while I was cleaning out some of my belongings…………

Yep, I figured skated from about 2006 until about 2014
Got rid of some old clothes.

…….I came across a Freedom of Information package that I had submitted to the Alberta Government last year in September of 2022. I received this package in May of 2023 and promptly forgot about it.

I had submitted this request as the oposing counsel in a civil matter that was wrapped up in 2022 had shown me quotes from my Alberta Social Service records that were redacted from the documents that I had obtained in August of 2011.

I had forgotten that I received these as they had been sitting on a shelf in my closet, unopened.

Reading through this version sure was eye opening.

It doesn’t say anything much different than what I already knew, but it does officially attach names.

I still can’t believe that I was actually in the first stages of foster care / residential care.

Children’s Aid in Toronto wasn’t able to get any help from the Canadian Armed Forces with contacting my father when we moved to Canadian Forces Base Downsview in Toronto. CAST had to go through the public school system to find my brother and I.

Yeah, this was after our trip from Edmonton to Toronto over the xmas break in December of 1982. We stayed with Richard’s estranged father Arthur Herman Gill in Oshawa. There wasn’t a lot of closeness between Richard and his Father.

Richard’s “work schedule” often had him out of town on training exercises. I’m pretty sure that he was just signing up for as many training exercises as he could as that would get him out of the house. To Richard, raising children was “woman’s work” and not something for a man to waste his time on.

“In a loud and vociferous fashion”…… That’s one thing that Richard could do. He could turn on the drill instructor attitude and bellow his opinions. I remember when I was in grade 7 at Elia Jr. High and the music teacher, Mrs. Donskov, was pushing for me to take up bass guitar as my asthma made it difficult to play any type of wind instrument. She went so far as to load up her Volvo with one of the school guitar amps and one of the bass guitars. When well pulled up to the PMQ on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach, Richard came storming over to us and told Mrs. Donskov to get that shit back in her car and that I was never to think of doing a stupid stunt like this again.

Richard always had a weird relationship with my teachers. He always wanted “more homework” so that I could spend more time learning and studying, but if I ever asked him for help with said homework he’d explode in a rage. When my teachers would call him trying to get me into extracurricular activities or arrange for me to go on trips, Richard would rage out. I feel sorry for any of my teachers that ever had to deal with him.

There’s no way that Richard would have really agreed to this program. Richard had a tendency to just say yes to everything with the hopes that the person asking would soon forget. I know that my opinion may be a little biased, but Rchard was not someone you could count on or depend on.

“A smack across the face or time in their rooms”. Richard was the master of the leather belt on bare ass. He had no problem with open handed smacks to the face or the head. He also saw nothing wrong with kicking either. Sue would grab and pinch, or use the fly swatter. Believe me, the fly swatter from Sue was far preferable to the leather belt from Richard. There were times when he lost control and blood was drawn. Both from the leather belt and from the smacks across the face.

“Robert’s prospects appear poor”. Yeah, they sure as fuck weren’t kidding.

Due to Richard’s and grandma’s superb parenting skills, not only were my brother and I fully feral. But we were at each other’s throats on a non-stop basis. When you have to fight for the slightest bit of affection you become like Hyenas. Even though we grew up in the same military housing on the same military base in Toronto, I don’t think my brother and I saw each other on a regular basis. He was off in his world, and I was off in mine.

Not surprising. Par for the course actually.

“She should be home making supper”. Way to go Richard!
Richard and Misogyny went together like hand in glove.
On numerous occasions Richard would refer to Sue as a “stupid bitch” or a “fucking cunt”.
I will never for the life of me ever understand what Sue saw in Richard and why she stuck around.
She was better than average looking and she was in her very early 20s when she moved in with Richard on CFB Namao.
She could have easily done much better than Richard.

Yeah, I don’t think there was an external source large enough for Richard to focus his anger and his hate.

“Mr. Gill states that his mother is an alcoholic who refuses to seek help or treatment for her condition”. What an asshole.
Richard was just as much of an alcoholic as Grandma was.
Funnything was, Grandma’s alcoholism didn’t deter Richard from asking grandma to come live with us on Canadian Forces Base Summerside. And it didn’t deter him from asking Captain Lynda Tyrell for a compasionate posting in the summer of 1978 so that we could move to Canadian Forces Base Namao so grandma and her husband Andy Anderson could move into the PMQ on base to raise my brother and I.
And no, Richard didn’t see anything wrong with expsoing Scott and I to grandma’s alcoholism from spring 1977 until spring 1981.
Grandma’s alcoholism only became an issue when Richard had some explainging to do with Social Services.

See, my issues had nothing to do with 1-1/2 years of sexual abuse on CFB Namao. Nor did my issues stem from a dysfunctional family. No, my issues were the fault of the school on base and the fault of mr grandmother. Nothing to do with Richard.

Understatment of the Year Award goes to “The Gill family is a rather confused and insular unit”.

This is the same mother that either Richard forgot to tell the CFNIS in 2011 was raising my brother and I from 1977 until 1981 or that the CFNIS asked Richard to forget in 2011. Either way, grandma had a major inpact on my brother and I.

This part was still redacted, but let me unredact this for you ” Mr. Gill appeared concerned about his mother’s drinking, suggesting she was emotionally abusive to both children, especially when inebriated. As well, Mr. Gill suggested that his mother attempts to undermine any closeness between him and his sons by telling them false stories”.
The only stories that grandma used to tell me, I can’t speak for my brother, but grandma always told me not to believe what Richard had said about our mother leaving, that when I was older I would learn what the truth was.

The thing was, grandma was a nice person when she was pissed drunk. She’d take my brother and I over to the base Canex to buy a toy or two. She’d take us to the base groceteria to grab treats. She’d even take us on the military shuttle bus into the city of Edmonton to go buy toys at Army & Navy. It’s when grandma was sobering up or even sober when she was cruel and angry.

Richard was the exact same thing as his mother. Nice guy when he was pissed drunk. Asshole when he was sobering up. Unpredictable when he was sober.

As per court records from PEI, Richard did in fact NOT have legal custody of my brother and I.

Richard, what the fuck was wrong with you?

Friends and relations

It should come as no surprise that I have absolutely no friends.

And I’m not including co-workers, superiors, or subordinates at work.

Throughout my life I could never understand why I couldn’t make friends.

Was I too stupid?

Was I fucked in the head?

The other kids on CFB Namao, CFB Griesbach, and even CFB Downsview loved beating the shit out of me on a regular basis.

I just couldn’t fit it.

No matter how hard I tried.

When I received my social service paperwork in 2011 I found two entries that really stood out.

“Robert does not have the ability to make friends”

“Robert is always left out and is often made the scapegoat by the other children”

“Robert is terrified of men”

With my depression, my anxiety, and my documented fear of being touched by other people it should probably come as no surprise that I couldn’t make friends.

I got beat up one day coming home from Pierre Laporte when I was in grade 8. Seems one of the jock boys had decided that my hips swung too much when I walked so therefore I was a faggot. This kid and his friend were fellow base brats from Canadian Forces Base Downsview.

In the aftermath of this I was so self conscious about how I walked. I think I did hip damage trying to walk like a “man”.

There were times at Pierre Laporte that I did get beat up over my lack of interest in girls.

The one time that I stood up to one of these assholes and was able to have a fair fight with my worst antagonist, my father threatened to knock the teeth out of my mouth if I ever fought again.

I guess that he was happy with me getting the shit beat out of myself, but if I dared fight back then I was going to get a beating that I’d never forget.

Maybe he was afraid that if I started fighting back against the other kids that I’s also start standing up to him and fighting back against him.

It wasn’t always like this.

I don’t remember much about Canadian Forces Base Shearwater, but I do remember that I had friends. Sure, they were mainly girls, but girls were nicer to play with.

As a kid I was never in to the “rough ‘n tumble” stuff. Reading, walking, playing on the swings, that’s what I liked. Jumping out of trees or climbing over the fences on base was never something that piqued my interests too much.

Same thing with Canadian Forces Base Summerside.

Even at the start on Canadian Forces Base Namao, things were okay, but the longer the abuse went on the harder it was to make and keep friends.

Once I had been discovered in the babysitter’s bedroom, that was the end of that.

When my family arrived on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach I started working at the mall cleaning pet cages in the pet store. It was here that I began to realize that adults were better than kids my age. Sure, they weren’t interested in playing. But as long as I did my work I’d get rewarded. And they didn’t want to beat me up.

Kids my age were supposed to be watching goofy TV shows on TV and then talking about them at recess during school. I wasn’t allowed to watch the goofy TV shows. It was either “get the fuck out of the house and go play” in -25C weather, or it was “Jesus H. Fucking Christ you’re too fucking old for that shit”.

Other kids would be invited to play with other kids. I wouldn’t. At least not on CFB Griesbach as I’d always smell like piss.

Sleepovers were obviously out of the question as I obviously wouldn’t be able to control myself sleeping with other boys. And of course there was my fear of pissing the bed.

By the time grade 6 and grade 7 rolled around, boys were supposed to be interested in girls. I wasn’t. Due to my experience with the babysitter, and Terry, and my father, sex was a disgusting thing and even just looking at a girl was wrong. Looking at boys was even worse.

The guys at Pierre Laporte started taunting and teasing me with pictures of figure skater Katarina Witt. To this day I still don’t understand what the fuck this was about, I really don’t.

Gym in and of itself wasn’t bad. But team sports were a disaster.

Having untreated depression and anxiety meant that I was an unmitigated disaster of uncontrolled crying and rage.

Public school is the worst place for someone with an untreated fear of being touched to be. Once the other kids know that they can get a reaction from you by simply touching you or even just threatening to touch you school quickly becomes a nightmare.

And you can bet your bottom dollar that when the teachers and principals at Sheppard Public, Elia Jr. High, and Pierre Laporte Jr. High would reach out to my father, he’d be of absolutely no use…….. “No sir, no ma’am, I have no explanation for why my son is behaving like that. He must be acting up for attention”

And these issues really hurt me in my adult life.

People are very leery of the guy who doesn’t have a partner, or a family.

Most companies view people without significant others as being undependable and unreliable.

Coworkers view you as highly suspect if you don’t want to hang around and talk about sportsball, or the see through dress that some female actor in a movie wore.

When you’re alone, you don’t have anyone to keep an eye on your depression. Doctors that I’ve seen in the past have always brushed off my mental health concerns as my family and others have never voiced a concern.

I bought a home cam a couple of years ago. As I live in a bachelor apartment the one camera sees everything. One night I left the camera on to record me when I slept. I was shocked at the number of times I’d grind my teeth over night, or the number of times that I’d wake up and just sit there before going back to bed.

But, by not sharing my bed with anyone meant that no one was there to point out just how fucking bad my bruxism actually was and how bad my insomnia really was.

Some people are envious of my bachelor lifestyle.

The life that I’ve led is nothing to be happy about and nothing to be jealous about.

What makes this whole thing worse.

What makes this whole matter much worse for me is the fact that people knew.

As I’ve said before.

My father knew about the assaults.

He may not have known about them when they were happening as he was always living off base.

But he knew about them when he eventually had to move back into the PMQ with us on CFB Namao.

Richard used to wear wool sweaters at the time and I used to refer to him as “wooly bully” at the time as in the song by Sam Sham and the Pharos.

When Richard moved back in with us, he was a different man. I was certain at the time that my real father had died on a training exercise and that the Canadian Forces had replaced my father with a look-alike.

Richard may not have known the true extent of what had happened on the CFB Namao, but knew what the babysitter and I had been doing as my father would be in the “counselling” sessions that I started having with Captain Totzke when we were moved down to CFB Griesbach in October if 1980.

Richard was present when Terry told me that he had the base military police watching me and that they’d tell him if I ever kissed or touched another boy.

When Terry said that I shouldn’t play sports because of the change rooms, my father ran with that. Richard never once questioned it. In fact Richard used this logic to deny me permission to go on a swimming trip in Edmonton.

And I know that Richard also used this logic when I was going to Sheppard Public School in Toronto while we were stationed at Canadian Forces Base Downsview. My grade 6 class was going on an end of the year school trip to Quebec City in Quebec. The school was covering the costs of the transportation, and the meals, and the accommodations. Richard didn’t want me going on this trip out of fear that I was going to be uncontrollable with other boys in their beds. Somehow Mr. Cross and Mr. Blair convinced Richard to allow me to go.

It’s obvious that Richard knew.

And it’s obvious that Richard’s attitude towards me was heavily influenced by his knowledge that from age 7 to age 8 I had been sexually abused numerous times over the course of a year and a half.

The fact that Terry had described me as a homosexual at age 9 and that if I didn’t change my ways that I’d be going to prison wouldn’t have really been very beneficial to the relationship between my father and I.

What I wouldn’t know though is how many people knew.

But suffice to say, a lot of people knew.

It’s not the fact that people knew that is driving my desire to die.

It’s the fact that people like Captain Terry Totzke and my own father, Mcpl Richard Gill knew, but allowed my mental health problems to fester untreated.

It the fact that my gender identity and my sexual identity were destroyed by Totzke and my father.

At this point in time, I really don’t give a fucking rat’s ass as to why it was decided to keep me from receiving proper psychiatric counselling for my issues. But, just remember that the DND and the CAF did throw a “wall of secrecy” over the entire Captain McRae matter.

Were they afraid that if I receive counselling for my mental health issues that I’d blab about what had happened on the base, and that this would get the civilian authorities asking questions that DND and the CAF didn’t want asked?

a “Wall of Secrecy”

In fact, I would say that the actions of my father, Mcpl Richard Gill, served to amplify my mental health issues and my suffering.

Just because I didn’t know until 2011 that I had been diagnosed with Major Depression and Severe Anxiety, or that my condition had deteriorated by the summer of 1982 to the point that I was supposed to have been institutionalized in a psychiatric facility, doesn’t lessen the damage.

In fact, not knowing what was really wrong in my head made things that much moe fucking worse as I always blamed myself for being a fucking loser and a fucking fuckup.

There were times in my life when I couldn’t believe how fucking stupid I really was.

The fact that I didn’t know until 2011 that I was in the process of being removed from the home and placed into residential care or foster care doesn’t lessen the fact that the house that I was living in was emotionally and physically abusive.

As I’ve said previously, my father had his own treatments for my depression and anxiety. It was literal kicks in the ass, open handed smacks across the face, hits to the back of the head, the leather belt on my bare ass.

My step mother had her own treatments for my bed wetting and my depression.

My grandmother had her own treatments for my issues.

If I wasn’t left to suffer all of these issues on my own, and if I had received timely help with my issues, what would my life have been like?

Boyfriends, girlfriends?…….. who knows.

Trans, gay, straight, bi?……. again, who knows.

In a way I wish that I didn’t have any sex organs as I really don’t like the idea of sex. Since Namao I’ve always really despised my genitals.

Nowadays there is emasculation surgery, which would remove my penis, my testicles and my scrotum. Absolutely nothing down there save for a little hole for me to pee from.

At least I wouldn’t have that fucking thing down there. That fucking thing that caused so many problems in my life.

The reason I changed my name back in 2008 was more than just to get away from the Gill clan. I had no idea what my gender was. My gender has always confused me. I’ve never really identified as a male. I’ve never identified as a female. I don’t like having sex with women. I don’t like having sex with men.

Actually, that’s not true. Sex with men is great, I prefer sex with men over sex with women. But I don’t have it very often because Totzke and my father are screaming at me in my head. Sex is really unenjoyable with that shit going on.

And as much as I like having sex with men I can’t stop wondering if I’m a homosexual because of what happened on CFB Namao.

So, it really is a no win situation with me.

In 2008 I changed my first name to Bobbie. Bobbie is the unisex spelling. Bobby is the male spelling, Bobbi is the female spelling, and Bobbie is the unisex spelling.

I really loved having a first name that didn’t indicate the junk between my legs.

Is Namao alone my reason for my gender issues. Probably not, but Namao and Totzke really didn’t help with my issues.

There were so many opportunities that I missed out on in life.

Finishing high school?

Trade school?

College?

University?

Theatre?

Arts?

I have no idea of what I could have been or what I should have been.

And remember, I wasn’t able to make these choices because I was lazy, or because I was scatterbrained.

I wasn’t able to make these choices due to intentionally untreated mental health issues that I was left alone to struggle with.

Drugs won’t fix my fucked up brain.

Drugs won’t fix my gender issues.

Therapy, nope, been through a lot of therapy since 2011.

Maybe if I had therapy back between October of 1980 and 1990 things would have worked. But I’m 52 now. The rot in my brain has been allowed to fester since 1980. That’s 44 years now. And it’s not 44 years of issues that no one knew about. That’s 44 years of issues that were started off by 1-1/2 years of sexual abuse and 2-1/2 years of very inappropriate counselling.

I know that there are those who will say that I have to simply try harder. That I need a positive attitude. That I need to be thankful for every day that I am alive. And that I need to stop whinging about something that happened over 40 years ago.

Nope.

I just want M.A.i.D.

If society doesn’t want people like me obtaining M.A.i.D. to escape our pain and our torment, don’t let us suffer this pain or this torment in the first place.

Finger wagging at me, and tut-tutting me are completely inappropriate responses.

I don’t owe it to you to suffer another 20 years so that you can say that you saved me, like I’m some fucking pet project of yours.

My life is my life, I lived it, and I don’t want to live it any more.

Getting close

My journey towards death keeps progressing.

I really was hoping to do more videos and blogs, but at this point in my life I am a one topic person.

And it’s not like this was the easiest story to find out.

The vast majority of it, in fact well over 90% of it had remained hidden from me all of these years.

I was the homosexual, I was the pervert, I ruined everything.

Do you understand how fucking mind destroying it was to discover the truth in August of 2011?

Discover that everything that I had known up to that point in time was an absolute lie?

I suffered so much.

Even though I had been diagnosed with major depression, severe anxiety, and a host of other mental health issues, I was never allowed to receive treatment.

Instead I’d be on the receiving end of my father’s mental and physical abuse and my stepmother’s mental and physical abuse.

Even when my mental health had deteriorated to the point that my civilian social workers were calling for me to first be placed in a psychiatric facility for children, and then removed from the home for my own welfare, those options were denied to me.

So, I suffered alone through grade school and junior high school.

Always getting picked on.

Always getting beat up.

I was an easy target for sexual abuse as what happened with the babysitter was obviously my fault, so any older man who wanted to sleep with me while I lived on Canadian Forces Base Downsview in Toronto was obviously my fault, right?

I asked for it. I mean I obviously asked the babysitter to molest me and my brother, so I must have been asking for what happened in Toronto.

Even when I was just about 16 and I nearly got strangled in High Park, I never said anything as it was obviously my fault.

I was forever hesitant to bring up the topic of Earl as I was sure that no one would believe me and that my own father would blame. During Earl’s criminal trial his defence counsel tried to imply that because I was over the age of 14 that everything had been consensual.

When I dropped out of school back in 1987, it wasn’t because I was having major difficulty with major depression or severe anxiety or because I had a “funny walk” or because I was an obvious faggot because I didn’t like girls. Nope, I dropped out of school because I was a lazy self centred asshole who thought of no one put himself.

Two years later when Mr. Bowles, Mr. Ford, and Mr. Aitken wrote letters to the North York Board of Education vouching for me to allow me to enter the Alternative and Independent Study Program (AISP) Richard didn’t give a shit. He said that if I wanted to live under his roof I had to go to a “real” school and fucking sit there, stare at the blackboard, and take some “fucking basket weaving courses”.

I ended up having to move out and quit school for the second time when I refused to leave AISP and go to a “normal school”.

See, what I was enduring from my father wasn’t just neglect. It wasn’t just physical abuse. It was mental destruction.

I had fucked with Richard’s career goals, and I was going to pay the fucking price.

It was my fault that I couldn’t keep the babysitter’s hands of my brother’s body.

Me? I was a homosexual so no wonder I allowed the babysitter to molest me.

It was my fault that Richard and Sue had to move into the PMQ with us on Canadian Forces Base Namao even through Richard was more than happy living off base with Susan.

It was my fault we moved from Canadian Forces Base Namao to Canadian Forces Base Griesbach.

It was my fault that we became involved with the military social worker in October of 1980.

It was my fault that we became involved with Alberta Social Services in November of 1981.

It was my fault that we had to move to Canadian Forces Base Downsview in Ontario in April of 1983 to avoid my apprehension by Alberta Social Services. This of course ruined Richard’s plans so far as being a Boeing VTOL factory trained maintenance technician on the CH-147 Chinooks.

So, it’s not that Richard didn’t care or give a shit.

Richard was actively seeking retribution.

And I was going to pay the fucking price for what I had done.

It’s not just the never ending depression that I have to deal with.

It’s not the never ending anxiety.

It’s the memories of back then.

It’s Captain Totzke telling me that I was a homosexual.

It’s Captain Totzke telling me that I’d end up in prison.

It’s Captain Totzke telling me that I was going to be just like the babysitter.

It’s Captain Totzke telling me and my father that sports were not an option for me as I’d be sexually aroused by naked boys in the change room.

It’s my father telling me that I couldn’t go swimming because there’d be naked boys in the change room and that I wouldn’t be able to control myself.

It’s the memories of pissing the bed and going to school smelling like piss.

It’s the memories of sitting in school on CFB Griesbach and being able to run my hands through my hair and having clumps of hair come out.

It’s the memories of having to play outside in the Edmonton winters with clothing that was not even suitable for spring.

The physical and mental abuse at the hands of my grandmother, my father, and Sue don’t help much either.

I think the real final nail in my coffin so-to-speak was the sham 2011 CFNIS investigation which “couldn’t find any evidence that the babysitter was capable of what I accused him of” even though the CFNIS had the 1980 CFSIU DS-120-10-80 investigation paperwork that literally backed up everything I had said about Captain McRae and the babysitter.

As you can see, there’s more to my desire of death than just some silly little bit of depression.

What does it feel like?

What does death actually feel like?

I know that this sounds like a morbid question, but I have a curiosity.

I imagine that as long as violence isn’t involved, and the death isn’t due to slow external or internal bleeding, that death should come on nice and peacefully.

I’ve had two incidents of syncope with elevated troponin levels in the last few years.

The dropping to the floor didn’t hurt.

The being unconscious didn’t feel like anything.

It didn’t hurt.

It wasn’t scary.

It was peaceful.

And then I came to.

Both times I was actually disappointed that I came back.

I can only hope that the dying process is as peaceful as the death.

I know that in the weeks, days, hours, and minutes leading up to my death that I will be anxious as hell.

I know that it’s going to be nerve racking climbing into my death bed.

And I know that it’s going to really be anxiety inducing feeling the midazolam starting to flow into my veins, knowing that I will soon come to the point of no return.

But, all I have to do is remember what depression feels like and what the memories of CFB Namao and CFB Griesbach do to me.

I really wish that there was some way that I could make you understand how being alive hurts.

The depression, the anxiety, the confusion, the numbness.

The memories of the neglect. The memories of the sexual abuse. The memories of the physical abuse. The memories of the mental abuse.

I never asked for any of this.

I never asked for life.

And I should have the right to say that enough is enough.

The opinions of the catholic church and other religious leaders should have no bearing on my request to end my life.

The point of my life is for me to enjoy my life, not to make you happy.

If I can’t enjoy my life, why should I be forced to endure this?

That’s one of the problems with being human.

I’m flawed.

But we’re all flawed.

We have two brains, our primitive brain and our prefrontal cortex.

The primitive brain looks after our basic reflexes and urges.

The prefrontal cortex looks after our higher functions, regulates the impulses of our primitive brain, and basically guides us on our daily struggles to be better than our fellow animals.

The prefrontal cortex as it turns out is very susceptible to stress and mental trauma. And when it becomes damaged it has an even harder time regulating our higher functions.

This is why frontal lobotomies were used to “cure” depression, anxiety, and other issues related to emotional wellbeing. A sharp instrument would be driven into the brain via one or both orbital sockets. The instrument would be moved back and forth, side to side, in order to sever the connection between the frontal cortex and the rest of the brain.

Yes, the procedure would often “cure” the ailments, but it would often leave the patient without the ability to feel any type of emotions, would leave patients apathetic and unmotivated. In worse cases the patient would become catatonic or even just die.

The prefrontal cortex is a relatively new feature in our primate brain. Our closest relatives, the Chimpanzee, which is a great ape, has a prefrontal cortex, but it is much smaller than the human prefrontal cortex.

Chimpanzees aren’t noted for committing suicide.

Humans do.

And quite frequently.

And with very imaginative techniques.

I think it’s just that the prefrontal cortex is too advanced for our primitive brain and it can’t deal with the human flesh and blood body that it is attached to.

When it becomes damaged due to trauma, neglect, or abuse, it is unable to cope properly anymore. It can’t properly regulate anxiety. It can’t properly regulate stress. And it can’t regulate depression.

Structures in the prefrontal cortex change. The prefrontal cortex then decides that dying and death are preferential to being alive.

And the prefrontal cortex makes this decision quite frequently.

It is estimated that around 700,000 people in the world commit suicide each year.

This of course doesn’t include suicide attempts. Nor does it include suicides that couldn’t definitely be proved to be a suicide. And of course sometimes the police / medical personal will avoid recording the death as a suicide to spare the family or loved ones of the deceased.

Who am I to say that the desire to die is wrong.

And is the desire to die really wrong?

Why do I have to live with the trauma that was gifted to me as a child?

Why do I have to live with the brain that was damaged due to neglect and psychological trauma?