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.
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.
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?
In a recent text message, my brother Scott said that it was okay for me to use his name and his pictures.
I had no idea that these pictures existed until I visited Marie in December of 2013.
Even though Richard had very decent camera equipment for the time, there really doesn’t exist any pictures of my brother or I. Richard had tons of pictures of military aircraft, pictures of him and his buddies drinking on training exercises, and pictures of lots of other things that weren’t my brother and I.
Scott had texted me asking about the class action and we messaged back and forth for a bit.
I sent Scott a meme that I had gleaned from twitter:
That’s when he responded that Sue had given him a few pictures a while ago, but that he shredded them.
That’s when he said that I could use his name and share his pictures.
Left – Robert Gill (7 yrs) and Right – Scott Gill (4-1/2 yrs) Picture taken in late summer of 1978 on Canadian Forces Base Namao in PMQ #11 – 12th street
Yeah, we were about the same size as kids. Lots of people on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach and Canadian Forces Base Downsview mistook him as being the older sibling while I was mistaken for the younger sibling.
Scott Gill (rear row, 5th from the left) Grade 1, Guthrie School Canadian Forces Base NamaoScott Gill at Downsview Public School sometime between 1984 and 1986(l-r) Margret Mary Waniandy Anderson, Marie Annette Jacquline Dagenais Gill, Scott Dwayne Arthur Gill, Robert Wayne Gill. About September / October 1978 While Richard was away on training exercises.
I’ve never mentioned Scott’s name for two reason.
The first reason is that I have no idea who he actually is.
The second reason is a lot of people really don’t want their names mentioned in matters like this.
When I say I don’t know who Scott is, I mean that.
The only thing that we really have in common is that we were sexually abused by the same person.
Yes, we have the same sperm donor.
Yes, we had the same egg donor.
Yes, we popped out of the same vag.
But we were raised feral.
I was born in Sept of ’71
He was born in Feb of ’74
Our mother was only around until early 1977, so he knew her about three years. I knew her for about six years.
I knew Richard’s anger and his drinking. I don’t think Scott remembers too much of that.
During our time on CFB Shearwater and CFB Summerside Richard was only around periodically, but when he was it usually wasn’t a pleasant time for anyone.
Once on CFB Shearwater, Richard was drinking and watching hockey and yelling at the TV like he always did. Scott was still in a walker and obviously bothering Richard. Richard told me to take Scott to his mother for her to look after him. Marie was downstairs doing laundry. I don’t think Richard realized this. So, I did as Richard said, I tried to take Scott to his mother. That didn’t work out too well, and down the stairs Scott went. Richard denied to Marie that he asked me to take Scott to Marie.
And that’s par for the course in Richard’s house.
Grandma came to live with us on Canadian Forces Base Summerside. Richard was rarely home.
And this is when Scott and I went full feral.
Grandma had a lot of issues from her time in Indian Residential School and from her rampant alcoholism. So she was never really around to raise my brother and I if you know what I mean. Yeah, she kept food in our bellies, and she kept darning our clothes no matter how worn out they had become, but she wasn’t their for Scott and I, so we just drifted around in our own spheres.
When you grow up in a household like that, especially a household on a military base where everyone minds their own business, you tend to go wild.
And wild we did go.
People have asked me if I am serious about the number of times that our babysitter abused my brother and I on CFB Namao. When I tell them that I am they give me an incredulous look as if I am lying. “Why didn’t you tell someone” is what they always ask. Even Alberta Crown prosecutor Jon Weribicki asked this in 2011. The entire time of our stay on CFB Namao, grandma was the only constant in the house. Richard was rarely home. And the one constant about grandma is that she was usually pissed drunk.
The older kids on base used to make “chugga, chugga” sounds when grandma was around. I wouldn’t learn until later in life that “Chug” is a derogatory term for an intoxicated Indian.
So, that’s why Scott and I were the babysitter’s favourite playthings. He knew we were practically on our own and that there was no one for us to tell.
I know Scott was hoping that I could make the babysitter stop, but that was well beyond my abilities.
I think our lack of parental units on CFB Shearwater, CFB Summerside, CFB Namao, CFB Griesbach, CFB Downsview set my brother and I on a collision course with the likes of Captain McRae and his teenaged accomplice as well as the others on the other bases.
Because of Richard’s well documented issues and his refusal to accept responsibility for his family, and his need to blame others, a massive rift was created between Scott and I as kids.
Richard didn’t love either of us, and he didn’t like the either of us.
Richard’s family wasn’t like one of those families you hear of where the mother and father have issues, but they love their children and they try their best.
Richard never actually had legal custody of my brother and I. He took advantage of the National Defence Act in 1977 to have our mother thrown out of the PMQ and off the base. Marie wanted to take my brother and I back to Nova Scotia to stay with our uncle, Al Dagenais. The reason for this was due to Richard’s drinking and physical abuse getting out of hand. Richard wasn’t concerned in the least about losing Scott and I. He was terrified of having to pay child support.
Around 1986, when we were living on Canadian Forces base Downsview in Ontario, one of Richard’s air force buddies asked Richard “Rick, if these fucking kids are driving you nuts, why don’t you give them back to their fucking mother and let her deal with the stupid fuckers”. Richard’s reply was that by doing so he’d be signing his paycheque over to that bitch and that as long as Scott and I lived with him he could control the costs.
So yeah, the household that Scott and I grew up in was completely devoid of any type of loving relationship.
Everything about Richard was penny pinching for my brother and I, but extravagance for Richard and his friends and relations.
Christmas was almost non-existent for Scott and I as kids as were birthdays. Anything we did get was usually from our mother (but secretly paid for by our uncle Doug).
Socks and underwear day is how Scott referred to christmas.
So yeah, it’s no wonder my brother and I don’t really know anything about each other.
When we lived on CFB Downsview in Toronto, my brother and I ran with totally different crowds.
I got further sexually abused and I got introduced to child prostitution. I know that I came damn close to being on a child pornography tape.
I don’t know if any of the men who took advantage of me while I lived on Canadian Forces Base Downsview got their hands on Scott, but I do know that Scott was familiar with one of these guys.
I’m almost 100% certain that Scott never turned tricks like I did, but I have no doubt that he got sexually abused as well.
I moved out of the house in late 1987 just after I had turned 16.
I never saw Scott again until the spring of 1990 when I was home on a layover on a six month contract job. My father took me up to Uxbridge, Ontario to see him.
I moved to Edmonton with my father in June of 1990 after my six month contract had ended. Richard said that “we could try to be a family again”. Scott didn’t move with us due to his obligations in Ontario at the time.
I lived on Canadian Forces Base Greisbach for about 1-1/2 months before my father bought a house in Morninville, AB.
The thing about “being a family again” didn’t work and I had my own apartment by October of 1990. I can’t remember when my brother finally arrived in Edmonton, but it was after I had my apartment.
Just as things didn’t work out between Sue and I in “her” new house in Morinville, things didn’t work out between Sue and Scott in Sue’s new house.
I guess that my brother and I were too uncouth to be in “her” house.
It’s probably a good thing that she got her kid off the bases before he got too old.
Scott ended up at my apartment with Richard stating that “I owed it to him (Richard)” after all he did to raise my brother and I without the help of that “silly bitch of a mother” of ours.
Richard absolutely refused to help with groceries or anything else, so Scott ended up going out to our mother’s acreage.
I left Edmonton in February of 1992. The economy sucked, I was unemployed and on welfare. I moved to Vancouver, BC.
I forget the actual sequence of events, but one day on the way to work Scott and his girlfriend were riding the Skytrain.
I think this was when Scott was attending “Columbia Academy of Arts” to be a mixing technician for music recording.
I’m thinking that this was around 1996ish. We didn’t stay in contact for more than a month or two.
Around 1998ish, Richard called me up at my place of employment and told me that Scott needed help to fix his car and because I owed Richard for all that he had provided to us when we were kids this was expected. Again, Scott and I didn’t stay in contact.
I know that Scott and his girlfriend celebrated New Year’s eve 2000 in Vancouver.
The next time I saw Scott was in 2003 when I went to Edmonton with my then girlfriend to see Richard. Richard had no time. I spent more time hanging out with my stepmother than I did with Richard.
That was the last time that I’d ever see Richard alive.
I saw Scott maybe once or twice during the week my girlfriend and I were in Edmonton.
I never did see Scott again until the summer of 2013. I had to contact Scott due to a Federal Court matter I had going on in which I had read his statement to the CFNIS in 2011 and I had some questions to ask him about his statement and the notes that were taken by the investigating officers. I also wanted to share with him the contents of our previously unknown Alberta Social Service Records and our Children’s Aid Society of Toronto records and my foster care records.
We hung out over the course of a week. That was something that I never thought would have been possible before. But after having read the social service records I realized that Scott and I turned out the best we could considering the defective household that we grew up in.
The highlight of the visit was Scott and I stopped for coffee and donuts at a coffee shop in the east side of Edmonton. Anyways, we’re sitting there and this elderly gent comes up to the two of us and asks us if we could please stop swearing as it’s too much for him and his wife.
Yeah, that’s one thing Scott and I did pick up from Richard and his mother. I’m not sure who swore worse, grandma or Richard. Grandma could unleash her profanities and put Richard to shame.
What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you want something to fucking cry about? I’ll give you something to fucking cry about. You fucking little asshole. You goddamn silly fucker. You little fucking cocksucker. That was from both grandma and Richard. Richard wasn’t afraid to let go with “you stupid cunt”, “you’re a fucking stunned cunt” and other choice words directed to his mother and other women around him.
In the fall of 2013 things fell apart between Scott and I, no doubt due to my brother’s recent re-aquaintence with my father.
My father had contacted my brother via our stepmother as Richard wanted to know about the Written Examination for Federal Court that I had subpoenaed Richard with. I guess Richard never thought that I would have seen the statement he gave to the military police in 2011 in which he denied that my brother and I had ever been sexually abused on CFB Namao, and in which he totally erased our grandmother from our past. I also don’t think that Richard thought that I would ever get my foster care records or my social service records.
But nonetheless Richard had to cover his ass.
I don’t blame my brother. I’ve known for a long time that Richard was a skilled and masterful manipulator. I’ll readily admit to being manipulated by Richard. Richard could manipulate anyone. I have no doubt that his manipulation skills were the only thing that allowed him to enjoy a 30 year career in the Canadian Armed Forces.
My brother and I didn’t really speak again until 2019. Since then we’ve had sporadic conversations. Nothing too in depth or extensive, and I honestly don’t think things will ever get better. That’s the way Richard raised us, and that’s what Richard wanted.
Scott and I were two strangers living in the same household.
I don’t think that Scott ever realized as a kid that our family was in as much trouble as it was, I know I sure as hell didn’t have the foggiest idea until I got my social service paperwork in 2011.
No doubt Richard had lied to Scott over the years and convinced Scott that nothing had happened on CFB Namao.
I don’t think Scott honestly believed anything of what I had to say about CFB Namao until the Canadian Armed Forces finally released the 1980 CFSIU investigation paperwork and the 1980 Courts Martial transcripts in November of 2020 which indicated that the military police in 1980 were very well aware of what the babysitter and Captain McRae had been doing to young children on the base.
It also helps that I have my class action going on at the moment because if I was Scott I wouldn’t believe a single fucking thing that came out of my mouth.
Do I blame Scott?
No.
How could I?
I know the household that Scott grew up in.
Fuck, I wouldn’t believe anything that came out of my mouth if I was him either.
As kids, when things went wrong in the house Richard would simply blame either Scott or I for what went wrong.
It was like he was doing everything to keep us at each other’s throat.
Gabor Maté observed that “no two children have the same parents” meaning that parents treat each child differently no matter how much they try to treat each child the same. Richard took that observation to the extreme. Not only did Scott and I not have the same father, but the father we had changed on an almost daily basis.
One day I was Richard’s little buddy, and the next day Scott was Richard’s little buddy.
Richard wouldn’t give the slightest fuck about Scott watching cartoons, but if I watched cartoons I’d get berated for watching that fucking horseshit. What the fuck is wrong with you, that shit is for little kids, why the fuck are you watching this?
So of course there would be animosity and resentment between the two of us.
Scott would break something, and I’d get blasted for not watching Scott and keeping him from breaking the thing. So of course I resented Scott. It’s what I was taught.
And I sure wasn’t in any position to raise or care for my brother no matter how much my father insisted that raising my brother was my responsibility.
I was diagnosed at age five as having anorexia due to “societal issues” in the house. At age nine, after having been sexually abused for 1-1/2 years I was found to be severely emotionally disturbed and suffering from major depression, severe anxiety, and haphephobia.
I was in no position to “raise” my brother or to take over as my brother’s father.
So yeah, there really isn’t much of any connection between Scott and I.
Hopefully whatever settlement we get from the Department of National Defence and the Canadian Armed Forces is enough to help him out because that’s all that I can really do.
There will be no magical time machines to jump into and to go back in time and redo our lives.
I don’t connect easily with people.
I have no emotions to offer.
And I’m undergoing M.A.i.D. sometime in 2024.
Our father never taught us how to love or how to be loved.
Richard taught us how to hate, and how to despise, how to show contempt, and how to be isolated.
Okay, so it’s been suggested to me to not publish anything at this moment that speaks directly to the class action or the subject of the class action as it has entered a critical phase.
I watched a movie yesterday on Netflix titled “The Luckiest Girl Alive”.
The film centres around an adult woman who is trying to make the perfect life for herself in order to hide her past.
Her past involves surviving a school shooting with allegations that she may have been involved with the shooting.
As the story progresses we learn that just prior to the school shooting she had been raped by three of the popular boys. During the shooting two of the boys are killed and one boy survives but is paralyzed.
At the time of the rape the girl was blamed for being assaulted with her own mother hinting that her own daughter was loose.
The school didn’t want anything to proceed legally.
And in the aftermath of the shooting, the paralyzed boy was looked upon with sympathy from the community and it appears that in order to scuttle any chance of the girl ever bringing rape charges against the boy and ruining his new found stardom, it was leaked to the community that she was implicated in the shooting.
In the end, everything unravels, as an adult she is able to get the paralyzed boy to confess to the fact the he did rape her.
This movie, along with “unbelievable” have a somewhat bittersweet taste for me.
Whereas the female characters in these two films receive their justice at the end of the film, there won’t be any such thing for me.
The babysitter will always be the innocent little angel.
I will forever be the homosexual pervert that allowed the babysitter to do what he did to myself and my brother.
When I talked with the babysitter’s father in 2015, he absolutely loved his son. He blamed himself for what his son had done.
My father threw me under the fucking train. No matter how bad my mental health issues were and no matter how bad the trauma had fucked me up, it was my fault.
Well, it’s four months to go until I see my nurse practitioner to engage the path for Medical Assitance in Dying.
The sense of calm that I have enjoyed since I first decided to avail myself to M.A.i.D. grows day by day.
It’s like the feeling you get when you’re doing a double shift at work and you’re dead tired and your bones ache and you can’t wait to get home and go to bed. You know it will all be over soon.
That’s the way it is with me.
My end is coming soon.
My end will be peaceful.
No trauma, no terror.
Again, it’s four months until my application, not four months until the proceedure.
At this point in time I have no idea of when I will be able to undergo the proceedure.
According to my lawyer, the Department of Justice is close to offering up a settlement.
My fear is that Captain McRae’s teenaged accomplice will be the only one to get any form of compensation.
I can see the DOJ arguing that it can only offer compensation to the victims of Captain McRae and not the victims of Captain McRae’s teenaged accomplice.
In 1980, contrary to the evidence on hand, Base Commander Colonel Daniel Edward Munro only forwarded the charges related to the babysitter to the court martial court. All other charges against Captain McRae were dropped.
Remember that this was in 1980. There was no military prosecutor to review the charges. The Provincial Crown wasn’t consulted. It was the commanding officer of the accused that reviewed the charges. McRae’s commanding officer was base commander Colonel Daniel Edward Munro.
No one will ever know if the investigation was interferred with back in 1980.
This was one of the concerns with the Somalia Inquiry, that the chain of command could exert influence over military police investigations due to the rank hierarchy in the military and the legal requirement for military personal to obey the lawful commands of their superiors. This is what led to significant changes to the National Defence Act in 1998 with the passing of Bill C-25 “An Act to Ammend the National Defence Act”.
Also, it was a chain of command decision in 1980 to not call the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in to deal with the babysitter thereby forever fucking the victims of both pedophiles.
Apparently the DOJ is working towards payments based on a table that was used for the Indian Residential School Settlements.
The problem with this is that it’s based upon a $10,000.00 payment for every child that went to Residential School. To claim more you had to provide verified proof that other events occured at school.
When I made my complaint to the Edmonton Police Service in 2011, it was kicked over to the CFNIS. The CFNIS even admitted in their paperwork that in 1980 this matter was the jurisdiction of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police as it was civilian on civilian.
The fact that the CFNIS had in their possession the CFSIU investigation paperwork from 1980 and the courts martial transcripts from 1980 would seem to indicate that I am not the first person to come forward with complaints against the babysitter.
This operation to gaslight me was far too smooth.
If it wasn’t for Master Corporal Christian Cyr telling me very specific information and asking me very specific questions, both of which only existed in CFSIU DS 120-10-80, I would never have had any proof.
If I was a gambling man I’d say that the CFNIS has investigated complaints against Captain McRae and the babysitter numerous time since 1998.
But with the legal inability to ever charge Angus McRae for crimes against children that occured prior to 1998 due to the three year time bar in the National Defence Act, the CFNIS, the Canadian Forces Military Police Group, and the Canadian Forces Provost Marshal more than likely have a well oiled script for dealing with these complaints that always, and without exception, just don’t have enough evidence to lay charges.
Sorry, better luck next time.
The CFNIS ran a very, very smooth gaslighting operation from the word go.
The goal of the investigation was to try to convince me that (a) the abuse never occured, (b) the abuse was very minor and trivial, (c) I was lying about the abuse.
When interviewing one of the other victims of the babysitter, the CFNIS asked this victim if he would agree that “Bobbie was a societal malcontent with an axe to grind against the military”.
So, what does this have to do with the potential DOJ settlement?
Based on the information provided to the Alberta Crown, the crown determined that basically I was a liar. There was obviously no babysitter and my father said there was no babysitter. The CFNIS provided the Alberta Crown with the babysitter’s incorrect age. The exact incorrect age that existed in the 1980 CFSIU paperwork. This led Alberta Crown prosecutor Jon Weribicki to conclude that 1-1/2 years of graphic child sexual abuse at the hands of a pedophile that was twice my age and fully sexually developed was nothing more than “childhood curiosity and experimentation”.
Why would the CFNIS do this?
It wouldn’t be their choice.
This would have come down from high up the chain of command. The Vice Chief of Defence Staff has the legal authority under the National Defence Act to direct ANY CFNIS investigation.
Much like in 1980, the Canadian Armed Forces and the Department of National Defence would be terrified of the Canadian public discovering that children were not safe on military bases and that the military justice system failed untold numbers of kids.
And even worse, the Canadian Forces don’t want it known that they can’t conduct courts martial proceedings for service offences that occured prior to 1998 due to the 3-year time bar. And they can’t simply kick these matters over to the civilian courts as that option didn’t exist in 1980. In 1980 Captain McRae could only be tried by courts martial for the service offences of Gross Indecency, Indecent Assault, and Buggery. There was no way possible in 1980 to send him to the civilian system. And if the either the CFSIU or the CFNIS arrested and charged Angus McRae anytime between May of 1983 and his death in May of 2011 the CFSIU or the CFNIS wouldn’t be able to do anything with the charges as the three year time bar would apply.
Now, I doubt the the Minister of National Defence, the Chief of Defence Staff, and the Vice Chief of Defence Staff in 2011 would have ever envisioned that I would have seen this matter through as far as I have.
They probably all assumed that I would have sulked away with my tail between my legs.
The problem is that I went though too much hell with Captain Terry Totzke and Master Corporal Richard Wayne Gill in the aftermath.
However, I think I’m about to be subjected to the maxim “No Good Deed Goes Unpunished”.
I think what the DOJ will argue is that the 2011 CFNIS investigation should apply when determining how much settlement money I am offered. Meaning that I will walk away with maybe $10,000.00.
Based on the six charges that Colonel Daniel Edward Munro forwarded to the Courts Martial panel, the babysitter might walk away with $50,000.00 to $100,000.00 even though he was abusing us on his own and providing us to Captain McRae for Captain McRae to abuse in the rectory of the chapel after giving us wine.
Other victims of Captain McRae or the babysitter may fare better than I will as they weren’t called liars by the CFNIS, so if they claim that they were abused 5 or 6 times by the babysitter or McRae they might get $50,000.00 to $100,000.00 as the CFNIS wasn’t able to cast doubt on the veracity of their complaint.
And the one thing that the DOJ is refusing to even entertain compensation for is the years of conversion therapy I endured at the hands of Captain Terry Totzke in the aftermath of CFB Namao. And the DOJ is not willing to compensate for Captain Terry Totzke’s refusal to allow me to receive treatment for my severe mental illnesses due to the sexual abuse on CFB Namao.
But Bobbie, you’ve won, right?
Nope.
I haven’t won anything.
I’ve lost everything.
I’ve lost more in this life than you’ll ever realize.
I’ve lost more in this life then I’ll ever realize.
I was betrayed by my own father.
I was betrayed by the Canadian Armed Forces.
I was betrayed by the Government of Canada.
It wasn’t my choice to live in military housing on military bases.
At no point in my life did I ever agree to give up my rights as a Canadian Citizen to instead my rights as a Canadian Citizen to be cast aisde by the absolutely insane National Defence Act.
So, here I lay on my bed typing this blog entry out.
I know that the memories of the abuse and the aftermath still haunt me to this day.
As a kid I was never treated as a victim.
I was blamed for my abuse and the abuse of my brother on CFB Namao by Captain Terry Totzke and by my father.
The drepression and the anxiety eat away at me each and every day.
And this is why I really want medical assistance in dying.
It wasn’t that I had been abused once or twice and never told anyone.
It went on for a year and a half.
I was blamed for it
I was blamed for what happened to my brother.
I had to endure a dysfunctional household while this was going on.
My grandmother who raised my brother and I from 1976 until 1981 was a piss tank alcoholic.
My own father was a rage prone piss tank alcoholic in the Canadian Armed Forces.
We lived on military bases where dysfunctiona familes were a dirty secret and where everyone minded their own business no matter what they heard going on behind the walls of the PMQs.
I was so far gone that I was supposed to have been institutionalized in two different provinces.
I never received any manner of help with my major depression and severe anxiety that was a result of the sexual abuse with the exception of backhands and belts from my father to help correct my “fucking piss poor attitude”.
With medical assitance in dying I get to go away and never suffer from this shit again.
Yes, I’ll be dead. But I’ll be dead one day anyways. Why prolong the suffering?
It’s not like I’ll get the settlement cheque and then sunshine will burst forth from the heavens.
An apology won’t do fuck all, especially not at this juncture, not after having been fucked silly by the CFNIS starting in 2011.
And with my father being dead and never having to even admit what the fuck he truly knew in 1980, what he agreed to with the CFSIU and the chain of command on CFB Namao in 1980, or having to even weakly explain his statement to the CFNIS in 2011, there never will be any closure for me on this matter.
Yes, I fully understand that my father had great difficulty telling the truth. And he had a predisposition to tell people what he thought they wanted to hear. But it would have at least provided a small modicum of closure watching him squirm.
With the way my brain works I’d be focusing on this shit for the rest of my days. My untreated depression and anxiety would just continue to worsen as the days went by.
This is why I welcome death.
It puts an end to my issues.
It puts an end to my torment.
It puts an end to my mental anguish and suffering.
I took this past Friday off from work to be photographed by a professional photographer.
I met Albert back in 2017 when he came to the hospital to document an energy savings program that phsycial plant had implemented.
He was brought in by the planner that had looked after the project.
He didn’t say anything to me at the time, but he asked the manager to contact me and to tell me that he was interested in taking some photos of me in his studio.
I went over and we did a photoshoot for a few hours.
It was interesting.
So, I decided that I’d like to have some more photographs taken seeing as how my wardrobe has become far more than second hand dresses. Also, my tattoos cover far more than what they did back in 2017.
I contacted Albert about a month ago and we set up an appointment on Friday.
I took four dresses over in addition to the dress that I was wearing.
I also took my favourtie heels.
Rode the scooter from Braid skytrain station over to Albert’s place.
Albert should start a therapy / photography service.
We talked for about 30 to 40 minutes before going into the studio. He seemed to want to flesh out why I wanted to pay to get my photographs taken.
I explained to Albert that I have a decent camera setup, and I like taking photographs of mechanical things, and odd things. I don’t like to photograph people and I don’t like people in my photographs.
I also explained that I am far too self concious and far too critical to take pictures of myself.
Albert asked me what happens when people want to take picture of me.
I told him that for some reason my brain reacts different.
For example, when I was in Iceland over the summer no matter where I went, both tourists and Icelanders were asking to take my picture.
I think the reason that I love dresses and colours and designs is they offset how absolutely dead I am on the inside.
Let’s face it, with what I’ve been through in life, I have the ultimate “resting bitch face”. People think that I’m angry. I’m not. I’m just completely dead on the inside.
As social services indicated back in 1982, I couldn’t express emotions, I couldn’t express happiness or sadness. Whenever they tried to get me to express my emotions it would usually end up in a temper tantrum. I had no idea of how to make friends. I was completely isolated. Captain Totzke and my father had no interest in getting me the help I needed at the time, so things were just left to fester.
I should have the photographs in a week’s time. Albert has to process the images. I’ll get them in RAW format, but he’ll also render JPG versions of the photos. Most of the portrait full frame shots were taken with a Medium Format digital camera.
So, just sitting down eating a bite for lunch and enjoying a soy cappuccino.
I’m probably going to ride my scoot over to the VCC-Clark skytrain station and take a run out to Value Village in Coquitlam and maybe the one out in Port Coquitlam.
People have asked me repeatedly how I can live without a car.
I say very easily.
I haven’t owned a car since 1998 when I moved downtown.
But even before that, when I did own cars, I usually couldn’t afford to drive them.
I bought a 1977 VW Rabbit when I was 15. This was so that I could get a membership at the base auto club. The car really wasn’t drivable, but it was something that I could learn mechanics on from guys like Bill Parker and Bob Wrightson at the autoclub.
In a way I wish I had never been a member of the autoclub. My brother had a friend named Greg. Greg was younger than me, but much like my brother they were both built larger than me.
I stayed clear of Greg. Avoided him at all costs.
Anyways somehow Greg got it in his head that because I could tinker on cars that I was going to fix his V6 Chevy Nova.
Straight fours is all I had ever worked on at the autoclub. Never had touched an American car, especially not a V-anything. Anways, I was at work on night at Bob Becker’s workshop when my brother, Greg, and a few of their buddies show up. My brother told Greg that I could fix cars, so therefore I was going to fix Greg’s car. The car that showed up with no distributor, no ignition coil, no spark plugs, and no spark plug wires. These were all in a jumble in the trunk of the car.
As could be expected, I couldn’t fix the car.
Greg and his buddies caught up with me at a Plaza on Keele just to the south of the entrance to the base. Fuck did they ever beat the shit out of me. And it wasn’t like it was anywhere near a fair fight. I was maybe 110 lbs tops. There was Greg. Greg had to be about 5″ taller than me and maybe weighed close to 150 to 160 lbs. And the other 3 were about the same size and stature. There was also this older guy, can’t remember his name, but he had to be around 40 or 50 years old.
I remember avoiding home and instead heading over to Billy Donuts on Wilson Ave.
The owner called the cops.
But ratting out on Greg would have been the end of me so I refused to say anything.
I knew that telling Richard would have been an absolute waste of time.
This was pretty well when I started to make sure that no one knew that I had any interests in cars or fixing things.
The first road worthy car that I ever owned was in Edmonton, AB.
I bought that car in August of 1990.
I made a mistake and I quit the job that I had prior to ensuring that the job I was going to was going to work out.
So I ended up on welfare.
A guy in my apartment building noticed that I liked to work on cars so he asked me if I wanted to make some extra money under the table working on cars for his brother. Who could turn down extra money to make ends meet when you’re on welfare. Welfare barely paid the rent at the time, let alone bought goceries.
I worked on a few cars for his brother Adam who owned a used car dealership on the south east side of Edmonton.
There were some sketchy things going on in that shop. So I didn’t stay very long.
It wouldn’t be until sometime in the 2010s that I would find out that in the years after I had involvement with Adam that some skectchy shit really was going down in that shop.
The car that I bought in 1990 was my transport when I decided to leave the welfare rolls in Alberta and try my luck in Vancouver in February of 1992.
I spent so much time on and off living in that car. The best place for car camping at the time was Stanley Park. There were also industrial areas that one could camp out in.
Around the spring of 1993 I couldn’t afford to keep the car any longer so I got rid of it for free with a scrap dealer.
I ended up moving back to Toronto around the fall of 1993. That didn’t work out so well so I ended up back in Vancouver by May of 1994.
I lived down at the Sally Anne until about August of 1994.
From ’94 to ’95 I primarily rode the bus, rode a bicycle, or walked to work from New Westminster to East Richmond.
In 1996 I got my hands on a very good condition 1984 Diesel Rabbit.
Kept that until I moved downtown in 1998.
I’ve owned a few motorcycles through my life, but I’ve only kept them for a few seasons.
Most were used, only one was new of a showroom floor.
That one was written off by a cab driver that ICBC found 100% at fault for the incident.
After getting cut off by that cab driver and seeing how easily someone else could end my life for the sake of beating a green light I realized that motorcycling wasn’t for me.
My greatest fear of getting injured in a motorcycle collision isn’t dying. It’s surviving. Motorcycle helmets really don’t protect the rider when struck by another vehicle. Motorcycle helmets, much like bicycle helmets are meant to protect the rider from incidents involving the motorcycle rider alone.
My father had a friend named Jacques Choquette. One night while Jacques was riding home on his motorcycle Jacques hit a pedestrian. Jacques ended up losing part of his skull and part of his brain. The guy was a fucking psychotic nutcase after the incident. No impulse control. Anger outbursts from nowhere. Seizures. Jacques was the one who tried to strangle me in the basement of the PMQ on CFB Downsview while my father stood to the side chuckling.
That’s what I’m most afraid of. Ending up with brain damage and having to live for 40 or 50 years like a fucking psycho like Jacques.
I bought a motorcycle back in 2020 at the start of the pandemic. I rode it for that first summer. It has sat in the under ground parking lot since.
I wanted to do some modification to it, but my depression told me that I’d get started and never finish the fucking thing off like I never finish anything else off.
So all in all, I’d say that even though I’ve had my driver’s licence since I was 17, I’ve actually only driven a car for maybe 5 years of my life. That’s about 14% of my adult driving life.
Total riding time of motorcycles would be less than 8%.
Riding bicycles would be close to 20%, riding the bus would be another 20%, walking would be almost 46% if not more. I’m probably a little high on the bicycle and the bus.
I think that I can credit my father and his driving skills and his belittling attitude.
Richard could be a complete asshole behind the wheel.
Everyone else on the road was a stupid asshole, a stupid cunt, a fucking idiot, or some fucking goddamn asshole that got their licence from a cracker jack box.
This is why he was forever rear ending other vehicles.
I could never figure out why he would never get his pride and joy fixed after various collisions. But as I would learn later in life, you never wanted to claim against your insurance for any accident that you were at fault for. That’s how the ’83 Mustang GT went from being a showroom new car in 1983 to a wreck with the driver’s seat falling through the floor and needing wood to hold it in place by the time I moved out of the house in 1987.
The collisions I know of from being in the car when they happened were the time he rear-ended a Jaguar over by the Don Valley parkway. Slammed right into the back of the car at an intersection. As usual it was my fault becuase if I hadn’t asked him for a ride to work this would never have happened.
The next time was on Keele Street just before we got back on to base. He rear ended a Metropolitan Toronto Police Service cruiser. And this was back in the day when they were bright white with yellow reflective strips. I didn’t stick around to see who he blamed the collision on. I just walked home.
Richard wasn’t adverse to throttle blips to let the driver infront of him at the lights know that he was displeased with the fact that because they were driving so slow he got caught behind them at the light.
He also had this habit of passing cars as we were coming to intersections and once he passed through the intersection he’d start swearing at the light to change and teach that silly fucker a lesson.
Of course there were also the times that he drove drunk.
He wrote off his 1969 Ford Thunderbird that he had bought with his retention bonus. Wrote that car off around 1975. Wrote it off in the PMQs of Canadian Forces Base Shearwater. That put me in the hospital for stitches.
The next time that he crashed a car due to drinking was after our mother left in 1976 / 77. He had gone to the junior ranks mess on CFB Summerside and was driving back home to our PMQ at 353 High Street in Summerside. Somewhere on the highway he crossed the centre line and clipped an on coming car.
My brother and I were more or less unscathed. But I ended up with a fat lip after the other driver asked my father if he had been drinking and I told the other driver that my father was drink at the bar on base. Guess I wasn’t supposed to rat out the rage fueled alcoholic, was I?
Maybe that’s why I don’t care much for driving. My father’s rage behind the wheel and his alcoholism ruined driving for me.
Also, not having help with my cars in the early days made me realize just exactly how much of a fucking money pit cars are and how one’s paycheque just goes into the endless pit of car culture.
One thing that I have realized is that people living in our society really don’t have as much control over their lives as people believe that they do.
For some reason people have more control over the lives of others that they do over their own.
I don’t remember being asked if I’d like to be born.
My parents were horny, they fucked, he ejaculated and didn’t pull out, and nine months later I popped out.
Did I ask to be born to two parents that were already suffering mental illnesses? My father battling depression and alcoholism, my mother suffering from anxiety.
Did I ask to be born to an alcoholic father?
Did I ask to be raised by a residential school survivor who had her own severe mental health issues?
And puhlease, don’t tell me that I should be happy that I was blessed with the miracle of life.
There’s over 7.8 billion people on the face of the planet.
Pregnancy, birth, and life are not a “miracle”.
And if your argument is that I should be happy that I don’t live in an underdeveloped country, well fuck you. I live in this country. I was raised in this country. I was abused by fellow citizens of this country. I was fucked over by institutions of this country. You don’t get to negate the shit I live through by erecting fanciful strawmen and bad faith fallacies.
Contrary to the teachings of Captain Terry Totzke and master corporal Richard Gill, I didn’t deserve the sexual abuse from Captain McRae and his teenage accomplice, P.S.
And contrary to the opinions of Captain Terry Totzke and my father, I didn’t deserve 2-1/2 years of conversion therapy.
I was a concious decision of Captain Totzke to deny my of the treatments I required for my mental health issues.
Sure, Totzke may have only been following the orders of his superiors. But he still made a decision. I had no say in the matter.
My father went along with the decision to deny me my treatment. Yeah, sure, Totzke outranked my father, but my father still had choices at his disposal. He made a choice to play along.
When my father had his meltdown in the PMQ on Canadian Forces Base Downsview in Ontario, somebody within the military police made the decision to not notify the Metropolitan Toronto Police Service thereby ensuring that Richard’s inability to control his anger wouldn’t be reported to the Children’s Aid Society of Toronto.
Somebody in the Canadian Forces chain of command made the conciousous decision to run a “dog & pony show” investigation in 2011. Somebody made this decision even though they knew full well that due to limited resources, only victims of crimes have access to mental heatlh treatments.
Somebody in the Canadian Forces chain of command made the conciousous decision to hide the information contained in the CFSIU DS 120-10-80 investigation paperwork from the Alberta Crown prosecutor in 2011 thereby forcing the Alberta Crown to make a horrific decision.
Somebody in the Canadian Forces chain of command decided to hide the existence of CFSIU DS 120-10-80 from the Military Police Complaints Commission in 2012 thereby ensuring that the MPCC wouldn’t discover until 2020 that the CFNIS in 2011 knew all about the criminal exploits of P.S..
Somebody in the Office of the Judge Advocate General made the decision to not allow the CFNIS to talk to former base commander Daniel Edward Munro in 2017 due to the inability to lay charges against Munro due to the 3-year-time-bar that existed only in the military prior to 1998.
So, as you can see, a lot of people made decisions for me or they made decisions that directly affected me.
Hopefully I get to make the one decision that I should be allowed to make, and that is to end my life through Medical Assistance in Dying.
Beeshive 