Fucked.
Fucked is the one word that would best describe me.
Maybe forsaken ?
Damaged?
No, I think fucked describes me fairly well.
Especially, fucked in the head.
Fucked beyond all belief.
Fucking damaged.
Fucking depressed.
Fucking tired.
Fucking sick of it all.
Played for a fucking fool.
Taken fucking advantage of.
Yeah, I think “fucked” describes me fairly well.
I don’t really have any activities that I lose myself in.
I’ve tried over the years to pick up hobbies and interests, but outside of work I really don’t care about anything in particular.
It’s hard to explain to people, and it’s hard for people to understand.
But there isn’t anything in this world that calls to me.
The household that I grew up in was not one that encouraged curiosity or rewarded ingenuity.
Any interest in any subject was seen as stupid, childish, immature.
This is hard for people to understand.
I honestly will never understand why people refuse to believe how toxic some people can be as parents.
My father was a piss tank alcoholic with anger issues.
Worst off, we lived on military bases across Canada. An environment that didn’t concern itself with what went on behind closed doors.
So there aren’t any activities that I lose myself in.
I keep trying different things, but nothing lights that flame.
Dabbled in cars when I was younger. But never really was bitten by the car bug.
Even the time I spent at the base auto club of CFB Downsview gave me the skills for working on cars, but I never had a spark to work on cars.
Got into motorcycle in my 20s. Just never got bitten by the motorcycling bug.
I loved ice skating as a kid. And I frequently skated until the events of CFB Namao. I didn’t skate from 1980 until 2006. In 2006 I was off on a journey, but I happened to pass by the West End community centre. Can’t explain why, but I rented a pair of skates and went for a skate. It was like I had never stopped skating. Skating lasted for about 6 years before depression and dealing with the Canadian Armed Forces made skating impossible.
Over the years I’ve tried to pick up a musical instrument. I can play music mechanically, but it doesn’t evoke anything within. When I play keyboard I have about as much passion as a MIDI sequencer or a roll playing piano.
Computers and electronics. Again, I can work with ’em. I just don’t find anything to like with them.
Came across the obituary for my mother’s second husband, Art Wudrich.
November 18, 1938 ~ May 18, 2024 (age 85)
Art passed away in Calgary at home at the age of 85 years in his sleep peacefully.
He is survived by his wife of 39 years, Marie Wudrich; sons, Terry Wudrich (Deanie) and Dwayne Wudrich; grandchildren, Tyler Wudrich, and Joanne Wudrich; great-grandchildren, Kayden Wudrich and Carson Wudrich; sister Amelia Buhler; brothers Kenny Wudrich, Donald Wudrich (Juverna) and Richard Wudrich (Marilyn).
Art was predeceased by his sister, Ruth Olson; and brothers, Louie Wudrich, Leonard Wudrich, Albert Wudrich, Harold Wudrich and Emil Wudrich.
Arthur Wudrich started his career as a Ferry operator in Saskatchewan, until he went back to school and became a refrigeration mechanic. His son Terry and grandson Tyler have followed in his footsteps and continued with refrigeration as a career choice.
Arthur did move a lot during his career and had many hobbies that kept him busy. He loved to fish, do woodwork and take photos of wildlife. He always loved nature and animals, as do his son Dwayne and granddaughter Joanne.
Art’s wish was for no services to be held, but for the people that know him please take a moment and enjoy family, nature and what life offers you.
I only knew Art briefly. He was a decent guy.
I first met Art in the summer of 1990 when my father invited me to move back to Edmonton with him for his final posting.
Marie and Art were living out on an acreage by Wabumun just west of Edmonton.
I don’t know how or when my mother and Art first met. Marie and Art were married in 1985. This was just after my father signed their divorce papers.
Art and my mother were together for 39 years.
I stayed with Art and Marie for the month of September in 1990.
When my father, my stepmother, my stepbrother, and I arrived at Canadian Forces Base Griesbach in July of 1990 we lived in military housing on base for 2 months. My father bought a house up in Morinville, AB. My stepmother made it very clear that I was not welcome in her house. When my brother arrived in Alberta after his delay in Ontario, she didn’t want him in her house either.
When I was staying with Marie and Art out on their acreage, the engine on my car blew a lower radiator hose and I ended up destroying the engine while driving to work in Edmonton.
No big deal, Art made his garage available to me to use to swap the engine out in my car. He even came with me to West Edmonton Pick-A-Part where I grabbed a used engine out of a scrapped car in the scrap yard. And being an industrial refrigeration mechanic Art had all of the good tools at his disposal.
I found a car that had significant rear end damage but with low milage. Pulled the valve cover off the engine to check for wear on the cam shaft and tappets, and to see if there were any signs that the head had ever overheated, checked for oil leaks around the head. Pulled the plugs and they looked clean.
I took the opportunity to upgrade my car from a 1.4l to a 1.6l engine with the more advanced carburettor.
Took me the one weekend to have the dead engine pulled out of the car and the new engine put in. Art even helped me haul the old engine to the wreckers for scrap.
Art was impressed that I had done the engine swap by myself and that I was meticulous and tidy and cleaned everything up. This I owed to Bill Parker, Bob Wrightson, and the other guys at the base auto hobby club on CFB Downsview.
Art wanted me to get into the refrigeration trade. He said that he was certain that he could get me taken on as an apprentice, and that with my mechanical skills and my electrical aptitude that I would do well.
Sadly though, the events of CFB Namao had occurred just over ten years prior and I was still bearing the fresh trauma of my father’s anger and Captain Totzke’s derision. I was more than certain that I was too much of a failure to be anything like Art.
I moved to Vancouver in the early winter of 1992. Being on welfare since the summer of ’91, Edmonton wasn’t a pleasant city to be in. Unless you have a red seal trade, there’s really not much work in Edmonton except in the low paying service industry.
I had tried to get in contact with my mother a few times between 1992 and 2013, but the company that Art worked for had service contracts for large industrial gas compressors and Art and Marie would often move to the area where the job was as the job would often take a few months from start to finish.
I didn’t see Art between 1992 and December 2013 when I had to track Marie down to ask her questions about answers my father had given to me when I examined him for federal court.
Art would have been about 75 at this time. My mother was 67.
I saw Art and Marie two more times, but the last time I spoke to either of them was back in 2017.
Marie and Art had moved on with their lives, and Marie had petty well written off anything to do with her involvement with my father.
Art didn’t seem to appreciate my desire to know more about the relationship between my mother and my father and my extended family.
But still, Art was a good guy.
It was last week that I had found out that Art had passed away in May of 2024.
I often wonder what would have happened in my life had my father been 1/8th or even just 1/16th the man that Art was.
So now, it looks like it’s just Marie and myself that remain.
And after we’re gone that will be the end of the dysfunction that was my family.
I can safely say that I am not superstitious.
There’s more than enough evil and malevolence in everyday reality. I don’t need imaginary people and hidden forces to add to the evil that already exists.
I understand the appeal and the allure of superstitions.
Superstitions are the crutch of the human mind. Superstitions explain away random events and make the universe appear more ordered and less chaotic than it really is.
My middle name came courtesy of an office of vital statistics official.
Back in 2008, after the disastrous realization that I was never going to escape the events of Canadian Forces Base Namao and that I was always going to be the “asshole” that fucked with my father’s military career I decided that I wanted to legally change my name.
At the time I had thought that by changing my name that I could sever the past from my future.
Bobbie was always going to be a given. All the nice people from my childhood always called me Robbie or Bobby. The only person who was adamant that my name was Robert was my father. Sue never called me by my nickname either.
And Bobbie was ideal for a few reasons. With my desire to undergo feminization I could switch to the more feminine spelling of Bobby by simply dropping the “e” from the end of Bobbie which would leave me with Bobbi.
I had already found my last name when I was volunteering for the 2008 Vancouver Municipal elections.
When I went in to submit my paperwork with the office of vital statistics I only had my first name and last name. The employee accepting my paperwork asked why I didn’t go with three names to allow me some flexibility in different circumstances.
I had no idea as to what I wanted. I never used my middle birth name. I had no idea of where it came from.
“Why don’t you pick your birthstone?”
Using the primitive “WAP” browser on my cellphone I was able to get a list of birthstones off the internet.
I was born in September.
Sapphire is the birthstone for September.
Bobbie / Bobbi Sapphire is a stripper’s stage name.
I didn’t know what else to do, I didn’t want to leave without filing the paperwork.
It took a lot of courage to go through the criminal record back ground search that would determine if I was eligible to legally change my name or not.
Why did it take courage?
Did I have a criminal record?
Nope.
At that point in my life I was aware of two times that my brother had been arrested and had given the arresting officer my name, my birthdate, and my social insurance number.
I was afraid that if I delayed to pick a middle name that my brother would do something that would have caused the RCMP to revoke my clearance.
I quickly scanned the rest of the birthstones on the list, sounding out the stone with my first name and my last name.
Garnet is what I decided on.
It’s red, and it’s abrasive.
So, Bobbie Garnet Bees is who I became in 2008.
Sadly though, changing my name was not enough to excise the past from my brain.
Every time that I tried to move forward and advance was just met with a chorus of voices from my past.
And at that point in time I wasn’t aware that I had severe and untreated mental illness. Not that the mental illness should have prevented me from changing my name or from seeking feminization. It’s just that the untreated major depression and severe anxiety meant that my daemons are firmly baked into my brain and will be until the day I die.
I wish I was knew what all these blinking lights mean.
It’s like they’re trying to say something.
Sometime I even pretend to know what they’re saying.
Well, Tuesday would have been Scott’s 51st birthday.
But looks like he’ll be 50 forever.
Is he in a better place?
Nope.
Is he in a worse place?
Nope.
We didn’t believe in heaven or hell or the imaginary friend in the sky.
This existence is all we get.
In many ways I’m jealous of Scott.
For Scott, there’s no more pain and there’s no more suffering.
He’s no longer plagued by daemons of what could have been or what should have been.
No more memories of growing up, of the babysitter, of our grandmother, or of our father.
All that shit is gone.
What killed Scott?
Was it the ketamine, his epilepsy, or his heart condition?
Officially the Alberta Coroner will only say that his death was due to a ruptured spleen after a fall.
What caused the fall the medical examiner can’t say because his body was fairly decomposed when he was found.
2 weeks in an apartment in the Edmonton summer will cause a body to break down fairly quickly.
But if I had to speculate as to what the root cause of my brother’s death was, I’d have to say that the Indian Residential School System would probably factor in as a significant contributor. I’d also say that the desire of the Canadian Armed Forces to hide the true extent of Captain McRae’s child sexual abuse exploits on Canadian Forces Base Namao were also a significant contributor.
In life, every action has consequences.
Some consequences are felt immediately.
Some consequences appear as ripples at a later date.
Grandma was a very angry and disturbed woman from her time in Indian Residential school.
She was not a loving or caring woman, except for her alcohol. She loved and cared for her alcohol.
My father was not much better. He was already a heavy drinker at 16 when he joined the Royal Canadian Navy in 1963.
Grandma should never have had children.
But she did.
My father should never have had children.
But he did.
Luckily neither Scott nor I reproduced, so the dysfunction ends with us.
From the time I left the house in 1987 when I was 16 until 2013 I never really had much dealings with Scott.
When I went up to Edmonton for a couple of weeks in the summer of 2013 I mentioned to him that I never thought that I would have ever spoken to him again.
Scott knew from reading my blog back then that I was having some dealings with a constable from the Morinville RCMP detachment and Scott asked me if I could arrange a meeting with this constable as he wanted to know if this constable could read his CPIC file to see if there was some explanation as to why he was frequently being pulled over for traffic stops.
I did arrange for a meeting between the three of us at a Tim Hortons in St. Albert on the St. Albert Trail. Just after my brother started asking about what his CPIC file contained the constable kinda feigned a radio call and said that he had to go.
When I talked to the constable by phone the next day he said that there were issues on Scott’s CPIC file that would have warranted his arrest, and that he didn’t want to do that as this constable was familiar with what we went through on CFB Namao.
When I collected my brother’s belongings and his remains last August, the one thing that I did notice in his passport was that he had tried to enter the United States of America but that he had voluntarily returned to Canada.
Scott had quite the criminal history.
Some people may say that Scott’s criminal history was his own doing.
But it wasn’t.
Scott’s criminal history was 100% Richard’s fault.
When we lived on Canadian Forces Base Downsview in North York, Ontario my brother started running with a bad crowd.
I think that was the difference between Scott and I.
Scott wanted to be popular and to have friends.
I was majorly depressed and just wanted to be left the fuck alone.
Scott wanted to hang out and belong.
I was the type of kid that the popular kids picked on for entertainment.
Richard had absolutely no interest in the either of us.
I had my after school and weekend jobs.
Scott had nothing to do but hang out with the thugs he called friends.
And these guys were literal thugs.
Auto thefts, B&E’s, robberies w/o weapons, credit card fraud, etc…..
And this was all before he was 16.
Richard, our illustrious father, was too busy kissing ass and polishing knobs in the Canadian Forces to climb the ranks to give a shit.
Scott’s troubles and his frequent stays in group homes and detention were solely due to Richard’s inability to give a fuck about anyone other than himself.
But to hear Richard tell it, Scott’s issues were solely due to:
Richard was a complete skinflint.
As he told his airforce buddy Jacques Choquette once after Jacques asked my father why he doesn’t just drop Scott and I off with our mother, “As long as I keep these kids under my roof, I control the costs. If I send these kids to their mother, then I’ll have to sign my fucking pay cheque over to that bitch, and that’s sure as fuck not happening”.
So no, there were no hobbies, no activities, no trips, no going to the movies, no going to sports games, no fucking nothing.
Scott’s legal troubles would plague him well into adult life.
It’s too bad that Richard died back in 2017.
It would have been nice to have seen Richard tortured and tormented by Scott’s death.
Nothing pisses me off more than this horse shit.
Both the fact that this is a common attitude amongst people, and the fact that yes, while I suffer from major depression, I can get shit done.
High functioning depression is what they call it.
And it fucking sucks.
So, last week I did yet another thing that I am totally NOT QUALIFIED* to do at work.
I know that networking is not covered in any of the 4th class Power Engineering modules that I undertook via correspondence.
At work there was a standalone building management system put in that wasn’t connected to the main network for an unknown reason.
Wasn’t a concern until the system started doing funny things during the recent cold snap and we had no way of logging into it to see what was up.
It had become painfully obvious to me that this standalone system needed to be connected to the main network so that the shift engineers could get into it to manually override it if required.
I think this is the 4th MOXA NAT that I’ve installed at work in the last couple of years in order to put building automation and HVAC equipment on to the main network.
The most significant problem is the addressing for the network and the building automation equipment and the HVAC equipment have two completely different addressing schemes.
Most equipment shows up with the factory default addresses being used which typically are in the Class C range and are usually beginning with 192.168.xxx.xxx
The main network is a Class B network and starts with 172.24.xxx.xxx.
The NAT allows communication to flow between the Class C network and the Class B network without causing any headaches.
Basically in the NAT I have to create two VLANS (virtual local area networks) assign the WAN (wide area network) to one VLAN and the LAN (local area network) to the other VLAN and then create very specific rules to allow traffic to flow between the LAN and the WAN.
I create a 1-to-1 routing rule. The rule would look like this:
incoming -> 172.24.81.30 goes to 192.168.3.1, blocks ICMP, allows TCP and UDP.
outgoing – 192.168.3.1 goes to 171.24.81.30, blocks ICMP, allows TCP and UDP
All other IP addresses on the LAN are blocked from any type of communication with the WAN port and conversely the WAN can only see the single device on the LAN.
The MOXA device itself is set to respond to pings so at least IMIT can see the device is present, but even IMIT can’t see to the other side of the NAT.
I’ve had to use NATs before to let the Emergency Generator Control system and the Elevator Dispatcher to be accessed from the main network for access to readings, logs, and alarms.
Well Bobbie, the answer is clear, you need to take a course in networking if you like this so much!!!!!!
The thing is, I don’t like this.
There is absolutely nothing special about this, and the way I look at this, if an imbecile such as myself can do this, then really anyone can do this.
I had an interest in computers and electronics when I was a kid. But my father did everything that he could in order to shit all over that.
My father would spare no expense when I was a kid extolling how much of a fuck up I was, and that I was pretty fucking stupid no matter how good I was a picking up electronics and computers.
My father’s disdain for my interest in electronics and computers was legendary.
When I was in grade 8 (1985 – 1986) I had built a 5mW helium neon laser as a science project. Not going to go too far into it, but by using a pair of mirror mounted on voice coils I could scan the beam to any X-Y coordinate on a wall or screen. Or I could just feed audio into the amplifiers that drove the voice coils and I could create patterns.
My science teacher, Mr. Bowles, was blown away by this.
My brother Scott decided that he was going to sell the device that I was using to generate the X-Y scan patterns.
My father of course wasn’t concerned in the least.
Scott was acting this way because of what I had let the babysitter do to him.
Scott was acting this way because I wasn’t raising him properly.
If you’ve followed my story, you’ll know that I moved out of the house in late 1987. I really wasn’t safe in the house. Richard was absolutely unsuitable as a parent, and my brother Scott had become uncontrollable and was definitely running with a dangerous crew.
Getting work right away wasn’t an issue. Since I was about 14 I had been servicing arcade games, pinball machines, and jukeboxes for two different route operators in Toronto.
I beat a DeVry certified electronics technician at the repair of one video game that he had been stumped on for over 2 months. Took me four hours to get the machine up and running again. And it was just an 8-bit bi-directional latch that crippled the machine.
I realized quickly that although my knowledge in digital electronics had saved my bacon, without a certificate or diploma I was never going to make a living off this.
No matter how much I’ve tried to steer clear of anything to do with electronics or computers, I always get drawn back into it. And as much as I despise electronics and computers, they have saved my bacon as they offset all of my character flaws.
The last time I spoke with my father was in August / September of 2006. He brought up the topic of my laser himself and he wanted to know why the fuck that was such a big deal. It wasn’t like I had made the laser tube from scratch, or designed the power supply from scratch, I had just purchased a used laser tube and I had built the power supply using pre-made components.
When my brother came down to see me in 2021 after the public release of the 1980 Military Police investigation paperwork which proved that our father was a liar, we went for a walk around the seawall.
Out of nowhere he brought up the topic of the laser and wanted to know why it was such a big deal. Apparently while Richard was still alive between 2006 and 2017 he had talked to Scott and compared me and my laser to that kid in the states that was busted by the FBI for modifying a clock controller from a VCR and using it to control things at preset times.
I asked him if he knew what a “hacker” was and how the term originated.
I explained to him that the term “hacker” originated with people who would take electronic devices or computer devices and make them do things that they weren’t originally intended to do by “hacking” the components or the programs.
Almost everyone who is a somebody in the field of computers or electronics started off by taking things apart or decompiling code in order to see how things worked, and then making changes to make the devices work better or to do things that were more beneficial to the user.
Christ, some of the earliest hacking / phreaking involved blowing a Captain Crunch toy whistle into the receiver of a payphone in order to make free phone calls.
But, back to me. I turned my back on electronics and computers many, many moons ago.
The memories of my father’s derision, and his utter contempt towards my interests in computers and electronics was just too fucking painful.
I still work with electronics, computers, and networking even though I am NOT QUALIFIED*. I have no choice. In this day and age there is no reason for a facility like mine to not be able to extract operational data from building automation equipment and HVAC equipment.
But, every time that I do this work it tears me apart with never ending thoughts of what might have been or what could have been or what should have been.
Sure, it was my father that was an asshole.
But it was Captain McRae and his teenage accomplice what diddled about 25 children on Canadian Forces Base Namao from 1978 to 1980. It was also the Canadian Forces military social worker Captain Totzke that ensured that I knew that I was to blame for allowing myself and my brother to be abused.
And of course, my father being a lowly corporal in the Canadian Forces ensured that Captain Totzke’s opinion of me would notn be questioned by my father.
So, not only does working with electronics and networking at the hospital raise up questions about the way my father belittled my blossoming interests, but it also make me wonder how things would have turned out had my brother and I not been molested, had the Canadian Forces not buried the matter in 1980, and had I not had Captain Totzke as my social worker.
I don’t hate people.
I don’t despise people.
I just don’t make it a habit to hang out with people.
I like to be on my own.
I grew up not having anyone to depend on. I had no one in my family that was dependable to rely on.
I can share laughs with people.
But I really really don’t like small talk or talking about personal “feelings” or things.
I hate the idea of having to form political alliances at work, but that’s the way it actually works.
There’s nothing better at triggering “shields-up” than small talk or asking me about my feelings.
I like to be out and about, just walking around or riding around on my scooter. The crowds and the traffic are distracting that keep my mind off things.
I go to concerts, but I keep to myself. I don’t like “meeting” people.
When people get to know me they start to not like me.
So I just avoid all of that drama and I just keep to myself.
What advice would I give to my teenage self?
Where oh where to start?
I don’t know.
If I knew in my teenage years what I know now I’d probably just suggest to myself the best and most humane ways in which to end my life.
I would tell my teenage self that justice is what rich people get and that dogs like me just get a rolled up newspaper on the snout if we ask for a little bit of justice.
I really wish that things could run along the lines of sappiness that this prompt is trying elicit. You know like “I’d tell myself to tell my granny I loved her before she died”, or ” I’d tell my daddy that I loved him and that I knew how hard military life was on him”.
But what the fuck could I tell my teenage self that wouldn’t be fucking devastating.
“Hey Bob, your father actually knew the truth about CFB Namao but he sold your mental health for some favours from the chain of command”.
“Hey Bob, you actually weren’t to blame for yourself, your brother, and the other kids being abused. This is just something that Captain Totzke concocted to shame you into silence so that you wouldn’t tell any civilians about what happened”
“Hey Bob, you mother didn’t abandon the family, your father had your mother thrown off the base by the military police because the Defence Establishment Trespass Regulations allowed for this to happen”
“Hey Bob, your father knew exactly how damaged your grandmother was and that she was an alcoholic and that she was extremely cruel to you and your brother”
So, what exactly could I tell my teenage self that wouldn’t have led me to having an extreme mental breakdown?
Beeshive 