And I feel so relieved.
Time for some videos…….
Okay, depression is clearing so I thought that I would make some videos before the depression comes back. Gotta be quick.
So, here are some videos that I made yesterday.
I might even have enough energy and enough nerves to do some more today.
To say that my father Richard was a misogynist would have been an understatement. Of all of the traits that I may have picked up from my father, thankfully his misogyny and hatred of women wasn’t one of them.
People keep fixating on the sexual abuse at the hands of the babysitter as my reasons for desiring to end my life via M.A.i.D..
This of course ignores the professional malpractice I endured at the hands of Canadian Forces military social worker Captain Terry Totzke. Professional malpractice that denied me treatment for major depression, severe anxiety, and haphephobia. Professional malpractice that also interfered with my safety and wellbeing. Professional malpractice that caused me to have life long issues with sexual identity.
There are many more reasons for why I would like to be put to sleep. The year and a half of sexual abuse is only a part of the equation.
Why do I view my death as the only appropriate answer?
It’s quite simple. I don’t want a chemical lobotomy. I also don’t want to be blamed for not “trying hard enough”.
The damage is done.
Not really too much to say in this one.
The Department of Justice is a massive organization with more money and more lawyers than the law firm representing me could ever dream of having access to.
The goal of the DOJ is to work out a settlement that will allow the DND and the CAF to look like the heroes while not admitting that children were fucked over by the defective and easily manipulated pre-1998 military justice system.
The DOJ has already tried arguing that the DND and the CAF shouldn’t be responsible for the victims of Captain McRae’s teenaged accomplice. That the DND and the CAF should only be responsible for the children abused by Captain McRae himself. The problem with this is that even though the original CFSIU investigation into Captain McRae was well aware of numerous victims of Captain McRae and his teenaged accomplice, at least 25 according to the father of the teenaged accomplice, the chain of command interfered with the CFSIU investigation and limited the charges against Captain McRae to only those involving Captain McRae’s teenaged accomplice.
In a nutshell, under the DOJ’s argument, only the teenaged accomplice would receive any funds or acknowledgement from the DOJ, the CAF, and the DND.
Milk, it does a body bad……..
Milk fucks with my body.
When I was young, nothing would get my grandmother’s anger going faster than me trying to ditch my cereal, or yogurt, or porridge.
I hated milk as a kid.
The taste of it sucked.
It always tasted metallic and acidic to me.
It made my stomach sore.
Within an hour of drinking milk my asshole would become extremely itchy.
The cramps sucked.
So, I used to try to dump my cereal into the toilet.
But grandma caught me and after that she would hover over me and would crack the back of my hands with her wooden soup spoon.
I even tried to discretely dump my cereal into the garbage.
I had to eat my cereal out of the garbage when she caught me.
I once tried to hide my cereal in the floor register.
Got caught and had to scoop it out and eat it.
After grandma moved out, Richard and Sue would leave for work early and leave my brother and I at home to get ready for school by ourselves.
I’d eat my cereal dry and flush the milk.
After I moved out of the house when I was 16 I didn’t really have steady housing until I was about 23. So I never had the need for milk and never drank it again.
As a child, I only had ice cream on the rare occasion. Ice cream always tasted nice.
Well, between the time I moved out and the year 2000, I had never really had much in the way of dairy or ice cream, but I got bit by the ice cream bug while I was living on Barclay St. in the west end of Vancouver.
Went into the Dairy Queen for some totally out of the blue reason and I had a sundae.
And then about 5 minutes later I knew I was in trouble.
I barely made it back to my apartment before all hell broke loose.
It was like my colon exploded.
The smell was rancid.
And the amount of blood was disturbing.
So, off to the doctor I went.
“Anyone in your family lactose intolerant?”
“Well, why don’t you wait a couple of weeks and try some dairy again? You might have just had a stomach bug that coincided with you eating ice cream. I wouldn’t worry”
So, I waited about two months and challenged ice cream again.
Went back to the doctor.
“Well, I don’t think we need to waste time testing you, it’s fairly obvious that you can’t process lactose. You might want to stay away from dairy”.
I did some reading on lactose intolerance, and pretty well everything that was indicated as being a symptom of lactose intolerance, I had.
I wondered if grandma knew that I was lactose intolerant.
Did my father know?
Or so I thought.
In the summer of 2011, after I had obtained my social service records from the Alberta Government, I started filling ATI requests with other provincial governments.
In my hospital records from the IWK children’s hospital were numerous notes about how I would become very colicky and I was exhibiting rectal bleeding.
After a few rounds of testing it was determined that I was lactose intolerant and that I was to be placed on a dairy free diet. This was in 1975.
Two years before grandma would come to live with us full time.
Two years before she practically started funnelling the fucking crap down my throat.
I don’t know how many kids were forced to eat cereal out of the garbage, but I still dry heave when I think about it.
Richard would have written my lactose intolerance off as being just a way for me to get attention. But then again, he just really didn’t give a fuck.
Grandma? She had a lot of issues. Maybe she was too drunk to remember being told that I was lactose intolerant.
These days I survive just fine.
Having ice cream like treats isn’t a problem as there are dairy free soy based products, or even treats like sorbet. And even lactose free dairy exists.
There are still the occasional screwups no matter how careful I am.
I had a donair platter a couple of weeks ago. The store I go to has two styles of Tzatziki sauce. Regular and lactose free. They goofed on the order and gave me regular tzatziki sauce. Yep, it was as painful as could be after about 10 minutes. And I just barely made it home in time.
I drink soy cappuccinos and soy hot chocolates. The baristas at the local coffee shops are great, but occasionally a mixup is made. Usually the acidic taste will tell me that they used real dairy.
One of the side effects of lactose intolerance is malabsorption. The more lactose one consumes, the more inflamed their small intestines become. The more inflamed the small intestine becomes, the less able it is to absorb required nutrients and minerals.
Probably explains why I was an under weight runt for most of my childhood and why the docs at the IWK noted that I was anorexic.
Dying and death.
I honestly don’t know why death frightens people.
Sure, the manner in which you die can be pleasant and peaceful or horrific and terrifying.
But death is death. There is no more sensation, there is no more comprehension, there is no more awareness.
And everyone dies at least once in their life.
And I really don’t understand why people get so upset about my desire to die and my desire to obtain medical assistance in dying.
You only get one life to live. There are no restarts. There are no do-overs.
My life isn’t going to suddenly get better.
My depression and my anxiety aren’t suddenly just going to disappear.
The memories of what I’ve endured aren’t going to go away.
I’m not going to instantly find a significant other.
I’m not suddenly going to take on interests and hobbies.
I wake up every morning with an intense desire to stay in bed.
On my days off I can sleep, and sleep, and sleep.
Sleep is much better than being awake as dreamland is much more interesting than reality.
There is nothing here for me, there honestly isn’t.
If I die tomorrow or if I die ten years from now, it wouldn’t make a difference other than I would endure ten more years of living with the shit from Canadian Forces Base Namao and Canadian Forces Base Greisbach in my head.
In many ways I wish I hadn’t sent that fateful email to the Edmonton Police Service in March of 2011.
Sure, I had wanted to die before then. I’ve wanted to die since 1980. But I was too afraid of the pain of dying and of botching up my death to go through with it.
But after having dealt with the Canadian Armed Forces and the Department of National Defence my desire to die has become a mission.
People tell me that I am being silly. That I can’t die. That I have too much to live for.
Maybe if things in my youth had been different, then yes, maybe my desire to die would be silly.
I have absolutely nothing to live for. And that’s the truth. And I’m not being melodramatic.
I obtain no real joy from life.
Life just keeps repeating, day in, day out, the same shit. The same memories. The same depression. The same anxiety. The same hopelessness. The same worthlessness.
I don’t like the fact that one of the reasons that I’m still alive is that others have determined that I shouldn’t be allowed to determine when I’ve had enough.
Not thinking about the depression won’t work.
It’s been with me for far too long, and it wasn’t that I never wanted to seek treatment for it. It was that I was actively denied treatment for it. Fuck, I didn’t even know that I officially had issues until the summer of 2011 when I received my social service records.
Up to that point in time I had always believed what my father told me. That I was acting up. That I was doing this for attention. That I didn’t have friends because I thought that I was better than everyone. That I had fucked with his military career. That I was a cock-sucking homosexual because of what I had been caught doing with the babysitter. That I was a fucking pervert for what I allowed the babysitter to do to my younger brother.
Not thinking about the sexual assaults on Canadian Forces Base Namao won’t make them go away. I wasn’t allowed to be a victim. I was a pervert. A homosexual. I “wanted it” because I never told anyone about it.
But, there was no one to tell about it.
My grandmother was an emotionally damaged piss-tank alcoholic Indian Residential School survivor.
My father was a misogynistic womanizer who was just as much of an alcoholic and who was just as emotionally damaged as his mother.
And when people did find out about it I was labelled a pervert and a homosexual by my father and by military social worker Captain Totzke.
Knowing the truth about back then doesn’t make any of this go away.
Knowing that I was caught up in the Captain Father Angus McRae child sexual abuse scandal in which over 25 children were abused by Captain McRae for more than two years on four different bases, doesn’t make me feel like a hero or a champion.
How can I feel good about this mess knowing that men in positions of power made a decision to sacrifice my mental health and wellbeing in order to save the image and prestige of the Canadian Forces and that even my own father stood aside and put up no resistance.
If you respect me, you will respect my desires.
I had no choice in the matter of being born.
That was a decision made by two very irresponsible adults.
I didn’t chose to be raised by my emotionally damaged grandmother.
I didn’t chose to be raised by my just as equally damaged father.
I didn’t chose to be sexually abused on CFB Namao.
I didn’t choose to have a military social worker.
At least let me have a choice over when I’ve had enough.
Respect my choice when the time comes.
Support me in my quest to obtain peace through Medical Assistance in Dying.
Don’t shame me, or ridicule me for wanting to die. Take your energy and direct it towards agencies that hide child sexual abuse. Use your energy to try to eradicate child sexual abuse.
Ensure that no male victim of child sexual abuse is labelled as a homosexual or blamed for their own abuse.
Don’t come after me for making “irrational decisions”. I’m not angry. I’m not upset. This isn’t a spur of he moment thing. I’ve wanted to die since back in 1980. I’m tired. I’m burnt out. I want to go. I want to go peacefully. I want to die with dignity as opposed to dying like an injured animal.
That’s all I ask.
Who would I be getting cured for?
One issue that has been clear to me for quite some time is that it’s really not me that people care about.
It’s themselves that they care about.
And I don’t mean in a rude and selfish manner.
It’s just comes from from a feeling of powerlessness they feel when they can’t imagine not being able to right wrongs.
People fear death as it’s the great unknown, and people generally can’t understand how death could be an answer.
When has no real purpose other than getting up everyday to go to work, what’s the point?
People don’t tell me to get counselling so that I can feel better.
People tell me to get counselling so that they can feel better about themselves.
Empty platitudes as they say.
I’m tired, so very very tired.
As I’ve said, I will always remember what I lived through.
I will always understand what was taken from me.
I will always remember the abuse.
I will always remember how the abuse was handled.
My brain was already fried as a result of the sexual abuse and then the manner in which Captain Totzke dealt with the abuse.
But, dealing with the CFNIS from 2011 onwards fried my brain even more.
I think what made the CFNIS investigation so much more depressing was that they went out of their way to humiliate me, to discredit me, and to make sure that I understood that no one was ever going to own up for what I endured on Canadian Forces Base Namao from 1978 to 1980 or on CFB Griesbach from 1980 to 1983.
Even though they’re both dead and gone, the memories of my father and my grandmother linger on.
If the memories weren’t so fucking painful, the idea of Richard calling his mother an alcoholic that was cruel to his children would have been a fucking laugh riot.
Let me make a few things very clear.
I was never allowed to be the victim. I made things happen. I allowed things to happen. I was a pervert. I was a homosexual. I was old enough to know what I was doing. I was supposed to be raising my younger brother.
It wasn’t like nobody knew that I had been abused.
Captain Totzke knew.
My father knew.
The military police in May of 1980 started investigating the babysitter for what he had done to younger children on the base as a result of numerous parents complaining. I have no doubt that the military police back then knew about my brother and I.
The fact that both my father and Captain Totzke knew and yet blamed me means that I didn’t suffer in silence since 1980.
It means that they both shoved a sock in my mouth to keep me silent.
One did it because of orders from the chain of command
One did it to hide his dysfunctional household.
In the end, I’m the one left with the burnt out brain.
And I’ve lost big time.
The least you could do is admit that I should have the ability end my life if I want to.
I had no input in the matter of being born.
My parents had sex.
That was their choice.
The adults in my childhood were either absent, dysfunctional, alcoholic, or they had agendas.
One line from a song that has always resonated with me since I heard it is:
“You know where it ends, yo, it usually depends on where you start”, Everlast, What it’s like.
I wasn’t given every advantage in life only to piss it away in my college years because I got into drugs or drinking.
During my adolescence all I could do is sit and wonder why I was so fucking stupid and so fucking dumb. Nothing I did ever seemed to work out. Everything I did I fucked up.
In my early adult years I realized that my electronic skills and my computer skills were not going to amount to anything. No degrees, no certificates, no decent pay.
As I said in another post, I could use my mechanical reasoning, my electronic skills, and my interests in computers to get an advantage over other candidates for jobs that were basically just over minimum wage.
It was in the mid to late ’90s that I realized that I was never going to amount to anything.
All those years, wasting away at jobs that I didn’t really like, but they were jobs that allowed me to eat and sleep in a bed.
What makes this even worse is all the years of listening to people telling me that I was crazy, that I was insane, that I was a fucking retard, that I was a fucking loser, that I was psychotic, that I was an asshole, that I was a snob.
The crazy is what the kids in school called me.
The insane was what my father called me.
The fucking retard is what my stepmother called me.
The fucking loser was from my time living on the streets and in emergency shelters.
The fucking psycho was from when a female customer was trying to get a response out of me when she accused the machines of intentionally damaging her personal equipment.
The fucking asshole and the snob come from the fact that I don’t get worked up over shit, nor do I give a shit about TV programs, or sportsball teams, or movies.
And please don’t respond telling me that I’m not the above. It would be meaningless empty gesture.
All my life people have told me that I should be very happy that as shitty as my life was, that at least I wasn’t born in some 3rd world country.
I’ve never underfuckingstood what they bullshit is supposed to mean.
I wasn’t born in some mythical 3rd world country. I was born in this country. A country where children are supposed to be safe. A meritocracy where one can go as far in life as they’re willing to go. This shit all turned out to be a fucking lie. But I’m supposed to pretend that I’m the luckiest boy in the world for all of the opportunities that were thrown at my feet.
Why the fuck am I not surprised?
Back in 2022 during one of the mediated hearings between myself and the lawyers for an entity that I cannot name, the lawyers brought up a line from my social service records that I had never seen.
“Mr. Gill appeared to be concerned about his mother’s drinking suggesting she is emotionally abusive to both children, especially when inebriated”.
That floored me as I never thought that Richard would have the fucking balls to call his mother a drunk. Never mind his fucking hypocrisy as both him and his mother were champion drinkers.
In January of 1977, Richard was arrested by the CFB Summerside military police for fighting with his own mother while they were both pissed drunk.
Well, seeing as how Richard was fucking dead since 2017, I submitted another Access to Information request, this time requesting more information if possible as both my grandmother and my father were dead.
On May 8th, 2022 I received the additional information that I requested.
Fuck, what a blast this was.
“Mr. Gill has a tendency in contact with professionals to blame the boys’ behaviour on their relationship with their grandmother who has lived with the family. Mr. Gill states that his mother is an alcoholic who refuses to seek help or treatment for her condition”.
“Mr. Gill claims that his mother is an alcoholic”.
What a fucking asshole. But he wouldn’t be Richard Gill if he wasn’t a fucking asshole.
” Another point is that Richard is resistant to Sue coming into sessions and voices concern that she ‘should be home making supper'”.
I’ll never understand why Sue stuck around.
She could have easily found someone who wasn’t an misogynistic alcoholic asshole.
I’ve seen my father naked, so it couldn’t have been the intense satisfying sex.
Richard was never subtle with his misogyny.
When Richard and Sue would get into arguments and fights in the house he’d gladly let fly with cunt this and cunt that.
When his friends were over he’d regale them with how much of a stupid bitch Sue was and how much of a fucking stunned cunt she could be.
When Sue was learning to drive stick shift on CFB Greisbach he’d get pissed off with her when she ground the gears.
If we were out in the city driving and a woman was driving slow in front of him or didn’t signal properly he’d gladly let fly with fucking cunt!, fucking dumb cunt!, fucking stunned cunt!
And he was no better with my child care workers in Edmonton, the majority of whom were women.
When my mother left in 1977 my father made sure that I understood that my mother was a whore who would spread he legs for anyone and that she ran off with a guy named Gus from the P.P.C.L.I.
I’m beginning to think that Richard probably told Marie to get into the kitchen and cook his supper one too many times.
But it’s really amazing to see exactly how much disdain Richard had for his mother.
Like, holy fuck, he’s the one who brought grandma into the house to live with us at CFB Summerside when our mother left.
He’s the one who requested the compassionate posting to move from CFB Summerside to CFB Namao when grandma returned to Edmonton to be with her husband Andy.
He’s the one who couldn’t stop his womanizing after Andy slipped in the bathtub and ended up in the long term care facility at the U of A.
And he had the fucking balls to tell my social workers that the problems my brother and I were exhibiting weren’t due to being sexually abused by our babysitter for a year and a half but were due to his alcoholic mother?
What a fucking complete asshole.
Was Richard an oddity in the Canadian Forces.
The Canadian Armed Forces had a significant problem with misogyny. Actually they still have, but it’s no where near as bad as it was back in the ’70s and ’80s.
A guy like Richard would have found like minded malcontents in the military.
Remember, the canteen at 447 Squadron was plastered with fully naked centrefolds, and not just one or two pictures. They were all over the place. And when fathers would bring their sons to the squadron, they didn’t give a shit if their sons saw photos of naked women. That’s what women were for.
Marie was a woman, so as far as Richard was concerned his responsibility to raise his kids ended when he ejaculated. And cook his supper.
Grandma was a woman, so as far as Richard was concerned it was her job to look after his kids.
Sue was a woman, so it was her job to raise my brother and I.
Richard had no responsibility to raise his kids.
That’s what women were for.
Living well is the best revenge.
Nothing upsets me more than that phrase and its various derivatives.
Do you think for a moment that my babysitter, that my father, that Captain Terry Totzke, that Brigadier General Daniel Edward Munro, or any of the plethora of military personnel up the chain of command give a single flying fuck that I did my best to keep my nose clean all of these years?
Do you think that they’re pissed off that I didn’t stick a knife in my femoral or that I didn’t jump off a bridge? They don’t care. They lived in their own little fantasy world.
The babysitter was Jack’s little hero when I talked to Jack in 2015.
The babysitter was the poor misunderstood victim in all of this.
Me, I was the “societal malcontent” frequently jumping from job to job and looking to scam the military for money.
Nobody in the Canadian Forces did anything wrong. They just did their best. They operated under the rules that were in place at the time. It wasn’t their fault they made poor decisions.
Do I get a fucking heavenly reward when my heart finally stops beating?
Is there a magic do-over after I die?
Meanwhile I’m the one living through major depression that was allowed to fester untreated for 33 years and counting.
I’m the one living with severe anxiety that was allowed to fester untreated for 33 years.
I’m the one living with the psychological trauma and genophobia gifted to me by Captain Terry Totzke and the sexual abuse.
I’m the one living in a life of solitude due to my anxiety, my haphephobia and my general mistrust of people.
Powerful people in the DOJ, the DND, and the CAF are running different scenarios at the moment trying to figure out if they should throw me and the other kids from CFB Namao a pittance in the hopes that we shut-up and go away, or if they should tie us up in court for 10 to 15 years while they wait for everyone involved to die off from old age.
The media as it currently exists is not the same media that existed in the ’90s and the ’00s when child sexual abuse was a cause célèbre being championed by just about every news desk around the country. Now the media is mostly foreign owned and consolidated with investigative journalism being reduced to investigating major controversies such as “Are Cadbury creme eggs getting smaller”, and “what new shows is Netflix airing the fall”. With the exception of David Pugliese and Jill Croteau not a single person in the media showed any interest at all, even when the Canadian Forces were tripping over themselves to minimize the fallout from the sexual abuse scandal that got kicked off around 2014, not one single fucking person with the media showed even the slightest interest in who exactly was investigating child sexual abuse on the military bases in Canada.
You would think that when it was revealed in 2020 that the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service had in their possession the 1980 CFSIU investigation paperwork and the 1980 court martial transcripts which both implicate the babysitter in molesting numerous children on the base even though the CFNIS had said in 2011 they couldn’t find ANY evidence at all that the babysitter was capable of committing the crimes that I accused him of that the media would be beating down the fucking door at NDHQ trying to get DND and the CAF to admit that children were sexually abused on military bases and had their matters handled by the same defective military police that couldn’t protect adult service members.
Outside of David Pugliese, not a single fucking interest.
Jenn Blair had tried back around 2012 through 2015, but she got shut down by CBC Go Public brass. The CBC will argue differently, but the reporter they assigned to my story after they removed Jenn was put on my story to close it down and put it to bed. The video interview that was conducted between Jenn and I was destroyed. My story was to become an “interactive timeline” that people could click on if they visited the Go Public website. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say that the CBC doesn’t believe that males can be the victims of child sexual abuse. It’s either that or they were worried about jeopardizing their funding or losing access to press releases from NDHQ.
Jennifer Tryon of Global’s 16X9 was interested, but short of the military admitting that there was a problem of child sexual abuse in the military Global didn’t feel free to make baseless accusations that could cause them legal issues.
So, here I am.
Treading water on my own.
People will tell me that they know how I feel and they know what I am going through. But they don’t. And the fact that they would dare try to claim they know what I am going through upsets me greatly. They don’t know what I am going through. They just want to make themselves feel better. Kinda like the “thoughts and prayers” that get passed around after another gunman goes on a rampage.
So no, living well isn’t the best revenge.
Brigadier General Daniel Edward Munro has led a very comfortable life since his retirement from the Canadian Forces regardless of the hand he played in the Captain McRae fiasco.
Captain Terry Totzke, same thing. I don’t know if he’s still alive or not. But he probably retired and lived well off of his officer’s pension.
Warrant Officer Richard Gill. Yeah, he no doubt enjoyed his NCO’s pension.
That would have required me receiving treatment for all of my issues and being able to have enjoyed a normal life from 1980 onwards.
And that’s about it.
But I’m tired.
The only things that I am really good at are converting oxygen into carbon dioxide and converting food into shit and piss.
People often ask me if I’ve tried to obtain professional help with my issues.
Surely if you only tried Bobbie, you could get help! But remember it’s all on you!
There’s a few problems with this.
First, until relatively recently I didn’t realize that I had any problems as Captain Totzke and my father had both drilled into my head that my issues were just a way for me to seek attention and that the abuse that I endured on Canadian Forces Base Namao was not really abuse but was more than likely due to me being a homosexual, which was obviously a choice.. Even my father said much the same in 2013 in response to my written examination of him for federal court. “His issues could be whatever he wanted them to be”.
Second, after a childhood of being caught in the war between two opposing factions, my father and Captain Totzke on one side and my civilian counsellors and health practitioners on the other side, I really don’t have a lot of trust for these people.
Third, medical science doesn’t understand how the human brain works. Sure, there are a ton of theories. But most monographs that accompany psychiatric pharmaceuticals stress that they don’t understand the exact mechanism that allows the drug to work, but that the drug does seem to have the desired effects.
The Escitalopram that I’m on is interesting, but it’s like using numbing cream on the site of a tattoo. Sure, the numbing cream will keep the pain of the tattoo to a minimum, but the tattoo is still gonna cause trauma to your skin and even after the numbing cream wears off you’ll still feel pain.
Mental health funding in this country often looks like this:
A pretty sign, but nothing more than an out of order shit-house.
Counselling usually consist of being warned not to trauma dump on your counsellor. Just tell them enough that they feel like they know more than you, but don’t tell them so much that they run up on to the roof of the building to jump off.
I actually had one counsellor in a preliminary session tell me that he didn’t want to hear about my past as we live in the here and now.
I swear that most counsellors get into this field with the doe-eyed misconception that everyone’s trauma is the result of their goldfish dying when they were 10 years old, or their puppy got run over by a car when they were 12.
Then there are assholes like me that show up with multifaceted trauma. Sure, kids got sexually abused out in civvy land, and sure, some of this abuse occurred in the Catholic Church which could use its influence to hide things from the public eye. But that influence only went so far. Eventually enough stories became public that the church could no longer use its influence to hide this shit. The gates were opened and all of the crap came bursting through.
The Canadian Armed Forces and the Department of National Defence OWN the bases and employ just about everyone on the bases. They even have their own law enforcement agency and their own judicial system. This is why you very rarely hear of child sexual abuse from the bases. It’s much easier to control a company town when you own everything and employ everyone in that company town.
My father and Captain Father Angus McRae worked for the same employer. On Canadian Forces Base Namao they had the same base commander who had control over the base military police and the Canadian Forces Special Investigation Unit. Even Captain Terry Totzke, the military social worker whose care I was under from October of 1980 until April of 1983 was under the command of Colonel Dan Munro, the base commander of CFB Namao.
How do I explain to a counsellor that my father’s employer pulled out all of the stops to ensure that the Captain McRae fiasco didn’t blow up beyond Captain McRae being charged with just molesting his teenaged accomplice?
How do I explain to a counsellor that the rejection and derision that I faced from my father came no doubt from his shitty parenting skills and his obedience to the Canadian Forces chain of command?
I learnt a while ago to not even mention my grandmother’s stint in Indian Residential School. Sure, her shitty childhood in a racist country run by the church and corrupt politicians obviously impacted my father’s shitty childhood, which of course impacted my childhood and my brother’s childhood. And sure, it was my grandmother’s frequent intoxication while she was raising my brother and I that no doubt led to my brother and I needing a babysitter, which led to our abuse. But bringing up my grandmother leads to accusations of me trying to be a full blood pretendian.
Basically my brother and I aren’t the end result of intergenerational trauma.
We’re not the victims of 1-1/2 years of sexual abuse on CFB Namao because our primary abuser was the sole victim of Captain McRae*.
I didn’t really have major depression, severe anxiety, or a host of other issues that I was diagnosed as having, because my military social worker said that I didn’t.
I wasn’t a victim of childhood sexual abuse because my military social worker declared that I was a homosexual and therefore I was a willing participant.
On base, child neglect and child abuse were verboten subjects that no one dared speak about. Everyone just minded their own business as you had no idea who the abuser’s chain of command was and how this could impact your own chain of command.
And you can’t go into a counsellor and talk about this shit. They don’t understand what life was like for military dependants and what a hell it could be when your serving parent could use compassionate postings to stay one step ahead of provincial social services.
Due to the over saturation of feel good depictions of the military and military life on television, no one in the civvy world believes that children were in any type of danger living on the bases and that in fact living on a military base was probably the safest place for a child to grow up.
And even if I did luck out and find a counsellor that has first hand military experience and understands that military life was far from perfect and that people in or around the military who found themselves in need of help were often neglected and ridiculed, what would that accomplish?
I have understood for quite some time that I am not at fault for what happened.
I understand what caused the issues that plague me to this day.
I fully understand that the Canadian Armed Forces and the Department of National Defence are far too massive of an opponent for me to ever have any influence over.
Talking isn’t going to fix anything.
I know the things that will forever be broken.
I know the things that will forever be beyond my grasp.
I know the things that were taken from me by others simply because they need to hide things.
Even if my lawyers are able to reach a settlement with the DND and the CAF, that settlement and any accompanying apology (if issued) isn’t going to undo things.
There’s one thing in particular that the Department of National Defence and the Canadian Armed Forces will never be able to get for me. This is partially due to me never being able to believe a single fucking thing that would ever come from their collective mouths, and this is due to the fact that my father is long dead.
Around 1987ish, my brother took our stepmother’s Pontiac Chevette for a joyride. Richard beat the shit out of me for that because it was my fault that I wasn’t keeping an eye on my brother and I wasn’t raising my brother right. During that beating my father kept freely bringing up the babysitter’s name and that it was my fault that my brother was acting up because I let the babysitter touch him.
In 2006, during our infamous phone calls, Richard pleaded with me to understand that he didn’t hire the babysitter. The it was our grandmother’s fault. She kept hiring the babysitter even through he told her that he didn’t like him. He said that he even paid for the babysitter on a couple of times because grandma didn’t have the money to pay the babysitter. He also said that I was partially to blame as I didn’t tell anyone and that I should have done more to protect my brother from the babysitter.
In 2011 he would give a statement to the CFNIS in which he completely forgot to mention to the CFNIS that he wasn’t living at home with us on the base and that his mother was raising my brother and I. He also told the CFNIS that he was certain there was never a babysitter in the house, just some rando woman from across the street that would keep an eye on his kids periodically.
In 2013 when I examined my father for Federal Court in his written response to my examination he now all of a sudden remembers that his mother was raising his children at the time in question, and why yes, there was a male babysitter, but his mother hired the babysitter, not him.
My social service paperwork from the period of time of November 1981 to October 1983 which also includes my paperwork from October 1980 to November 1981 when I was solely in the care of Captain Totzke makes frequent mention of my grandmother as having been brought into the house to raise my brother and I. This paperwork also contains an observation from a psychiatrist hired by Captain Totzke to evaluate my family in which my father was found to take no responsibility for his family, blamed problems with his family on others, and expected other to solve his problems for him. In this same paperwork my father tells Alberta Social Services that the issues being exhibited by my brother and I were due to his mother “who was very cruel to his children, especially when she was inebriated, which was often”. I gave a full copy of my social service paperwork to the CFNIS in August of 2011.
My brother says that I have to forgive my father because maybe the Canadian Forces forced him to give that statement in 2011, or maybe the Canadian Forces edited his statement to be what they wanted it to be.
My father was a liar. Nothing was believable coming out of his mouth when I was a kid.
Birthday parties? Sure you can have a birthday party, I promise.
From 1977 until 1985 not a single birthday party. Apparently kids with depression and suffering from child sexual abuse aren’t allowed to have parties.
Had a birthday cake in 1985. Richard made a promise that he’d never forget my birthday again. Never had any type of birthday acknowledgment after that until 2006. What was behind the birthday cake in 1985? I didn’t realize at the time that my family was under supervision from the Children’s Aid Society of Toronto, but we were. And I guess that Richard was buttering my ass up just in case that Children’s Aid found out about the domestic outburst that he had that required 3 military police officer to bring him under control.
He promised and he swore up and down that he’d pay for my driver’s training for my 16th birthday if I stayed in school. Well, birthday time rolled around, and all of a sudden he just realized that he couldn’t let me get my driver’s licence as it would affect his car insurance.
He invited me in June of 1990 to move to Edmonton with him and we could try to be a family again. That lasted for one month before him and my stepmother bought a house in Morinville and my stepmother made it very clear that I wasn’t welcome. What pissed me off the most about the whole move from Toronto to Edmonton was that I paid for most of the meals on the way and I paid for some new office furniture for my father’s work area in the basement of the PMQ. He told me to give him the receipts from the meals and that he’d submit them to the DND and give me the money when he was reimbursed. He also told me that he’d pay me back for the office chair and desk that I bought him. He never did pay me back. Claimed that after all he paid raising my brother and I that I owed him.
He called me up a couple of times in the ’90s when I was living in Vancouver. Said that he’d give me some money if I helped my brother fix his car. Helped my brother. The promised money never came.
I’ll never get an apology from Richard. Did he lie to the CFNIS in 2011 because he was pressured by the CFNIS? Or did he lie to the CFNIS in 2011 because he was ashamed of the fact he participated in a cover up in 1980? And even if it wasn’t a coverup that he participated in, was he ashamed to admit that his children were abused because he left his children in the care of his very dysfunctional mother?
But then again, even if Richard was still alive today, would I be able to believe anything that came out of his mouth?
And this is why I am tired.
And this is why I am burnt out.
And this is why I am disillusioned.
Everyone keeps telling me to move on.
To let the past stay in the past.
Even my father said in 2006 the if I went sticking my nose into this that I might not like the smell.
Everyone makes the depression out as being my fault because I just don’t want to be happy.
My anxiety attacks are nothing more than ploys for getting attention.
If I honestly wanted to get better, all I’d have to do take “x” therapy and all would be great.
My desire for M.A.i.D. is nothing more than melodrama.
A Societal Malcontent with an axe to grind against the Canadian Armed Forces.
Yep, that’s me. Mr. Societal Malcontent.
Well, at least that’s what the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service labelled me as during their investigation of my complaint of sexual abuse on Canadian Forces Base Namao.
Definitely a little fucked in the head.
I more or less march to my own drummer.
I don’t fit in too well.
But I think “societal malcontent” is taking things a little too far.
After all the shit I’ve been through in my life I’ve more than earned my tattoos, my piercings, and my manner of dress.
However, you can imagine how hard my jaw hit the floor when I read the Certified Tribunal Records that I received from the Military Police Complaints Commission in February 2013.
“A societal malcontent with an axe to grind against the military”.
Up until I received my social service paperwork in 2011, I had always believed that everything that went wrong in my life was due to me being a fucked up nutcase. “Insane as your fucking mother” as my father always used to say.
When I received my social service paperwork and discovered that Captain Totzke seemed to have been running interference between me and my civilian child care workers, I thought that this was maybe a result of my father wrapping Totzke around his finger and manipulating Totzke to hide my father’s shitty parenting skills.
But then when I read the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service investigation paperwork in 2013, it became very apparent to me that the Canadian Armed Forces is an organization in need of a very serious fucking tune-up.
For a police agency such as the CFNIS to roll over and yield to the chain of command dictates as easily as it did during GO 2011-5754 is absolutely sickening.
It’s no wonder that two retired Supreme Court justices in back to back reviews said that the military police and the CFNIS were incapable of investigating sexual assaults. Victim shaming was one of the concerns that the justices had in their reviews.
It was only in November of 2021 that the most recent Minister of National Defence ordered the military police to hand over all of their sexual assault investigations to the civilian police.
My complaint against the man in the sauna was one of 31 sexual assault investigations that the military police requested be exempt from being handed over to the civilian authorities.
Why mine wasn’t given over I’ll never know.
The investigator running the investigation said that the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service was the only agency with the skills required to investigate child sexual abuse on military bases. But this is one of the concerns that Madame Marie Deschamps had in her Final Report issued in 2015. The military police have neither the expertise nor the number of cases to develop the skills and techniques required to successfully investigate sexual assaults like the RCMP and most large civilian police departments have.
Another case of crimes being committed against a military dependent that for some reason seem to have remained in the jurisdiction of the military police is the disappearance and death of a transgendered military dependent who went missing from Canadian Forces Base Petawawa in March of 2019. Her body was found in May of 2019. She went missing from the PMQs on base.
Sure, the Canadian Armed Forces were instructed by the Supreme Court of Canada in 1994 to stop discriminating against homosexuals, but the Canadian Armed Forces up to that point in time had always been a hotbed of racism, xenophobia, white supremacy, homophobia, misogyny, alcoholism, etc.
Old habits die hard.
The problem with sexual assault and misogyny is that these issues still plague the Canadian Forces to this day.
In early 2023 the Canadian Forces engaged a professor from the University of Alberta to assess the problem of white supremacy and racism in the Canadian Armed Forces and how to combat this.
Sure, the Canadian Forces have attended various pride parades over the years, but if the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service ridicules the victims of sexual assault, including ridiculing and dismissing the complaints of a victim of child sexual abuse, how likely are the military police to put real serious effort into investigating the death of a transgendered military dependent?
As has already established by various reviews, the investigators within the CFNIS and the base military police are not independent of the chain of command. So even if they wanted to conduct an investigation that could potentially implicate either a member of the Canadian Forces or another military dependent from Canadian Forces Base Petawawa, would the chain of command allow them the independence to bring such implications?
Why are the military police even remotely involved in the off-base death of a military dependent? This investigation should belong to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the Ontario Provincial Police Service.
After what I went through with the CFNIS from 2011 to 2018 makes me wonder what exactly the military police think that they’re going to accomplish in this matter? Don’t forget the CFNIS had in their hands the investigation paperwork and the court martial transcripts from 1980 CFSIU investigation that made it very clear that the babysitter was known to have been sexually assaulting children and was actually receiving counselling for his attraction to young children but yet the CFNIS were unable to secure charges. Actually, to go one further, the CFNIS weren’t allowed to secure charges against the babysitter.
Why else would the CFNIS have gone to the sickening extent of trying to colour the opinion of one of the witnesses by suggesting to this other victim of the babysitter that I was a “societal malcontent with an axe to grind against the military”, that I was “frequently changing employment”, and that I had only made my complaint “as an attempt to make money”.
My father and the art of terror.
When I say that I was terrified of my father as a child, I’m not exaggerating.
There’s a reason why the psychologist that evaluated my family in November of 1980 found that I was terrified of men and that I was certain that I my father was going to kill me.
And it wasn’t just the physical violence that Richard could dish out. It was the outright psychological terror that he could dish out.
I had once gone and spent a weekend at a sea cadet corp in Port Hope, Ontario. Port Hope was just a little beyond Oshawa, Ontario so Richard had no problem driving me out as this was part of Richard’s and Sue’s shopping trips to Knob Hill Farms in Oshawa.
Richard came to pick me up on the Sunday evening.
When I got into the Mustang he just looked at me and wound up like he was going to backhand me, so I put my hands up to block and cover my face.
“What? You thought I was going to hit you?”
I lowered my hands a bit to look at him.
“You are so goddamn fucking lucky, do you understand that?”
“I was planning to give you the beating of your life when we got home”
I stared at him but I didn’t say anything.
“I went to use my oscilloscope today and some asshole had used one of the probes to poke fucking holes in the anti-glare screen”
“So of course I thought that it was you as you’re the only other person in the house that would dare touch the ‘scope”
I still just stared at him.
“And I was so fucking looking forward to giving you the beating of your life when we got back to the base, but then I remembered that I used the ‘scope yesterday and the fucking holes weren’t there. So it had to be your asshole brother”
I asked Richard what he was going to do to my brother.
“Nothing, what the fuck can I do to him to make him listen. He won’t listen to you and he sure as fuck won’t listen to me”.
The actual fact of the matter was that by this time my brother, who was 2-3 years younger than me (depending what time of the year it was), was larger than Richard. And I have no doubt that if Richard had tried to raise his hand against my brother that my brother would have ripped Richard’s arms from their sockets and beat him over the fucking head with them.
There were things as a kid that I was jealous of my brother for.
Richard would let him watch all the Saturday morning cartoons that he wanted to. My cartoons were too stupid and childish and I was the older kid so I was supposed to set an example for my brother.
Richard wouldn’t object to my brother listening to any music that he fancied. Twisted Sister, Poison, Motley Crue, etc. I wasn’t allowed to have a stereo in my room, and any music that I listened to such as Bruce Hornsby and the Range was utter stupid garbage.
And yes, the fact that Richard was afraid of my brother, or more than likely Richard was cautious of my brother due to my brother’s ability to fight back where as I couldn’t.
You would think that putting up with Richard’s bullshit would have taught me how to fight.
Fighting just made things worse. Standing up for myself only made things worse.
And Richard’s temper was swift and quick and often without second thought.
I forget when exactly it happened, but it was when my bedroom was still upstairs in the PMQ on CFB Downsview, my brother had his first epileptic seizure. Actually, I don’t know if this was the first one he actually had, or if this was the first one in which someone else found him in the midst of a seizure.
I came home from wherever it was that I was. Sue, our stepmother, told me that I had to go up to my room and wait for my father to come home and that I was to sit on the floor and not touch anything.
I went upstairs and did as I was told. I sat on the floor.
There really wasn’t anywhere else for me to sit as my room had been tossed.
Thankfully I didn’t have much to my name at the time as I have no doubt that Richard would have destroyed it.
My bed was up ended and the sheets had been torn off.
My dresser had been emptied out on the floor.
My closet had been emptied out on the floor.
The cover for my radiator had been pulled off.
So, I sat on the floor and waited for Richard to come home.
Richard came home and I heard him ask Sue, “did the little fucker come home?”
“He’s upstairs, Richard control yourself”.
Richard sprinted up the stairs, had to be 3 steps at a time.
He came into my room and with one fell swoop put both hands on my chest, picked me up, and slammed me into the wall so that our heads were at the same height?
“Where the fuck are the drugs?”
“You gave your fucking brother drugs, he’s in the fucking hospital because of you”
“I don’t do drugs, I don’t have drugs, I don’t know what you’re talking about”.
Slam, down I went to the floor.
“If your fucking brother dies, I will fucking kill you!”
“Now, get this fucking shit cleaned up and you better think long and fucking hard about what you’ve done!”
I think it was two or three days later that the official diagnoses came in that my brother had Grand Mal Epilepsy.
Richard died in 2017 without his lips once ever uttering an apology.
In 2006 when I had my infamous blowout with Richard on the phone he remembered this, he also said that I was overreacting, and he couldn’t understand why I was holding on to this. He was a father, he was concerned, I didn’t understand what it was like for him.
“It’s obvious that your brother has epilepsy so why you’re holding on to what I said all those years ago makes no sense. Why do you insist on living in the past?”
In 2011, after I had received my social service paperwork from the Alberta Government I started seeing a counsellor named Doug.
We were discussing my father’s anger outbursts and I mentioned my brother’s first “official” seizure and how Richard accused me of giving my brother drugs.
“So, were you ever tested?”
Tested for what?
“Epilepsy, it’s genetic. Your brother is your full brother, right?”
I wouldn’t learn until 2013 when I tracked my mother down, that the epilepsy originated on her side of the family. It skipped her, though.
I had seen my brother in a couple of seizures. I knew what the seizures looked like, I knew that there would always be physical evidence, and when my brother came out of a seizure he was always disorientated and angry. I don’t honestly ever remember having any type of seizure like my brother, and I told Doug that.
“The reason I ask is your records indicate that you frequently had trouble paying attention in school, you often drifted off and didn’t pay attention, you were often found to be “day dreaming”, your testing indicated an auditory memory issue.”
No, I’m absolutely sure that I never had a seizure of any kind when I was a kid.
“Do you know what an absence seizure is?”
Absence seizures, as I would find out, are often a precursor to full blown epilepsy. Epilepsy is mainly genetic and runs in families. My mother’s mother died from an epileptic seizure. Anyways, absence seizures are often exhibited by children that are genetically predisposed to epilepsy. The interesting thing about absence seizures is that children will either grow out of them by adolescence or they will progress to Grand Mal Seizures.
Absence seizures are typically brief and only last from a few seconds to maybe a minute, but they can happen numerous times a day, sometimes in rapid fire succession.
There were times as kids when my brother and I were in the back of the car. Richard would be driving somewhere. And my brother would make this face at me where he’d roll his eyes back in his head and flutter his eye lids. If I complained to Richard about the faces my brother was making he’d get pissed off at me and my brother.
Well, as it turns out, that’s a symptom of an absence seizure.
My records indicated that I would frequently interrupt the school class by making clucking / clicking noises, grunting noises, and that I would often day dream and not pay attention.
The clucking and clicking noises I honestly can’t remember them other than what the other kids would say what I sounded like or looked like while I was doing them.
The day dreaming? I don’t remember day dreaming per se, but what I do remember is that I had what I thought was a magic ability that I needed to work on. I found that if I stared hard enough at the clock that I could make the second hand jump forward in time by up to 40 seconds. I thought that this was a magic power. It wasn’t. There were times when the teacher would be explaining something, and I would zone out and miss out on what was said. And this would happen maybe about four or five times per class.
Of course my misbehaviour in school made Richard angry. Not so much the fact that this “misbehaviour” was fucking with my education, but because my “misbehaviour” was causing my teachers and my principal to frequently call Richard at work and “disturb” him while he was busy playing soldier in the military.
The number of times that I had to endure Richard’s anger when he arrived home from work is more than what I want to remember. The pants and underwear down leather belt spankings that I took from Richard fill me with pain to this day.
I remember during my time living on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach and Canadian Forces Base Downsview trying so hard to be normal in school but then realizing that I was too fucked up to be normal.
My father’s anger is something that will always be with me until my life is ended.
My counsellor Doug set me up with a neurologist for testing. I did the sleep depravation test and the strobe light test. Triggered my ocular migraine. But it didn’t trigger a seizure. When I got home I had to sleep in my bathtub covered in my blankets and duvets as this was the only room quiet and dark enough to let me sleep.
The neurologist that I went to said that at that stage in my life it would be very doubtful that any testing would show that I had absence seizures as a child. But considering that my brother has full blown epilepsy, and that description of my issues in my social services paperwork, it was more than likely that both my brother and I were having absence seizures as kids and that one of us grew out of them and the other didn’t.
Which brings me back to Richard’s anger. How would things have turned out differently for my brother and I had Richard had control of his temper and his anger?
How would things have turned out for my brother and I had Richard even tried in the most basic sense of the word to be a father and not just a sperm donor?
What if, instead of being an angry asshole, Richard had actually cared?