Tag: M.A.i.D.

The Actual Procedure.

I’ve been conversing with the nice people at the BC Assistance in dying program.

As of this time I am talking with them anonymously due to the fact that I am associated with a health care facility and I don’t want any repercussions.

They’ve cleared up one matter that I wasn’t too clear about. I had also thought that the drugs required for death in the IV method would be administered by a set of dosing pumps. This is in fact not the case. The attending physician will manually inject the drugs one after the other.

And as I mentioned previously, I won’t have to go to a hospital or a clinic to obtain this procedure. I can go through with this procedure from the comfort and familiarity of my own bed.

Not that there is anything wrong with a hospital or a clinic, but being able to leave from familiar surroundings seems to be much more preferable to leaving from the strange and odd surroundings in a hospital or a clinic.

The process I wish to undergo involves four common drugs.

Each province in Canada has its own protocol for dealing with Medical Assistance in Dying.

This is the protocol used in British Columbia.

From the Canadian Association of MAiD Assessors and Providers
Recommended protocol from the Canadian Association of MAiD Assessors and Providers.

They three main drugs are Midazolam, Propofol, Roccuronium.

Lidocaine seems to be used as a painkiller.

Bupivacaine seems to be used to ensure cardiac arrest.

These drugs are used every day in health care.

And unlike for prisoner executions, the manufacturers of these drugs have not objected to their use for MAiD.

Prior to this date I will have to have undergone 3 different interviews with different psychologists and they will have to agree to allow me to undergo the procedure.

And as the date of the procedure approaches, my physician is supposed to ask me a few more times if I am certain that I wish to undergo a procedure that will result in my death.

And then on the day of my procedure, I will be asked a couple more times if I understand that I will die as a result of the procedure and if I wish to continue.

My last day is sure to be odd.

This would definitely be a day of “lasts”.

So far I’m planning to die in the evening.

Have a good breakfast. Go for a long walk. Maybe around the seawall. Might go for a bike ride.

Not sure what music I’d be listening to. Doesn’t matter really.

Go for a nice supper. Absolutely nothing too fancy, probably just the Old Spaghetti Factory, Earl’s, or even the White Spot.

Enjoy the nice long walk home.

I would arrange to be home in time to meet my physician.

While the physician is getting set up I’d be going to the washroom for the last time.

I’d also take my final shower.

I’m not sure if anyone else would be attending to watch me go.

Probably just me and the doc.

And then, when the time feels right I’d get into my bed for the very last time.

The doc would then ask me again if I understood what I was doing, and I would tell them that I understood.

The doc would then insert the main catheter as well as a “back up catheter”.

The first drug that would hit my system would be the midazolam. Midazolam is a sedative. At the recommended dosage it will not render me unconscious nor will it kill me. The midazolam will just relax me.

The next drug to enter my system will be the doozy. This is the drug that will pretty well turn my brain off like someone switching off a computer. Propofol is typically used prior to surgery to render a person into a very deep state of unconsciousness. However, in surgery the typical dosage for propofol is 2mg/kg. Meaning that the average human will receive 2 milligrams of propofol for every kilogram of body weight. I weigh 90 kg, so if I was being prepped for surgery I would receive a dose of 180 milligrams. However, because the goal of this procedure is my death, the recommended dosage that I will be given in 1,000 milligrams of propofol. At this level all brain activity will cease. I will no longer be me. I will be gone. The odds on my brain ever recovering from this dosage are none existent.

The next two drugs to be administered will be the rocuronium and then bupivacaine.

The rocuronium inhibits skeletal muscles. What this means is that my body would no longer be able to breath as my diaphragm muscle would become paralyzed.

And if bupivacaine is used as the fourth drug once the bupivacaine is injected it will stop my heart.

I don’t know if the lidocaine would be used or not, but if it is it really isn’t going to be that big of a deal.

As my brain will have been completely shut down by the propofol I will not experience any pain associated with the inability to breath nor will I be aware that my heart has stopped.

And that will be that.

After this there will be no more me. I will no longer exist.

And trust me, that’s a very small price to pay.

As I’ve said before, my existence is a very small and insignificant blip in the history of the known universe.

Whether I die in 2023, 2024, 2025, or even if I had lived to 70 or 80 years of age, on the cosmic time scale this is insignificant.

What is significant is the constant torment that my brain experiences on a daily basis.

Seemingly random things will slam me right back into P.S.’s bedroom on the day he was caught buggering me. Other things will transport me right back into the rectory of the base chapel when I was being given the tumbler full of “sickly sweet grape juice”. The baths that P.S. made me take with him so that he could try to get my rectum to loosen up so that he could fuck me still randomly pop into my brain. What P.S. did with the blonde haired girl are still in my mind. Watching P.S. do things to my brother will stay with me for life. The day my father was working on his motorcycle and I was watching him and P.S. came by and asked my father if he wanted him to look after me. My father told me to go with P.S.. P.S. took me straight to the chapel and into the rectory. There’s the man in the sauna that P.S. provided me to so that I could perform oral sex on this man.

The intense torment and abuse that I suffered at the hands of the kids on Canadian Forces Base Namao after I had been discovered in P.S.’s bedroom will live with me until I draw my last breath.

My sessions with “Terry” still pop into my mind at random, and it’s due to Terry that I am unable to sit down and deal with psychiatrists or psychologists. Put yourself into my shoes. You’re nine years old, you’re being dealt with by a military social worker who is convinced that you are showing signs of a mental illness called “homosexuality” because of what you and P.S. had been caught doing on CFB Namao.

The way in which my father blamed me for allowing P.S. to touch my younger brother will always be with me. The way in which my father blamed me for “fucking with his military career” will be with me until the day I die.

My father in general. My grandmother in general.

The diagnosed but untreated major depression that I’ve lived with since CFB Namao has cost me so much in life.

Earl Ray Stevens will always live with me until the day I die.

So will the unknown man from CFB Griesbach, and the unknown man from Toronto who tried to strangle me in his car.

Dreams that were taken away from me will always haunt me. I will never learn to fly an airplane. I will never fly a helicopter. I will never be what I wanted to be because after CFB Namao all I was told was that I was a worthless piece of shit. So there are no dreams or aspirations.

I just exist. I have no pleasures, I have no hobbies. I have mo dreams, I have no desires.

Talking about these matters doesn’t make them go away.

Not talking about these matters doesn’t make them go away.

Nothing will make them go away.

And if that’s what it takes, then nothing I will become.

The world will go on without me.

However, when I die, P.S. dies, Captain McRae dies again, Captain Terry Totzke dies, Richard Gill dies for a second time, all the people in the Canadian Forces chain of command that knew what happened from 1978 to 1980 they all die. Earl Ray Stevens dies again. And Al M. dies.

Never again will they haunt me or torment me.

I will be out of their reach.

Forever.

And I will finally be at peace.

Normal

Will things ever go back to normal for me?

That’s the problem, things were never normal for me.

It’s not like I got touched inappropriately one day and that was it.

The abuse went on for 1-1/2 years.

The subsequent psychological abuse then went on for another 2-1/2 years with my father’s knowledge and participation.

My family was dysfunctional before the events of CFB Namao.

The dysfunctionality became far worse after CFB Namao.

There are no drugs I could take to make me “normal”.

There is no therapy that will make me normal.

I don’t have a normal to go back to.

And there is nothing that will undo what was done without causing significant brain impairment.

I’m in a career that isn’t something that I would have chosen if I had been given a chance. The career that I’m in is one that I was able to fall into because the requirements were low enough and I had the intelligence to meet them.

I’ve spent the last 35+ years of my life working just to keep a roof over my head and keep food in my belly.

I’ve never once had the opportunity to be something that I wanted to be.

I was either too busy working, or I was too emotionally dead and self loathing to do anything.

Just like everyone else, when I was young I must have had dreams of what I wanted to be when I grew up, but that was so long ago I can’t even remember what they were.

What happened on CFB Namao and the way it was handled by the Canadian Armed Forces sent my life off on a trajectory for which there is absolutely no recovery.

What is the Government of Canada willing to pay?

Definitely not enough to ever undo the damage that was done. There is no amount of money that can ever undo what I’ve suffered through.

Definitely not enough to ever give me back the time that was stolen from me.

Even in 2011 the Canadian Forces via the National Investigation Service were trying to convince me that I was just making things up and exaggerating things. To them I was just collateral damage from a decision made 30 years prior by persons no longer in the Canadian Armed Forces.

How does the Government of Canada and the Canadian Forces ever make up for the lies they told me and the humiliation they made me suffer due to their farcical investigation in 2011.

The Canadian Forces took away the only chance that I would have ever had to have my father apologize for the lies he told me and the hell he put me through as a child.

My father had a choice.

In 1980 my father could have raised a stink about how the Chain of Command had buried most of the charges brought against Captain McRae.

In 1980 my father chose to go along with the chain of command decisions.

In 1980 my father chose to play along with Captain Terry Totzke.

In 1980 my father chose the Canadian Forces over his own children.

In 2011 my father again chose the Canadian Forces over his children.

When my father gave his statement to the CFNIS in 2011, there was absolutely no way that he would have forgotten to mention the fact that grandma had resided with us since early 1977 and that she had been living in Richard’s PMQ on base and was raising my brother and I.

Either he was too much of a fucking pussy to admit that he wasn’t man enough to raise his own children and that he needed his mother to raise his children for him or the CFNIS suggested that he not mention grandma.

Either way, someone knew that grandma was going to be a very big problem.

Richard wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t remember hiring a babysitter.

He didn’t, it was his mother. He even admitted as much in 2006.

Richard wasn’t lying when he said that he didn’t remember a babysitter being in the house.

He wasn’t home very often while we lived on CFB Namao. He was always off on training exercises or living with his girlfriends off base. But then again, both he and Sue stopped by one weekend for a visit when Peter was sexually assaulting my brother and I in the basement. So Richard was obviously cognizant that Peter was looking after us.

But Richard did lie none the less.

He knew who the babysitter was as he would freely use Peter’s name while we lived on CFB Downsview.

He knew who the babysitter was when I spoke to him in 2006 about the babysitter. He pleaded with me to not blame him, after all it was his mother that hired the babysitter.

So, he lied.

And he lied because I was worthless to him.

Richard was the only person that mattered in Richard’s world.

After all, I was the kid that fucked with his military career. It was my apparent frequent homosexual relationships with Peter that got us bounced off CFB Namao to CFB Griesbach. It was my mental health issues that got us bounced from CFB Griesbach to CFB Downsview. It was because I was only concerned about myself that at 8 years of age I allowed the 14 year old babysitter to molest my 6 year old brother.

My father knew who the babysitter was because every time my brother got into trouble while we lived on CFB Downsview, it was my fault for letting Peter touch my younger brother.

And yet in 2011, he lied through his teeth. He lied either at the request of the CFNIS, or he lied to cover up for the fact that he was a very incompetent father.

Either way he chose the Canadian Forces over me.

That’s not something that I’ll ever forget, or forgive.

He’s not here to apologize for it.

Sexual relationships to me have always been about having to surrender my body to someone older than me and doing what they tell me to do.

To me, sex is not about pleasure or fun.

Sex is something that others use to control you.

Sex is only something you have when others want something from you.

Sex is dirty.

Sex is filthy.

Sex was a very confusing subject for me when I was growing up.

From age 9 until age 11 I was in the care of a military social worker who was trying to help me with the mental illness I was exhibiting. At the time I had no idea he was in the Canadian Forces. I only knew him as Terry.

Terry was upset with me for having had homosexual sex with Peter. Terry would tell me time and time again that he had the military police watching me and that if I ever kissed or touched another boy that I would be sent off to the Alberta Hospital.

My father would parrot everything that Terry had to say.

In August of 2011 I would learn that Terry was Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Terry Totzke.

In 2018 I would learn that the Canadian Forces had viewed what Captain McRae had done in 1978 to 1980 as being “acts of homosexuality”. This meant that in the eyes of the Canadian Armed Forces all of the children involved with Peter And Captain McRae were homosexuals.

And with the time of me being caught being buggered in Peter’s bedroom coinciding with the start of the investigation of Captain Father Angus McRae I would say that it had been my being caught with Peter as being the catalyst for the investigation into Peter that eventually led to the investigation of Captain McRae.

But again, I wasn’t a victim. I was a homosexual.

See, that’s the difference between someone who was sexually assaulted as a child and never told anyone and me.

I may have kept my mouth shut about what had happened.

But people knew what happened. Hence why I was put in the care of Captain Totzke.

Yes, I was diagnosed as being beyond despair and beyond depression. I was noted as being severely anxious. I was noted as being terrified of men. I was convinced my father was going to kill me. And I did not like being physically touched. But looking back, this isn’t what Captain Totzke was concerned with.

For almost 2-1/2 years all Terry was concerned about was what I had done with Peter on CFB Namao.

For the entirety of the time I lived with my father until I moved out of his house when I turned 16 he was always pissed off with how I had fucked with his military career and how I had allowed Peter to fuck with my younger brother.

I had found an escape via cadets.

But Earl Ray Stevens took cadets away from me and reaffirmed to me that I must be a homosexual.

Somehow Earl knew that I was a military dependent and that I lived in an environment in which the threat of being exposed as a homosexual was enough to keep a kid’s mouth shut.

It wouldn’t be until years later that I realized why Earl had chosen me over any of the other kids in cadets is he knew that I was a base brat. He knew that my father was in the Canadian Forces.

Earl was in the Canadian Corp of Commissionaires. Earl had been in the Canadian Armed Forces himself. I wasn’t the first military dependent that Earl sexually abused. He knew that military dependents would be more inclined to keep their mouths shut.

How many other children did Earl sexually abuse on the various bases that he had been stationed on during his career.

I learnt from Earl that no one ever really tells the truth, that people will lie and deceive to get what they want, and that people will pay money for silence.

So, after all these years, will I ever be normal?

No, normal is not something that I will ever be.

Normal is such a foreign concept to me.

Yes, not being normal has allowed me to do things that I wouldn’t ever have tried if I was “normal”.

Facial tattoos? I love them. I’m proud of them. But they don’t belong in the world of the “normals”.

Dresses? I love them. They’re very comfortable to wear. They’re also very practical as well. But men don’t wear dresses in the world of the “normals”.

Lonely? Yep, I’m lonely. But this is something that I’ve had 40 years to get accustomed to.

In the period of Nov 1981 to Apr 1983 my civilian social workers had noted that I was completely unable to form friendships. It wasn’t that I was unfriendly. It was noted that I was afraid of others and that I preferred to keep to myself and just read books. I couldn’t express emotions such as happiness or sadness. I was unable to cry.

What will money bring me? Nothing really.

It will give me some breathing room, maybe do some of the things I’ve always wanted to do but was unable to do.

But it will also bring out those who feel that I was just grifting the military all along.

So, it’s really a no-win situation.

My Affidavit

My lawyer just sent me a copy of my affidavit. It has been stamped and accepted by the courts.

So, this is another step closer to the end.

There will be no happy ending at the resolution of this matter.

Money isn’t going to undo what I endured through my childhood.

The events in question occurred on CFB Namao from the fall of 1978 until the spring of 1980, but the repercussions have been felt for years after. Whether it be Captain Terry Totzke interfering with my mental health care and my chance to escape from Richard’s household, or whether it be enduring the derision of my father, these abuses have haunted me for my entire life.

Money isn’t going to erase a lifetime of suffering.

Money isn’t going to erase a lifetime of self doubt and self hatred and confusion. And I would assume that this is true for a lot of the other victims from Canadian Forces Base Namao.

I’m sure that in agreeing to settle, the Canadian Armed Forces, the Department of National Defence, and the Attorney General of Canada will be sure to have language added to the settlement that makes clear that any settlement that they agree to is not an admission of guilt on their behalf.

Sadly, any settlement reached will not ever get me an apology from my father.

I’ll never really get to hear from him what exactly it was that he despised about me the most. Was it I reminded him to much of his ex-wife? Was it being his first born that I represented the end of his ability to go sailing around the world with the navy or flying to exotic places with the air force? Was it really the sexual abuse that I “allowed” the babysitter to commit against my young brother.

Richard’s dead, he’ll never be able to apologize nor will he ever be able to explain. But then again, with what I learnt about him from my foster care records, he was a very troubled man with a lot of issues, so even if he did apologize would he have meant it? If he tried to explain what his issues with me were, would that be the truth or would it just be him telling me what he thought I wanted to hear?

At this point in time the Government of Canada hasn’t replied yet. According to the rules of the court the have a certain amount of time to respond.

Once the Government of Canada responds, then the negotiations commence.

I’m tired.

My brain is literally burnt out.

Yes, the Canadian Forces and the Department of National Defence have succeeded in keeping me from ever obtaining criminal convictions in this matter.

But with this settlement at least my name can be cleaned.

And really, that’s all a person has is their name.

When I do die, it’ll be my name that will live on.

There is no afterlife. There is no heaven. There is no hell.

There is just the here and now.

If I hadn’t been so bound and determined to clear my name, my name would have been stained with the events of CFB Namao.

Now when I die, I get to die knowing that my name will live on after I am gone and people will understand why I was the way I was. People will know my story. And people will know the story of the other kids from CFB Namao.

Falling through the cracks again.

I find myself falling through the cracks even more in planning for my death

Well, just found out that the Douglas Brain Bank in Montreal isn’t interested in my brain.

Here I was thinking that someone with a traumatic background, who was diagnosed at a young age with Major Depression and Severe Anxiety, who survived into their 50s without any type of psychiatric help would have been of interest.

Nope.

Apparently you have to live in Quebec to be considered for the donation program and you also have to have been in the care of a mental health professional prior to your death.

So, that rules me out.

The UBC body donation program only accepts cadavers that meet some undisclosed criteria. I’m going out on a limb here, but that will probably be bodies between 20 and 30, toned, muscular, below average BMI.

So, not only is medical science not interested in me while I’m living, but apparently my corpse isn’t worth shit to anyone after my death either.

And I’m beginning to put extra credence on something that Dr. T. my nurse practitioner has warned me about.

I may not actually qualify for M.A.i.D.

Sure, I was diagnosed at a young age with Major Depression and Severe Anxiety after 1-1/2 years of depraved sexual abuse on Canadian Forces Base Namao. Then I had to deal with 2 years of conversion therapy at the hands of the military social worker who was convinced that I was a homosexual because of the abuse. Plus further events of child sexual abuse. And neglect. And torment.

But this matters all for naught.

Being “functional” may prove to be my biggest undoing.

Because I didn’t see any mental health professionals between April of 1983 and the present day I’m obviously not tormented by depression, anxiety, or CPTDS.

Well, I did see mental health professionals , but they were mental health professionals provided by my employer, so they don’t count as I had to be very careful with what I told them so that I didn’t get my sorry ass fired.

Growing up in the military, living on military bases, and my father’s reactions to Captain Terry Totzke and Pat and Wayne taught me that mental health professionals, head shrinkers as he called them, were to be avoided.

My father taught me via slaps, backhands, and belts how to hide my depression and my anxiety. Well, not hide them, just internalize them where they’d eat me alive from inside.

When I grew up on the bases being mentally ill was just one step above being a child molester. In the 1980s you never, under any circumstance, let anyone on base know that you were having mental problems.

And it really doesn’t help that when I go to speak with counsellors, all I get are crystal clutching chakra chanting bobble heads that want to talk about my difficulties without talking about my difficulties.

And without any type of military trauma experience these crystal clutching chakra chanting assholes only make the problems worse.

  • Children didn’t live on military bases.
  • Children didn’t serve in the military
  • Children couldn’t be affected by military mental health issues because they weren’t in the military.
  • Children weren’t sexually abused in the military because soldiers would protect children.
  • Military dependents can’t have PTSD or CPTSD from events on base.
  • Child sexual abuse is a “learning experience” and nothing more than “childhood curiosity” and experimentation.
  • If something happened, the military police would have done something.

Now, getting military grade trauma counselling is out of the question as I don’t qualify. See, I’m not in the military and the Canadian Forces won’t pay for civilians to receive treatment. And as I’ve said fucking civilian counsellors are the goddamn worst. Sure, they mean good, but trying to bring these fuckers up to speed on what military life was like on the base is a major fucking downer. Too many of these counsellors learnt all they needed to know about military life on base from watching “Major Dad” on TV back in the 1980s.

I hated this fucking TV show.

“Bobbie, you’re being too hard on these people, they’re only trying to help”

Shit or get off the fucking pot.

Give me a fucking solution to my issues or stop fucking talking.

Tell me what to do, do give me some horseshit about “peering inside”

It’s that simple.

Tell me how to stop the fucking flashbacks from back then.

Tell me how to undo the fucking conversion therapy at the hands of Captain Terry Totzke.

Tell me how the fuck to undo 40 fucking years of living with untreated mental fucking illnesses.

Don’t tell me to love the fucking child inside – that’s the fucking quickest turnoff going.

Don’t call me a fucking warrior – I’m not a fucking warrior. I’m someone who had their fucking brain fucked with by people more concerned with keeping fucking secrets than helping me overcome the trauma.

Don’t fucking tell me that I should be happy that I wasn’t a girl because girls have a much harder time in life. I’ve lost count of the number of cocks and fingers I had inside my asshole before I turned 8, so fucking stuff that horseshit. Just because I’m male doesn’t mean that what happened on Canadian Forces Base Namao was any less traumatic or was just fucking “childhood curiosity and experimentation”.

You want to help me?

Help me fucking die.

Let me get my Medical Assistance in Dying so that I don’t have to live with this horseshit.

The time for fixing this crap was back in the early 1980s.

The Canadian Forces shat all over that idea.

So the only way to fix this now is to allow me to die a dignified death.

A death that will be recorded properly in the records as being due to psychological trauma due to childhood sexual abuse on a Canadian Armed Forces base.

Don’t force me to die by suicide where I get written down in some coroner’s ledger as being a suicide due to “unknown circumstances”.

Understand the difference?

There’s a lot of work in death.

Well, for the last couple of days I’ve been having a little bit of a back and forth with the local health authority trying to gain more knowledge about Medical Assistance in Dying.

The actual dying process I understand.

But it’s all the other matters surrounding my death that I definitely need to start planning for.

I need a will.

I had never really thought about that.

I was planning on giving my belongings away to those who wanted them. It’s not like I need to take money into the afterlife. But, to prevent squabbles, I was told to get a will and put everything in writing.

Really, my will would come down to who gets my ebike, who gets my motorcycle, who gets my computers.

My pension and other benefits would be handled via the instructions on my policies.

Other than that, I have nothing.

No property, no assets, zip, zilch, nada.

I guess depression and anxiety always kept me anchored in the here and now.

It’s not like I don’t have savings or other financial instruments. It’s just that I never had any desire to collect things like cards, or cars, or motorcycles, or homes, or condos.

When you have severe and deep depression you’re not really looking into the future as you’re expecting to die any day.

My affairs will be pretty simple, except for my brother there’s no next of kin or any other “family” that I have to worry about appeasing, so no “Game of Thrones” type family politics.

Needing a will is apparently even true for the disposal of my body.

It’s not enough to sign forms with medical schools and institutes expressing my desires for my body to go to medical research.

That has to go into a will as well.

One copy would go to a lawyer. One copy would go to my physician.

As I have no family or relations to rely on I need to go the extra step and arrange for the transfer of my body. As my death will be what is known as an “expected death” the coroner will not attend. Nor will my physician remove my body. Would look kinda funny with my doctor lugging my corpse down the elevator and then strapping it into the passenger seat of his car and driving it over to UBC. So that means that I have to make arrangements ahead of my death to have someone remove my body and deliver my body where it needs to go.

Thankfully the IV method is available at home.

It turns out that whether I use the oral method or the IV method, both methods require the attendance of a physician or a nurse practitioner.

The nice thing is that it was confirmed that if I want to die in my own bed in my apartment that I can do so.

And no. My landlord legally cannot prevent me from dying in my apartment.

I guess that once I pick a date and time I’ll have to notify the landlord. If I time everything correctly, there won’t be anything really to remove from my apartment. My Bed. Maybe some clothes.

No special cleaning of my apartment will be required because my body will be removed from my apartment before I even cool down to room temp.

Gotta be sure to close all of my financial accounts. Sure, I could leave everything open, but why be an asshole?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

A little fly landed into my ointment as I was writing this post.

I got a reply email from the body donation program at UBC. They’ll only accept whole body donations. They will not remove my brain and send it off to a different research lab.

So……. maybe I won’t be able to die at home in my own bed.

Shame. It’s a really nice and comfy one.

I might have to go die in Montreal if I want my brain to go to the research lab that I have in mind which would be an adventure in itself. I have been to Montreal a couple of times. Renting an apartment for a couple of months might be in the cards.

Now, if I do have to end up going to Montreal to die that changes what I do with the rest of my body.

I’ve always been intrigued with the concept of giving my body to a “body farm”. And so far Canada only has one body farm in operation and that’s also in La belle province.

As I said, I had never really put any thought into my death. And now that I can see my death within my near future, there sure are a lot of matters to iron out.

Beyond help.

The Nurse Practitioner that I’ve been seeing since May of last year has been wonderful to date. He set me up with the escitalopram. Which I am thankful for.

But he’s nearly fallen into the same trap that some of my previous counsellors have fallen into.

He thinks that counselling will help me with my demons.

Sadly, he couldn’t be further from the truth.

The rot and malignancy in my brain is toxic and it was left untreated, ignored, and minimized for so very long and it is killing me on a daily basis.

One of the problem that I encounter with getting help is my previous experience of having been caught in between Captain Terry Totzke, my military social worker from Canadian Forces Base Namao, and my civilian counsellors from Alberta Social Services.

Now, of course at the time back in 1980 through 1983 I had absolutely no idea that Terry was actually Captain Terry Totzke.

But still.

That fucker hurt me, he destroyed me, he killed me.

I was 9 to 11 years old when I was in that asshole’s care.

That’s a pretty critical time in a child’s development life.

I had been sexually abused for 1-1/2 years at the hands of my babysitter. I had been taken over to the base chapel and given alcohol.
And as we now know, Captain McRae admitted to the military police to giving the children wine and beer before “fooling around” with them in the bedroom of the rectory.

Not only was I caught being buggered in P.S.’s bedroom, but I got the shit beat out of me before I got back home which was literally across the street.

I spend the rest of the summer hiding in my house. I didn’t dare step foot outside ’cause of the other kids.

But then school started up and I was beat up almost non-stop every day.

My family was relocated from CFB Namao to CFB Griesbach and as soon as I start going to the school on CFB Griesbach I start seeing a guy name Terry who was concerned that I was a homosexual and that homosexuality was a mental illness.

He even went so far as to tell me that the military police were watching me and if they reported back to him that I had kissed another boy, I was going to be sent off to the Alberta Hospital.

My own father started blaming me for what P.S. did to my younger brother. And I have absolutely no doubt that as my father was a master corporal and that Terry was a captain that my father was placing undue emphasis on Terry’s words.

As I’ve learnt, my father had a backbone made of jello. Sure, he could beat the shit out of me and my brother. But when the chain of command gave him an order he was as firm as milquetoast.

Then I start going to a special school off base. A place that Terry says that I’m going because I’m attracted to boys and I won’t stop trying to kiss boys. My father echoes Terry with the constant refrain that if I stop trying to kiss and touch other boys that I can go back to normal school.

Pat and Wayne, my civilian social workers are always trying to be my friend. They’re always trying to get me to talk about my father and what things are like at home. They want me to express my feelings. They want me to talk about what’s going on in my head.

I remember every morning at Westfield having to do “Temperature Check” which was basically you telling the class how high or low your emotions were and what was making you happy or sad. Fuck did I ever hate temperature check. I couldn’t express my emotions.

Terry and my father would tell me to be very careful with what I said to these “head shrinkers”. That I need to be careful. That Pat and Wayne will twist my words and make me say things that I didn’t really say. That if I’m not careful I’ll be taken away from my father. And considering that my mother had “run away with a man named Gus” because I didn’t love her enough, the last thing I wanted was to be taken away from my father.

Being caught in a war between the Canadian Armed Forces and Alberta Social Services was not a pleasant experience.

Living in the household of Richard who was drilling into my head that he was sick and fucking tired of me fucking around with his military career was not a pleasant experience.

There was no one to help.

So I learnt to keep my mouth shut. To keep the tears inside. To smile even though my fucking brain was on fire.

What else could I do?

I have attempted to go to counselling over the years, but one thing always seems to pop up. That is the ignorance the general public have towards the Canadian Forces and what life was like on the bases.

Most of the counsellors that I’ve seen over the years have no idea that children lived on the bases. The idea of children living on military bases is a very foreign idea.

When I tell people that what probably affected me more and harmed me more than the sexual abuse was the way in which Terry and my father reacted to the sexual abuse.

“There’s no way that your father would have blamed you”.

Sure there is.

At the time the Canadian Armed Forces had viewed male-on-male sexual assault as homosexuality. And the Canadian Armed Forces viewed homosexuality as a mental illness. That’s just the way things were. Sure, this was a policy towards military personnel, but in military families the serving member didn’t check their military attitudes at the door. Their military attitudes and the attitudes of the Canadian Armed Forces came right into the PMQ.

I know why my father told people what he thought they wanted to hear. It’s much easier that way.

When I was much younger I would often tell people that I was happy when I was on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.

With absolutely no family for support in my late teens, my twenties, my thirties, or my forties, there was absolutely no way that I was going to tell anyone that I was having mental crises. I couldn’t afford to miss time from work, no could I afford to lose my employment. It’s one thing to hide mental illness, it’s another thing to be mentally ill and living on the streets. When you’re mentally ill and living on the streets you’re even more invisible to society than a sexually abused military dependent.

As my foster care records indicate, in the aftermath of the sexual abuse on CFB Namao, I had no ability to make friends. I couldn’t express emotions. I could’t express happiness or sadness. I was terrified of men.

Those issues have affected me into my adult life. I still have no friends. I have co-workers, but that’s it. I have had two partners in my adult life. And both of those, one male and one female, were absolute disasters.

I have absolutely no idea of what I am. Gay? Bi? Straight? Not a fucking clue. I’ve had gay sex. Don’t like it. All I can think of is P.S.. I’ve had straight sex, but all I can visualize is what P.S. was doing to the little girl who was about six years old. Bi? Well, if I don’t like gay sex and I don’t like straight sex, bi isn’t going to be an option.

Asexual? Don’t know. More than likely I’ve just got way too much fucking trauma from Canadian Forces Base Namao in my head to ever be able to have a “normal” relationship. And in our society you need to belong to one team or the other.

I don’t really belong to any team, which is why I don’t have a problem with things like wearing dresses. To me a dress is a comfortable piece of clothing. I don’t associate it with being male clothing or female clothing. It’s just clothing. And I like it. And it doesn’t touch my body.

All these years later and I still don’t like people or things touching my body.

That’s honestly one of those things that make any type of relationship impossible is I don’t like being touched.

That, and I think that sex is disgusting and perverse.

It’s something that only sick people do, or something that you do if you want something from somebody else, or you allow someone else to do to you if you’re trying to make them happy.

And this is the hardest thing to make doctors and counsellors understand. I’m not okay. I’m not a fucking “warrior” or what ever sappy feel good terms are being thrown around these day.

I’m fucking damaged.

I have my father’s depression. I have my mother’s anxiety. I have the memories of what P.S. did to me, to my brother, to the little blonde haired girl, to some of the other kids I watched him molest.

I have Terry permanently burnt into my brain, and he’s not going anywhere.

I have my father constantly telling me that I can’t go swimming at the Kinsmen Sports Centre in Edmonton when I was 11 because there’d be other naked boys in the change room and that I wouldn’t be able to control myself.

I have the beatings at Richard’s hands that would get so extreme that I’d try to hide under my captain’s bed to get away from Richard burnt into my brain.

I have Richard’s sarcasm and putdowns burnt into my head.

I have the memories of opportunities taken away from me because Richard wanted to “teach me a lesson” and get me to “stop showing off”.

I know now that my father was identified by a psychologist hired by the Canadian Armed Forces of not taking any responsibility for his family. But that doesn’t lessen the memories of the beating Richard laid on my when my brother took the Pontiac for a joyride.

Yes, Richard was ill equipped to be a father, his own mother had issues which no doubt were handed down to Richard, but that doesn’t erase the memories of Richard’s anger from my brain. Nor does it lessen the effects of the damage from all those years ago.

There’s so much more.

And I can’t get any help with these issues.

  • Mr. Bees, we can’t move on if you’re stuck in the past.
  • Mr. Bees, children were never in the military
  • Mr. Bees, I’ve never heard of children living on military bases
  • Mr. Bees, why didn’t you tell your father
  • Mr. Bees, if you were a victim, surely the military police would have done something.
  • Mr. Bees, you’re talking about the military. Surely there’s no safer place for a child than being on a military base.

It’s all of these ill conceived notions about the reality of the life of a military dependent that have conspired against me receiving help.

My greatest fear right now is that due to my reluctance to not seek psychiatric counselling in the past that this might harm my attempts to obtain medical assistance in dying.

Outside of me wanting to clear my name in the CFB Namao fiasco I really don’t have a reason to continue living.

I am tormented non-stop by the memories of CFB Namao, CFB Griesbach, Terry, Richard, Earl, and all of the other horseshit that went on in my life before I had even turned sixteen.

These don’t go away. These won’t go away.

Even on the escitalopram I still get brain fog, although the escitalopram does help with the frustration that used to come with the fog. I can feel the anxiety there, below the surface.

It’s not like I’m griping about a dead goldfish from when I was 12, or that I haven’t gotten over a glass of spilt milk when I was 10.

The events on CFB Namao have driven a couple of the other victims to suicide.

And yes, I have tried suicide myself before.

Two things have pulled me back at the last minute.

I hate pain, I really do. Death doesn’t frighten me. Not existing any longer doesn’t scare me or frighten me. Dying scares the fuck out of me. Not being successful scares me even more than the pain of dying. Being a gimped out vegetable after a botched attempt really doesn’t appeal to me.

M.A.i.D. is my ticket out of here. I don’t want to live until I’m 70 with the crap from Namao playing non-stop in my skull. I don’t want Terry in my head anymore. I don’t want P.S. in my head anymore. I don’t want to constantly be caught in the endless loop of wondering if I would have been half the fuck-up that I currently am if I had told someone about what P.S. was doing to me and my brother or the other kids.

I’ve rarely talked about any of my suicide attempts out of fear of losing employment or being locked up. Don’t forget it wasn’t until 1972 that the criminal offence of attempting suicide was removed from the criminal code. The stigmatism against suicide and those who attempt suicide is still very prevalent in society. Those who attempt suicide or commit suicide are seen as losers, or mentally disturbed, or just weak.

What’s kept me going since 2011 is the faint hope that I will be able to clear my name and that CFB Namao would no longer be my fault.

And now, to be so close, but yet so far away is maddening.

Medical Assistance in Dying for psychiatric issues is supposed to be legalized in March of 2023.

One of the accepted mental illnesses is “depression”.

And to be so close only to find out that the fact that I stayed away from counsellors and therapy over the years due to my experience with Terry back in 1980 through 1983 might prevent me from receiving M.A.i.D. just doesn’t seem right or fair.

The fact that I’ve kept my suicide attempts to myself out of fear of losing employment opportunities and that this secrecy may keep me from my goal of M.A.i.D. also doesn’t seem right or fair.

I know that I’m probably reading too much into this.

But M.A.i.D. is what I really want, and I don’t want to be denied this procedure all because of issues that Captain Totzke set into motion years ago.

Things are going to get a little interesting.

On Friday afternoon I met with a lawyer from Guardian Law.

I signed my affidavit and then we talked about the case.

Guardian Law will submit my affidavit on Monday and once it is filed and stamped it is a legal document and then I can release it to the public.

I will be the “Representative Plaintiff” in this matter. My name will be the only name made public. The names of the other victims will be sealed and remain so even after the hearings / trial unless each individual requests that their name be made public.

I am not too sure which direction this will go.

The Canadian Armed Forces and the Department of National Defence are not going to simply own up to what happened on Canadian Forces Base Namao.

But the Canadian Armed Forces and the Department of National Defence also do not want this going to a public trial for obvious reasons.

I will fight any attempt by the Attorney General of Canada, the Department of National Defence, or the Canadian Forces to put a blanket publication ban over this trial.

The law firm representing me is seeking $50,000,000.00 in damages and all related expenses. After the 33% lawyer contingency fee is subtracted this works out to about $1,400,000.00 per victim of Captain McRae.

This is based upon 25 children from Canadian Forces Base Namao. If other victims of Captain McRae come forward from the other bases McRae served on, then the law firm would increase the amount it is seeking in damages.

The other bases that Captain McRae served on were:

  • Canadian Forces Base Kingston / Royal Military College Kingston, ON
  • Canadian Forces Base Portage La Prairie, MB
  • Canadian Forces Station Holberg, BC
  • McRae also apparently travelled to CFB Greenwood, NS at some time

Canadian Armed Forces regular force officer Captain Father Angus McRae was active between January 1973 and July 1980.

He was known by the base military police and the CFSIU to give beer and alcohol to the children he was abusing.

In his Ecclesiastical Trial conducted by the Archdiocese of Edmonton in June of 1980, Captain McRae admitted that he had been abusing boys for years prior.

If you were abused by Captain Father Angus McRae, or by one of his altar boys that he would sometimes use to lure younger children over to the base chapels of the various bases that he served on, you can send an email to me at mailto:DND_action@protonmail.com and your contact information will be passed on to the class action lawyers. Do not provide details of your abuse in this email. The lawyer will contact you for a statement. If you do give a statement and you do not wish for your name to be made public, the lawyer will obtain a publication ban for your name and other identifying details.

So, the next post will be hopefully about my affidavit and the contents of the affidavit.

My Brain.

Yes, as fucked up as it is, it still fascinates me.

I am hoping that after I die that my brain is removed and sent off to one of the many institutions in Canada that study human brains to try and decipher mental illness and addictions.

I’ve suffered from major depression and anxiety for the majority of my life. I endured sexual assaults for over 1-1/2 years. I endured what would be tantamount to “conversion therapy”. I endured more sexual assaults before I turned 16. I grew up in a dysfunctional household.

So my brain should be interesting.

What I have always found to be very interesting is that I am not addicted to anything. Nor am I living on the streets.

Where I work, we have various programs to help addicts. One of the things that becomes apparent to me is that addiction and mental illness go hand in hand.

I’d say that most of the clients of these programs started off with mental illness first, found themselves on the streets, and then ended up with addictions.

It’s stunning how many mentally ill people are just discarded by society like trash.

The problem there I think is that unless you’re talking to the chinaware or unless you believe that everyone is a lizard person from the future out to kidnap you no one believes that you’re mentally ill.

My father would often rail on to no end that “my moods could be whatever I wanted them to be” and that “I was just doing this to get his attention”. And there are a lot of people like my father in the world. People who believe that mental illness is a scam, that people who claim to be mentally ill are liars, that people with depression are just weak wimpy cry babies who want to take the easy way out.

But even if you are one of the “lucky ones” with a “real” mental illness, you too are at an elevated risk of being tossed to the street when those close to you get tired of your “drama” and your “bullshit”.

At an early age I found myself with mental illness, diagnosed but untreated mental illness.

I found myself homeless for a number of months for most of 1992 and then the early part of 1994.

For the first few years of my adult life, I was always one or two pay cheques away from losing it all.

Help from home was out of the question, so I knew even better than to ask.

As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months at the Catholic Charities men’s hostel numerous of my fellow bunk mates would offer drugs. Wasn’t interested. Didn’t want drugs. Didn’t want booze.

I didn’t consider myself superior to my bunk mates. I just wasn’t tied up in making friends with them.

Maybe my inability to make friends actually saved me from a life of addiction. Nobody becomes addicted on their own. There is always an enabler involved.

I was flagged by social services both in Alberta and Ontario as not having the ability to make friends or to associate with others. Also, I really despised being touched. And that is still the way things are to this day. Don’t touch me.

To tell you the truth, I just find it so hard to trust people. I’m not paranoid. I think that after CFB Namao and CFB Griesbach, I just learnt that there was no one there for me, that I was always going to be on my own.

If you ask my brother, he’ll tell you that I was just a stuck up little asshole who thought himself better than anyone else. But that’s not my brother talking. That’s Richard speaking. Richard had a million and one opinions on my mental health issues, none of them helpful.

But yeah, I assure you that I wasn’t “stuck up”.

So was it the inability to form friendships that allowed me to stay off drugs?

My self worth has always been lower than shit, so it’s not that I considered myself too good for drugs.

So there has to be something else going on in my brain. Something that researchers may find of interest.

I haven’t cried since I was about 30. I’m too emotionally numb on the inside to cry anymore.

I used to cry a lot trying to figure out what the fuck was wrong with my brain and why I couldn’t fit in no matter how hard I tried and why I was always susceptible to days on end of feeling completely unmotivated and unable to think.

Employers were always impressed with my technical skills and my dedication to work, but I just lacked the “people skills” to deal with people therefore I was always going to be the guy behind the scenes who just wasn’t presentable to the public.

At the time I didn’t have access to my Foster Care records from the Alberta Government so I had absolutely no idea that I had already been diagnosed with depression and anxiety so bad that I was supposed to have been institutionalized.

I wouldn’t get my hands on those records until August of 2011. Almost 30 years after the fact. 30 years I was allowed to participate in society as some sort of experiment to see if I would succeed or fail.

And no, there was no going to “head shrinkers” or talking to a doctor about my issues. Not after my experiences with Terry and my father and the various psychologists that I had seen while we lived on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach from October 1980 until April 1983.

The fact that Terry and my father would both get me to say lies and bullshit to my civilian counsellors means that I don’t think that I could ever be honest with these people. My emotions and my inner turmoil were always something that I was taught to be ashamed of and to hide behind a wall of lies.

My father had told me during those years that I was making up all of my problems, that I was only “acting up” to get attention.

With no family support, no professional support, no community supports, here I am at 50 years of age.

My brain is fried and burnt out.

I don’t really have anything much to offer other than my brain for research.

The brain is a fascinating organ.

It is who we are. It is what we are.

It’s where our thoughts, our memories, and our dreams live and die.

The more researchers learn about the brain, the more it becomes apparent that it functions similar to a computer in the sense that it has specialized portions of the brain that do specific tasks.

I view my brain as a biological computer with over 250,000 years of innovation behind it. I view myself as the operating system. Unfortunately my operating system was corrupted by various hacks over the years that led to irreparable hardware damage.

Sure, there are patches that could sorta maybe kinda work, but an operating system that is held together by patches is unstable.

That’s one of the reasons I have no issue facing my death. As long as my brain is rendered unconscious and is denied oxygen I won’t experience my death. It will literally be like turning off the power switch on your computer. A power switch that can never be turned back on.

Still, it is very interesting how the brain processes information.

One thing that I’ve always found interesting is that you don’t actually live in the real world. Yes you and your body are present in the real world, but what your consciousness “sees”, “hears”,”tastes”, “touches”, and “smells” is AFTER the various cortexes have processed the information presented to them. What you are experiencing are the outputs of your cortexes. This is why hallucinations and dreams can appear so lifelike and vivid. The brain can’t tell the difference. To it everything is real.

But this apparently is the best way for the brain to function because if your brain had to process the raw information from your senses by itself without the automated processes of the cortexes your brain would become severely overwhelmed.

For instance how the brain processes visual information. One part of the visual cortex looks for shapes, another part isolates written languages or symbols even if we’ve never seen that language or symbol before, another part looks for faces and the emotions on those faces, another part looks for movements, and yet another part uses our stereo vision to calculate distances between objects. Our brains rely on contrast between light and dark for depth perception, even though we see in colour. We perceive all of these processes happening all at once. But they’re being processed by different parts of the visual cortex.

Car makers know that the visual cortex can be easily manipulated to elicit emotions. This is why car makers now spend so much time putting anthropomorphic features on to car and truck grilles and head lights. By making the car or truck appear happy or angry they can sell vehicles to people based upon their primary emotion.

Our hearing has many different sub processes as well. One part of the auditory cortex is listening for speech. One part has something similar to a comb-filter that is designed to be sensitive to certain frequencies. One part seems to love music. Another part gets triggered by rhythm. A different part of the auditory cortex is used to pinpoint the location of a sound in 3-dimensions even though we only have two ears. I was diagnosed at a young age with an auditory memory problem. And it’s true. I have a very hard time remembering things that are verbally told to me in a specific sequence. However I can easily remember written phrases, concepts, and details. This is one of the reasons I don’t do telephone calls unless I absolutely have to.

Then there’s the interconnection between all of these different processes. Your steady eyesight comes because the inner ear also coordinates your eye movement so that as your head moves your eyes are able to move in a direction to counter the movement of your head. Without this communication you eyesight would be very blurry.

Your ability to turn your head in the direction of a sound comes from the ability of your auditory cortex to direct your head muscles and your eye muscles towards the direction of the sound.

Your visual cortex processes you central vision and your peripheral vision in two different process, but presents this to your brain as one image. You visual cortex fills in the blind spot in each of your eyes with made up data so that you don’t see two black spots in your vision. These black spots are where your optic nerve connects to your retina. You can’t see there. Your peripheral vision sucks at detail, but it is really great at detecting motion. Your peripheral vision can direct your eyeballs and your head into the direction of motion.

Your ability to listen to music on headphones without constantly turning your head in every direction is because your auditory system has realized that what you are hearing is not a threat.

Emotions are another interesting part of the brain. Your brain can control its emotions by releasing or not releasing certain chemicals. And it has been discovered that your brain can damage itself if it releases to many of these chemicals for a prolonged period, or doesn’t release enough chemicals for a prolonged period.

Sadly, when these chemicals go out of whack, the brain often isn’t able to bring itself back to “normal” without external help. The longer the brain is without help, the more substantial the damage will be.

So yes, you can suffer actual physical brain damage due to traumatic events such as emotional trauma, psychological trauma, or physical trauma.

The brain is plastic in the sense that it can try to overcome the damage by using different portions of the brain.

I’ve never seen the actual removal of a human brain from the skull during an autopsy, but there are hundreds of autopsy videos available on the net. And I’ve seen quite a few. All you really need to remember is that the body is dead and feels no pain.

Once the skull is removed and then the dura mater is cut open, the brain is ripe for the picking so to say. Gently tilt the brain outwards from the skull, sever the olfactory nerves, the optic nerves, the facial nerves, the auditory nerves, the neck and throat nerves, and the spinal cord, and out pops your brain. Do Not Try This At Home, especially not on yourself.

It’s a good thing that you’re typically dead when this happens otherwise might be a little on the painful side. Plus might also cause a panic attack.

Now, I don’t know what exactly can be learnt from my brain. Probably nothing substantial. But maybe something incremental. And incremental would be far better than nothing, eh?

I would imagine that having a somewhat fresh brain would be beneficial to the researchers.

I would much rather prefer that my brain go to somewhere where it can be of some use rather than just tossed into an unmarked grave, or a crematorium, or a resomation chamber.

Then at least my suffering will be over and something beneficial will have come of my life.

And I’ll be able to say that “I’m going to medical school!”

I really wish that I could donate my skull to whomever I wanted to.

I have a few people in mind that I would love to give my skull to.

Updates…..

Not much going on this week.

I thought for sure that I was going to hear from Munro’s kin about the last two posts.

Nope, not a single word.

I’ve already got time booked off from work for the discovery hearing in my matter against the commissionaire from the Denison Armouries in Toronto at Canadian Forces Base Downsview.

Still in the early stages of my class action against the Canadian Armed Forces for the trail of destruction that Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Father Angus McRae left in his wake as he moved from CFB Kingston, to CFB Portage La Prairie, to CFS Holberg, to CFB Namao.

The escitalopram is doing what it’s supposed to be doing. It’s not fixing anything. It’s just keeping my major depression and my severe anxiety in check. Which I guess is better than nothing.

My brain is so tired and so burnt out at the moment. I think this is the result of a lifetime of neglected mental health issues. It’s clearly obvious that although I’ve spent a lifetime enduring major depression, severe anxiety, and who the hell knows what else, it was probably dealing with COVID last year that really pushed me over the edge.

March is coming up, and this is when the Parliamentary committee is supposed to release their recommendations for M.A.i.D. for psychiatric issues. I’ll be sure to keep you posted.

“But if you win your actions against the Commissionaires and the Canadian Forces, surely you’ll reconsider, won’t you?”.

Nope.

Just far too tired and far too burnt out. Far too neglected. And apologies will never be coming.

I’ve lived far too long with being blamed for things that were far beyond my control.

I’ve also gone for far too long being called a liar by the media.

Richard will never apologize. He’s dead.

Brigadier General Daniel Edward Munro will never apologize, he did what the National Defence Act allowed him to do.

Any apology that I get from the Department of National Defence and the Canadian Armed Forces will be a meaningless cookie cutter jumble of mumble bullshit words approved by the Department of Justice and the Solicitor General of Canada. Used toilet paper will have move value than anything from the DND or the CF.

So, it really is a no-win situation no matter what happens.

On a different tangent, I’m set to get some new tattoos on February 4th. More facial tattoos. I started tattooing my face around 2016. Started off with just a couple of small excursions on to my face.

Most tattoo artists won’t touch a person’s face no matter how many other tattoos a person has.

Bill was more than willing to.

Then Bill moved out to the valley.

I found another artist who was willing to get more involved, but then with the start of COVID Liam moved out of town.

So, I found another artist.

I’m going to try to get as much work done in a session or two with Eduardo as possible.

The nice thing about secure employment and working where I work is that they tolerate tattoos so long as they’re not offensive or profane.

I’m going to stay with the line motif. But Eduardo wants to change the direction of the lines and maybe go much thicker. He also wants to go over my eyelids if I’m able to stand it.

Something long the lines of this.
But working with what I currently have.

I really wish that I had gotten into tattoos a lot earlier in life. But being as that I had absolutely no family safety net to catch me if a previous employer decided that they didn’t like my tattoos, I was really hesitant to get anything that could be seen.

And with Richard’s voice in my head always asserting that I was completely useless I was always very reluctant to do anything nice for myself as I fully expected Richard to find out and then chastise and berate me for being a fucking idiot and trying to show off.

Honestly, I think that my tattoos and my piercings are my “Fuck You” to the society that practically shat upon me my entire life because I didn’t fit in and I wasn’t “normal”.

It’s not my fault I’m not normal. I tried so fucking hard in my younger days to be “normal” that I think I ruined any chance of ever actually being normal. My not being normal is a choice that my father and the Canadian Armed Forces made for me when I was a kid in need of psychiatric care. The Canadian Forces decided that secrets needed to be kept, and my father was too much of a fucking pussy to tell the Canadian Armed Forces to go get fucking stuffed.

Anyways, that’s this post for now.

I’d really like to post about other stuff, but I really don’t have any interests.

I don’t like sports.

I like music, but I’ve never been wrapped up in fandom.

I like bicycles, but I just ride them.

I like motorcycles, but again, I just ride them.

I don’t keep up with current entertainment trends. I actually just started watching “Game of Thrones” this past Sunday. I’m up to Season 1 Episode 6. So that’s what, 11 years behind?

I haven’t read a good book in ages. Just don’t have the interest. As a kid I loved reading. Even in my teen years I loved to read. I think mu interest in reading waned sometime in my 20’s. Too busy at work trying to keep up and keep my employers happy.

I like road trips on my motorcycle. Just me, myself, and the bike. But COVID put road trips on the back burner. So nothing to write about there.

And talking about work would probably put ya’ll to sleep.

If you’ve ever wondered

For most of my life I’ve been outright lied to.

I wasn’t a victim in 1980.

I was a homosexual monster.

My father wasn’t a drunk asshole with rage issues, I was just too sensitive.

I wasn’t having psychiatric issues due to the abuse and the conversion therapy, I was just acting up to get attention.

Later in life, when I tried to receive justice for what had occurred on Canadian Forces Base Namao I was accused of lying. I was accused of making things up, of blowing things out or proportion. The Minister of National Defence himself accused me of playing games and having angles.

Throughout the CFNIS investigation GO 2011-5754 I was told time and time again that P.S. couldn’t have done what I accused him of, I was told time and time again that there was no fire at PMQ #26 on 12th Street. I was told that the base chapel was in a different location. I was told that I couldn’t have been molested in the base chapel by Captain McRae as the chapel didn’t have a rectory.

On May 3rd, 2011 and May 4th 2011 I sent Master Corporal Christian Cyr some emails that detailed the chapel and other places on the base. Not a single one of these fucking emails was included in the investigation. It’s like they magically disappeared. But I know that Cyr received these emails as he used a certain phrase from one of my emails in one of his reports.

When I got my hands on the Certified Tribunal Records from the Military Police Complaints Commission, I was fucking horrified.

I had submitted my foster care records to the CFNIS in August of 2011 to bolster the fact that there was no on at home that my brother or I could have told about the abuse.

Instead the CFNIS focused on a paragraph or two that said that I was emotionally disturbed and causing trouble.

The CFNIS ignored the fact that my foster care records said that it was our grandmother raising my brother and I on base and that grandma was invited to live with us in 1977 and didn’t move out until 1981.

This was important as my father denied ever hiring a babysitter. Of course he’d deny it, it wasn’t him that hired the babysitter, it was his mother.

I just can’t figure out if it was Richard that erased his mother from our house or if the CFNIS suggested that he not mention his mother as that would help ensure that P.S. could not be indicated as our babysitter, thereby casting further doubt on my allegations against P.S.

The CFNIS ignored the part of my foster care records that said that my brother and I viewed grandma as far too authoritarian and strict. They completely skipped the part where I told the psychologist that I was going to kill myself if grandma didn’t leave the house.

The CFNIS ignored the psychological report of the psychologist hired by the Canadian Forces that said that my father accepted no responsibility for his family, blamed others for the problems with his family, expected others to solve the problems with his family, that he denied any knowledge of his kids having problems, blamed his mother for hiding those problems from him.

So, in the end, Richard died in 2017 without ever having to own up to the horrific fucking hell he put me through to cover for his own irresponsibility that led to my brother and I being sexually abused for 1-1/2 years on CFB Namao.

What’s even worse is that the CFNIS had in its possession the CFSIU investigation paperwork and the Court Martial transcripts which indicated that the Military Police in 1980 knew that P.S. was molesting children on the base.

What’s even worse is that the CFNIS had done CPIC checks on P.S. and found that he was charged and convicted in 1x in 1982, 1x in 1984, 2x in 1985 for the sexual abuse of children.

“Mr. Bees, we just couldn’t find anything that would indicate that P.S. was capable of what you accused him of”

Why did the CFNIS spin the investigation the way they did?

Why did the Canadian Forces, the Provost Marshal, and the CFNIS go out of their way to protect a multi-time convicted child molested?

Liability.

Someone up the Chain of Command made the decision that I was never to be linked to Captain Father Angus McRae via P.S.

If P.S. abused my brother and I as a result of the abuse, the grooming, or the instructions that P.S. received from Captain Father Angus McRae, there would be the possibility of compensation.

After all, Captain McRae was a member of the regular force, he was living on a secure defence establishment in housing provided to him by the Canadian Armed Forces, as he was a regular force member he was subject to the Code of Service discipline 24/7, and I lived on the same defence establishment that the Canadian Forces were supposed to provide security for.

If my matter had made it to court and through discovery it was learnt that Captain McRae had molested many other children on CFB Namao, CFS Holberg, CFB Portage La Prairie, and CFB Kingston, where would the liability end?

If my matter had made ripples in the media, how many other kids that had been abused on the bases across Canada would start coming forward.

BOBBIE YOU’RE FULL OF SHIT!
THE CFNIS CANNOT BE COMPROMISED!
THE CFNIS INVESTIGATORS ARE OUTSIDE OF CHAIN OF COMMAND INFLUENCE!

Yeah?

You sure about that?

Well, as it turns out a Commanding Officer outside of the CFNIS ordered the CFNIS to destroy evidence and the fucking CFNIS complied. It has to. It has no fucking choice. Section 83 of the National Defence Act says that every person subject to the Code of Service Discipline WILL obey the LAWFUL command of a superior officer. There are no fucking exceptions for the investigators within the CFNIS.

Section 18.5 says that the Vice Chief of Defence Staff can direct the Provost Marshal and the CFNIS.

Let’s quit fucking pretending that the CFNIS are real police.

They’re not.

They’re soldiers first and police officer second.

https://ottawacitizen.com/news/national/defence-watch/commanding-officers-shouldnt-be-allowed-to-order-destruction-of-evidence-after-trials-military-sex-assault-survivor-says

https://ottawacitizen.com/news/national/defence-watch/commanding-officers-shouldnt-be-allowed-to-order-destruction-of-evidence-after-trials-military-sex-assault-survivor-says

Jesus Fucking H. Christ.

You do not destroy evidence.

Especially not on the order of some fucking jerk-off commanding officer.

The Canadian Fucking Forces just keep getting worse and worse as the days go by as more shit floats to the top of the swamp.

But Bobbie, doesn’t this make you happy?

Why the fuck would it make me happy?

I counted on these fucking assholes to keep me safe as a child when I lived on their fucking defence establishments.

I counted on these fucking assholes to ensure that justice was carried out and that every attempt was made to make me whole again after the fucking abuse. Instead I got 2-1/2 years of psychological abuse at the hands of military social worker Captain Totzke.

When it became apparent that my father was incapable of looking after me due to his issues, I counted on the Canadian Forces to assist Alberta Social Services with my care, not help my fucking father skip to a different province.

In 2011, when the CFNIS took my matter away from the civilian police, I was counting on the CFNIS to help me escape from a lifetime of being blamed for allowing the babysitter to have molested my younger brother. Instead the fucking worthless CFNIS acted to protect the DND and the CF from civil actions and potential public humiliation had the truth about CFB Namao been made public.

I was told by the Military Police Complaints Commission that there was no way possible for the Canadian Forces to interfere with a CFNIS investigation, that the CFNIS were free from Chain of Command influence.

Well, as it turns out, this is all bullshit and fucking lies.

Bullshit and fucking lies is all the Canadian Armed Forces seem to be good at.

Telling the fucking truth seems to be far beyond the abilities of the Canadian Armed Forces.

So, if you’re still trying to grasp why I want to die via M.A.i.D. after M.A.i.D. for psychiatric issues becomes law in 2023, this is why.

My whole fucking life has been one horrific fucking joke. Everything I knew as a kid was absolute fucking lies. My sexuality was destroyed by Captain Totzke. My mental health and well-being was destroyed by my own father and the Canadia Armed Forces. All for the sake of keeping a fucking secret.

Even if the Minister of National Defence, Anita Anand ekes out a meagre apology, what the fuck is that going to do. It’s not going to bring my father back so that he can apologize and eat humble fucking pie for what he did. It’s not going to undo the abuse at the hands of P.S. or Captain McRae. It’s not going to undo the psychological abuse I suffered under Captain Totzke.

Knowing what I’ve learnt about the Canadian Armed Forces and their knack for bald-faced lying and duplicity makes anything the Canadian Forces, the Department of National Defence, or the Minister of National Defence absolutely worthless.

Why would any person in their right mind want to willingly live in complete torment knowing what I know and seeing what I’ve seen.

This is the reason why M.A.i.D. has such a powerful allure for me.

I’ve already been through enough in life.

Suicide will never be an answer for me. Why should I have to suffer more in the end? Why should I have to risk surviving a botched attempt?

No amount of counselling, talking, arts therapy, magical healing crystals, or chakras will undo what was done.

My bed has been made. Now I have to lay in it. Sucks that the housekeeper making my bed was a member of the Canadian Armed Forces.

The peaceful exit of M.A.i.D. is what I look forward to.

No pain. No suffering. No more depression. No more anxiety. No more torment. No more lies.

Just nothing.

And believe me, I’m okay with that.

It’s far better than what I live with now.