Tag: M.A.i.D.

The Informal Resolution pt.2

On Thursday April 21st, I had a sit down with Captain Chelsea St-Amand and Sergeant David Winship, both of the CFNIS Western Region detachment.

The meeting took place in a boardroom at VPD Headquarters and ran from 13:00 until 16:00.

On the complaint form that I had submitted to the MPCC I had selected the option box indicating that I would be open to an informal resolution so I got an informal resolution meeting.

So, first off I’ll apologize to Sgt. Winship for the complaint I brought against him, not because my complaint was without merit, but because as I discovered during the meeting that Sgt. Winship was not the lead investigator in my matter against the man from the sauna.

The lead investigator in my matter is actually Sgt. Justin Brady.

Sgt. Winship is actually the case manager.

Some of the highlights that came out of the meeting.

Sgt. Winship agreed that unlike a member of the Canadian Forces who can go through their chain of command to voice concerns and complaints against the CFNIS, as a civilian I do not have access to that avenue. I only have the MPCC and at that the MPCC doesn’t take complaints about “investigations”, the MPCC only accepts “conduct” complaints against investigators. This oversight in the National Defence Act seems to come from the mistaken understanding that only military members who can make complaints via their chain of command are the only persons making criminal complaints to the CFNIS. Civilian victims of crime such as myself are outliers that weren’t planned for.

(As a side note, as a civilian the prospect of redress is also unavailable to me. Redress is where a complaint is made directly to the Chief of Defence Staff and the CDS can review any matter brought to their attention. This is how Stephanie Raymonde was able to have her matter looked at again in 2014)

We talked for a bit about my distrust of the military justice system related to the news from the ’90s and pretty well up to the current day. The horrific flaws with the National Defence Act that had to be fixed due to the inability of the military justice system to deal with the illegal actions in Bosnia and Somalia. Then there were the findings of Madame Marie Deschamps in 2015 that found that the military justice system could not properly conduct sexual assault investigations, and the 2021 recommendations of former Supreme Court of Canada justice Louise Arbour that only civilian police be allowed to investigate military sexual assaults which resulted in Minister of National Defence Anita Anand ordering all current sexual assault investigations be moved to the civilian police.

I also discussed how I could never bring myself to trust the CFNIS after they took my father’s statement at full face value and never attempted to re-interview my father when my foster care records were made available to the CFNIS in 2011 and indicated that there were very serious concerns with my father’s statement. My father’s statement had a significant impact on the Crown’s decision to not lay charges against P.S. as my father claimed there was never a babysitter in the house.

Which brings up my matter and which was the cause of the MPCC complaint and the informal resolution meeting. Sgt. Winship assures me that there is nothing political with the decision for the CFNIS to retain my investigation. Sgt. Winship says that my investigation was sent for review and it was decided to keep it within the CFNIS because they were at the stage of interviewing both P.S. and R.B..

I don’t know how receptive P.S. will be to being interviewed by the CFNIS. The more I think about it the more I believe that P.S. attempted suicide in the year 2000 as too many brats from CFB Namao kept making complaints against him. So I’m pretty sure that P.S. will no doubt have a good attorney who will tell him to tell the CFNIS to go away.

R.B. is a different matter. The CFNIS are still waiting for Library and Archives Canada to give the CFNIS a copy of R.B.’s service file. I find it sad that law enforcement doesn’t have priority access to service files at the LAC.

We talked for a bit about counselling and if I’ve tried to access it. I explained that one of the most significant issues that I have with receiving counselling is that almost every counsellor that I’ve dealt with to date is unfamiliar with the military aspect of what I went through. Having a military social worker who was blaming me for basically allowing myself to be sexually abused really fucks with one’s brain. Being labelled by this military social worker as being a homosexual is just as bad as being blamed for the abuse. Having a father at home, who due to his rank of Master Corporal, was probably placing very special emphasis on what the Captain was saying was just as fucking devastating as what the Captain was saying. And even Sgt. Winship agreed that there is no way that I will be able to deal with the sexual assault components on their own without dealing with all of the other aspects. Sgt. Winship mentioned that male on male sexual assaults were just handled a lot differently back then. I added that I think what really bad was when Captain David Pilling requested that Warrant Officer Fred Cunningham investigate Captain Father Angus McRae for committing “Acts of Homosexuality” with boys on CFB Namao that this tarred all of McRae’s and P.S.’s victims as also being “homosexuals”. And back in the day, the official policy of the Canadian Armed Forces was that homosexuality was a mental defect. To this end, Sgt. Winship said that when he got back to Edmonton that he would talk to some counsellors that he knew of that specialized in treating survivors of military sexual assault trauma who also work with civilians to see if the would be able to somehow bring their military services into the civilian realm. We also discussed a bit about how military dependents such as myself are ineligible for assistance through the Canadian Armed Forces and how most provinces balk at picking up the costs for counselling or therapy, especially if the former dependent is living in a province where the assaults did not occur. Members and former members of the Canadian Forces can receive help no matter where they live. This is not true for former military dependents.

Communication is one of the things that we discussed. Just a periodic heads up along with an explanation of the current status of the investigation would be great.

We did briefly discuss the fallout of the Lamer Report, the findings of the Somalia Commission, the findings of Madame Marie Deschamps, recommendations of former Supreme Court of Canada justice Louise Arbour. I also brought up some of the concerns that the Military Police Complaints Commission has voiced about the Vice Chief of Defence Staff, a position that is not law enforcement and is not a sworn peace officer, making recommendations and issuing instructions for any CFNIS investigation and that how even though in theory the Provost Marshal is supposed to make those recommendations or instructions available to the “public” that all the Provost Marshal has to do is post a copy of those instructions in the 10th floor coffee room at National Defence Head Quarters and the Provost Marshal has met their obligation.
Sgt. Winship is adamant that he would not allow the chain of command to interfere with his investigations.
I brought up the matter of Corporal Stuart Langridge and how CFNIS investigator Sgt. Matthew Ritco had told the MPCC Inquiry that CFNIS brass had rewritten his report and instructed him to sign the new report.
Again Sgt. Winship insisted that he would have refused to sign the report.

All in all it was a productive meeting.

I’m still very wary of the CFNIS and the Canadian Forces, but at least I feel more comfortable with Sgt. Winship and the current investigation into the man in the sauna.

The secrets that cause me to suffer.

The Canadian Forces are adept at keeping secrets no matter who suffers.

As much as I love the final report issued by the Military Police Complaints Commission in 2020 in which the MPCC gave a very subtle and discreet kick to Minister Harjit Sajjan’s balls there is one troubling aspect that has caused me concern.

It’s these pair of paragraphs in the final report.

Basically, the MPCC is stating that I was wrong to assume that the CFNIS were commanded by the Chain of Command to conduct the 2015 to 2018 portion of investigation GO 2011-5754 in such a manner as to not risk exposing in the present day what the Canadian Armed Forces tried to bury in 1980.

Yes, technically the Military Police Complaints Commission is correct in the sense that Captain McRae’s court martial was reported in the media. But lets’ see what was actually in the media versus what happened on the base.

“McRae has been sentenced to four years for buggery with ->A<- child”

In 1980 the Canadian media reported that Captain Father Angus McRae had committed buggery with “A” child. Not 2 children. Not 3 children. Not 10 children. Not 25 children.

ONE FUCKING CHILD.

Not 25 children between the ages of 5 and 15.

ONE FUCKING CHILD.

And that child was P.S..

The only child over the age of 14.

In September of 2002, the Departmental Public Affairs Office (DGPA-DPAPO) of the Department of Justice, which was representing the Department of National Defence and the Minister of National Defence, made edits to a press release that was going to be the Government of Canada’s response to the $4.5 million dollar action brought by P.S..

Why did they strike these words?

Why would the Government of Canada strike the words “Buggery”, “Gross Indecency”, and “Indecent Assault” while leaving the offence numbers 155, 156, 157?

My guess is that simple numbers are meaningless.

Don’t forget, in the early 2000’s, male child sexual abuse was finally being acknowledged. Prior to the mid ’90s and early 2000s it really wasn’t accepted that boys could be the victims of sexual assault.

And in 2002, the Criminal Code that was current in effect was the 1985 Criminal Code of Canada. Not the 1970 Criminal Code. If someone wanted to know what sections 155, 156, and 157 were and they grabbed a copy of the 1985 criminal code they’d really be confused as in the 1985 Criminal Code section 155 was Incest, section 156 was language dealing with offences committed prior to 1983, and section 157 was repealed.

Only if someone was really determined and went to a local law court library and got their hands on a copy of the 1970 Criminal Code would one be able to determine that sections 155, 156, and 157 related to Gross Indecency, Indecent Assault, and Buggery.

And even though the military police and the CFSIU in 1980 knew that as many as 25 children were being sexually abused by Captain McRae and that the military was aware that Captain McRae had confessed during his ecclesiastical to having molested boys for many years meaning that Captain McRae had more than likely molested children on Canadian Forces Base Kington, Canadian Forces Base Portage La Prairie, Canadian Forces Station Holberg, in addition to the 25 children he molested on Canadian Forces Base Namao, the Department of Justice was still going with Captain McRae having only molested “one” boy.

The Department of Justice even went so far as to note that the Canadian Forces had found Captain McRae guilty in a court martial and had subsequently kicked Captain McRae out of the military.

But the Department of Justice made no mention that many of the charges that the military police and the CFSIU had ready to go against Captain McRae had been dismissed by the chain of command prior to Captain McRae’s court martial.

The Department of Justice also fails to note in their press release that unlike in the modern day where charges have to be referred to a prosecutor, in the days of Captain McRae’s court martial it was Captain McRae’s commanding officer, base commander Colonel Daniel Edward Munro, that would determine during a summary investigation which charges would proceed and which charges would be dismissed and not a military prosecutor.

Charges against McRae pg1
Charges Against McRae pg2
Brig-Gen. D.E. Munro
Ret. Brigadier General Daniel Edward Munro

In 1980 Brigadier General Daniel Edward Munro was Colonel Daniel Edward Munro, base commander of Canadian Forces Base Namao and Commanding Officer of Captain Father Angus McRae.

LS-311E 1998
Bill C25 passed
Commanding officer like Daniel Edward Munro and NOT military prosecutors determined the charges

As Legislative Summary LS-311E (1998) indicates, it was Colonel Munro that determined the charges against Captain McRae.

3 year time bar pg1
3 year time bar pg2

As the Judge Advocate General indicated in 2018, it would be impossible to bring charges against Brigadier General Daniel Edward Munro if it was found that he had acted improperly in 1980 and had committed the Criminal Code offence of “Obstruction of Justice”. And even if Daniel Edward Munro had just been following the orders of his superiors, the same 3-year-time-bar would apply to them.

To this date the Canadian Forces are very happy to leave things in the past.

So, with all of this bullshit and all of the subterfuge and all of the lies is it any wonder that I’ve grown very tired?

When I went to the Edmonton Police Service in 2011 to lay charges against P.S. I honestly thought that I stood a decent chance of getting justice. And if I got justice then there was no way that my father was going to be able to keep blaming me for what I had allowed P.S. to do to my younger brother. My father would have to apologize for the way he had treated me in the aftermath of the P.S. / Captain McRae fiasco on CFB Namao.

The Canadian Forces and their defective investigation agency stole that away from me.

The court martial transcripts from McRae’s court martial, the CFSIU investigation paperwork, and what retired Warrant Officer Frederick R. Cunningham had told me on November 27th, 2011, all indicate that the military police in 1980 knew what P.S. had done. But the 2011 investigation was a big nothing burger.

My old man died and got off scot-free. He’ll never have to apologize and explain his part in this horrid mess.

And I’m the one who is stuck with having to request Medical Assistance in Dying for mental health issues when it becomes legal in March of 2023 to erase all of the memories of 1978 through 1987 and 2011 to the present day.

The second examination for discovery.

Today was the second and final day of my examination by the defence in the matter involving Earl Ray Stevens.

The lawyer for the defence was a pleasant enough chap. “Just doing his job” as they say.

Over the course to the two days my lawyer only really had one objection. And the defence lawyer and I had a quibble about the meaning of a word.

But that was it.

I’ll have to produce further documents for the defence. My lawyer is going to put together a list of the undertakings that were requested of me. The nice thing is that the documents that I have to produce for the defence are scanned and are on my online drive, so sharing these documents is simple. As I said, I never really got into computers, but scanning and archiving is something that I got into. Really has come in handy at work where I took four old file cabinets of documents and manuals and scanned them into the shared drive at work so that they’re available to all plant engineers.

How this matter will work out is anyone’s guess.

So, until next time.

March 17, 2023

The clock has begun ticking.

https://www.canada.ca/en/health-canada/services/medical-assistance-dying.html#b11

Less than a year now before I start the process of applying for Medical Assistance in Dying.

It’s a weird kinda of sereneness.

Now that I know approximately when the end of my life will be, and that I won’t have to endure being tormented into my senior years with the flashbacks and memories from Canadian Forces Base Namao, I feel relaxed and calm.

And unlike suicide, being that M.A.i.D. is a medical procedure carried out with clinical precision, I don’t have any fears of botching the job and not doing it correctly or even ending up a vegetable for the remaining 30 years of my life.

All of the mental suffering and anguish that I have endured for the last 40 plus years will finally be over.

Captain Terry Totzke will no longer reside in my brain, nor will Captain Father Angus McRae, Peter S., my father Warrant Officer Richard Wayne Gill, or Earl Ray Stevens. Every member of the Canadian Armed Forces that hurt me will be gone from my brain, forever.

My time spent being torn asunder between Alberta Social Services and Captain Terry Totzke will come to an end.

It’s not that Alberta Social Services did anything wrong, Captain Terry Totzke just made sure that I didn’t tell anyone in the civilian world what had occurred on Canadian Forces Base Namao. He tried to portray himself as my friend, the guy who was trying to help me. He, and my father, both portrayed my civilian social workers as being the enemy. People that weren’t to be trusted. People that were trying to hurt me. There was no way that Captain Totzke or his chain of command were going to allow me to tell my civilian social workers about what had transpired on Canadian Forces Base Namao from October 1978 until May of 1980. Especially not with Captain Father Angus McRae having admitted during his Ecclesiastical trial in June of 1980 that he had been molesting children for years. McRae molested 25 children on CFB Namao. How many did he molest on CFS Holberg, or CFB Portage La Prairie, or even CFB Kingston. 50 kids total? 100 kids total?

The Canadian Forces and the Canadian Forces Special Investigations Unit were well aware at the time that McRae was bringing children over to the chapel and giving them beer and wine before escorting them into the bedroom of the rectory to “fool around”. How many kids like me were there that have vague memories of being escorted to the chapel by our babysitter, playing games and watching TV, and then being given a “sickly sweet grape juice” and not remembering anything after that?

Children’s Aid Society of Toronto records.
The blacked out info is my father’s name Richard and Rick.

Reading my foster care record from November of 1981 until April of 1983 shows that my father was outright hostile towards Alberta Social Services. No doubt this was encouraged by Captain Terry Totzke.

This is my grandmother that Richard “forgot” to tell the CFNIS about in 2011.
I still don’t know if Richard didn’t tell the CFNIS of her by his own decision or if the CFNIS suggested that it would be best if he didn’t mention her as her presence in the PMQ would complicate things for the CFNIS in 2011.
Grandma had issues from her time in Indian Residential School when she was a child.
This no doubt contributed to her hostile personality.
Alberta Social Services Observation of my father Richard Wayne Gill.

So, why wasn’t my father too eager to work with Alberta Social Services considering how emotionally disturbed I was?

Captain Terry Totzke would have already explained to my father, Master Corporal Richard Wayne Gill, that I had obviously been having sex with Peter because I was a homosexual and that I had allowed this to go on for over a year because I was a homosexual.

Section 70 of the 1970 National Defence Act.
Sure, my father could have done the right thing, but that would have taken a backbone.

Captain outranks Master Corporal. And the National Defence Act and its section on “Insubordination” would have meant that my father would have paid attention to the words of a captain.

This is why my bedroom door had been taken off both on CFB Griesbach and on CFB Downsview. This is why I wasn’t allowed to participate in sports. Even though it was my father that said that he wasn’t going to allow me to go swimming with my class at the Kinsmen Sports Centre “because there’d be other naked boys in the change room and that I wouldn’t be able to control myself”, I have absolutely no doubt that it was Captain Totzke that told my father to keep me away from other boys. After all it was Captain Totzke, or Terry as I knew him, that had warned me early on that he had the base military police watching me and that if I ever tried to kiss or touch another boy that I’d be sent off to the Alberta Hospital for treatment.

And homosexuality was a major no-no in the Canadian Forces back in the 50s through to the ’90s. The official military policy was that homosexuality was a mental illness. CFAO 19-20 was the official CF policy toward homosexuality.

Yes, CFAO 19-20 would have only applied to persons subject to the Code of Service Discipline. But once you’ve been trained the in military way and trained to enforce military policies you can’t just turn that training on and off at will.

So yes, it will be so nice to finally be free of Captain Totzke and my father.

You have absolutely no idea of what it’s like to navigate through life not knowing why you don’t like sex with women, but you also don’t like sex with men. Everyone assumes I’m gay because I don’t have sex with women. The problem is that I’m not into guys either. I actually find sex and the concept of sex to be disgusting.

I wear dresses, not because I consider myself to be a woman. I wear dresses because they’re comfortable and I believe that pants are stupid considering male anatomy. I also wear dresses I believe because I had been told all of my life that I wasn’t allowed to play on the men’s team because of what I had done on CFB Namao with P.S. and Captain McRae.

When you’re told that your not good enough to play by the rules, you play by your own rules.

To further complicate things, I had been diagnosed as having major depression and severe anxiety. And no doubt I was suffering from what would now be termed “Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder “.

After CFB Namao and CFB Griesbach I learned to live in solitude.

I legally changed my name in 2008 thinking that I could get a fresh start and leave CFB Namao behind.

I honestly do love my chosen name, but it didn’t erase my past as I had hoped.

I’m still Robert Wayne Gill, the 8 year old who was caught getting fucked in the ass by his almost 15 year old babysitter on Canadian Forces Base Namao in May of 1980. I’m still Robert Wayne Gill, the 7 and 8 year old boy that allowed the 14 year old babysitter to molest his younger brother. I’m still Robert Wayne Gill, the 9 to 11 year old boy who received “conversion therapy” at the hands of Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Terry Totzke. And I’ll be that Robert Wayne Gill until the day I draw my last breath.

Knowing the truth about CFB Namao and the direct connection between my babysitter and Captain McRae doesn’t erase the past. I just made me understand that I have very little control over my life and that other people made some very fucking horrific decisions about my life even before I had a chance to begin living my life.

I’ve had to work so fucking hard in my life just to get to where I am. And I am still so fucking vulnerable it’s not funny. One simple little fucking mistake in life and I fall and I fall hard. There is no safety net for me. There is no inheritance for me to rebound off of. There is absolutely no family for me to be able to depend on.

So I took the path in life that was very carefully navigated.

Every day of my life up to this point I have wondered where I life I could have gone had I been encouraged to finish school, an go on to college or university. Even trade school. Almost every successful tradesman started out on an apprenticeship when they were young and living at home and they didn’t have to worry about paying for the course, or the books, or anything else.

CMAC says that the majority of first time home buyers get help from the Bank of Mom and Dad. So I missed out on that.

It drives me up the wall the number of times that coworkers, or managers, or even outside trades, contractors , and suppliers say to me “Bobbie, you’re wasting your time/talents here, you’ve got the smarts you should be over there doing that and making a fortune”. Fine, sure, you gonna let me move in to your house so that you can pay my bills and feed me while I take the 4 or 5 year full-time program to get the degrees required to pursue that line of work? Didn’t think so.

And after having been what I’ve been though in life, and with my depression and anxiety, I’m not exactly a pleasant person to be around. No, I’m not offensive or unpleasant. But I have no hobbies, and I have no interests. I don’t care about sportsball teams. I don’t care about TV shows. I don’t gossip. I like music, but I keep my interests to myself. I’m an odd fucker that just doesn’t fit in. I have no interest in hearing about your family. I don’t care about your kids. I was never taught the art of small talk. This makes a person very fucking vulnerable.

As I’ve said in other blog entries, I picked up electronics, automotive, and computer skills as a kid in the hopes that it would create some sort of connection between my father and I. But that connection was so damaged that nothing was ever going to fix it.

I haven’t wrenched on a car since I stopped driving back in 1998.

When it comes to electronics or computers at work, I pretend to be abso-fucking-lutely stupid.

Up until recently I had about $1k worth of soldering equipment at home for electronic projects that I always wanted to start on, but never did. There is no passion or drive inside anymore. Any interest that I had in electronics died back in the mid ’90s when I realized that no matter how good I was at troubleshooting and repairing electronics I was never going to be an electronics technician. “We can’t pay you a technicians wage, you’re not certified”. “We can’t hire you for the technician’s position as you don’t have a diploma”. “Sure, you’ve got electronic skills and you beat a licenced technician in a test, but you’re not qualified without a diploma”. Basically what I was hearing all of my life was “You let the babysitter abuse your younger brother, we can’t hire you, it’s your fault”

I had a friend that used to get me to work on motorcycles for him. I told him that I despised doing mechanical or electrical work on motorcycles. But he kept on pushing me as he was certain that I’d get to like repairing motorcycles as I had a natural talent for fixing mechanical and electrical problems. This friendship died about 10 years ago. Yes, I have an unnerving ability to troubleshoot electrical, electronic, and mechanical problems, but it doesn’t mean that this is what I would have liked for a career.

So many possibilities were on my horizon, but the way in which the Canadian Armed Forces reacted to Captain Father Angus McRae stripped away from me any of the possibilities that could have been mine. And that’s the knowledge that I am going to live with until I draw my final breath.

So, I’m where I am, not because I want to be, nor because I deserve to be here. I’m where I am because it pays the bills and keeps me fed.

I have never sought help with my depression or my anxiety primarily because I had no idea that I had depression, or anxiety, or cptsd. I was told that I was acting the way I was and behaving the way I was because I was a homosexual that allowed my younger brother to be molested.

Battling the CFNIS and the Canadian Forces since 2011 sure hasn’t helped matters much.

And to be told recently that my former babysitter P.S., and the man in the sauna both have more legal rights than I do is just one of the many nails the CFNIS have driven into my coffin since 2011.

These are the reasons that I am looking forward to M.A.i.D.

Yes, M.A.i.D. will result in my death, but that’s the price I am more than willing to pay to erase the memories of:
My father and his drinking and his anger issues;
The fact my mother ran off and left me with my father;
Being raised by my grandmother, who had her own issues;
Peter S.;
The memories of watching Peter S. abuse the other children, including my brother;
The 5 visits to the chapel on CFB Namao;
The sickly sweet grape juice;
The fact that my father sent me on one of these visits with Peter;
My involvement with Captain Terry Totzke;
Being called a homosexual by both Captain Totzke and my father for what I had “allowed” to happen on CFB Namao;
My confusing involvement with Alberta Social Services;
Being blamed by my father for “fucking with his military career” and for being the cause of our April ’83 posting to Canadian Forces Base Downsview that “ruined his fucking career”;
My involvement with Earl Ray Stevens, a former member of the Canadian Forces and a then current member of the Canadian Corps of Commissionaires;


I’m tired, I’m burnt the fuck out, my brain is fried, and it’s time for me to go.

Sure, I could live until I’m 70 or maybe even 80. But the fuck for?

So that I can remember that Minister Sajjan accused me of trying to scam the Canadian Forces for a quick buck?

So that I can remember MWO Eisenmenger calling me a liar in July of 2011 and accused me of making up the story about Peter S.?

So that I can constantly remember how horrific of a fucking liar my father was?

So that I can remember all of those nights as a kid when I’d cry myself to sleep wishing that I’d be dead in the morning? And the times I tried to make sure that I was dead in the morning.

So that I can remember all of the times Peter would get me to bathe with him so he could stick his fingers in my ass to get me ready for his penis?

So that I can remember all of the times that Peter would hit me, slap me, and kick me if I didn’t perform oral sex on him they way he liked it?

Nope.

Departure time is coming.

I’ve got my ticket.

And nobody is going to stop me from turning my brain off and leaving this shit of a life behind.

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.