One of my pet peeves is when people who don’t have a single emotional scar, let alone a single emotional scratch tell me that I just have to think happy thoughts and that everything will fine.
That all I have to do is apply myself and I can be anything that I want.
What these people will often not admit is that they practically had everything in life handed to them on a silver platter
And these people are usually the first to shit all over me.
They’re usually the ones who are still in close contact with their parents.
Even when mine were alive, one resented me for having “fucked with his military career”, and the other moved on to a new life and wrote me off.
Their parents almost always took an active interest in them when they were young and their parents ensured that they never fell behind in school.
My father would rage out at school teachers when they’d suggest that he participate in activities with my brother and I.
Their parents would have moved heaven and earth to get them treatment if they had endured any type of event that would have caused them psychological harm.
My father obeyed his orders from my military social worker and basically denied me any treatment for the events from CFB Namao.
Their parents provided them with housing and shelter and funds while they went to college, or university, or trade school.
My father was more than convinced that grade 9 was more education than anyone needed and that all I had to do was to get a job and work my way up.
They didn’t have to live on the streets and couch surf for the first few years of their working life.
I was working for a company in West Vancouver in 1993 that had to close down. The regional manager liked me and liked my work, so he arranged for the branch in Mississauga to hire me. The branch manager liked me, but my immediate supervisor Don didn’t. He was always ranting about “No one from the West Coast was going to tell him who the fuck he had to hire”. Plus, he knew I was queer. So out the door I went. EI did a little investigation and my claim was re-opened, but it was going to take about 4 to 6 weeks for my original claim from British Columbia to be redirected to Toronto. I knew better than to call my father. And it wasn’t out of shame. It’s just I knew that there would be absolutely no help.
My father was a piece of work.
When he received his final posting to Alberta in 1990 he invited me to move back with him. He said that “we could try to be a family again”. I think he had found out that I had just finished a 6 month contract job with a company called Canshare Cabling and I had about $30k in the bank. I paid for most of the expenses for the move, plus I also paid for a bunch of new furnishing for his computer area. As I was 18 at the time, I didn’t have an understanding that he could claim these expenses from the Canadian Forces and that he would be reimbursed.
My brother Scott didn’t move with us at the time as he was finishing his jail sentence at the Uxbridge Training School for Boys in Uxbridge, Ontario.
When my father bought his retirement house in Morniville two months after we arrived back in Edmonton, I moved with him into the house, but I only lasted about 2 weeks there before my stepmother got me booted.
My brother didn’t fare much better.
When he was released from jail he was sent to Alberta by the Ontario government. He lived in Morinville with my father and Sue for a couple of weeks before my father unceremoniously dumped Scott off at my apartment. Scott ate through all of my groceries in three days. Everything was gone. Fridge, freezer, cupboards. Everything.
I called up my father and asked him if he could help out with groceries and if he had any idea of how long Scott was going to stay with me before he went back to Morinville. Richard laughed. He said that he was done with paying for my brother and I, that he had paid enough for us when we were kids, and that maybe it was time for that “bitch mother” of mine to start paying some of the bills.
I was able to get hold of Marie, she came into town and picked Scott up and took him to the acreage she lived on with her husband Art. She bought me groceries.
Richard quickly took Scott back to Morinville when Marie reminded him that Scott was under 18 and if she took him in, she was expecting child support payments from our father.
Richard’s attitude was not unexpected and it didn’t shock me as all. He did tell an airforce buddy of his around 1986 that the only reason he kept my brother and I instead of dumping us with our mother is that if we lived under his roof he could control the costs, but if we went to live with her that he’d have to sign his paycheques over to “that bitch” and that sure as fuck wasn’t going to happen.
So no, there was no fatherly love or motivation for a higher education.
But, let’s dial this back into common day.
I’m currently 53 going on 54.
The position that I’m in has no requirement for secondary qualifications.
But if it did have requirements for secondary qualification these secondary qualifications would be red seal Trade Qualifications.
Some of the red seal trades that can be attached to a power engineering certificate are Electrician, Millwright, Refrigeration Mechanic, Welder, Pipe Fitter, Steam Fitter, etc. These are all four year full-time apprentice programs. These all require a very heavy investment for tools and materials.
But, it must always be remembered that I didn’t become a power engineer because I wanted to, or because I thought that it was a career path with potential, I got into power engineering because it was the easiest way for me to keep a roof over my head and to keep my bills paid.
Going through life with diagnosed but intreated mental illnesses has always meant that I’ve just taken whatever work I can.
I don’t fit in anywhere.
I am a misfit.
I am accepted at work because I bring skills that are typically far outside the skill requirements for the positions that I occupy.
But I never have the opportunity to get official “qualifications” for these extra skills which means that I am always at loggerheads with others who do have the official qualifications.
And even if I were offered the opportunity to take these course the depression would surely destroy my every attempt.
But I can hear the choruses of the unblemished already.
Bobbie, think happy thoughts!
Bobbie, are you eating properly?
Bobbie, more sleep will cure depression!
Bobbie, you should find god!
Bobbie, you should volunteer!
Bobbie, I know what you’re going through, my cat died when I was 14 and I still miss Pepper, but I soldier on and so can you!
My depression has cost me dearly in life.
Beeshive 