Medical Assistance in dying – Page 22

Pictures

Two weeks ago I went to see a photographer who took some pictures.

The last time Albert took some pictures of me was back before COVID-19

I honestly have no idea of where I would have ended up in life had I not been raised in a severely dysfunctional family.

Richard was not the type of parent to foster any type of growth.

Shut you fucking mouth. Why the fuck do you have to listen to that shit? Just go to school and take some fucking basket weaving courses and stare at the fuclking blackboard.

I learnt electronics from Richard? Not fucking likely.

I learnt automotive mechanics from Richard? Definitely a big fucking no there.

Surely Richard instilled a love of computers in you? Between 1987 and 2000 I didn’t own a computer. Never really had an interest in computers. Sure, I use the internet for my blogs, and doing research and such, but nope, no great love for computers

I was into make-up in the period of 2006 to 2011, but my dealings with the Canadian Armed Forces destroyed me emotionally and mentally. In a way I probably should have listened to Richard.

Wearing make-up died.

But my dresses never left.

Anyways, enjoy the pictures…………

Photography.

I took this past Friday off from work to be photographed by a professional photographer.

I met Albert back in 2017 when he came to the hospital to document an energy savings program that phsycial plant had implemented.

He was brought in by the planner that had looked after the project.

He didn’t say anything to me at the time, but he asked the manager to contact me and to tell me that he was interested in taking some photos of me in his studio.

I went over and we did a photoshoot for a few hours.

It was interesting.

So, I decided that I’d like to have some more photographs taken seeing as how my wardrobe has become far more than second hand dresses. Also, my tattoos cover far more than what they did back in 2017.

I contacted Albert about a month ago and we set up an appointment on Friday.

I took four dresses over in addition to the dress that I was wearing.

I also took my favourtie heels.

Rode the scooter from Braid skytrain station over to Albert’s place.

Albert should start a therapy / photography service.

We talked for about 30 to 40 minutes before going into the studio. He seemed to want to flesh out why I wanted to pay to get my photographs taken.

I explained to Albert that I have a decent camera setup, and I like taking photographs of mechanical things, and odd things. I don’t like to photograph people and I don’t like people in my photographs.

I also explained that I am far too self concious and far too critical to take pictures of myself.

Albert asked me what happens when people want to take picture of me.

I told him that for some reason my brain reacts different.

For example, when I was in Iceland over the summer no matter where I went, both tourists and Icelanders were asking to take my picture.

I think the reason that I love dresses and colours and designs is they offset how absolutely dead I am on the inside.

Let’s face it, with what I’ve been through in life, I have the ultimate “resting bitch face”. People think that I’m angry. I’m not. I’m just completely dead on the inside.

As social services indicated back in 1982, I couldn’t express emotions, I couldn’t express happiness or sadness. Whenever they tried to get me to express my emotions it would usually end up in a temper tantrum. I had no idea of how to make friends. I was completely isolated. Captain Totzke and my father had no interest in getting me the help I needed at the time, so things were just left to fester.

I should have the photographs in a week’s time. Albert has to process the images. I’ll get them in RAW format, but he’ll also render JPG versions of the photos. Most of the portrait full frame shots were taken with a Medium Format digital camera.

A simple message

Do you think you know what depression looks like?
Do you think you know what depression feels like?

Here’s a message from the Norwich Football Club in Norwich, Norfolk, England.

The message deals with depression and how people can very easily miss the signs if they don’t know what they’re looking for.

Bobbie, what interests you?

Not much really.

Computers?

Nope.

But you’re so good with them?

Nope, I can just RTFM and I have decent logic

Electronics?

Nope.

That’s just common sense and logic again.

Cars / motorcycles?

Nope.

Never have liked cars.

Bicycles?

Nope.

They’e good to ride and easy to fix, but that’s it.

Scooters?

Nope.

Cheap to ride and charge, but that’s it really.

Camping?

Nope.

Travel?

Nope.

Music?

Yes, but just listening to music, anything musical inside of me was successfully killed by my father.

Television / movies?

Nope. Thankfully Richard and Sue didn’t want us in the PMQ while we were kids, so going for long lonely walks as a kid to keep the pain of the cold at bay is what I would do instead of getting hooked on TV as a kid.

Sports.

Fuck no. I loved sports before the events of CFB Namao. But after Captain Totzke said that I could never play sports due to my “homosexuality” I grew to resent sports. Besides, I learnt from my father to despise hockey and such. He didn’t hate hockey. He loved it. He would sit at home screaming and yelling at the TV screen getting pissed of angry and drunk when the Toronto Makebeliefs would lose a game, which was almost every game back in the ’80s. When Richard was ranting and railing against his favourite team you didn’t dare disturb him.

Electronics have always been something that I was able to use on jobs to keep my employment and offset my depressed personailty.

People can detect my issues long before they’ve ever talked to me.

The one thing that I always had was my ability to do techinical work that was far above the pay grade of the job that I was applying for.

When I started working at Lions Gate Lanes in 1992 I wasn’t “one of the guys”. I didn’t hang out with the men’s bowling leagues and shoot the shit about sports teams and tit’s ‘n’ ass like the other mechanics would. But what I did have going for me is that I could repair the CPU and Video boards for the AS-80 scoring system, along with the optical scanners. Repairing the overhead video monitors was extremely beneficial.

I could do the same mechanical work that everyone else was expected to do, but I could use my electronics knowledge to offset that I wasn’t a “team player” like the other guys.

When Lions Gate Lanes closed down in the summer of 1993 I was offered a position at a bowling centre in Mississauga owned by the same company.

The head mechanic out there wasn’t going to be told what he had to do by a West Coast manager. And besides, I wouldn’t drink with the boys, I didn’t get a kick out of the girlie posters in the work shop, and I didn’t shoot the shit with the boys.

People find it odd that I don’t “check” people out or enjoy porn, or pin ups, or talking about sex in general. Y’all can thank Captain Totzke for that odd aspect of my personality.

People often take my lack of interest in girls, not as a general lack of interest in sex, but as a sign that I’m gay.

Yeah, I’ve sucked dick in my life.

But that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re a homosexual, right?

Not being interested in girls doesn’t have anything to do with the abused you suffered at the hands of the babysitter. Nope. Not being interested in girls = being a homo.

Anyways the head mechanic at Mississauga wasn’t going to have a homo in his shop.

This is why I was able to get my employment insuarnce claim re-opened after they completed their investigation.

When I came back to Vancouver I would end up getting a job at a small bowling cente in East Richmond. The centre was brand new and had only been open since 1989. It had the latest computerized pinsetters. And that was a major problem. Their mechanics couldn’t do any type of electronic repairs or electronic troubleshooting.

I came in and was able to repair just about everything in the centre. Pinsetter CPU boards, I/O boards/ power supplies, AS-90 Scoring system, etc. Plus I could MIG weld which was beneficial as this pinsetter was made from stamped sheet metal and would often suffer cracks.

I never did get sent for factory training at either bowling centre.

You’re far too smart.

But without factory training there would be absolutely no advancement.

I started working in commercial office buildings in 1998.

Working on the building automation systems was a piece of cake as I had a good understanding of electronics and computers.

But more of the same shit.

When you’re dealing with tenants that pay thousands of dollars per month in rent, they want special treatment, and it’s expected that you’ll kiss their asses and tickle their nutsacks whe requested.

Fixing things is what I do.

Blowing sunshine up the ass of some rich trustfund brat who’s running his “own” company because daddy gave him a $500,000.00 loan wasn’t a skill of mine.

Heaping praise on someone who makes their living from trading penny stocks and scamming seniors with investment scams wasn’t a skill that I was very good at.

Want your lights fixed?

I’m your man.

Want your heatpump replaced?

I’m your man.

Want your nutsack tickled because you fell into a CEO position that your father bought for you?

Go fuck yourself.

Bobbie, why didn’t you just go to trade school or take a diploma program?

Well, calling up daddy and stepmommy for a loan or help with getting a loan, or help with a place to live was not in the cards .

At this point in time I had no idea where my mother was, and as I would find out when I located her in 2013 and talked to her, it wouldn’t have been of any use.

And then there’s the problem of my depression and my anxiety and my intense self loathing.

I would have been absolutely terrified of approaching my father for any type of help with as any failure in a trade or diploma program would have only elicited more scorn and derision from him.

So I took Power Engineering. Started with my 5th class refrigeration operator, and then did my 4th class.

I thought that Power Engineering would be something. But its not.

There’s a misconception in property management and plant management that Power Engineers are engineers.

They’re not.

They have an understanding of refrigeration plant operation, boiler plant operating, operating low pressure and high pressure thermal plants, operating low pressure and high pressure steam plants, firing oil fired boilers, natural gas fired boilers, oil fired boilers, black liquor fired boilers, and fluidized bed boilers. They understand thermodynamics, psychrometrics, enthalpy, and other basic principles of physics.

But that’s not what the majority of empoloyers that require power engineers on site hire power engineers for.

The vast majority of employers just hire power engineers to satisfy the basic requirement to meet provincial regulations of having a power engineer on site while the boilers or chillers are in operation.

The vast majority of plants that hire power engineers are looking for “Johnny the janitors” who can look after stuff that janitors can look after, but the employers cheap out and just dump all of the work that doesn’t require a TQ on to the power engineers.

If I had a chance to do my life over again, what would I do?

Probably something in fashion, or theatrics.

Back at Pierre Laporte I used to do the lighting for school productions and I’d look after the sound.

I was good enough at this that Mr. Ford got me a weekend job at a local P.A. rental shop repairing lighting and sound equipment.

I like clothing.

I love dresses and mix and matching with dresses.

As I’ve said numerous times, I’ll never understand why men don’t wear dresses.

For some reason when it comes to dresses and my manner of dressing, I don’t give two fucking shits what anyone thinks.

I don’t identify as a women.

I don’t want to be a woman.

But I love dresses.

I liked make-up when I was into it in the period of 2006 to 2011.

But then again I bought myself a nice little sewing machine a few years ago.

I got rid of it a short while ago.

It was painful looking at it as it sat in my apartment unused.

See, every time I tried to use it Richard was there screaming at me for being such a silly fucker.

My brother doesn’t understand what it’s like having Richard and Terry living in my head.

But they’re there.

Shitting all over anything that I like to do.

“Moving On”…..

Bobbie, why don’t you just move on, get on with your life?

That would be great, but that’s not how this works.

Therapy won’t work.

Pretending that the past never occured won’t work.

Captain Terry Totzke and his ham fisted conversion therapy have pretty well ensured that therapy won’t work.

As I said, it’s not like no one knew about the events of CFB Namao.

Captain Terry Totzke knew.

My father knew.

So this isn’t some sort of secret that I’ve kept within for the last 40 years.

I was lied to by mcpl Robert Jon Hancock, mcpl Christian Cyr, wo Blair Hart, mwo Terry Eisenmenger. Not only was I lied to by these four, they tried to fucking gaslight me. I would also have included Sergeant Damon Tenaschuk of the CFNIS Pacific Region, but I think Sgt. Tenaschuk was the first CFNIS investigator that I met that wasn’t willing to follow the orders of the chain of command like an obedient mindless robot.

What constitutes as gaslighting?

Telling me that there never was any type of fire at PMQ #26 even though they had the Canadian Forces Fire Marshall’s records for that exact fire.

Telling me that there was never a rectory attached to the chapel and that Captain McRae didn’t live on the base, but that he lived off the base.

Telling me that Our Lady of Loretto chapel didn’t exist on the base when I lived there even though the blueprints for the chapel indicated that it was built in 1956 and still stands to this day.

Telling me that the babysitter wasn’t capable of committing the crimes I accused him of even though they had CFSIU DS 120-10-80 in their possession right from the start of the investigation in March of 2011.

Refusing to talk to my father again once my social service paperwork indicated that his statement to the CFNIS was completely implausible.

Lt. Col. Gilles Sansterre outright lied to me when he told me that the CFNIS and the Provost Marshal couldn’t figure out who Fred R. Cunningham was and that he couldn’t have known anything about the Captain Father Angus McRae matter even though Sansterre had access to the CFSIU DS 120-10-80 paperwork and would have known that Warrant Officer Fredrick R. Cunningham was the lead investigator and the military’s witness against Captain McRae.

And that’s what gets me.

They had absolutely no concern for me or my well being. Not from 1978 to 1980. Not from 1980 to 1983. And not from 1983 to the current day. To the Canadian Force.

The CFNIS willingly and intentionally withheld the existence of CFSIU DS 120-10-80 and the court martial transcripts from the Alberta Crown.

The CFNIS willingly and intentionally withheld the existence of the transcripts from Courts Martial CM 62 from the Alberta Crown.

The CFNIS and the Canadian Forces Provost Marshal intentionally withheld CFSIU DS 120-10-80 and CM 62 from the Military Police Complaints Commission in 2012 and the Federal Court of Canada in 2013 in order to sell their narative that “they did the best they could in a historic child sexual abuse matter but that the evidence just wasn’t strong enough”.

So, how does one move on from not just child sexual abuse, but psychological malpractice, and then intentional professional misconduct?

I’ve been trying to engage the media since 2011 over this matter.

Except for David Pugliese, not a single fucking person has ever spoken to me. The Canadian Forces said this, the Canadian Forces said that, don’t you think the Canadian Forces would have done this or that if there was enough evidence?

The media in this country is useless. There is no such thing as investigative reporting anymore. No one goes digging for the story. Especially not when it comes to DND and the CAF.

David has been outright forthcoming with how the DND and the CAF have both threatened him with access to government officials and offical news information if he kept digging up dirt.

Others though seem as if they don’t want to risk losing advertising dollars or government contracts by making the DND and the CAF uncomfortable.

Don’t believe me?

In 2014 I was supposed to have been interviewed by Maclean’s as part of their bombshell stories on sexual abuse in the Canadian Forces. Everything was a go pretty well until the day of the interview.

Turns out that the parent company of Macleans had just days before signed a multi-year contract with the federal government to provide cellular phone service to the DND and the CAF.

The day I arrived at this magazine’s offices in Toronto I was told that the editior who wanted to run my story abruptly stopped working for Macleans and that Macleans wasn’t interested in running attack pieces on the Canadian Forces any more and that this topic was best left for the DND and the CAF to sort out.

I was told by Alberta Crown prosecutors Jon Werbicki and Alberta Chief Crown Prosecutor Orest Yeriniuk that I simply waited too long and that it wouldn’t be in the best interests of the public to bring charges against , meanwhile just a week or two ago it was announced in the Canadian Media that a 97 year old nun was charged with three counts of gross indecency from the 1960s.

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/canada/article-97-year-old-nun-charged-with-historical-sexual-assaults-at-residential/

What the actual fuck?

Oh yeah, it happened at a residential school and not a Canadian Forces Base. And it was investigated by police officers of the Ontario Provincial Police, not soldiers posing as police officers of the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service.

Attacking the residential schools is okay because society expects these literal hellholes to be places of abuse.

It’s the year 2023, almost everyone expects to hear of new stories about the church involved with child molestation.

No one dares attack the Canadian Forces as they’re our defenders and surely our defenders wouln’t have turned a blind eye to child sexual abuse on the bases, right?

So no, there will be no therapy.

There can’t be.

Counsellors have no idea of what life was like on military bases.

Counsellors have never heard of child sexual abuse on the bases.

Counsellors will never be able to overcome the one major hurdle, and that is the simple lack of an acknowledgement.

The only way in which a counsellor could hope to do anything is to gaslight me on a major scale.

Saturday October 28th, 2023

So, just sitting down eating a bite for lunch and enjoying a soy cappuccino.

I’m probably going to ride my scoot over to the VCC-Clark skytrain station and take a run out to Value Village in Coquitlam and maybe the one out in Port Coquitlam.

People have asked me repeatedly how I can live without a car.

I say very easily.

I haven’t owned a car since 1998 when I moved downtown.

But even before that, when I did own cars, I usually couldn’t afford to drive them.

I bought a 1977 VW Rabbit when I was 15. This was so that I could get a membership at the base auto club. The car really wasn’t drivable, but it was something that I could learn mechanics on from guys like Bill Parker and Bob Wrightson at the autoclub.

In a way I wish I had never been a member of the autoclub. My brother had a friend named Greg. Greg was younger than me, but much like my brother they were both built larger than me.

I stayed clear of Greg. Avoided him at all costs.

Anyways somehow Greg got it in his head that because I could tinker on cars that I was going to fix his V6 Chevy Nova.

Straight fours is all I had ever worked on at the autoclub. Never had touched an American car, especially not a V-anything. Anways, I was at work on night at Bob Becker’s workshop when my brother, Greg, and a few of their buddies show up. My brother told Greg that I could fix cars, so therefore I was going to fix Greg’s car. The car that showed up with no distributor, no ignition coil, no spark plugs, and no spark plug wires. These were all in a jumble in the trunk of the car.

As could be expected, I couldn’t fix the car.

Greg and his buddies caught up with me at a Plaza on Keele just to the south of the entrance to the base. Fuck did they ever beat the shit out of me. And it wasn’t like it was anywhere near a fair fight. I was maybe 110 lbs tops. There was Greg. Greg had to be about 5″ taller than me and maybe weighed close to 150 to 160 lbs. And the other 3 were about the same size and stature. There was also this older guy, can’t remember his name, but he had to be around 40 or 50 years old.

I remember avoiding home and instead heading over to Billy Donuts on Wilson Ave.

The owner called the cops.

But ratting out on Greg would have been the end of me so I refused to say anything.

I knew that telling Richard would have been an absolute waste of time.

This was pretty well when I started to make sure that no one knew that I had any interests in cars or fixing things.

The first road worthy car that I ever owned was in Edmonton, AB.

I bought that car in August of 1990.

I made a mistake and I quit the job that I had prior to ensuring that the job I was going to was going to work out.

So I ended up on welfare.

A guy in my apartment building noticed that I liked to work on cars so he asked me if I wanted to make some extra money under the table working on cars for his brother. Who could turn down extra money to make ends meet when you’re on welfare. Welfare barely paid the rent at the time, let alone bought goceries.

I worked on a few cars for his brother Adam who owned a used car dealership on the south east side of Edmonton.

There were some sketchy things going on in that shop. So I didn’t stay very long.

It wouldn’t be until sometime in the 2010s that I would find out that in the years after I had involvement with Adam that some skectchy shit really was going down in that shop.

The car that I bought in 1990 was my transport when I decided to leave the welfare rolls in Alberta and try my luck in Vancouver in February of 1992.

I spent so much time on and off living in that car. The best place for car camping at the time was Stanley Park. There were also industrial areas that one could camp out in.

Around the spring of 1993 I couldn’t afford to keep the car any longer so I got rid of it for free with a scrap dealer.

I ended up moving back to Toronto around the fall of 1993. That didn’t work out so well so I ended up back in Vancouver by May of 1994.

I lived down at the Sally Anne until about August of 1994.

From ’94 to ’95 I primarily rode the bus, rode a bicycle, or walked to work from New Westminster to East Richmond.

In 1996 I got my hands on a very good condition 1984 Diesel Rabbit.

Kept that until I moved downtown in 1998.

I’ve owned a few motorcycles through my life, but I’ve only kept them for a few seasons.

Most were used, only one was new of a showroom floor.

That one was written off by a cab driver that ICBC found 100% at fault for the incident.

After getting cut off by that cab driver and seeing how easily someone else could end my life for the sake of beating a green light I realized that motorcycling wasn’t for me.

My greatest fear of getting injured in a motorcycle collision isn’t dying. It’s surviving. Motorcycle helmets really don’t protect the rider when struck by another vehicle. Motorcycle helmets, much like bicycle helmets are meant to protect the rider from incidents involving the motorcycle rider alone.

My father had a friend named Jacques Choquette. One night while Jacques was riding home on his motorcycle Jacques hit a pedestrian. Jacques ended up losing part of his skull and part of his brain. The guy was a fucking psychotic nutcase after the incident. No impulse control. Anger outbursts from nowhere. Seizures. Jacques was the one who tried to strangle me in the basement of the PMQ on CFB Downsview while my father stood to the side chuckling.

That’s what I’m most afraid of. Ending up with brain damage and having to live for 40 or 50 years like a fucking psycho like Jacques.

I bought a motorcycle back in 2020 at the start of the pandemic. I rode it for that first summer. It has sat in the under ground parking lot since.

I wanted to do some modification to it, but my depression told me that I’d get started and never finish the fucking thing off like I never finish anything else off.

So all in all, I’d say that even though I’ve had my driver’s licence since I was 17, I’ve actually only driven a car for maybe 5 years of my life. That’s about 14% of my adult driving life.

Total riding time of motorcycles would be less than 8%.

Riding bicycles would be close to 20%, riding the bus would be another 20%, walking would be almost 46% if not more. I’m probably a little high on the bicycle and the bus.

I think that I can credit my father and his driving skills and his belittling attitude.

Richard could be a complete asshole behind the wheel.

Everyone else on the road was a stupid asshole, a stupid cunt, a fucking idiot, or some fucking goddamn asshole that got their licence from a cracker jack box.

This is why he was forever rear ending other vehicles.

I could never figure out why he would never get his pride and joy fixed after various collisions. But as I would learn later in life, you never wanted to claim against your insurance for any accident that you were at fault for. That’s how the ’83 Mustang GT went from being a showroom new car in 1983 to a wreck with the driver’s seat falling through the floor and needing wood to hold it in place by the time I moved out of the house in 1987.

The collisions I know of from being in the car when they happened were the time he rear-ended a Jaguar over by the Don Valley parkway. Slammed right into the back of the car at an intersection. As usual it was my fault becuase if I hadn’t asked him for a ride to work this would never have happened.

The next time was on Keele Street just before we got back on to base. He rear ended a Metropolitan Toronto Police Service cruiser. And this was back in the day when they were bright white with yellow reflective strips. I didn’t stick around to see who he blamed the collision on. I just walked home.

Richard wasn’t adverse to throttle blips to let the driver infront of him at the lights know that he was displeased with the fact that because they were driving so slow he got caught behind them at the light.

He also had this habit of passing cars as we were coming to intersections and once he passed through the intersection he’d start swearing at the light to change and teach that silly fucker a lesson.

Of course there were also the times that he drove drunk.

He wrote off his 1969 Ford Thunderbird that he had bought with his retention bonus. Wrote that car off around 1975. Wrote it off in the PMQs of Canadian Forces Base Shearwater. That put me in the hospital for stitches.

The next time that he crashed a car due to drinking was after our mother left in 1976 / 77. He had gone to the junior ranks mess on CFB Summerside and was driving back home to our PMQ at 353 High Street in Summerside. Somewhere on the highway he crossed the centre line and clipped an on coming car.

My brother and I were more or less unscathed. But I ended up with a fat lip after the other driver asked my father if he had been drinking and I told the other driver that my father was drink at the bar on base. Guess I wasn’t supposed to rat out the rage fueled alcoholic, was I?

Maybe that’s why I don’t care much for driving. My father’s rage behind the wheel and his alcoholism ruined driving for me.

Also, not having help with my cars in the early days made me realize just exactly how much of a fucking money pit cars are and how one’s paycheque just goes into the endless pit of car culture.

The time of your death…

Do people really feel more comfortable not knowing the time of their death versus knowing the time of their death?

I’ve had people say to me that the would rather not know when they are going to die.

For me, it’s different.

Everyone dies.

For me, knowing the approximate time of my death is nice as I can start making plans to wind down my life. There’s a lot of issues to be taken care of before one’s death.

For me I get to plan out my final months, my final weeks, my final days, and my final hours.

I get to be put to sleep where and when I want to.

I get to have my corpse disposed of as I wish.

I can even invite whomever I wish to my death.

Prior to deciding to apply for Medical Assistance in Dying I was always terrified of actually living to my 70s or 80s.

Not knowing when I would be able to die is what panicked me the most. How long would my fucked up brain keep replaying this shit. How long would my fucked up brain keep sabotaging shit. Everything that I try to do my depression fucks with.

Now, knowing that I have the possibility of dying when I’d like to die, which is sooner than later, I have found myself in somewhat of a calm and serene mood.

As I have said before it’s no fun suffering from major depression and severe anxiety. Especially not when your own father would tell anyone who would listen that it was all just an act for attention.

It’s no fun having the events of CFB Namao playing over and over in my head. It’s no fun having the memories of Terry and my father playing over and over.

Always being stuck in a state of wondering how different things would have been if matters had been looked after properly on Canadian Forces Base Namao. Or how different things would have been if Andy hadn’t been drinking that evening. Or how different things would have been if Angus McRae had been thrown out of the military the first time he molested kids on base.

The memories of of the abuse are burnt into my brain.

They’re not going anywhere.

It’s not my job to “try harder” to forget about them.

And pretending the events on CFB Namao didn’t occur is just as bad as remembering them as forgetting the events will leave empty holes that will just bring the memories right back.

Society in general doesn’t seem to have a problem with death.

Society, espeically the religious, seems to be very intolerant of a person chosing to die.

Simply look at the number of deaths from vehicle collisions each and every year.

Society is willing to accept the deaths from Car Culture as just a small price to pay for driver convenience.

Limiting horsepower, mandating GPS based speed limiters, banning vehicles from municipal streets that don’t have pedestrian friendly crumple zones are all proven methods to reducing the CARnage on our public streets.

But society won’t take those simple steps as that would hurt car sales.

Deaths on the public streets have gotten so out of control that local governments and police forces go out of their way to victim blame in these circumstances as a means of ensuring the municipality / state / province won’t be held liable for unsafe street designs, insufficient speed enforcement, etc.

https://www.iihs.org/topics/fatality-statistics/detail/pedestrians

That’s 785,000 deaths in 20 years due to the belief that Bubba-Joe needs a 400hp car to drive 5 blocks to the 7-11 to pick up Ding-Dongs and smokes.

But for some weird and bizarre reason, society is very, very reluctant to approve of death in order to be relieved of mental health issues.

It’s almost as if society is okay with death as long as the person dying isn’t seen as having a say in their own death.

This no doubt is a result of the belief of imaginary friends in the sky and the concept of “life after death”.

People seem to be comforted by the idea that they will still somehow exist after their death. People seem to be comforted by the idea that they will go to a land of happiness and eternal sunshine if they keep their imaginary friend happy.

When we die, we die.

That’s it.

That’s all.

And there is nothing wrong with that.

That’s the way life works.

I think it’s a fucking shame that religious people think that I need to be made to suffer in life so that I can make their imaginary friend happy with the notion that if I keep their friend happy then I can float up to a paradise in the clouds and enjoy eternal happiness.

Maybe it’s also a way for the religious to avoid taking responsibility for hell on Earth.

My life was altered into a sick fucking joke starting in 1978. I didn’t have a say in this.

I only get one life.

Maybe that’s the difference between me and the religious.

I accept the fact that we only get one life.

I don’t simply shrug my shoulders in the belief that the magical sky-daddy will open his arms to me if I suffer, and that the magical sky-daddy will even let me have another turn on Earth.

I am the result of Richard’s and Marie’s DNA mixing, plus a lifetime of lived experiences.

I will never exist again. No one similar to me will ever exist again.

I could choose to suffer like an imbecile.

Or I can choose to die and be freed from all of this nonsense.

I choose with my brain to be freed.

Other people.

One thing that I have realized is that people living in our society really don’t have as much control over their lives as people believe that they do.

For some reason people have more control over the lives of others that they do over their own.

I don’t remember being asked if I’d like to be born.

My parents were horny, they fucked, he ejaculated and didn’t pull out, and nine months later I popped out.

Did I ask to be born to two parents that were already suffering mental illnesses? My father battling depression and alcoholism, my mother suffering from anxiety.

Did I ask to be born to an alcoholic father?

Did I ask to be raised by a residential school survivor who had her own severe mental health issues?

And puhlease, don’t tell me that I should be happy that I was blessed with the miracle of life.

There’s over 7.8 billion people on the face of the planet.

Pregnancy, birth, and life are not a “miracle”.

And if your argument is that I should be happy that I don’t live in an underdeveloped country, well fuck you. I live in this country. I was raised in this country. I was abused by fellow citizens of this country. I was fucked over by institutions of this country. You don’t get to negate the shit I live through by erecting fanciful strawmen and bad faith fallacies.

Contrary to the teachings of Captain Terry Totzke and master corporal Richard Gill, I didn’t deserve the sexual abuse from Captain McRae and his teenage accomplice, P.S.

And contrary to the opinions of Captain Terry Totzke and my father, I didn’t deserve 2-1/2 years of conversion therapy.

I was a concious decision of Captain Totzke to deny my of the treatments I required for my mental health issues.

Sure, Totzke may have only been following the orders of his superiors. But he still made a decision. I had no say in the matter.

My father went along with the decision to deny me my treatment. Yeah, sure, Totzke outranked my father, but my father still had choices at his disposal. He made a choice to play along.

When my father had his meltdown in the PMQ on Canadian Forces Base Downsview in Ontario, somebody within the military police made the decision to not notify the Metropolitan Toronto Police Service thereby ensuring that Richard’s inability to control his anger wouldn’t be reported to the Children’s Aid Society of Toronto.

Somebody in the Canadian Forces chain of command made the conciousous decision to run a “dog & pony show” investigation in 2011. Somebody made this decision even though they knew full well that due to limited resources, only victims of crimes have access to mental heatlh treatments.

Somebody in the Canadian Forces chain of command made the conciousous decision to hide the information contained in the CFSIU DS 120-10-80 investigation paperwork from the Alberta Crown prosecutor in 2011 thereby forcing the Alberta Crown to make a horrific decision.

Somebody in the Canadian Forces chain of command decided to hide the existence of CFSIU DS 120-10-80 from the Military Police Complaints Commission in 2012 thereby ensuring that the MPCC wouldn’t discover until 2020 that the CFNIS in 2011 knew all about the criminal exploits of P.S..

Somebody in the Office of the Judge Advocate General made the decision to not allow the CFNIS to talk to former base commander Daniel Edward Munro in 2017 due to the inability to lay charges against Munro due to the 3-year-time-bar that existed only in the military prior to 1998.

So, as you can see, a lot of people made decisions for me or they made decisions that directly affected me.

Hopefully I get to make the one decision that I should be allowed to make, and that is to end my life through Medical Assistance in Dying.

Appointments and things.

Today was a busy day.

Had a dental appointment first thing.

And as my dentist is just doors down from my physician I booked two appointments.

The first appointment is for my prescription refil.

I get 90 days of pills at a time. So I always try to book an appoinment a couple of weeks before my meds run out.

Trust me. You do not want to run out of and stop your SSRI meds abruptly.

The second appointment is for my application for Medical Assistance in Dying.

The one thing that I did glean from the lunch seminar with Dying with Dignity is that M.A.i.D. assessors are expecting a spike in applications when M.A.i.D. is legalized for Mental Illness.

At the same time these M.A.i.D. assessors are expecting that the vast majority of requests for M.A.i.D. for Mental Illness will not be approved.

As much as I am worried about my application for M.A.i.D. not being approved, I think that I still stand a very good chance of having my request approved due to the very unique nature of my mental health issue.

I also had the chance to meet face to face with a former co-worker from our days at a bowling centre in Surrey.

I don’t think we’d seen each other face to face since back then.

We kept in touch on Facebook for a while, but then I nuked my Facebook account. She discovered a posting of mine on Instagram after I opened an Instagram account as required to get a Threads account.

It was a nice little lunch.

We talked about her new job in the probation office.

We talked about my job at the hospital.

We talked a bit about the past.

And then she asked about M.A.i.D.

So we talked a bit about M.A.i.D.

She had some good questions.

Hopefully I had some good answers.

After lunch was up I walked her back to the court house where her office is located.

I don’t think she had ever seen my blog before I opened an Instagram account, and I know for sure that she hadn’t seen anything about my plans for M.A.i.D. before my instagram account as I had never really talked about my desire for death until after I nuked my Facebook account a few years ago.

She wasn’t shocked by my desire. Especially after having read some of my blog.

And she was of the opinion that a decision like this is a personal choice and that no one has the right to question someone’s personal choice like this.

And this is what I like.

Listening to the media you’d swear that only 1 in 1,000,000 Canadians support Medical Assistance in Dying for Mental Illness.

But I think that the reality is that most level headed Canadians view M.A.i.D. for Mental Illness as solely a personal choice.

Tuesday October 24th, 2024

Well, this doesn’t bode well for me.

Dying with Dignity Canada had a webinar earlier today that I had submitted some questions to.

Two of my questions were asked to the guests, but they were editied in such a way as to remove most of the meat from the question.

Regardless, I didn’t get the answer that I was looking for.

The sense that I get is that Dying with Dignity is trying to stay very far, far away from the topic of Medical Assistance in Dying for Mental Illness.

And what the two providers had to say wasn’t promising at all.

Basically, I’m functional. I can function on a daily basis. So therefore I will probably be unable to obtain medical assistance in dying.

In basic terms, I’m a fucking industrial robot. As long as I can perform the tasks required of me I’m A.O.K.!

Get to work Bobbie…. you have work to do.

Even if I was “non-functional” I would have had to undergo years and years of counselling and therapy in order to obtain M.A.i.D. for mental illness.

Now, you might be wondering, just like the M.A.i.D. assessors will probably be wondering……. “Bobbie, why didn’t you obtain treatment for your mental illnesses?????”

Well, remember, even though I was diagnosed at age 9 with major depression, severe anxiety, an intense fear of being touched, a fear of men, etc., my social worker at the time, Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Terry Totzke actively and intentionally prevented me from obtaining mental health treatment as it was a risk for the Canadian Armed Forces.

The Canadian Forces conspired to do everything possible to keep the story of Captain Father Angus McRae out of the media. The military even moved the entire courts martial “in-camera” citing the need to “protect the morals of Canadians”.

The last thing that Captain Totzke was going to allow was for me to obtain treatment for me mental health issues. That would involve me going for counselling, or therapy, maybe even time in a psychiatric facility for children.

The risk this posed is that I would open my mouth and start talking. And back then there was still enough interest in the media over the Captain McRae courts martial that the media would have torn into the Canadian Armed Forces.

So, instead I recevied “conversion therapy” at the hands of military social worker Captain Terry Totzke.

For 2-1/2 years I was labelled as a mentally ill homosexual by Captain Terry Totzke.

For 2-1/2 years I was blamed by Captain Totzke for what had happened to me on CFB Namao. I was blamed for what happened to my brother on CFB Namao. I wasn’t allowed to play sports.

Home life at the time and thereafter was a fucking nightmare for two reasons.

First was that my father was a lowly master corporal at the time. Captains greatly outrank master corporals. If a captain says that your son is a pole smoking homo, then your son is a pole smoking homo.

Second was that at the time the Canadian Armed Forces was an extremely homophobic environment. No service member wanted it known that they had a homosexual living in their PMQ.

Even after Alberta Social Services became involved with my family, Captain Totzke interfered with the attempts of Alberta Social Services to remove me from the home and appears to have been instrumental in assisting my father flee the jurisdiction of Alberta for Ontario.

And even though Captain Totzke had declared that I was a mentally ill homosexual, I was still dealing with major depression, severe anxiety, and a plethora of other issues on my own.

My father had his own helpful therapies to help me with these issues. One therapy involved backhands across the face. One therapy involved bare ass spankings with a leather belt. Another therapy was the “get the fuck up to your room and you’re not having supper” therapy. And of course there was the all time favourite “yelling and screaming like a drill instructor” therapy.

So, from my diagnoses in in October of 1980 until the discovery of my social service records in August of 2011 I was left to my own devices dealing with the wars and the shit and the terrors and the memories in my brain.

And as I learnt in 2011, dealing with this shit 30 years after the fact doesn’t do anything.

I did counselling with counsellors from Practitioner Renewal and even the Employee and Family Assistance Program.

I tried therapy with the BC Society for Survivors of Male Sexual Abuse.

I even went to meetings with the local chapter of SNAP.

None of this works.

Absolutely none.

Trying to explain what I’ve been through is a fucking nightmare. Civilians have no fucking idea of what life was like on the bases, especially for sexually abused children.

The fact that it is legally impossible to bring charges against persons subject to the Code of Service Discipline for Service Offences committed prior to 1998 means that absolutely no one has heard of child sexual abuse on the bases.

The fact that the Canadian Forces can be so very secretive with the information that they have means that the truth never gets out.

So when people like me try to get help, we’re literally laughed at.

And then there’s the fact that I don’t have a crack habit, or a heroin habit, or a drinking habit……..

YOU’RE NOT AN ADDICT!!!

YOU DIDN’T SUFFER!!!!

ONLY ADDICTS SUFFER YOU FUCKING WHINY ASSHOLE!!!!

We spend so much on addicts that there is sweet fuck all left over for those suffering from mental illnesses who aren’t addicts.

Chemical therapy and self blame is all that is offered these days.

Back around 1985 the Children’s Aid Society of Toronto said that due to staffing levels, budgetary constraints, and my father’s refusal to participate with the case workers that the CAST wouldn’t be able to get involved with my family unless there were credible reports of abuse from the community. We lived on Canadian Forces Base Downsview at the time. There never would be “credible reports from the community”. Military members don’t rat out other members and the military washes its own laundry. This secrecy is how John Ryan Turner was starved to death and beat to death in his father’s PMQ on Canadian Forces Base Gagetown in 1994 and no one heard a thing.

And now it looks as if Medical Assistance in Dying is going to be beyond my grasp.

There are no therapies to fix my brain or to erase my memories.

I’m not going to subject myself to psychiatrists and psychologists blaming me for my problems.

I don’t want elctrocunvulsive therapy.

And don’t even mention to me sham “therapies” like CBT and mindfulness and other “we don’t really know how to fix the human brain so we’re going to set you up so that we can blame you for not trying”

My practitioner has said that he’s more than willing to help me with my application in March, but after watching the Dying with Dignity webinar today I don’t think that my application will go anywhere.

I guess I’m going to have to start getting serious about “alternative methods”.

I don’t remember asking my parents to fuck in December of 1970.

I don’t remember being asked if I’d like to be born.

I don’t really remember being asked if I’d like an alcoholic residential school survivor as a primary care giver.

I don’t really remember being asked if I’d like a rage prone alcohol fueled piss-tank for a father.

I don’t remember being asked by the babysitter if I’d like to have his penis in my mouth, or in my ass, or to have any of the other sexual acts that the did to me done to me.

I don’t remember being asked by Captain McRae if I would like to get intoxicated off a glass of wine so that he could do whatever he did while I was blacked out.

I don’t really remember being asked if I’d like to have conversion therapy from a military social worker.

But what I don’t want is to go on living with the remnants of untreated depression, untreated anxiety, and all of the other issues gifted to me by the events back then.

I do want to die.

I don’t want to be here any longer.

I am fucking tired.

I am fucking burnt out.

With all of the fucking horseshit that I’ve been through I’d like to be able to go out on my own with some form of dignity.

Dignity that I’ve never had in my entire life.

Surely going by M.A.i.D. or going by suicide will be the same thing, right?

Nope.

Suicide is painful.

Suicide is cruel.

Suicide is not always successful.

Suicide gives the Canadian Armed Forces what they want.

If I am forced to go by suicide then the CAF can point to me and tell everyone that will listen that I was just some “societal malcontent with an axe to grind against the military” and that I was just a fucking crazy nutbar.

If I am allowed to have Medical Assistance in Dying, I get to die without pain, I get to die with dignity. And the Canadian Armed Forces wouldn’t dare say fuck all.