Medical Assistance in dying – Page 32

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.

“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?

An interesting issue.

Planning for the sweet release of death leads to some interesting realizations

It’s odd.

I understand that to many of you that my death is probably playing out like the longest suicide in the history of humankind.

Death will offer me the escape from my constant companions Depression & Anxiety as well as eliminating all of my memories of the sexual abuse on Canadian Forces Base Namao, the subsequent treatment that I received at the hands of military social worker Captain Terry Totzke, and the memories of the far too many years of suffering alone and being blamed for CFB Namao.

However, I’ve just realized that I’m probably not going to see the completion of various projects. Some that I am involved in and some that I am not involved in.

And it’s kinda a weird feeling.

Take the new hospital. I’ve been involved with the design and procurement committee for the new hospital.

Am I sad?

No. Not really.

My name will live on in the project documents.

I was here. I did something.

Even the existing hospital. I’m still running the physical plant there, and I will do so right up until the date I chose.

Now, to be honest, I’m not going to work right up until the chosen date of my death. If things work out correctly, I’ll be able to take some time off work, get an early payout on my pension that will allow me further time off.

But still, I’m going to work right up to the end. And why shouldn’t I. Work keeps my mind from wandering into my past.

I’ve worked on various projects, and I’ve got more projects and improvements lined up.

Why do these projects and improvements if you’re going to die?

Why not? Gotta do something with my time anyways. And besides, let’s say that I wasn’t planning for my death. Should I not do any improvements at work just incase that I get run over while I’m riding my bicycle one day?

The Skytrain extension out to Arbutus, or even the recently announced extension out to Langley. The Broadway extension started recently and it’s expected to be in service by 2025.

Sure, it would have been interesting to have been able to take the Skytrain from Arbutus to Coquitlam, or even from Arbutus to Langley. But this doesn’t outweigh the war and the damage that are in my head.

The new hospital? It’s supposed to be completed around 2027 or 2028. So nope, won’t live to see that.

Am I sad?

Nope.

I used to joke during the planning meetings that the rear lane behind the new hospital that had yet to be named should be called the “Bobbie Bees Memorial Lane”. As no one at work has any ideas about my plans, they all laughed it off as just a joke. But it would have been nice for that to have been named after me and dedicated to all of the children who grew up on Canadian Forces bases in Canadian and whom ended up committing suicide to escape the demons they encountered in the military environment.

I’ve come to realize over the past little while that it’s our attachment to the here and now that makes it so hard to let go.

After I draw my last breath, the world will keep on spinning. Why shouldn’t it?

It’ll be like I was never here and that I never existed.

I won’t miss anything because I won’t exist.

Those who knew me might miss me, but within 50 years everyone who knew me will be gone as well.

Except for a very few people in the world, my death will go unnoticed. Just another of the of the 60 million deaths per year. 64 million per year by 2025.

Beyond help.

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

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

He thinks that counselling will help me with my demons.

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

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

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

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

But still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no one to help.

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

What else could I do?

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

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

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

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

Sure there is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m fucking damaged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s so much more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yes, I have tried suicide myself before.

Two things have pulled me back at the last minute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of the accepted mental illnesses is “depression”.

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

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

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

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

Things are going to get a little interesting.

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

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

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

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

I am not too sure which direction this will go.

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

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

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

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

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

The other bases that Captain McRae served on were:

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s back to the CFNIS again

I guess it was too risky to release into the wild

So, it looks like the CFNIS are not giving up my complaint against the Officer of the Canadian Armed Forces that Peter provided me to in the men’s sauna of the base swimming pool.

I’m pretty sure that this officer was a major in 1980.

According to DND paperwork, this officer had been sent up to assist Captain McRae with his affairs during the period of McRae’s initial arrest and his court martial in July of 1980.

This officer isn’t squeaky clean. This officer has been involved with inappropriate sexual relationships with children under the age of 16.

So……. did I blow a major when I was 8 years old?

Only two people know who the man was that I performed oral sex on.

Peter is one. I don’t think Peter is going to admit that he pimped out an 8 year old boy to an officer of the Canadian Forces for the purposes of oral sex.

And then there’s the officer.

Due to the 3-year-time-bar that was in the National Defence Act prior to 1998, and due to the fact that Gross Indecency, Indecent Assault, and Buggery were enumerated as Service Offences, the CFNIS can not lay charges. Under the National Defence Act I had until the spring of 1983 to bring charges against this major.

As this major was a member of the Canadian Armed Forces and was subject to the Code of Service Discipline, he has the right to request that these charges be dealt with in the military justice system. Which means that there couldn’t be a military service tribunal. Which much like when the legal advisor wouldn’t allow Sgt. Tenaschuk to talk to retired Canadian Forces officer Brigadier General Daniel Edward Munro due to the 3-year time bar preventing the laying of charges, means that the CFNIS will probably not be allowed to talk to the major in question.

The only possibility that might allow the laying of charges against this major if the CFNIS seem inclined to do so is that I was only 8 years old when I was sucking on his dick.

In 1980, the age of consent for a child to agree to have sexual intercourse with an adult was 14. That means that I was legally unable to consent.

In the matter of Regina vs. Corporal Donald Joseph Sullivan, the Supreme Court of Canada relied on the precedent that had already been established which was that the Canadian Forces had the legal authority to conduct a court martial for Gross Indecency and Indecent Assault so long as consent was a possibility.

As I was 8 years old when I had this man’s penis in my mouth sexually pleasuring him I obviously couldn’t give consent. So that means that my matter would have to be handed over to the civilian courts.

I doubt that the Minister of National Defence, the Department of National Defence, or the Canadian Armed Forces will ever allow this matter to see the inside of a court room.

See, it’s one thing for a corporal, a master corporal, a sergeant, or even a warrant officer to be charged with sexual assault, rape, gross indecency, indecent assault, buggery, and any of the numerous other sexual offences that could be committed against a child of any gender. N.C.O.’s and junior ranks have always been seen as low class and low education by the officer classes in the Canadian Forces.

The Canadian Forces loose their collective marbles when the sexual offences involve an officer of the Canadian Forces.

Officers are seen by the hierarchy as being above reproach.

Back in 1980, there was no way on Earth that the Canadian Forces were going to allow an officer of the Canadian Forces to bring humiliation upon the officer classes of the Canadian Armed Forces.

The Captain McRae court martial went from having a list of 25 victims of Captain McRae to only allowing the charges related to Peter to be filed against Captain McRae.

So, why would the Minister of National Defence, the Department of National Defence and the Canadian Forces bring public humiliation upon themselves by allowing the Canadian public to discover that a major of the Canadian Forces received a blowjob from an 8 year old boy on a secure defence establishment?

The current CFNIS investigation will be nothing more than a dog and pony show just like GO 2011-5754.

My Brain.

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

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

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

So my brain should be interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My brain is fried and burnt out.

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

The brain is a fascinating organ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Updates…..

Not much going on this week.

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

Nope, not a single word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nope.

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

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

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

Richard will never apologize. He’s dead.

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

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

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

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

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

Bill was more than willing to.

Then Bill moved out to the valley.

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

So, I found another artist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyways, that’s this post for now.

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

I don’t like sports.

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

I like bicycles, but I just ride them.

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

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

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

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

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

The Exclusion of Evidence

The destruction of evidence by the CFNIS is nothing new to me.

There was a recent story in the Ottawa Citizen by David Pugliese.
It had to do with the CFNIS being ordered by a commanding officer who wasn’t even in the military police hierarchy ordering the destruction of evidence in a CFNIS investigation. Due to the chain of command structure within the Canadian Armed Forces, the CFNIS had no choice but to comply with the order.

https://t.co/RgD2CyKNCm

Now, if you’ve been following this blog, or my other blog at http://cfbnamao.ca you understand that I’ve been very leery of the claim by the Canadian Armed Forces that the CFNIS are “outside of the chain of command”.

During the investigation of my complaint against Peter, my babysitter from Canadian Forces Base Namao, there were many questionable issues with the investigation, but none so alarming as what happened on May 3rd and May 4th during my interactions with CFNIS investigator Mcpl Christian Cyr.

On May 3rd, 2011, just before lunch, Mcpl Cyr called me and left me a message on my phone to call him back immediately.

When I called him back, Cyr kept pressing me to understand that Peter was only 12 or 13 in the spring of 1980. However, as we all know, Peter was born in June of 1965.

The funny thing is, Peter’s CPIC file would have his correct date of birth, which is in June of 1965. The only place that Peter’s age is misstated is in the CFSIU transcript.

And, there’s no way that Peter was under the age of 14 at the time of McRae’s court martial. The Canadian Forces could only conduct a court martial for Gross Indecency and Indecent assault if the victim was over the age of consent, which was 14 in 1980. If the Canadian Forces wanted to try Captain McRae for gross indecency and indecent assault against children under the age of 14, the CF would have had to hand this case over to the civilian courts.

Near what should have been the end of the phone call, Mcpl Cyr just blurted out the matter of Captain Father Angus McRae. I broke down and lost my composure when he mentioned that the base chaplain had been arrested and charged with molesting children during the same period of time that I was accusing Peter of molesting myself and my brother.

Further, I told Mcpl Cyr about the five visits to the living quarters at the chapel in which Peter would escort me over from different parts of the base and that I never remembered anything after the sickly sweet grape juice. I don’t remember leaving the chapel. And I don’t remember how I got back home.

I had to leave work early as I was sickened and nauseated by what I discovered when I did a simple Google search for “CFB Namao Molesting Priest” on one of the computers at work.

When I got home from work I did some more searching for information on McRae.

I sent off a pair of emails that evening to Mcpl Cyr.

These are Mcpl Cyr’s notes of the telephone conversation

This is the SAMPIS record of Mcpl Cyr’s interaction with me.

It should be noted from above that the first item #4 is incorrect. I told Mcpl Cyr that I remembered 5 visits that Peter had taken me on over to the chapel to see Captain McRae. All of the five visits ended with what I remembered as being a “sickly sweet grape juice”. I told Mcpl Cyr that I didn’t remember anything after the “grape juice”, not even how I got home from the chapel.

Just as an aside, and for the record. In October of 2020 with the assistance of Ottawa Citizen and Defence Watch writer David Pugliese, the DND and the Minister of National Defence conceded in their fight to keep Captain McRae’s Court Martial Transcripts away from me.

According to the Military Police Complaints Commission, the CFNIS had access to these court martial records as well as the CFSIU investigation paperwork from 1980.

Why is this important?

Warrant Officer Frederick Cunningham being examined during Captain McRae’s Court Martial

Me. The fucker gave me wine.

I wouldn’t learn until 2013 when I received the Certified Tribunal Records from the Military Police Complaints Commission that Mcpl Cyr had been creative with what I told him, and he also failed to mention the receipt of my emails in his notebooks or occurrence reports.

So here, Mcpl Cyr does a Google search for an exact phrase that I searched for the day previous which I mentioned in an email that he fails to indicate that he received.

On the morning of May 4th, 2011 I called Mcpl Cyr and told him more information about the rectory.

Call #3 was the call I made to Mcpl Cyr on May 3rd, 2011
Call #6 was the call I made to Mcpl Cyr on May 4th, 2011

It was during this phone call that Mcpl Cyr informed me that there never was a rectory at the chapel, and that the chapel that I had indicated on my email was a new chapel, the chapel that was on the base when I lived there in ’79 to ’80 was in a different place. He also said that the padre never lived on the base. This phone call is not mentioned anywhere in his log book or his SAMPIS report.

Well, the blueprints for Our Lady or Loreto Chapel show the rectory.

The red circle highlights the Rectory.
The dates on these drawings are hard to make out, but the blueprints were drawn for
The Royal Canadian Air Force HQ. The RCAF ceased to exist in 1968.

See the CFNIS had Captain McRae’s court martial transcript. The CFNIS had the CFSIU investigation paperwork. In that paperwork was this document from McRae’s Court Martial transcript.

Angus McRae’s admission to the Catholic Church that he had been committing “homosexual acts” with several minors over the past couple of years.

Peter was the main witness for the prosecution. Peter’s testimony is completely blanked out in Captain McRae’s court martial transcript. However, the Military Police Complaints Commission was kind enough to summarize how Peter came to be involved with the prosecution of Captain McRae.

In the MPCC final report, the MPCC indicates that the court martial transcripts indicate this about Mr. X
Mr. X is Peter, my babysitter.

Peter was the only boy that Captain McRae was actually charged with abusing, even though the Canadian Forces Special Investigation Unit knew in 1980 that he had been molesting more than just Peter.

In 2011 the CFNIS knew.

In 2011 the Provost Marshal knew.

In 2011 the Judge Advocate General would have known.

In 2011 the Vice Chief of Defence staff would have known.

In 2011 the Chief of Defence Staff would have known.

In 2011 the office of the Minister of National Defence would have know.

As soon as the Alberta Serious Incident Response Team transferred my complaint against Peter from the Edmonton Police Service to the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service the CFNIS would have known who Peter was and what risk my complaint against Peter posed to the Canadian Armed Forces.

And this is why ANY mention of Captain Father Angus McRae was removed from the CFNIS investigation GO 2011-5754.

Someone up the chain of command had made the decision that my complaint against Peter was to go absolutely no where.

The knew the liability risk that this would pose if a connection was made between myself, Peter, and Captain Father Angus McRae.

This is why I fully believe that my father was encouraged to “forget” that his mother was raising my brother and I. There could be absolutely no way of linking Peter to us, especially not in the authority roll as our babysitter.

When I went to Federal Court in 2013 asking for the court to quash the findings of the 2012 MPCC review the Attorney General of Canada argued that the CFNIS were correct to strike any mention of Captain McRae from CFNIS investigation GO 2011-5754 as my complaint had been against Peter S. and not Captain McRae. The Justice hearing my matter agreed with the Attorney General on this point.

I’ll tell you first hand, this lunacy, and this subterfuge is enough to drive a sane person mad.

If you’ve ever wondered

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

I wasn’t a victim in 1980.

I was a homosexual monster.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Liability.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah?

You sure about that?

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

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

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

They’re not.

They’re soldiers first and police officer second.

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

Jesus Fucking H. Christ.

You do not destroy evidence.

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

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

But Bobbie, doesn’t this make you happy?

Why the fuck would it make me happy?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ve already been through enough in life.

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

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

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

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

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

Just nothing.

And believe me, I’m okay with that.

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