Tag: mental-health

Activist Judges

Activist judges are never a good thing. Judges should always strive to impartial and to not let their personal opinions or personal beliefs and biases cloud their decisions. Themis is depicted wearing a blindfold and holding a scale. She is blindfolded so that she can only judge based upon the weight of the evidence placed upon her scales. Themis is not supposed to bow before any king, politician, or god. Rich and poor, religious and atheist are all supposed to be equal before her.

It’s always a scary thing when activist judges use their power to exert their personal views upon others.

I can’t find too much on Justice Simon R. Coval, other than he practiced commercial litigation before being appointed to the BC Supreme Court. You gotta ask yourself, how does a commercial litigator get to force someone to live if they don’t want to live.

And reading his reasoning for his judgement isn’t all that awe inspiring.

More of the “I know what’s good for you” father knows best B.S..

Gotta wonder if the outcome of this matter would have been any different had it been the husband that wanted to obtain M.A.i.D and the wife tried to stop the procedure vs. the wife wanting to obtain M.A.i.D. and the husband wanting to stop the procedure.

From the article “Coval said he recognized the injunction “is a severe intrusion into (the woman’s) personal and medical autonomy.”

“I can only imagine the pain she has been experiencing and I recognize that this injunction will likely make that worse,” he said. “

So, he was cognizant of the pain this woman is enduring, and he even acknowledged that this judgement was going to make things worse for this woman. But he obviously didn’t care when it came to imposing his opinion on another person.

Simon then takes of his commercial litigator’s hat and puts on his neuroscience expert’s hat and concludes “As I’ve said, the evidence suggests (her) situation appears to be a mental health condition or illness without a link to any physical condition and it may not only be remediable, but remediable relatively quickly,” he said.

Let me tell you a little secret about mental health treatment and mental health therapy Simon. All this shit does is teaches you how to mask your fucking issues so that no one has to hear your whinging and suffering.

That’s what the pills are for.

That’s what the therapy is for.

I’m the one who came from a dysfunctional military household.

I’m the one who endured the rage and anger of an alcoholic member of the Canadian Armed Forces.

I’m the one who was raised by his alcoholic grandmother that was suffering mental trauma from her time in Indian Residential School.

I’m the one who spent two years being sexually abused by his babysitter and escorted over to the base chapel to be given wine by a chaplain who would be charged with child sexual abuse.

I spent three years receiving “conversion therapy” from a military social worker that was hellbent on keeping a lid on the truth about CFB Namao.

I’m the one who had the military justice system slam the door in his face in 1977, 1980, 1984, 1985, 1990, 2011, 2018.

The Canadian Armed Forces helped my father avoid my apprehension by Alberta Social Services by transferring my father out of the jurisdiction of Alberta when Captain Totzke was informed about my impending apprehension.

I’m the one who spent his teenage years on Canadian Forces Base Downsview enduring the wrath of his father for having “fucked with his military career” and receiving physical abuse and mental abuse instead of receiving help with this diagnosed major depression and severe anxiety.

I’m the one who had to live with a father whose sole reason for keeping custody of the children he hated was so that he could control the costs.

I’m the one who had to live their life hating everything about themselves because that’s what was drilled into their fucking head.

And I am beyond fucking tired.

Pills don’t fucking work.

Therapy is all about telling your counsellor what they want to hear.

So I really don’t need an activist judge such as Simon R. Coval opining their personal beliefs.

I can promise you that if Coval had to walk 50 metres in my shoes he’d be a fucking babbling pile of tears begging for it to end.

I wasn’t wanted as a kid.

My parents got drunk and fucked.

That’s it.

That’s all.

My father always said that my mother tricked him into getting her pregnant so that she could trap him in the marriage.

My mother said that Richard was the one who wanted a kid, until he realized that he’d have to look after it.

I wasn’t wanted in the first place.

I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to be.

And I’m not going to let some activist judge like Justice Simon R. Coval, commercial litigator and neuroscientist deny me M.A.i.D. when M.A.i.D. finally becomes available.

The Shoreline room

Just in case you’ve been at St. Paul’s recently and you’ve seen construction going on in the former contractor parking lot and you’ve wondered what’s going on, well this is the Shoreline room.

I won’t get too much into the politics behind this. But it’s not being run by St. Paul’s or Providence Health Care. It’s being built and operated by Vancouver Coastal Health.

B.C. negotiates workaround to allow St. Paul’s Hospital patients to access MAiD

It honestly sucks knowing that I’m going to have to wait until March of 2027 to see if the Government of Canada finally has the balls to let me obtain M.A.i.D. for mental illness, or if I’m going to have to turn to alternative methods.

I was really looking forward to the legalization of M.A.i.D. for mental illness in March of 2021, but the government caved.

And then came March of 2023, but again the government caved at the last minute.

So, now I have to wait until March of 2027.

Will the government cave again, or will the government make the requirements to qualify for M.A.i.D. so fucking onerous that I’ll die of old fucking age or suicide before M.A.i.D. becomes a possibility.

I wish the my emotions hadn’t been destroyed when I was a kid.

Maybe people would actually believe me when I say that my brain is so fucking numb all of the time.

As a kid growing up on Canadian Armed Forces bases, I learnt to just keep my fucking mouth shut. My father was an abusive piss-tank alcoholic that blamed every issue that he had on others.

Living on base was just like living in a company town. Everybody minded their own fucking business. No matter how physical my father would become, everyone just minded their own business.

No matter how fucking drunk my father was in the PMQ and how out of control he was, nobody ever said anything. Everyone just minded their own fucking business.

When my grandmother moved into the PMQ to raise my brother and I, she drank worse than my father. And when my father was home both him and his mother would get into some really spectacular yelling matches and fights.

She lived by the maxims of “children are to be seen and not heard”, and “children only speak when spoken to”. She must have had those beat into her skull when she went to Indian Residential School as a child. As fucked up as my father was, she was fucked up even worse.

My father, being a member of the regular force, said sweet fuck all when orders and instructions were given in the aftermath of Captain McRae’s sexual fiasco on Canadian Forces Base Namao. Sure my father was enlisted, and sure, he was legally obligated to follow the “lawful” commands of his superiors, but for fuck’s sake he could have grown a pair and quit the military.

What type of sick self interested fuck wants to work for an employer that wants to hide the sexual misdeeds of his coworker? Yes, when you think about it, Captain Father Angus McRae was my father’s co-worker. Actually, superior would be more like it.

And then we have Captain Totzke. Sure, Totzke was only following orders. But interfering with the mental health wellbeing of a child that was traumatized by 2 years of sexual abuse? That takes a special kind of self interested prick. And of course, my father being the ball less wonder that he was, dutifully obeyed the “lawful” commands of Captain Totzke.

So yeah, over the years I had to learn to hide the major depression and the severe anxiety. After all, nobody likes a depressed whiner that fucking worries too much. So if you want to stay employed, you gotta hide that shit.

Richard was always willing to assist me in not crying by using his backhand or the belt.

Bobbie, why didn’t you get counselling?

Counselling for fucking what?

I didn’t find out until I was 40 that I had actually been diagnosed with major depression and severe anxiety and that my issue wasn’t that I was suffering from “homosexuality” like Captain Totzke and my father said I was.

After the fucking hell that I got put through back in 1981 through 1983 being caught between my civilian child care workers and the military social worker how the hell am I ever going to feel comfortable around a counsellor.

My father was well adept at making sure that I told people what he wanted them to hear.

This is why being able to obtain M.A.i.D. means so much for me. I don’t want to be here anymore. Actually I’ve never wanted to be here.

There is absolutely no point to my existence. My parents fucked, my mother got pregnant, and I popped out. With 7.5 billion people currently on the planet, this is not a miracle.

If anyone really cared, they would understand my desires instead of giving me fake and meaningless parables of wisdom.

Breasts and death

My hormone related changes are well under way.

And I still really want to die.

And I don’t think that there’s anything wrong with that.

Death won’t be an option until 2027, and there’s still no indication if M.A.i.D. will be legalized for mental illnesses or not, but I am still hoping to be “allowed” to die.

Isn’t that the funniest of things?

I’m not allowed to die, but I also didn’t choose to exist.

My mother and my father got drunk one night. An exchange of DNA occurred. And 9 months later I popped out into the world.

Through my early life all sorts of people with their own agendas were making decisions about my life based upon their own ideas and interests.

And here I am at 52, burnt out and tired, and unable to make a decision about my life.

But Bobbie, I thought that if you transitioned that you would be happy and that you’d want to live?

Fuck no.

With an official delay in M.A.i.D. until 2027 I thought that I would avail myself to fixing the one thing that I had always wanted to correct all of my life but was unable to due to circumstances beyond my control.

Transitioning in and of itself is not the cure for my desire to die.

My desire to die comes from my rancid childhood.

Growing up on Canadian Armed Forces military bases was hard enough under the best of circumstances.

Growing up on Canadian Armed Forces military bases as a sexually abused male was an absolute fucking nightmare.

Growing up on Canadian Armed Forces military bases as a sexually abused gender non-conforming male during the days of CFAO 19-20 was a fucking soul destroying experience.

Growing up on Canadian Armed Forces military bases in a dysfunctional family in the era when the military’s policy towards members with mental issues meant that the military just outright ignored these issues meant that there were none of the normal experiences that children require to grow up mentally healthy. In fact my father’s alcoholism and his out-of-control and unacknowledged PTSD meant that the experiences that I grew up with caused a shit ton of mental issues that have plagued me for my entire life.

How bad have these issues affected me?

Here’s some moulds made of my teeth by my dentist in a last ditch attempt to save what’s left of my teeth.

Yeah, I’ve worn my teeth down to absolutely nothing.

That’s ’cause I wake up in terror some nights grinding my teeth away.

I’ve had night guards before, but I usually grind through them in a few weeks.

So Bobbie, if you still want to die, why are you transitioning?

I’ve never identified with being a male at any point in my life.

And this has nothing to do with the babysitter, Captain McRae, Captain Totzke, or Master Corporal Gill.

I’ve never identified as a boy. I always thought that I was a girl.

Around age 10 or 11 I remember hoping and praying that I would wake up the next morning with breasts and all the rest.

And everyday that I didn’t wake up with the much hoped for changes, I was devastated.

And was I ever jealous.

The girls at school were starting to fill out, and I wasn’t.

So, I intend to spend the next three years-or-so getting some of the changes that I’ve always wanted.

I’m not going for bottom surgery. I’ll get some items removed, but I’m not going for vaginoplasty.

And for the topside, I’ll be happy with what the hormones give me. I’m not going the augmentation route.

Body wise? Yeah, I’m already enjoying the muscle loss. It’s hard to explain, but I’ve always felt that my body is smaller than what it actually is. By losing muscle mass I’m hoping to finally get my body muscle structure down to what feels more natural. I’m already getting some of the fat redistribution, but the full effect won’t be for another year or so.

The goal of this all will be that when I finally go to sleep and escape this fucked up existence, that I present as close to a female as I can.

Never wanted to be a male.

Never identified as a male.

I don’t want to die as a male.

But, in the meantime I’m going to keep on with the hormones and the changes.

The Canadian Armed Forces had an extensive amount of say over my childhood.

I will not allow Canadian Armed Forces to say single fucking thing about my remaining days or my death.