Tag: mental-health

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.