Tag: mental-health

Shit that I can do.

Here’s one of my problems. And this problem irks me to no end.

I’m too stupid to be smart, and I’m too smart to be stupid.

In case you think differently, where you end up in life is wholly determined by where you start off in life. Anybody who tells you any different isn’t living in reality.

Anyone who grew up in a dysfunctional family and I mean a really dysfunctional family should be lucky to find basic stable employment.

If you didn’t grow up on military bases in Canada where dysfunctional families were shielded from civilian social services by the military’s wall of secrecy you have nothing to say on this matter.

How dysfunctional was my family? My alcoholic rage prone father brought his own alcoholic rage prone mother into the military housing on base to raise my brother and I as his physical abuse, mental abuse, and drinking was too much for our mother to handle.

My father tried to blame my mental health issues on his own mother. He told Alberta Social Services that my difficulties came from his “authoritarian mother, who was an alcoholic, and who was extremely cruel to his children”.

My issues at the time were not caused by my grandmother, nor my piss tank alcoholic father.

No, my severe depression and my major anxiety were caused by the two years of sexual abuse on Canadian Forces Base Namao.

The “counselling” that I received from Canadian Armed Forces social worker Captain Terry Totzke absolutely amplified and made my issues much worse, considering that my father, due to the chain of command, was expected to not question Captain Totzke’s treatment methods, such as blaming the sexual abuse I endured on CFB Namao as a result of some sort of “homosexuality” that I had exhibited.

And also Totzke’s refusal to let me receive treatment for major depression and severe anxiety really didn’t help the situation much either.

As I mentioned elsewhere, my father was heavily into electronics and computers. So much so that he always had work benches in the basements of the different PMQs that we lived in. He also always had subscriptions to Popular Electronics, Radio Electronics, and occasionally Elektor Electronics. Plus he always had his CAF / DND educational literature laying around, as well as his DeVry course manuals laying around.

Seeing as how my father had very little interest in me as a kid, I thought that if I picked up an interest in electronics and computers, maybe Richard and I would get along as we’d have something in common.

Richard wasn’t the type of person to try to instil creativity or curiosity in a child.

In fact, Richard was so insecure that he was never going to let his stupid fucking kids eclipse him. The stupider Scott and I remained the smarter he would look in comparison.

Picking up electronics and computers was indeed beneficial, but not in the way that anyone thinks.

When people learn that I dropped out of school after grade 8, people always assume that it was because I was a troublemaker or a problem child. The truth is, between my father and my brother, things were becoming too violent and too unhinged in our house on Canadian Forces Base Downsview.

By 1987 my brother was starting to run with a gang of thugs. He had already been to group homes a few times after he’d been arrested for B&Es and car theft. He was only 13 years old, but he was already taller than my father. Richard wouldn’t dare hit Scott. And because Richard could no longer beat Scott he turned his attention to me for failing to raise my brother properly and for not looking out for my brother. Everything that Scott did was because I let the fucking babysitter touch him.

And no, my father never got over the fact that I had apparently “fucked with his military career” by being the cause of the posting from CFB Griesbach in Edmonton, AB to CFB Downsview in North York, ON.

Even though in reality I know that Richard never would have paid for trade school, or college, or university, I know that when I moved out of the house at 16 I pretty well wrote off ever obtaining a trade or a diploma.

Yes, I did get my grade 12 GED, but that doesn’t matter for much.

And yes, I’m a 4th class power engineer. But that doesn’t mean a lot on its own.

See, when it comes to most any job that I’ve ever had, I’m actually nothing special.

Weird.

Misfit.

Fag.

That’s how most of my employers would have referred to me.

I even had one manger refer to me as “Freddie Mercury” as he “knew” that I was gay. Kept making me promise him that I’d use protection when having sex with other men so that I wouldn’t get AIDs and die.

Many years later I would have one manager at work who refused to have anything to do with me, and when I mentioned this to the manger’s supervisor I was told that the other manager felt very uncomfortable around me because I was “too flamboyant”.

Yeah, when you come from a dysfunctional family and you’ve got no family safety net to fall back on, you just have to put up with this shit and keep going. Standing your ground and making a scene is for people that have backup plans.

I’m a loner. I like to be left alone. I don’t interact well with others. I have to fake smiles.

I’m perpetually late for work in the mornings because I really don’t want to get out of bed. I’m usually very disappointed in the morning when I wake up as that means that I didn’t pass away in my sleep.

I don’t have the slightest interest in sportsball, movies, movie actors, or bands. Yes, I like music, and yes I like watching movies now and again, but I’m not a “fan”.

The one thing that has always seen me through like an ace up my sleeve is my familiarity with electronics and computers, and my reading and comprehension abilities.

But the one thing that my skills have never been able to do is make me feel fulfilled or proud. They’re just shit that I can do.

So, what do my skills let me do? Wait, I can’t call them “skills” because I don’t have a diploma or a TQ or a Red Seal. I guess that I can call them hobbies.

This.

Below is a write up from my second round of testing.

(b) Breaker PDC- E3 delayed vital

Voltage data request from holding registers 41000 to 41007

TX  05 03 03 E7  00 08 F5 FB –

RX  05 03 10 02  54 02 53 02 – 50 01 64 01  55 01 5A 02

              52 01 5C 09  72

TX  05 03 03 E7  00 08 F5 FB –

RX  05 03 10 02  54 02 53 02 – 50 01 64 01  55 01 5A 02

              52 01 5C 09  72

Amperage Data request from holding registers 42200 to 42207

TX  05 03 08 97  00 08 F6 04 –

RX  05 03 10 02  2F 02 56 02 – 5A 80 00 03  17 03 17 03

              02 80 00 7C  D6

TX  05 03 08 97  00 08 F6 04 –

RX  05 03 10 02  2F 02 56 02 – 5A 80 00 03  17 03 17 03

              02 80 00 7C  D6

Using modbus slave software to listen to the output of the IP to RS-485 gateway I get this:

RX  05 03 2E EF  00 03 3C 92 –

This means that the system requested that device 05 (delayed vital breaker) send the contents of the holding register (03) 12015 (hex 2e ef) and three subsequent registers, 12015, 12016, 120170. The 3c 92 are the checksum value for the transmission.

My software masqueraded as device (05), with the contents of the holding registers (03), acknowledged that the request was valid (06) and sent the value of  decimal 50 (00 32) to the system. The 0a 6b is the checksum for this transmission.

RX  05 03 2E EF  00 03 3C 92 –

TX  05 03 06 00  32 00 32 00 – 32 0A 6B

When my software  transmits the value of 50 to the system, the system displays that it read the value of registers 12015 (hex 2e ef), 12016 (hex 2e f0), 12017 (hex 2e f1) as decimal 50 (hex 00 32).

RX  05 03 2E EF  00 03 3C 92 –

TX  05 03 06 00  7B 00 7B 00 – 7B C7 85

When I change the value of registers 12015 (hex 2e ef), 12016 (hex 2e f0), 12017 (hex 2e f1) to the decimal value of 123 (hex 00 7b) the display on the system changes to 123.

Now, please understand that I am not trying to claim to be some sort of genius or expert. I just read the manual for the system, I read a quick write-up on MODbus, I ordered in an off-the-shelf USB-to-MODbus converter, and I bought the software.

Believe me, I’m not trying to claim to be a “hacker” or a technician, or anything like that. I’m also not trying to pretend that I wrote the program, or designed the interface, or “cracked” the system.

I just followed the instructions. When things weren’t clear, or when I needed further information I went searching for it.

I often feel the need to make this clear and to make it understood that I am not trying to claim credit for anything. This is just the stupid shit that I do.

Now, before you ask why I don’t go get a diploma, or a certificate, or a TQ, realize that my depression, my anxiety, my ultra low self esteem, and my intense lack of self confidence have never been dealt with.

Pills, therapy, head shrinkers, magic crystals, tarot cards, and positive thoughts don’t do sweet fuck-all against untreated mental health issues.

And mental health issues can’t be dealt with so long as the Department of National Defence and the Canadian Armed Forces want to go out of their way to pretend that absolutely nothing occurred on Canadian Forces Base Namao from 1978 to 1980 and that I’m just a “societal malcontent with an axe to grind against the Canadian Armed Forces”.

The fear of M.A.i.D. for mental illness.

I really don’t understand why there is so much fear and disinformation surrounding Medical Assistance in Dying for mental illness.

Shawn Watley recently wrote an article for the MacDonald Laurier Institute which was really nothing more than a Henny Penny Chicken Little “the sky is falling” screed against Medical Assistance in Dying.

https://macdonaldlaurier.ca/were-way-beyond-the-slippery-slope-we-need-new-criteria-for-maid-shawn-whatley-in-the-national-post/

You know what, fine, if Dr. Watley thinks that he can fix everyone and save everyone, then he should stop wasting time and get his magical cure-all elixir approved by Health Canada and on to pharmacy store shelves across Canada.

It’s one thing for people like Dr. Watley to tut-tut persons wishing to obtain M.A.i.D. for mental illness, but it’s something completely different for those with longstanding mental health issues that wish to pursue M.A.i.D. to have to endure prolonged suffering just for the sake of vanity causes for doctors like Dr. Watley.

I have a sneaking suspicion that Dr. Watley is of the “you simply haven’t tried hard enough to fix your own mental illness” crowd. People like this seem to form the majority in mental health care practitioners. According to these type of doctors, unless you’ve literally popped every type of pharmaceutical, and have tried every type of therapy, you just haven’t tried hard enough.

I can only wonder what wonderful advice Dr. Watley could offer to someone that had their brain fucked with by a military social worker when they were a child living on a Canadian Forces base.

If a person can’t enjoy life, can’t find pleasure in life, keeps fighting with the demons of child sexual abuse, child emotional abuse, child physical abuse, has fought major depression and severe anxiety all of their life, why should this person have to keep existing of they no longer wish to exist.

Why should people like myself have to continue suffering just to keep Dr. Watley and his ilk of like minded physicians happy with the idea that they “saved us” from the evils of death.

My brother died of a drug overdose back in early August of this year. A drug overdose that was no doubt brought on by the years of mental suffering due to growing up in our father’s extremely dysfunctional home and the sexual abuse that we endured for two years on Canadian Forces Base Namao from 1978 until 1980.

I am envious of my brother. He no longer feels pain. He no longer has the memories. No financial worries. Nothing. It’s all gone and it’s all over for him. The babysitter can no longer bother him, Captain Father Angus McRae can no longer bother him, our father, Warrant Officer Richard Wayne Gill can no longer bother him.

The world has gone on existing without him.

Me?

I’m just sticking around long enough to clear my name, which hopefully won’t be too much longer. Hopefully my class-action against the Canadian Armed Forces is wrapped up around 2027, and hopefully Medical Assistance in Dying is legalized for mental illness by 2027, as I would love nothing more than to never be bothered by my memories of the physical and mental abuse at the hands of my father, the mental abuse at the hands of Canadian Forces military social worker Captain Terry Totzke, the sexual abuse at the hands of the babysitter and the base chaplain, Captain Father Angus McRae, both from Canadian Forces Base Namao, or the years of diagnosed but untreated major depression and severe anxiety.

But, I have a feeling that people like Dr. Shawn Watley don’t really care about my mental health. I think that they’re more concerned with the appearance of caring than they are with realizing that not everything is curable and not everything can be treated and that a person must have full and complete autonomy to make choices for the own lives otherwise they are just being punished and forced to endure and existence of very little meaning but of constant mental anguish.

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.