Wetting the bed……

I honestly can’t remember when I started wetting the bed. It was definitely in the aftermath of the sexual abuse on Canadian Forces Base Namao.

I can’t see me having wet the bed too frequently when grandma was living with us.

But it did start towards the end of our stay on Canadian Forces Base Namao.

By the time I was living on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach I was frequently wetting the bed. So much so that I even had plastic sheets on my bed.

Now, this period of time was right after the sexual abuse on CFB Namao and it was also when my father’s anger with me was beginning to peak because I allowed the babysitter to molest my younger brother and I had fucked with Richard’s military career. Not bad for a 9 year old, eh?

Actually, I’m pretty sure that I wet the bed one time when Richard had taken my brother and I to spend the night at Sue’s apartment by Londonderry Mall in Edmonton before she moved into our PMQ in August of 1980, so I would have been wetting the bed sometime after the summer of 1979.

So yeah, this would have been around when I was at and the abuse was starting to get bad.

They tried diapers on me. Didn’t work, couldn’t get adolescent sized diapers I guess.

Richard was supposedly looking at a device that would give me a mild electric shock when it had detected that I had wet the bed.

Sue had gotten so fed up with my wetting the bed that she rubbed my face in my own urine soaked sheets.

Initially when I started wetting the bed I’d get a fresh change of sheets and some new pyjamas. But as my bed wetting wore on I’d have to sleep on the same sheets. As there were no more pyjama changes, I started sleeping naked.

I still remember waking up in the middle of the night or the early morning with my sheets soaking wet and cold and smelling like pee. I remember learning to sleep around the wetness.

When I was allowed to take showers, no one at school would notice that I had slept in my own urine. But when it was determined that the best way to get me to stop pissing the bed was to make me go to school without a shower that when things started to get really bad at school. Who the fuck in their right mind wants to be anywhere near a kid that smell like piss?

And kids at that age can be very vocal in their opinions of someone who smells like a rancid onion.

So no, not changing my sheets, nor not allowing me to shower, nor any of the other humiliation techniques were successful in getting me to stop wetting my bed.

I did eventually stop pissing my bed.

I was 16 when I stopped.

I had found a room to rent locally and I moved out of Richard’s house.

That would have been around January or February of 1988.

I was terrified that first night that I lived “on my own”.

Know what?

My bed sheets have been dry ever since.

As a kid my beds were always the cheap disposable foam mattress type of beds. Not too long ago, actually earlier this year, I bought my first real bed. It has a frame and a box and a mattress that’s almost 8 inches thick. The box that the mattress lays upon has a solid flat surface. And there’s a head board. And real pillows. Why didn’t I buy a real bed before? I don’t know, I really don’t. Foam mattresses with cheap boxes were always what I had. Maybe that’s what I always thought that I deserved. Maybe I was also afraid that I’d just ruin a new bed by pissing on it.

To say that I was terrified of Richard would have been a grave understatement.

Did the sexual abuse on Canadian Forces Base Namao play a role. Certainly, of that there is no doubt.

With Richard being unable to take responsibility for his family, and with Richard needing to blame others for the problems with his family, it wouldn’t be too far out of line to say that the anger, disdain, and ridicule that Richard directed towards me for having allowed the babysitter to touch my younger brother as well as for me having “fucked with” Richard’s military career was taking an emotional and psychological toll on my young and developing brain.

Am I embarrassed to share this? No, not in the slightest. I’ve gone so far beyond the point of being ashamed that I no longer care.

Anxiety

The evil twin of major depression

I’ve suffered from severe anxiety since at least 1980.

I have no doubt that my anxiety comes from my mother’s side of the family. My hospital records make note that she was extremely anxious at times and was close to a nervous breakdown after the death of her father.

Just as my father’s genes have predisposed me to suffering from depression and that the events of Canadian Forces Base Namao triggered and amplified that depression into full blown major depression I have no doubt that my mother’s genes predisposed me to anxiety and the events of Canadian Forces Base Namao triggered and amplified this into full blown anxiety.

Just as when I’d have a depressive episode when I was a kid, my anxiety attacks were seen by my father as being nothing more than a childish attempt for e to gain attention. For much of my life I internalized my anxiety attacks and my depressive crashes.

Not having friends and not having close associates means that I was able to hide a lot of these episodes. When you don’t hang out with people and when people don’t visit it’s so very easy to hide your issues and to slip through the cracks.

I’m not sure which ones were worse. The anxiety attacks or the depressions.

Some of my anxiety attacks have been brutal. They typically last for about 45 minutes to an hour. And they start of suddenly out of nowhere. I can be riding my bicycle, I can be riding my motorcycle, I can be walking, I can be watching a movie, I can even be at work when suddenly I’m overtaken with a general fear of dread. Then my heart rate will start to increase. And my heart starts to pound harder. Or at least it feels like my pulse rate is increasing. I’ve checked my pulse during an anxiety attack and my heart rate only goes up a little bit. It’s just the adrenaline amplifies everything. I get tunnel vision. And my fight or flight response takes over and I have to flee where I am.

It feels like death is upon me. I know that sounds like something that I would be happy about, but not like this.

When I have an anxiety attack I usually have to get out of any building that I am in. It feels like the walls are squeezing in on me. In my apartment that means that I have to go down the stairs. All 16 flights.

Once I get outside I just head for the widest open space I can find…….

But even outside it just feels like the sky is about to collapse on me.

  • 5 things I can see
  • 4 things I can touch
  • 3 things I can hear
  • 2 things I can smell
  • 1 thing I can taste.

This is called “grounding” and for the most part it seems to work even though some of my more recent anxiety attacks seem immune to the grounding.

The taste one is the difficult one, I usually end up skipping that.

And just as suddenly as the anxiety attack comes, the attack goes away often leaving me completely exhausted.

Not all of my anxiety attacks happen when I’m awake. I’ve woken up with such horrific anxiety attacks. It feels like I can’t breath or it feels like my heart has stopped.

One of my most recent sleep attacks ended up with me grinding my teeth so hard that I cracked a molar and had to have it removed. My dentist was pushing me to get an implant to replace the molar. I don’t see the need to. From here on if and when I crack teeth I’m just going to have them removed. I have an appointment coming up in a couple of weeks. My dentist wants to apply filling material to the insides of my canine teeth as they’re heavily worn from grinding. If the filling material doesn’t work I’ll have the canines removed preemptively to keep from cracking them.

How long has my anxiety been going on.

When my father was stationed at Canadian Forces Base Downsview I lived in the basement of the PMQ. My bedroom used to be upstairs, but sometime in early 1986 my bedroom got moved to the basement to make way for my step brother who had been born in August of 1985. Richard would often come over to my bed and wake me up because I was making so much noise grinding my teeth. Richard had a work area in the basement across from my bedroom. Due to housing regulations on base my bedroom wasn’t allowed to have a door because military rules said that no one was allowed to sleep in the basement for fire reasons. Richard had a problem with insomnia. Which no doubt went hand in hand with his depression. Richard would often go to bed around 10 or 11 at night. He’d be awake again by 2 in the morning. He’d come downstairs to the basement to watch TV and have some cigarettes. And if he heard me grinding, he’d wake me up.

But not once did he ever take me in to get me counselling or any other help. And this is even more upsetting now that I know that as far back as 1980 I had been diagnosed as having major depression and severe anxiety.

Was Richard really this fucking stupid?

Did I suffer my entire life because Richard was just too fucking stupid to see that his son needed help?

When I read my foster care records in August of 2011 I cried.

I could have been normal, or at least a lot more normal than I am now.

Maybe I’d have teeth.

Maybe, maybe, maybe…… so many fucking maybes.

I can only dream about what could have been because I sure as hell wasn’t allowed to have what should have been.

So yeah, much like my depression, my anxiety has been a constant companion of mine.

I wonder what life would have been like if I had known that there were medications that could have treated this.

That may sound funny, but it isn’t. See, when I was a kid living under Richard’s roof my depression was just an attempt to be the centre of attention. My anxiety was just because I worried too much.

Maybe it was the military environment. I know that back in the day mental illness was a sign of weakness. Mental illness indicated that you couldn’t get your shit together.

All I know is that I’m 50 years old now and my depression and my anxiety and my fight with the Canadian Armed Forces have worn me right down to nothing.

Yes, the escitalopram has helped, but I can hear and feel my depression and anxiety demons clawing at their cage waiting to be freed when my body builds up a tolerance to the increased serotonin levels. And I’ve been told that when my anxiety and depression come crashing out of their jail things will be worse than they were before.

Depression

what does it feel like?

One of the hardest things for me to describe is depression.

I’ve been living with depression for so long now that I really don’t remember having existed any other way.

Depression is a fairly debilitating mental illness.

I don’t think that I’ve ever been truly and honestly happy for so very long now that I’ve forgotten what happy feels like.

I’ve had days in which I am so mind crushingly numb that I feel so absolutely sick.

Depression is where you can’t accept praise from people because you “know” that they’re just saying nice things to keep you from being “sad”.

Prolonged depression can cause long term changes in the brain’s wiring and the brain’s chemistry.

As a kid I used to have so much trouble getting out of bed. It’s not that I stayed up late as a kid. It’s just the the depression had such a stranglehold on me that I wanted to stay in bed and die.

I wanted to die so badly as a kid.

Contrary to public belief, depression isn’t something that one can wish away simply by smiling or thinking happy thoughts.

My depression came from two places. I’m fairly certain that I inherited depression from the paternal side of my family. And you can’t go through what I’ve gone through in life and not be somewhat depressed.

Depression as a child is just a negative feed back loop of epic proportions. When you’re depressed as a child you don’t want to hang around with other kids. When you don’t hang around with other kids, you become marked as “odd”. Kids love teasing and antagonizing “odd” misfits.

As my grade 5 teacher said. I had become the class scapegoat and everything that went wrong the other kids blamed on me.

With Captain Totzke and my father blaming me for what had occurred on CFB Namao it just drove me into such a deep fucking depression that I never surfaced again.

Is there a fix for my depression? I honestly don’t believe so. It’s been eating away at the inside of my brain for so long. And that’s not being melodramatic. That’s the truth.

Yes, I responded pretty quick and dramatically to the escitalopram, but the escitalopram hasn’t stopped the depression. It’s just raised the floor to which I can crash down to.

The depression has stolen everything from my life.

What would I have been like if I could have found a partner earlier in life?

What would I have been like if I cold have determined what my orientation was earlier in life.

What would I have accomplished in life had depression not filled my head with so much self doubt, so much self loathing, and so much self hatred?

At work I just finished a project for trending and logging the temperatures of sixteen medical fridges and freezers. I used general refrigeration components to do this. Some Dixell Universal controllers for doing the actual monitoring, TTL to RS-485 converters to allow the Dixell Universal Controllers to communicate on a MS/TP network, NIST Certified temperature probes for measuring the temperatures, and a web server to act as the front end to allow anyone anywhere on the Vancouver Coastal Health network to log in and see the temperatures, read the logs, and generate reports.

Then there’s working with IMIT to establish an active Ethernet port, get the web server a static IP address, give IMIT the MAC address of the web server to allow it onto the hospital network, have messaging allow the web server to use the MSTP server to send emails for alarms and reports.

Dixell Fridge Monitoring Project
I shouldn’t get in trouble for this video – no personal information visible…..

When this project is completed the pharmacy department will also be able to monitor the fridges at Mt. St. Joseph hospital. This will be done using a Ethernet to ModBUS converter that will allow the web server to communicate via the Vancouver Coastal Intranet with a pair of Dixell Universal Controllers at Mt. St. Joe’s.

After this, pharmacy would like to expand this through the tower to pick up all of the ward fridges.

Am I proud of this?

Nope.

I feel like an idiot even talking about this because if an idiot like me can do this, then anyone else could have done it, right? My old man always said that I was just showing off by doing stupid things.

And that’s what depression does. It steals everything fucking thing from your life.

I know that I did a good job on this. But the depression monster keeps yelling at me that anyone could have done this, that I’m not smart, that this was nothing special.

And of course once those thoughts start, then everything else starts.

I’ve aborted so many projects in the past because my depression monster knew that I was too fucking stupid to see through to completion.

Even talking about this make me feel like a stupid attention seeking crybaby.

That’s how this shit works.

I don’t make the rules.

I try not to play by the stupid rules of depression.

But I’m also not able to fight them.

Many a braver man than me has lost their battle with depression.

Why don’t you talk to the media?

Or how people assume that the media runs with everything presented to it.

Just recently a Twitter user that stumbled across my opinion of Medial Assistance in Dying suggested that I contact the media. The media will grab this story lickity-split!

In the over ten years that I’ve been dealing with this matter I’ve gone to the media numerous times.

A non-comprehensive list of who I’ve talked to:

  • CBC National
  • CBC Go Public
  • CBC The Fifth Estate
  • CBC The Passionate Eye
  • CTV W5
  • Global 16X9
  • Global National
  • Maclean’s
  • Esprit De Corps
  • L’ Actualite
  • The Edmonton Journal
  • The Vancouver Sun
  • The Toronto Star
  • The Ottawa Citizen
  • Canada Press
  • Paula Simmons
  • Jennifer Tryon
  • Claude Adams
  • Anne Marie Owens
  • Rachel Ward
  • Jenn Blair
  • Frédéric Zalac (As a member of the ICIJ and as a CBC reporter)
  • Maya Hamovitch with CTV W5
  • Avery Haines
  • Noémi Mercier
  • Alec Castonguay
  • Aedan Helmer
  • Justin Ling
  • And many, many, many more.
  • The only two reporters that even touched on my story have been David Pugliese and Nora Loreto

Even after the news story broke about my class action lawsuit against the Government of Canada and the Canadian Armed Forces the media showed very little interest in me.

The most significant reason why the media refuses to run this story is the sheer amount of media consolidation in this country. At one time the newspapers in this country competed with each other and fought for subscribers. Now the major newspapers are all owned by the same companies. It’s an oligopoly really.

The second most significant reason is the lack of investigative journalism, there really aren’t any investigative journalists anymore. The newsrooms have been cut to the bare bone. This is one reason why “press releases” are run almost 100% verbatim.

Another reason that can’t be overlooked is the sheer ignorance by those in the media towards how the Canadian Forces actually operate. Far too many members of the Canadian Media believe that military soldiers would KILL anyone that messed with a child. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Too many members of the Canadian Media grew up watching “Major Dad” on TV and think that this show illustrated the real life of a military family.

Most news reporters have absolutely no idea that children lived on military bases.

Most news reporters have absolutely no idea that military bases were self contained “company towns” where rank held sway and where the private police forces (both the military police and the CFSIU) prior to 1998 were under direct command of the leaders on base. To amplify the issues of the “company town” were certain sections of the National Defence Act that ensured that residents of the “company town” were legally required to obey the wishes and directives of their superiors least they face a lifetime prison sentence.

Most news reporters believe that military police officers and CFNIS Investigators are “real police” and not simply soldiers first and police officers second. Even nowadays the CFNIS, which are often trumpeted as being “independent” of the chain of command are actually under the direct command of the Vice Chief of Defence Staff. As the Military Police Complaints Commission has indicated, due to the Chain of Command structure within the Provost Marshal and the Military Police Group, investigators with the CFNIS may not even be aware of Chain of Command decisions that ultimately interfere with their investigation.

A poor understanding of the National Defence Act and the Criminal Code of Canada also contributes to the media being totally unwilling to get involved in a story like mine.

Flaws in the National Defence Act such as the 3-year-time-bar-flaw or the summary-investigation-flaw are such foreign concepts to most members of the media that they laugh at me when I suggest that the 3-year-time-bar alone prevents the investigation or charging of anyone who committed a service offence prior to 1998. A sixty year old man could in theory bring charges against his school teacher from back in the 1970s so long as the school teacher was still alive. A former military dependent who was sexually abused be a member of the Canadian Armed Forces in 1996 would NOT be able to bring charges against their abuser due to the 3-year-time-bar on all service offences.

Members of the media seem to think that Service Offences are only limited to “military type” offences. Service Offences also include all Criminal Code of Canada offences. Yes, the military couldn’t try for the crimes of “Murder, Manslaughter, and Rape” from 1950 until 1985. But under the pre-1985 Criminal Code, Gross Indecency, Indecent Assault, Buggery, Incest, Sexual Intercourse with female under the age of 14, Sexual Intercourse with female between 14 and 16, Sexual intercourse with Step-Daughter, or even Incest were not “Rape” and therefore the military had jurisdiction to try for these offences.

The media wants more victims. I don’t run a victim tracking service. And with the other kids from the different bases moving around as often as I did it’s a miracle that anyone remembers anyone else from childhood. By the time I was 12 years old I lived in 7 different PMQs on 5 difference bases in 4 different provinces. Military dependents were not tracked by DND or the CF. When we turned 18 and aged off the base we were very quickly forgotten about by the military.

The media wants quick and easy stories. Stories where everything fits together in one nice little package. This will not be one of those stories.

Martin Kruze was a victim of a child sex abuse ring at Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto, ON during the 1980s. Martin tried to get the police to listen to him, they wouldn’t. The police as it turned out were big fans of the Toronto Maple Leafs and couldn’t see past their own adulation of a professional NHL hockey team to understand that very bad things were happening in Harold’s house. It wasn’t until the Toronto Police Service assigned a pair of women to the investigation that things started going the right way for Martin. I guess the female officers weren’t so tied up in sports hero worship like their male counterparts were.

Martin tried to get the media to listen, the media wouldn’t listen. Gordon Stuckless was eventually sentenced to prison. But Martin would go on to commit suicide.

I can’t help but wonder what drove Martin that far. Was it the abuse? Was it the fact that no one believed him, even though Gordon Stuckless would go on to be convicted of molesting numerous boys. I’m going to go with the fact that no one believed him or listened to him

So far in my life I have endured:

  • Sexual abuse at the hands of a teenage male.
  • Sexual abuse at the hands of a military officer.
  • Sexual abuse at the hands of a retired member of the Canadian Forces.
  • Counselling at the hands of a military social worker designed to convince me that I was mentally ill because I “enjoyed” being sexually abused.
  • Counselling at the hands of a military social worker designed to convince me that I was responsible for my younger brother being molested.
  • The rage of my father who no doubt was placing special emphasis on what the military social worker was telling him due to the rank of the military social worker
  • The long term effects of untreated major depression and severe anxiety as the Canadian Forces could not risk me being cared for in the civilian system.

And many, many more issues.

Now, to be certain, I am not seeking M.A.i.D. solely because no one in the media believes me. But let’s be honest, being ignored by the media, and I mean the entire Canadian media, sure does help with making that final decision.

How many other former military dependents from the multitude of bases have committed suicide over the years because the Canadian Forces swept them under the rug and no one listened to them?

A person can only be tired and worn out for so long before forever sleep becomes irresistible.

National Coming Out Day ?

Really?

Well, looks like I missed out on yet another queer friendly event.

National Coming Out Day………. you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t get too excited about this. The boot print is still fresh on my ass from when I got swiftly kicked into the closet when I was 9.

After all these years I still don’t know if I really deserved to be kicked into that closet, but c’est la vie as they say. Decisions were made and my father went along with them willingly or otherwise.

In life everyone expects a person to fit into a predefined package. If you’re a male and you’re not into women, then you must be gay, eh? If you’re bi, you’re really just an undecided gay. If you don’t like sex with other people then you’re just a sick fucking freak.

Have I ever been to a Pride Parade? Honestly I think I’ve only gone to the Pride Parade or the pride festival four or five times in the 24 years that I’ve lived in the West End.

I’ve never really felt welcome or wanted at these types of events. I’m not a party animal nor am I a drinker. And it really doesn’t help that I don’t really identify as gay, straight, bi, or anything else.

Yeah I’ve had sex with a couple of females in my life, and yeah I’ve had sex with a few more males in my life. And no, that’s not including P.S., Captain McRae, the man in the sauna, Earl Ray Stevens, Al M. or a few others that I probably won’t be able to name because I forgot their names but not their actions.

I don’t really like being “intimate” with people. Is that my depression, my anxiety, or just my general confusion, or the fact that from 7 to 16 I was always someone’s sex toy?

Had captain Totzke not drilled it into my head when I was young that I was exhibiting a mental illness called “homosexuality” would I have been straight, or in the alternative would I have grown up to be a happy and well adjusted homosexual male?

If I hadn’t been abused on CFB Namao, would I be as conflicted about sex as I am? Sex to me is repulsive, sickening, and something that you provide when someone wants something.

I wear dresses not because I identify as female. I wear dresses because I don’t identify as male. And as such I see no reason as to why I can’t wear dresses. They’re far more comfortable than pants, pants suck, dresses rock.

Yet, if I went looking for a new job tomorrow and I went in to the interview wearing one of my many dresses I can promise you that there’s a high probability that I would not be hired.

I had a departmental manager not too long ago refuse to allow me to wear shorts to work when I was working on the roof in +25C temps. His reasoning was that shorts were simply a wedge issue and that if he allowed me to wear shorts then I’d want to wear dresses.

I had another manager years ago at a previous employer who always used to call me “Freddie” as in Freddie Mercury. If I got sick he’d always ask me if I came down with AIDs. He used to threaten to “out me” to the Board of Directors.

When I got mugged in 1995, the investigating VPD officer was adamant that I was a homosexual prostitute.

Is there something about me that makes others think I’m gay or queer?

I know as a kid I used to cut off my eyelashes thinking that was the problem.

If frequently wondered if the reason I got sexually abused so many times as a kid was maybe I was a homosexual like Terry said that I was. Maybe my abusers detected something about me and thought that I would enjoy with their wishes.

So I dunno, Pride, Coming Out Day, they really don’t mean anything to me ’cause I have absolutely no idea of what I am.

I just am and I just exist.

And that’s it.

World Mental Health Day.

You gotta be shitting me.

Well, who knew. But apparently October 10th is “World Mental Health Day”.

Justin, like most politicians, can speak out of both sides of his mouth.

What’s funny about Justin proclaiming “World Mental Health Day” is that his Minister of National Defence, Harjit Sajjan, has been going out of his way to hide any historical event that would have damaged the mental health of children living on the Canadian Forces bases in Canada.

I don’t think that my mental health has ever been decent in any sense.

It’s always been so hard to try be “normal” while knowing that there was something horrifically wrong. You have to remember that from October of 1980 until August of 2011 I had absolutely no idea of the mental health issues that I had been flagged with. Everything had been hidden from me by my own father. Instead of getting me the help I needed, he drilled it into my head that I was just an immature cry-baby looking for attention.

As far as I was concerned, everything that was going wrong in my life was because I was a fuck-up.

I had no idea why I couldn’t make friends.

I had no idea why no one really liked me.

I had no idea why I always seemed to be on the receiving end of everyone’s derision.

After all, if there was something wrong with me, if I had been diagnosed as having issues, Richard would have done something, right?

Now, the laughable thing about World Mental Health day is that it is almost Im-fucking-possible to get help with mental health.

And believe me, I’ve tried.

But I think that even mental health “professionals” realize that there really is no way to actually fix mental health. Sure, you can medicate mental health issues, but you can’t fix them. You can teach a person with mental health issues how to deal with their problems, but that’s still not fixing the issues.

No, fixing mental health problems in the typical sense simply means teaching the person with the mental health issues how to keep their problems to themselves and how to internalize their problems so as to not cause others discomfort.

Tell me, how do you think the damage that Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Terry Totzke did to my brain from age 9 until age 11 can be undone? Just not thinking about it isn’t the correct answer. Nor does adopting the mantra “sometimes bad things happen to good people and if we just smile everything will be fine”.

How does one undo the sexual abuse that one suffered from the fall of 1978 until the spring of 1980 when they were 7 to 8 years old? Especially sexual abuse at the hands of a military officer and his 14 year old altar boy that often involved alcohol and physical and psychological abuse.

How does one undo the years of neglect and abuse at the hands of his own father who was found to be unable and unwilling to take responsibility for his own family, often blamed others for problems with his family, expected others to solve the problems with his family, changed his stories frequently, and told people what he thought they wanted to hear.

You can’t undo this type of damage.

I spent my entire youth being blamed by my father for having allowed the babysitter, P.S., to touch my younger brother.

In 2011 I was told by a case manager with the CFNIS that my complaint against P.S. was not credible. At the end of the investigation in 2011 I was told that the CFNIS could not find anything to indicate that P.S. was capable of the crimes I had accused him of.

During the 2011 CFNIS investigation it was suggested that I was a “societal malcontent with an axe to grind against the military” and that I was only making my complaint against P.S. to get some easy money.

The Minister of National Defence, Harjit Sajjan accused me of playing games and of playing an angle when I asked him for help in my matter.

In 2020 the Military Police Complaints Commission released their report into their review of my complaint against the CFNIS. The MPCC came to the conclusion that the Military Police in 1980 were well aware of the actions of P.S. involving young children on Canadian Forces Base Namao, that it was P.S.’s involvement with molesting these young children that brought Canadian Armed Forces officer Captain Father Angus McRae to the attention of the military police, and that Captain McRae’s defence counsel tried using P.S.’s molestation of younger children to discredit his testimony against Captain McRae. The Military Police Complaints Commission stated that the CFNIS was in possession of these court martial records during the period of time that the CFNIS was investigating my complaint against P.S.

I get told that I should simply move on. That P.S. was the true victim in this matter, suggesting that I’m just some sort of whiny cry baby who just wants to shift the blame to P.S..

So again, please humour me on World Mental Health Day. Tell me what exactly it is that I have to do in order to make you happy and how I can keep my mental health issues from making you uncomfortable.

If you let me know, I’ll try my best to keep the damage internalized.

I did a thing.

I actually do function at work.

As I’ve said previously, working has probably been the only thing that’s saved my life over the years and has made my life bearable. And I don’t just mean at St. Paul’s.

I’ve always had after school jobs, or weekend jobs pretty well since I was 10 and living on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach. Richard and Sue would pretty well kick my brother and I out of the house from the time we got home after school until bedtime. I’m not sure where my brother ever buggered off to, but I’d usually head off base to the local malls.

Cleaned pet cages, cleaned pizza pans, cleaned kitchens. The money wasn’t much. But it was just being around adults who didn’t treat me like Richard and Sue did that made the difference.

Anyways………..

I spent some time working in the pharmacy today. Finally getting the alarm monitoring system installed after much delay.

This is the first monitor. There will be twelve others. They all network together on an RS-485 bus.

Nothing too fancy, but it will allow for logging of the temperatures and generating alarm messages if coolers start to get out of range.

Me working on a pneumatic relay.

This was me servicing a pneumatic relay for a steam valve.

I’ll probably post more things from work.

Nothing too fancy as it’s a hospital and I can’t take pictures of patients, or anything that could identify a patient. And as a rule I tend to avoid taking pictures of other employees. Much easier to not hurt feelings that way. But there are a ton of fans and pumps and heat exchangers and compressors and all sorts of other things that might look interesting.

A panorama view of a smokey Vancouver.
Opened the side of the building to insert the new 3-Tesla MRI Machine
Sometimes the dietary elevator stops on three.
You have to get out here as the elevator won’t start up again.
On the other side of the door is the ICU unit.
Remember our summer?
39.6C on the roof of St. Paul’s with a humidity level of 19.4%

A good doctor.

Well, today I had another telephone call with my physician.

I’ve been seeing him for a while. About a year I think.

I’ll call him Dr. T.M.. I’ve kinda mentioned these blogs to him. I don’t know if he’s checked them out. If I’m not mistaken he is younger than I am.

To be honest, I’ve never had a good relationship with physicians in the past but Dr. T.M. seems quite on the ball and is actually quite involved with my care.

I’ve had massive battles with depression for all of my life. One of the unhelpful doctors I went to a while ago wanted to know what was troubling me. When I started explaining to him what I had been through he told me to stop. He said he didn’t want to hear about problems from my past. He wanted to know what was currently bothering me.

Other doctors weren’t trustworthy or honestly just didn’t seem to care, period.

When I had my heart issue back around 2012 a family doctor that I started seeing at the time was far more interested in my piercings and if they hurt, or got infected, or if I was wearing them to scare people. I didn’t see him for too long.

As far as getting psychiatric help, I’ve taken advantage of some programs at work through my employer. But not to toot my own horn, but I’m a fucking basket case.

  • growing up in an alcoholic household with intergenerational psychiatric issues.
  • growing up in a household with anger control issues.
  • 1-1/2 years of sexual abuse at the hands of a very confused teenager who was being groomed and controlled by a Captain of the regular force of the Canadian Forces
  • 2-1/2 years of psychological abuse at the hands of a military social worker who was determined to cure me of my apparent homosexuality that I had exhibited when I was sexually abused for 1-1/2 years.
  • Blamed by my father for matters that were far beyond my control or responsibility.
  • failure to receive proper psychiatric care when it was indicated that I had major depression and severe anxiety.
  • As of this date the depression and anxiety have been allowed to fester like a cancer in my brain.

One of my issues with seeking psychiatric help earlier in life is the way my father and Captain Totzke pitted me against my civilian social workers. After that, I had very little trust or faith in “professionals”.

Also, there was my father’s reactions to my mental health back then. I was an embarrassment to him. If any of my illness started to show it would be a back hand or a spanking. He drilled into my head that I was just a crybaby having breakdowns as a means to gain attention. So it should come as very little surprise that I’ve had great difficulty obtaining help.

As I said before, I don’t cry any longer not because I have nothing to cry about. I don’t cry any longer because I’ve long since run out of tears to cry.

I am so fucking numb to just about everything.

Dr. T.M. hasn’t been judgemental once. He hasn’t fussed over my piercings nor my tattoos. When I told him about my literal breakdown earlier this year he had absolutely no hesitation in putting me on sick leave, and when the rest didn’t work on its own, he put my on escitalopram right away.

He has been quite open to my request to look into M.A.i.D.. If that’s what I want, then he’s willing to work with me starting next year when the the committee currently reviewing M.A.i.D. for psychiatric issues makes their recommendations to Parliament. Whether or not Parliament accepts all of the recommendations or just cherry picks the recommendations is yet to be seen. We won’t know until March 2023 what the requirements and rules will be.

Who knows, by then maybe by the time M.A.i.D. had been approved I’ll have changed my mind. I haven’t given up on alternatives. It’s just that I’m very pragmatic and realistic. Maybe the drugs will make significant changes, maybe they won’t. The baggage and the unwanted visitors are still residing in my skull.

But it is nice having someone listen to my desires and the rational for my desires and not laugh me off as being melodramatic silly.

Welfare.

Just recounting my times on welfare.

Okay, so this topic came up in the last post, and I thought what the hell if I’m writing the story of my life can’t do it without mentioning this.

I have in fact collected welfare a few time in life.

I’ve also collected U.I. and E.I. a few times in life as well.

The first time that I collected welfare was in Edmonton, AB. I forget the exact dates and my tax records aren’t exactly clear, but I was on welfare from around September of 1991 until February of 1992.

The thing I remember the most about applying is (a) how fucking humiliating it was, and (b) because I had been born in Nova Scotia, Alberta was willing to buy me a plane ticket “back home”. I say “back home” as I hadn’t lived in Nova Scotia since I was 5 years old.

Why didn’t I call my father for money? There is no fucking way on Earth I would have ever called him asking for money. You just learnt as a kid to never ask him for money. You just didn’t. Most times he’d just answer that he was “broke” and didn’t have money, but if you could wait for a month he might have some money then. And this would be for amounts like $20. So asking him for $300 to cover rent for the month would have been out of the question.

Marie didn’t have much money, but she did help me out with groceries a couple of times.

Edmonton was a hell hole in the early ’90s. It was in the midst of a recession. I tried delivering Pizza, but that was super risky walking into some parts of town with money in your pocket. I did “dial-a-bottle” delivery for a while. Same risk as the pizza though, but this time not only could they steal your money, they’d steal the booze too. I worked at a car wash. Nothing better than working in a car wash in Edmonton in the winter.

I moved to Vancouver in February of 1992. The job I had come down for ended up getting moved back by a couple of months because the two mechanics that were supposed to be leaving Lions Gate Lanes stayed for longer as they were having issues getting their venture going.

I applied for welfare in BC. Only thing is at the time unless you lived in BC for sixth months you couldn’t get welfare. I was given two options. A free bus ticket back to Edmonton or I could go stay at Catholic Charities Hostel for Men on the periphery of the infamous Downtown East Side. I chose the men’s hostel.

At the hostel you got a couple of meal vouchers. One for breakfast, and one for lunch. I would use the breakfast voucher and trade the lunch voucher for singles. Singles were single cigarettes.

I started smoking around age 13. My younger brother was smoking before I was. Richard didn’t care. By the time I was 18 I was up to two packs a day. By the time I hit Vancouver in ’92 I was still at two packs a day. Singles weren’t enough. So I ended up picking up butts out of ashtrays and using the unburnt tobacco to roll smokes in rolling papers. I was able to find piecemeal work, but I was only allowed to stay at Catholic Charities for 6 weeks. After six weeks you had to get out and find smoother place to stay.

Luckily the job at Lions Gate finally opened up.

I worked at Lions Gate from June of 1992 until June of 1993. The reason why the two previous mechanics left was that the owner of the shopping mall was not going to renew the lease for Lions Gate Lanes and Brunswick was shutting the centre down at the end of the ’92 – ’93 league season. I stayed on with Brunswick for the dismantling of the centre. I then got hired on by Larco to help build the new centre. When Larco cancelled the lease for Lions Gate Lanes, they thought that they would simply walk in and operate the centre for a couple of years until the redevelopment happened. The only problem with that is Brunswick had years of experience repossessing bankrupt bowling centres. We had Lions Gate Lanes stripped to the bare walls in 12 days.

This left Larco in a lurch as they had promised the leagues that there would be bowling for the ’93 – ’94 bowling season. But Lions Gate Lanes was an empty shell.

Warren Flanagan with Brunswick Corp said that there was a job waiting for me in Mississauga if I wanted it.

Phil had been hired on by Larco to oversee the construction of the centre. Phil called me and asked me if I wanted to help build the new centre. I said sure. Larco hired a company from the states to supply lanes, pinsetters, scoring equipment, and the rest of the capital equipment. It took about six week, but we built that 36 lane centre. The only problem was the pinsetters were a mishmash of used American and Japanese Brunswick machines. Some of them even came from a flood damaged centre in the states and were super rusted. The electrics were iffy on the machines and not a single one of them had been overhauled.

The bowlers were rightfully pissed off. The lanes weren’t ready for the start of the season. In fact, the lanes weren’t ready until about 2 weeks later. But the pinsetters were in such rough condition that they were having jams and blackouts non-stop.

One of the machines couldn’t detect standing pins. And this was the lane that the League President was bowling on. He told Phil that if the machine screwed up once while he was bowling on it he was taking the entire league and they’d move to a different centre. Phil begged me to keep it running. I tried to keep it going without having it shut down or sweep standing pins. Unfortunately I got my arm crushed in the machine.

After I got my arm free of the machine I stumbled my way up to the front and I asked Phil for a ride to the hospital. He told me to take the bus. I quit then and there. The next morning I called Warren and asked him if the job was still open in Ontario.

Because I had opened an U.I. claim when Lions Gate Lanes closed and we were all laid off, my claim was still open. When I went to the U.I. office a couple of days later I explained what had happened. They considered that I had already been through the waiting period and therefore they would get my payments underway right away.

With my final cheque from Park Royal Lanes and my U.I. cheque, and my savings I moved to Toronto in late November of ’93.

The job waiting for me was at Brunswick Mississauga lanes. I went in and met the manager. The manager said that he had heard excellent things about my from both Warren and my previous centre manager Wendy. I can’t remember the manager’s name, but I can remember the head mechanic’s name. Don W. The manager got on the intercom and called to the back. As soon as Don emerged from the walkway I could tell this wasn’t going to work. “I told you, no one from the fucking West Coast is going to tell me who the fuck I have to hire”. Don and the manager went into the office and had a yelling match. Don emerged and look at me and said “get your stuff, we’re going to the back, and don’t get comfortable because the first time you fuck up I sending you out the fucking door.” I lasted at Mississauga lanes for about three weeks. U.I. reviewed my termination and determined that it wasn’t justified. As my claim was in British Columbia they’d have to transfer the paperwork over. In the meantime I was now collecting welfare in Ontario. Once the U.I. office got the paperwork sent out it was a few weeks for the the processing to take place. Once that was done I was back on U.I. again.

To keep rent down as low as possible I had been staying at the Salvation Army down by Moss Park.

Toronto wasn’t great at the time. Job interviews weren’t leading to job offers. So I ended up heading back to Vancouver. The only thing I hadn’t counted on was the 6 weeks that it was going to take to change my mailing address. They would also have to re-evaluate my claim as I had moved to a different claims jurisdiction. And of course, they’d have to transfer my paperwork back to British Columbia.

So I ended up receiving emergency welfare from the BC Government. No wait period this time, but it would be clawed back from my U.I. cheques when they started showing up.

Why didn’t I call Richard and ask Richard for money? Not worth it. Not worth the humiliation. Not worth the degradation.

I ended up getting a room at the Salvation Army Dunsmuir House for Men. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what was wrong with this place. Someone broke into my room and stole my knapsack and when I called the VPD the Sgt. responding laughed at me when I said I wanted to file a report.

Most of the men in this place were angry. And I mean really angry. Fights would start over the slightest issue.

In 2011 I would learn that the Salvation Army Dunsmuir House for Men was a Federal half-way house and housed men who had just been released from prison. At the time when I moved into the Dunsmuir I just needed a cheap room. No one ever told me that this place also housed freshly released prisoners.

I’ll save this for another post, but my return to Vancouver was when I tried to work up the courage to jump off the Lions Gate Bridge. Instead of working up the courage to jump off the bridge, I worked up a case of pneumonia.

I ended up getting work at a small bowling centre in East Richmond around the end of June. I was there until 1999 when I got into commercial property management. And as they say the rest is history.

So yeah, the first part of my 20s was very, very rough.

Which is why when I read Richard’s statement that he gave to the CFNIS 2011, I choked. He made it sound as if I kept calling him non-stop for money and that he had been giving me money whenever I asked for it.

Did the CFNIS suggest to Richard what he should say?

Was Richard really so keen to play the victim that he said what he said?

Was Richard just vengeful?

This will always be one of life’s little mysteries because Richard is dead.

Yes, I’ve collected welfare. And yes I’ve collected U.I. / E.I..

But I’ve spent less that two years of my adult life collecting welfare / U.I. / E.I.

Another way of looking at this is I’m 50. My first welfare claim was when I was 19.

I’ve been working since I was 16.

2 years out of 34 years is 0.058%.

I’ve spent less than 0.058% of my adult working life collecting welfare / U.I. / E.I.

Slipping through the cracks.

Looking back on my life it has become readily apparent that the one thing that I am extremely accomplished at is slipping through the cracks.

And this has made me realize that there are actually a lot of people on this planet that have slipped through the cracks for all of their lives.

In 2011, in an attempt to bolster my complaint against P.S. after the case manger with the CFNIS told me that they couldn’t find any evidence against P.S. I started tracking down all of my personal information from any place that my father had been stationed.

The first crack that I seemed to have slipped through was in Halifax.

CFB Shearwater – Nova Scotia.

I had sent off a request to the Nova Scotia government for any medical or social service records that the government had from my childhood when my father was stationed at Canadian Forces Base Shearwater.

I was surprised that they had the detailed records that they did. They had my birth records that included my mother’s admission records. They also had all of my admission records from just after I was born all the way up until we moved from CFB Shearwater to CFB Summerside on PEI.

The records were notable for a few things.

First, the records identified an issue that I had with anything that contained beef fats like dairy.

The records also indicated that my mother was an extremely anxious person.

The records also indicate that my father had to be returned to port by the Canadian Forces due to “emotional issues”.

I had been admitted to the hospital on a couple of occasions as a “boarder”.

The longest I spent in hospital was 31 days.

Just before my father’s posting to CFB Summerside in Prince Edward Island the doctors at the IWK Children’s hospital had reached the opinion that my frequent admissions to the hospital were due to “societal problems” in the household and that social services should be notified.

Around 2015 I would make the acquaintance of Pat Longmore. She had been in the Canadian Forces along with her husband Bob back in the 1970s at CFB Shearwater. Pat knew both Richard and Marie. Pat was the first person ever to have confirmed the existence of a “battered wives club” on CFB Shearwater and that my mother had used it a couple of time when she needed to get us away from Richard when Richard was in the midsts of a meltdown.

  • How would things have turned out if Richard had not been able to escape the involvement of our family with Nova Scotia Social Services by obtaining a posting to CFB Summerside.
  • What would life had been like had Richard faced any real serious consequences for his alcoholism and his violent outbursts.
  • What would life had been like had the Canadian Forces offered Richard treatment for his PTSD and his Depression instead of encouraging him to self medicate his problems away with alcohol.

CFB Summerside – Prince Edward Island

I remember being in a bicycle accident while we were stationed at CFB Summerside. I didn’t remember too much about the accident, but I figured that I would submit a request anyways.

Turns out that someone had found me laying face down in the middle of the road unconscious with no description of what had happened.

The person who admitted to hospital was not my grandmother. To this day I still don’t recognize the name. When I tracked down my mother in 2013 and showed her the paperwork she said that she didn’t recognize the name. At the top of the admission paper it says “Father in Iceland with airforce, will return this evening”.

In 2013 I had to examine my father for a Federal Court application for judicial review. One of the questions I asked my father was what provinces other than Alberta were we involved with social services. His response was PEI for child custody.

I filed a request from the PEI Govt for these records. All the government would confirm is that my father had applied for custody, but that the matter was never settled by the court, the government had never granted Richard sole custody.

In 2013 I tracked my mother down to ask her about this. She said that the Canadian Forces Judge Advocate General had granted Richard sole custody of my brother and I and that she had been ordered to leave the PMQ by the Canadian Forces.

Behaviours such as this were confirmed in a report that was commissioned by the Canadian Armed Forces in 1996 and released in May of 2000. The report stated that because of the existence of the Defence Establishment Trespass Regulations military dependents such as spouses and children had no legal right to live on military bases. Military dependents are there at the pleasure of the serving member. If there was a breakdown in the marital home the serving member could have the military police eject the spouse from the base. This would prevent the ejected spouse from serving court papers on the serving spouse. Also, the serving spouse enjoyed free transportation provided by the Canadian Forces which would often cause the ejected spouse to be disadvantaged by travel distance from seeing her children.

  • How would things have turned out in the long run if Richard wasn’t able to have Marie ejected from the PMQ?
  • What would have happened had social services become involved when I was admitted to hospital with no next of kin.

CFB Namao / CFB Griesbach – Edmonton, AB

The most egregious cracks that I slipped through here were related to my mental health.

As I’ve said in other posts, I fully believe that my long term mental health was willingly sacrificed to allow the Canadian Armed Forces to keep their damn secrets about the Captain Father Angus McRae child sexual abuse sex scandal under wraps and out of the public eye.

I had no idea of how bad things were until I received my foster care records from the Alberta Government. The fact that I had foster care records was the most stunning aspect of this.

In October of 1980 my family arrived at CFB Griesbach. This was 6 months after the events on CFB Namao. My teacher and my brother’s teacher brought us to the attention of military social worker Captain Terry Totzke. A psychiatrist hired by the Canadian Armed Forces to evaluate my family and I found that I was well past the point of despair and depression and that I was extremely anxious and fearful of men. I was also found to hate being touched. Oh, and I was terrified of my father and I was convinced that he was going to drown me in a toilet. It’s obvious that by this point in time Richard had been informed of what had transpired on CFB Namao.

For an added bonus my results from the Wechsler IQ test that I had been administered showed that I had an IQ of 136 +/- 6.

This same psychiatrist found that my father accepted no responsibility for his family, he expected others to solve his problems for him, he blamed his mother for the problems my brother and I were exhibiting.

I remember this time of my life as being full of confusion. I couldn’t make friends. The other kids on base were constantly beating the daylights out of me. I also started to be able to run my hands through my hair and pull clumps of hair out of my head. My father was angry with me no matter what I did. My stepmother started echoing my father’s anger towards me. No matter what I did I was a complete fuck-up. There was no pleasing anyone. I started frequently wetting the bed. To teach me a lesson and to get me to stop wetting the bed I was often sent to school without a shower which just amplified the attacks at school. The kids would often call me “onion head”. As a foot note, I didn’t stop wetting the bed until just after I had turned 16 and had moved out of the house.

Various follow-ups between October 1980 and November 1981 didn’t go anywhere. No matter what Captain Totzke was being told I was never medicated nor was I ever sent for therapy.

In November of 1981 my teacher, my brother’s teacher, and our principal contacted Alberta Social Services as Captain Totzke didn’t seem to be able to get my brother’s and my “odd and strange behaviours” under control. It wasn’t that Totzke couldn’t get our behaviours under control. It’s more than likely that the Canadian Forces didn’t want to risk either me or my brother talking to civilian therapists because there was the obvious risk that we’d start talking about the babysitter from CFB Namao which in turn would lead to the discovery of the true extent of what Captain Father Angus McRae had done on CFB Namao from 1978 until 1980.

Alberta Social Services sent me for testing and found that I was so emotionally disturbed that I would never be able to function properly in any school unless I received treatment. By the time I was supposed to be placed in a “special school” I had devolved so bad that I was supposed to be institutionalized. As Captain Totzke was my primary caregiver he would have to agree to this. Which he never seemed to. So a compromise was reached, I would attend a school program for emotionally disturbed children until further arrangements could be made.

Being in this program required two things. First my father had to sign my foster care admission paperwork. Second, me father was supposed to attend family counselling.

In December of 1982 a letter was sent to Captain Totzke and my father inviting them to a conference with my civilian social workers on January 26th, 1983.

The meeting occurred on January 26th, 1983. Captain Totzke was there but my father wasn’t. Captain Totzke said that my father was happy with my improvement from being in the Westfield program. My father was so happy that Captain Totzke said that he recently helped my father turn down a posting to Nova Scotia because my father wanted me to stay in the program.

My civilian counsellors informed Captain Totzke that my father was not attending family counselling and that unless my father attended family counselling that my behaviour and my emotional state would continue to deteriorate. My civilian case worker told Captain Totzke that in order to apply duress to Richard to make him comply that I would be removed from the home and placed into foster care or residential care. Remember the part about my father signing the foster care admission paperwork? My civilian counsellors told Captain Totzke to inform my father and my father’s commanding officer forthwith that Richard was to attend every scheduled family counselling session that was upcoming or Alberta Social Services would take action.

On January 28th, 1983 my civilian case worker called Captain Totzke for an update. Apparently my father lost his shit. He didn’t understand what the program was all about. He claimed that my counsellors were harassing Richard and Sue. Totzke also informed my civilian case worker that my father has just received a posting to Ontario. Remember Totzke claiming he helped my father turn down a posting? I wonder what changed in the span of two days, don’t you?

In closing the file Alberta Social Services noted that my father often changed his story from one meeting to the next, and that my father often told people in positions of authority what he thought they wanted to hear. Basically Richard was a pathological liar who could manipulate people to get what he wanted.

It destroys me to know that the Canadian Armed Forces and my father knew that I was experiencing severe psychological trauma brought on no doubt by the sexual abuse from CFB Namao, but also from my father’s issues, and they chose to do nothing.

What type of life would I have been able to enjoy had I received proper therapy and treatments back then?

What would have happened if my father had to prove that he had sole custody of my brother and I and that it turned out that he didn’t.

How would life have been for me had I been removed from both Richard and Marie and placed with a normal family.

If I had remained in Alberta after my father fled to Ontario and had I remained in the foster care program what type of assistance would I have received with obtaining higher education?

I slipped through far too many cracks to count here.

  • How would my life have turned out had I received therapy for my major depression?
  • How would my life have turned out had I received therapy for my severe anxiety?
  • How would things have turned out for me if Captain Terry Totzke was less concerned about my apparent homosexuality and had been more concerned about my mental health and wellbeing.?
  • How would things have turned out for me had I been institutionalized and received the proper care?
  • How would things have turned out for me if I had been placed into foster care or residential care and then felt safe enough to talk about what had happened on Canadian Forces Base Namao?
  • If I had been removed from the home and placed with a family that cared, would I have finished grade 12? Would I have gone on to college? University? Would I have been able to take proper trades training?
  • If I was removed from Richard’s house and placed into either residential care or foster care, would I have been free to develop a proper sexual identity?
  • Given a chance, what would I have parlayed my IQ of 136 +/- 6 into?

CFB Downsview

I obtained my social service paperwork from the Children’s Aid Society of Toronto as they were mentioned in my Alberta Social Services paperwork.

CAST tried to locate the contact information for my family from the Canadian Armed Forces, but the Canadian Forces wouldn’t comply.

CAST ended up tracking down my brother and I through the North York Board of Education.

CAST wasn’t able to get too involved with my family as my father didn’t want to participate and CAST was facing budget cuts. CAST said that they would keep the file open none the less and that if they received any complaints from the neighbours they wouldn’t hesitate to get involved.

I don’t ever remember being involved with CAST. Is this why Richard and Sue always insisted that my brother and I get out of the house in the morning and not come back until supper time? That way we’d never be home when CAST showed up for a house visit?

  • If I had been placed at the Sick Kids Hospital in Toronto for psychiatric treatment, instead of being forced to grow up with major depression, severe anxiety, and gender confusion, what would my future have been like?
  • What would have happened if the Canadian Forces Military Police on CFB Downsview had reported Richard’s violent domestic fight to CAST in the summer of 1985? Is this why when the military police came to talk to my brother and I about Richard’s violent breakdown that they told us to never call 9-1-1, that we were to call base switchboard and summon the military police?
  • When I moved out of the house in the winter of 1988 the CAST file on my family was still open. I didn’t have to go to work or rent a room in a house. Had I known that my family was involved with CAST I could have asked CAST for emergency shelter and emergency funding to allow me to attend school without having to work.
  • In 1989 when I attempted to finish off my schooling at A.I.S.P., I could have also received emergency funding and emergency shelter had I applied for it after Richard blew a gasket because he didn’t understand what the name “Alternative and Independent School Program” meant.
  • If I had known about my family’s involvement with CAST, would CAST have assisted me with extracurricular music lessons?
  • Would CAST have assisted me with getting into the National Science Fair if they had learnt about my father’s refusal because I was “showing off”?

CFNIS 2011

If I had known the truth about the period from October of 1980 until January 1988, would I have been better able to prevent the CFNIS, the Provost Marshal, the VCDS, and the Minister of National Defence from concocting a wildly inaccurate story about the period of August 1978 though to July of 1980.

  • The CFNIS in 2011 had access to the Canadian Forces court martial records relating to Captain Father Angus McRae. The CFNIS knew that P.S. had been molesting numerous children on the base and it was this abusive behaviour that attracted the attention of the base military police which eventually led to the CFSIU investigating Captain McRae for having committed “acts of homosexuality” with young boys on the base.
  • Alberta Social Services was of the opinion that my father was a liar and often told people he perceived to be in positions of authority what he thought they wanted to hear. Would the CFNIS had been able to place much emphasis on Richard’s statement in which he said that there was never a babysitter in our house?
  • If I had my social service records during my initial interview with the CFNIS in March of 2011, would I have been able to introduce enough evidence to show the CFNIS that my father was fully aware of what had occurred on CFB Namao but that due to his own issues he was refusing to allow me to receive treatment for the various mental illnesses that I was suffering through as a result of the abuse on CFB Namao?

So many cracks.

I’ve slipped through so many cracks that it’s not funny. It’s actually quite maddening.

To see that I was so close to receiving help with my issues, but that my father and the Canadian Forces were so hell bent on keeping a lid on the Captain McRae fiasco that I was kept from receiving the help that I so rightfully deserved.

You might say to yourself that maybe it would have been better if I had never found these records and documents. You’d be very wrong.

Prior to obtaining these records I had always viewed myself as a worthless fuckup who had screwed up his own life because as my father would often say that I was fucking insane like my mother and that I was a selfish crybaby who fucked with his military career.

The records allowed me to see that I wasn’t a fuck-up. That I was just a kid being crushed by forces far more powerful than I could have ever imagined.

I had been sacrificed in order to keep a secret.

The Canadian Armed Forces sacrificed me to keep the lid on a horrific secret.

My father, having his own demons and lacking his own backbone was more than willing to go along with this.

My father was obviously an unfit parent, so was my mother but I didn’t grow up with her, how would my life had turned out if I hadn’t grown up in an environment where secrets needed to be kept?

People keep telling me “Bobbie, you’re so smart, what are you wasting your life for”, or “Bobbie, you’re so smart, why didn’t you get into such-n-such a trade”, or my favourite “Bobbie, the guys in the shop are afraid of you because you know too much”.

The last point I’m not kidding about. When I took on the position of Chief Engineer at St. Paul’s I got brought into the plant manager’s office for a little one-on-one. Seems that there was a little mutiny of sorts brewing in the power engineering section. I was too smart and the other engineers were feeling intimidated. And this isn’t the first employer that has brought this up.

And it’s true. I love to read. I love reading service manuals. I love to understand. If I didn’t then I wouldn’t have made so many changes at St. Paul’s. And this is something that I am sick and tired of apologizing for. Yes, I should be in more technical employment. But that wasn’t in the cards for me. And I’m not about to play stupid. Why should I? I didn’t ask to have my potential pulled out from under me.

I really despise it when people accuse me of having been lazy or having wasted all the opportunities that a person like me should have had. When I was younger this used to anger me quite a bit. “Bobbie, you must have partied too hard instead of going to trade school”, or “Maybe home life was too good and you just never learnt the value of hard work”.

Where would I have gone in life had I not had to drag along the diagnosed but untreated depression, anxiety, and other issues that were gifted to me?

No, the discovery of all of these records tells me that short of a fucking miracle I ended up exactly where the trajectory of my early life aimed me for. I think I did pretty good for a grade 9 dropout with a grade 12 G.E.D..

No drug dependency, no criminal record, a pretty solid employment history.

Sure, going to college, or university, or even trade school would have probably opened up a world of opportunity for me, but those things were never to be.

So I’m not upset and saddened by the opportunities that were taken away from me.

I’m just disgusted at the people and organizations that took those opportunities away from me.