Tag: trauma

And then there was one

I used to have two blogs. This blog and cfbnamao.ca

cfbnamao.ca is now set to redirect to bobbiebees.ca

I’ve come to the frustrating conclusion that nobody is actually listening to anything I have to say, so instead of wasting money on two sites, I’m just going to run this site for now.

I’ll try to keep this site going for a little while.

The problem that I have is that child sexual abuse in the Canadian Armed Forces is such a niche topic.

In the civilian world the justice system generally works as it should.

The military doesn’t have a justice system, it has a disciplinary system.

Victims are of absolutely no concern to the military justice system.

The military system is more concerned with disciplining the service member.

Sure, we’ve had child sexual abuse in the catholic church, in the catholic run orphanages, in the Indian residential schools, in the boy scouts, in minor hockey, in minor baseball, in professional sports like the Maple Leaf Gardens. There’s even been kiddie diddlers in police forces and the juvenile justice system. But no one seems willing to believe that child sexual abuse would occur behind the barbed wire fences that encircled the bases and the PMQs on base.

I have no hobbies or other topics that would appeal to anyone.

The only thing that I really have going is my desire to be dead.

1805295600

  days

  hours  minutes  seconds

until

M.A.i.D. for mental illness is legalized

And I really don’t need two blogs for this.

A person can only do so much yelling into the void before they begin to realize that the void is empty and has nothing to offer.

I have about $10k worth of camera equipment at home that I know how to use, but taking pictures doesn’t fill me with anything.

I just bought a Raspberry Pi5 with some nice peripherals. Got it set up. And remembered that the reason that I never accomplished anything with the Pis that I’ve owned before is I have no drive or ambition to do anything.

And truth be told, getting yelled at by my father for being an idiot and pretending to be something that I’m not is something that I want to avoid. Yeah, sure, Richard is dead, but he lives in my head. After what he put me through as a kid he owns a large mansion inside of my skull. He always has lived there.

Work? Yeah, work is a paycheque. Keeps me fed with a roof over my head. So I guess I should be lucky.

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.