T- 722 days and counting

Well, it’s 722 days between now and March 17th, 2027.

March 17th, 2027 is of course when MAiD MD-SUMC is supposed to become legal in Canada.

MAiD MD-SUMC was supposed to have been legalized on March 17th, 2023, and then again on March 17th, 2024, so I’m not exactly holding my breath for this date.

The one things that these dates do give me is a bit of relief.

This relief is the same relief that you feel when you’ve worked a double overtime shift, or you’re on an extremely long flight, and you’re near the end and you get the little kick of energy that perks you up a little to get you through.

These dates also give me a bit of hope.

A bit of hope that if I hold on for just a little bit long that I can end my life with a humane procedure under the care of a licensed medical practitioner as opposed to risking failure through a self administered procedure.

Yes, I fully understand that by ending my life via M.A.i.D. I will be giving the Government of Canada, the Department of Justice, and the Department of National Defence everything that they could possibly hope for.

However, I think I can now die knowing that I at least tried to take on the Canadian Armed Forces and that while I wasn’t successful, I did at least make some people in the DOJ and the DND extremely uncomfortable.

However, I am fucking burnt out and my depression is not ever going to get any better.

I hate the fact that I am able to somewhat function with major depression.

Bobbie, you’re an asshole!

Bobbie, you’re not a team player!

Bobbie, you’re a jerk!

Bobbie, you think you’re better than everyone else!

Having high functioning depression is a fucking curse.

Not having the events from Canadian Forces Base Namao acknowledged in even the slightest really doesn’t help.

I really hope that M.A.i.D. MD-SUMC is approved this time around.

The hospital that I am currently at is slated to transfer the acute care operations to the new site in early 2027.

Even if M.A.i.D. MD-SUMC is approved in March of 2027, there will be an evaluation process that I will have to navigate as well as a cooling-off period that I will have to sit through.

The current site will still be in operation until about 2030 as it will have to support the research programs until the new research facility has been built adjacent to the new hospital.

I have no interest in going to the new site.

I consulted on the new site, and I was a member of the committee overseeing the design of the new site.

I wish I could say that this was a highlight of my life, but it wasn’t.

It was just more proof that my depression and my baggage from the past prove to be easy targets for those who sense these vulnerabilities.

My management team is well aware of my plans to not go to the new site.

So, I get to be the captain of a sinking ship.

And believe me, there are reasons why myself and this current site fit together like hand in glove. If M.A.i.D. MD-SUMC does some to pass in March of 2027 and if I am approved to undergo the procedure I will probably explain why the current site and I both share a lot of things in common and why I think we were made for each other.

Art Wudrich

Came across the obituary for my mother’s second husband, Art Wudrich.

Arthur Leo Wudrich

November 18, 1938 ~ May 18, 2024 (age 85)

Arthur Leo Wudrich Obituary

Art passed away in Calgary at home at the age of 85 years in his sleep peacefully.

He is survived by his wife of 39 years, Marie Wudrich; sons, Terry Wudrich (Deanie) and Dwayne Wudrich; grandchildren, Tyler Wudrich, and Joanne Wudrich; great-grandchildren, Kayden Wudrich and Carson Wudrich; sister Amelia Buhler; brothers Kenny Wudrich, Donald Wudrich (Juverna) and Richard Wudrich (Marilyn).

Art was predeceased by his sister, Ruth Olson; and brothers, Louie Wudrich, Leonard Wudrich, Albert Wudrich, Harold Wudrich and Emil Wudrich.

Arthur Wudrich started his career as a Ferry operator in Saskatchewan, until he went back to school and became a refrigeration mechanic. His son Terry and grandson Tyler have followed in his footsteps and continued with refrigeration as a career choice.

Arthur did move a lot during his career and had many hobbies that kept him busy. He loved to fish, do woodwork and take photos of wildlife. He always loved nature and animals, as do his son Dwayne and granddaughter Joanne.

Art’s wish was for no services to be held, but for the people that know him please take a moment and enjoy family, nature and what life offers you.

I only knew Art briefly. He was a decent guy.

I first met Art in the summer of 1990 when my father invited me to move back to Edmonton with him for his final posting.

Marie and Art were living out on an acreage by Wabumun just west of Edmonton.

I don’t know how or when my mother and Art first met. Marie and Art were married in 1985. This was just after my father signed their divorce papers.

Art and my mother were together for 39 years.

I stayed with Art and Marie for the month of September in 1990.

When my father, my stepmother, my stepbrother, and I arrived at Canadian Forces Base Griesbach in July of 1990 we lived in military housing on base for 2 months. My father bought a house up in Morinville, AB. My stepmother made it very clear that I was not welcome in her house. When my brother arrived in Alberta after his delay in Ontario, she didn’t want him in her house either.

When I was staying with Marie and Art out on their acreage, the engine on my car blew a lower radiator hose and I ended up destroying the engine while driving to work in Edmonton.

No big deal, Art made his garage available to me to use to swap the engine out in my car. He even came with me to West Edmonton Pick-A-Part where I grabbed a used engine out of a scrapped car in the scrap yard. And being an industrial refrigeration mechanic Art had all of the good tools at his disposal.

I found a car that had significant rear end damage but with low milage. Pulled the valve cover off the engine to check for wear on the cam shaft and tappets, and to see if there were any signs that the head had ever overheated, checked for oil leaks around the head. Pulled the plugs and they looked clean.

I took the opportunity to upgrade my car from a 1.4l to a 1.6l engine with the more advanced carburettor.

Took me the one weekend to have the dead engine pulled out of the car and the new engine put in. Art even helped me haul the old engine to the wreckers for scrap.

Art was impressed that I had done the engine swap by myself and that I was meticulous and tidy and cleaned everything up. This I owed to Bill Parker, Bob Wrightson, and the other guys at the base auto hobby club on CFB Downsview.

Art wanted me to get into the refrigeration trade. He said that he was certain that he could get me taken on as an apprentice, and that with my mechanical skills and my electrical aptitude that I would do well.

Sadly though, the events of CFB Namao had occurred just over ten years prior and I was still bearing the fresh trauma of my father’s anger and Captain Totzke’s derision. I was more than certain that I was too much of a failure to be anything like Art.

I moved to Vancouver in the early winter of 1992. Being on welfare since the summer of ’91, Edmonton wasn’t a pleasant city to be in. Unless you have a red seal trade, there’s really not much work in Edmonton except in the low paying service industry.

I had tried to get in contact with my mother a few times between 1992 and 2013, but the company that Art worked for had service contracts for large industrial gas compressors and Art and Marie would often move to the area where the job was as the job would often take a few months from start to finish.

I didn’t see Art between 1992 and December 2013 when I had to track Marie down to ask her questions about answers my father had given to me when I examined him for federal court.

Art would have been about 75 at this time. My mother was 67.

I saw Art and Marie two more times, but the last time I spoke to either of them was back in 2017.

Marie and Art had moved on with their lives, and Marie had petty well written off anything to do with her involvement with my father.

Art didn’t seem to appreciate my desire to know more about the relationship between my mother and my father and my extended family.

But still, Art was a good guy.

It was last week that I had found out that Art had passed away in May of 2024.

I often wonder what would have happened in my life had my father been 1/8th or even just 1/16th the man that Art was.

So now, it looks like it’s just Marie and myself that remain.

And after we’re gone that will be the end of the dysfunction that was my family.

50 forever.

Well, Tuesday would have been Scott’s 51st birthday.

But looks like he’ll be 50 forever.

Is he in a better place?

Nope.

Is he in a worse place?

Nope.

We didn’t believe in heaven or hell or the imaginary friend in the sky.

This existence is all we get.

In many ways I’m jealous of Scott.

For Scott, there’s no more pain and there’s no more suffering.

He’s no longer plagued by daemons of what could have been or what should have been.

No more memories of growing up, of the babysitter, of our grandmother, or of our father.

All that shit is gone.

What killed Scott?

Was it the ketamine, his epilepsy, or his heart condition?

Officially the Alberta Coroner will only say that his death was due to a ruptured spleen after a fall.

What caused the fall the medical examiner can’t say because his body was fairly decomposed when he was found.

2 weeks in an apartment in the Edmonton summer will cause a body to break down fairly quickly.

But if I had to speculate as to what the root cause of my brother’s death was, I’d have to say that the Indian Residential School System would probably factor in as a significant contributor. I’d also say that the desire of the Canadian Armed Forces to hide the true extent of Captain McRae’s child sexual abuse exploits on Canadian Forces Base Namao were also a significant contributor.

In life, every action has consequences.

Some consequences are felt immediately.

Some consequences appear as ripples at a later date.

Grandma was a very angry and disturbed woman from her time in Indian Residential school.

She was not a loving or caring woman, except for her alcohol. She loved and cared for her alcohol.

My father was not much better. He was already a heavy drinker at 16 when he joined the Royal Canadian Navy in 1963.

Grandma should never have had children.

But she did.

My father should never have had children.

But he did.

Luckily neither Scott nor I reproduced, so the dysfunction ends with us.

From the time I left the house in 1987 when I was 16 until 2013 I never really had much dealings with Scott.

When I went up to Edmonton for a couple of weeks in the summer of 2013 I mentioned to him that I never thought that I would have ever spoken to him again.

Scott knew from reading my blog back then that I was having some dealings with a constable from the Morinville RCMP detachment and Scott asked me if I could arrange a meeting with this constable as he wanted to know if this constable could read his CPIC file to see if there was some explanation as to why he was frequently being pulled over for traffic stops.

I did arrange for a meeting between the three of us at a Tim Hortons in St. Albert on the St. Albert Trail. Just after my brother started asking about what his CPIC file contained the constable kinda feigned a radio call and said that he had to go.

When I talked to the constable by phone the next day he said that there were issues on Scott’s CPIC file that would have warranted his arrest, and that he didn’t want to do that as this constable was familiar with what we went through on CFB Namao.

When I collected my brother’s belongings and his remains last August, the one thing that I did notice in his passport was that he had tried to enter the United States of America but that he had voluntarily returned to Canada.

Scott had quite the criminal history.

Some people may say that Scott’s criminal history was his own doing.

But it wasn’t.

Scott’s criminal history was 100% Richard’s fault.

When we lived on Canadian Forces Base Downsview in North York, Ontario my brother started running with a bad crowd.

I think that was the difference between Scott and I.

Scott wanted to be popular and to have friends.

I was majorly depressed and just wanted to be left the fuck alone.

Scott wanted to hang out and belong.

I was the type of kid that the popular kids picked on for entertainment.

Richard had absolutely no interest in the either of us.

I had my after school and weekend jobs.

Scott had nothing to do but hang out with the thugs he called friends.

And these guys were literal thugs.

Auto thefts, B&E’s, robberies w/o weapons, credit card fraud, etc…..

And this was all before he was 16.

Richard, our illustrious father, was too busy kissing ass and polishing knobs in the Canadian Forces to climb the ranks to give a shit.

Scott’s troubles and his frequent stays in group homes and detention were solely due to Richard’s inability to give a fuck about anyone other than himself.

But to hear Richard tell it, Scott’s issues were solely due to:

Grandma’s drinking
Grandma’s cruelty
Our mother’s absence
Insanity that ran in out mother’s family tree
Me not raising my brother properly
Me letting the babysitter on CFB Namao molest Scott
The parents of the other boys not raising their kids right.
Schools not teaching Scott properly.
The civilian public schools not using corporal punishment like the schools the Canadian Forces ran for the kids of military families.

Richard was a complete skinflint.

As he told his airforce buddy Jacques Choquette once after Jacques asked my father why he doesn’t just drop Scott and I off with our mother, “As long as I keep these kids under my roof, I control the costs. If I send these kids to their mother, then I’ll have to sign my fucking pay cheque over to that bitch, and that’s sure as fuck not happening”.

So no, there were no hobbies, no activities, no trips, no going to the movies, no going to sports games, no fucking nothing.

Scott’s legal troubles would plague him well into adult life.

It’s too bad that Richard died back in 2017.

It would have been nice to have seen Richard tortured and tormented by Scott’s death.

My dream home

Daily writing prompt

Write about your dream home.

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What would my dream home be like?

I don’t know.

I never lived in a place that I would call a “home”.

And I never lived in any place that I would call a “dream home”.

The houses I lived in were all fucking traumatizing nightmares, and I don’t mean that they all had the same fucking paint scheme no matter which base they were located on. Living in an abusive dysfunctional family in military housing on military bases was the traumatizing nightmare.

I grew up living in Private Married Quarters on Canadian Forces Bases.

And with my rage prone alcohol fuelled father, these weren’t homes.

They were houses.

It’s where I kept my shit.

It’s where I slept at night.

It’s where I was absolutely terrified to ask my father for help with school homework as that would launch him into a rage and fury.

From the time my mother left in 1977 until September of 1985, I never had a birthday. In 1985, no doubt due to my father’s rampage in the PMQ during the summer of 1985, I had a “birthday” of sorts. A small cake and a $20 bill. And a promise that he would never forget my birthday again. That was the last birthday of mine that he ever acknowledged. I guess once he realized that the base military police were not going to inform the Children’s Aid Society of Toronto about his massive meltdown in the PMQ in the summer of ’85 he didn’t have to pretend to give a shit about me any longer.

My alcoholic grandmother living in the PMQs and raising my brother and I didn’t make things any easier. If I had to take a wild guess, I think that my father got his mental issues from her. As much as he would claim that she was an alcoholic that was cruel to his children, he was the exact same.

When my father received his final posting in June of 1990 to go back to CFB Edmonton in anticipation of his retirement, he and my stepmother bought a house in Morinville, AB.

I lived in an actual house for the first time in my entire life. Not a military PMQ. Not a rooming house where I rented a room after I moved out of the PMQ on CFB Downsview when I was 16. An actual house, with walls that you could hang pictures on without fear of pissing off the base construction engineers.

Yeah, my stepmother had me booted out within a week of us moving from CFB Griesbach to Morinville.

She apparently did the same with my brother when he finished his sentence at the St. John’s Training School for Boys in Uxbridge, Ontario and moved to AB to stay with our father as Scott was still only 16 when he was released.

So yeah, never really did live in a real home as a kid.

I’m happy with my bachelor apartment.

It’s not too big.

Growing up in my father’s house it was either “go the fuck outside and stay the fuck outside until the lights come on” or ” get the fuck up to your bedroom and stay there” or “get the fuck to school”. There were no weekend nights playing boardgames or watching Disney on TV or any other family style of activities.

And that’s why I like my apartment.

I’m either sleeping all day, or I’m at work, or I’m out and about trying to keep my brain from ruminating over and over about what I could have done differently in life.

My apartment, just like the PMQs, is just a place where I store my shit, and go to sleep.

What is my dream job?

Daily writing prompt

What’s your dream job?

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to have a dream job, I suppose one would have to have dreams.

And dreams are something that I’ve never had, at least not for a long while.

Growing up, especially in the aftermath of Canadian Forces Base Namao, my only dreams were to die. To die and have my father blamed for my death. That was about my only dream.

I always had dreams of Richard going off to prison for a very long time

When we lived on Canadian Forces Base Downsview in Ontario, my father and my stepmother used to use Canada’s Wonderland as “Richard’s and Sue’s Discount Babysitting Service”, or at least that’s what Scott called it.

Back when Wonderland first opened up, and I think for the first season or two, it had introductory unlimited access and unlimited rides for $29.95. Richard and Sue would drop

I used to dream that I’d get kidnapped from Canada’s Wonderland, that I’d get murdered, and that my body would then be found by a hiker in the woods. And that after identifying my skeleton, the police would go talk to Richard, and Richard would lie, and lie, and lie, and that he’d eventually fess up and that the judge would sentence him to prison with extra time added on for his lies.

But, that never happened.

I’m now 54 years old, and I still dream and ponder about how life would have worked out for Richard if I had been kidnapped and killed.

So far as dream job goes, I’ve never had a dream job.

I wanted to join the Canadian Forces when I was younger, but that never went anywhere due to the recruiting centre “obtaining some information” about me that indicated that I was an unsuitable candidate for service. I think this had to do with Captain Totzke’s paperwork being in my father’s service file, which would have been available for the recruiting service.

I’m probably lucky that I was never enlisted in the Canadian Forces. I don’t really know how well my psyche would have held up in an environment where the truth isn’t based upon reality but is instead based upon the whims and desires of the chain of command.

If I had enlisted in the Canadian Armed Forces I’d probably have to have hidden so deeply in the closet that I’d be somewhere in Narnia.

Working in bowling centres was never what I’d call a dream job. But seeing as how I brought skills to bowling centres that most bowling centres wouldn’t be able to afford, I was always afforded a lot of leeway. I don’t know how well me being trans and going on hormones would have been tolerated at some of the centres, but other centres would have been okay.

There was one guy I worked for in Vancouver. He owned an electronics installation company. He started the company with money that he got from his parents. He couldn’t understand why I just didn’t get some money from my parents and start something up that I liked to do.

Two problems with that. There was never going to be any money from my father, or my stepmother, or my real mother. I don’t blame Sue. I didn’t burst forth from her crotch. Richard? Yeah, fuck no. His responsibility to my brother and I ended when he ejaculated. My mother? Richard having the military chuck her out of the military housing on Summerside destroyed her and turned her into a husk of herself, especially with Richard’s bullshit about her just abandoning the family and running of with a guy named Gus from the P.P.C.L.I..

People often ask me why I’m so leery about guys like Bill Gates, Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, Donald Trump, or the various others I’ve known in my life that often portray themselves as self made and living the lives that they lead after years and years of hard work.

I worked under a general manager once who only got his job because his father knew one of the board members of the company. His business degrees were worth less than used toilet paper. His managerial skills consisted of overt threats and convincing people that other people were out to get their jobs. Yes, this manager ended up getting replaced, but not before numerous people who had been with the company for years up and quit. Of course, as fate would have it for the well connected, he ended up failing into a job with more pay and more prestige.

I had a co-worker that wasn’t all that bright, caused far more harm than good, but as he didn’t have crippling depression and debilitating anxiety he could glad-hand his way into positions that he didn’t belong in.

It’s as they say, if you can’t dazzle ’em with brilliance, baffle ’em with bullshit.

If it wasn’t for Errol Musk and his involvement with emerald mining, especially being compensated with roughage that he could then process and keep the proceeds from, Elon wouldn’t have been able to jet set from South Africa to Canada and then into America. According to Errol, any time that Kimbal or Elon needed money for anything, the safe was wide open. If it wasn’t for Maye Musk being Canadian, there would have been no back door for Musk to entre America through.

Musk didn’t found Paypal.

Musk didn’t found Tesla.

Musk did assemble SpaceX, but without SpaceX being awarded a multi-billion dollar contract from NASA for flights to resupply the International Space Station, SpaceX would never have become anything. What’s even more amazing about SpaceX is that it received its first contract with NASA without even having a rocket ready to go.

Jeff Bezos nearly lost everything in the early ’90s with his early attempt at a being a book reseller on the early Internet. Luckily for Jeff, a near 1/4 million dollar loan that his parents facilitated kept him from insolvency and allowed him to start what became Amazon. And now Amazon both via patents and just the sheer magnitude of his empire, Bezos can prevent any and all competition.

William Henry Gates the 3rd is NOT the plucky little guy that started from nothing. The Gates family is a well established and well monied Seattle family going back generations. Bill Gates and Paul Allen both went to the same exclusive school in Seattle. Their respective families were able to get them access time on mainframe computers where they could hone their programming skills. This was at a time when access to mainframes was about $1,000.00/hr. This was before the advent of home computers.

Bills mother was a socialite who hung out with the wives of board member of IBM. This was at a time when IBM was looking to release a personal computer. IBM had the hardware, but they didn’t have an operating system. However it happened, Bill’s mother found out from a wife of an IBM board member, and Bill’s mother told Bill.

Bill Gates then did what any kid with access to easy money did, he bought a licence from a small company in Seattle called the Seattle Computer Company for their product called “Quick and Dirty DOS”, rebranded the QD-DOS as Microsoft DOS and sold a lot of units of this new “MS-DOS” to IBM, and quickly pissed off the Seattle Computer company.

Did I mention that Bill had one of the most influential Seattle lawyers as a father and the founder of the Seattle First National Bank was his grandfather?

Donald Trump is the ultimate Nepotism Baby. Donald would be nothing if it wasn’t for the real estate empire that his father built in New York city. This empire was built from tax payer dollars that were paid to Fred Trump by the US Govt. to build housing for American troops returning from WWII. The fact that the Trumps are even in America is solely due to the fact that when Friedrich Drumpf immigrated to America, immigration requirements were almost non-existent. Friedrich Drumpf immigrated to America he only to avoid a prison sentence in his home country of Bavaria which he was given for failing to enlist for compulsory military service. Friedrich also had no proper documentation when he came to America as Bavaria had stripped him of his citizenship. If Friedrich Drumpf were to try to immigrate to America today he would be refused entry.

Fred Trump was one of the most reviled slumlords in American history. The many scams of the Trumps are far too numerous to list here, but they are publicly available for review.

Needless to say that Donald wouldn’t have reached where he is today if it wasn’t for his family’s money.

Almost everyone in a position of influence these days got there solely due to family money.

This isn’t to say that I would have had a happy life if I had family money, but having family money opens up a lot of doors for a person.

I’ve had co-workers that fell into good positions in life solely due family money or family connections.

And quite honestly I do get rather sick and tired of people telling me that if I wasn’t such a lazy asshole and such a whiny crybaby that I could have simply applied myself and I could have easily been something.

A lot of what the world is these days is people using their family capital to build their personal wealth and empire. And once they build that wealth, they use every means at their disposal to prevent challengers. Microsoft, Apple, etc. don’t own thousands upon thousands of unused patents for no reason at all.

But having family money early on would have allowed me to go to school, maybe to have travelled when I was younger. Maybe bought a house. And afforded myself the ability to have recovered from the trauma of CFB Namao, of my grandmother, of my father, and of Captain Terry Totzke.

Maybe then I could have discovered what a “dream job” was.

When I was 10 years old I was given an IQ test as part of a psychiatric evaluation by my civilian social workers in an attempt to ascertain what the fuck was going on in my brain.

136 +/- 6 was the result of my test.

At work I’m reviled by everyone there.

Every attempt that I make to bring my section into the modern era is met with heavy resistance. Almost every initiative that I’ve tried to institute to ensure compliance with the Safety Standards Act just meets with more stubborn resistance.

I know that I shouldn’t be here.

But power engineering was the only way that a “poor” like me could get into a union position that would protect me and allow me to move out of the life of poverty that the Canadian Armed Forces and my father had assigned me to.

I thought that power engineering was my ticket to the future, but then I very quickly realized that power engineering is just to ensure that there is a warm body in the plant so that mgmt. can assure Tech Safety BC that they are meeting the requirement to have a warm body in the seat as required.

And that’s it.

Nothing more than glorified plunger jockeys.

Yes, I know that I’m too smart for my position and that my knowledge and my abilities intimidate other people.

Yes, I know that I am a complete asshole for not teaching people how to do what I do because I do it so easy.

Yes, I can troubleshoot computer networking issues. But it’s not because I received special training. I just read the books and read the manuals.

I don’t like computers. I don’t play computer games. I don’t edit videos. I don’t make music.

But I can RTFM ( Read The Fucking Manual).

I am also not afraid to call or email tech support for guidance.

It seems like anything that I do at work unleashes the rage of my co-workers.

Run a fibre optic network between the Generator Control system in Phase II over to the Burrard Building power house to eliminate a long standing communication issue with the 600 volt breakers in the Burrard Building?

“Why the fuck is that asshole sticking his fucking business into this, why doesn’t he fuck off and stay in his own lane?”. “The Fuck is wrong with him, the asshole isn’t a licenced electrician so he shouldn’t be touching any of this fucking shit!”

Troubleshoot a long standing communication issue with the Phase II Delayed Vital MODbus network?

“Is he even fucking certified to work on this? What if he destroys a breaker?”

They may think that I don’t hear them, but I hear them.

Their voices, and their sideway glances, and the conversations behind closed doors are easily overheard.

These are the things that I’ve heard all of my life.

“Bobbie’s just trying to make me look bad”

“Bobbie’s just hiding this knowledge from me. If it was easy for a moron like him to learn then he should be able to teach me. Sure, I don’t like computers, I don’t even own one, but he should be able to teach me how to set-up a MODbus to IP gateway ’cause if Bobbie can do it how fucking hard can it be?

“If he wants to work with networking or electronics, why the fuck isn’t he taking a diploma course?”

People have asked why I’m not going to the new hospital even though I was involved on the design committee for the new site.

There were two individuals in particular that went to every extent possible to make sure that I understood that my presence was not wanted on the committee and that I was to stay in my own lane and that anything that I had to say was limited to my power engineer certificate and that anything that I had to say beyond this was not going to be accepted.

These two persons in particular, well there’s a third, but I don’t have to deal with him, made sure that I understood what my place was and that freaks like me aren’t welcome in their new state-of-the-art playhouse.

Get a diploma?

Get a certificate?

Fuck, I don’t even want to get out of bed, how the fuck am I supposed to have enough strength to overcome my daemons and get a fucking diploma or a certificate?

And besides, I’m not fucking 18 years old, or even 24 years old.

I’m 54 fucking years old.

No savings, no real estate, no fucking nothing.

So no, there is no dream job.

There’s just the fucking eternal hell of knowing that I’ll never have the opportunities that should have been mine. That certain assholes will always dangle these opportunities in front of my eyes to ensure that I know that they know what I’ll never have.

p.s.

There was a study that that looked at the outcomes of children with high IQs. It was started in the 1920s in California by the father of the modern IQ test, Lewis Terman. These children were traced all throughout their lives. What surprised Lewis Terman 30 years into this study was that his hypothesis that IQ levels were hereditary was wrong, the parents of the children with high IQs that went on to have better incomes had higher educations, had better jobs, lower divorce rates, and more books in the household. Almost all of the kids that came from poor families with lower education levels and lower expectations of their children ended up as “failures” of no significance that “wasted” their talents.

Okay…….

Daily writing prompt

Write about your first name: its meaning, significance, etymology, etc.

View all responses

As a kid I never liked the name “Robert”.

I despised my full name, but that’s for a different post.

While my family lived on Canadian Forces Base Shearwater in Nova Scotia people like Bill Parker or my uncle Al always referred to me as Bob, Bobby, or Robbie.

No matter how much I preferred Bob or Bobby my father and my grandmother were always of the opinion that my birth name was Robert and that’s what I would be called.

It wasn’t until my infamous August 2006 telephone call with my father that I became determined to change my name.

The telephone call was the first time that I had an inkling that my father knew more about the events on Canadian Forces Base Namao than what he had ever admitted to.

In the aftermath of the telephone calls I had decided that I was going to seriously look at changing my name and possibly going through hormone therapy.

So, I decided that I wanted to work on my name first.

I tried different first names, but I always came back to Bobby, or more specifically Bobbie. What I really liked about Bobbie is that it is a unisex name. Bobby is generally a male name. Bobbi is generally a female name. And Bobbie is gender neutral. Tracing the history of Bobbie through the years it has gone back and forth between being a male name and a female name.

Nothing fancy about the name Bobby / Bobbie / Bobbi. They’re all the diminutive spelling of Robert / Roberta.

And the plan was that once I underwent hormone therapy that I would simply drop the “e” and go with Bobbi.

But then I had to do a stupid thing and I went on to pick a fight with the Canadian Armed Forces and the Department of National Defence.

The fight was going to be inevitable. There’s no way that the shit from 1978 through 1980 was going to stay hidden and buried in the past.

So, 17 years after my name I’m still Bobbie.

At least I’m on Estradiol and I’m sprouting beewbs……….

If only reality was like this

I came across this video on TikTok yesterday and it really blew me away as to how naive people, especially adults, can be.

I can assure you that this is not the way it worked on any military base in Canada. Especially not if you had the misfortune of coming from a dysfunctional family such as mine.

My mother left in 1977 while my father was stationed at CFB Summerside. It wasn’t her choice to leave.

Military housing could only be rented to the serving member, the non-serving parent had no legal rights to remain in the house if the serving member didn’t want them there. In fact the language in the Defence Establishment Trespass Regulations meant that the non-serving spouses were only able to remain in the military housing so long as they had the “permission” of their serving spouse. If the serving spouse didn’t want the non-serving spouse there, the non-serving spouse had no options but to leave.

In the aftermath of my mother leaving my grandmother came to Summerside to live with us from the spring of 1977 until the spring of 1978. When she returned to Edmonton my father requested a posting to Edmonton specifically so that his mother could look after his children as his “wife had abandoned him”.

As I mentioned elsewhere in my blog, my grandmother had been through Indian Residential school as a child. She didn’t have much of a formal education having entered school when she was 13 and leaving school when she was 15.

From all accounts she was an alcoholic by the time my father was born in 1946.

When she came to live with us in the military housing in Summerside she was mostly drunk and would often haul my brother and I off to the Royal Canadian Legion or other pubs while she drank.

When my father received his posting from Summerside to Namao he brought her and her husband Roy (Andy) Anderson into the PMQ on Namao to raise my brother and I while he literally buggered off to who knowns where.

It was grandma’s and Andy’s drinking that landed Andy in long term nursing care when he slipped in the bathtub and cracked his skull open. It was because of this that my brother and I ended up in the care of the babysitter.

My father was asked by Alberta Social Services after we became involved with civilian social services in 1981 if he knew why my brother and I were having emotional and behavioural issues.

My father explained to social services that his mother was “extremely cruel to his children, especially when she was intoxicated, which was frequent”.

He would further tell social services on different occasions that his mother would not admit to being an alcoholic, and that she refused to seek help for her alcoholism.

There’s a couple of “not so funny things” about my father’s statements to the CFNIS in 2011 which serve to illustrate just how fucked up the military justice system actually is.

First, my father seemed to imply that my grandmother never lived with us, and even if she did it was just a very brief period of time.

The CFNIS in 2011 knew from my statement to them that grandma had raised my brother and I from the spring of 1977 until the spring of 1981 and that even before we moved to Downsview in 1983 we’d spend a lot of our weekends at grandma’s apartment.

And when I obtained a copy of my social service records from the Alberta government in August of 2011, I gave the CFNIS a copy of the entire set of records.

The CFNIS never attempted to question my father about the discrepancies between his statement and the contents of the social service records. Instead the CFNIS gave Alberta Crown prosecutor Jon Werbicki my father’s statement with absolutely no mention of my father’s statement to social services after Alberta social services became involved with my family.

This resulted in Jon Werbicki stating that “it was very significant that Mr. Bees never told anyone in a position of authority about the abuse”.

And of course in 2012 the Canadian Forces Provost Marshal did not make the existence of these records known to the Military Police Complaints Commission. So these records became “new evidence” that the MPCC wasn’t able to review. And these records became “new evidence” that couldn’t be introduce during my application for Judicial Review in federal court.

Long story short, unlike in the video there was no one at home that I could run to tell.

My father was living off base with whatever girlfriend he had at the moment. He honestly barely lived with us in PMQ #11 on 12th street on CFB Namao. He didn’t move back into the PMQ until August of 1980.

His mother came to live with us on Canadian Forces Base Griesbach. She looked after my brother and I until the summer of 1981 when she moved out and got her own apartment.

My father’s drinking was just as bad as my grandmother’s drinking. And when the two got drunk together there would often be swearing, yelling, and shoving. If my uncle Doug showed up and the three of them were drinking things would really get out of control.

The thing was alcoholism on the bases in the PMQ patches back in the day was always seen as normal. “It’s a tough job”. “It’s a hard life”. “It’s camaraderie and cohesion building”.

It wasn’t until I moved off base and started living in the civilian world that I began to realize that not every weekend was supposed to be a booze fuelled festival.

The dirty secret of the Canadian Forces is that there was a lot of “trailer trash” living on the bases back then.

My new stepmother didn’t like any of this and she decided to try to put an end to my father’s drinking. She blamed my grandmother for my father’s drinking and the relationship between my stepmother and my grandmother was described as “frosty”. One of them had to go, and it wasn’t going to be my father’s girlfriend.

There was one time that I asked my uncle Doug why my father always believed everything that my stepmother said over what I had said. His response was that the father slept with her, not with me. It would be a few years before I would truly understand what that comment meant.

My grandmother lived by two maxims, and no doubt this was beat into her during her stay at Holy Angels in Fort Chipewyan. “Children are to be seen and not heard” and “Children only speak when spoken to”. And yes, Richard was the exact same. Richard did not under any-fucking-circumstance want to be disturbed. You only spoke when he said it was okay to speak. You stood silently beside him and waited for him to acknowledge you before you said anything. And when you said something to him, it had better not be a stupid waste of his fucking time.

Grandma was the same. If you talked at the kitchen table you either got rapped on the knuckles with the wooden spoon, or you got smacked across the mouth.

But yeah, tell me again who exactly I was supposed to tell about the abuse.

My alcoholic grandmother?

My alcoholic father?

My stepmother, who no no doubt had been told nothing about CFB Namao by her new husband, but had been told that his kids were acting up like they were because they liked their mother better than her?

And besides, with the comments of my father and Captain Totzke, everyone knew what had happened.

It wasn’t like I should have had to tell anyone. That base was a secured defence establishment. How the base chaplain and at least one of his altar boys could molest over 25 children for over 2 years is something that I will never understand.

But whatever. It doesn’t matter if my father lied to the CFNIS in 2011 or if the CFNIS guided my father into saying what he said, the CFNIS accomplished what it needed to do. And that was to sever any potential connection to myself and the babysitter as the babysitter and the babysitter’s documented abuse of young children on the base is what led to the discovery of Captain Father Angus McRae.

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.