I’m a part time atheist but I would encourage anyone experiencing mental health difficulties or not to explore their spirituality. I have found great meaning in my struggles through a spiritual framework. There are many paths to way-makers and miracle workers. If you find peace elsewhere embrace it.

For me there has been a great deal of symbolism in my various states of wellness.

We are all worthy of spiritual respect regardless of our circumstances or state of mind. The next time you encounter the hopeless, homeless or helpless keep in mind that Christ would be classified as crazy.

Do we look at individuals with mental health difficulties and assume there is only something wrong with the individual? There is usually a genetic component but most illnesses and addictions are an expression of the environment as well. If “it takes a village to raise a child” then it must follow that it takes a village to raise an addict or a ‘depressive’ or a ‘schizophrenic’. When I see my family doctor the computer with my health information is in front of me while I wait. The screen says I am bipolar, PTSD, PNES etc. I’m not even sure she knows I have been incarcerated. Most people I meet go on less so I’m not annoyed.

It might be a weak argument but what if we put a “normal” person in the environments I have endured? Having ‘been there’ I would imagine similar outcomes and symptoms. Maybe genetics would guard against certain realities but I’m not sure ‘blood’ blocks trauma. For those who believe mental illness is a shortcoming I invite you to stand where I have stood. Spend a few weeks in solitary confinement. Spend the worst part of a year navigating other inmates while fluidly psychotic.

I’m tired of being disordered. I’m tired of being mentally ill. Society puts these labels on my experiences to limit the responsibility we all have to the vulnerable. When I flop around on my floor having pseudo-seizures society can point to me as a problem. He has PNES. No shit! You put someone in a concrete box with a toilet to talk to and he has symptoms? Go figure.

When we name someone as addicted, homeless, mentally ill etc., we can distance ourselves from them and absolve ourselves of a common responsibility let alone a communal response.

My mental health journey began when I was 10 years old. I was admitted to the Adolescent Unit at the old Children’s Hospital here in London when I was 15 and 17. In my twenties I was admitted to the 8th floor at the Old Victoria hospital.
The next leg of my journey was Two- Years- Less- A- Day in the Correctional System. I was re-arrested in my early 30’s and spent 9 months psychotic in a Detention Centre. This included about 6 weeks in solitary confinement. I was found Not Criminally Responsible On Account of a Mental Disorder and remained in the Forensic Mental Health System for 6 years.
More recently I have experienced two ambulance rides, two mental health arrests by London Police Service, two one week stays in the London Health Sciences Centre ER department and a one month say on an acute unit at LHSC. At present I am an outpatient with Parkwood Institute (St. Joseph’s Health Care).
The difficulties I have faced accessing Mental Health Care are both personal and systemic.
When individuals fall through the cracks the costs are enormous. I might not look it, but this province has invested over a million dollars in me. You might think that would be pleasing but many days I am fragmented. It’s no one’s fault but we can do better. There are a multitude of highly qualified and deeply compassionate care providers who also need something more workable.
The ER at London Health Sciences is a miniaturization and mirror of the penal system. Patients don’t wear orange, but we are coloured by diagnosis and risk. The ER rooms are quite like solitary confinement. I hope that doesn’t sound hyperbolic because they are worse. There are no windows and when you enter the hallway there are Correctional Officers monitoring prisoner patients and if you need to use the toilet it is a shared jail toilet. Stainless steel no seat. To get there you must walk the gauntlet of police officers and security staff who all look alike. This is not therapeutic it is traumatizing and a criminalization of mental health crisis. The one room I was in I urinated in the corner drain most of the time I was there. We didn’t call it the ER in jail. It was called the Hole or the Digger.
My view of LHSC is that security runs the show. Safety and security are paramount, but this makes the situation no less stigmatizing. I realize it is cheaper to handle chaos with security rather than hire health care workers but is that ethical? Is it even humane?
In the 80’s and 90’s we had orderlies. They interacted with and were familiar with patients. In those days’ patients had many of the same symptoms and the availability of sharps was the same or worse but today we have paramilitary forces in hospital. It seems as far from therapeutic as you can get. My hospitalization’s in the 80’s and 90’s were by comparison positive experiences. To treat everyone as a risk to themselves or others is stigmatizing and redundant.
The ER and acute system are not only chaotic and frightening but once you’re there you’re only honest enough to find freedom. I deal with suicidal thoughts regularly and often repetitively. As an outpatient my mind was made up that if I made that decision it would be my last. There was no way I was going to be left for emergency services or the acute unit to impart what are in my estimation traumatic treatments.

We need a mental health care system that is more community based with improved coordination between agencies. My perception is that we have a funnel whereby individuals access mental health care through the ER and acute services. I’m a poor example as I have an aversion to assistance, but individuals and families would be better served in the community.
We need more Mobile Crisis Teams and Teams that can deliver care in the community. Having the police involved in mental health apprehensions is inefficient, traumatizing and stigmatizing. The police by nature are agents of control rather than agents of care. When an individual is brought to the ER by the police, health care workers have a perception of that individual and it can be a barrier to compassion and care.
Too much funding is being used by the police in mental health interactions and it becomes a snake swallowing its own tail as these forces call out for more funding for a job they do ineffectively. The further they progress the more they consume. We provide piecemeal mental health training to police who are paid 70 thousand dollars per year while there is a shortage of mental health and addiction workers who are paid 40 thousand dollars per year. Using the ‘Sunshine List’ to deliver patients for healthcare is a dim idea and there are more humane interventions.
If a perennial patient can access the system outside of emergency services it is the best possible outcome. The individual can depend on familiarity and continuity of care. These elements are not only lifesaving, but they are fiscally functional as well. It costs about 25 hundred dollars for a therapist to see a patient once a week for a year. The bill for my one month stay on the Acute Unit was over 75 hundred dollars. The personal and familial costs are incalculable.
When I consider how quickly a mental health difficulty can spiral out of control I think family doctors should be able to make a true urgent referral. Many of these incidents are a matter of life and death. My family doctor made an urgent referral and had I been swiftly seen I may have been able to stabilize without calling on emergency services. It makes absolutely no sense that you can call the police and be seen right away but to access a healthcare worker you must wait. Family doctors need to be more effectively included in the circle of care.
Spirituality seems like an odd antidote for hallway medicine but distress can be intertwined with faith structures and some of my symptoms can be overcome or integrated by utilizing a spiritual framework. Spirituality can be a basis for or link to community and community supports can be a preventative factor in healthcare. Stigma is isolating, and isolation can be lethal. When I see a person of any faith I can converse with fewer words while comfort and compassion are a gesture I do not have to see with my eyes. These individuals can dissolve portions of uncertainty and fear. In the Forensic System the interdenominational pastor was part of the team.
To alleviate hallway medicine, I believe we need a two-pronged approach. I see two pressure points on the mental health system. One point is individuals who need to be able to access the system prior to emergency care. Patients are presenting at ER because of waiting 6 months or more. If these individuals can see someone within days, there is hope. That someone could be a recreational therapist. When I see my recreational therapist, I know there is a psychiatric nurse, a psychiatrist and Team behind her. These Teams can be a great resource and can be part of a system of triage where they can recognize difficulties and direct individuals to the care that best meets their needs. Hopefully this would prevent individuals from getting worse and requiring more intensive healthcare. Sometimes what a person needs most is simply to be seen. Mental health difficulties are usually manageable healthcare needs.
The other pressure point is individuals who are more chronic and require longer term beds and more intensive healthcare. It seems counterintuitive to have a hospital bed occupied for longer but if a longer admission prevents others in the future the savings are real and in effect more humane. If surgeries were left half completed, we would be appalled. Long- term treatment is integral for a subset of individuals with complex mental health care needs.
The individuals who we fail to fully intervene with and for, may not weigh directly on the healthcare system but they still require resources from other agencies. When I drive by the Elgin Middlesex Detention Centre I know that over 70 percent of inmates need mental health care and addiction services. This is the most expensive backwards delivery of care that anyone could imagine.
If we can alleviate these two points I believe we can make headway in ending hallway medicine and hopefully much of the funding required can be recouped by lessening the demands on emergency medicine, policing, corrections, forensics and shelters.
We have been feeding the wrong end of the elephant.

I wrote the skeleton of this story a couple of days before I had to euthanize my therapy dog Ani.

The question I awoke with that morning was: If you could never eat an apple again would you wish to experience it in all other forms or would you choose to have the apple disappear from all your senses?

Memory can be “madness” and awareness is sometimes the suffering. Life is basically memory and imagination if in fact there is a difference.

It seems obvious that anyone would choose to see apple trees or notice the smell of baked apple pie but the alternative might be less painful. If one is unaware do they suffer less?

The experience of missing out involves a knowledge of or expectation of something different. Being five minutes late for the bus is being fifteen minutes early for the person next to you. Both kick at the cold but the same event is grief on either side of expectation and ultimately acceptance.

Having three brothers I was accustomed to missing out on apple pie but when I was incarcerated and hospitalized I seldom experienced the depth of specific disappointment. A slight awareness and imagination was tortuous but to have been fully aware of the actual taste of my Mom’s apple pie or the feel of warm sand and rhythmic waves would have exacerbated my ‘madness.’

Reading these thoughts in light of the unexpected passing of my pet leaves me not with an answer but another question: Would you choose the experience knowing the pain that is inevitable or is Love itself an upfront acceptance of and or investment in loss?

Most of us know triumph but everyone knows sorrow. As I type this my dog Ani is growing cold in the back of my car. She was euthanized today and I am doing my best to procure similarities with 5.5% alcohol. Ani had bone cancer and one of her bones was fractured and disintegrating. Now I am.

If you’ve owned a dog you have or will have to say goodbye. To say I was fighting back tears at the veterinarian’s view of things is laughable but I tried.

Ani wasn’t an average dog that I crated up and cursed the cold with twice a day. She was my therapy and only friend. We spent the last 10 years in each other’s company 24/7.

I did not train her but if I swore she nuzzled up to me. She knew I was having a hard time if I cursed. I guess I will have to come to terms with the fact that now no-one will love me when I am unlovable.

The veterinarian said it would only cost me 30 bucks for paw prints and a measly $400 for some assholes who didn’t love my dog to guarantee that the ashes in the urn were in fact only Ani. Screw you and your mourning marketing. Poverty is impervious.

If you’re local you’ll wonder how this asshole expects to bury a dog in March. I half built a granite garden within view of Ani’s bed in the house. That is where Ani will rest. About all I have to do is thaw 15 bags of topsoil from whichever garden centre is open and stocked.

I don’t know what most people say to their dog as they slip away but I said “thank you.” I said “thank you” and I massaged the inside of Ani’s ears like I always did.

When I first got Ani I named her sANIty. I was dissuaded by the premise that she sounded like a boat but in hindsight calling her from a distance would have been problematic. “Sanity,” “Sanity Come.” If it were that easy to summon sanity you wouldn’t be reading my blog. Part of me will always call Ani from a distance but our closeness can never be argued.

I dedicate this story to all therapy and service dogs. Very few wear a vest.

I like to think I’m somewhere near the bottom edge of normal. Some days I imagine other people with extraordinary lives. I pretty much plant myself in the same few spots of a fifty foot by 100′ acreage. Every car I see is imaginable as extraordinary. My life has been like being on a sightseeing tour except the brochure and map are for another location and the guide doubles as a guard.

I spent a few months hiding which is leaps and bounds beyond only moving around the house in the dark. I know every noise depending on how I shift my weight. Most days I’m suicidal but I keep my pills in weekly containers to make it all seem onerous.

I used to have more kick and fight but I’m still feeling beaten down by my latest healthcare apprehensions. In March I left the house on an ambulance gurney. I had four seizures which seems reasonable after a year of two to three hours of sleep and a drinking and fasting regime. I was screaming at my mattress because I didn’t want to go in an ambulance let alone a hospital. I was unwell, and the ambulance ride was a blackout, but I recall recalling some of my story as far as justice and innocence in the emergency department. It’s important to be heard even in a CT scan. It was a bunch of psychogenic non-epileptic seizures, but I felt like I got hit by a truck. I slept for three days and only walked to the washroom.

A few weeks later I got dragged out of the house on another ambulance gurney, but things didn’t go as smoothly. I was funneled through the police before the paramedics would do whatever it is they do; the ambulance ride was another blackout. I sure as shit remember the cops and all the Plexiglas shields as I ranted from the corner of my living room protecting my therapy dog. Things would have turned out differently had I known one of the cops told my wife “we might have to shoot the dog.”

I was screaming about “21 feet” so they weren’t justified in shooting anything, but they were already 10 feet away. They finally got my dog away from me and I turned around and stripped naked without prompting. “On the floor.” And they pinned me to the floor with their Plexiglas shields and handcuffed me. The paramedics gave me a needle in the ass and I was placed on the gurney I had kicked over when they parked it at my front door.

I was only in the ER against my will for a few days. Because of my experiences in solitary confinement and the similarities with LHSC the first hours were in my world days. I lost all sense of time again and was very agitated with anyone who turned on the lights. I was strapped down at least twice but those events are basically blackouts as well. I don’t react normally to such conditions and confinement which is where some of my agitation and anxiety arise. I guess you’d have to spend a year or two with an indefinite sentence on your person to get it.

I left against doctors’ advice in part because the only other option was to remain in “solitary confinement” until they found a psychiatric bed. Maybe if they had a window in the room or something other than a jail toilet in the hallway of correctional officers and cops. I pissed in the drain in the corner most of the time I was there.

A few days later the police came to apologize, I thought, but five of them seemed to want to stuff me in the back of a police car. I had bruises for two weeks from where they squeezed the pressure points on the insides of my arms. The cops left me back in the ER with a “spit hood” on my head and some nurse trying to medicate me. I overheard someone say, “I’ll take anyone but that one.”

After about five weeks they let me wander so I can spend half my time wishing I was dead and the other half wondering if I have a choice.

I know of no other health condition that the police are likely to respond to. I understand that behavior is a symptom, but I don’t see nurses giving out speeding tickets.

In battling with exclusion and discrimination, I think it is important to recognize the historical nature and scale of exclusion. Much of the language and imagery which intertwines with mental illness has its roots in the idea of demonic possession or evil spirits. Some of this still lingers today in public perceptions and therefore public policy. Various cultures and groups depend on folk beliefs for knowledge of mental illness which is also reflected in core beliefs. If an individual cannot understand mental illness they cannot understand an individual with it. To me inclusion involves sharing the experience and it involves interaction and communication.

Although 1 in 5 may experience a mental illness in their lifetime a large portion of society will never feel or experience mental illness personally. It is overlooked or not imagined that illness is part of the human experience. Even the strong and healthy eventually succumb to the ravages of time. Instead of “that can never be me” it needs to be recognized that “it could be me” and “will be me”. I’m not sure how you enforce empathy but to me it is the basis of inclusion. To recognize difference is easy but to acknowledge similarities takes mindful work and it is a process.

It becomes difficult to include when exclusion is a means of psychological safety. People are prone to disengage and disavow what is a threatening possibility in themselves. Exclusion is a deep rooted and timeless function of individuals and societies. Incarceration and hospitalization can and have been forms of exclusion for those who are different, disturbing or difficult. Individuals with mental health difficulties are often unable or unwilling to conform due to symptoms. Unfortunately, it is the still suffering and or untreated by which those who are identified or self-identify are measured. The gifts and unique attributes individuals with mental illness posses are sometimes lost in the telling of only part of the story. More people are aware that Vincent van Gogh cut his ear off than have browsed his significant contribution to the world of art.

If I mention to someone with no experience outside of myth and movies that I have bi-polar disorder, often I am measured and treated as the imagery that occupies the observers mind. With mental illness a point in time or episode of illness seems to define the individual. Gifts or skills take a back seat in identity and dignity is undermined by the perception that a person is an illness. Mental illness is often viewed as a permanent flaw and shrouded in risk. On a personal level it is easier and safer to discount or devalue these individuals than it is to accept or foster diversity. The consequences then become systemic and societal.

“I simply represented a normal part of diversity in the spectrum of differentness in our community.”  Norman Kunc (The Other Side of Therapy: Disability, Normalcy and the Tyranny of Rehabilitation)

We sold our chicken coop not long ago. My wife mentioned that the yard looks better without it. I told her it was a painful reminder of my recent mania and psychosis. She said to look at it more positively. “Not many in London have experienced poultry as you have.”

For some reason London doesn’t allow backyard birds. I was certifiably certain the bylaw was about to change when I purchased my birds. In my mania I ended up with five ducks and ten chickens. That’s a slight exaggeration as one of the chickens was actually a rooster. In hindsight I think he was my undoing.

The first month I thought I had lucked out and had a rooster without the ability to crow. It was a delusion. He was however the most beautiful bird I have ever owned. When I picked him up from another Londoner and brought him home I opened the cardboard box and he flew straight to the top of our aluminum shed. My first thought was how to get him down in broad daylight but then, I just watched him.

We had sod in our backyard before all this but with rains my free range flock quickly turned the backyard into a mud-hole. It was too muddy for the chickens and soon they were living on our elevated deck in full view of the neighbourhood. The bylaw enforcement officer seemed quite intrigued with the five that were Jersey Giants but less so than the rooster.

I was warned several times but my seven white rabbits were basically feral at that point. My neighbours don’t speak to me but I cant wait to ask them if they thought they had lost their minds when they kept seeing white rabbits. I found the rabbits a home about 80 bucks too late but I can still hear flapping wings and the knock of a meat cleaver my buddy used to dispatch the ducks. I didn’t see it but I think the effect was about the same.

Now our food scraps go in the garbage and I have no fresh eggs to share but I did not surrender. I now have three Eastern Cottontail rabbits to eat the complaining neighbour’s rosebush. I also own several Canada Geese, at least four Mallard Ducks, a pair of pigeons, about a dozen Morning Doves, some swallows, half a dozen Goldfinches and flocks of Starlings and sparrows. We live in a new subdivision and there are two huge mud puddles right across the street. I walk over there once a week and spread cracked corn. Location, location, location.

Social exclusion can be a factor in the reoccurrence of addictive behaviours and or a recurrence of mental health symptoms. Substances provide an escape from feelings of worthlessness and the effects of marginalization. Addictions are at times a form of self-medicating but even when medications hold symptoms at bay, stigma and self-stigma can be obliterated temporarily through substances.

Reclaiming valued social roles is sometimes not an option for those with concurrent disorders. Creating a self-directed positive self-identity then becomes more challenging and precarious. In the recovery process, friendships, acquaintances and communities may need to be abandoned to maintain sobriety and incorporate a healthy lifestyle. This can be problematic in that it initially deepens social isolation. These instances can lead to a further withdrawal from social contact which creates challenges regarding self-image, self-esteem and overall social inclusion. If steps towards ‘social recovery’ lead to a reduction of symptoms, it is imperative for individuals who are susceptible to addiction to find meaningful relationships and supportive friendships.

With fewer options when it comes to interpersonal relationships the individual in recovery is prone to prodding the past in an attempt to reclaim valued social roles.  It is understandable that individuals with mental illness and or addictions attempt to return to some state of Eden; a time of better health or perceived ‘normalcy’. Unfortunately some of the individuals rooted in these times and places offer little more than an outdated and unhealthy identity that precede the more serious or institutional aspects of mental health difficulties. By associating with old ‘friends’ individuals are able to return to memories and unearth altered and destroyed status. Individuals can vicariously reclaim or re-experience a social identity by entering the illusion of  “I’m still that guy” or in being “one of the boys.” Addictions are often hidden within this short term and illusory construct.

For individuals with addictions, interpersonal relationships can be manipulations. Some addicts use not just substances but anyone they can to procure a ‘fix’. Those with mental health challenges or disabilities are susceptible to manipulation and may be eager to form relationships without much insight into the validity or health of those relationships. Relationships that occur through acting out addictions are a substitute or mirage of meaningful relationships. When dealers or other users accept you or you are known to them, it can be an affirmation of self. It can be a community albeit with a crumbling and precarious foundation. Standing outside these relationships we can see it is a temporary solution which exacerbates mental health and overall health but addiction by nature often renders the individual incapable of viewing themselves objectively. 

The capacity to create healthier relationships or return to mainstream existence is undermined by the ‘bliss’ experienced in altered states. Remedies and interventions often are weak alternatives to the experience of being ‘high’. It is a costly and temporary ‘bliss’ but it can be obtained with no skills, little effort and with proven or expected outcomes. What can be purchased ‘on a street corner’ is convenient, immediate and it does not require an appointment, an agency or a therapist. Substances provide temporary relief and comfort without real community. 

In Canadian culture to drink is an indoctrination into adulthood which lessens feelings of being treated as a child in healthcare. It can also be an expression of masculinity and a symbol of or celebration of hard work. For someone with a concurrent disorder it can be like jumping into a family photograph without being a relation. Essentially the individual can be more and feel less.

For those living with serious and persistent mental illness, interpersonal relationships can be fragile at best. The reoccurrence of symptoms can undermine if not destroy what is already precarious. Occupation, relationships, healthy activities and even housing can be disrupted. The energy expended in rebuilding the basic elements of existence leaves little in the way of motivation or resources to devote to self-directed social inclusion and patients can become dependent on formal interventions and services which can highlight and perpetuate powerlessness and the perception of such. 

Feelings of worthlessness and exclusion are in a way simply a mirror of how society inadvertently and outwardly segregates mental illness and addictions. Having more than one alternative available for social inclusion becomes difficult when finances and housing are barriers themselves. Safe and affordable housing is one key to ensure that individuals with mental health difficulties are able to invest in communities outside of the ‘psychiatric community’. New hospitals are designed to be healthy and beautiful spaces but community housing here in Canada often falls far short. If community planners could incorporate housing that is integrated, affordable, safe and healthy, patients would have more opportunities to develop relationships within social mainstream and the effects of stigma and stigma itself would be lessened. Supportive housing can become or simply is ‘stigmatized housing’.

Mental health patients form relationships among themselves because of common experiences but economic similarities are also predominant in determining social mobility. This can be an effect of stigma but it also perpetuates stigma as individuals with serious and persistent mental health difficulties are inadvertently quarantined from spaces and situations where the general population could witness their humanity and gifts. 

Economic factors often impede recovery, social inclusion and the formation of a positive identity. The financial limitations that a disability income imposes leaves fewer options and opportunities for experimenting with interests or forming friendships outside of the ‘psychiatric community’. Individuals are often relegated to housing and facilities in areas which are substandard and exacerbate mental health difficulties. Individuals are at times forced to navigate neighbourhoods where addiction, crime and violence are more prevalent. Gentrification often disposes and quarantines this vulnerable segment of the population. 

A disability income can become a barrier. It can be a safety net when illness is predominant but in times of equilibrium and remission it can undermine self-determination and it accentuates weaknesses. A disability income tethers a persons identity to that disability. In a culture where identity is synonymous with what employs a person, to answer with ‘I have a disability’ is a mantra of defect, defeat and disgrace. In social situations where a person might find connection, having no social capital or economic power relegates valuable and dynamic individuals to situations and communities where this is not a concern or it is accepted if not expected. Economics can be exclusionary and gaining independence is complicated by being a dependent.

Workplace exclusion is basically societal exclusion. Without gainful employment the ability to contribute financially to self-care and opportunities of community, social inclusion or interpersonal relationships is undermined. This form of societal exclusion also undermines an individuals ability to contribute financially to society and fractures a sense of belonging or contributing. Financial restrictions lead to a dependence on traditional healthcare services and furthers a dependence on these social supports and the community offered there. Limited employment opportunities and or dependence on social services limits an individuals exposure to healthcare workers outside of psychiatry; for example a massage therapist or a yoga teacher. Being able to contribute financially enhances self-efficacy, self-esteem, self-determination and social status which in turn enhance wellbeing and leads to the confidence required for social activity.

Disability support can become a ‘sentence’ as much as a service. Opportunities for self-improvement, social integration, social mobility and even relationship status become limited and can lead to a further withdrawal from activities and excursions into mainstream culture. ‘Money can’t buy happiness’ but by confining individuals with mental health difficulties and or addictions to the poverty line; self-determination, social status, self-efficacy and self-esteem stagnate. The seriousness of these factors is that they perpetuate and exacerbate underlying difficulties which is costly socially and economically for all citizens.

When I first became involved in the Ontario Provincial Police Mental Health Strategy I was a well written mascot for individuals who come into contact with the criminal justice system as a result of mental health difficulties. After pouring my heart and story into a gathering of Ontario Provincial Police (O.P.P.) officers, service providers and community stakeholders I was invited to lunch by one of the O.P.P. “brass.”

We ate at Boston Pizza so funds could stay within the “ranks.” I asked this individual why don’t the O.P.P. have specialized officers like they have officers who are trained in S.W.A.T.? “It would de-escalate the situation if an officer entered the situation with “N.U.R.S.E.” written on their bulletproof vest, I said. No, we want healthcare agencies and community stakeholders to step up he retorted. They are better equipped and we are a police agency, healthcare is not our mandate. This all made “cents” and my only other question was if there was a statute of limitations on perjury. He seemed to prickle at the question. Possibly he thought I was asking for myself but answered, No, but it’s not something we normally pursue.

I made the 8 hour round trip to O.P.P. Headquarters in Orilla a few times so people being paid could bounce acronyms off my brain and to be traumatized by uniforms, locked doors and training scenarios where I could imagine myself and people I have met over the years shot to death. The main take away for me was to make sure I keep at least a distance of 21 feet from armed officers as anything less becomes licence to kill.

About a year later I had a couple meetings at the London O.P.P. Detachment and the plan was for me to travel across the province except for Thunder Bay to different detachments to help promote the Ontario Provincial Police Mental Health Strategy. I was starting to go “off script” and received one last phone call.

I was told how the O.P.P. was now visiting mental health consumers in the community and escorting them to doctor appointments and such to instil in these individuals a sense that two uniformed officers at your front door is a good thing. I asked, “what is the salary of a police officer?” “I’m not sure” was the reply. “Well, I’ll tell you, it’s around $60,000 out of the gate.” “Two mental health workers (without uniforms, guns and specially painted cruisers) is about half that.” “Why not have twice as many mental health workers do the same thing?”

For those who are unfamiliar with the difference between mental health workers and police, only one imagines themselves as such which makes all the difference. 

If the O.P.P. and other police forces in Canada do in fact want better mental health outcomes for citizens either specialize or stand down. Until then, like the individual mentioned after buying me lunch with his constabulary credit card: “We’ll let the Queen pay.”

I don’t usually talk about suicide. Some people believe if we talk about it we may trigger someone who is vulnerable. I committed suicide once and have made a couple of attempts. Thoughts of suicide have consumed enough of my days to compile into years. It comes in waves and can last for months.

I was counselled to commit suicide twice by my x-wife. Once all my medications were handed to me in a grocery bag. I returned home having not carried out her instructions as it was only months since I had died in the back of an ambulance. I told her “I will not abandon my children.” My medications were then presented to me in a cereal bowl as I was having a cigarette in my garage. I was told it would “be easier this way.” It certainly would have!

By refusing these requests I found myself in over a decade of suffering and segregation, it continues today. I lost my children, my freedom, my home, my possessions, my clothes, my eyeglasses and most of my sanity. My x-wife did not want anything near an equitable divorce and so decided on a divorce by cops. Her lies and those of others culminated in her being the irrevocable beneficiary of my life insurance policy. This was a blessing at times as I clung to this world only to prevent her from further wealth.

My plan for a time was to canoe out a mile or two into Lake Huron and capsize my canoe after wrapping clothesline attached to cement blocks around my body. It was my belief that my x-wife would have to wait several years for me not to be considered a missing person. I also thought this would save my family a degree of grief.

The reason I don’t speak about suicide is that I am susceptible to confinement when I am honest about it. In places I have resided and offices I visit, to feel, think or express that depth of hopelessness is a “clause” to losing your clothes. It would probably be helpful to share my suicidal ideation with therapists but to be a danger to self in a building I have no key for is to risk my freedom and self determination. To be suicidal in an institution for me just means in the moments I am not, I am infantilized if not humiliated.

Sometimes I don’t want to surrender my thoughts of suicide. They are somewhat of a companion and a form of escape. When I am suicidal, I can dream that my anguish will cease. Those moments are horrendous in and of themselves but the surrender portion takes less energy. Sometimes these thoughts come from depression, sometimes they tear at me through psychosis and sometimes they would be your thoughts in the same situation.

I sometimes speak to God in these moments. Recently I begged Him to just take me. I was in bed and weeping. “I can’t take any more” I don’t want to see any more” “There is nothing more I want to do” “Please just take me.” Tears were tracing my temples as I begged to be released from my suffering.  

Maybe God doesn’t show His face because He wants us to see others. Maybe He wants us to serve instead of seek. Maybe He wants us to find our humanity and the humanity of others before we transpire and transpose into something else.

I’m not sure what draws me back from the edge of suicide. I wonder if it is a power outside of myself or some small flicker in myself that I ultimately wish not to extinguish. When the thoughts are milder, I find strength in some part of a song or a faint memory of goodness.  When I need mercy and I’m beyond all I can take, beyond surrender and even beyond defeat, I defer death until morning. Its a bad habit, but it makes breathing easier.

When I surface, I sometimes see my worth. Sometimes I see that I have a purpose. Sometimes I see that it is my brokenness and suffering that are my gift. Sometimes I don’t want people to have to travel for my funeral and leave with nothing but questions. “Why did he give up now?” “Why didn’t I see, say or do?” Sometimes I don’t want to pass my pain onto others. Sometimes I don’t want to leave a mess or be found with shit in my pants. Sometimes I see that to throw away a second chance would probably give some doctor the opportunity to give me a third which would be harder to swallow.

Sometimes I can trace my suicidal thoughts to specific losses or pain. Sometimes I can’t escape the loops of traumatic experiences. Sometimes it is anger or even rage. Sometimes it is shame. Sometimes I simply think too much and feel too much. 

We sometimes judge those who have made attempts or been successful. It is not for us to shame an individual who is incapacitated to the extent of not noticing what is worthwhile or for an inability to find what we might see on the surface.

Usually when I’m suicidal, all I see is the worst in my circumstances, people and the world. It’s like wearing an old raincoat that doesn’t breathe. My perceptions repel that which makes most things thrive and I am drenched by my own manoeuvrings. My efforts and small solutions are basically more discomfort and I am soaked in sorrow.

My wife pisses me off by showing me that unconditional love crap. She cooks and keeps a schedule which makes it hard for me to get worse. In my flight from life I do dumb shit all the time. I use humour, answer requests to speak, grow plants, talk to my dog and therapists with less hair and recently I applied for a distance education course. I won’t hear back for a few more weeks, so bridges will just be bridges until the end of August.

If you can’t be well, be here.

The following is an excerpt from a keynote panel I participated in with Dr. Heather Stuart on Mental Illness Stigma on June 21, 2018.

I think when we use the word stigma it can be a disservice. It becomes a boogyman for those who find its flavour and it seems a less harmful substance for those who administer it. I was not even familiar with the term stigma in the 1980’s which may be why I prefer the term shame. I think we all experience or have experienced different forms of stigma for various reasons. What makes mental health stigma so dangerous is the uniqueness of the experience. I can identify with psychosis, depression, mania and more but those terms seem trite to the realities of such and the comradery of other forms of stigma do Not exist for me. 

I recently visited an optometrist. The lenses are switched and we are asked “better …or worse?” When healthy I strive to choose that which offers a clearer view. When I am unwell I start choosing the lens that Feels correct. My stigma and stigmatism frustrate but it becomes familiar. I recently asked myself, which is greater; self stigma or societal stigma? The image that came to mind was a terrarium. Societal stigma exists and acts upon the individual but that which fogs the glass most are the processes within.

To me stigma is a veiled judgement but in my sensitivities I can see the hearts and forms as they maneuver to safer spaces. My father and step mother had a sheep farm. Sheep wander to graze but when the border collies are pushing them where the shepherd calls; they follow the same path. The pasture areas were a series of pathways. They lead to the barn, the pond etc. These pathways illustrate two areas of significance. One is mine. My mind has many pathways that lead to points of pain. I see or hear things and I am faced with the very things I seek shelter from. The other relates to stigma. When we are presented with a mentally ill person our minds travel well worn paths.

We also compartmentalize. A sheep farm is often a system of segregation. The ram is sometimes left in a paddock, the male lambs are eventually shipped off. The ewes that have lambed are left in the open area of the barn and orphaned lambs are brought into the farmhouse.

In caring for and processing a sheep herd the farmer uses ear tags with identification numbers to manage genetics and tend to the herd. As sheep are cared for sometimes the tag on the ear is of no use so the farmer uses a big grease pencil to mark the nose or back of the sheep that have been cared for. The mark is a way to keep track of feet trimmed or which ones have been inoculated etc.

Stigma is similar but at times with less planning, purpose and on levels we are not conscious of. The labelling; the branding marks of stigma allow the one or the group using the grease pencil to flee to the pond, the barn or some point of psychological safety. We are sheltered from our fears and we can nourish and replenish our perceptions of self. It allows the mind of the marker to safely segregate and build fences around misconceptions, misunderstandings and the unusual.

I finished a granite sink. I made it multidimensional because I have never worked with granite and I don’t have the tools. I used a skillsaw with a 4 inch diamond blade to cut the sink out and a hacksaw blade to square the corners. It probably took me longer than people who have laser saws with sliding tables.

As is often the case with Forensic patients there are not many people to witness your struggles. Only a few family members and some therapists can confirm the fact that there were many months that I would disappear from a conversation and stare at the floor. It made fellow patients uneasy and those familiar with me questioned why. I have been told that it was a Dissociative state and or symptomatic of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Maybe you can appreciate that I now finish too many sentences and thoughts but they are conversations and ideas I left in hallways and Treatment Rooms.

I spent more than a few sleepless nights imagining living on my own in an apartment with a private bathroom, light switch and lock. Granite is good. It is significant that I speak publicly but only as far as having episodes of being non-verbal and non-responsive.

I remember my first speaking engagement at the University of Western Ontario School of Occupational Therapy Welcome to the Profession Ceremony. I was back in my seat before I finished my last paragraph. Speaking was the last thing I wanted to do but I kept doing it. I can see now the my Advocacy has been a form of Occupational Therapy but as I spoke at the Grand Opening for the Southwest Centre for Forensic Mental Health Care I was wide aware of the fact that the fathers and daughters who would reside there lived with me at the old facility to the south.

To make a long story longer the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH) recently awarded a documentary film maker as one of 150 Leading Canadians for Mental Health. John Kastner made a series of films about Forensic Mental Health and Not Criminally Responsible individuals. According to the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH) John Kastner “has courageously and expertly told the stories of people who have committed crimes while mentally ill. Through his films, he is educating Canadians about the complex issues surrounding the Forensic system and giving voice to the people involved in it.”

I admonished John Kastner about speaking for Forensic clients and assuming being there is the same as being there. I assumed he figured that since he filmed the accident that he was a survivor. I’ve witnessed worse and realize Mr. Kastner was focused on similar outcomes.

I had forgiven and forgotten John Kastner but the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH); an organization that has Forensic facilities, has gone out of their way to perpetuate, promote and praise the paternalization of Not Criminally Responsible (NCRMD) individuals. Not Criminally Responsible individuals are a marginalized population but the secret is that most NCRMD individuals tell their stories every day.

We pass you in the grocery aisle. We applaud our children at the same school plays. We sit next to you at the hockey rink

Maybe making a movie about Forensic Mental Health and Not Criminally Responsible individuals living successfully in the community would be too much. Maybe that footage would humanize too much. Maybe that footage would de-stigmatize too much.

I was having a tougher winter than usual in 2014 and I was practicing a presentation I gave at Queen’s University in Kingston Ontario. I was reading and re-reading to myself out loud for days. The stories I presented included some traumatic and painful scenes from my life. I was as close to suicidal as many are able to mention. I spent my monthly income on travel, lodging and food to speak to the students and faculty. Why?

So I can use my voice.

So I can demonstrate my autonomy.

So I can tell the story of a person who has “committed a crime while mentally ill.”

So I can educate “Canadians about the complex issues surrounding the Forensic system.”

“For the sake of old times.”

I received a $60.00 parking ticket a few weeks ago. I am blessed to be living in a new subdivision and up until a few months ago we had no sidewalks and our driveway was clay with engineered big stones. This winter my car tires froze in the ruts a couple of times. I’m still working on the property and am making use of a trailer. There are several new homes nearby and several hundred townhouses being constructed within 500 feet.

My car was partially parked on the new sidewalk and I have received notice of impeding conviction. The sidewalk is unfinished a couple of hundred feet around the corner so I’m not sure who I was endangering or inconveniencing. I always park the car in the drive as there is heavy equipment placing dust on my TV and I am cognizant of the inevitable snow plows. There are construction trailers littered along this street weeks at a time but I don’t see any fines fluttering from those windshields.

I called the city and mentioned my predicament but the lady said I had come in person to explain. I asked if she would pay for my parking fees but I think she was offended. Being institutionalized more than most of my neighbours I have an aversion to such excursions. I might wait and see what the collection agency has to say but in the meantime I have a few things to say about City Hall and company.

I am uncertain of the fairness regarding my infraction and what was dealt to the mayor for his indiscretions. For those of you unfamiliar with London Ontario, our mayor had an extramarital affair with the deputy mayor. As punishment both took a paid leave of absence.

London has an integrity commissioner who looked into the affair but nothing happened. Gregory F. Stewart from Donnelly Murphy law firm is among other things paid $250.00 per hour to investigate complaints and alleged breaches of the code of conduct for members of council. Mr. Stewart found that Mayor Matt Brown and councillor Maureen Cassidy’s affair broke council’s code of conduct but stated that any deeper investigation would only uncover “salacious details” and would be unnecessary.

I repeat: for $250.00 per hour London’s Integrity Commissioner decided while investigating possible breaches of conduct that to “investigate deeper” would only uncover “salacious details”. Hmm. But what if a complete and professional investigation actually uncovered further breaches, conflicts etc.?

Mr. Stewart has no power to punish or fine people (it’s not like he’s a bylaw officer) and as some have stated he is toothless. That needs to be fixed after we fire Gregory F. Stewart and are fully reimbursed for fraudulent fees. The next Integrity Commissioner should have integrity and hopefully balls if not brains.

I don’t think the mayor and company should be fined sixty bucks or anything cruel and unusual but what irks me is that Londoners paid for them to flirt at work. I imagine, though I haven’t investigated that Londoners paid for a few romantic meals and possibly a candle. Gregory F. Stewart’s fake fees are the chocolate on the pillow. Sweet!

Three down one to go. Mo Salih is a councillor and the newest member of the Police Services Board. He is quite popular on Twitter and fairly full of himself. With all the sexual harassment and assault claims in the news he has taken to Twitter in support of alleged victims. Great. His last troublesome Tweet basically said I believe her and her and…AND Her and HER. Great. This is worrisome. Firstly not all victims are female. Secondly as I pointed out to Mo Salih most legal systems consider the accused to be innocent until proven guilty with clear and consistent evidence.

People are being convicted by the media and the public and lives are altered if not ruined. I don’t give much credence to statements made to the media before a sworn statement is made to the authorities. The code of conduct some city officials have difficulty with includes following the letter and Spirit of the law. The spirit of the law is presumed innocence.

As a councillor making laws and holding an official and authoritative position Mo Salih has undermined the justice system. If civic leaders are finding guilt what message does the accused take away. Neighbours will be just as judgemental and prejudiced. Having Mo Salih on the Police Services Board is detrimental to justice. His position includes influencing the objectives and priorities of the London Police. Mohamed Salih is also a prominent Muslim in London and from the Sudan. Normally this is irrelevant but for newer citizens in London and or individuals with a similar faith Mo Salih is a visible example of behaviour. In essence Mr. Salih has contaminated the jury pool. If only one jurist thinks Mohamed Salih is correct or just, they may vote or influence to the detriment of justice.

I think Mohamed Salih needs to at least relinquish his position on the London Police Services Board if not his council seat. Noticing this breach of the code of conduct I wrote a letter to the Integrity Commissioner. Hopefully Mr. Stewart reads it before this. Four!

I have until the 22nd to argue or pay my fine. Maybe by then I will be the only idiot at city hall.

Take care because I don’t!

If Indigenous Peoples who so far seem to have evolved and migrated from Afrika were not contacted by European’s who may have departed from the same area what might have happened?

Many languages, cultures and slight genetic differences have become extinct. Some has been the result of genocide, famine, flood and appropriation.

Thanks to many individuals of various ethnicities and genders we can only wonder what Hitler might have done had he encountered an indigenous person in Algonquin territory.

“Hallo, I’m building a road. Are you busy?”

As in Afrika peoples could have survived in Canada without modern influences.

We can be ashamed of any national attempt at cultural genocide but I can be thankful for my grandfather’s military service. I did not meet the man.

I do not know who owns the land we fight over and for.

I do not know an appropriate apology for survivors of the Residential School System.

I am slightly aware of the living conditions in Attawapiskat, Ontario.

Perhaps we could pay survivors enough to give them clean water.

“Pejig”

I usually stick to Twitter because Facebook is just a place where you can watch people get murdered or raped. Unfortunately, there are a lot of disturbing things happening in the world even when your car is idling in the McDonalds drive-thru. With an awareness of the ink in my pen I will only point out a couple of the feel good ones.

Let’s start with Nobel Prize laureate Malala Yousafzai and Prince Henry of Wales. I don’t usually pick on kids but they seem old enough to address nations.

Malala Yousafzai is doing great brave things but she might be more successful if she acknowledged more. I realize she was shot in the head by the Taliban but the faith she fashions was an accomplice. Malala will tell you the story of her family’s apologetic neighbours telling her mom that maybe next time she will have a boy but the question is were they Taliban?

Malala will come to Canada and tell us to do more because there’s not much we can do where the problems originate. We can marvel that after all her hard work and world recognition her family acknowledged that she existed. Her story is that she was the first female whose name was written on a 300 year old family tree. If Malala was truly brave she would have grabbed the sharpie and scribbled her grandmother’s name who breastfed her father. She might have fetched a few pails of water but I don’t know the family well.

I’m just jealous because I wasn’t invited to stand beside my feminist husband who is a political drama teacher.

More recently we have been hearing from Prince Harry. Co-incidentally he has turned his grief into a mental illness while he and his brothers pretty princess are kicking off a mental health campaign. It must have been hard trying to forget about your mom with her picture splashed everywhere. Then again Prince Harry could have been living in a shack without a single photograph of Lady Diana.

I think it’s great to imagine royalty with haemorrhoids but before we crowd the gates of Buckingham Palace with sympathetic signs let’s ask some questions.

1. Couldn’t Queen Elizabeth 2 afford a grief counsellor?
2. Does Queen Elizabeth 2 know how to speak to a 12 year old?
3. Can Queen Elizabeth 2 use that wonderful waving hand to hug her grandson?

If you can’t imagine the Royal Family as dysfunctional as any fine. But if you truly care about the monarchy just ignore them.

Take care because I don’t.

If it takes 40 seconds to recite the Lord’s Prayer and it takes 12 seconds for the plane to crash are you damned?

I remember standing in the wooden box thing in Courtroom #5 and looking out at the jail priest in her collar. The prosecutor person said “I understand you’re a spiritual person.” I didn’t answer him because I was being found Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity but the reverend was nodding her head so I copied her.

I’m not sure if it’s a contradiction to be a delinquent and a disciple but I heard there was a guy named Paul who killed people before he saved them. Maybe prisoners find God so they feel better about their sins but the same could be said for anyone. Maybe prisoners are in a place in their life where they can shut up and be still. I didn’t find God in jail, He entered my body when I was losing my mind in Solitary Confinement.

I was brought up in North America so I use Judeo-Christian imagery and language to communicate my spiritual experiences but I have read the Koran. I didn’t create my own religion like the Mormon’s I just beg and borrow from a few religions to make nonsense out of my own. It might seem sacrilegious to some but I also read the Charter of Rights and Freedoms and it seems legal. You can even follow no religion at all.

I sometimes fast. I don’t do it to please God, I do it so I think about people who don’t have the luxury of food and to appreciate that which finds my mouth. It’s also more economical to be an alcoholic on an empty stomach.

I guess I do pray but I don’t gather to do it out loud. My God has better hearing I guess. I would pray out loud but I’m basically always communicating with God so I’d probably get pulled over and put back in the padded room which is hard on my spirit.

I don’t write down the rules and regulations of my religion because that kind of thing leads to wars and I’m the only parishioner so that would worry me. Maybe my God cares about what I eat and what I wear. He’s probably just given up on me because I don’t eat much or wear anything.

I was on Facebook the other day because I give a fuck about followers. There was a beautiful story about faith. Some pious people built a church but they couldn’t open it because the building inspector said the parking lot was too small. The people who pray were wringing their hands and tearing off their clothes because the only land they had left was a mountain. The priest asked the parishioners who believed “faith can move mountains” to join him in prayer. They believed it could be solved by next Sunday for the grand opening. Miraculously a construction dude approached them to ask if he could remove the mountain to use it for fill that he needed for a nearby shopping mall being built. With goosebumps on my gonads I felt compelled to leave a comment.

“i’m sure God is pleased as punch that you bulldozed a mountain to make a church parking lot. I mean how can you pray if you don’t have a flat spot for your Lexis?”

I was flustered after I noticed the auto correct spelled Lexus wrong but then I looked up lexis and it dawned on me that some mistakes have meaning.

I guess my religion is like the auto correct on a computer except it’s more like auto-connect. I don’t have customs that connect me with Spirit it just happens automatically.

We’re not really looking for congregants but if you want to join my sinagogue just send $29.95 and make the cheque payable to Brett Batten.

Take care because I don’t.

Saturday morning after I told my wife what to wear I said “do the dishes and vacuum quietly then I’m taking you to Toronto for a romantic getaway.” She wasn’t very quiet with vacuum but I let her walk behind me for the day anyway.

We found our seats on the train next to a nice young couple with two children who had a volume problem. I felt bad for them because they couldn’t afford sedatives for their children. I asked the woman pushing the food cart if she had any cough syrup I could donate to them but the answer was no. The conductor told me I had to remain seated until the train came to a complete stop so I walked backwards while we glided into Union Station and exited from the last car.

We walked in the rain to the aquarium and I was thankful to have an umbrella. I was still annoyed by the young couple and their spawn mainly because they were 15 feet in front of me heading towards the aquarium. In a loud voice I turned back towards my wife who forgot her umbrella, “Hey, isn’t that the CN Tower?” “Isn’t that the Rogers Centre?” “Isn’t that a bus with bad brakes?” The family didn’t go for the bait so I stopped for a cigarette to give them a head start. Again, I was thankful to have an umbrella. My wife seemed pleased to be in the building because she was soaked but when I realized the screeching wasn’t whales but 387 children I was a little hesitant. I stuffed the umbrella into the backpack my wife was carrying and took a gulp from one of the water bottles I noticed there.

I haven’t been anywhere in a couple of years so I was shocked at how the world has changed. I had no idea people are now using cameras for eyes. The last time I was out in public people experienced things in real time but I guess it’s more fulfilling to go home and look at what you missed while you were capturing it with a cell phone. It only happened 5 times but apparently if your face isn’t pressed to the aquarium glass it’s okay to step right in front of a person and hold out your phone so neither of you has a view. Even walking around was confusing for me. It seemed like every 15 seconds or 7.5 feet a Hollywood movie set appears out of nowhere and you have to freeze or take an alternate route while people pose for pictures. It’s like a natural disaster that nobody is noticing.

The aquarium itself was pretty cool if you like looking at shark anus gliding over your head in a glass tunnel but I was bored to tears by the Horseshoe Crabs. We should just make them extinct. It’s okay I just spent those moments doing math problems and thinking about scientific stuff like what makes the most noise:

A. 387 children who think seeing a fish is as exciting as hooking one in the mouth and dragging it through the water to watch it suffocate in the bottom of a boat    OR

B. 387 children temporarily floating in a million gallon fish tank with their shoes on  OR

C. 387 children kinda splashing in a million gallon fish tank with 18 sharks and no shoes

Whoever said watching fish in an aquarium is relaxing wasn’t being stepped on by screaming children and getting poked in the shoulder by some parental prick with a selfie stick.

None of the nose-pickers looked smart enough to trick but if I asked their parents 93% of them would be gifted, exceptional and ahead of their peers. I’m not sure how you discourage kids with their fake fascination of marine life but I know how you can keep most of the adults out of the place. Tell them no cell phones allowed. I mean, who the hell would show up to look at a sea urchin with just their eyes?

We narrowly missed the protestors telling people looking at fish who eat smaller fish not to eat fish and headed to the Royal Ontario Museum.

I thought the museum was going to be a peaceful perusal of the past but the idiots who thought it was a good idea for their offspring to see what that deep fried white flaky stuff looks like when it’s alive thought the little loudmouths should see paintings and pottery. What kind of a moron takes a child to a museum? I was somewhat buoyed by the fact that their eager “aren’t children wonderful” look had shifted to a “someone shoot me” grimace but they were all still wagging their tongues instead of choking on them so it wasn’t a truly fulfilling moment.

I pretended to be interested in the Chinese clay pots and crap because I like to pretend I love my Chinese wife because it leads to sex once in a while. Eventually I ran out of patience. “Honey, we have the exact same dish at home and that one is 29 bucks at Pier One. Even in these paintings and statues you all look the same.” The uptight Korean woman standing next to me seemed offended but at least I wasn’t wandering around with my hands clasped behind my back pretending to give a shit about culture. It’s not my problem she was too stupid to realize there were dinosaur bones in the building.

Coming out of the Chinese Culture Corner I held the door for 3 middle eastern adults because I like to pretend I care about people once in a while. They didn’t even look at me or say thanks. Not even a nod of the head. It only took about 20 seconds off my life but I was afraid to tell them to “fuck off” in case they were Muslim because I heard that kind of thing is basically illegal in Canada now. I certainly don’t want to be called Islamophobic because I’m not even racist. I hate everybody. I don’t understand hating someone for their skin colour or religion when you can hate them for no reason at all.

I went out a side door for a cigarette and they wouldn’t let me back in the museum so I missed out on seeing all the stuffed birds and mammals but most of them won’t be extinct for a few months so I’ll just put some diesel in my truck and hopefully I can run over a few so I don’t have to see them behind glass.

While we were waiting for the train back to London I had to use the queer, non binary trans person room. I went into the stall and the first thing I noticed was someone had carefully laid toilet paper all over the seat because like the internet says you can get an ass cheek infection if you don’t. I was disappointed that I had just missed meeting the Prime Minister but I was pleased he was travelling like the rest of us. I’m not saying he stinks but I’m not sure he’s as healthy as he looks. Despite what people say he is a visionary, I mean how did he know I was going to piss all over the seat? Why was I peeing in a stall? Because some liberal turds decided I can’t smoke in the main areas any more.

It was a nice trip back on the train until I smelled vomit coming from the woman having a coughing fit two seats back. It was awful. I didn’t turn to look at her as I sprinted off the train because I figured she was embarrassed and I don’t like seeing vagina on other peoples chins.

If you’re not offended by this blog please forward it to someone who might be.

Take care because I don’t.

Twitter is becoming a Wailing Wall. We post our pain which in the scheme of things is simply pathetic.

Emmett Macfarlane an Ass. University Professor in Waterloo was quite incensed that journalists called his home at “fucking 7:15 a.m.” for an interview. I too would probably angrily Tweet to the world if someone woke me up at 7:15 a.m. when my alarm was set for 7:30 a.m. but I like to think I would find some perspective between relieving my morning pee boner and filling the coffee pot.

I don’t need as much sleep as an Ass. University professor but isn’t that why they have doors on their offices? I guess I’m unedimigated enough to imagine a dairy farmer who gets up at 4:00 a.m. even during Reading Week and Summer Break. I’m so stupid I can even imagine someone with a medical condition that prevents them from the 6.5 hours of sleep a tenured professor is entitled to.

Is it a wonder our youth fabricate catastrophe when their Ass. Professor shows them how?

When I saw the cruel and unusual treatment Emmett Macfarlane was receiving from the media I reached out with sympathy and support and Tweeted my condolences.

“Put your thumb back in your mouth and go back to bed. Some people have real problems.” @brett_batten

I must have used incorrect punctuation, spelling or I cited my sources wrong because he blocked me from seeing his Tweets and from Tweeting to him which seems odd considering his interview and Tweets were about academic freedom which in my unedimigated world seems like freedom of speech. I guess I will have to sign up for one of his courses so he can impart his logic on me. Jesus wept…because He was laughing His Ass off.

Another lady Tweeted for a week about her luggage being lost on an Air France flight. I didn’t Tweet to her because I wasn’t sure if she was actually upset here in Ontario or if she simply wanted to keep reminding me that she had been to Paris recently. I’m not jealous, I’ve seen pictures and I don’t drink whine.

I have lost a few things in my life a few times so I can empathize. I lost my home, job, money, health, family, freedom and foreskin twice. Well, not the foreskin but I haven’t exactly given it a chance to grow back. Sorry God.

I guess it’s okay to broadcast that you lost your shirt somewhere over the Atlantic but it is my belief that it is more helpful to keep in mind that you didn’t exactly “lose your shirt”, you’re more precisely losing your shit. Losing your luggage or a phone call at the unGodly hour of 7:15 a.m. is a problem. It’s a problem of perspective which apparently isn’t always part of a university syllabus.

What would Twitter be like for people in an African village?

“Four hyenas ate our last two chickens and pissed on my brand new lawn gnome.”

“Not sure what my children will do for food today but hopefully they find something edible on the 3 mile walk for water”

“Does anyone know how that poor professor is doing with his sleep deprivation? All I heard was machine gun fire last night but I slept like a log. No wait, I have a log for a pillow. My bad.”

“Does anyone know where I can make a donation for that lady from the Air France flight so she can replace her blouse? We need a plane full of Red Cross supplies but I can’t sleep thinking about her.”

Twitter isn’t all bad. I do get a kick out of knowing someone I don’t know is at a meeting I don’t give a shit about with a politician nobody likes, but then again I don’t. Why don’t I just stay off Twitter? Because watching people twisting in agony while they are having a near orgasmic experience fascinates me.

If you think this has nothing to do with you read this Tweet from Topless in Tanzania.

“Can someone message me about what works best to remove hyena urine from a gnome’s beard? I tried Lysol, CLR, mouthwash, vinegar, sea salt, car polish, dandruff shampoo, turpentine, lavender scented dish soap, furniture wax, PAM, WD-40, SOS pads, 3M pads, Bounce, lemon infused organic olive oil, hand sanitizer, hairspray, shoe polish and I wrestled with a starving stray dog that had an extra absorbent paper towel stuck to it’s half missing tail. Seriously. I’m getting desperate. I’ve tried everything I can find in the cupboards of the kitchen area in my hut with the hole in the roof we call a skylight and everything in the granite topped cupboard in the ensuite. I even waded through all the crap in the two car garage. I shouldn’t whine. I tidied up during this difficult time. You could almost park a car in the garage once I buy one of those contraptions I can suspend the kids 24 speed bikes from. There’s enough room in the hut for that massage chair I ordered. If only I could get the kids to put away their Lego, Star Wars action figures and gather up the Sony Playstation games.”

If you’re not offended by my blog please forward it to someone who might be, like maybe Emmett Macfarlane @EmmMacfarlane. He hasn’t been sleeping well so don’t pass it on to him at like 7:15 a.m.. He might lose his shit again.

Take care because I don’t!

I guess we know what Justin Trudeau  meant when he said “sunny ways.” For Justin it is actual sunning time with a billionaire on his island in the Bahamas. For the 99% its a bit of a colder version. It’s possibly somewhat easier to be a “sunny ways” visionary from behind sunglasses. I’ll be on board as soon as I scrape my windshield.

We probably don’t have to scratch our heads long to figure out the ethics of smoozing with a billionaire who receives Canadian taxpayer dollars. Whoops. Even if all that is fair we need to look at our own gut ethics. What is a post Christmas vacation? Maybe the Liberals mean that it was like the day after Boxing Day that the clerk from 7/11 gets for Christmas vacation after working the real one?

I reckon that leads to another question. If it is important for someone to sell cigarettes and gas shouldn’t it be important to have someone at the rudder of the nation? The rudder of the nation in the dead of winter is not to be found on a dinghy in the Bahamas. One might question his  effectiveness as a leader with sunscreen on his nipples somewhere off continent.

If not out of good taste then out of respect I find it tasteless for Justin and his nanny to be on a beach while someone in Alberta is up at five in the morning coaxing along a truck heater.There were Canadian’s who suffered through the holidays. There were military personnel long flights from home. If you wanted to catch planes and fly on helicopters you should have relieved someone who was doing it out of duty.

I don’t think Justin is heartless. I just think he’s clueless. His life experiences have been mostly play and his perceptions of reality are so far removed from ordinary Canadians that it is an impediment to his governance of them. He can make us all feel warm and friendly and polite. He can put a pretty face on what makes Canada great but what makes Canada great is not he and Sophie on safari but average Canadians.

Step up or step down.

Yesterday I saw a schizophrenic man shot by a police issued firearm.  I was in the same room standing in the dining area. It was a one room apartment with two smaller rooms to the side. I wasn’t sure what was going on. As far as I could tell the man was talking to himself with the door slightly ajar. I could see him moving about and I heard words clearly but not completely or with the advantage of knowing their concept.

The man’s mother was at the door speaking to the police. The man opened the door to his bedroom and asked his mom about lunch. He said something about being hungry and asked for the time of day then went back into his room. My next memory is of him standing in his bedroom doorway and his mom telling him they had visitors as the officers stepped into the room.

I noticed his mother walk to the side of the upholstered chair. The next thing I saw was the man pulling a knife into the air and with arm raised he came at his mother. His last words were something about wanting to eat. I heard the shot echo quickly into the room. I felt bad for the man’s mom. She only wanted to help her son. She was the one who called the police.

What would you do? I’m not sure what I would have done differently. I am told most police in England do not carry guns. How would it have turned out if there was no gun at the scene? Maybe it wouldn’t have been a lethal encounter. Maybe stitches would have been the worst of it. Maybe only the man with the knife survives and knocks on your front door.

I am still in shock but I thought things in the apartment would have ended differently the way the same officers handled someone similar who was beating a rather nice full size black SUV. The officers were able to talk to that man. They were able to determine from him that his delusion was with a vehicle and not a human. After some cautious and courteous interaction on the part of the police the man was safely convinced to put the aluminum bat down.

I too co-operated with the officers when I was directed to leave the parking area. The aluminum bat landed on the SUV during some of this interaction but the officers were trained in the safety of space and appropriate action in the event its dimensions shift toward danger. It seemed a little fun seeing a guy beating a vehicle with a baseball bat but when the officers arrived at the scene I saw it as a different scenario.

Police are called to protect those directly involved in the interaction, the public and themselves. In this circumstance we could add the protection of property. I don’t know about most people but when the poop hits the fan I have a hard enough time figuring out what is appropriate for the preservation of self. When an officer reacts in circumstances we can view in reverse and memorize we need to keep in mind that we are sitting in a chair without the officer’s training, adrenaline level, or the information they may have to react to in seconds.

It is a thin blue line that volunteers to walk into any situation and possibly defend against danger. We watch the video of some questionable interaction but what may be obvious to us may be otherwise in real life. Watching it on a screen we are also void of a need to protect the lives of those involved, bystanders, fellow officers or self in a fluid situation. I’m not saying every death is without liability all I’m saying is to give pause to possibilities most of us can be thankful to avoid.

I thought about what I saw the whole way home from the Ontario Provincial Police General Headquarters in Orillia, Ontario. The OPP used to handcuff me and put me in the backseat of their cars but now I get a comfortable chair and a sandwich better than I can make. I’m locked in hallways within a locked building but it seems like progress.  I am a member of the Ontario Provincial Police Community Mental Health Advisory Committee.

The gentleman I saw get shot was an Ontario Provincial Police instructor. He seemed fine afterwards and I shook his hand. He could act half as crazy as I am. The two uniformed officers in the scenarios were female officers. If you encounter a female officer outside of a scenario please know they are every bit of police that make up the rest.

I have met more police officers than most people. Even when the circumstances were unpleasant there was not one among them that I imagined coming to work hoping to shoot a person. When officers have the luxury they too hope every situation ends safely.

If you want to judge police I suggest you take a look at the Ontario Provincial Police Mental Health Strategy. This organization has our backs and they are proactively and progressively improving mental health outcomes for all.

It sounds like the Wild West to the east of me. According to Toronto Mayor John Tory the reefer is becoming rampant. It sounds like people are putting up lemonade stands next to schools and dealing in marijuana. Conservatives would have us believe kids will be accessing marijuana with some increase in ease from today’s unregulated standards. Their ideal is having drug dealers decide who buys and throw in a bunch of expensive law enforcement. As far as controls and safety measures I envision something similar to how alcohol and tobacco are regulated.

Mayor John Tory seems to believe marijuana should be kept from near schools and community centres. For decades past, marijuana has been anywhere it pleases. It has existed hidden in plain neighbourhoods. It has gone from pocket to pocket almost everywhere. Why do we need to fear it now that it is open and nearing more?

Where I live there is a large industrial brewery with a beer retail store attached that is on the opposite corner of a Boys and Girls Club. When I grew up the community centre served alcohol most weekends for weddings and such. I can walk past a playground with a case of beer but for some reason dangerous people use marijuana. Why exactly does Mayor John Tory think that individuals who are or soon will be part of new or existing laws and their anchor in freedoms and rights need to be kept away from schools and community centres? There used to be a variety store in my neighbourhood that was directly across the street from a public elementary school. I used to buy my cigarettes there. Imagine the calamity if I was buying a package of marijuana cookies. Boo! Are you shaking with irrational fear?

Mayor John Tory writes “the city has a responsibility to ensure this emerging industry operates responsibly, without a negative impact on the health and safety of our residents and neighbourhoods.” You could put a marijuana dispensary on every corner of Toronto and it would be safer than letting criminals be the leaders of the present industry. Are guns involved with these dispensaries? They are when we treat marijuana as an illegal substance. We tried leaving it all to criminals, cops and courts. It was dangerous, expensive and socially scarring for many and all of us.

Someone needs to remind Mayor John Tory that municipal politicians are elected on a non-partisan basis. It is an insult to every Canadian who has or will be involved in the industry or consumption of marijuana. Mayor John Tory is stigmatizing hundreds of thousands of Canadians. To insinuate that any or all of these individuals are something to protect the community from is laughable at best. They are part of community’s. Should we banish Prime Minister Trudeau from schools and community centres? He’s a druggy isn’t he? “I don’t want my child associating with someone who has consumed marijuana…I don’t care if Justin just wants a selfie.”

Any community will be safer when marijuana is legal. The stigma surrounding it hopefully will lift as it did for alcohol prohibitions of the past. There are those who would have marijuana remain illegal for reasons of addiction, health emergencies, impaired driving, underage use or more. We have these scenarios with alcohol but any city resident could find it within 15 minutes of any intersection.

I think Mayor John Tory is simply posturing politically. Marijuana ignorance is a by-product of his conservative roots. I think the mayor should apologize to Canadians for stigmatizing Canadians.

My issue with transgendered individuals is not who they are but that their ideas and inclinations should supersede and All-knowing and All-powerful God. Outside of some physical emergency I do not believe it is up to humans to alter their physical sexual characteristics. Gender is in part a social construct. As such it changes. If your idea of throwing a dart at gender is to distort nature the new creation may fall from the board as the world changes.

Just as the baptized baby may wander from the flavour of their Faith why not a gender identity? Is mine a permanent state or are there other possibilities? I consider myself a man but then again I have never worn panties. What if panties suddenly seem permanent? How many years into my sexuality and gender identify do we consider a point of no return?

What if there comes a day when any and all variances are accepted? If you and the people you interact with change their perceptions and permissions you may have stirred the bread before it had a chance to rise. What if a person changes further or later or intermittently? No matter what the world thinks or you think, we are all trapped in some sort of visible existence. Has anyone considered a reverse re-assignment or is the transgendered community content and permanently so?

You’re sure God made a mistake but what of you? What are the eternal odds of not being quite sure what you are? Cut, snip and more across the corpse that was created for a purpose. I get a kick out of a transgendered person saying: “Now I’m me.” I’m nearing 50 and I’m still not sure who or what I am. If anyone says “he was” at my funeral it will be followed by an “also”. If my identity shifts throughout my lifetime is it not possible that any part of it may be a different thing from birth to death?

What is wrong with the painting we are given? You can spend your life reworking a Master or you can dance down the street showing off the original. We would be jailed for brushing our own paint on a work of Michelangelo. Is God that much less?

Personal obsessions aside, embrace what you are. If something stirs in you that would betray some characteristics and offend some social stereotype, find thee who cares not. Do not carve away your flesh to fill a twisting and turning vessel. Grasp it and learn to calm its contents. Find your personal equilibrium for what appears and what is. It is your cross to bear. Each of us is many things we would rather not be.

If there are some things I can’t say I end up not saying what I want but what others want. I’m a simple man but in my opinion being able to say what you want is the right from which the others rise. If you can’t write what you think on the picket you carry it kind of moots the right to strike. “I need a seven percent raise but I don’t mind a muzzle.”

There are an ever increasing number of omissions of language used in public. I doubt there is one person who would know of each and every word or grouping thereof that would offend some individual or group. Eventually those with PTSD will prickle at being less than a word. Do you draw the line or does it aimlessly meander as it does?

Any sentence can be offensive but we are nearing a point where the laughable can become liable. If I think our Prime Minister Trudeau is a selfie-stick who will be seen for the boy he is when the nation’s thumbs up tacks fall out of his pin up poster of politics; it would be a shame not to.

I was thinking about the bathroom pooh haw haw south of us. It’s a real pickle and surgically so. It has been trans-planted into an election. I foresee the writing on the wall being torn off or at least the washroom symbols on the doors. Will individuals who even temporarily identify as being more of one gender than what could be argued as assigned by God be free to pee from a contrary point?

If exposure alleviates fear and prejudices this is one way to do it. I guess the real question is whether the way it was set up is worse than the way it will be re-written? Who has the right to comfort in a comfort station? You? Me? Anyone? Everyone? Who will the solution please and who will the solution displease? Is it progress when the rights of the few are foul to the many? Does female poop contaminate male poop? You can either put a menu on the washroom door or it is open for people in any washroom to be of any identifiable gender or unidentifiable gender.

Maybe all the fuss is that if we get rid of the pictures on washroom doors so must we remove sexual identity from payroll. I guess segregating who poop’s and pee’s where is still segregation. In some small way civil rights have entered the toilet. I understand that people have rights but there are times when that right might just be a wrong.

We can’t expect everyone to be in the same place as some are regarding sexual identity. Does my 85 year old step-father have a say? Where are his rights when you’re screaming for yours? Where are his rights when someone with breasts stands next to him at a urinal? Is it fair to expect individuals like him to shed over 80 years of upbringing and personal propriety so a chick with a dick can take a more pleasurable piss? Is it okay if someone’s grandmother would rather powder her nose without the patron next to her powdering an Adam’s apple?

Maybe it wouldn’t be chaotic but will it be a comfort to my 85 year old step-father? I don’t give a shit where you do just that: all I’m asking is that when all these individual rights are being claimed for that his voice is not lost in your chants for fairness.

I realize it is my 85 year old step-father with the problem. He should have to retrace 80 years of what he considered and his societies considered appropriate. He has Parkinson’s so he’s busy with that but I guess he should rearrange most of what was imparted on him since childhood. He will no doubt go from an individual who should be recognized for leading an exemplary life to a family shame. He will like the slave owner will not be held in high regard. People will whisper that when he ran a business he only allowed the men in the men’s room and the women in theirs. He will be called a segregationist and it will be rumored they were all across North America.

Maybe we should have to use the washroom according to how we were sexed at birth. It’s a simple rule. Maybe we can pay homage to the nature that is and always will be a part of each of us. You can maim it but it cannot be destroyed. You can be whoever you want but don’t expect everyone to agree with your measures.

A tough on crime agenda becomes a tough on mental illness agenda when we are dealing with Not Criminally Responsible offenders. In these instances the crime and mental illness are intertwined. You cannot set the accused aside and apply retribution for the crime without also being retributive to a mental disorder. Should we sentence symptoms?
The Harper government passed into law the Not Criminally Responsible Reform Act. There are several faults to the Act but my focus is on the designation of a high risk offender based on an arbitrary value of brutality and the implementation of a three year review rather than an annual review.
This Act allows crime scene evidence to be the stand alone predictor of present risk; indefinitely. On the same level treatment and rehabilitative interventions will be based on the dimensions of a delusion itself. Should we apply criminal sentencing protocols to medicine?
This new law will base the application of more restrictive measures for certain patients on the severity of the offence and or who happens to have certain delusions. Someone who is hallucinating is able to control their hallucination in the same way a cancer patient controls tumor growth. They don’t because they can’t. If psychosis is not a choice then what power does the individual being affected have in determining the width and breadth of the delusion it creates? The individuals in these tragedies are not making choices; they are being pulled in directions designed by delusions.

It is difficult for many to reconcile illness with atrocity. It needs to be kept in mind that without the illness there may have been no crime. We recognize the accused but we cannot see the culprit. The culprit is mental illness.
The Not Criminally Responsible Reform Act is being tested in British Columbia. The Supreme Court there has ruled that as written by the Harper government, the designation of high risk offender can apply to people entering the forensic mental health care system and existing patients. Fair enough. If we are somehow protecting the public this law should include. We might consider that this reach may eventually apply even further.
I have had an absolute discharge for near a decade. What influence do the circumstances of my crime have on my present risk? If the mechanics of the crime scene influence at 6 months can they at 16 years? This law puts all individuals impacted by mental illness in a susceptible position depending on political powers. It is my hope that in reviewing the laws the Harper government pushed through with ideology in place of evidence that the Minister of Justice will take note of the Not Criminally Responsible Reform Act.
“High-risk offenders” are detained indefinitely and do not have access to the public as the law was. To label certain patients high risk offenders may be fine but on what is it based? With the NCR Reform Act it can be based on an opinion of the court “that the acts that constitute the offence were of such a brutal nature as to indicate a risk of grave physical or psychological harm to another person.” This opinion can result in confinement of the patient for a three year term. The progress of the patient will be ignored. A court can decide a patients future mental health care based on measurements and opinion of a delusion or hallucination. Which delusions bring about disqualification? Is it not more logical to use qualitative measures rather than an opinion of brutality?

To interpret an act as ‘brutal’ – and to allow that interpretation to affect a disposition– assigns a degree of responsibility from which the accused has already been, by definition, excused. Should we place such value judgements on acts wherein the accused had no capacity to understand the nature of the crime? For an act to be considered ‘brutal’ does there need to be intent? Are we interested in rehabilitating the accused or in assigning blame where it doesn’t belong?

I do not clearly see how what anyone does at a point in time implies risk of repetition. This is clearly blurry when we are dealing with an instance of severe symptomatology. If the act was a result of a symptom we increase safety and security by progressively dealing with the illness from which it manifests.

If we are going to punish mental illness is it ethical to do so during recovery? If we are going to punish an individual for circumstances they were delusional for should we not have them fully rehabilitated so they can gain whatever effect said punishment is believed to have?

I am not arguing that certain events haven’t been utterly traumatizing. If you can find the guilt then the individual responsible should have a sentence. This Act piggy backs a finding of neither guilty nor innocent. It is worded as Not Criminally Responsible which as it sounds finds the accused from that moment on indefinitely excused from sentencing principles. We do not sentence anyone under any of our laws without first finding guilt. The finding of Not Criminally Responsible is not a finding of guilt.
If the law finds an individual Not Criminally Responsible it has also been found that it would be an injustice to punish or sentence in any way the individual in who the mental disorder at that time resided. As it stands we annually review the progress of the patient and re-examine risk and public safety. It seems in Canada these yearly reviews have become a public debate on the verdict. We seem to think that as citizens we should be making the calls on safety, security, rehabilitation, psychiatry, the courts and more.

We cling to our ignorance because it is safe, familiar and requires no effort. I don’t have to access or disseminate information. I don’t have to think, change or challenge old perceptions and I do not need to find opposing information or views. To be the king of incorrect is to rule none the less and we all want to issue creeds even if they are not credible.
We are competent in our incompleteness. Though in reality, we are complete in our incompetence. It is easier to remain self-righteous and defend what is incorrect than to journey into the difficult work of rearranging perceptions, presumptions and past efforts.
We could totally remove the Not Criminally Responsible provisions found in the criminal code. If we do that we have a clear path to punishing mentally ill people. The only unfortunate part for all of us as Canadians is that none of us are immune to mental illness. Further, none of us is born with any kind of ability to influence the unfolding or duration of a delusion or hallucination. That’s risk.

The more I learn about the No Bystanders pledge the more it worries me. I was told it wasn’t worth debating the campaign because it has been so well received. I’m not convinced popularity is proof of merit? Nazism was once popular in Germany.

I am unfamiliar with social engineering but I wonder if the 519 No Bystanders Campaign is an example. It may seem innocuous to those who find agreement with the information being presented but what do we do with a citizen or citizens who believe one or all of the LGBT… identities, practices or actions are immoral? What do we do with the individual whose faith is that?

Is it imperative that the perceptions of the majority become absolute? What if my world is flat? Is it okay that I keep what you may call “colour-blindness”?

The 519 No Bystanders Campaign is also an education program attempting to make Canadian workplaces, services and community environments welcoming, safe and inclusive. The Hear It! Stop It! Campaign promotes actions such as sharing the No Bystanders pledge across organizations. Individuals are to ask colleagues to sign the pledge and display posters.

I see a problem with these methods. There are individuals who may for reasons secular, religious or otherwise want no part of such a campaign. Non-compliance becomes a homophobic gesture when it may be otherwise. The pledge becomes an ultimatum. Majority view and social consequence make pledging and “education” involuntary eventually. The risk is making someone’s beliefs or faith homophobic.

As the pledged group grows there is increasing pressure on individuals to participate. It can’t help but reach a point where choice disappears. Do you want to be the guy in cubicle 6 who would rather not pledge? It becomes an involuntary inoculation of information. When I was in primary school they allowed the Jehovah Witness children to stand in the hallway when the public announcement which included the national anthem and the Lord’s Prayer came on each morning.

Possibly there is no shame in being singled out as a Jehovah Witness but the No Bystanders Campaign makes homophobes out of those who do not support it. Eventually the gal in accounting will be singled out for not participating in a reformation of her own faith.

Perhaps it could be less coercive.

What does St. Patrick’s Day have to do with Canada? Were the Irish indigenous to Canada? Did they plant some flag on our shores? Or were they like the majority of us, immigrants and decedents of immigrants?

The Irish have been as Canadian as any of us but I believe they have had ample time to assimilate.

Is it not inconsiderate and disrespectful to have them drinking green beer with utter disregard for Tim Horton’s and poutine? It’s a whole day and night of it for cows sake. Why can’t it be short like a Citizenship Ceremony? I thought we only let in a certain number of the Irish but when I drove down Richmond Street at noon they seemed quite prevalent. I’m not good with statistics but I would say 3 out of every 4 Londoners are Irish. I am Irish so I can’t really tell you what it might be like to be a minority. I kinda get minority though.

I saw people in green hats and even painted faces. I was leery of their disguises and wondered if it was truly safe. What if they had to prove who they were? I doubt they would be recognizable to their barely legal driver’s licences. I guess like the rest of us I assumed they were all Canadian citizens already but what if one of them had a few too many Guinness and had to take their citizenship tomorrow? With all that paint on their faces they could be anyone. They could even be Scottish. How would we ever know?

I saw two uniformed police officers and two security personnel in front of an Irish pub at 11:15 in the morning. Obviously all this Irishness is a threat. I do not even see this police presence outside the mosques I sometimes notice. I thought it was every living Muslim I had to fear but apparently it is the Jamaican spilling out an establishment after celebrating his brethren’s history, culture and religion.

It is easy to agree with green beer but if we want to call ourselves Canadian we ought to show the same courtesy to any religion. St. Patrick’s Day was a solemn religious recognition at one point. People didn’t go to pubs they went to mass. Would you have your green beer if the conservatives were at the helm of deciding or needing to decide what is tolerable in another’s beliefs? Someone could have run the first Irish settlers back on their ship or told them to defrock their beliefs. We embraced and always have the religions, beliefs, customs and symbols of people who find our shores. To make a monster the conservatives have tried to twist one woman’s faith and belief.

These are her words:

“Aside from the religious aspect, I like how it makes me feel: like people have to look beyond what I look like to get to know me. That I don’t have to worry about my physical appearance and can concentrate on my inner self. That it empowers me in this regard.”

And from the non savages mouth we have:

“Stay where the hell you came from.”

This comes from a Conservative Member of Parliament whose represents Bruce-Grey- Owen Sound. I have travelled these regions and I wonder how many people wearing niquabs one would see in the Bruce-Grey-Owen Sound riding. If I was a radio disk jockey I might be lonely asking for the first five callers. By all intents and purposes this representative of Bruce-Grey -Owen Sound is basically being intolerant of something he or his constituents don’t even have to tolerate. I never saw a person kicked out of a bar without even entering.

I can hear the waves of Lake Huron lapping the riding in no small way. Are we going to cordon off parts of the beach for specific religions and or their customs, beliefs and symbols? I don’t know much about intolerance but it sure as hell doesn’t rhyme with tourism. I wonder if Bruce-Grey-Owen Sound cares about tourism.

If we draw lines in the sand of a Canadian Citizenship ceremony they stretch across the nation. To what we expose the initiate can become a rite of passage on the campus. If I can do something to someone becoming a citizen it is not a stretch to consider the same treatment to a citizen. It is not one faith being threatened it is all faiths. It is not one woman in a niquab, it is each of us.

I hope for this riding’s sake that MP Larry Miller isn’t spouting some party puke in a riding to which it has little concern. It makes me wonder what Larry Miller might be missing that is of concern to his riding. I don’t like distracted politicians. According to Larry Miller he thinks “most Canadians feel the same.” I did not know someone from Tobermory could know what people in Newfoundland and British Colombia would be thinking. Maybe most Canadians feel this way but if this is so we have indeed arrived at a place far distant from where we were even a decade ago.

Larry Miller says: “they want to change things before they even really officially become a Canadian.” I wonder what sort of performance Larry Miller had to incur to become a Canadian citizen. I doubt he knows the gratitude and honour of stepping into our once great nation. It only seems to be the Conservatives who want to “change things.” Why is it what’s good for the courts of the land are never good enough for the Conservatives of the land? For a party that claims closeness to justice they seem rabidly fanatic of disregarding Superior and Supreme Justice. This worries me.

This woman is only attempting to honour and embrace the culture and religion that any and all other Canadians have been allowed to respect and protect. If we do not protect the rights of someone becoming a citizen it becomes difficult to protect the right of the citizen.

I’m willing to guess that not 10 000 Irishmen landed on our shores as a beginning. I envision just a handful. I wonder what it is like to enter a country as a minority. We could ask the Jamaican celebrating and embracing his brethren’s culture and religion but he seems assimilated and may not understand or appreciate the significance.

Thankfully our distant relatives were tolerant of our Irish ancestors and their symbols, dress, custom and belief. The world would a dull place make without the Shamrock Shake.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day and yes I am in fact one eighth Irish which is why I am drunk enough to spell:

DISCRIMINATION

We took a trip into town yesterday. I was expecting a tourist trap but it was more like a slide soaked in salad oil with only one possible direction to be followed. I was flattered that they devoted ten blocks to siphoning my cents but I think the forty-five silver vendors could have been better managed.

About a dozen of us tourists disembarked from one van and I quickly discerned that our lack of tans were essentially targets for vendors. I was smart enough to ask the hotel concierge before we left where she would buy tequila. Everyone headed in the direction of the market of markup and we headed to Walmart. It was out of the way but if you want a feel for the culture Walmart is fairly unadulterated. We passed a few banks which each had guards with billy clubs loitering in front and I was pleased that someone’s money was safe. There was a cigar store inside Walmart so I entered and listened to the young man’s dreams of wealth and decided to not be a part of it. I could have flown to Cuba and back for less than what he imagined his torpedoes were worth. In my world money doesn’t necessarily mean moronity.

We headed back to the boulevard of bargaining to take another chance with cigars. The first establishment had three gentlemen out front hand rolling cigars. I bought the brochure and entered. I was checking out the prices and noticed a woman around the corner in the back doing exactly the same as the men in front. I was told I would receive a twenty percent savings if I bought a box which with quick calculation was twenty percent off a six hundred percent markup. “Buenos Dias” I said.

A fellow on the street was selling something similar and in a practised way pulled my wife and I to his display. He started talking in peso’s which scares me as I am unaccustomed to talking in thousands. “American dollars” I said. He started talking about one hundred dollars which was closer to my orbit. I said “no” as he rummaged through each of his different products handing me each with similar prices. “Listen, my friend, for you I can come down to seventy.” “No thanks” I said, though we were nearing reality. “Sixty” he said. “No.” “Listen, you work hard for your money” he said. I took a step back and glanced at my wife. I was afraid for this man. My wife is the breadwinner in our family and she jumped in and said “I am buying the cigars.” A little late he changed course and said to her, “you work hard for your money. I have a family, I work hard for my money, I have to travel to Cuba, I have to stand in the street.” I wanted to question him about Cuba but there was enough bullshit on the boulevard. He was now handing his boxes to my wife and I watched as she countered each of his maneuvers. I was in awe. Apparently, haggling has a history in China where she grew up.

We were slowly exiting the exchange and he asked her what her offer was. “You will be angry at my offer” she said. “No I will not be offended.” “Twenty dollars.” “Be reasonable” was his reply. “Twenty” she shot back. “The best I can do is fifty” he said. “Twenty” and she handed back the box once again. “Let me make my final offer; thirty-five.” “No, you keep your cigars and I will keep my money, that is fair.” His lip was quivering and he was the first local I noticed who was sweating. Long story short, my wife walked away with the cigars for twenty dollars. We paid him and his final plea was for a dollar for a Coke. He needed some kind of bargaining bandage as he was haemorrhaging from haggling with my wife so I bought him a Coke.

It was an education for me as I had never been part of haggling before. I found something else to admire in my wife and I should think he did as well.

My wonderful wife forced me into the fuselage of an airplane and I have ended up somewhere near the equator. I haven’t been anywhere warm in January in at least fifteen years unless you count the gas fireplace in our flat.

I looked at a map this morning as I thought it was important to finally know my whereabouts. I still don’t really know but I can see a large body of water from my balcony. Everyone is saying “hola” and “gracias” so I have eliminated the English Channel as the source of pollution. Watching people I have decided we are somewhere between the gulf of gluttony and the edge of excess.

This all seems different and disorienting. We are staying at an “all inclusive” which so far is an illusion. I thought our financial obligations were left with the travel agent but “all inclusive” so far means you don’t need a deposit for the view until it changes.

We only brought carry on luggage to make the airports a little easier. I dragged it through London International, Toronto Pearson and finally Cancun airports. When we landed at the resort our luggage was stolen by a little Latin man. He must have felt guilty as he showed up at our room an hour later. I gave him a gratuity in the hope of it not happening again. He must have told the other hotel employees as I can’t seem to yawn without yacking up an American dollar bill.

It’s basically our first day here but “all inclusive” does not include the bartender at the free bar, the person who brings beverages for the room fridge, the concierge and others who are breathing brochures, towel technicians, tequila transporters, the maintenance fellow who fixed the previously broken door, the security woman who fixed the previously broken safe, people who clear cutlery and the guy in the golf cart who gave me a ride while I was out for a walk. I even had to pay some person for their ideas of fun in the sun. Seriously, even if the drawstring on my bathing suit is double knotted is it really safe to have a dolphin push you through the water? Like; haven’t they heard of a canoe?

I got a little worked up on our first evening. We were trapped in our room as the door wouldn’t lock nor the safe. We were famished and tired. I ended up swearing at a Spaniard in English which felt good but was as pointless as confetti in a car wash.

When we arrived we had money for the safe but it is quickly disappearing. If I really wanted to keep our money safe I would carry a machete and hack off the hands of anyone wearing a hotel uniform. You might think I’m just a privileged penny pinching prick which isn’t far from the truth but it has turned into survival. According to the hotel we owe them thirty bucks if we lose a towel. I’m skimping and saving in the event of this. I figure all the people wearing hotel uniforms were once tourists who nearing the edge off bankruptcy in the game of gratuities lost their towel and are now indentured to the resort to pay it back. Possibly I shouldn’t worry as I would make more money here in tips than I do at home.

I saw an iguana with the guy on the golf cart so I’m pretending I’m on a safari which eases the suffering. Don’t feel sorry for me but hell is hot.