I want to apologize. I have concentration issues. I've been working hard on this. I've been trying to put it into 10 minutes. Due to my lack of concentration, I may be delayed, so please bear with me.
Hello and good day to everyone. My name is Claude Lalancette. I am a Canadian veteran paratrooper. I proudly served my country for over 10 years. I'm a member of the Royal 22nd Regiment and proudly served with the Canadian Airborne Regiment.
On December 26, 1992, I was ordered by my government to deploy to Somalia for ops deliverance. Mefloquine was issued as an anti-malarial drug. This is where I can retrace the root of my mental health issues; I say issues because they are still unresolved.
Now that I look back on theatre, nightmares invaded the nights that we could sleep. We all know that in theatre it's 24/7. When we're not patrolling, we're on base doing guard duty. Our nights were split and the pattern was different and it was really hard to get a night's rest.
As I recall, we were allowed two beers, and this is where I recall having more horrifying nightmares. To keep my composure, I will restrain the details. Looking back and thinking of mefloquine, things make sense. We were young and so well trained for this mission, but the intensity of our aggression and psychosis led to the closure of Canada's elite, the Canadian Airborne Regiment.
To this day, I feel the shame of the closure, all the blame and shame landed on Canada's elite. Most of all, I feel shame because I put blame for the closure of the regiment on two individuals who are innocent: Clayton Matchee and Kyle Brown are victims.
As I glimpse more into my past, I see my military career collapse. I went from 1 Commando to the pathfinder platoon. When they disbanded the regiment, I was posted to Para Company in Valcartier. There, my career hit rock bottom. I was cast out by the Royal 22nd Regiment, due to my implication in the March 4 incident of the Somalia Inquiry. I was excluded from participating in a UN mission in Haiti. My career was threatened, and I was told if I talked too much many careers would be at stake, especially mine. The threat was not needed, due to my strong loyalty to my brothers.
I was finally released in 2001. After the military, I tried to study, tried to put my feet back on the ground, and had a really hard time. I studied computer science, and every day was a struggle, due to my lack of concentration, but I needed to persist for my family.
I started having issues with depression and so on, and in 2007, I was diagnosed with PTSD. At first, I didn't know what was happening to me. I was depressed, irritable, aggressive, hypervigilant. I had a sleep disorder and was suicidal. I went to the doctor about my issues because I was losing it. My nightmares were haunting me. My aggression was making me a very dangerous man. I knew something was wrong, and I had to do something about it. The clock in my head was ticking.
My first contact with mental health professionals led me to contact Veterans Affairs. It was too much for the civilian committee, so they directed me to more specialized care, which is VAC. When I contacted VAC, they also told me it was urgent I go to Ste. Anne's Hospital.
I showed up the next day. There, I saw a social worker and a nurse, and I sat down to speak to a Dr. Belanger, a psychiatrist. The doctor vaguely explained my situation and asked me to be admitted immediately. I was so shocked and anxious that it created panic. I refused and left the hospital.
It was while I was stewing everything in my head while stuck in traffic on my way home that I had my first psychosis. I was in traffic trying to digest everything when a semi began following me too closely. The overwhelming urge to react was too strong. My temper shot through the roof. I pounced out of my car and headed to the truck. Without hesitating, I opened the door of the truck and literally pulled the driver out of the vehicle, even though he was wearing his seat belt. Once the man was out of the truck, I proceeded to strike him, and then I came to.
It was surreal. I couldn't believe what I was doing. I was in the middle of a highway, with about 1,000 cars behind me that were watching me attack this poor man. I dropped everything, ran back to my car, and fled. Once I was home, I called the hospital to make arrangements to be admitted the next day. I knew I needed help, and I had to go get it.
Since this incident, I have had two other road rage psychoses. I have prohibited myself from driving due to these incidents. Since I gave myself to VAC for treatment, I have under gone three intern therapies at the Ste-Anne-de-Bellevue hospital. There, I was heavily sedated with antipsychotics and antidepressants.
After my first admission to the hospital, I went 18 months without seeing my doctor. She renewed my prescriptions via fax, without sitting with me. I underwent five years of therapy with the hospital. I was taking so much medication that it had affected my health. Diabetes settled in, as well as digestive problems, and my weight was a whopping 127.7 kilograms. Even though my medication was maxed out, I contemplated, three times, with a rope around my neck, committing suicide. Only the thought of my children kept me alive. But today, where are my boys?
During this time, my mental health was not getting better. They would boost my meds to a point of stabilization, but I wouldn't stay stable. I would fight my meds. Sleep disorder became more of a problem. Even though I was heavily medicated, I just couldn't get there. To top it off, I was self-medicating with cannabis to help fight my amplifying symptoms. I couldn't understand why I wasn't getting better.
At least, I had relief with cannabis. It controlled my symptoms very well, and it gave me the peace I needed. I was very aggressive at home, where my family walked on eggshells. My hypervigilance created a bunker affect. I had severe social issues; I was very dangerous. All the medication intake took away my manhood. I couldn't understand why I wasn't getting better.
Living like this destroyed my life. I had a 20-year marriage, but not anymore. I had loving family, but not anymore. I had a loving home, but not anymore. I had a life, but not anymore.
My family are my victims. PTSD has settled into their lives. I live in poverty due to attacks from the Canada Revenue Agency. I also have mismanagement issues by making bad decisions due to my symptoms.
Due to my mental state, I have been making bad decisions, which digs me deeper into debt. I was not running around town on cocaine and running amok. I was a husband, okay? I was a father of two, trying to better my situation. I was given a lump sum and a year later, after buying my home, I was attacked by the Canada Revenue Agency. I'm going to skip this part. This, I think, we should be...