This Is Not My Life

by Diane Schoemperlen

  He was so deeply involved in his own twisted misery that he just kept talking. I had to say it twice more before he heard me.

  “I’m going to take it all away. Right now. It’s over. I’m done. Just to be clear: the bottom line is, you no longer have a girlfriend.” Then I hung up and turned off all the phones.

  HE CALLED AGAIN TWICE THAT EVENING and left messages. In the first, he was tearful and contrite. Sorry sorry, so sorry. He wasn’t feeling well. He had a bad day. His blood pressure was up. His leg hurt, his esophagus too. There was blood on his pillow. Now there was his heart. Sorry sorry, so sorry. These weepy apologies had always worked before.

  In the second message, he was calm and practical. What about his CPP cheques, and what about his stuff? Since turning sixty, he’d been collecting just over a hundred dollars a month from the Canada Pension Plan. Through his lawyer, I’d acquired Power of Attorney, so his cheques could be delivered to me, thus avoiding the usual CSC deduction for room and board. Each month I took him a money order for a hundred dollars, which was then deposited into his inmate account to cover the phone calls and some canteen items. As for his stuff, shortly after we got back together, I’d made a trip to Kenworth to pick up several boxes of his belongings that had been stored in Roy and Darlene’s garage.

  Early the next morning, he called again. Miraculously I had no problem not answering the phone. He didn’t leave a message. I sent Louise an email to tell her the news. She sent me a note of congratulation and a reminder to feel what I was feeling, to give myself time to adjust, to be good to myself. She said, “If you need me, I’ll be here.”

  He didn’t call again. I didn’t call anyone. I knew how happy Dorothy and my other friends would be—but I wasn’t yet ready to hear their hoorays. The only person I told was Alex. He, as usual, didn’t say much, but I could tell he was pleased. I spent the morning reading The Betrayal Bond and replaying last night’s phone call word for word in my head a hundred times.

  I had a long nap in the afternoon. He still didn’t call. I treated myself to lamb chops for dinner. They came in a package of six. I ate them all and wished for more. He didn’t call in the evening either. This was so strange that by bedtime, my imagination was running wild in several directions at once. What the hell was happening? There was no end of possibilities to feed my growing anxiety: stroke, heart attack, esophagus, suicide, escape. Maybe he’d acted up and been shipped out. His uncharacteristic silence kept me on the line, still embroiled in his drama, still bracing for whatever he was going to do next.

  I recognized this feeling from when we broke up the first time. Fortunately I’d learned enough by now from all my hours with Louise and from reading The Betrayal Bond to know that this was part of it—part of the trauma bond that had held me so tightly to him before, that had made getting back together seem like a reasonable thing to do, that had kept me believing everything would be okay eventually if only I could hang on long enough to get to the good part.

  He didn’t call on Saturday. Now I felt relieved. Someone must have made him realize it would be better for him if he didn’t harass me by phone. I was sure they were keeping close tabs on him. I was booked for a visit that day, and I wasn’t there. I was sure I’d be hearing from them any day now. They’d want to know what happened; they’d want to hear my side of the story. In the afternoon, I packed up some of his things. I felt neither elated nor upset, and I was not talking to him in my head while I did it. I put the beautiful jacket and the WAIT, TRUST, HOPE, REJOICE fridge magnet in a bag to be donated to Vinnie’s. For once in my life, I felt neutral and detached.

  He didn’t call on Sunday.

  He didn’t call on Monday.

  He didn’t call on Tuesday.

  I was now feeling more surprised that I still hadn’t heard from “them” than I was by not hearing from him.

  The next morning, his familiar handwriting appeared in my mailbox, and some of my questions were answered. This letter was two neatly typewritten pages, with his full signature at the end, his name and inmate number typewritten above it, and a note requesting that a copy be attached to his file and another sent to Psychology. Please and thank you. Even I could see this letter was more for their benefit than mine.

  It had been written on Saturday. He said he’d cancelled our next scheduled PFV and taken me off his visiting and phone lists, so no one could accuse him of calling too much. I felt he had done me a favour there, sparing me having to take myself off his lists, but I also knew he’d done it to make himself look good in their eyes. And perhaps, I realized later, to avoid giving me an opportunity to speak to them myself. He sounded calm and reasonable, just like he always did in letters. He wished me the best in all my endeavours, which, he said, were sure to bring me money, prestige, and happiness. He noted that although the word controlling had often been directed at him, in fact I was the one who’d been controlling and that people have to give and take, not just dictate. He referred to his ill health a few times, asked again what we were going to do about his CPP cheques, noting that these were all he had, and no one else was stepping up to help him. He said he’d talked to his CMT, Psychology, and Stuart, and he was now ready to get on with his life. Even I could see this letter was mostly a matter of emotional manipulation, to which I did not succumb.

  The next morning, the phone rang early. In the call display, it said “Government of Canada.” When Shane called, it always said “Bell Pay Phone.” Finally, I thought, finally they were calling to find out from me what had happened. But no, it wasn’t them. It was him. A member of his CMT had given him permission to call me from her office about the CPP cheques. It was a two-minute conversation. Then he said he would always love me, started to cry, and hung up. I felt nothing.

  OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, I stopped expecting CSC to contact me. Clearly they had no desire to hear my side of the story. Considering that in all these years, they had never replied to a single one of my letters or phone calls, I didn’t think there was any point in attempting to contact them.

  I received a handful of letters from Shane and one more phone call. Early on a Sunday morning near the middle of June, the phone rang, and the call display said, “Sisters of Providence.” So I knew it was from the convent, and I knew he’d likely be there for mass right then. But I didn’t seriously think it could be him on the line. Maybe the nuns were calling me for some reason. What? To tell me he was dead? In retrospect I realize this didn’t make much sense, but I answered the phone. There he was. He said his escort said he could call me. I knew this was definitely not allowed. He was crying and wanted to know if this was really the end. He asked if I broke up with him because there was somebody else. Clearly he wanted to believe this was the case. Then he could feel like a victim: Oh, poor Shane, that nasty bitch left him for another man. How could she?

  By now I knew he was never going to accept or understand the truth. I replied in a calm clear voice. I didn’t use any of the words that always sent him into a rage.

  Controlling.

  Manipulative.

  Narcissist.

  Bully.

  Abuse.

  I said, “No, Shane, I broke up with you for one reason and one reason only. Because you treated me badly, and I deserve better.”

  IN THE LETTERS, he was rapidly cycling from one mood to another, the salutations flipping wildly from an indignantly formal Ms. Schoemperlen to a simple Diane, and finally, to Hello again Pixie.

  He said the staff had been rallying around him—even the ones he didn’t get along with before, even the ones who’d liked me better than him—and commending him for how well he was handling the breakup. He said he could feel personal growth taking effect, that he’d become such a gentleman now, but only if he received respect too. As if I was going to believe he’d become a whole new person in less than a month. If a total transformation was that easy, why didn’t he do it when we were still together?

  He said the CPP representative had been to Frontenac again and told
him I was eligible to receive his survivor’s pension after his death. Would I please accept this as a gift from his heart to mine? Several times he said he wanted to be friends, that we’d be better friends than lovers. He said he knew it couldn’t be as friendly as I was with some of my other former lovers, but still he’d like to have a letter and a phone call once in a while. He said he missed me.

  Over and over again, I could feel him trying to pull me back in. With Louise’s help, I resisted. Each time I received another letter, we parsed it together line by line, her helping me see how these missives cast him as both the victim and the hero in this sorry little narrative and me as the villain, how afterwards he’d be able to claim that he was the reasonable one who just wanted to be friends, and I was the nasty vengeful bitch who refused.

  He said his appeal had been successful, and his next hearing was scheduled for mid-July. Would I be attending? No, I told him, I would not.

  In my replies, I stuck to practical matters. I declined his offer to make me the recipient of his survivor’s pension. Despite his protests to the contrary, I knew this was a trap. I said several times that I would no longer be the person in charge of his end-of-life care and his death. I reminded him to tear up the Living Will. He persisted in acting as if he did not understand what I was saying, kept asking the same things over and over. As he requested, I sent him a list of all his belongings, now packed safely in three Rubbermaid tubs. Roy and Darlene came and picked them up, a brief exchange involving less than five awkward minutes in the driveway. I mailed the necessary documents to resign as his Power of Attorney. I closed the bank account in his name and had his CPP cheques sent directly to Frontenac.

  Each of his letters caused me some degree of upset, as did writing my replies. I’d thought I could follow what in The Betrayal Bond was called “The Path of Limited Contact.” But now I realized I had to choose the other path: “The Path of No Contact.”

  I closed my next and final letter by saying, Once we’ve finished sorting out the practical matters, I do not want to have continued contact with you by letter or phone in the future. He did not reply.

  TRUE TO MY WORD, I did not attend the summer parole hearing at which Shane was again requesting a series of UTAs to the Ottawa halfway house. Because I was still signed on with the Parole Board Registry of Decisions, I received a copy of the paperwork a week later. Seven legal-size pages, typewritten, single-spaced, written in the second person, as these decisions always were, addressing the offender directly in a personal and conversational tone.

  His request had been granted. I skimmed the first three pages, the usual recap of his earlier crimes, convictions, and incarceration. On the fourth page was their commentary on recent events. Here it stated that Shane had told them at the hearing that he had ended our relationship in late May because he felt I was pulling away, and he was not prepared to go through the agony of another separation. They noted that although it was evident this had been a painful situation for him, he had handled it with maturity and wisdom.

  Parole hearings don’t include swearing on the Bible, but I had always considered them to be like courtroom proceedings, where everyone, especially the offender, is required to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Of course, I wasn’t entirely surprised that Shane had lied at the hearing. Maybe the lie shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did. Maybe part of my outrage was just me wanting to set the record straight, wanting to have the last word. But I was surprised that the Board members had apparently believed him. I was also still surprised that no one from CSC or the Parole Board had ever contacted me to get my side of the story. Would knowing the truth have changed their decision?

  I felt some obligation to enlighten them. For two weeks I pondered how best to do this. I was reluctant to do it directly, because I didn’t want to become enmeshed in the whole mess again, nor did I want to further enrage Shane for fear of possible retaliation. In the end, I wrote him a letter telling him that I’d received the decision paperwork and knew he’d lied at the hearing. I reminded him that I had ended our relationship in no uncertain terms on the phone on the evening of May 24. I concluded by once again stating that I wished to have no further contact with him, now or in the future, by telephone, letter, in person, or by any other means.

  Much as I wanted him to know that I knew he’d lied, mostly I was doing what he’d done: writing this letter for their benefit. I hoped the officer who checked his mail would read it and feel compelled to do something. They always had the right to monitor our phone calls. I hoped maybe they’d heard and recorded that one on May 24. But nothing happened.

  A month later, my letter was returned to me inside a larger CSC envelope addressed in someone else’s handwriting. Across the original envelope, Shane had written PLEASE RETURN. NO CONTACT. My letter itself had obviously been carried in a pocket, passed from hand to hand, read and reread, folded and refolded many times.

  I never heard from or saw him again.

  FINALLY ALL OF MY QUESTIONS HAD BEEN ANSWERED. Finally I understood that I could not fix him or heal him or make him happy. I could not make the world a better place for him. I could not lead him out of the darkness. Finally I understood that no matter how much I loved him, I did not have the power to make up for or undo the damage—neither the damage he’d suffered nor the damage he’d done. Finally I had stepped out of the story and surrendered to reality.

  Now I knew I could not save him. I could only save myself.

  EPILOGUE

  Narrative begs an ending. The desire to wrap up loose ends, to make meaning, is human, and ancient. But things do not end.

  —ALISON PICK, BETWEEN GODS

  According to statistics released by Public Safety Canada, as of December 2013, there were just under 1,500 convicted killers—166 first-degree and 1,332 second-degree—out on full parole in Canada. Shane was not one of them. But he was not in prison anymore either.

  A year after our relationship ended, he was again granted day parole and moved to the Ottawa halfway house he’d been aiming for. This time the copy of the decision I received was heavily redacted. Names and details of people, cities, institutions, organizations, and his criminal history had all been blacked out, as had his security classification and his inmate number. As if, now that I was no longer part of the story, I also no longer knew him or all that had come before. Our entire relationship was covered in one brief paragraph—six years of my life reduced to two sentences out of five legal-size pages, typewritten, single-spaced.

  If only it were that simple.

  THIS TIME I GOT OFF the Tough Guys train and stayed there. This time I did not fall apart. This time I went forward instead of back. But not every day was a good day.

  Immediately after the breakup, I was elated and energized with the sense of my own freedom, as if I were the one who had finally been granted full parole.

  Then I was angry. One day Brenda from the prison group said, “Don’t be mad at God. You shouldn’t be mad at God.”

  “I’m not mad at God!” I snapped. “I’m mad at Shane.”

  I was mad at myself too. Of course I was.

  There was the matter now of confronting the price I’d paid for being in love with the story at the expense of reality—a price that was not only emotional and psychological but financial as well.

  I began to compile and consider my “Schedule of Loss.” Each Tuesday I packed up my pain, my anger, my grief, and carried it all to Louise. Together we sifted through it, shard by shard, picking apart the story until all that remained was reality. Each week I cast off another piece of the story and took another step back into my life. Each week I went home afterwards with my heart in my hands, bleeding.

  I was no longer having a bad relationship with Shane—now I was having a bad relationship with hope. Now it was hard to believe that good things were ever going to happen again. I stopped hoping that my life would ever get easier, happier, better, and found myself hoping instead that I would have the stren
gth to deal with whatever hard things lay ahead. For those first two months, I was functioning, but my heart wasn’t in it. Mostly I was just going through the motions. It was never far from my mind that things could always get worse. My default position during this period was dread. While my chronic anxiety rose up like stalagmites from this baseline, its devoted companion, depression, dredged out the downward troughs into which I frequently sank.

  It may or may not be true that time heals all wounds, but soon enough I was, if not healing, then certainly fed up with feeling bad. Little by little, with Louise’s wise weekly guidance, I began to feel stronger. Using the insurance settlement I’d received following the flood the previous summer, I hired a contractor to address the drainage issues around my house and to install all new basement windows and eavestroughs. While they dug, drilled, hammered, and sawed all summer long on the outside, I flew into a frenzy of cleaning, sorting, and organizing on the inside, both upstairs and down. Even at the time, I could appreciate the analogical aptness of this. By the end of the summer, the whole house was vastly improved and so was I.

  By the beginning of September, I was back to work, not only on the book I had presented at the conference at Humber in the spring, but also on a number of other projects. Motivated and energized by the desperate financial situation I was now in, throughout the fall I was also editing, writing reviews, and giving readings and workshops both in Kingston and away. By November I had finished my collage book that should have been finished years ago and sent it out into the world to find a publisher. By December I was making notes for a book about my prison years.

  In the early months of 2013, I was spending more and more time with Dorothy and Lily. I was no longer hiding parts of myself from them, and our friendships were stronger than they’d ever been. I was making new friends too, with people around whom I did not feel anxious, inferior, envious, or judged. Still interested in prison issues, I continued to be repeatedly outraged by the further Tough on Crime measures being taken by the Harper government, but I had drifted away from the prison group. I was no longer an “insider” and could not figure out how I fit with them now.