The drive down Salter Street was like an out of body experience. It felt as if I was watching myself driving the car to the North Winnipeg Police Station. The sun shone brightly, Bruce Springsteen sang Born to Run, and I seemed to navigate the road in a trance like state. This was the heart of the north end; run down homes, battered cars, imposing motorcycles, kids running on the streets and questionable characters sitting on porches drinking beer. Yet, somehow, I drove through this familiar part of town in a mind set which suggested someone consumed with troubling matters.
It seemed incomprehensible that I had to go to the police to file a report against her; to seek protection; to express serious concern for my safety. Close friends for months had strongly urged me to do this; the stalking had been going on for a year and with each incident it seemed as if the brazen acts were getting braver and more out of control. It was quite apparent that unless I took action, my safety and health would be compromised. It took strong words from three very close friends to finally get this through to me.
Following her last act of stalking me with her psychotic smirk, I felt broken. There seemed to be no way to get out of this hell that I was living. I came home from the playoff baseball game numb, not knowing where to turn, what to do. I texted my confidant, my dear friend Lisa. As she so often did, Lisa texted back with strong words of a need to immediately take action, that without doing something, I was enabling my stalker, giving her permission to continue destroying my life. Lisa knew how to be forceful with me in a way which suggested care and loving. I knew that was why I always reached out to her. Little did I know at that point that ten days later Lisa would commit suicide. She was able to be there for me, but the steel walls which surrounded her, didn’t allow for reciprocation of that help.