Resilience Is Futile: The Life and Death and Life of Julie S. Lalonde

By Julie S. Lalonde

For over a decade, Julie Lalonde, an award-winning advocate for women’s rights, kept a secret.

She crisscrossed the country, denouncing violence against women and giving hundreds of media interviews along the way. Her work made national headlines for challenging universities and taking on Canada’s top military brass. Appearing fearless on the surface, Julie met every interview and event with the same fear in her gut: was he there?

Fleeing intimate partner violence at age 20, Julie was stalked by her ex-partner for over ten years, rarely mentioning it to friends, let alone addressing it publicly. The contrast between her public career as a brave champion for women with her own private life of violence and fear meant a shaky and exhausting balancing act.

Resilience sounds like a positive thing, so why do we often use it against women? Tenacity and bravery might help us survive unimaginable horrors, but where are the spaces for anger and vulnerability?

Resilience is Futile is a story of survival, courage and ultimately, hope. But it’s also a challenge to the ways we understand trauma and resilience. It’s the story of one survivor who won’t give up and refuses to shut up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Between the Lines
• Release date: Apr 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781771134705

Julie S. Lalonde

Julie S. Lalonde is an internationally recognized women’s rights advocate and public educator. Julie works with various feminist organizations dedicated to ending sexual violence, engaging bystanders and building communities of support. She is a frequent media source on issues of violence against women and her work has appeared on Al Jazeera, CBC’s The National, TVO’s The Agenda, Vice, WIRED magazine and FLARE, among others. She is a recipient of the Governor General’s Award in Commemoration of the Persons Case.

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Resilience is Futile

The Life and

Death and

Life of

Julie S. Lalonde

Julie S. Lalonde

Between the Lines

Toronto

Contents

Note

Prologue

1 – Good Girl

2 – The Beginning

3 – Trauma on Trial

4 – Requiem

5 – KFC and Nancy Grace

6 – Operation (Dis)honour

7 – Aftermath

8 – Carte Blanche

Ellipsis

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

A chilling insight into what it is like to survive under surveillance. Lalonde masterfully weaves her experience of intimate partner violence with her years of expertise as an anti-violence educator. Stalking has been a neglected topic in the #MeToo movement. This book is guaranteed to change that.

Mandi Gray, activist and subject of the documentary Slut or Nut: Diary of a Rape Trial

Lalonde shines an unflinching and much-needed spotlight on what happens when women leave bad relationships, but the abuse continues. Both fierce and vulnerable, Lalonde reminds us that healing is rarely linear and almost never final—but something always worth fighting for.

Lauren McKeon, author of F-Bomb: Dispatches from the War on Feminism

Lalonde’s breathtaking memoir reignites the necessity of voice. She challenges the conversation around the way we hold and discuss trauma and pens the words with incredible clarity. Silent, she is not, and we are all better for it.

Chelene Knight, author of Dear Current Occupant and Braided Skin

Dedicated to my twenty-year-old self.

We did it, baby.

We’re still here.

Note

This book is a memoir based on journals, notes, love letters, death threats, police records, social media posts, articles, and that fickle little thing called memory.

Trauma has a bad habit of messing with one’s recollection, so I have relied on the above texts whenever necessary to help me establish timelines and flesh out specific details.

Names have been changed to protect the innocent and the family of the guilty.

Prologue

I hate the summer.

While my friends were out drinking on patios and lying on the beach, living their twenties as they should, I found myself hiding in my bathtub. He was always the cruellest version of himself when the temperature rose.

When I was twenty-one, I lived in a small, quaint one-bedroom apartment in a super-sketchy neighbourhood. I worked a crappy retail job for $6.75 an hour while I studied at Carleton University. My landlord was a grumpy old man who wouldn’t let me have an air conditioner. It was the summer of 2006, and my apartment was so sweltering that I tossed and turned every night in bed, unable to cool down, wishing for a cool breeze or the hand of God to put me out of my misery. On more than one occasion, I shook my cat awake because she was lying around so much, I feared she’d died.

The only semblance of relief came from leaving my windows open with a dozen fans circulating the dense air. That’s how I spotted Xavier.

I had just finished a twelve-hour shift at the mall and dragged myself home, only to see Xavier’s car parked outside my window. He was sitting in the driver’s seat, looking up at my apartment window.

I instinctively dropped to my knees, hoping he hadn’t spotted me yet. I kicked off my shoes and started to crawl across the floor, aiming for the bathroom. There was a window in there too, so I awkwardly crawled into the bathtub and laid my head against the tile. I remember trying to slow my breathing. I hadn’t taken a full breath since I got home. From too many moments like this, I had learned the skill of taking several deep breaths to try to slow my beating heart.

I remember lying in the tub, confident that it was the one place in my apartment where he couldn’t see me. I closed my eyes and tried to reassure myself: He didn’t see you. Don’t worry. He didn’t see you.

Hours went by. I lay there so long, I lost track of time. I’m too tall for any tub, let alone this tiny one. I was so cramped and the air was so fucking hot. I was drenched in sweat but too scared to get out. I was a woman in my twenties too scared to get out of the bathtub.

After convincing myself that he hadn’t seen me this time, I abandoned panic for despair. What had I done to deserve this? Why was this happening? Why wouldn’t he stop?

It’s been over a decade since that bathtub. It’s been five years since he died. But I still ask myself those questions.

1

Good Girl

I was smart and eager and was raised to always be kind. That’s why he noticed me. Years later, when I’d become an established advocate and public speaker, a gruff AM talk radio host asked me what deficiency I had that made Xavier target me, and I came up empty. But the truth is, I was keen and kind and that’s why he noticed me.

I met Xavier my first few weeks at a new school in a new city. Moving from a town of nine hundred to a school of nine hundred is one hell of an adjustment. It’s even more complicated when you transition from a remote Northern Ontario public school to an urban Catholic high school in a convent.

It was the kind of high school people don’t believe even exists anymore. The principal and several of the faculty were actual nuns. The dress code was a strict uniform of a polyester navy blue pencil skirt (below the knee), a crisp white blouse buttoned to the neck, and a matching blue vest with unflattering beige nylons and black Mary Janes. In the winter, the nuns were generous and let us wear a hideous blue cardigan.

You couldn’t dye your hair an unnatural colour or have piercings beyond a simple earring, and men weren’t allowed facial hair or hair below their ears. We weren’t allowed a spare period and couldn’t leave the premises on our lunch break. There were few openly queer students, and our religion class had explicitly homophobic messaging. Every year, the nuns would invite an anti-choice group to picket outside the school with graphic anti-abortion signs. My feminist heart died a little every day for three years.

It was made worse by the fact that my classmates had survived the dreaded grade nine together. Not me. I was plopped into the school in grade ten and didn’t know a soul. I was fifteen and all limbs, desperately hoping that I would disappear into the sea of starched blue uniforms.

It was English class and the teacher outlined the books we were to read that year. As the teacher listed the texts we would cover, I realized I had read every one of them the year before. Phew. I had an advantage.

When I look back on it now, I can’t for the life of me remember the question she asked, but I do remember it was about The Chrysalids, a book I adored. This was my shot. I could confidently answer a question. I did and I was right. But I soon felt my cheeks brighten as Xavier muttered under his breath Nerrrd like an eighties high school movie cliché. People laughed and he looked at me with the smirk that we teach young women to recognize as flirting; he teases you because he likes you.

I hated him. All I wanted was to blend in, but I took a chance and raised my hand and then this asshole made a scene of it.

It only got worse from there. This new high school had a policy of having people share lockers. They were larger than average-sized lockers, but it’s still asking a lot for teenagers to happily share the one space at school that they can call their own. And when you’re the new girl in school with no friends, it means having to pick at least one very intimate friend on your first day. I looked around and panicked as everyone else paired up and I was left alone. Fuck.

I tried to hide my panic but it was obvious, and two girls confidently approached me. I could tell right away that they weren’t cool girls. They were the type that have long embraced being outsiders and really leaned into it. They were weirdos with weird hobbies and weird names and they didn’t give a fuck if you liked it. I liked them immediately. We decided to share one locker among the three of us.

Suddenly, a group of cool girls swarmed me. You can’t share a locker with them. Do you want friends at this school or not? They proceeded to inform me that it would be social suicide to be seen with the weirdos, and though they hadn’t seemed to care about my social status moments earlier, they suddenly took an interest in protecting me. I accepted the new offer.

Having dodged Xavier’s mocking and a mean girls’ minefield, I thought I was now in the clear. But a week or so later, I heard that I was a slut. I had been trying to keep my head down and focus on learning the school’s unspoken customs and social hierarchy. But I’d been five foot ten since junior high and had waist-length blonde hair. I was the new girl in a crowd of nine hundred uniforms and I stuck out in a big, bad way. And because I only spoke when spoken to, people decided to draw their own conclusions as to how I’d landed at their school in the tenth grade.

Never mind that I was a painfully shy virgin. To the group of mean girls, I was a rabid whore who had been forced to move because I’d slept with my best friend’s boyfriend and was chased out of town. I was a slut who was keeping to herself because she didn’t want people to find out.

The truth was far less scandalous. My dad worked in IT long before it was trendy, and my family up and moved whenever he got a better job offer. But the slut story is what was told and the slut story stuck. I was equal parts mortified and confused. How do you kill a rumour that is so blatantly untrue? By outing yourself as a loser virgin? I was doomed.

I endured a steady week of side-eyes, whispers, and glares from just about every girl in school. My only constant friends were the two weirdos from day one, who clearly didn’t care if I was a slut or not. They’d already learned to be impenetrable. But not me. My skin is porous.

When my dad asked me how things were going at school, I spilled the beans. Ever the practical one, he warned me that someone was going to fight me. They were going to fight me and they were going to aim for my hair, because it was an easy target. Make sure you don’t go into bathrooms by yourself, and if they corner you, throw yourself against the wall so they can’t pull your hair from behind.

A violent childhood, a martial arts background, and a career in the infantry gave him some pretty intense knowledge on survival. Thanks for the hot tip, dad.

My face, my hair, and my pride were saved not from my years of martial arts training nor from my dad’s pep talk on schoolyard bullies. Nope. I was saved by the only woman in school who was taller than me and who showed up to school one day with a cast on her arm. Her boyfriend had broken up with her and she got so angry, she punched a vending machine and shattered her wrist. Andrea was big, bold, and badass and she took me under her wing. When I walked the halls with her, the mean girls got bored and the rumour died as quickly as it was born.

My school might have been on the fence about whether I was a whore, but no one could deny that I held my own on a basketball court. I’d been playing sports for as long as I can remember, and I come by it honestly. My brother could dunk in the eighth grade and my parents coached every sport I played. That first year, basketball was my saviour; I made the team and made friends. For a tournament, we drove six hours away to Ottawa, where I met Jason, a brooding stranger from a neighbouring city. As you do when you’re fifteen, I was smitten.

It wasn’t long before we dated. Long-distance relationships in the early aughts were a serious feat. Bricks for cell phones, no texting. Can you imagine? All we had were embarrassing Hotmail addresses and the uh-oh alerts of ICQ and, eventually, MSN Messenger. I once racked up a $120 phone bill yammering away with him for four hours straight. What we could possibly have talked about for that long, I have no idea. But we were in love and stayed that way for the rest of high school.

Jason was taller than me, which is a miracle when you’re a tall teenage girl. He was masculine in a way that made my heart swoon, a broad-shouldered rugby player. He wore zip-up hoodies and skater shoes on his size thirteen feet. I loved his shaggy dark hair, his deep, smooth voice, and the way that his bear hugs made me feel small and safe.

A long-distance relationship is expensive and hard on the heart, but it keeps you out of trouble. I wasn’t out chasing boys, and I often ran home to log on and catch up with him. It also helped me dissociate from all the drama at school. Shy, introverted, and ever the people pleaser, I was conflict avoidant and did whatever I could do to skirt drama or quell it.

It took me a long time to settle into a squad of high school girlfriends. But being labelled the school’s newest whore is always a great way of getting guys to pay attention to you.

Enter Xavier.

Not happy with simply embarrassing me in English class, he took to loudly announcing my name in the hallway when he saw me coming. For a little dude, he talked a big game. Beyond his hallway humiliations, he also insisted on sticking out in every class. He sighed loudly when homework was assigned, talked back to teachers, and muttered his disapproval under his breath at a volume that everyone could hear. He teased everyone and would do absolutely anything for a laugh.

Xavier was a troll before we knew the right term for boys like him. He would goad people for a reaction. At the time, he was simply seen as a textbook class clown who was happiest when all eyes were on him.

Short and wiry, but fit from years of competitive hockey, Xavier was good looking—and not just because the school uniform put otherwise drab young men in well-tailored suits. Xavier had dark hair and strong, broad hands. He had a Clark Kent square jawline and perfectly straight, bright white Chiclet teeth. I’ve yet to meet anyone with a more infectious laugh. He laughed with his whole self and it enabled his antics. You couldn’t help but smile at the stupid shit he did.

I don’t remember when we transitioned to being friends. I’m sure it started with me enabling his stupidity with a stifled laugh.

We teach girls from a young age to take cruelty from boys as a compliment. We teach boys from a young age to shroud their affection in brutality. I was not immune. But unfortunately for Xavier, his flirting was not returned. Not for another three years at least. I was very much in love with Jason and happy to have Xavier as my BFF.

Xavier settled himself into the role of friend and confidant. In my view, anyway. Unbeknownst to me, Xavier spent those three years feeling like he had been put in the friend zone, a purgatory for self-described nice guys who are kind to women but get no sex in return. We were good friends, though. And his character rubbed off on me.

I’d always been a teacher’s pet, a keener who took pride in following the rules and getting praise from adults for it. I was organized and painfully neat, and I envied girls who weren’t bothered by chipped nail polish and smeared eyeliner. I liked structure, routine, and the safety of predictability.

But my high school was run out of a convent, and the strictness was suffocating. I started questioning the rules and found myself out of my shell and embracing a bit of Xavier rebellion. One day, he somehow managed to rip his tie. The circumstances elude me, and it’s pretty telling that I have no idea how a man shredded his thick tie in the middle of the school day—but that was Xavier for you. I took the end piece and wore it as an ascot. The teensy bit of gender bending excited me, and when the civics teacher gave me a lecture about how it wasn’t part of the designated uniform and I was to remove it or head to the principal’s office, I accused him of sexism. I wasn’t actually indignant at the bigotry, but I wanted a taste of the power that comes from talking back to authority.

Xavier taught me the thrill of dissent and we both encouraged each other’s eccentricity. He was always down for whatever weird idea I concocted.

I had very chill and progressive parents who subscribed to the rule If you’re going to do it, do it at home while we supervise. I never drank or did drugs,

Reviews for Resilience Is Futile

[lynnb_64 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I heard Julie Lalonde speak about her experience with Xavier on CBC radio, so was very interested in reading her book. She has told her story with brutal honesty. Having been stalked by her ex for ten years, she felt like a part of herself had died. She missed the freedom most of us have in our twenties....she was always burdened by worrying about where her ex would show up next. This is an important book to show the effects of trauma and the many ways the "system" lets victims down.