Even though Sarah filed for divorce after what I did to Clare, and remarried, in my heart she is still my wife. I loved her with every fiber of my being, and my ultimate punishment is living with the knowledge that I betrayed her and broke her heart. I took away one of her precious little babies, along with her best friend and husband. I was the one person who could have comforted her through such a tragic loss, yet I was the one who caused it. It’s like a knife through my heart. I left behind two families, my own and my parents’, with broken hearts.
I don’t quite understand what happened the day I killed Clare. I was very, very angry. It sounds strange to say, but part of it was related to how much I loved Sarah. She was everything to me. But because of that she could hit all of my nerve centers. I sometimes think it would have been better for me to be with a woman I wasn’t so wrapped [up] in. We had a perfect life the first year or so we were married. We had laughs and fun times, Sarah and me and the girls. The girls were nuts about me, and I loved them. Things started bothering me the next year. There were times I would feel sad or angry for no really clear reason.
I tried to commit suicide, twice. The first time I overdosed on medication with painkillers, any pills I could find in the house, after Sarah and I had a huge fight. I emailed my goodbyes from the living room while Sarah was sleeping in the bedroom. But I didn’t know her email would ping on her phone, and she woke up and came in the living room, and said, “What’s going on?” and called an ambulance and they pumped my stomach in the emergency room. After another suicide attempt a while later I ended up staying with her parents for about three or four months. I think I was overwhelmed by the family. I loved Sarah’s girls, Suzy and Clare, and considered them my daughters. Clare especially was so excited to see me when I came home from work every day. She was the one who would run to the door, excited, with a smile on her face. But they were a lot of work, and Clare could be a troublemaker. Sarah and I were both working full-time. Sarah was working as a nurse, and I was selling parts for [a trucking company]. But somehow, I felt like I was getting stuck with more of the kid work. I was always the go-to guy. Sarah rolled out of bed in the morning and went straight to work, earlier than I did, and I had to get the girls up and ready for school, then drop them off. I usually picked them up from school, too. I felt like I was being taken advantage of. I thought that Sarah could have been more appreciative. I felt she didn’t pay me in kind for everything I was doing, and I thought [I] was entitled to more. Actually, I don’t think I was ready for kids then; I was too immature. Of course, no one would ever let me get close to children now.
At one point Sarah suggested I see a psychiatrist because she thought I had some of the same symptoms as bipolar people she had seen at the hospital. So I did see a doctor who diagnosed me as a bipolar, but not too enthusiastically, I guess. He gave me a prescription for Depakote, a mood stabilizer, which seemed to help sometimes. But he didn’t really help me in any other way, besides writing out prescriptions. So I went to a counselor for anger management. But he eventually told me that he thought we were done, and I didn’t really feel like I got anything out of it. It was costing a lot of money and it wasn’t helping.
So I kept being angry and anxious, and I was getting worried. Sarah told me if I tried to commit suicide again I couldn’t stay with her parents, and that made me feel trapped. I was worried about how angry I could get with the girls. I reminded myself of how my dad acted sometimes. [My dad and I have] talked about this. Sometimes you start out angry, then get angry with yourself because of the way you’re behaving, and that just makes you angrier. Sarah and I fought about disciplining the girls. We both spanked the girls, but Sarah was upset because I hit them harder, and when I spanked them I could be really angry. I used way more force than was necessary. One time I was in the living room, and the girls were making a lot of noise in their bedroom with the door shut. I told them to quiet down a few times, and they didn’t. I stood up, walked over to the door and threw it open to yell at them. The door smashed Clare in the face and split her lip. Sarah had to take her to the emergency room. Poor kid. Clare was such a beautiful little girl, and there she was, at four years old, with a scar on her lip because of me. That’s a way to make you feel like a monster. I felt horrible about that. Another time, I don’t remember what was going on, but I was in the driveway with Clare and she blurted out, “I hate you, Daddy.” I got so angry I slammed her against my truck and I told her never to say anything like that again. She was so scared she peed herself, and I had to take her inside to change her. When Sarah told her parents about that, they contacted Child Protective Services. They sent someone out to talk to Sarah and her parents, but they didn’t talk to me because by that time I was back in the hospital after another suicide attempt, and nothing ever came of it.
Things seemed to be better for a while for a few months in early 2010, then in the spring I was getting angrier again. Maybe the medication wasn’t working. I don’t mean to say that I wasn’t responsible for what I did and I don’t want to blame the medication for what happened. But I was suddenly, sometimes surprisingly, livid about things. Once when Sarah and I were arguing, I suddenly hauled off and slapped her across the face, hard. And we both said, “Whoa, where did that come from?” I had never done anything like that, and it had never entered my mind to do it. I think I was feeling disrespected by Sarah because I felt like I was getting stuck with most of the home and kid responsibilities, and she didn’t recognize that.
The weekend I killed Clare, we had decided to spend a few days in a cabin in Washington, and take the girls, my sister, Tammy, and my stepbrother, Arthur, and his girlfriend along. I don’t do very well on vacations. I get anxious and irritable. I can’t remember a vacation with Sarah when I didn’t blow up over one thing or another. We were going to go to the cabin for the weekend and Monday, but Sarah talked me in to calling in sick for Friday, too, so we’d have an extra day. I did that, but I didn’t like doing it; it made me feel guilty. Then, just as we were packing to go, I smelled smoke, and I looked outside and saw that a hedge next door was burning. Someone had set a bush on fire. But we just shut the windows and locked up and took off. I was already so upset about things that Sarah asked me if I wanted to cancel the vacation and just stay home, but I didn’t want to disappoint my sister and brother, and I was looking forward to spending time with them.
I don’t remember everything that happened that weekend. Things went pretty well at first. I had fun with everyone, and the adults spent time playing board games in the cottage and talking while the girls watched TV. Thinking back on it, it wasn’t so great for the kids. They were just stuck in front of the TV while the adults talked. Things got ugly pretty quickly, and Sarah and I went at it. At one point while we were fighting, I told Sarah it might be a good idea, and better for the girls, if we separated. Then she threatened to drive home with the kids and leave me behind. But after a while things calmed down and Sarah went upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Later, Tammy walked into the living room and asked Clare if she had been chewing on her shirt. We were having trouble then with Clare chewing on everything—on her toys and on her clothes. She told my sister, “No, I haven’t been chewing on my shirt.” But you could see Clare had been chewing on her shirt because it was all crumpled up and covered with slobber. That made me angry. I told her that Auntie Tammy couldn’t walk her to the lake now because she couldn’t trust her, and Clare got upset about that.
Before dinnertime, Arthur and I were getting the food together to grill, and I had a question about the corn, so I went up to the bedroom to ask Sarah about it. She was lying on the bed, and it turned out the fight wasn’t over, after all, and she was still angry, so we started going at it again. Then Arthur shows up at the door with Clare in his arms; he had found her in the living room crying. So there she is with tears in her eyes, looking for more sympathy. I felt like I was surrounded by people who were targeting me as a bully and it made me angry. I grabbed Clare to take her back downstairs.
I think my intention right then was to kill her. I kept saying in my head: “If Clare’s not here, then Sarah and I can’t argue. If Clare’s not here, then Sarah and I can’t argue.” I took Clare into the kitchen, and grabbed a knife on the counter. I held her down on the floor and cut her throat with the knife. I wanted everyone to hurt. I assumed it would be an instant death. But it wasn’t. Clare was still breathing and I screamed up to Sarah to call 911. Sarah ran into the kitchen and started screaming: “My baby! What did you do to my baby?”
I stayed out of the way then, and hoped that Sarah could save Clare’s life. I saw Tammy walking up to the house with Suzy and told her to go around the back and take her upstairs so Suzy couldn’t see what was happening. I think there was a problem on the 911 call because they were afraid to send someone right away because I was there. I ended up going outside and sat on a porch swing next door and waited for the ambulance to arrive. When the police came, one of them drew a gun on me and put me down on the ground. He dug his knee into my back and handcuffed me and put me in a police car for six hours.
I think of that day every day, and I dream about it at night. It eats me alive. I wish I could take it back. But that’s impossible.
———
As I lie here and think about my current life situation, it occurs to me that while it may be difficult in some aspects, life has become so much simpler. My freedoms are restricted and, because of cost, my contact with my family is severely limited. I have no money on my phone account so I can’t call my dad, and I know from his last letter that is what he’s waiting for. He’s so busy that writing to me takes too much time, and is usually forgotten, even though it’s my only method of contact right now. I have even less contact with the rest of my family. It’s even harder for them to visit me as they are all in Canada. Of course, most of them don’t want to contact me. I haven’t heard from Tammy since Clare’s death. But I manage as I can.
As for the simpler side of things . . . my meals are prepared for me, and I don’t have to clean up after myself, other than throwing out my garbage. I have a bed and a roof over my head, and plenty of time to contemplate anything I happen to focus on. This is both good and bad, of course. Bad because of the sorrow and pain it brings me for what I’ve done, but I look at it as penance for the suffering I have caused my family and friends. In my case, that also includes Clare’s family and friends, as they were one and the same before this tragedy. The benefit in having lots of time to think comes from reflection on my faults and allows the time to consider how I can improve myself.
Since I cannot rewind time and take back what happened, I figure the best way to show Clare I still love her and think of her is to make myself a better person. And what truly hurts me the most is that I know she would hug me right now and tell me she loves me. She was a special girl with a big heart. She loved everyone and was always quick to forgive any hurts against her no matter who caused it. I wish I had recognized sooner what a light she was in my life. My biggest comfort now is knowing she is safe from any further harm, and she can finally have that tea party with Jesus that she used to pretend to have.
I find it curious that, after a reasonably good day with no problems, I can still be depressed on antidepressants. I was content all day, happily working away on a beading project. Now, here it is after dinner, and I can’t shake this feeling of sadness. No particular thoughts or memories come with it. It’s just a sense of sadness and loss. I can understand why I would feel that, but why only sometimes?
Figure 2.2. The front page of the Abbotsford-Mission Times, the newspaper in Clare Shelswell’s British Columbia hometown, marks her murder as the story with the greatest impact in the community in 2010. Courtesy of the Abbotsford-Mission Times.
From my experience with similar states of mind, it’s usually brought on by a bad occurrence such as arguing with someone, being yelled at, or receiving bad news. There’s no rhyme or reason to this one now, though, and such has been the case over the last few months—hence the reason for getting back on antidepressants to begin with.
I had a valuable thought yesterday that I shared with my cellmate. I think it would be a good addition here. While my crime was a tragedy and caused tremendous harm to family and friends, I am a better person now than I was before. The last couple of years before Clare’s murder, I had turned into a prideful, self-centered ass. I was worried only about my own happiness, and making more money to add to my happiness.
I sit in a jail cell now with nothing, no family, nothing to do all day but think about what happened. All of it humbled me. I still have weak moments when my ego flares up and gets me in trouble, but mostly I am stripped of pride. The biggest reason is that I recognize that ego/pride only lead a person to conflict. Every single instance of arguing or fighting that I have witnessed since coming to prison is a result of one, or usually both, parties feeling slighted or that their manly persona was threatened. Everyone wants their ego stroked. The point is that my own pride was my downfall, and now I recognize that I am able to prevent most trouble that has arisen involving me.
Secondly, with a number of books I have read about Buddhism, yoga, and Christianity, I find the biggest rule that stands out is to love. Love everyone: yourself, your enemies and your friends. The Buddha teaches to let go of your attachments whether they are possessions, grudges, or whatever you cling to. I find that I am happier when I can help others. It could be as simple as someone needing to talk to about something bothering them, or it could needing a bar of soap or some coffee. The old me would have said, “No, I worked hard for my money and I’m going to enjoy it.” Now I enjoy things I worked for just as much by giving them away.
And grudges! What a burden we all carry around by being mad at someone for some wrong against us. All we do is stress over it and get mad all over again every time you see that person. And for what? I have been wronged many times since coming to prison, and every time I forgive one of those people I feel better about it. A while ago I had another inmate harassing me because I stood up for someone he had been picking on. He then focused on me instead. He kept telling me to kill myself, and since he was in the cell beside mine, I couldn’t get away from it. He was finally moved, and I was moved. I didn’t speak to him for months, even when he tried to apologize. Then something was said at a chapel service that got my attention: God can only forgive you if you forgive others. I would definitely like to be forgiven after all the wrongs I’ve done in my life—whether they come from God or the people I’ve wronged. So I forgave this guy face-to-face and told him it was water under the bridge. We are slowly becoming friends again.
When I practiced as a Christian, I never felt a drive to encourage others to come to church or “save” themselves. I don’t know if I would refer to myself as a Buddhist now but I think it most closely reflects my beliefs. Now I want to share what I feel and connect with people. As a group, inmates can definitely use the help; we have all violated someone’s rights, and left a trail of pain behind us.
I wish I could do something to make amends, but I know nothing I do would ever come close to making up for my crime. I don’t have any money, but I have all the time in the world to volunteer. Since no such program exists in prison, especially with the length of my sentence, I sit in a ten-by-twelve-foot cell for a minimum of sixteen hours a day, beading, reading, sleeping, and thinking. I can get really down. But I still think that over all, I’m a better person now than I was before. If only my baby girl didn’t have to pay with her life to change me.
Thousands of miles away and decades earlier, California anthropologist Sarah Hrdy was captivated by a different domestic-violence situation in the steamy hills of India.1 In this case, Mug was determined to have the newly single Itch, but Itch was wary; Mug was a bit of a knuckle-dragger. Besides, Itch had a baby to care for, and there was little love lost between the brawny, boisterous male and her clingy infant, Scratch. Itch shunned Mug, stayed well out of reach of his grasping hands. Still, Mug remained determined. He hun
g around whenever he could, showed off his posture, stared intently at Itch, and vocalized his feelings as best as he could.
Itch was right to be wary. One afternoon, the impatient Mug charged straight at Itch and snatched at the baby clinging to her belly. Itch and fellow females of the Hillside troop screamed and pummeled Mug with their fists until he fled, leaving Scratch flecked with blood and shaken, but largely unharmed. Weeks later, a sudden, slashing attack at Scratch’s thigh by Mug crippled the baby, and shortly after, Scratch vanished, never to be seen again.
This behavior—which would end up resounding through research into human violence—was exactly what Hrdy had traveled so far to witness in her study of the langur monkeys of India. A year earlier, when Mug was ousted from the Hillside troop by a rival male (only to return again), the same systematic attacks by the new leader on the troop’s young had occurred. At that time, the offspring were dispatched by a usurping alpha male Hrdy had named Shifty Leftless. “Here was the phenomenon, the bizarre aberration of adult males attacking infants, that had brought me,” Hrdy writes in her book The Langurs of Abu: Female and Male Strategies of Reproduction.2
Hrdy was fascinated by the midsized silver-gray primates with black faces, long tails (langur means “long tail” in Sanskrit), and the “grace of a greyhound,” as she describes them in her book. She had pored over research for years about the animals, one of several species of the Colobine subfamily of Old World monkeys—consuming studies concerning their social structures, parenting, and relationship between the sexes—since she was an undergraduate at Radcliffe. Like humans, langurs are extremely adaptable primates. They’re found throughout India from sea level at the southern tip of the subcontinent to high in the Himalayas in the north. Primarily herbivores, they feed on fruit, flowers, and leaves, as well as handouts from humans when offered. The langurs of India—which number close to 300,000—are widely known for their urban lifestyles, sharing alleyways with human city-dwellers and sleeping in parks at night; digging into garbage; raiding gardens, farms, and food markets; and swiping food off unguarded outdoor tables. Named for the monkey god Hanuman, Hanuman langurs are considered sacred in the Hindu religion, and it’s illegal in India to capture or kill them. So humans, usually, tolerate them, though sometimes with shouts and well-aimed stones.
Killer Dads Page 4
