Dear Vincent, I made it two days writing my daily goals on fuschia post-its and sticking these on my refrigerator.

Tuesday, November 20, 2018

Subject: I spent all weekend listening to podcasts about loneliness. 

Dear Vincent,

This photo is called,

“I spent all weekend listening to podcasts about loneliness. 

I’m not sure I will ever stop waiting for someone to come and save me. 

It will be hard to get through the winter without micro dosing on LSD.”

Love, Erica. 

I spent all weekend listening to podcasts about loneliness. 

Thursday, November 22, 2018

Subject: Full Moon + Purple Heart Emoticon

Dear Vincent,

Happy Full Moon!

I am sorry for being so co-dependent. 

I bought a new journal yesterday. It is purple. Though I’d prefer without lines, sometimes what you want does not exactly match your life. For example the sweatshirt I wanted to wear today smells like stir fry and so it’s a no go. 

Love and best wishes,

Erica. 

Tuesday, November 27, 2018
No Subject

Dear Vincent,

This morning I went to see a social worker. 

My kitchen floor was perfect. 

Then I threw the empty bowl of strawberry yogurt. 

This picture is called, "I am quitting professional help in 2019." 

Love, Erica. 

I am quitting professional help in 2019. 

Wednesday, November 28, 2018
Subject: I made it two days writing my daily goals on fuschia post-its and sticking these on my refrigerator.

Dear Vincent,

I made it two days writing my daily goals on fuschia post-its and sticking these on my refrigerator. Today is the six-year disappearance of a girl from my hometown named Emma Fillipoff. She was 26 years old and she vanished barefoot into the night after a 45-minute conversation with police officers in front of a hotel. In 2015, I did an extensive blog series based on my interview with her mother, who used to be my grade six French teacher. Since I wrote the blogs, we learned approximately five to seven new details, but we still don’t know where she went. Knowing what happened to Emma Fillipoff is right up there with knowing what you think when you open these emails, and if you delete them, or put them in some special Erica folder. It’s perhaps very likely you don’t even bother to read them, and this is quite heartbreaking, if understandable.

Where is Emma Fillipoff (One)
The Search for Emma Fillipoff, Video Podcast with Kimberley Bordage (Concise and  Up-to-Date Collection of Facts)
Emma Fillipoff is Missing, Podcast by Jordan Bonaparte (I am interviewed in Episode 7)
Help Find Emma Fillipoff Facebook Group

Yesterday I needed a sandwich and a nap as early as 11:11 a.m., and I found this discouraging, and I found this unacceptable. My body did not forgive me for having chocolate almonds for lunch the day before, on a day that involved a relatively extensive work-out, three hours of cleaning and walking from just north of your windowless office all the way to the Atwater library. The night was insomnia, with fragmented stress dreams about other people’s dust, and vinegar scarcity, and screaming fights with my sweet and dainty mother who reminds everyone else of Mother Teresa. The day was, pretty much zero access to the rational part of my brain, though I did a rather good job translating an article about leather made out of pineapple leaves. The client said I was trop hot.

The Social Worker made a list of six things you can do for six months, and this is supposed to help you feel better. The six things are: exercise, eat well, sleep well, meditate, take your pills, go to therapy. Pills and therapy seem like a no-go, meditating has mixed reviews, I do not seem able to consistently excel at eating and sleeping, and 27 years later, exercise seems to have lost its potency. The Social Worker used the example of her thyroid, which is no longer inside of her, and she will have to take a pill every day for the rest of her life. I said that there is no official emotional regulation equivalent of a thyroid that they can say I am missing, thereby giving me a pass to take pills every day for the rest of my life. And I feel like anti-depressants are a scandal of our times, and that no one told you how they would impair your nervous system forever, and that they inevitably lose their effectiveness, and before you know it, you are a tiny and shrill and haggard and volatile sixty-four year old, taking handfuls of Zoloft and never able to sleep. When I am sixty-four, it’s unlikely I will get to be tiny.

The Social Worker asked me what my ideal situation would be. Without the looming threat of monumental rages, and perhaps the low-grade chronic mourning of lost potential, three point five out of five days of my life could be acceptable. And I wish I got to have more sex. And I wish someone would accept me and be there for me even when I am wacking myself in the face and launching an empty bowl of strawberry yogurt across my perfect kitchen floor. The shards went everywhere.

You have disappeared and this was always the agreement, and it would be the same with other therapists too, but I am finding it very difficult to accept and I am finding it very devastating. Maybe I should throw the medical records into the Lachine Canal. The invoice came on Monday and it only cost $15.13. There was some sort of discount and also there were only 58 pages. Sounds like you are more succinct than I am. I wonder if your handwriting is terrible.

It feels very difficult to take personal responsibility for your life and your feelings without drowning in shame and regret. Or to give yourself a break without feeling like you’ve fallen short, once again and forever.

After the fact, I can see how my meltdowns are saying, Look at me, I can’t do it. Let me off the hook. After off the hook, I wake up on the couch with alarm bells in my throat, tears behind my eyes, and a mixed hangover of stress and grief.

Three things I’m craving are

-for someone to cradle my heart and/or my skull for several hours a day for several months in a row.

-for someone to tie me up and fuck the shit out of me

-for you to write back, hey Erica, let’s go have a sandwich and/or

Dear Erica, I see you and I’m sorry that you’re struggling. I did everything that I could and I truly wish that had been enough. You are stronger and braver than you think you are. I will think of you kindly every time I clean out my refrigerator which will be at least one to five times per year. Love Vincent.

Now I have to finish a translation about the microplastics that break down every time you put your synthetic jeggings in the washing machine, and the plastic seeps into the ocean and into all the fish and we get a chunk of plastic every time we eat fish, and this is running havoc on everyone’s estrogen levels. I hope you have a wonderful Wednesday.

Love, Erica. 

These Synthetic Jeggings
Possibly the Highlight of November, if not all of 2018
Hand-wash only

Friday, November 30, 2018

Subject: Grat List

Dear Vincent, 

One time I wrote you a gratitude list, and it went like this. 

I’m grateful for, by Vincent

-Erica’s sweatshirt that smells like stir fry. 

-the four orgasms she had on Tuesday, November 6, all before 8:30 a.m.

-her excellent crooked do -it-yourself haircut

-her co-dependence.

Best wishes for a life-changing weekend!

Love, Erica.

End of November Vincent Email curation. If you're wondering if I actually send these emails to Vincent's inbox, the true and honest answer is, for the most part, yes.

Vincent and Friends will almost definitely be delighted to know that my list of 19 goals for 2019 include composing my very last letter to Vincent. Three out of five days I feel almost ready.

In the meantime and always, please send your heartfelt emails to me and/or to Vincent at the secret email address ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

May you find solace in fuschia post-its and strawberry yogurt and washing your sweatshirt that smells a little bit like stirfry. May your hearts be light. Love, Erica.

Happy New Year! Love, Erica.

Follow Erica J. Schmidt on Facebook
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Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)

Instagram: @deepcleanswitherica

Dear Vincent, There is more love on the wall than there are Vincents, and than there are fucks.

Dear Vincent, Dot dot dot. Sentences trees never feel.

Dear Vincent, The best would be if I heal my knee, and maybe also my personality before irreversible climate change sets in.

Dear Vincent, You are not the only person I write letters to.

The Best Thing I've Ever Done

On the radio and in real life, parents are frequently telling me that, without a doubt, having children is “the best thing they have ever done.” Absolutely, I believe them. Though my conviction that I do not want children is nearly pathological, I do feel some remorse at the knowledge that my eternal tits will never expand and acquire the mind-blowing capacity to squirt the gift of life across the kitchen. People tell me there is time to change my mind. While we’re waiting, if anyone is wondering about the best things I’ve ever done, this is what I’ve come up with so far.

 

One

“Yours til the merry goes round.”

 

1992 to approximately 1994

Grade Three and Grade Four

I am seven to nine years old.

 

Every morning, I religiously wake up as soon as the hands of my Mickey Mouse watch reach 6:30. I walk my beloved husky dog Emma, and upon returning, immediately cover a few spoonfuls of oatmeal with a two-inch layer of yogurt and brown sugar. While I was walking the dog, I mailed a letter, and now it is time to write another one. The letter is for my grandparents, Olga and Julius Schmidt. They live in a manor in Dominion City, Manitoba. Each letter begins with “Dear Grandma and Grandpa, How are you? I am fine.” Generously I fill them in on all the fascinating details of my seven to nine-year old existence. Swim meets, Christmas pageants, violin lessons, chapter books, and excellent jokes.

 

For example, “What goes, ‘ha, ha, ha, PLOP!? Answer: Somebody laughing their head off.”

 

Ha. I sign off each letter with, “Yours ‘til plus something charming and delightful, such as, “Yours til the jelly rolls, Yours til the banana splits, or Yours til the merry goes round.” I meticulously decorate each envelope with Mr. Sketch Smelly markers. My grandfather, nearly ninety used to call me his “personal correspondent.” Both of my grandparents cherished these letters. On my end, these epistolary efforts were totally spontaneous, wholehearted and sincere.

 

It’s always nice to remember

Back when you used to be a darling.

 

Two

 

“It’s a hard time for you.”

Montessori School Bathroom,

May 2014, 28 years old.

 

In Nova Scotia, my Ontario-bred French is considered to be exceptional enough to teach three to six year olds how to sing some cheerful, catchy songs about robots and  how to push in their chairs, wash their hands and have a snack in French. As the French assistant, I was only allowed to speak English in the bathrooms. The theory was that it was already frustrating and traumatizing enough to wet or poop your pants at school. Some strange lady yattering away at you in a foreign language as you try to navigate through three-year-old fecal chaos would contribute to unnecessary overwhelm. So in the bathroom, I spoke English.

 

One little boy who often found himself navigating fecal chaos also struggled quite a bit with transitions. If the Tidy Up Bell rang and he was in the middle of something and not ready for it, impressively distraught meltdowns would ensue. Could I ever relate to this. For the one year and ten months that I worked at the Montessori School, the seven minutes leading up to when I had to head out the door were among my most hideous. Me and the Boatman, my boyfriend at the time, had actually devised a bribing system that would reward me with imaginary stickers every time I did not unravel entirely. Eventually I could convert a certain number of imaginary stickers into new pens. Not every morning brought me any closer to earning new pens.

 

So I completely understood where my bathroom friend was coming from. (And he happened to be one of my favourites.)

 

One morning, yet again, his sphincter timing was off, and there we were, in the bathroom as the tidy up rang.

 

“Oh no,” sobbed my little friend. “Tidy up!” His face was so sad.

 

I looked at him straight in his teary eyes and said, “This is a hard time for you, isn’t it?” The psychologists, they call this “mirroring.”

 

“Is a ard time for me,” he repeated, weeping, but nodding.

 

During my year or so at the Montessori School, I’m afraid I was sometimes grumpier than I needed to be. I was so grateful for the kids like this one who showed me I was not actually dead inside and that in fact, my heart could melt. And that moment in the bathroom, I totally nailed it.

 

Three

 

“Do you want some lemonade?”

Rue Waverly, Mile End

Summer of 2016, 30 years old.

 

On my side of Waverly, there’s a little old lady named Lena who brings out her chair and sits on her front stoop from the moment the sun comes out every morning. Sitting on the porch and watching people go by, this is what they call, “The Mile End Dream.” But I often wondered if maybe Lena was lonely.

 

“Do you want some lemonade?” I asked her one afternoon. I was procrastinating some project by buying Perrier. (Highly badass.)

 

“Oh okay,” said Lena. “The same as you.”

I came back with some lemon flavoured San Palegrino. As we consumed our carbonated beverages, Lena told me about her life in a combination of French and English and Italian.

 

“57 years married Good man. Since eleven years gone.” This was Lena’s husband. They had two children, “one boy, one girl.”

“No boyfriend, you. You live alone? Costs too much.” I told her I lived with two roommates.

“That’s good. Otherwise, costs too much.” But she still seemed insistent that I look for one good man, one boyfriend.

I tried to keep visiting Lena over the winter. Despite being a terrible cook, one time I even brought her some soup.

“Eighty-seven years me. Eighty-eight. 1926 Day of Saint Antonio.” Saint Antonio stands on a table in her dining room, surrounded by vases of dying and artificial flowers and some framed photos of her grandchildren.

“It’s a lot for you to clean this all by yourself,” I once asked her.

“Oh, not too bad,” said Lena. “I do just a little bit every day.”

Yes, quite a little bit. The last time I went inside Lena’s house, there were fruit flies flying through the hall and into the front living room. The air did not smell magnificent. Lena was in the kitchen eating some sort of ravioli pasta that maybe her son had brought her. The fruit flies, it seemed were coming from a slice of rotting honey dew melon. Lena didn’t want to throw the whole thing out, so I helped her cut off the offending layer and watched her eat the rest. This was back in December.

All through January, February and March, I just could not manage to knock on the door. I did not feel like facing Saint Antonio, or the fruit flies. Every time I passed Lena’s house, I would feel kind of guilty, and hope that she was okay. Then the sun came back out and there was Lena back on her porch. She was wearing the same outfit she wore all last summer and into December, with some extra wool socks, and a sweater.

“Hi Lena,” I said.

“Oh, it’s you. Since a long time you not come. Where you live now?”

“Oh same place.” I pointed a few houses down.

“You live alone?”

I told her about my roommates, to which she approved. “Otherwise, cost too much.”

As I said goodbye and walked through her gate, she called out, “One good man you find. Good man. Boyfriend.”

Probably I could have done a little better with Lena. But there’s still time. If you want to visit Lena, hit me up and I’ll give you her address. Or you can just look out for her a little old lady living the Mile End Dream on Waverly. Bring her cookies, bring her bagels, bring her coffee, bring her soup. Or apples. Or just ask her how she’s doing and let her tell you about her husband, and how the rent and the chauffage cost too much.

 

Four

 

Where is Emma Fillipoff

Asking People About Their Lives

September 2015

I am 29 years old.

 

2015 was a pretty prolific year here at the Ecstatic Adventures of the Exuberant Bodhisattva. In an effort to be less self-absorbed, and because I love talking to people, I started this series called, Asking People About Their Lives. The format was unstructured conversations with people I found interesting and then I would transcribe the interview and convert it into a relatively coherent and readable article.

 

For my third interview subject, I met with my beloved grade-six French teacher Shelley Fillipoff. In November of 2012, Shelley’s daughter Emma went missing in Victoria, BC. Emma’s story is frightening, perplexing and haunting. We still have no idea where she is, or what happened.

Shelley was amazingly generous and candid in her account of Emma’s life and the months leading up to her disappearance. We sat on her couch for over three hours. So many moments, I felt so stunned.

 

I turned the interview into a nine-part blog series called, “Where is Emma Fillipoff.” In addition to Shelley’s account, I tried to include all the facts and perspectives I could find. Although some of the titles evoke Reader’s Digest, and of course things can always be improved, I am really proud of how focussed and dedicated I was to this project. I even persevered and triumphed through finicky formatting which I always used to outsource to my ex-boyfriend.  On a sadder note, we are close to where we started on the search for Emma Fillipoff. I never knew Emma all that well, and yet I often dream of her. When I wake up, I always wish I had more answers.




Where is Emma Fillipoff (One)



Five

 

L’Arche Montreal

2005-2007

I am 19 to 21 years old.

 

When I was nineteen years old, I was desperately seeking God slash Jesus and also inner peace. I knew about the transformative healing there was in taking care of people with intellectual disabilities, and so I quit McGill and moved to L’Arche. There I lived and shared my life with five people with intellectual disabilities, and two or three other assistants. One of my favourite parts was helping Isabelle with her morning routine. Isabelle has cerebral palsy and does not move all that much. If we wanted to make it in time for her 7:15 school bus, I had to fill her feeding bag with Peptamen by 6:05. As I rolled Isabelle down the wooden ramp to meet her busdriver Cynthia, I remember feeling like every person and every crevice of life was so important. And it all felt so connected.

 

After two years, I left L’Arche to finish university. This decision came with quite a bit of conflictand guilt. As though I was so essential, and I was leaving my people behind.

And yet the truth is, there was no need to feel selfish.

Someone will always show up to be with Isabelle.

But the possibility that I could show up for myself with the same grace and wholeness as Isabelle did,

This seemed more precarious and unlikely.   

 

Six

 

Valentine’s Day 2017

I am 31 years old

 

I mailed a French novel from the Dollar Store to my mother. The novel was called, “Ma Mercedes contre un tracteur, Tome 2.” I made a card and wished my mother a Joyeuse Saint-Valentin in French. She was thrilled.

Me and my own copy of the dollar store novel, which was so riveting I would never ever re-gift it.

The End.

Yours Forever,
Erica J. Schmidt


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Montreal Hippie Threads (@mtlhippiethreads)
Instagram: montrealhippiethreads


Where is Emma Fillipoff (One)
What People Really Need
Yours Til Ekam Inhales


What I Think About When I Think About Brand Name Q-Tips

Where is Emma Fillipoff (Nine)

 

 

Previous Segments of Where is Emma Fillipoff
ONE: The Grieving Mothers of Perth, Ontario
TWO: She's Missing
THREE: Wednesday, November 28, 2012
FOUR: Mental illness runs in the family
FIVE: A Mother's Instinct
SIX: Okay. So I'm dead.
SEVEN: She ran away because she fucking hates her parents.
EIGHT: Safe Until She Returns

A Perfect, Beautiful Family

 

After I did the interview with Shelley, my mom told me a story about when we first moved to Perth.

“I don’t know if I ever told you this, but one of the first times we ever went to the Perth Pool, the Fillipoffs were there. Shelley and James were playing with the two girls and one of the boys. The kids were around four, six and eight. All five of them were taking turns throwing one of those rubber balls. All together. I remember thinking, what a perfect, beautiful family. I guess that’s what everyone wants. A perfect, beautiful family."

For Shelley, family was everything. When she had her first child, her whole life changed. If she hadn’t become a mother, Shelley claims, “I’d be dead now. I would have been an alcoholic, a drug addict. I’d be dead.”

Shelley loved teaching, but at the end of her long days, she couldn’t wait to come home and spend time with her kids. “I could have had ten,” she says. “It was like a drug to me.”

Now, without Emma, her family is not complete. “There are days I could shoot myself… My mind is not what it used to be… I struggle to stay afloat.” Even the most minor tasks seem monumental. The trauma of Emma’s disappearance has left Shelley with PTSD and a mild form of dyslexia. Since James left, she has battled a major depressive disorder and anorexia. She takes medication to manage the depression, and help her sleep. But because her depression is situational, pills can only do so much.

I asked her to what extent she thought that knowing where Emma was would change her state of mind. Certainly, finding emma is the one thing she has been hoping for. The initial relief, the joy would be immense. That said, her psychiatrist told her that she would never go back to being the same person again.

“I didn’t go back to being the same person after James," she says. "I'm different... I'm not sure how different. Less confident. Less comfortable with myself. Way less happy.  Way more doomsday. Like something bad is going to happen.”

Sometimes you hear of people losing their legs or getting a terrible illness and they stop worrying that other bad things will happen to them. Because the bad thing has already happened.

Shelley assures me that this is not her case. She worries constantly about her other kids.

“You hear of families where one thing goes wrong and everything else falls apart.”

Though losing Emma, surely this is far worse than just one thing going wrong.                 

Shelley: “What happened to Emma is something I never could have imagined would happen… I used to imagine it when they were little… Like what if they pull away from my hand and disappear?"

Erica: “And that’s kind of what you feel is what happened.”

Shelley: “Exactly, it’s kind of like I let go of her hand.”

Erica: “Or she let go of yours.”

Shelley: “I’m not sure I could have protected her. I’m not sure she would have listened or sought help… But I’m sure I’ll always regret not going. I should have just gone that Saturday. I was all packed. I had my suitcase. I should have just gone, Erica. I should have just gone.”

The End.
-Written by Erica J. Schmidt.

An immense thank you to Shelley Fillipoff for her candour and generosity .

Thank you to my mom, dad and all my family. Thank you to my sister and friends who helped with the interview before it was published.

To learn more, please follow the links below. The Fillipoff family is still offering a $25,000 reward for any information that leads to Emma's whereabouts. If you know something or someone you think could help, please contact Shelley, Erica or the Fifth Estate. OR CALL THE POLICE.

Thank you to the Fifth Estate. Their documentary Finding Emma and its related site contain an enormous amount of crucial information.

Thank you to everyone who has written about Emma's case, in addition to everyone who has shared photos and articles. Raising awareness is probably the best way of keeping hope alive. As the Fifth Estate points out, there are far too many Emmas out there. If you have a loved one who has gone missing, you are welcome to share your story in the comments below, or with the Fifth Estate.

Much love to Shelley and the Fillipoff family, to Emma's friends and loved ones, to all who have gone missing, and to all who keep looking. And to Emma.
 

Where is Emma Fillipoff
ONE: The Grieving Mothers of Perth, Ontario
TWO: She's Missing
THREE: Wednesday, November 28, 2012
FOUR: Mental illness runs in the family
FIVE: A Mother's Instinct
SIX: Okay. So I'm dead.
SEVEN: She ran away because she fucking hates her parents.
EIGHT: Safe Until She Returns


HAVE YOU SEEN EMMA?
Please Share Your Stories and Tips
Help Find Emma Fillipoff Facebook Group
Email Erica: ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com
(contact form below)
Email Shelley: fillipoff(at)hotmail(dot)com
Call the police.

Finding Emma on the Fifth Estate

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Erica on Twitter: @mypelvicfloor