Intermission 5: The Little Thing Janet Jackson Called "Control"

Sometimes when I think of Mr. C (codename for Mr. Choad, which is codename for the dildo who left me with rent I can’t afford and a car that’s insanely expensive to keep up and who has forced me to hire a lawyer who charges me $30 to read a six word email so that he could, for the millionth time in his life, avoid responsibility) I get this song in my head. I wonder why. Hmmm, could it be that this fucking moron had and probably continues to have serious control issues? It wasn’t enough that he had to punish himself daily with panic attacks and robot-like adherence to a strict goal-oriented schedule, as well as a monk’s diet of yogurt, bananas, no alcohol, no meat, no anything even slightly vice-related (including sex that rated beyond PG), he also had to inflict his self-denying code on me, a life-loving and hedonistic member of the human race. Because I’ve spent my whole adult life believing everything that my addict and/or control freak boyfriends/husbands have told me, I’ve pretty much believed for the last ten years that I 1) Am crazy, or at best have serious emotional problems 2) Have an addiction problem and 3) Am weak or wrong for doing the things I like in moderation (drinking, eating, smoking), emoting, or trying to find emotional support outside of the relationship (through friends, not lovers). Basically, what I’ve begun to learn in the last four months is that: Oh My God, I’m a Human Being. Humans have desires and even occasionally act on them. Yes, even female humans. And sometimes humans, even the ones with the ovaries, aren’t perfect.

Mr. C pretty much started out in control of our splitting up. In fact, he was in total control of that situation, as I was not in favor of calling the marriage off before we even talked about anything. He moved out, took $1000 out of our savings account without telling me, told me we were getting divorced, started fucking his teacher as he had dreamed of doing all summer, moved all of his shit out of our house including about 20 Criterion Collection DVDs I had come to think of as mine, and then asked me for his stupid bread recipe and our shower head (he got the recipe). During these proceedings, I stood in the middle of various rooms with my mouth hanging open. When I came to about 3 weeks later, he was all hurt that I didn’t want to be friendly to him. He didn’t seem to understand why I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. When I was finally stabilized enough to hire my lawyer, I decided fairly quickly that I wanted to be the one to file for divorce. I felt so out of control, it was the one tiny thing I could take out of his hands, since there was nothing left I could take from him, give him, or ask of him. I thought he’d be happy since then he wouldn’t have to pay the $150 filing fee. Of course, since I don’t communicate with him, I have no idea about how he feels about anything. But in order to file for divorce, I needed a home address for him so the papers could be served. He finally sent me a P.O. Box # which I knew wouldn’t work, so I broke down and asked my lawyer to contact him for his address, knowing full well that this tiny transaction could easily cost me $100. But he wouldn’t give it to her either. He gave her his MOM’S address. At first I thought that this was because he thinks I’m crazy and would show up at his house and rape him or something (as someone who currently has an unlisted number and address due to an ACTUAL abusive ex, I assure you that I really can cause no physical harm to anyone—believe me, I’ve tried). Then I thought that he probably just wanted his mommy to deal with his divorce, as she deals with everything else for him. But now I just see this as his last ditch effort to get one last chance to control me—I take a tiny bit of control by filing for divorce, and so he has to try to control this tiny thing. His stupid address. When I really don’t give a fuck where he lives. And he’s already tried to control everything else I do—I wish he’d just go fucking concentrate on controlling his new girlfriend now. Which I guess he probably is.

The other day at work we got our student directories. I opened one up to his name, and there was the address. I thought, ok, what does this make me want to do, this sacred address which was so carefully hidden from me, to the tune of about $150 dollars? Nothing. It makes me want to do nothing. Did I want to run over there immediately and stare longingly at his windows? No. Did I want to go over hoping to run into his crazy-person girlfriend (she must be crazy to be dating someone who is going through a breakdown and divorce) and rip her eyes out or just throw coffee on her or something? No. All I wanted to do was go down to the vending machine in the basement, get some peanut M&Ms, come back up to my office, and read blogs for a few minutes before catching up on some emails. That’s all I wanted to do. Oh, and not trust him about anything concerning the divorce anymore. Because he obviously doesn’t trust me, though I’ve done nothing I can think of to earn this lack of trust, except exist. He hasn’t given me a chance to do anything. I did leave him one, ONE, angry voicemail. Just one, in which I mentioned that I regretted ever meeting him. But for Chrissakes, he left me with no warning for another woman. Or maybe it’s because I didn’t give him the shower head.

Anyway, if anyone wants this fuckwad’s address, I have it. The only address that really matters to me right now is the one that leads me the place where my stuff is, some of which I’ve had since before Mr. C was even born. The place where my precious little girl dog waits for me, loving me simply because I exist. The place where I can eat, drink, pray, and live without hesitation or fear, without him.