Wednesday, March 26, 2008


At 10:19 last night, I found myself driving away. My dog Andy slip sliding and skittering across essentials stuffed into whatever container I could find in the backseat in his typical jittery Jack Russell manner. My chest felt concave as I finally just drove away from it all - the name calling, the pain, the anger, the crying and sadness - the ABUSE. I dragged my stuff and Andy Boo to the front door of my parents' house and walked inside, my dad's face a little puzzled.
"I didn't know I was going to, but I'm staying here," I said.
"Oh, bad night huh?" My dad asked.
"More like bad year," I replied back.
It had been a dirty fight. The ones that start with me asking a legitimate question, "why do you do things to deliberately hurt my feelings?" And, him responding with a completely unnecessary tongue lashing, "Well if you weren't such a fucking cunt all the time, maybe I wouldn't act this way." I thought he said he was 28-years-old, but I've realized that some sort of demonized, inhuman 4-year-old has taken his place. The man does not know the meaning reasonably working out problems, compromising, fighting fairly - keeping the gloves up if you will. Without warning, he just goes straight for the figurative balls, but there's no referee there to disqualify him. He's just going to keep punching me until I'm lifeless. Fighting back is useless, however, crawling to safety is not.
All couples disagree and fight. It's just a part of relationships and life. His unwillingness or inability to fight fairly is why I broke up with him more than three months ago. Friends will also have mostly petty spats here and there, but his continued abuse is why I know we can never be friends.
I asked him how he would like it if we just didn't talk anymore after I moved out and he just said, "well fine, just as long as you split our 24-Hour Fitness account so I don't get screwed." Kind of like how he called the landlord, found a roommate then told this person she could move in the first weekend in May because it was convenient for her before I even had a chance to take a breath all so he wouldn't get "screwed." And he has the audacity to call me selfish...
I'm not sure why I hesitated to go to the gym on Monday and take care of the account, but of course I had to wait until Tuesday when he was home. Plus, he had to move his stupid giant ass precious truck out of my way before I could leave while adding, "see if you can take care of the account will you?" I practically handed the power he craves and feels he needs to have over me to him on a silver fucking platter.
Walking into the gym, I was promptly handed over to Mr. Fuckwadstein to deal with my account. Bad teeth, sort of greasy and terribly unsucessful at turning on the charm, Mr. Fuckwadstein told me that my rate would go up about $10 if I separated from the King of Hissy Fit's account.
"Will his rate go up?" I asked.
"No...blah, blah, blah..." He answered.
I heard nothing after the word "no" and blurted out, "That's fucking bullshit...blah, blah, blah." I went on, then stopped and focused on his face. His eyes widened as he leaned back in this chair as if taken aback that this sweet little lady had just thrown a cuss word or two out there. Oh, I'm sorry buddy, I wasn't aware we were sitting in church. Oh yeah, that's right, we're not. We're chilling in this sweaty ass gym where beefcakes, including your very own personal trainers, stare freely at my ass during my entire workout then turn to their steroid abusing, my-arms-are-so-ridiculously-huge-that-I-have-no-room-for-a-brain friends and make disgusting comments. Fuck your mom.
"Can't you guys just work this out amicably?" He said, smirking.
My eyes narrowed as I refrained from jumping over the desk at his throat like a wild animal.
"Oh you kids," he said, shaking his head.
Oh, Mr. Fuckwadstein, you really shouldn't have done that.
"Oh, really, and how old are you?" I asked.
"Uh..uh..I was just saying. Well, I'm 25." he said.
"Yeah, uh huh, and I am too (a lie, but a month until 25 just doesn't have the same effect), so really we're not kids." I said.
"Oh, well I didn't know you were going to..." (taken aback face again)
"Watch your mouth," I said, only half joking, smiling a bit so I didn't seem completely henious bitch, though I'm sure at that point I was already labeled customer of the day among the account managers.
I had this distinct feeling that I could kill this guy with my bare hands - morbid and psychotic right? Except the more I try to stay positive about this thing and the more people butt their fat asses into it without knowing a thing about the situation, the more superhuman strength I seem to gather. Pretty soon I'll be opening a door and I'll just completely rip it off the hinges. And, instead of struggling to retrieve Andy's lost toys from underneath the furniture, I'll just hoist the couch up over my head with one hand and give Andy his Kong toy with the other.
Right when I had bitched Mr. Fuckwadstein into giving me the same rate, but spliting the account and I was giving him my checking account information, Mr. F gets a phone message - the piece of paper had hissy fit's name and number on it. He knew I was taking care of it, but just had to let me know he was still in control by making his presence known and calling the gym when he knew I would be right in the middle of it all. He made me do all the dirty work, but took all the glory.
"Is he going to be cool when I call him back?" Mr. Fuckwadstein asked.
"I don't know, he's not cool, but I don't know..." I said.
I came home after my kickboxing class and asked him if he had a nice conversation with the guy at the gym as I was sure they had a heyday swapping "Lara is such a bitch stories." Why is it that when women are just trying to do what they need to do to survive, they're a bitch?
His automatic defense mode turned on saying that he needed to call and see what his new account balance was right then and there (another control freak issue) because I wasn't trustworthy enough to tell him myself. I severely, SEVERELY dislike this man...
More unnecessary and distasteful words fell out of his mouth as I got into the shower. And, as I prepared to blubber and sob in the shower for the bajillinith time, suddenly I just said, NO, I'M NOT FUCKING DOING IT ANYMORE and immediately began thinking about what I needed to pack.
It started quietly. I didn't want him to know I was leaving in an attempt to avoid any of his bullshit antics, but of course, he started following me around, criticizing my every move. Opening the garage door really set him off for some reason and he felt the need to follow me outside everytime I brought something to my car. I half expected him to start groveling at my feet, begging me not to go. Instead he would just slam the door in my face each time, then shut the large garage door each time I came back inside for another load. I'll never forget his angry, bitter words as I continued to pack up my things. I put them here in writing so I'll never forget it when he without a doubt tries to weasel his way back into my life. I stayed annoyingly calm the entire time, just telling myself that the only reason he was saying these things was because he's angry that he will never have what he wants from me:
"Shut the fucking garage door you dumbass!"
"Are you using the sponge I use to wash my dishes? Oh yeah, you don't know HOW to use it."
"When are you moving your shit out? Because I want to be here when you do so you don't steal anything." Me: "You have nothing that I want." Him: "You have nothing I want," he shot back in his demonic 4-year-old manner.
"Andy's back to living a miserable life."
I'm not even going to bring up the fact that he sent nasty messages about me to his ex girlfriend, solicited women for god knows what online and suddenly had this plethora of female friends that I didn't know of back home all while we were trying to "work it out." Oh wait, I just did.
The signs of an obsessive compulsive abusive control freak were all there: His perfectly pressed and folded shirts, pants, socks...etc., the fact that he had to wash his hair immediately before he styled it each time and would never leave the house unless it was perfectly gelled and spiked. The same cup, bowl and spoon were used and washed by hand each morning and if a pile of cotton balls were sitting on the counter, he would probably put a dish towel underneath them as to not scratch the surface they were laying on because apparently in his world, everything that is placed on a surface will scratch it and a perfectly folded dish towel must go underneath it. His perfectly manicured routine never changed in the slightest and if it ever did, fits of rage would ensue. I'm not sure how he ever coped with moving. And, the complete void of spontaneity, spunk or variety in his life. It's not meticulous, it's psychotic, like that movie, "Sleeping With the Enemy" expect he's not quite that bad...yet...which means it will only get worse. I didn't ignore the signs, I just didn't know what to look for. Now I do and I will never overlook them again.
I'm not sure what it was that finally made me go, but I feel like a fool for not doing it sooner. At first I thought there was still a chance for us in the future, so I kept holding onto that. I thought there was still a shred of reasonable left in him. Then, I thought I was holding strong, not letting the abuse get to me just because we weren't together anymore. But, just because somebody isn't your boyfriend doesn't mean you can't still be in an abusive relationship and nobody should have to deal with that shit. Part of it was I was worried about the money - paying the rent when I didn't even live there etc, but in the end, it's just money. That will come and go. But, you only get one mind, one body and one soul. If you let somebody fuck those up, you're really screwed and he had complete reckless disregard for such human things. I don't blame myself for not leaving sooner because everybody's "ah-ha" moment comes at a different time and only those that have been in the same situation know this. It's something that can't be planned, but rather done while flying by the seat of your pants, then never looking back. I'm glad I've reclaimed my life.
I left him a note on his bed asking him to kindly keep his hands off my things until I had a chance to get the rest of them out. Then, I saw him peer out the front door as I turned the key, backed out of the driveway and finally drove away. And, all I could say, in a tauntingly sarcastic voice was, "mmmmm BUH-BYE!"
I feel like I've just been freed from prison. Larapalooza anyone?

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