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The writing streak conintues - moving on to my other outstanding WIP... Enjoy! TAG



 

Chapter 11 - Control.



How do you differentiate between a concerned partner who does things for you because they care and want to help, and an abuser who takes control of everything to serve their own purposes?


Outwardly, the two acts may look the same. An abuser rarely admits that the reason they’re smothering you with attention is so that they can keep you under their control. A caring partner might comment on how tired you look, order you to put down the project you’re working on, and urge you to go to bed. An abuser might do the same thing, but it’s not out of concern for your health. Rather, it’s because they’re annoyed that you’re spending too much time concentrating on something other than them. But how do you tell the difference between those two? Especially when you’re young, naïve, and desperate to earn the love of that person?


What makes this analysis even more complicated is that, though the narcissist clearly does not have your best interests in mind - primarily because they’re missing any sense of empathy or compassion - they do have the ability to love you, if only for their own purposes. However, that love somehow always feels conditional; that they’ll only love you if you do what they say. Or, as it’s more commonly framed from the narcissist’s point of view, if you love them you’ll WANT to do what they ask. And because you do, truly, want that love, you always capitulate. You always end up giving in. Sometimes you don’t even realize you’re giving in until weeks down the road, because that’s just how manipulative they are. Any way you look at it, though, it’s not a healthy kind of love.


However, it’s very difficult for a victim of a narcissist to gauge the motives behind that love. Even when something feels off - when you somehow sense there’s an ulterior motive for the outwardly caring action - you doubt yourself. You ascribe beneficent motives to the controlling behavior. It doesn’t help that the abuser always has a rational and seemingly altruistic reason ready to offer any time you might object to being controlled. It’s always turned around on you. You’re the one being unreasonable. You’re the one that’s causing the strife in the relationship. They are never to blame, even when they are. 


Maybe it’s only in hindsight that one learns to see the real motivation behind an abuser’s controlling actions? Maybe you have to have the wisdom of distance to see the patterns of behavior clearly? From that perspective, perhaps, you’ll be able to see the way he seeks to dominate every individual and every group with which he interacts. That his obsessive desire for control is not just about control for control's sake, but an essential element of that person’s character. A defense mechanism, if you will, designed to bolster the abuser’s own fear of lack of control. And, because a narcissist is always the preeminent expert in knowing best how things should turn out and how people should behave, they feel justified in controlling others even if they have to use threats, coercion, advice giving, helplessness, guilt, manipulation, or domination. They know best, so you should welcome their guidance, right?


Unfortunately, for most victims, though, that kind of insight - the ability to tell the difference between the abuser and the caregiver - comes much too late. 


At least it did for me.



As it was, I could’ve easily managed to go to Mel and Lindz’ anniversary party the next day since I ended up at home alone with no real plans. 


After being up late the night before, Ethan and I slept in on Sunday morning until almost ten o’clock. When he did wake up, and noticed the time, Ethan was in a panic. He insisted he had to get to the concert hall early - he and a couple friends were meeting up so they could get in a little extra practice before that evening’s performance. He picked through a pile of dirty laundry on the floor, extracting the least soiled items he could find, and threw them on as he was running for the door. Right before he reached the exit, though, he seemed to remember my presence and turned back to offer me a parting kiss.


“Sorry, Babe. I don’t mean to run out on you like this, but you understand right? It’s all about the Art. And I just want to make sure I get that fifth movement of the Berlioz down pat before tonight’s solo.” He reached out to trail his fingers down my cheek with what I took to be affection and then looked around with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Hey, while I’m gone, could you maybe clean up around here a bit. It’s a total pigsty. Now that there’s two of us here, it seems like there’s more than twice the mess, huh?” He chuckled deprecatingly, almost as if me being there was some kind of trial for him, but one he’d bear because he loved me . . . or something. “Well, see you at the theater. Don’t be late. Love you, Babe.”


And then he was gone in a whirl of self-importance, leaving me sitting there, still in bed, without having got in a single word. 


“Good morning to you too, Ethan. I slept fine, thanks for asking. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine on my own today . . .” I grumbled as I crawled out of bed and scowled around at the messy apartment I was supposed to clean while my partner was off doing something he enjoyed.


I know Brian always used to give me shit about living with a teenage slob, but the reality is that I’m actually a pretty neat person by nature. Yes, I’d occasionally kick my trainers off by the door, or leave a school book on the table, or spread my art out when I was working on a big project, or even, if you can believe it, leave the clothing Brian would strip off when he was ravishing me on the floor until the next morning. All in all, though, I was fairly good at tidying up after myself, so I always took Brian’s comments the way they were offered; more as an inside joke than anything. It was just Brian’s way of teasing me - and making fun of himself at the same time - about the difference in our ages. He’d kid me about being a messy teen and I’d joke about how he was old and set in his ways. And I won’t even comment on the messes Brian occasionally made when he would go on a bender. Mostly, though, we both kept our messiness under control without the other having to comment.


So, to be summarily ordered to clean up Ethan‘s pit of an apartment - before I’d even had a cup of coffee, no less - really wrankled. Especially when I looked around me and noticed that ninety percent of the mess wasn’t even mine. Yes, I’d left my clothing from the night before draped over the arm of the couch, and my school books were piled on the table, but other than that, everything else I saw strewn around the room belonged to Ethan. His clothing was in various piles on the floor and furniture, his sheet music was scattered over every piece of furniture and large portions of the floor, all the dishes he’d used to eat off during the week were piled on the sideboard next to the sink, and there was a hodgepodge of shoes and jackets near the front door that had just been shoved to the side instead of being hung up or put away. On top of that, Wolfram’s litter box was in serious need of attention and pretty much everything in sight was covered in long, grey cat hair. He hadn’t been wrong about the place looking like a pigsty; not that the tiny studio furnished with other people’s junk had ever been what you’d call pristine. 


Contemplating the task ahead of me was daunting. I briefly thought about blowing it off and going to Mel and Lindsey’s party anyway. But, after the way I’d flat out lied to them the night before with my lame excuse for why I COULDN’T come to the party, I just couldn’t do it. It would mean making up another lie to cover for the first, and I just didn’t want to go there. Plus, I’d have to explain myself to Ethan afterwards and I suspected that would end up being even more of an ordeal than the cleaning. And, since I didn’t actually relish living in squalor myself, it looked like, if I wanted a clean living space, it would be up to me to make it that way. 


So, instead of spending my day hanging out with my friends at a social gathering, I was slaving away at menial chores. I gathered up all the dirty clothing and trucked it down the block to the laundromat. While the wash loads were running, I ran back to the apartment and picked up the rest of the clutter until I could finally see large swathes of the dingy brown carpet. Then I ran back down the street, threw the laundry into dryers, and returned to the apartment to empty the cat box and take out all the trash and recycling. I even got a good start on washing the dishes before I had to dash back to the laundromat, fold the clothing, and haul it back to be put away. I remade the bed. I even borrowed a vacuum from one of our neighbors - I couldn’t believe Ethan didn’t own one, although that would explain the state of the grungy carpet - and spent a good hour vacuuming, dusting and sweeping the floors. Finally, I scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom and mopped the floors till you could actually see that the tiling had once been a light yellow instead of the dingy brown I’d thought they were. It was disgusting, back-breaking work which obviously hadn’t been done in a while - probably not since Ethan had moved in - and took me the entire day to complete.


I was just returning after taking the vacuum back to the folks I’d borrowed it from when Ethan arrived. He was all smiles and looked like he’d had a good time with his friends. I, on the other hand, was sweaty and dirty and in a pretty foul mood overall. 


“Hey, Babe!” he greeted me, leaning in for a kiss but then pulling back abruptly when he got a whiff of how bad I smelled. “Why aren’t you ready to go already, Hon? You’re supposed to be at Carnegie Hall for your shift in, like, twenty minutes. I just came home to pick up my suit - I forgot to grab it when I left this morning - but I didn’t expect to see you here still. Didn’t I warn you not to be late?”


Was it any wonder I completely lost it after a greeting like that? I was exhausted, dirty, hungry, and my back hurt from crawling on the floor scrubbing tiles on my hands and knees because Ethan didn’t own a mop. I was also suffering through one of the worst allergy attacks I’d had in years, as a consequence of my time spent excavating out the layers upon layers of cat hair and dust from under Ethan‘s bed. I was in no mood for criticism. And the most infuriating part of it all, was that Ethan hadn’t said one word about how nice the apartment now looked. As I thought at the time, my response was not only predictable but justified.


“Fuck you, Ethan,” I hissed at him, getting right up in his face. “How dare you come in here and lecture me after I’ve spent the entire day cleaning up after your shit. You think you can just order me to clean up after you while you waltz out the door to spend the entire day goofing off with your friends? And then you come home and criticize me? Well fuck you, Ethan. I’m not your fucking maid!”


I brushed angrily past him, pulling off my sweat stained T-shirt as I headed towards the bathroom to wash up. Ethan, surprisingly, didn’t say anything at first. I guess he’d never seen Angry Justin before. Up to that point, I’d always been meek, submissive, and polite. Little did he know, under that country club exterior, there was a bit of a hotheaded rebel. If he’d compared notes with Brian before stealing me away, he would’ve known that. 


But my furious reaction didn’t play well with Ethan’s self-narrative of being my protector and guide and it took him awhile to figure out how to handle me.


Meanwhile I was busy in the tiny toilet cubicle, doing my best to clean up as quickly as possible. I gave myself what my dear old dad would’ve called a whore’s bath - briefly running the bar of soap across my chest under my pits and my over crotch - which was all I really had time for. Unfortunately it had been a few days since I’d shaved, though, and I knew my boss at the catering service wouldn’t be happy if I showed up looking all shaggy. So I took the time to lather up my face and hastily scraped at the scruff on my cheeks and chin. But all the time I was getting ready, I was still fuming about Ethan’s entrance and his lack of appreciation for all my hard work. 


“Justin, Babe, stop for a second,” Ethan ordered, pulling the towel out of my hand as soon as I’d mopped off the last wisps of shaving cream. 


I turned around to confront him, still not at all placated, only to find Ethan looking at me with this super sad expression on his face. He looked so contrite and . . . Wounded was the only term that came to mind. Which confused me. I guess I was used to the roof-raisingly loud arguments Brian and I used to have. We’d had a few regular screaming matches in the day - not that we argued much, but when we did it was always very vocal - each of which was followed by glorious make up sex. So I wasn’t prepared for Ethan’s cool-headed, conciliatory approach.


“I don’t think that’s fair, Babe,” Ethan was saying in a calm, disapproving tone. “I wasn’t just goofing off with my friends all day. I was practicing. Perfecting my performance for tonight. I figured you, of all people, would understand how hard an artist has to work to create his vision. And I don’t appreciate you denigrating my work like that, Justin.” 


Of course I wasn’t completely appeased, even if I did have to concede that Ethan had a point about his music being more than just goofing off, but I was still angry . . . “Whatever, you still didn’t need to come in here lecturing me about running late. I’m a fucking adult and I’ve been taking care of myself since my dad kicked me out of the house at seventeen. I’m perfectly capable of managing my own time and getting to my job on time. Which wouldn’t have been a problem if I didn’t have to play the fucking maid, cleaning up after you!” I literally spat the words in his face, the little fleck of spittal that hit his cheek providing a nice emphasis, I thought. 


“Justin . . . Babe . . .” Ethan approached me with this condescending look that made my blood boil even more, but then his words hit me and I immediately felt chastened. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a little bit here?” He took a step forward so that he was close enough to rest his hands familiarly on my hips. “I never said you had to be my maid. All I said was that it would be nice if you picked up a bit. I didn’t mean for you to go all Mr. Clean on me and spend your whole day scrubbing the floors or anything. Don’t blame me if you went totally overboard. And besides, you DO live here now too; I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you help out with the chores, is it? Especially since you aren’t working much and didn’t have anything else planned today. Right”


Damn it! I hated when people were rational and logical when I really just wanted to pick a fight. But he wasn’t exactly wrong; I may have gone a little overboard. Ethan had never asked me to scrub the bathroom floor or delve a year’s worth of cat hair out from under his bed. Still, he could’ve at least shown a little appreciation for my efforts. Did he actually enjoy living in total squalor? He was also right about the fact that I wasn’t working very much these days, and I’d had plenty of time on my hands that afternoon, so I suppose it wasn’t unreasonable for him to ask that I use some of that time to clean up our living space. I just didn’t like the way he seemed to assume that was now my responsibility.


I might’ve even continued to argue the point if I wasn’t overtaken right then by another attack of sneezing brought on by my allergies. “Shit,” I wheezed, running to grab a wad of tissues. “On top of everything else, I’m all out of allergy pills. I’ll have to stop by the all-night pharmacy on my way home and pick up my refill. Good thing I get paid tonight.” Then I happened to look at the clock hanging on the wall over the tiny kitchen sink, and realized how late it had gotten. “Fuck. That’s assuming that I’m not fired on the spot when I show up late.”


Ethan grabbed his suit from the closet along with my jacket, handing the latter off to me as he led the way to the door. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Luke for you. He’s a decent guy. I’m sure he’ll understand,” Ethan assured as he ushered me out of the apartment with a guiding hand resting against my lower back. Apparently, our argument was already forgotten, and since we didn’t have time to get into it further, I let it go. “In fact, if you want to sign your paycheck over to me, I’ll run to the pharmacy for you. I have more than enough time to do that before the concert starts.”


If I hadn’t been so desperate to stop sneezing my brains out, I might’ve even argued about this plan. Somewhere in the back of my mind I recognize that my boyfriend was once again being over-solicitous and controlling. I was perfectly capable of explaining to my boss why I was late or picking up my own medication. But the day had already been such a shit show, and I was so exhausted, not to mention that allergy attacks always made me a little muzzy-headed, that I just didn’t feel up to debating the matter right then. So I let Ethan take charge once again. 


We arrived at Carnegie Hall ten minutes late and were met by a glaring Luke. Ethan stepped in and turned on his charm, suavely making sincere-sounding apologies that luckily seemed to placate him. He grumbled a little and warned me not to ever be late again before handing over my paycheck, which I quickly endorsed on the back and handed over to Ethan. Then I scrambled off to join the rest of the catering staff engaged in the usual pre-event preparations. I didn’t even have time to say goodbye to Ethan or explain which pharmacy my prescription was waiting at, so I was surprised when Ethan showed up again about a half hour later with a little white pharmacy bag in hand.


I was so grateful to get the meds that I completely forgot I had meant to continue to be mad at him. “Thank you! Shit, you don’t know how badly I needed one of these.” I grabbed a napkin from the top of the nearby bar, dabbed at my nose for the 10,000th time, and then dry swallowed one of the little white pills from the prescription vial. “You’re a lifesaver, Ethan.” I shoved the bottle of pills in my pocket and started to turn away, intent on getting back to my job unloading a cart full of freshly washed wine glasses, when I remembered one other thing. “Hey, did the pharmacy give you shit about my insurance? I haven’t had time to figure out what to do about that and I wasn’t sure if Brian had already canceled me off his plan.”


“Nope. It was covered. I only had to pay the $20 co-pay for you,” Ethan replied, already a few steps down the lobby from me, obviously headed towards the stage door.


“Great,” I yelled after him, privately wondering how long my ex was going to let me coast on his insurance, but quickly coming to the conclusion that I didn’t have time to worry about that then. “So, do you have the rest of my money?”


That question stopped Ethan in his tracks and he turned around to look back at me with an air of  confusion. “Oh, I just deposited the whole check in my account and used my debit card to pay for the prescription. We can sort out the money later, right?”


“Taylor! Why don’t you have those glasses set up yet?” Luke asked, still sounding a bit crusty. “The box office opens in ten minutes. Get a move on!”


“I’m on it,” I promised my boss.


And when I looked around, Ethan was long gone.


 

 

Chapter End Notes:

2/9/20 - I’m sorry I’ve left this story for so long. I was in a REALLY bad place when I started it and I eventually got to the point where I felt I couldn’t go on. But, after a year and a half of healing on my own part, I think I’m now ready to tell the rest of Justin’s story. There is a lot of the personal in this one, folks, which is why it may be a struggle for me, but that’s also why I feel like I HAVE to tell this story. So, please forgive me for the long hiatus. Now, let’s see if we can’t get Justin out of this mess... TAG

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