Day 23: Controlled Substances.

And it came to me then
That every plan
Is a tiny prayer to Father Time.
- "What Sarah Said," Death Cab For Cutie

Here's a question for you ... If the term "control freak" suggests a person who needs to be in control, why would that person smoke pot all the time? Wouldn't that person avoid mind and body-altering substances like the plague?

Maybe an actual definition of "control freak" will help. Wikipedia, the online volunteer encyclopedia that was recently deemed as reliable as the venerable Encyclopedia Britannica, offers several defintions, but the one that screams "Karen!" is as follows:

"A person who attempts to impose excessive predictability and direction on others or on events. Often associated with a lack of trust or insecurity."

Bingo. Now the whole pot thing makes sense, because there's nothing more predictable than getting stoned. Pot creates a level surface where there was once rocky emotional terrain, thus imposing a false sense of order. Even better, it numbs you to uncomfortable emotions by allowing you to analyze instead of feel. When you're stoned, you can rationalize away the fact that your career is going down the tubes ... and then go watch SpongeBob SquarePants instead. You can justify the reasons you're sticking out a bad relationship ... and then order a pizza.

For 29 years, I've found the "excessive predictability" my fearful, insecure heart desires at the bottom of a bong. I may not have been able to control or predict other peoples' actions (I certainly keep trying), but I could sure as hell flatten out my own.

Problem is, controlling events, emotions and people is a war we can never win. And while a person might be able to numb herself to pain, the reason for the pain is always festering somewhere close by.

All of which brings me back to Maggie. Ever since Wednesday, when I tried to control the moment by pushing her away before she could break up wth me, I've been fighting the urge to try and make everything better. To fix it. To make sure I don't lose her. But without pot to soften my focus, such attempts to guarantee the outcome I want seem, well ... ridiculous. Maybe I'll lose her, maybe I won't ... but either way, I can't control the future and I can't ignore the present.

This may seem like common sense to you, but for me, it's like learning to ride a bike without training wheels.

George says the best thing to come out of Wednesday is that he now gets to punch me in the arm whenever I pull my control freak bullshit on him. "It's the most annoying thing about you," he said yesterday, somehow managing to sound affectionate. "I've been bringing it up for years, but it never gets through. Now, when you try and tell me how I feel - that I'm too busy or tired to go do something, or that I'm probably not in the mood to go eat - I get to hit you." He added that he'd hit me hard so he (hopefully) wouldn't have to do it very often. Thanks, buddy.

This has been a hard week, A really hard week. But if I can emerge with a few slain demons at my feet, at least all those tears won't have fallen in vain.