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"  Dear E. Jean: I was driving to my therapist&amp;#039;s office to talk about the same man I&amp;#039;d been talking about for five years\u2014my moody, controlling, narcissistic, financially messed-up husband\u2014and my phone rang. It was my spouse. I answered, but instead of him replying, he kept talking about money with some guy. By the time I pulled into my doctor&amp;#039;s parking lot, I realized I was overhearing my husband having sex with a male prostitute. (At first I thought he was buying a new part for his pickup truck!) Before I got out of the car, I texted him: &amp;quot;Look at your phone. See the last time you called me? Realize what you were doing and don&amp;#039;t come home.&amp;quot; I&amp;#039;m divorcing him. But moving on from a marriage of 12 years is not easy. I can forgive him the male prostitute (I&amp;#039;ve forgiven him in the past for the female hookers), but his moodiness and abuse are too much. Talking with my therapist is helping, and I&amp;#039;m trying to stay focused. But I have days when I want to call him to come home. In the past, I always took him back. Help me to not do that this time!\u2014On the Bubble Bubble, my Begonia: You no doubt took the earliest opportunity to equip yourself with a pair of tongs and perform a sweep of the house to remove every photo, thread of clothing, fraternity paddle, leftover bottle of minoxidil, rotting jockstrap, etc., then drove them to the dump, right? Good. It&amp;#039;s never wise to keep mementos of assholes. Asshole mementos are like plutonium. Expose them to a moist glance and they spontaneously ignite and cause a woman to set off a sexual chain reaction, generally involving the asshole. Apropos: When you were getting rid of the mementos, please, please tell me you got rid of the liquor in the house. Downing a flute of formaldehyde is less dangerous at this point than a shot of tequila. Even an innocent Sauternes at the end of the day can soften the steel in your backbone and cause you to suddenly say: &amp;quot;What the hell? Why can&amp;#039;t I call him?!&amp;quot; Speaking of which, you&amp;#039;ve deleted the cad, his friends, siblings, parents, coworkers, and boss from your phone, Facebook, LinkedIn, Gmail, and Skype, correct? (Now now, don&amp;#039;t balk. Lovely as some of his friends may be, they&amp;#039;re good for nothing at this time but ripping open old wounds. They&amp;#039;ll just tell you he&amp;#039;s pining, dying, and will plead his stupid case.) As for your own friends, you&amp;#039;re keeping someone on 24-hour standby to call in case you weaken, I hope\u2014it&amp;#039;s a brilliant move! Because you&amp;#039;re not only the woman who is divorcing the little ball-weed, you&amp;#039;re also the woman who wants to take him back. You&amp;#039;re composed of many different selves\u2014the needy self; the lonely self; the gritty, shrewd, undaunted self\u2014all competing for control. (As Walt Whitman says, you &amp;quot;contain multitudes.&amp;quot;) So let&amp;#039;s give the woman who wants to get rid of the man the advantage and kill his calls, his photos, and his Gchats, the better to help you begin a wonderful new life.  E-mail your questions to e.jean@askejean.com "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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