I awake with a vague awareness there's something I need to remember about October.
Yes, yes. In a matter of days, it will be 12 months from the entry of the final judgment in my divorce.
In a hour, I nearly destroy my bedroom looking for the hard copy of the paperwork that I am certain is stashed in a handy file in my cabinet---but isn't. The dreadful black file box reveals only page 1. I tape it to the window sill so as not to lose in the flurry.
Why do I need this document? Two words. "Credits and reimbursements."
The black box yields nothing but a memory of heartbreak. I feel it all again. Muted yes, but it rises up as I touch attorney bills, bank statements, copies of motions. I feel the disbelief layered over the knowing. The grief and betrayal melting into sickness and hysteria. I feel it in my stomach and my chest. The anger. Still there.
In the end, I find an electronic copy on my computer. I print out three copies. While they are printing, I email The Someone. And formulate a plan. When he doesn't get back to me in 48 hours, I'll email him again. I will contact my attorney 24 hours after that second ignored email. Because yes, it will be worth the stress and the expense. One daughter in grad school. The other going back to school after the new year. But wait. As I'm about to ignore the mess and go on with my day, I see his name in my inbox. A check in the mail today, he says.
Maybe when it arrives, I'll tape it to the window sill for an hour. Let it wave a bit in the breeze while I put the mess back into the box. If I can stand to touch any of it just one more time.