Tuesday, April 9, 2013
I took a brief trip today to my old town, Divorceville. I opened the gate to the city (a.k.a The Box) and wallowed in the muck of those filthy streets. It's tax time, and if that in and of itself isn't stressful enough, I needed to find the purchase price of the farmland I received as part of my divorce settlement. I sold said farmland almost immediately and now must pay capitol gains on it since it appreciated quite a bit since The Someone and I bought it in 1993. I thought there might be some reference to its original worth in an email or a file folder, but no there was not. I made various phone calls--one of which at least provided the amount of the original mortgage on the land.
How many more times am I going to have to open this box? I asked myself as I sat on the floor of my bedroom with stacks of paper avalanching off my lap. Probably again and again, I answered myself. So I decided I would at least put some of what I was holding into chronological order. So I did. And then the prospect of that task became too great, so I began to read some of the papers around me.
The man who loves me once told me that, one day, I might forgive The Someone. I might look back and see what a love we had and what wonderful daughters we raised, and I told him that no, I didn't think that would ever happen, and he said something to the effect of, well, you don't know, and maybe it will someday. I am the first to admit that time does change things. It turns down the volume, blurs the colors, rearranges details. I did perhaps feel a tiny speck of compassion at the end of December when The Someone told me about his reduced income. I made no plans to thwart a court ordered modification of my alimony. And maybe, just maybe, right then I tested the waters of, well, not exactly forgiveness, but something less bitter than what I had been steeping in for the past five years.
Today, after reviewing some of the papers I excavated from the box, my perspective now is that the process was far more brutal and cruel that I was able to absorb at the time. I am more aware than ever of the depths of my devastation, how far I plunged before my seared lungs managed a gulp of air. I'm beyond thrilled to be here in Margaritaville living with my mom and the ancient cat, friends visiting, soaking up the love of children and grandchildren, cherished by the man who loves me in a way I didn't know existed.
As of yet, even though since January I have received substantially less that the current court order demands, there is no modified court order for reduced alimony in process because no proof of reduced income has been provided. This evening I found my Google search for "retroactive modified alimony" quite satisfying.