Sticks and Stones Can Break My Bones and Paper Slashes My Heart

Whew. There it is The divorce paperwork neatly stashed back into its box. A bunch of lavender atop it to deodorize its stench. I stayed up late last night organizing it...until I felt "divorce sickness" come over me. Perhaps the box will never be opened again, so does it matter if it's not in chronological order? Hell, no.

And the check came today. A man of his word.

Once upon a time he was my everything. I'm not even sure where that phrase comes from...a song, a movie? Not important.

These photos were on my camera (my son and his family were here this past weekend) and I loaded them onto my laptop with the one above. They tell a story that could begin with "Once upon a time," too.

The princess looks a bit wistful, doesn't she?

Maybe because her sweet prince turned out to be an evil sorcerer, and he's going to grind her heart to bits.

Oh dear sweet children, I wish you the minimum amount of heartbreak in your lives. If grandmothers could cast spells, maybe that would be the one I would choose.

Or does heartbreak make us more compassionate?

I'm glad to be still basking in the hugs and the love from their visit, as well as  the afterglow of my weekly sixteen-hour sojourn with the man who loves me.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I think I'll run all the way to the bank.

A Brief Journey Back to Divorceville

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.

Post-Divorce Hunting

I've had to do quite a bit of hunting since my divorce. A place to live. A re-imagined future. I've gone off in search of my sanity, my self esteem, my reason to keep breathing. I've found those things.

More recently, I've been hunting for a house where I can bring my mom to live with me. I think I've done it.

I still need new tires though.

The painting at the top of the post is Guercino's Diana the Huntress