Destination: Divorceville

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.

What do you collect?

I collect plastic shovels I find on the sand,

heart shaped rocks,

beach glass,

rocks that remind me of maps of land and sea,

a weird array of other things I find on the beach,

and divorce documents.

I have a large collection of divorce documents.

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.

The State of Legal Writing Today

The documents from my divorce were on my doorstep when I awoke this morning. Sent by my attorney, they now reside in the garage of my new house, part of the jumbled mess of my recent move.
That's them on the left looming over Homer's Iliad and Odyssey. Odysseus’s adventures in the Odyssey alone spanned ten years. He was held as a sex slave by a witch goddess, battled  to escape a one-eyed man-eating giant, suffered relentless temptation by the deadly Sirens, journeyed to Hades and back, and fought a terrifying sea monster. It's a helluva read.


My divorce lasted almost five years and was its own kind of hell. But c'mon. How about some editing?