I am divorced.
My ten year marriage is legally over, our assets and debts divided up, papers signed. Eliot will bounce back and forth between the two of us like a ping pong ball for the next fifteen years.
It isn't what I wanted.
I thought I would feel a sense of relief, maybe have a lighter step walking out of the courthouse, as though the proceedings would lift the weight of grief off me. But that didn't happen. I walked down the courthouse steps with tears streaming down my face, barely aware of my surroundings. I stumbled to my car and drove back to my apartment in a blur.
I sit here now, contemplating my (and Eliot's) future, wondering what life may have in store for us next. My head knows that this is for the best. My head knows that I will be happier and healthier with my marriage behind me. My head just hasn't successfully conveyed this truth to my heart yet.
I have felt, in the last couple of weeks, like a trapeze artist, perched on the edge of the platform, waiting in darkness for my turn to perform. And today, in court, the spotlight swung to me, and I swung through the air with a determined grip on the bar. I can't see where I'm going. Everything is a blur of colors and faces. I don't know if I'm headed for the opposite platform, or if there's someone swinging towards me to catch me. A large part of me is afraid, terrified to let go.
But I know it will be okay. I will let go when I am ready, and at that point I will not fear the blind flight through the air. Because the net beneath me is made up of wonderful people. Family, friends, fellow bloggers, even the adorable couple who run my local coffee shop and gave me extra whipped cream in my drink today--all are standing there below me with joined hands, ready to catch me should I fall.
But...I will not fall.