Property Division. Check.
New apartment. Check.
Signed divorce papers. Check.
At long last, the baby steps are becoming leaps and bounds as I head toward my emancipation. Although I am still awaiting the judge’s approval to finalize the divorce (and therefore sever the last remaining connective marital strand), it feels that this past year of heartache and misery is finally drawing to a close.
Yeah, you read that right. It’s been a year since this all began. In fact, ironically, the day I signed the paperwork was just one week shy of a year (almost to the day) since our initial break up. I now have thirty days to move all of the crap I have accumulated over 11 years of marriage from the community property into a two-bedroom apartment. Oy.
I technically obtained the apartment before actually signing the divorce settlement, but have yet to move in. I have found the prospect of moving daunting--certainly not because of lack of desire to move, but instead because there is just so much stuff. In essence, just as my life has been thrown into chaos by this divorce, so too have my belongings. I will readily admit that I am a collector and a clutter bug but as I survey my belongings and try to determine what is to be moved, I wonder, dear God…have I become a hoarder?!
Time to clean up my life (In more ways than one)! How invigorating, how exciting, how…stressful.
I tackle the papers first. Because I haven’t felt comfortable using the office (hello, community space), I have taken to “filing” my necessary documents in my bedroom. I have receipts, bills and check stubs in my nightstand (which, incidentally, is staying in the house) that must be sorted. In my sewing room are magazine clippings, files and boxes filled with sentimental ephemera. In the loft are further items that were just thrown in a box when we moved into this house. Oh man, I haven’t even started working on the downstairs.
Aaaaaaaaggggggghhhhhhhhh.
Shake it off, girl. Shake it off. It’s just stuff.
Or so I keep telling myself.
As I am sorting through all the junk, I find birthday, anniversary and Valentine’s Day cards from the ex. Taking a moment to read them fills me with sadness. The sentiments contained in these cards strike a chord in me…here, in my hands, is written proof that he loved me once, that there was meaning in our relationship. In the last year, these sentiments have been so easily negated that it’s been hard to be sure. Just as I begin to feel myself getting weepy, I find a letter amongst the cards, tucked in like some dirty little secret.
Now let me give you some background: In the first year of my relationship with the ex (before marriage was even a thought), I was very gung-ho and goal oriented and decided to return to college to get my Fashion Design degree. Upon learning that the ex could not articulate any goals for himself, I decided to break off the relationship. We were separated for about a month, during which time I dated another person (which is a whole other debacle). Toward the end of that month, the ex and I discussed trying to work things out. He came to my house to find that I was not there. In my absence, he left me the aforementioned letter.
Back to the more present day and the finding of this letter….
Over the past year, I have often questioned myself on whether the cruelty and anger exhibited toward me could have been there all along. I had so often thought of him as being a “good man” or “kind” or “decent” that it seemed impossible that he could ever say or do anything harsh or contrary to that. Dealing with the idea that my relationship with him was not what I had thought has been something that I have discussed ad nauseum with my therapist (Don’t judge. Therapy has helped.).
Finding this letter, however, brings with it a sobering reality. I have always known that hurt and anger can make one do and/or say some awful things. This letter is perhaps further proof of that.
As I reread the letter so many years later, I can still sense the blame and disappointment. The tone and wording are so similar to many of the recent emails I’ve received that I have but one fleeting thought: “I should have known.”
It is always easy to see clearly in retrospect, isn’t it? As I continue to sort through the cards, I realize that they are representative of a now-closed chapter of my life. I have no more use for them or the sentiments they contain. The letter, though, the letter I might keep as a reminder to look deeper, to not be blinded by love, to know that ugliness does exist.
Or maybe I’ll just burn it as a sublime release from the unrecognized shackles of the past.
Ah yes, much better. Here’s to my new lease on life—once I get all of my crap moved into my apartment. Ha ha.
