……it was done.
I just signed my divorce papers.
Like a dreaded injection, the anticipation and the after effects far outweigh the pain of the actual event.
Just a little prick.
Last year I read a piece by Anna Spargo-Ryan on her divorce, touching, emotional, heart felt words across my screen. At the time, I couldn’t wait until the legal requirement of twelve months had passed so we could get our papers in, there would be no waiting for us, I wasn’t going to be sad, I would be celebrating. Why would I want to stay married to someone who loves another?
And now its fifteen months since he moved out, I’ve just signed the papers that I’ve held onto for the past week and it feels so very shit.
Another sucky, painful part of being grown up.
Beautiful, well-meaning friends tell me that this is all about moving on; I can now start a new chapter of my life. I don’t know what that means.
I feel as though if I am being asked to write the next chapter with pavement chalk on the back of a postage stamp. Nothing fits. Not even flimsy, poorly written metaphors.
Nothing has changed but everything has.
There are still notes full of everlasting love sitting in drawers. The words haven’t changed but their meaning has. A ring, a little tarnished from no longer being worn sits in a dish. Photos packed away amongst books. Everywhere a memory. Tucked away from sight is easier.
Sadness at what the pen swish represents, the lost best friend, missing my extended family – still connected, but different. The fear of an uncertain future.
In a bit I’m sure I will believe my friends when they tell me about the exciting new beginnings, but for the time being it’s just about the swish of the pen signing the end of the chapter.
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