“How long have you been divorced?”
My answer’s rote: separated for almost six years, divorced for four and a half.
Until now, I’ve considered my divorce a noun. Aside from the administrative actions: filing of paperwork and the official stamping of a dissolution date, it’s been a thing of the past. Done. Final.
And then–last week I received the title report (for the sale of my home).
There was a comma after my name. I’m used to seeing my yoga credentials follow me around, but not this, not, Husband and Wife.
My throat fell into my gut. I haven’t seen those words associated with me in years.
I sobered up in that moment. Denial walked out. Reality walked in; I’m divorcing, still. I’m grieving, still.
It hit me: I don’t think I ever really grieved my divorce, because, I’ve still been in it, in my marriage, in this home, surrounded by these memories, even though that life left over half a decade ago.
Divorce is a process, a verb that acts up when it’s least expected: in a piece of paper, or in a picture that falls out of a book salvaged from the innards of a cabinet.
My reality is this:
I’m in it, still: in the process of divorcing my old life. I’m grieving a death, not only the death of my marriage, but the death of my identity, too: of who I was, once upon a time. ~Rebecca