"Divorce is the psychological equivalent of a triple coronary bypass" (M. Blakely)

I look out the window, anywhere but at him. I cannot breathe when I see him. The sky is heavy and dark. The rain is pouring down. How apropos. Rivulets of water obscure my line of sight. No matter, really. My mind is not following my eyes. They are focused within. Breathe in, Breathe out. My ears are still connected to the sound of the judge's voice. I don't even remember his name so detached did I try to become. Two judges, a tiny voice reminds me. You've seen two judges today. Relax. Breathe in, Breathe out. I don't want to be here, in this place. I feel the tragedies of a thousand families splintered apart. The air is thick with the cries of children, the sobs of wives, the bitten back tears of husbands. I am not comfortable. I feel his own discomfort and I wince. I can not help it. I hate this process. He has been a part of me for so long. Eyes well up. Breathe in, Breathe out

3:50pm...the judge pronounces the marriage dissolved. Neither of us is happy with the outcome. Both of us feels it is not fair. And it isn't. Life is not fair. It is not fair that my children are now one of the statistics of those from broken homes. It is not fair that I am left shattered to pick up the pieces alone. It is not fair that his illusions of what he believed I should be were ripped from him. It is not fair to any of us. Life is not fair. The most we can expect is to take what is handed to us and ride it out as best we can.

I walk away numb. I still can not believe it has come this far. I still look for logic where there is none. My heart hurts. Literally. There is a finger poking through and twisting. My mouth feels like novacaine is setting in. My skin is cold. Don't forget to breathe. Strangely, for the first time in these past few days I don't feel tears threatening to burst forth. I don't feel much of anything at all. I stare blankly at the signed pages before me. It is over. Done. Dissolved. What God had joined together is now torn asunder.

4/19/86 - 6/13/03...RIP

I get in my car. Go home. Get changed. Go to work. Go through the motions. Repetitive movement will keep my body going while it waits for the rest of me to catch up. My chest is still tight. My skin is still cold. My face is still numb. It is still raining. My umbrella hangs limp at my thigh. I turn my head up towards the sky. Wash away the saline, please. At least now I can breathe. It is a start.