under 30 three time divorcée seeks companion

I went to get divorced this morning. In many ways, and from many, would I be seeking divorce.  I have been reading a lot about changing attitudes towards death, and “treating death”, which of course leaves you in a place to talk about other things, the other things that make up life. Speaking and thinking so much of that unknown blackness instinctively takes you back to something brighter. To something less nadir and more on the way to zenith.

The first of course, being my actual husband, who I was divorcing in some quiet Judge’s chambers on the fourth floor, yes there was that one.  I went to the wrong courthouse and lost my phone thinking about _, the other work husband.

The second was _, my work husband at my old job. Husband is the only decent word I can give. I cared only for his happiness, I thought he was devastatingly attractive in a favorite way of mine ; like the stranger on the bus you were convinced you were going to get up and get instantaneously pregnant and have your life changed in a milisecond. His country life mirrored mine, his naivety about things I found mundane, thrilled me. Every innocent little stone was a revelation in simple joys I could enjoy again, lived through his little honeysuckle moments of discovery. He’s getting married in October, and when I finally went to his house I desperately wanted to see where he showered, where he slept. He gave me nothing. Ostara, that one was. I took a half day from work, and came to him with sun leaking out of my skin.

Comic book stores and showing him how to buy records. I wanted to fuck him terribly. I didn’t. Neither of us really wanted it, we wanted how it used to be, the sexual tension in the “office”, _ throwing kegs around for me, taking his shirt off, writing very neatly on the chalkboard, bringing me small perfectly portioned cups of rare beers – these small erotic tortures kept me going for months after our ‘breakup’ which occurred when I went to China.

Having these little honeysuckles keeps him as a real person in my life, even if only in the sunset and sunrise moments. He’s reading Harry Potter for the first time in his life and sometimes that alone is reason for me to jump off a cliff. Being with  _ is an experiment in pure Americana. His family farm in Wooster Ohio, his multiplicity of siblings, aunts, cousins, relatives, – it was an amazing thing to experience and to escape. I’m being unfair in placing words in his mouth but that’s the way things have to go. Enough about the long prolonged death of _’s two years of office romance, and move onto an even more pressing problem. A more pressing divorce.

 

Margaret, my queen of cups. She leaves my life next Friday. Probably before that but I’m going to suck all the blood and marrow of her before she leaves. I’m terrified Wendy hasn’t passed out all the information, her emails stopped coming last week, before she went to Ossabaw. I have to trust that she believes it, but Joan and I are not so sure. I have no idea what to do about the Wendy problem. But Margaret, that’s fine. I’ll just asked for all her Evernote notes and then call that it. And watch as she becomes a perfect mermaid. Her spirit, her animus, her manna, it’s something unique. I can’t believe she tolerates me. I think I puked in her car which is a horrible thing, but I can’t apologize for it now, too much has happened. I’m about to turn 30. Although, it would mark the first time I threw up in someone’s car. My intense dry spell (no drugs, alcohol, sex, or masturbation) purged me of this, or so I hope.

 

Margaret, I’ll keep harder. _ Is at the end of our time together. Not Margaret. But yes, the one husband I really had to get divorced from.

 

After sitting through almost half an hour of testimony about incest, custody and mental illness, my lawyer came to rescue me and take me to a backstage sort of area (Judge’s Chambers) to discuss the particulars. My mind was lost, a million different ways, the Ativan in my bag and under my tongue, the panicked heart rate after dashing up to Central avenue after going to the wrong courthouse in an overpriced Lyft, it was all too much. And Karri, so kind, trying so hard, to gently usher me through Yes I have not seen him since this date, and no, he has not contacted me since then and mother is in prison, house in foreclosure. The judge is very pretty, and she has an extremely proud southern drawl. She admonishes my lawyer in Spanish — are they both the kind of black women who speak Spanish? — and says that since Febuarary has only 28 days, I have to give Azul more time. Until the 4th.

“The fourth, of April?” I asked, because this couldn’t be happening.

“Yes, then you can come get your certified copy of the Divorce Decree.”

“That’s my birthday.”

“Well Happy Birthday, Miss Eleanor. See you soon.”

 

All seems fine. As fine as it can be. I don’t know what else to do. Fall asleep and try to wash the pain off me. My mother, my mother sent a picture of my dad, and I stole the James Baldwin from work. I had to have it. The gods will forgive me. But I need it more than my sterile office needs me. My god. I should probably keep crying. The urge to purge has not abated. My altar calls to me. My ridiculous, amazing parents. How to think of them. I need to clean off my altar. A New is emerging.

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