Plywood Affirmation
I hated every second of it.
And yet, it ended in the most beautiful way.
It was the best day. It was the worst day.
It was Valentine’s Day. I sat in a sun-dappled garden of a friend’s home in Charleston. I wore a brown herringbone sweater, jeans, and my favorite earrings that I’d bought myself while on a work trip in Chicago a few years prior. On the table before me, I’d set up my laptop, my phone, a glass of water and a coffee mug filled halfway with red wine. In preparation for the meeting, I’d brushed away all the dead leaves and seed pods and spiderwebs that had accumulated on a glass-top table in the center of the garden. Then I sat down at this table in this garden on this Monday in this brown sweater. I wasn’t sure what I’d need, what I would be asked, who would be participating or how long it would take.
I logged in to the virtual waiting room, muted myself, and waited. I heard the clopping of a horse-drawn carriage full of curious tourists pass by on the street just beyond the fence. I heard wind chimes singing through a soft breeze. In my peripheral view, birds playfully zipped from treetop to treetop, a sporadic if not comforting hint at something tangible.
I waited for the faces to appear. And there they were—two, then three, and finally our full group of seven. In the middle of this grid of faces was a dark-haired man, a judge. There were at least two other faces displayed on my computer screen that I’d never even seen before and will likely never see again. We had gathered at 3:30p.m. on this Monday for one purpose—to finalize a long and exhausting divorce. That such an appointment was scheduled for Valentine’s Day only added to the deflation I felt as the dark-haired man began to speak.
I cannot recall everything that was said, but I remember being asked a long list of questions, such as do you understand why you are here, are you under the influence of illegal substances, do you understand your rights, have you been properly counseled by your attorney, and so on. At one point, the dark-haired man asked me to speak up, that it was hard to hear my soft-spoken replies through the background noise of birds chirping and soft, early spring breezes. It had not occurred to me that, since we were in a virtual court hearing, sitting outside in a pair of jeans (with a mug of wine, which I took not even a sip of) may not be appropriate. But as a matter of fact, I couldn’t fathom being asked such questions and NOT having the expanse of the sky and the clouds and this lovely garden to hold me while I sat through this experience.
My body filled with adrenaline, a noticeable internal chaos arrived—should I fight or find flight. The dark-haired man skimmed through a stack of papers before him, a document I’d become far too acquainted with over the many previous months and one that he was clearly seeing for the fist time. From my gut, an intense mass began to travel up through the pit of my stomach, through my chest, until it lodged firmly in my throat. After the long silence, he opened his mouth to speak and directed his attention to me: Do you understand the details of this agreement? YES, I mustered. Are you in agreement with the details of this agreement? YES, I forced. Do you understand this agreement is final, and any changes will require the court’s approval? YES, I rallied.
Other questions were asked of other faces on the call. My children were discussed. The dark-haired man addressed the full group and then picked up his pen and signed his name. The end arrived. Fourteen years of marriage, officially over. The grid of faces began to disappear. The screen went black. I closed my laptop and put my arms on the table to cradle my head as it collapsed forward. I could not hold another moment. The mass in my throat gave way and sadness bellowed from me like a fountain.
I had naively thought that at the end of this virtual court hearing that I would feel light-hearted, hopeful, and free. I thought I might giggle a tad, more in recognition of how easy the task was rather than a celebration of it. But I was so very wrong. I did not feel delight. I felt glued to the chair. I let myself sit there, alone and in my own sea of silence, for as long as it took to feel my hands and feet again. I let the sadness take over, because more than anything I wanted that sadness to leave my body as efficiently as possible. I wanted to be empty. Fully emptied. Fully hollow. Just for that wake, I wanted to feel everything pour out of me so I could feel a complete and perfect void. The journey of divorce had brought me nothing I wanted to keep or hold on to. I wanted it all gone. I wanted to be weightless and float my way out of this deep.
I couldn’t say how much time passed before I stood up from the table and left the garden that afternoon. At some point, my lawyer called to tell me what would happen next. I didn’t listen. I couldn’t accept any more words or thoughts that smelled like divorce…not on this day. I remember she said that I’d held myself so beautifully on the call, that throughout the process I’d carried myself with such courage and class. Hearing that made me want to vomit. (And I did.) My stomach turned at the thought of how I’d handled myself over the last two years. I’d survived, yes, but in no way had it been a beautiful journey. It was awkward and sloppy and painful and full of errors driven by ignorance or anger or desperation or poor guidance from people I thought may know the way. But, to her point, it was now over, and here was this opportunity to move on, to begin again. Upon hearing this, my head collapsed into my hands once more and I sobbed. More emptying.
Because it was Valentine’s Day (a cruel if not comical twist to the day), and because I was in Charleston I got to leave that garden and drive straight to my sons for a special dinner. I scooped them in my arms and felt the pulse of their darling hearts connect to the emptiness within me and it felt like a downpour of love. It nearly knocked me over. So real. So true. So pure. I let it overflow.
We made our way to a neighborhood spot for dinner and we ordered like royals. We were seated in a large booth, far too much room for our party of three, but we spread out our food and our laughter and they let me get in the middle and I let my food get cold while I watched with wander as they gobbled up all of their dinner and some of each other’s and a bit of mine.
On my drive to Charleston the day before, I piece of rogue plywood on the interstate flew in front of my car and took out my front bumper. I don’t want to sound overly dramatic, but y’all this felt like a life-and-death moment. I was on I-20 trying to snake my way through Atlanta rush hour traffic and when I spotted this flying object coming straight toward my windshield I thought to myself, oh shit—THIS IS IT. Once I was able to come to a stop and assess the damage and file a claim and do a little deep breathing I had to accept the fact that I had to keep going. I could not quit or turn around. I had to complete this trip. And so over the next five hours I ran through the highlight reel of how this plywood, had it been not even a foot higher, would have come through my windshield and decapitated me. Or, had it been just a few inches lower, it would have taken out my front tire and I would have caused a massive pileup at the Six Flags exit. I could have died. That is a fact. And for the rest of the drive to Charleston I kept asking myself one question: if this had been it—if you had not survived the journey to divorce and you knew a freak accident fueled by a piece of plywood would take you out—would you have endured all the pain that came with ending your marriage?
Yes.
The answer came with no hesitation. I even tried to argue with myself a little, tell myself I could’ve held on for the hope of living. But actually I couldn’t.
I hated every second of it. Divorce, that is. I hate the turbulence and trauma it caused my children. I hate the anger it created within families. I hate how foreign it now feels to go to a restaurant or a movie or a park or a grocery store (or anywhere, really) and see families together, moms and dads and strollers and soccer practice and the chaos of day-to-day nuclear units. I hate cooking for one. (I literally cannot do it.) I hate being reminded with memory flashbacks those moments when my boys were babies and I was so wrapped up in nurturing and loving them (and so determined to protect their innocence) that I was able to contain the pain from my relationship with their father in a firmly-closed box in my heart and managed to showcase to the outside world nearly all the things a family strives to be. I hate thinking about all the hope I carried for so long. I hate the paperwork and the legalese and the hemorrhaging of money paid to people that are in every way a stranger to my family to guide my family to the place where families go to split and break away. I hate being asked to gamble with what is most precious. I hate my own ignorance. And admittedly, I hate my unending reservoir of hope, because it causes me to believe in other’s people hearts to such a depth that I put my own heart in danger.
I hate divorce.
But I don’t regret it. And I’m grateful for every single thing that came before it.
And after it.
Perhaps that piece of plywood wasn’t a symbol of how my life would end. Perhaps it was a shock to the chest to remind me, in this beautiful and hard-earned new chapter of our lives, how bravely and passionately to live.
Pedal to the metal, let’s go.
x,
lk
Photo: Graffiti on a sidewalk, Wentworth Street, downtown Charleston, February 14, 2022
