I took whatever I could to calm myself that day, and the first thing was giggling about all the tiny attorneys who could barely see over the clerk's bench to check in. They looked like children at an old-fashioned movie ticket window.
The second thing was touching my middle fingers and thumbs together into a loose circle and breathing.
Here is what I wish had happened during the prove-up (which, by the way, is a ridiculous name for the thing):
Judge: What are you doing with your hands?
Me: Meditating, your honor.
Judge: Meditating?
Me: Yes, your honor.
Judge: Ms. Sturgeon, are you aware that this is a court hearing?
Me: Yes, your honor.
Judge: Why are you meditating instead of focusing on the matter at hand?
Me: Excuse me, your honor, but meditating is helping me to focus on the matter at hand.
Judge: How is that?
Me: By managing my emotions.
Judge: You seem very stoic. Can you explain that?
Me: Your honor, I do not care to display or share any part of my emotional life with the petitioner.
Judge: Why not?
Me: Because I do not trust him with it.
I suppose the question right after the decree was, who gets to share my emotional life? I worry that I will never develop the habit of sharing it, and I will fall into the same frustrating close distance that we had for the last few years of the marriage. Shortly after the decree, I read that women tend to blame their partners for a breakup, while men tend to blame themselves. I want to recognize and own my part in all of this. After all, my actions and my future are the only things I can really do anything about. All the rest is noise. Crying into the downpour.
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