Last night I found out that my divorce has been finalized.
From what I’ve been told, it was finalized on the 14th of August. Eight days ago.
That means I was married for exactly 13 months and 13 days.
Does that mean that 13 is my number? Or does that mean it’s not my number? I’m not sure. I like the number 13, although I generally proclaim 7 as my favorite of all numbers. But still, I’ve never been one to associate bad luck with the number 13, and I’d rather hate to have it turn into a bad number now.
So, my thoughts? My feelings? My emotions? They are well. They are sky-high, skirting the tippy tops of the tallest trees. They are celebratory thoughts. They are the thoughts that say, okay now, can we just forget this happened and move on so no one has to know you’re 23 and divorced? But still, my mind says, free, free, free, you are free, released, yourself again, belonging to yourself again, you are yours again, finally, at last, I am free, free, free.
The downside of this whole thing? Well, I found out about the divorce being finalized approximately 25 minutes before the start of a Memoral Service for a Soldier who died over the weekend (more on that later). Yesterday was a rollcoaster of emotions.