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Every time “Heidi” (my new nickname) for my young inexperienced attorney tries to speak or interrupt or argue a point AFM runs over her like a popped pimple.

The Judge, with his chin in both hands, is gazing  intently at the AFM’S chest, legs?  He looks like- oh, I don’t know- in love?  “Judge, this poor man cannot possibly pay any bills,” AMF says, with a tilt of her head and a big, sad, sigh. AFM is an obvious college graduate.  I see no ring on her finger.  She didn’t need it-she oozed confidence.  I wish I could say the same for myself. I could feel my blood boil and I hate, hate, hate, that I look at her enviously.

“We must sell the house immedately!” stomped the AFM.

WHAT !  NOW THIS IS CRAZY.  Sell the house?  Where will I live?  I have no skills.  I have no education. I start to babble in a choked voice when Heidi pinches my elbow. I look down at her she raises her eyebrows trying to convey maxium “shush” and she shakes her head gently and mouth’s the word “NO”.

This is irrational.  I have  to say something.  I feel punctured.  The AFM glares at me as if I had worn the wrong perfume.  I’m just like “okaaaaay…” to the second pinch.  My life has disappeared.  Fear is my new life and now is a bad attorney with bad advice going to make this worse?

SLAM

The Judge HAD found a gavel and the courtroom went silent.

The Judge spoke. “You,” looking directly at me, as I stood between both attorneys. I stare back at the Judge in dumb confusion.  “You realize this is a huge mistake.  Financially it will ruin you.”

The three of us stood there stiff and silent for endless minutes.  The Judge kind of drew himself up, took a deep breath and said, “In case you didn’t hear me.  I will say it again.  It seems to me after 39 years of marriage it would be a lot easier just to stay together then to face what is ahead of you.  You are facing financial ruin.  Why can’t you work this out?  Do you want this divorce?”

NO! NO! NO! NO!  I want to scream, but now Heidi has grasped my arm untill it hurts. With mental telepathy I’m trying to get the Judge to hear me.  Judge, listen, REALLY? I want to save my husband. Oh, please.  I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs.   I wanted to throw my hands up and look toward the ceiling searching for someone to help me.

I had never seen a  Judge before.  In my mind he would wear a flowing black robe and hold a gavel.  Instead, he wears a suit and a troubled look.   We (the Judge, me and my new young attorney are waiting for the “Attorney for Men.” AFM.  She is late.

Us and the entire courtroom (who are these people in the bleachers?) can hear the “Attorney for Men” coming down the hall.  How?  The tap-tap-tap on the marble courtroom floor is escalating like a fast-moving Gazelle being chased by a Cheetah.  It is the clatter that only stiletto heels can make.

Everyone has turned towards the huge double door entry to the courtroom.  I hold my breath.  I feel as if I am watching a Super Bowl TV commercial-in slow motion.  Tan long legs, strapped in six-inch heels appear first in the doorway.  Followed by a thigh peeking through a slit in a cream color pencil skirt.  A sheer long sleeved blouse, teenage long hair bounces behind her like it had never seen a bad hair day and dares you to think it had.

I look at the Judge.  Who is looking at her.  I look at the people in the bleachers. Who are also looking at her.  I look at my attorney.  Out of the blue her hair is now in tight Heidi braids.  A white peasant top with puffy sleeves.  A dirndl skirt with suspenders, bare feet, and, I swear she is holding a can of milk next to the cow behind her.

Well, that’s it.  I’m dead.

Ms. Melon cocked her head and with a big sigh says, “Because we are in a recession, Dear.  In a divorce you will end up at a trial where the Judge does not know either of you.  He will have you sell the house to pay off debt.  It is as simple as that.”

She pauses for just a moment.  “You are in more trouble than you think if your husband is involved with bad people taking drugs and has a gun.  I think worrying about your house is the last thing you should be thinking of.  Get an attorney today. NOW.  Do not waste another minute here.”

Ms. Melon rose to her feet.  She pulled out a drawer shoveled through a mess of clutter and drew out a card.  “Here is an attorney. Go now!  You are in trouble!  The same words the Police Officer had said.  “First men they leave emotional and then they leave physical.  Your husband is out of control in his behavior going to need a restraining and financial order.  You need it NOW.  RUN, RUN before closing today and get this attorney now.”

Suddenly I had whole new respect for this lady.  She did hear me. And now she was visibly upset, and she was right!  All I had thought about was the house.

“It is 4:05 they close at 5p.m.” Ms. Melon wrote and spoke the address down. “I’ m rushing you out of here because it is late afternoon and I know they close at exactly 5p.m.  Go!  Go!  Go!

I went back to the car and looked at the card.  Confused, horrified and desperate I drove right to the office address.  It was 4:2Opm.

This attorney office was nothing like Tax attorney Richard’s office. High rise, expensive part of town.  Five Attorney names on the door.  I open the door to a waiting area rich with decor, solid wood floors, picture window view of the city, plants, mirrors, vibrant wall art.

My next visit on this same day was with Ms. Melon aka ‘Unmarried Counselor’. If you don’t need a dedicated full time physical office, but still want to establish a highly professional business presence.  A Premier Virtual Office could be the right solution for you.  Said the sign on the front door.

The inside was a large waiting area. Diverse with receptionist’s manning phones. “Mrs. Jillie please follow me to suite 110.  My name is Jennifer.”  Jennifer knocked on the door.  And we both heard a voice yell. “Be there in a minute!”  Jennifer nodded at me and walked away.  Much later than a minute a voice shouted, “Come in.”

The unmarried Counselor had an economy size office inside the King size building.  “Hello.  Yes I am Ms. Melon and I need to finish this call.” She raised her first finger on her right hand to her lips.  Whoever she was talking to was doing all the listening because Ms. Melon was upset and compaining about the receptionists.

She scared me a little.  She was very forward and aggressive in her tone and movements.  She started to complain  louder about the receptionist and I noticed her dull, widly, curly hair was coming undone from its Bun.  She had on a blouse that reminded me of an artist smock-filled with every color in the rainbow in small blocks all over the fabric.  Her long navy-blue Maxi skirt with slits grazed the top of the Orange Crocs on her feet.

She waved at me to take the chair.  A folding metal chair. Her office so tiny I didn’t want to scoot my chair back far for fear of hitting the wall.   She finally settled down and got off  the phone.  She picked up a file. “Jillie Aldridge.” That’s you correct.” “Yes.  You were  referred to me from  Don the leader of the Divorce Recovery group at the Union Gospel Church.”

“What is your story, Jillie?”  Blunt and to the point. Okay. I went ahead with the same story I had told the drug counselor and that I wanted to keep my house.

Ms. Melon said that I was a strong woman who positively radiates energy. (Wow! We had known each other now all of maybe six minutes?) She continued, “Bet you can quess my answer, even in the short time we’ve been acquainted.” “Guess your answer?” I shrugged.

Ms. Melon thought about this for a moment, screwing up her face. “Well dear, be prepare to lose your house in foreclosure or bankruptcy.”

“NO.” I slowly shook my head.  I already did not like her.  She was too scattered and she obiously didn’t hear a word I said. “Well yes, I am sure your house is under water like everyone else in this great depression?”  “As I said, No, actually I have equity.”  “You do?” Ms. Melon narrowed her eyes at me.

“Yes,!” I said with enthusiasm. “We bought it 15 years ago and have acreag and in 2006 it was worth a lot of money.  I know the value has gone down with the great recession, but I cannot lose it. It is the only retirement I have.”

“Well, you will.  So just start to get used to the idea.” She said dismissively. In as calm a voice as possible, I answered, “Why does everyone say that to me.”

I say nothing for a moment, remembering.  “Garrett, when our little girl heard we weren’t going to see their children anymore I found in her bedroom where she had pinned up their pictures.  She had drawn and X through each face.”

I sunk back in my chair my head dropped to my neck and suddenly it was like when you get damn floaters in your eyes and you spend the next hour in irritation.  The reality of it all was hitting me so hard I could not even lift my head.

I stammered. “We never even had a six pack of beer in the fridge.'”You had a barn didn’t you.”  Before I could answer Garrett, he jumped in with another question. “The barn, the storage upstairs a lot of hiding places I bet.”  I lifted my head and stared at this total stranger.  “Did you take out the garbage,” Garrett said.  “No, as a general rule Nick did, but so what?”  Garrett was silent.

I looked away for a moment. “Oh, gawd Garrett.” I say in my all-in-a-days-idiot voice.  “I hadn’t looked at it like that.  Nick was no longer hiding pot; he was hiding alcohol too?”  “I think it is too late for Nick.”  Garrett sighed. “With alcohol and drug problems.  From how you have described his behavior; he is past the point of no return.”  “Why would Nick with education be so dumb as to take drugs?” I asked.

Garrett frowned.  He shook his head and then looked up. “Because .  They don’t think they will be hooked.  Also, Jillie long-term, heavy pot smoking can leave lingering effects. At this stage when addicts talk about their drug of choice, it’s almost mystical.  Only an addict can help themselves.  Everyone else is their pawn.”

With Nicks Gout, High Blood pressure, and all the medical problems. Garrett made me realize that there was nothing me or my daughter could do to physically and mentally help him.  He had made his choice to do heavy drugs and it was very clear that I needed to save myself and say goodbye to Nick.

“Garrett can you show me that poster again?”

 

Garrett walked back-in and handed me the coffee and then set his coffee up on the edge of the desk.  “He smokes pot.” I blurted out.  Garrett, said nothing but the wrinkles in his forehead and the way he looked at me I knew he heard me.  “And every time I found a bag of weed, he promised me it was his last.” And then in a moment of faultless epiphany, I realize this stranger was the first person I had ever told.  Something inside of me realized just then and now how hard his pot smoking had influenced our lives.

“Go on,” said Garrett.  “I remember when our daughter was five.  I had won the election as chairperson of the pre-school board.  I could hardly wait to come home and tell him, but he never heard me.  He was so busy yelling at me that our best friend and his wife and kids that we saw at least once a week- were no longer going to come over to our house.   And that we were no longer welcome to come over to their house because of your hang-up about Pot. You lecture everyone and now we have lost our best friends.”

I told him that Cathy does not smoke.  Just Mike and she hates it as much as me.  My husband just said, “Yeah, well Mike is the man of the family and he has cut all ties with us because your are influencing Cathy.”

“I was really, really angry then and shouted back that we have small children. Are you kidding me! You’re not a fucking teenager anymore grow up Nick.”

“And oh, you  know, Garrett.  When I got angry he would beg for forgiveness because he was afraid that I would leave him.”

We stayed up all night and Nick agreed.  He had to get his health back. And he did.  He joined a Karate class and it was not much longer than he quit cigarettes and no more Pot.  We never did see Cathy and Mike again.

Days later I sat in the waiting room of the Medical Clinic waiting to meet for the first time a Substance Abuse Counselor.  When they called my name a nurse led me down a hall and into an office.  “He will be right with you,” she said, closing the door.   Just a second later a middle-aged, slim man with wire-rim glasses and rootbeer color hair that was thinning on top came through the door.

“Hi Jillie, I’m Garrett.  What is happening with you? We sat in chairs across from each other with his desk in between us.  He wore a short sleeve light blue polo shirt that showed a bulge of muscles with black slacks.  He looked athletic and alert.

I liked that.  I enjoy Yoga and  Pilates.  I know how it is very calming, so I felt comfortable talking to him…at first.  I told him how shocked I was by the abandonment.  How hurt and ashamed I was for our daughter .  What the Police had to say and how I could not lose the house.

Garrett handed me the box of tissues on his desk.  While I was wiping away my tears he stood up and went over to the wall.  He pointed to a large framed poster.  ‘This Jillie is the signs of alcoholism.  It is broken down into all the distinct stages.”  I shook my head. “No, and a laugh that barely escaped my lips.  “No, no, my husband is not an alcoholic.”

“Okay,” he said and sat back in his chair. “The reason I’m here is…” ‘It’s ok Jillie. I’m here to help you.”  I look up at him.  The framed picture on his desk of a shaggy sheep dog standing in the middle of a big yard.  I ask him about the dog.  Then he shows me a picture of his husband.  Then we both sat in our respective chairs and were silent.

We both looked at each other at the same time.  He grinned. I curled my lips into my teeth trying desperately to stop the tears.  “Would you like a cup of coffee, Jillie.”   I nodded yes.  “Cream and sugar.” “Just black, please.”  He left the room and closed the door.  I stood up and stretched.  My body is so stiff and sore.  My life has exploded.  I’m a private person, everything about this is so embarrassing and excruciating.  I had never seen a therapist before and I never wanted too, but now more for my dauther, than me, I cannot let her down as her father did.

After several Divorce Recovery meetings in the Church.  Nancy became my new friend.  Kindhearted and sad like all of us, but Nancy possesses a rare balance of introspection and extraversion.

She laughs and tells me the only reason is because of time.  She also had her own Horror story.

Her husband had a six-month affair with her teenage daughter’s best friend (the same age as their daughter).  He is now in Jail.  The worst part- He was a Police Officer.

Nancy and I were walking out of our Divorce Recovery meeting heading to our cars in the Church parking lot when she suddenly stopped.

“Jillie,” she said, touching my arm. “Listen, do you have an Americn Express card.”  “Yes.” “Great, she nods her head and then she looked up and smiled.  “Do this tomorrow. Buy as many $100 gift cards as you can.”

“What? Buy gift cards, Nancy?”  “Yes, because Jillie, your husband Nick will cancel all your credit cards.  This will keep you alive with some money.”  I hugged her so hard I think I could have broken her.  “Oh my God, I would never have thought of that.  Thank you so much.”

“Also,” Nancy said as she dug deep into her purse.  “I want you to take this.” She handed me a small wooden box with a gold clasp.

“This is your Worry Box.”  “Worry Box?”  “Yes.  Open it.”

Inside was a deck of 3×5 blank index card.  I look up at Nancy puzzled.

Nancy pulled a pen out of her purse.  Then she took an index card from the box.

”It gets rougher,” she said. “You will need a place to put all your worries. Start each sentence with–she started to write on the card.

“Dear Worry Box, please take all my Worries away.”  Then date it and write today’s Worry.

“You will look back someday and be immensely proud of what you have accomplished by giving your Worries away.  It will help to keep you resilient.”

This time the tears fell.  “Nancy, I am almost embarrassed by how hungry I am for help.”

She laughed.

“At least, Nancy I have tissues.  I’ve learned to carry these daily.

Thank you so much Nancy.  Your advice and friendship you don’t know how much it means to me.”

 

Don led me down the hall to room 101 where the door was wide open.  Every chair occupied.  Immediately,  I wanted  to turn around and run.  Don went to the front of the table with me following him.  Everyone stopped talking and looked at us.  “Everyone this is Sandy.”  I nodded.  Everyone said in unison. “Welcome.”

“Sandy.”  Don said, “Come over here there is a seat.”  I sat down, and he whispered in my ear. “We are going to go around the room, and everyone has a chance to talk or not.  And since this is your first visit no pressure okay.”

On the other side of me was a brown eyed young woman who also whispered in my ear, “We will help you here.  Just remember, ‘Feeling is Healing.”  I sat that first night numbly.  Weeks later I started to talk like a dying solider trying to spit out his last words before death.  Wait, It gets worse.  In my desperation Divorce Recovery gave me a wonderful feeling to walk into the room and be recognized, acknowledge and helped.

The whole experience felt like to me as if the room was a giant bird’s nest.  All i had to do was sit in the middle of the nest.  Everyone in the room would spread their wings around and across me until I was warm and safe.  There was a lot of hugging and tears.  And a place to go on holidays  and such  kind people in my group.

They would share their stories and i began to realize how lucky I really was in my life.  One night I was no longer the longest married, divorced person in the group.  April came in.  She was 80 years old.  And her husband had run off with a 65 year old and was draining their bank account.  We all tried hard to comfort here.  She kept saying over and over, “How do you switch pilots on final approach?”

Incredibly there was a man whose wife had been robbing banks not with a mask and gun but as an accountant.  Story after story left me with th awakening of a word I never thought about.  Don said, “Everything in your life could be taken from you except one thing.  Your freedom to choose how you will respond to a situation.”

They say the exhaustion from divorce is like a full-time job

Two days later I found a Church that sponsors “Divorce Recovery” classes.  Today will be my first meeting.  A long-paved winding driveway, besides a beautifully manicured lawn, and I find a parking spot in the back of the Church.  I was told when I enter the Church from the parking lot to go downstairs to the basement.  I am to look for room 101.

I knock.  No one answers. I grab the doorknob and cautiously push the door open.  ‘Hello,” I say as I peek my head inside and look around.  I look at my watch the Divorce Recovery meeting would start tonight at 7p.m.  Oh, I am 15 minutes early.  I walk inside.  The room is vast and bright.  Right in the middle sits a humongous round table surrounded by 20 chairs.  One wall has rows of tall windows that brought in the light and a view of the parking lot.

I went back out and into the hall towards the long racked green leather sofa shoved against the wall.  I slumped back into the couch.  I sit and wait.  I try to get my neck and tight shoulders to relax. I read once pretend someone just pulled your hair.  A good trick it feels better, but I look like hell.  I feel like shit. I have been crying now for eight days straight.  The worst is in the morning and going to bed at night.

I look at the pasture that desperately needs mowing.  How do you run a lawn tractor?  I don’t know.  That was Nick’s job, like taking out the garbage.  As i sit waiting, I thought of an old saying my Mother used to say about the three greatest living hells: To be in bed and sleep not; to want the one who comes not; and to try to please and please not.   The smell in the basement of the Church reminds me of something, what was it?  Oh…suddenly that smell of ammonia brought me right back to the early 1960’s and elementary school.

Those early cold mornings.  My brown and white saddle shoes feeling heavy on my feet.  My bare cold legs.  The crisp itchy tulle slip that made my skirt poof out like and open umbrella.  My pink pullover sweater my mother had knit. I had straight cut bangs an inch above my eybrows.  My hair pulled back so tight in a ponytail I could barely open my eyes.

It was Parent night at the school.  The teacher had taken my parents over to the bulletin board on the wall.  All of the classroom student’s names were on it. Being that my last name ended with a Z my name was always at the very bottom. On the bulletin board each student had a Gold Star for every accomplishment behind their name.  By the time my parents got down the alphabet to see my name you could hear all the air getting sucked out of the room from my Mother’s gasp.

I had no Gold Star.  Not even a half of one.  My father turned around and slapped me across the face so hard I dropped to my knees.  My face inches from the floor where my nose inhaled that awful Ammonia smell.  “You idiot.” he cried out. He yanked me up with my arm and we immediately left school.  The Carnival I had looked so forward too.

The following morning and for several thereafter, my father would come home from work and sit with me at the kitchen table going over my studies. As i remember from that was his large heavy hand wrapped around mine in a vice grip, pinching and hurting me.  He would lead the pencil in my hand tracing the alphabet with me or writing large numbers in my Big Chief writing tablet going over the multiplication tables.

And that is what happened. I have thought about this long and hard enough to know that this was a truly defining moment in my life because…I didn’t give a shit anymore.  I was such a small little person, but I knew “I was an idiot nothing could change that.

‘Hello.”

Deep in thought I push the memories aside, burying them under my file of ancient history. I jerk and jump up.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” said a skinny elderly man.  He reached for my hand and he shook it with a light touch.  ‘I’m Don.  Welcome to Divorce Recovery.  The group you never wanted to join.  He had a halfhearted grin. He wore a baseball cap, plaid shirt and blue jeans. “Fellow me.”

‘Your name is Sandy right?”  I nodded.  I know I lied. But I don’t know these people and I’m too embarrassd to tell them my real name.