The Keys to my Diary: Marina

March 22 I am Divorced. I gave the word a capital "D" because it feels ominous enough to deserve one. The "D" word is a description that I never in a bazillion years would have imagined would apply to me. I suppose going into marriage, no one thinks it will end this way. My dad used to call people in my situation "The Divorced" as if they––actually, I guess I should say WE––comprise a special, undesirable segment of the population. No longer married... Failed marriage... Divorcée... Single again... Unwed... Split up... Estranged... Dissolution of marriage. There just isn't a good way to say it. It all sounds so final. Somehow, it sounds even more permanent than being married. I suppose that's because it is. A couple is much more likely to stay divorced than to stay married. I do have a cousin who remarried his second wife after divorcing her, but I would venture to guess that their situation is more of an exception to the rule. Besides, I don't want to remarry my husband. Well, ex-husband. I just can't get used to calling him that. After putting up with him for eight years, I guess I should be proud of myself for finally cutting the cheater loose. I can't seem to muster the energy to feel any pride or even relief, though. Instead, I just feel sad. Desperately sad. Like a blood pressure cuff is squeezing ever-tighter around my heart. The sensation is like having permanently lost my best friend, even though he wasn't my best friend by a long shot, and he hadn't been for a long time. Hey, I never claimed that my feelings are logical. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be writing in this silly diary. My best friend, Fern, gave it to me. Yep, Fern is her real name. It's not like I have any room to talk with my crazy moniker, Marina. Marina Carpenter. My newly reacquired maiden name is one more thing I have to get used to. I need to learn how to sign it again. It's been a while. Fern has regularly kept journals since she was a pre-teen, so she thought I might find some solace in writing down my thoughts. She gave me this beautiful leather-bound book at my tacky divorce party (a freedom celebration clearly created by women desperate to ensure their newly divorced friends don't drown their sorrows in a giant vat of Ben & Jerry's or numerous bottles of Riesling), but now I don't know what to write in it. I promised her I would try, so here I am trying, but all I can think about is that I now have to check the 'Divorced' box on government forms. And I have to take out the trash. Frank wasn't great about helping out with household chores, but he did always take the trash out. Sigh.