9.27.24 // September 2023

It was September 27th, 2023.

Almost a full week after the first day of fall. My mind was full of autumnal decorations ranging from craving pumpkin-flavored goodies on the shelves at Trader Joe's to planning Sunday afternoon’s apple picking on the mountain slopes in Washington. My mind was plastered with matinee posters promising changing foliage, warm apple drinks, and cozy cuddles under wool blankets. But, the truth was that none of my fall daydreams existed outside of my mind.

Since the first day of fall, I had seen nothing but continued humidity, sunshine, and temperatures hovering in and around the high 80s. Dashed expectations and some versions of lying to myself were starting to feel like a theme. The posters in my mind of what I thought would be or what I thought was, were all but misleading posters for what film was actually showing. The promise of fall had let me down and lied to me, but so was the reason I found myself in Tennessee on September 27th. 

As I walked from the car to the brick and white-columned building, drops of humidity clung to my skin. The sky was overcast, but the humidity was thick, like the accent of the waitress who served my watered-down Americano on the way to my appointment. Climbing the steps towards the room I was scheduled for, I tugged on my dress. It was a polyester chiffon dress that I desperately tried to adjust to sit comfortably, but the black wrap dress was not made for summer temperatures and while the dress hit just above the knee, its clunky material made wearing the dress insufferable in temperatures over 71 degrees. Originally, I purchased the dress when I lived in San Francisco, where high temperatures and humidity were nothing more than distant memories of my teenage years spent in Tennessee. But, the dress I bought to wear during my days in San Francisco made a pilgrimage back to Tennessee with me to close a chapter that started in San Francisco. It was a chapter that needed to end at the appointment I had scheduled months prior and wanted for even longer. An appointment at the Sequatachie County Court House.

At the top of the stairs, I followed the signs for the courtroom. I had never been in a courtroom before. Besides watching copious reruns of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit with my sister and other legal-themed shows, I had no concept of court in real life. I had never been tapped for jury duty, I had never gotten a speeding ticket, yet here I was in a dress clinging to my legs because of the humidity and sweat dripping down my spine because of my nerves. 

Through the light oak doors, I found the courtroom to be a fragment of what I envisioned. Yes, there were pews, a jury stand, and a seat for the judge, but the presentation wasn’t what I expected. My understanding was dashed yet again as no mahogany was to be seen. Instead, I found myself in a room that looked like a church that was neglected for at least three decades. Grey carpet covered the ground and old pews lined half of the room. Slightly discolored green cushions covered the seats as light from outside streamed through two smaller windows that were smudged with dust.

There were a few groups of people scattered throughout the pews. I was by far the youngest, or maybe it just seemed that way because I was the only one who dressed up. Most of the women wore jeans or some form of spandex. The men wore Wranglers, classic color and classic cut. However, the lawyers who gathered in the front of the room to the left of the judge’s bench were a version of dressed up. But, like the room we were in, the lawyer’s clothing all seemed tired, and the bags under most of the lawyer's eyes told stories of late-night litigation reports and paperwork. 

I didn’t have a lawyer. So, seeing their tired eyes made me nervous as I found my way towards the front of the pews. I was representing myself. I had done the paperwork. “Did I miss something?” I thought to myself. Maybe I didn’t stay up late enough reading and re-reading the words in the document. But I knew it was too late to ask that question now.

My nerves hummed as I sat and waited. I watched the twittering of the lawyers and listened to the muted drawls of the other folks slotted for the court roster that morning. September 27th. 

It wasn’t long before the doors in the back of the room shut, and the judge walked in. The judge, a woman in her mid-40s with perfectly coiffed hair, found her way to the bench. She had a bright look, and the color of her teeth matched the clear whites of her eyes. She had an air of power about her, but not in an intimidating way. If anything, she exuded confidence. My nerves started to settle that is until she started to speak.

Court jargon is like a menu in a foreign country- you know you want a particular dish, but you have no idea what to say to get that dish. You also want to be polite and culturally considerate, but you have no idea the words you’re supposed to use. I felt my knee start to jiggle and my foot bounce as I tried to dial in my attention. First, they called for any uncontested cases with representation. I was uncontested without representation. I watched as each lawyer approached the bench with various cases and I waited as patiently as I could. In my mind, I was flipping through the paperwork, poking holes in any potential problem areas, and red-lining my case as if I was my own prosecution.

Thankfully, my thoughts were interrupted as my case was called by the judge, “Fieser vs. [redacted].” A smile spread across my lips, but my nerves kept that smile from ever reaching my eyes. Would the judge do the redlining I had just marked up in my mind? I slowly approached the front of the room and lined up behind the podium. Being sworn in is a surreal feeling, but I promised to tell the truth, and the judge started to flip through my paperwork. 

With each turning page, minutes felt like mountains I had to climb while I waited for her to say something. Finally, she looked up from the documents and asked me a few questions:

“Elizabeth, in this divorce, is there anything of [redacted]’s that you want?”

The question completely caught me off guard. I was struck by the bluntness. So, the question gave me pause.

In my mind, I screamed…

“The last few years of my life back, the truth, the dignity for him to walk away the minute before he started to think about infidelity and adultery as a reasonable way to act. I want to remove the names and their stories that have been seared into my mind: Graylin, Cat, Lexa, Julia, Camillia, Eva, Tova, Jess, Dom, Maria, Emma, Naomi, Dominique, Laura, and Kara. I want to go back in time and save myself from spending time with Camilla on her family's farm in Italy, convinced she was my friend. I want to go back and trust the instincts I had about Kara and block her when she first slid into my DMs, saying, ‘We are kindred spirits.’ I want all of the women of the world to know the truth about him. For him to wear a scarlet letter marking him for his infidelity, dishonesty, emotional abuse, and narcissism. I want to be free of the heavy weight of trauma, the doubts, and the insecurity I now harbor in my heart and have to tend to regularly. I want dignity and respect.”

But I silenced the screams in my mind and answered, “No.” 

I knew that it took me longer than it should have to get out of the relationship vortex that the state called my marriage. I wasn’t going to challenge the state or him by daring to ask for anything. I had lost too many times to him already, and I didn’t have it in me to demand my worth. After all, he showed me exactly what he thought my worth was when he started lying to me before we had legally gotten married and slept with many women after.

Even the concept of “marriage” felt like a laughable term for whatever “relationship” we had. We didn’t have a wedding, we were married online, so I could stay and support him in his “dream job,” and we even tried an open relationship. But weddings, marriage, open relationships, they all demand truth as their foundation and that was something he was never capable of giving me. Not really, not fully. If I couldn’t get honesty when I was with him, I knew trying to fight for anything of “his” or even things that could be considered rightfully “mine” would be a cost to my time and my heart.

I didn’t have it in me. 

After my response, the judge asked one final question, “are you asking that I grant you a divorce?” 

The smile finally reached my eyes. “Yes, please,” I whispered into the microphone. 

The judge took a pause, and her bright eyes scanned me with a mix of kindness and a look of knowing lined with pity. She knew where I was mentally, and the right side of her lips arched up in a sad but understanding way. 

“Then, by the Sequatchie Country Court,  I’ll grant you the divorce.”

Picking up her pen, she scribbled the signature that set me free from the two years of the matinee posters in my mind that didn’t match the movie that was playing in front of my eyes. Just like the fall weather that was supposed to arrive, my now ex-husband was nothing like what he presented. I knew that no matter how much I tried, he would never change, never transition like the seasons, at least not in any lifetime that I was willing to give.

Walking out of the courthouse, my nervous system relaxed. My adrenaline subsided and my eyes welled. A tear escaped my eye, leaving a charcoal streak of black mascara on my flushed cheek. I felt release, and I felt freedom. I felt all of it. I was dizzy with a release that I didn’t know how badly I needed. I had been holding my breath and as I took a deep breath of the sweet Tennessee air, I felt a heady rush of oxygen and calm resolute. I could move into the fall of my life, I could transition forward, and I could finally let this chapter of my life die.

My face turned to the sun in front of the brick courthouse, and I let myself sink into a dream of change while holding tightly to the court documents. The oak tree that danced in the breeze above my head, as if greeted by my silent celebration, shook one just barely yellow leaf off the branch crossing my pathway. It was fall. The first day of fall in 2023 was September 27th.