I specifically didn't have any expectations for what today would be like. I've never been divorced before, and the only time I've seen even a little bit of a divorce hearing, the Judge rightly kicked me out because she said it was "grossly inappropriate" for my STBX-wife to bring her boyfriend to her divorce hearing. This will be the third time she's been through this process, so you'd think she'd have some idea how it was supposed to work; like all narcissists, though, she has trouble incorporating new knowledge into her preconceived notions. This time, she brought her middle son (26) who was also almost kicked out of the courtroom.1 I spent 14 years with this woman, and I should know her inside and out; I knew that she saw me having a lawyer as somehow cheating. I didn't expect her to take that as license to cheat herself, but I suppose I should have. Keep in mind, this wasn't the final divorce hearing. This wasn't even a preliminary divorce hearing. This was just a temporary orders hearing, where the judge expected to ask us questions about our finances so he could crunch a bunch of emotionless numbers and tell me how much spousal support I needed to pay until the actual divorce hearing. I suppose the best way, shortest way to describe what happened this afternoon would be through the lens of popular media. Growing up, and throughout most of my early adult life.2 I was an avid fan of Law and Order. I treated this hearing today as if I was in an episode of such. I answered exactly the questions I was asked, to the fullest extent that they were asked, as briefly and informatively as possible, ending each reponse with "Your Honor." Throughout the 14 years of our marriage, the only courtroom dramas STBX ever watched were all on the general theme of Judge Judy and People's Court. She treated this hearing today as if she were in an episode of such. She took the simple financial questions she was asked -- for example "How much money are you making right now?" -- as an opportunity to go fully into monologue mode, spinning her grand tale of woe and hardship at my hands, using more literary license than Ip Man 2 did with the life of the real Ip Man. There was no such thing as a simple answer to simple questions; every time she was given a chance to speak, she would speak about how horrible I was. How I'd left her with nothing but a few dollars, or maybe it was $800, or maybe, ok, fine, I guess technically it was $1200, but anyway it was almost nothing. How I'd let her mortgage fall behind and her house fall apart and her car sit unrepaired, how she couldn't get into the joint accounts and how I never let her find out about the bills, how I never let her get a job and how I stole all her money and how I was violent and scary and awful and how she was so poor and put upon. Of course, in the middle of all that, she couldn't help herself from quite paradoxically dropping in information about how much better she was doing financially than she ever had when I lived with her. She's simultaneously in between a rock and a hard place, AND ALSO doing better than she's ever done. Shroedinger's Poverty. Thank all that's green and holy that I had a lawyer. I've only been out from under her Crazy Dome for six months now, not long enough to get out of the mental ruts I'd carved for myself during 14 years of marriage. If I hadn't had a lawyer, I would have sat there and let her just steamroll over me, as I always did, and then later -- probably right about now -- would have come up with all the things I should have said, and hated myself for not saying them. My lawyer, bless his heart forged in the fires of the Malevolent Universe, waded straight into the middle of her Bullshit Drama Circus and suplexed her right out of the center ring. He pointed out that 75% of the things she was asking the court to take from me and give to her weren't mentioned in her original filing, and therefore could not legally be considered at this hearing. He objected to her giving testimony in a temporary orders hearing. He insisted on cross-examining her since she had opened herself up to such action by giving testimony. And when the judge agreed that a cross-examination was in fact appropriate in this rather unorthodox situation, he followed up that suplex with a People's Elbow and a couple of solid head kicks, asking her point blank about her inconsistencies and drilling her down to the final answer to the question: "Do you have enough income to pay your monthly bills?". That answer was, finally, a disgruntled "Yes." Then, of course, because she had given testimony, I was allowed to give testimony. I didn't want to, but instead of me trying to tell my side of the story3, he asked me questions. Specific questions, pertinent to a possible temporary spousal support order, that I could answer simply and briefly. The longest answer I had to give was when he asked me why my STBX didn't work during our marriage. That required me to run down the list of her top three excuses, and I couldn't help but add that those excuses also applied to me at various points during the marriage, but I still kept a job. Then she got up to cross-examine me. Woo, that was tough. I was trying so hard not to shake. I had gone the entire hearing without even looking at her, and now not only did I have to look at her, I had to answer questions. She didn't ask any financial questions. She asked questions of the sort that she expected would require me to admit to being an awful, violent, horrible husband. But a light kind of descended upon me from On High, and I realized at exactly the right moment that I was no longer obligated to confirm her story, the Canon of our marriage, that I had always had to uphold to everyone around us no matter how untrue it was, no matter how bad it made me look. So when she asked me to "describe the time I refused to let her leave the house, and choked her out when she tried", I looked her dead in the eye and said "No. That event never happened."4 The facial expression she'd been wearing up to that point -- scared and anxious but with courageous undertones -- shattered like someone had hit a plate with a baseball bat. When I said those words, she stared at me for a good three seconds, wearing a facial expression I'm very familiar with. It was the face that says "I fully intend to murder you with my bare hands when we get home." But I didn't have to go home with her tonight. She wouldn't have the opportunity to take my words out of my hide when we were finally alone together. I just held that gaze until she finished supergluing her mask back together, at which point she declared she had no further questions. That poor judge. He was just a tired old man, and he spent most of the hearing with his hand rubbing his forehead like he had a sinus headache. I imagine he was probably thinking "This shit shoulda been done an hour ago. Jesus Christ. I wanted to get a cup of coffee and a donut before my next hearing, but oh well, fuck that I guess." I desperately wanted to give him only one target for his annoyance -- that being the Bullshit Drama Circus's ringmaster sitting at the table to my right -- so I didn't bother launching into my own sad tale of woe. I figured it wouldn't matter; I could be the bastard lovechild of a threesome between Joseph Stalin, Bloody Mary and Alex Jones, but it wouldn't change my car payment or my rent or my hourly wage. I'll defend and clear my good name when I start my own podcast; this hearing was just supposed to be about numbers. Finally, blessedly, the whole thing was over. The judge said he'd heard everything he needed to -- and probably had ever wanted to -- and he'd be issuing a decision [sometime]. I had to resist the intense urge to hug my lawyer. I plan on baking him a bunch of cookies, or maybe even a cheesecake, when all is said and done. I resisted the equally strong impulse to drown myself in three dozen Panera chocolate chip cookies on my way home, though I did end up smoking more cigarettes in that thirty-minute drive than I have all week put together. Now I just feel like I was run over by a truck. But this part is finished. Gods willing, I should only have to see her one more time ever, during the (hopefully) final hearing in March. And I have a slightly better idea of what to expect. Not that I'm looking forward to it. [Edit: I give up trying to figure out how to superscript my footnote numbers. I'm leaving them as-is. Sorry.] ----- [Footnotes] 1a couple of friends and I had a pool going on who she'd bring this time. I knew it would be Middle Son, because he'd be the only one without a handy excuse as to why he couldn't show. Her showing up alone paid out at 3:1. Her showing up with her new boyfriend was even odds. 2until I moved in with STBX, who immediately took on the task of carefully controlling and curating what media I was allowed to consume. 3because, seriously, where the fuck would I even start? I haven't even gotten around to telling my therapist my side of the story yet! 4It didn't happen. I knew what even she was talking about, because it had been thusly written as such upon the pages of the Canon in the indelible holy ink made from the purified sap of the Crazy Tree. What actually happened was that she tried to take my truck then call me from an undisclosed location so I couldn't go to work and would have to continue whatever fight we were having. When I told her she couldn't do that, she assaulted me and broke my glasses; I had to restrain her to keep her from hitting me more, whereupon she told me that if I didn't let her go, she'd bite me. I hate it when she bites me, so I let her go.