Brandishing of a Middle Finger

The only functional portion of communication was the holding up of a middle finger, a hundred words, and every letter of the alphabet having now passed from lips...and my divorced papers were finally signed!!! The ugliest sights and sounds often happen in divorce proceedings, as if we are somehow predestined to turn into raving lunatics at the split of assets, (or a grill cheese sandwich for that matter), "No, I made the grill cheese sandwich, so I want it'" would absolutely have fallen from my lips...or the jar of creamy smooth peanut butter I would have claimed only I ever ate," he is a big fat liar, he always ate the crunchy kind, only," as the judge rolled eyes, thus exerting a strong pointed finger of shame in my direction. 

If our grown children could have been cut into individual cube size pieces I would have wanted the bigger size cubes. Divorce is one of those matters that just warrants irreversible bashing and mudslinging, as he claims you are the biggest F****** B&&&& going, and he never liked your mother anyway. Now, my divorce had merits all it's own, as it circumvented around domestic violence, in particular, my domesticity, and his violence. He would shower vulgarity like raindrops on a doorstep. He would brandish a vice like grip just to keep me standing still, for, yes, more of his vulgarity. 

I think, for me, it was the harsh reality of all those things (and then some) that was creeping along my skin, cascading down the front of me leaving it's oils on everywhere it touched that had me so easily distracted, reconstructing all the wasted years I had spent in the weeds, not growing, that turned me into an adrenaline crazed " no I want that" type of female at the proceedings. Really, all I wanted was to walk away and out with 'me', and my stuff, nothing else ever mattered at the time.... and, yet, somehow, it still did.

 Vindication became paramount, and it just, kept on flowing from every pore of my being. My denial was as good as any Clinton’s " I did not have sex with Monica,” ever was. This man destroyed my life, and now, he was going to pay for it. I was not giving up any damn jar of peanut butter, or stock account! 

The prick of a tear fell on my hand, just as quickly; I wiped it away, choosing to never again participate in my massacre of emotion. I waited a few minutes, turned back to shuffling of my papers, and walked out of that life door, as my hands turned numb, and I felt the strength ebbing from my body. Questions nibbled at my emotions, and then I closed the coffin to that part of life, and he was gone..............attorneys were paid, and life moved on. I kept the jar of peanut butter ( and the stock accounts, which were actually mine anyway)
He went right, and I turned left....no more ever needed to be spoken.