Last week, I asked a friend if she could watch my son while I was at the courthouse finalizing my divorce.

“Sure,” she said. “But, didn’t you get divorced a year ago?”

“I filed for divorce a year ago, but it’s taken the court over a year to catch up to where I am emotionally.”

“Right,” she smiled, probably having no clue to what I was babbling about.

“How long do you need?”

“I hear it’s pretty quick, so I’m guessing an hour or so should do it.”

If this were a horror movie, now would be the time the audience stats screaming to the heroine, “You are such an idiot! Don’t do it! Turn around, turn around!”

Unfortunately for me, I don’t have an audience to tell me when I’m being stupid, until it’s too late. Even more unfortunate is that even though I have written a Courthouse Part I and Courthouse Part II column, I conveniently forgot that when it came time for my Courthouse III experience.

I was falsely reassured that my three phone calls to the courthouse to verify that I had all of the paperwork I needed to get divorced, and the fact that although they told me only I needed to be there, both Jason and I were taking the day off to ensure that we would indeed become divorced.

What I failed to remember is that every time I go to the courthouse, what I think is going to happen doesn’t happen and whatever time I think I am going to spend there becomes multiplied by five.

This is when the collective memory of the audience would have come in handy.

On the eve of the date, several friends called to ask if I was sad.

“No, I replied. “I’m actually more relieved to finally have it over. I may get sad later, but I’m not feeling it now.”

The next morning I amazed myself by actually showing up on time for my hearing but was slightly derailed when I saw about 50 other people waiting to get into the courtroom.

The derailment turned to dread when I saw about 60 names on the “dissolution of marriage” sheet and my name on the bottom of the “other” list.

“Fuck!” I said to myself. “I’m not only not getting divorced today, I’m going to have to sit here for three hours until I find out why.”

It was worse than that. I sat there for four hours watching countless couples approach the bench, state their names and two minutes later be told, “You’re divorced.”

I seethed with envy, and then merely seethed as a courtroom facilitator told us we had the wrong forms, although another court facilitator was the one that gave me, and helped me fill out, the said form.

When she told me we would have to go home to print the form, I bit my tongue, but when she said we needed a signature that we didn’t have, but the person wasn’t in that day, so we’d have to come back again, I barked, “Why would someone have told me three times that I had every thing I needed when I clearly don’t?”

“I don’t know," she smiled and then crept away from the crazy lady who was clearly about to lose it.

I saw no reason to continue torturing myself by watching other couples earn their freedom for two more hours, so I decided to try to utilize my time while I was there getting the forms and signatures I could get.

As I bustled from office to office and pled pathetic to get what I needed, Jason calmly sat there as if he was enjoying the show and had nothing but time on his hands. This caused me to seethe all the more.

Not only was his passivity a huge reminder to why we were getting divorced, but in all fairness, I had felt the backlash brewing for a while. I had even named it to my friend Jill.

“There’s no way our divorce can continue to go this smoothly, with everyone seemingly happier and better off from it. There will be some serious backlash at some point.”

But, I had assumed the kids would start acting out or start showing signs of distress or that Jason would finally reveal some of his anger at me. I didn’t think I would be the one to have the backlash, seeing as I had gone through my denial, rage and grief stages repeatedly and was “over” it.

But if anything is going to set me in a rage, it’s spending the day at the courthouse.

I ignored all of Jason’s attempts at making the horrendous day all right, and I resented his personal questions about my life and any attempt at friendly conversation.

I wanted to get divorced, and I wanted to go home. And when I couldn’t get what I wanted, I just wanted to get the hell out of there so I could scream obscenities in private.

We (somewhat) made it through the day and went to our separate homes.

For a few days, I ignored his phone calls with questions that I knew he knew the answer of and kept the conversation on transition days to a minimal.

Finally, he broke and said, “Are you going to talk to me or what?”

I said, “No, I don’t feel like being your counselor or your friend anymore because it reminds me of all of the years you weren’t there for me, so I don’t feel like being there for you.”

This conversation escalated a few times over the course of the week, sometimes with positive revelations and sometimes with me screaming, “Fuck you!” and hanging up on him.

I guess I’m not “over” it.

“But, I thought you guys were really close. I’ve always envied your friendship,” a friend admitted.

“Yeah, we were,” I said. “And, I am sure we will be friendly again, but I’m also sure I’ll be pissed at him again, too.”

She nodded, knowing the grief cycle all too well. Just as I feel firmly planted in one phase, I move to another phase. The rub being, I have no control over any of the phases.

Just as I clearly don’t seem to have any control in actually becoming divorced.

Corbin Lewars (www.corbinlewars.com) is the founder of Reality Mom (www.realitymomzine.blogspot.com), author of "Creating a Life" (Catalyst Book Press, 2010) and the sexy mommy-lit book "Swings" (out for submission). She lives in Ballard with her two children.