When what I believe to be the final divorce papers arrived for my signature this summer, I didn't feel exaltation.

I thought, when this happened, that it would be an occasion of skipping-and-hopping-delight — something like what it was like to finally get Jake's name off the bank account, only exponentially more so. Instead, I was kind of miserable.

Since I am in this new relationship — this relationship that's turning out to really mean something — I thought putting this final, legal closure on things would mean an extra little boost of freedom and happiness and celebration. Instead, it just felt like failure.

I know, in that logical part of myself, that I didn't fail, that it is not my fault, that this doesn't necessarily mean that I am incapable of making a relationship work, that this doesn't mean all relationships are inevitably doomed, but something about holding those papers in my hands sure makes it feel that way.

It's hard not to take this ending and feel that it might mean everything: That nothing will ever work out. That there is no such thing as real compatibility. That there is no such thing as forever. That I won't ever get more than a couple of years. That what I have now — this wonderful and perfect thing — will also drift into pieces until it becomes merely stilted conversation and paperwork.

I had thought, had hoped, signing these final papers would be liberating. That it would be exciting. That I would be joyful. But it's just sad, and I am just unhappy. 

Getting a settlement is handy. Since Jake owns a company, since the company is lucrative, since we were married for 10 years, and since he's not an asshole, mine is a decent one. More than decent, really. Because giving me what we determined is "my share" all at once would effectively close his company down, our arrangement is spread over the next five years.

This means that I can afford to stay in San Francisco. This means that I have some money to invest against the day the payments stop. This means I don't have to panic about money for the next little bit.

This also means that he and I are tied for the next five years.

I didn't want any money from him when we split. It felt wrong, somehow. It felt icky. I didn't want the tie. I'm rational enough to take it, but we're still in a relationship this way. This necessitates communication. There's a monthly reminder. It's a connection I don't like having.

Sometimes I wonder if the complete and absolute freedom would be worth it. But this money means that I am having a far, far, far easier time of it than other women in the same situation. With all I have to worry about, paying my bills is not, for the moment, one of them. So I feel enormously guilty for the bad feelings I have.

How do I not feel guilty for resenting this? How do I accept this help while hating the ties it makes and keeps?

I always liked my maiden name. It's sassy. It's memorable. It's fun to say and festive to spell. Jake's last name, not so sassy. Not so festive. Kind of an old-lady-teacher name, actually. Not horrible, just ... clumsy. I wasn't a fan. But I got married at 22 and didn't care back then.

Now that we're divorcing, I'm taking my name back. And no other part of this divorce process has been as tedious.

This in-between stage I'm in, it's confusing. We're not legally divorced yet, so my name isn't legally changed. I use my maiden name for writing, my Web site, my business cards — everywhere I can get away with it. But my bank account, my ID — they're all still under my married name. My colleagues and students know me as my maiden name, but I am paid under my married name. Human Resources is constantly perplexed.

I get confused, sometimes, trying to remember who knows me as what. I don't know which name to cite at the club door or the vet's office. I had to explain on all my rental applications that I'm legally one name, but to ask for a different one when verifying my employment. When Mike flew me out for a wedding, he had to get my ticket under my married name, which felt vaguely uncomfortable and definitely strange.

I carry a list of all the institutions and publications and departments I will have to contact and fax and possibly visit in person to change my name once I am legally able to do so. There are a lot of them, but finally closing this process will be fabulous.

Meanwhile, I have another couple of months to live in this strange little half-state.