Money, the image that money brings, meant a lot to Jake. I couldn't get a bookshelf or a pair of shoes without checking in first - I would have gotten a look, a comment, a day of silence. A plane ticket to see a friend for the weekend, that was out of the question. We didn't have the money to spend it recklessly.

The thing was, we did have the money. And when Jake wanted something, he would get it. He was an impulse furniture buyer. He bought a $300 humidor on whim.

He thought that, because he made more than I did, financial decisions should be his. He was uncomfortable with feeling this way, he tried to pretend he didn't, but he did.

I have mixed feelings about money. If there's not a cushion in my bank account, I get nervous. My cat might need surgery again. My car might fall apart. I want to be prepared. And, for the most part, I don't spend a lot. I don't like shopping. I don't have expensive taste in anything.

But I want to see my friends, and I'm willing to throw down for a plane ticket to do so. If I have the freedom and ability to travel, I want to do so — I might not be able to later. If that means carrying some debt around for a couple of months, so be it. I don't want to be irresponsible, but I also don't want to give everything up. So I try to balance.

I definitely have less money now that I'm divorcing. I have to watch things, especially since I have to guard against the day my settlement payments stop. But I love that I can take a class if I want to and not have to justify it to anyone. I can go on vacation. I can get a bookshelf.

I used to wonder about couples that had been together for years but still kept separate bank accounts. Now, I see the appeal. I don't know how willing I'd be to get back into shared finances. This way, I know exactly where everything is, and my choices about what to do with what I have are mine alone.

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.

Initially, moving in together with Jake wasn't as scary as opening a joint bank account. There's something so final and so serious about combining finances. It's like the point of no return.

When Jake moved out, I opened my own account. We all but emptied the joint account, but at Jake's request, we left it open. His credit card bills and such were paid through it, and he wanted it open "for just a few months" so that he could get his finances in order. This seemed fair.

Those few months dragged on. And on. Jake, it turns out, doesn't take care of things that are uncomfortable with much expediency. Every time I logged on to the online banking site, there that account was, looking me right in the eyeball, reminding me that, regardless of how I felt and how I acted, I wasn't single yet.

Like everything else paperwork-related in this process, it took him feeling his integrity was offended before action was taken. A few days ago, I logged in, and the joint account had been closed.

I felt almost embarrassed at my absolutely joyful gut reaction — complete with bouncing and hand clapping. I hadn't realized how much it would mean to see the black and white proof that I was alone, disconnected, unbound.

There are still ends to tie — we still have to file joint taxes this year — but my immediate financial ties have all been severed. Financially, I'm alone. I am single.

I didn’t think I’d be one of those ex-wives who had to fight for financial follow through.

Jake has always insisted that I am entitled to support: We were we married for 10 years, and “it’s just right.” In many ways, I am loathe to take his money, but I’m also a public school teacher paying off graduate school.

After his initial declaration, it took almost nine months to come up with any kind of plan. He doesn’t refuse, he just does nothing, and, being that he’s living in China, he’s hard to pin down. In our infrequent discussions, there is much hemming and hawing and promises to take care of things soon. Meanwhile, I’m in California, watching my meager savings shrink as I pay for divorce paperwork, for the movers to take away his belongings, for the various expenses of living in this city on a teacher’s salary.

We agreed in August that we would begin our financial arrangement in October. It’s November, and nothing has happened. Every time I talk to him, I get, “Oh, right, I’ll get started on that.”

This week, I sent an e-mail saying that I hated to think anything bad of him, but could think of no real reason he would not follow through unless he was rethinking our agreement.

Of course, I got an incensed e-mail in return, a full-of-hurt, how-could-you-doubt-me, you-know-what-a-difficult-time-of-year-this-is e-mail. “I will be sending you the information you require by the end of the week,” it ends, stiffly.

I hate that after being partners for so long, it feels so much as though we’re on opposing sides. I hate that I feel as though I have to fight for something I’m so uncomfortable with in the first place.