Stages of Grace - By Carey Heywood Page 0,20

to happen. Let me be crystal clear about this. From this moment on, the only time you will be driving my car is when I say so."

"Is that so?"

"I'm done."

"You're done? What the fuck does that mean?"

"I can't do this anymore."

"Can't do what? Us? That's real fucking nice after everything we've been through."

"You don’t even act like you like me. Do you even want to be here?"

"Can you even understand the amount of stress I'm under?"

"The stress you're under? The stress you're under? What do you do all day? When was the last time you applied anywhere? I got my head bit off because I sent your resume someplace."

"I was only mad because you didn’t tell me about it."

"And how much sense does that make? To get mad at someone for trying to help you?"

"I don’t have to listen to this." Jon grabs his coat and keys then walks out the door.

I stand there panting, my chest rising and falling as I breathe out my nose. Finally, speaking up for myself feels so liberating. So why do I feel like crying? The whole exchange had just been so overwhelmingly emotional. For a moment I pity him, out there in the cold. That feeling lasts only long enough for me to remind myself that I have to sit out there in the cold every morning while my car warms up. There is no way I will ever do that again. In fact, I have every intention of being as loud as humanly possible the next morning.

What if he doesn’t come back? I sit at our small table and wonder how I'll feel if that happens. As angry as I am, I do still love him. It’s clear that I have been denying that there was anything wrong with his behavior for a long time. What scares me about the whole situation is it’s out of my hands to a certain extent. It's Jon who needs to change, not me. Not that I'm innocent. I had knowingly enabled Jon. I thought it would help, but it's clear that it hasn't.

On the off chance Jon will try and take my wallet or keys, I hide them in a kitchen cabinet where I store my mother's old Kitchenaid mixer. My stomach is too messed up to eat anything. I go back and forth between relief in blowing up to being nervous that I may have gone too far. The adrenaline wears off, and I go to sleep. At some point overnight, I hear Jon come home and climb into bed. When my alarm clock goes off the next morning, I get ready for work. I’m not being loud on purpose, but I’m also not trying to be very quiet either. Part of me stays coiled like a cobra, waiting to strike, willing Jon to say something. He doesn’t.

It almost feels like a missed opportunity to release more of my pent up aggression on him. There is so much that remains unsaid. Most importantly, him saying he's sorry. Retrieving my keys and wallet from the cabinet, I hurry down the stairs to warm up my car. I loudly come back into the apartment. Jon is either still asleep or pretending to be. If he keeps taking off, we will never fix what’s wrong, and our conversation from last night is not over.

I’m irritable on my drive in. It's like every person on the road is driving like an idiot. I'm tired of it, tired of everything. I am tired of the cars that pull out even though they see me coming. How do they know I will slow down? What if I don't slow down? I hate the cars that drive five miles under the speed limit until you try to pass them. I hate the cars that don’t use their turn signals. What am I? Psychic?

I have always been easygoing and mild-mannered, but it’s as though a switch of some sort has been flipped. I have no patience for anyone around me, starting with Jon and now including my co-workers and the patients. I count to ten to control myself more that day than I ever have in my life. By the end of the day, it’s no longer working, and I snap at Nikita for something. The injured look on her face makes me feel awful so I immediately apologize. I have to get a hold of myself. Instead of counting to ten, I start counting backwards from one hundred.

I feel the pressure