Any day that ends with shattered glass and spilled rootbeer strewn across the living room floor, and with me crying in one room and Stephanie crying in another, could easily be construed as a bad day. In fact, most of the day went just fine. My morning writing session was productive—I am in love with this story—and work was fine. I picked up the new Aerosmith record on the way home and it was simply phenomenal. Stef and I were even laughing during dinner, watching a rerun of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy on television.
When we turned the TV off, though, that’s when trouble started. Stef had reached her breaking point, was talking about giving up school with only two semesters left to complete her Master’s, and I was talking about how much better off she’d be if she just had a husband who was content to work a meaningless day job and collect a paycheck. If we weren’t both dreamers, wouldn’t it be easier?
The conversation degraded, not to screaming but to silences. The somber air in our apartment was stifling. I was having a hard time coping with it all, with all this giving up she seemed to be doing. In the end, when something I said was sending her off to bed, I kicked at the coffee table and it tipped. A snowglobe toppled over and was smashed. The glass of A&W I’d been drinking from slipped off the table and spilled. The glass top of the coffee table came unseated.
Stephanie went into the bathroom and was crying in there, and then in the bedroom. I comforted her at one moment but at another, I found myself lying face down in the kitchen, choking on sobs, buried under the weight of it all.
These are rough times and they keep getting rougher. I feel fragile and short on patience and sometimes I think its only a matter of time before I do something really rash, break something valuable to me in one my tirades or hurt myself. I’m scared.