Big black curtain comin' cross the field

"It's not that I had a short fuse, it's that I had a very long fuse that went off at socially inappropriate times."
-Stephen Colbert (not the character-the guy)

Quoting that again, because of all of the quotes I like to toss around that is probably one of the few that I can say are actually painfully real to me as I live my life. It's something I wish I had said, instead of having to just quote it.
It's been a long week. Difficult and highly joyous, all of these emotions that conflict. I manage to be both outrageously happy and miserable at simultaneous times. My sleep is very disrupted by having another person here. I don't want to complain and ask that she is quiet because she IS quiet. I wake up at the slightest sound. I'm a bit of an insomniac. Oh-I sleep--a lot--but I wake up during that sleep. A car drives by with a loud muffler-I wake up. My neighbor slams his car door-I wake up. Cope moves-I wake up. The slightest provocation brings me to consciousness. This is something I assume I will eventually adjust to. I am capable of adjusting to many things-but the adjustment is rarely easy.
This morning the sister got up and made coffee. I'd woke up at 3 for no logical reason but gone back to sleep at around 5:30. It was 7. My eyes hurt. My eyes felt like they had been scrubbed with brillo pads. I was tired. She started to tell me all the ways she hated her job and her life and how, if given the chance, she'd drive "her" (By which I mean, MY) car off the road and straight into a tree. She tells me she has no reason to live and makes fun of the people that she works with. She pities them-their kids and car notes and that the job is their only way of paying for those things. She talks about them with disdain. She tells me she'd rather die than live like that. This hurts me. On several levels. To me her issues seem so childish-not that they don't matter to her-but to think that life offers anything but survival and that there is anything to being alive that simply being grateful for the living-I think it is childish. To quote Denis Leary-"Life sucks-get a fuckin' helmet." How can someone really EXPECT greatness? Not want-because I WANT greatness, or at least respect-which to me means more than adoration. But I don't understand-because of my life and how rather lifetime movie it has been-why anyone would expect anything but the worst and then be THRILLED if the best happens.

She said she might as well kill herself.

I told her to go ahead.

She looked like she had been hit, got up, went into her room. I didn't know what she would do but I let her do it. I was that callous. I am that bad a person-I told her to kill herself.

I didn't mean it. I would never say that to anyone much less someone I care about and mean it. But I was so angry to hear her talk like that and she does it a lot. That's what she thinks-if she's not doing what she trained to do she might as well not live. I just don't see how someone can live that way. She 'isn't well.' I know. I've been 'not well' myself. I went on medication. It nearly destroyed me but I stayed alive. And the alternative-death or continued depression I would rather be alive and fat and dull than dead because there are no descriptive terms for dead, are there? But I can say that because I am 'well.' So to speak.
Tried to go to work but I was a wreck. I felt so out of place, and wrong. I got into work.
"How's it going?" the manager asked.
"Not good. I'm afraid, I've got a family emergency. My roommate is talking suicide. But I didn't want to call off-I can't lose my job."
"Go home, you should've just called. Go home, never worry about losing your job for something like that."
I just fought off crying. I needed the money so much-but I could barely talk. I was so sure that I had pushed her over the edge. "GO 'head and kill yourself then." I didn't want to be home, but I was afraid if I wasn't she would. But then, I thought-no she wouldn't-but how can you KNOW? She is dramatic and thrives on melodrama and extremes. As I do not-to that level at any rate-I was not sure what her reaction would be and it seemed to me my responsibility to take care of the situation.
I didn't feel like I could deal with such a situation.
I went home, changed clothes. My water bill caught my eye-it was late-oh shit it was due on Thurs or Fri. Fuck. I paid it-the electronic voice reminded me even after giving me my confirmation number that my water was scheduled for shut off today. My landlady told me the water company had been threatening to turn off the water for over a week. I had mispaid in March-my bill was past due--but 80 cents. My water could get turned off because of a mispayment. An 80 cent mispayment and a payment not even 48 hours late could cost me $50 or more and a negative mark on my credit score. My day is going fantastic. This is the best day ever. And I am reminded that it was this day-the Saturday before Easter-one year ago that I experienced the excitement of an encounter with the Nashville police (they were protecting, not arresting, fear not-I am a law abiding citizen)--well, today is just my day. That's all.
So I got angry. I have these issues to think about and her life isn't worth living because she has to work a job? Oh you poor poor little baby-let me pamper you in your trauma since I have nothing about which to feel sorrow or fear. I wanted her the fuck out of my house. Not with my car either-she can take her clothes and I'd drive her to the Greyhound station. Go to the Coast where the Ivy League Educated Elite you so suddenly love (but hated this time last week) all reside. Here's a pack of cigarettes, don't smoke them all in Bloomington. I didn't do that. I would not do that. I'd think it-but that's different. I think a lot of things. I even write them. Doesn't mean I mean them. I'd be willing to bet that some people just don't have the writing outlet that I do and instead of just thinking and writing things they say and do things they would rather not more often than I do. And I do it a lot.
Thank God for my self obsessed creative non-fiction habit. Without it I'd have to take up recreational apology writing or jogging or something.
Me and Cope were at the dog park. I talked on the phone. He dug in the dirt. She says she can't get better in one day or five months and she doesn't know how long it will take. I know. I know.
We're sitting in the living room. My eyes are burning, I'm hungry and can barely speak. I wish I was asleep. I am ashamed. I didn't work. I couldn't leave it at the door. How do you leave something like this at the door? She says she burns to be able to do what she was trained to do that she needs it she was brainwashed to need it.
I understand, in theory. But I remind her-no one applauds me when I do my job. That most people go to work and their thanks is a cost of living increase.
She says she understands.
I try to convince myself she does. It makes it easier.
My landlady comes over to tell me she won't be paying for half the cable anymore. Her timing is wonderful. What did I expect?
Sis goes to work. She leaves the house with the traces of a songall I'm thinkin' bout is you baby...
I go to the liquor store and buy her a bottle of sparkling wine.
Try to buy Easter dinner but can't justify the purchase of a whole ham. I leave my cart in frozen foods and come home without holiday dinner or candy.
I am going to try to sleep now.