Veni, Vidi, Ventus --
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.

Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.

Sunday, October 15, 2000

Closet Skeletons

There are skeletons in my head
there's some underneath my bed,
and the closet's overflowing.

Pocket demons in my brain
eat my thoughts till none remain
and there's nothing left but screaming.

* * *

I'm lying in bed, and some wild stray thought picks the lock to a childhood door that had otherwise been blissfully locked behind me.

My monster. My mother. Same colour, different smell.

I'm not sure when I first became aware that I wasn't a child, I was an inconvenience.

Maybe it was the day that, after complaining quite mightily since the night before about my ears and throat being sore, I was given cough medication and sent to school.

I passed out in the hallway.

When my mother showed up, annoyed that I'd dared to interrupt her day, the first thing she did was bark accusations at me in front of the school nurse and everyone nearby. I was a druggie, I'd taken something and was stoned. I was taken home, given a lecture, and that was that. Right.

Until I passed out at school again two days later. Yeah, fuck you lady.

This time, the old nurse (who had been a buddy of mom's when she worked at the school) wasn't there, and there was a temp in place. This budding genius not only took me seriously, but took my temp. 103. I was taken to the doctor, who pronounced a severe ear infection, strep throat, and an extreme case of vertigo. I spent several months on Antivert just so I could walk a straight line without staggering or stand up without promptly falling down.

Or maybe it was flag camp. Ah, the joys of summer activities. I spent the first day throwing up. Every time. Every year. Same routine.

Now, logicially speaking, heat stroke and heat exhaustion were to be expected. This was usually June, in Central Texas heat, out in the middle of a freakin open field with no shade whatsoever. Even better if they could find a paved asphalt parking lot. Mmm, boy. Baked tennis shoes, anyone?

I was a slacker, of course. I was just trying to get out of it. I just didn't know the drills (hah) and was trying to get out of it. I was lazy, blah blah blah. Never you mind that I was shaking and clammy and had totally greyed out to the point of being completely witless.

"Excuse me, but could you move your speculations 5 feet to the right whilst I vomit on your shoes? Don't mind me, that's just my lunch, do carry on."

Once I got the first few rounds of barfing over with, everything went fine.

Till my last year.

Oh no, they couldn't give us asphalt this time, some genius decided the grassy yard by a dorm was more satisfying. Kick and turn and OH FUCK where did that hole come from?

I went down in a heap, my leg twisted beneath me. At first, I thought I'd broken something. After all, your kneecap isn't supposed to wobble like that, and it CERTAINLY isn't supposed to be on the SIDE of your leg, right?

Oh, I was fine, there was nothing wrong. Get back up, dammit. Do it again, and without the falling down this time. What do you mean, you can't stand up? Lazy girl, here. (yank tug excrutiating pain) Now, wrap this ACE bandage around it and you'll be fine. See, you can do it!

So I spend the rest of camp limping around on a dislocated knee that had been VERY poorly popped back into place. Mmm, love that sweet smell of success in the air?

My mother, of course, told me to stop being a baby. There was nothing wrong with me, there was no one around to watch my act, take the damn brace off and cut it out. Yeah, fuck you lady.

The pain and frustration led to a frantic desperate tryst with the current boyfriend that led to the fun of a condom breakage and, in the two weeks before my birthday, my first and only abortion. I was 16.

No sanctimonious holier than thou bullshit here, thank you. If I'd carried the baby to term, I'd have died. I know this well enough know, though I didn't at the time. As it was, I almost bled to death when I finally did have a baby (and the next, and so forth until they tied my tubes so my body wouldn't help me self-destruct) and had enough trouble. Frankly, it was it or me. Selfish as shit, I know, but that's what teenagers are good at.

I remember the abortion itself clearly enough, though. My parents never knew. Which is a blessing, because I'd have been out of the house quicker than shit through a goose. The only one with me was my boyfriend who was as scared as I was. Planned Parenthood gave you chances to back out. I almost did. I remember him promising to stand beside me, no matter what my decision was.

In the end, I went into the room.

Afterwards, all I felt was overwhelming, all-encompassing relief. I digress.

So, I'm a teenage unwed post-abortion ex-mother-to-be with a fucked up knee, (k-i-s-s-i-n-g), trapped in a car with my happy little Norman Rockwell from Hell family on our way to Outer Nowhere, New Mexico, to visit my aunt the doctor who happens to be the only really cool person left alive on my mother's side of the family. My grandparents are okay, really, but my aunt is more in touch with the Now of the world, rather than with the Then.

And my aunt wants to know what's wrong with my knee. I tell her. My mother blows me off and starts scolding my aunt for encouraging me. My aunt, love her to death, ignores my mother and looks at it. She also promptly "suggests" to my mother that maybe taking me to an orthopedic doctor when we got back might be a good idea, just in case.

Thank you for inserting some logic into the woman's brain.

The doctor she somehow picked happened to also be the orthopedic surgeon for not only my high school's football team, but also worked with the Houston Oilers. Oh. My. That must mean he can Be Trusted. Yeah, fuck you, lady.

Doc looks at my knee. I explain. He looks at me. He unwinds the wrappings. He looks at the knee. He, mind you, GLARES at my mother.

He then makes her come over to the table, and put her ear down right against my knee. He wiggles my kneecap (which moves quite freely). There's a horrible grating sound. Nasty. Icky. Makes you shiver.

"Hear that? That's a Bad Sound. How long has she been walking around without seeing a doctor?" He's not glaring at me. He's still looking at her.

She mumbles something incoherently and inspects the ceiling.

Doc starts prodding. "See this muscle?" He whips out his handy blue marker. "This is where it SHOULD be. " Marker slash. "Want to know why it isn't?" He told her anyway.

"These..." Several marker slashes. "Are where her scars are going to be if we can't rehab this knee." Lots of physical therapy.

Mom makes sure physical therapy is done, because by god she's not going to waste money having me cut on because I'm lazy. Yeah, fuck you, lady.

Hell, maybe it was the time that Dad had been sick for a few days. Dad is not a Brave Man when it comes to being sick. Dad is a downright card-carrying certified Sick Wuss. He's dying. After a few days of this, you wish he would so he'd at least shut up. But Dad had germs. And Dad passed them around.

And I got them.

But noooo, I wasn't sick. Fuck, I could be bleeding out the eyes and ears and my mom would slap a bandaid on me and tell me to shut up and get dressed because school started in half an hour.

Two days later ... yup, you guessed it. I passed out at school.

Here came the accusations again, here came the glares, here came the .... the nurse holding the thermometer. I was too pale and too red (all at once, I'm a very dramatic feverish) all in the right places, and she'd taken my temp. Whoo hoo, lookit that, she really IS sick, go fucking figure.

Walking pneumonia. Another day, and the doc would have hospitalized me. He should have. It's not like I got any care or compassion at home for the entire two days that I got to skip school. Oh yeah, mom, I'm having a whole fucking world of partying down drug doing fun here at home while I'm laying in a goddamned coma in the bed, unable to even get up to get a drink. Yeah, I'm just partying down so hard that I'm working myself into dehydration just for the sheer fucking fun of it. Yeah, fuck you, lady.

This is is the same woman whose idea of responding to a grade drop, or a bad conduct mark, or a note from a teacher was to threaten me with a visit to a psychiatrist. Maybe I should have just let them send me. I'm sure he would have loved the rant I'm going through right now. Psychiatrist, great. Physician, forget it.

Yeah, fuck you, lady.

* * *

There are skeletons in my head
there's some underneath my bed,
and the closet's overflowing.

Pocket demons in my brain
eat my thoughts till none remain
and there's nothing left but screaming.

Yeah. Fuck you, lady.

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