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.

Monday, March 25, 2002


I never thought I would say this: Thank God it's Monday.

Started this post an hour ago. This is as far as I've gotten. Not a great sign.

Another Monday, another week without PT. I'm thinking that's a sign, too, but I'll refrain from actually voicing what I think that sign points to. I'm sure it would just start another fight that I'll back down from and end up feeling worse than ever.

I may look brave to some of you, but the reality is that I honestly and absolutely loathe confrontation. It's part of why I get such lousy medical treatment, because I just sigh and resign myself instead of questioning or arguing. I don't have any support to fight back, and I just can't do it alone unless I am totally fed up and angry over it.

More and more I find myself hoping that they'll finally tell me that I have something terminal, just to get one specific person to act like it matters. It's a pipe dream on that level because I'm honestly not sure that even that news would make it through.

Guess I'm a little blue. I'm sure someone will cheerfully tell me to see a shrink and that I need to up the dosage. If they do, I'll just send them the RSD latter stage photos that I posted semi-privately the other day and ask them if THEY would be Shiny Happy Stupid if they knew they might end up looking like that for the short amount of time they survived.

Yay, RSD increases your risk of sudden fatal heart attacks. This one might kill me after all. And the peasants rejoiced.

I need more caffiene. DG forgot to start a pot this morning. I'm not physically capable of handling fragile glass at the moment, so I guess I'm stuck with soda. Yay. Not.

And as if this weekend hadn't been crappy enough ... My monster will be here next weekend!

DG told me, and I started stuttering again almost immediately. I wonder if I can get out of the visit by pointing out the multiple underlines and heavy blank ink of "***AVOID STRESS!!!!!!!***" that Captain Ed left on my PT paperwork. Not that I've gotten to visit Ed for over a week.

I think I may lock this entry. I'm just too tired to deal with some of the bullshit if I left it open for everybody to read.

Ever been too tired to qualify as tired? Yeah, me too. This is soul-deep. I know it will go away, it always does. It just takes time. Last week was really hard on me both physically and mentally, and now I get to pay the tab for all that "Fun."

I'm trying to get over the urge to entertain in my journal instead of using it to help work through all the things going through my head. It would be easier if I hadn't had so many bad experiences trying to do just that.

It's not that misery loves company, I think that's somewhat incorrect. What misery really wants is for someone to say, "Aw, poor baby, everything is going to be all right." I know that I have definite comfort issues, somewhat pertaining to not getting sympathy, support, or even a reaction to my failing health. Comfort was not something I got as a child, and especially not while I was a teenager when I really needed it the most. I was never told that it was going to be all right. I was told that it was probably my fault. I wasn't told that it was going to get better. I was told that I had screwed this up and was probably going to keep screwing up because I couldn't do anything right. When I knew what I wanted from life, I was told that I was wrong, that *I* could certainly never do that and why should I even bother trying. Comfort and support withdrawn, thank you for playing.

A little voice tells me that I could have gone on ahead and done what I really wanted to do. That little voice has no logic to it, it's just the stubborn little me that won't die. Thank God. Instead, logic pointed out that if I tried to do what I really wanted to do that I would fail spectacularly because it honestly couldn't be done without support, particularly the monetary kind. I ended up shuffled to a college that cost maybe 1500 a semester, TOPS. My baby sister's school was over 18,000 a year. Do the emotional math on that one.

If I'd had the balls and the knowledge of just how unhappy with my life I'd end up, I'd have said "Yeah, Fuck You, lady" a whole lot sooner and ended up on Parris Island with a real chance to reach my own goals.

But, I was short on brass and long on an abusive boyfriend and had had it hammered into my head for so many years that I was supposed to do what THEY wanted me to do and to hell with my own ideas that I was totally incapable of taking the steps to take control of my own life.


This wasn't how this post was supposed to go. Yay me, and pass the detergent cause I'm airing the dirty laundry.

Knew I shouldn't have mentioned the monster coming up here. "Hi there, I'm your adopted mother and I'm going to totally fuck up your head for the next week and I'm not even there yet!"

Yeah, fuck you, lady.

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