Comfort Drive!

Posted on May 30, 2012 by

5-30-12     10pm

So, I frequently donate my possessions to my favorite unit at Sharp Mesa Vista Hospital – clothes, journals, art supplies, etc. I get rid of stuff I don’t need and feel really good doing it. This week I had the idea to have a Comfort Drive and ask my family & friends and whomever else to join me in making a hospital stay easier on the patients there. 

It’s called the Give Back Comfort Drive and all the details and what you can give can be found on the flyer here.

Sharp Mesa Vista is a local psychiatric hospital near and dear to my heart. I have spent much time there. I owe my life to them and I want to give back. Often patients arrive without clothes or other comforts of home. Simple things like an outfit, a hairbrush, or shampoo and conditioner can help them feel loved and feel like themselves again. Even a pair of underwear that fits can make someone’s day. 

So, go through your closet, hit the store, or ask a friend. Let’s make it happen!

Please share with your friends!
FB event link: http://www.facebook.com/events/315814215163931/
PDF Flyer: http://www.dbsasandiego.org/resources/Give-Back.pdf 

There is a great need for men’s clothing and plus size clothing for both men and women. 

If you are in San Diego you can drop off donations at a DBSA San Diego group in La Jolla or contact me to arrange a pick up.

If you are not in San Diego but want to participate, you can mail your donations to:

DBSA San Diego
8837 Villa La Jolla Drive #12774
La Jolla, CA 92039

Thank you so much!

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

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Rainbow Update

Posted on May 30, 2012 by

5/30/12     9:09pm

I know I haven’t blogged in forever. I feel it only fair to give an update.

Today I woke up with a horrible headache, probably from a new medication last night, and I cried and cried and cried. I put on a pretty dress and went to lunch with a friend. I’m so glad I have good friends. When I got home another friend was waiting in my driveway to take me shopping for items for my Comfort Drive. I’m exhausted.

I’ve been really all over lately. I haven’t posted because there haven’t been many postable things. I’m swingin’ and switchin’ and crashing all the time. In the span of a day I can hit happy, productive, rageful, depressed, suicidal and euphoric. There are hours that I am a Rainbow and light is God and God is in me and I am God. When I hear him talk to me and I twirl and skip and there is this peace like I’ve never felt. A quiet calm in the middle of the storm. My head hurts almost constantly and whatever’s going on in my neck comes and goes. Yesterday I found myself hiding behind some dumpsters crying and fighting my thoughts.

My psychiatrist says he’s proud of me for surviving the crises and that I’m doing a good job. My therapist is becoming a life coach. My mom has a boyfriend and a job. And my cat cries a good portion of the day. I agree that I’m doing a good job handling crisis, but I want to be more stable. I want to be able to live one day at a time instead of fighting for moment to moment.

I saw a new doctor yesterday way the Hell up in Encinitas. He seems a bit cocky but like someone I could trust. He wants me to get off as many meds as possible to figure out what symptoms are side effects and what symptoms are organic. This terrifies me, as I know what happens when I don’t take medication. Last summer I was all for a wash. That’s what they call stopping all your meds. I was ready to do whatever it took to get better. But right now I just want to stop hurting. I want to be better or dead. A wash is a long painful process that doesn’t really establish any betterness. It’s sole goal is to bring out the worseness and identify the actual problem, which in this moment I don’t care about. I care about not hurting. And about preserving my inpatient Medicare days. I might be willing to do it at a facility that did not affect my Medicare days, definitely not at home.

I use my phone a lot as a coping skill and tool. I work on the bus, communicate, look up my medications and bus information. I went to group with my phone a few days ago and didn’t leave with it. It walked away. So now I have my old phone, which is great for texting but does none of the things I use my phone for now. I feel like I’m in some other world. Like everything is changing and it’s only a mirage. Today I shopped with a friend for stuff for people in the hospital. I had a good time. I felt bad because he was paying and I was shopping and I usually finance my own impulsive spending. But it was his idea. I just feel like I’m on the edge and I’m livin’ it.

I keep fighting. I’m not writing much. I’m switching too fast to follow. When I do write it’s in several colors. I go in and out of being afraid of certain colors and there are voices talking/writing that have their own colors. I’m exhausted. I need some time as Rainbow.

Thanks for listening. I really appreciate it.

Love, Michelle

PS – I gave up on brushing my teeth after a bad encounter with the dentist. I still like the toothpaste.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

Posted in Illness, Journal, Mental Illness | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Sparkle Fun Toothpaste

Posted on April 25, 2012 by

4-25-12     1:34pm

Can I just say I love Crest Sparkle Fun toothpaste? Alongside the adventure of trying to learn to cook, I have also embarked on trying to take care of my teeth.

Many of you know that me and oral hygiene don’t exactly mix. And by don’t exactly I mean almost never. I always avoided brushing my teeth growing up. I’d lie to my mom that I did. Aside from a dental “check-up” before kindergarten I never saw a dentist either. When I was 18 I got all my cavities taken care of and got braces. They were helpful not only in straightening my teeth but reminding me to take care of them. But when they came off I stopped working at it. For a long while brushing my teeth made me throw up so I just didn’t do it. Then I got sicker and for the past few years I’ve been afraid to brush my teeth. I’m not sure why.

Anyway, I saw a new dentist this week and got a plan for how to fix up my teeth. Not sure where I’ll get the money but I want to do it. I do genuinely care about my food crunchers. I do love food ya know. Yesterday my doctor was like, “Once you get all this work done, start brushing your teeth.” It would be so much easier if they had pot roast flavored toothpaste.

So when I was at Walmart yesterday buying the skillet I don’t know how to use I stopped in the sample-size aisle and picked up a few mini-toothpastes to see if I could find one I was willing to endure every day. I hate toothpaste, I hate brushing my teeth, and I hate the taste of mint and strong cinnamon. I happened to pick up a kids travel pack with a tiny Sparkle Fun toothpaste and a small monkey toothbrush that could only be more awesome if it shook like a rattle when I brushed. I LOVE it. It has glitter in it and tastes like bubble gum. I’m sure I’ve used it before but it wasn’t called Sparkle Fun, although it is quite sparkly and fun.

I’m proud of myself and really grateful for this thing that is fun and does not taste like mint and makes me not scared of brushing my teeth. You should try it. Might change your life. ;)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

Posted in Hope, Journal | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Shoutout for Cheap Easy Recipes

Posted on April 24, 2012 by

4/24/12     9:32pm

So, I met with my doctor today. Had a super great session. And my homework is to learn to cook. (deep breath) Cook? I’ve never cooked real food in my life. I order pizza, warm up pizza, occasionally make a peanut butter & jelly sandwich. But I don’t cook. I am intrigued and terrified by the idea. I bought myself a skillet today at Walmart. Not sure what to do with it. But I wanna give it a go. This thing called cooking.

So this is a shoutout for cheap easy recipes.

What I have:
Microwave, toaster oven, oven, stove, toaster, blender, crock pot, turbo cooker

I don’t like:
Garlic, thyme, rosemary, sage, seafood

He said anything frozen doesn’t count as cooking. Damn. Anyway, I’d appreciate some recipes people really like that maybe a seven year old without supervision (aka ME) could try. Thanks in advance!

Michelle

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

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Pain is the price of admission

Posted on April 15, 2012 by

(a conversation between me & a voice in my head after hours and hours of writing)
4-11-12     1:43am

(big breath)
I am alive.
I am alive.

If I have no control over what happens to or around me and what I do doesn’t matter…
If there is no such thing as should or real…
If I’m the only one my importance matters to, why am I here?

‘Cuz I like it.

(??) What?

I said because I like it. And I always get what I want. You can’t have hugs and the ocean without pain. Face it. You fear life.

No shit. I know that.

Yeah. But you don’t know that you love it too. You can’t see that in order to feel joy, you must know pain. The music comes with heartache. The ocean comes with pain. The dancing comes with a loneliness that pushes you to death. There are no substitutions. You can’t get away. You can’t strain off the bad. It is one.

(stare)

Michelle, you don’t want to die. You want not to feel the pain. The fire inside and the physical stress of your body melting away. But it’s not going away. It’s here to stay. What you do with it is your choice. But, like you said, you have no control.

There is no anti-life pill. You can’t strain out the seeds. Can’t sugarcoat it. You have pain.

You also have music. And hugs, and flowers, and writing and what you see in your head. You have God and the pirates.

(crying)

You have me.

But it hurts so much.

I know.

I’m so scared.

Like Jim said, you don’t have to understand right now.

I just have to be.

Just be.

I love you, Mom.

I love you too.

Acceptance is realizing the pain is an entry fee, a price of admission, to the theme park of life. Non-refundable. It’s your choice if you have fun or not.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

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The Butterfly Flower

Posted on April 8, 2012 by

(stream of consciousness during Electric Ladyland II at Anthology)
4/8/12     6:50pm

Dear Anthology,

I hate your guts and all the surroundings. It would have been EXTREMELY helpful if the girl on the phone had said I can buy some tickets at the door, but not the ones I want and they will be much more expensive. Oh, and a warning that your staff is rude would have been helpful too.

I don’t understand why every time I come here “upstairs is closed.” Last time they told me I had been “upgraded” to the bar lounge. It’s not an upgrade. I Hate the bar. I can’t see, there’s a flashing tv, and it’s freezing.

The music is wonderful but I’m having a really hard time sitting here.

–

I LOVE the music. It breaks free the broken pieces of me.

Your music is the sound of feelings, the color of magenta bold. It braids my brain.

Open my mouth to breathe.
Juicy Fruit gum.

Bandaid for a Brain Bleed. There should be a song called that.

If I were defusing a bomb, I’d like to be listening to this. It snakes though my brain grabbing wisdom.

“Braised bacon” does NOT taste like bacon.

Is there such a thing as an electric banjo?

When the channel is open the feelings are mobile. They dance in the air.
Oh, such color.

When you play, the dots float in the air. You make the dots and they float and dance. And everyone’s dots are a different color, like neurons and atoms. Yours are purple. Mikan’s are yellow. They float upward and build on each other. Voices are twisting bending lines. Everything up in the air. It is an electric ballet.

When the green man sings I hear you play JP’s love. I don’t know why. It is a loving pain that spins to become free.
Brings a warm smile to me.
Shut up, people. Love is made here. The dots disappear.

Pink!

What is that sound? Like a thought bent by riding the train…
Fluid thoughts are much prettier than crooked ones. As actual bacon is better than braised. And jalapenos shouldn’t taste like pickles. Pickled or not.

It is the red dots that get in the way.

Like cat food for the soul.

The music of brown carpet & hugs.

Must dance.

(big smile) I want to be in the dots as they turn orange.
Breathe it in.

Shut up you pre-clappers…
Let the dots fall slowly.

New dots caused raindrops, clear the truth.

I hear the sound of a heartbeat when it cries. Alone.
The texture of the taste of dark red.
Memory full.

Sometimes it is beautiful. And it is nothing else.

(goosebumps)

Michael Londra. That’s what it is.
Too many dots. TOO MANY DOTS!
(whooooo…)

Hummingbird-like dragon makes magic cat food dots for dancer’s soul.
Yes, I like it.
I rock and hum so they don’t explode in me.

(hug from -. “Glad to see you out, smiling.” me too)

Hard to hear Jamie’s awesome solo. When the wall turned blue, the music got softer.

Drum solos always get me.

The dots are like bubbles but don’t fall and take longer to pop.

My cells jump inside me! Aaaaahhhh!
Space Mountain jumping music. :)

(my candle went out – smoke)

The pink is over my soul and the train sounds outside. I love trains.
Smile in the night.

The sound is shiny.

Thank you, God.

Need to bounce! Happy comes when the candle is out.

The music is in my face.
The music IS my face.
She begs to make the orange. (big smile)

Hey, now. Don’t drop the orange ball.

Thank you, Electric Ladyland. Thank you, Jamie.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

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Rant about politics

Posted on April 5, 2012 by

*You may find this offensive.*
4-5-12     6:05am

I don’t understand politics. I find myself up ridiculously late exhausted but reading random political news bits. It’s all such bullshit. Like 3rd grade on a much bigger scale and everyone’s fighting over who’s in charge and who gets to do what and whom is in trouble and what they’re gonna do to him and what they’re gonna ban or unban next. Only in 3rd grade there’s a teacher and a principal and you don’t get to choose who they are every 4 years.

It seems lately that most of the bickering is over how not to treat people equally and money. I’ll make it really simple. If you want to solve your money problem, stop fighting wars, legalize assisted suicide and start promoting suicide and abortion and providing free birth control. It’s much cheaper to kill off the people who cost you money and prevent new ones from existing than to help them. Politicians know that. And I’m not being cheeky either. I’m one of the people they’re trying to kill off. They’re just not doing it effectively. And I take offense to that.

Stop fighting over abortion and gay marriage and whether or not we should have a fort on the moon and why we shouldn’t do what’s right by our people. Just stop. It doesn’t make any sense. And for God’s sake, stop the “war on drugs.” We all know you lost. Let’s regroup. Can you do that? I don’t understand. I’m pretty sure you don’t either.

M

© MR 2012

Posted in Vent | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment

Fathers are people

Posted on April 5, 2012 by

4/4/12     11:55pm

What does it mean about me that I keep the only framed picture of my dad under a stack of pajamas in a dresser I never open? I just rediscovered it quite by accident. I can’t breathe.

SHAME. What does that mean about me? (crying)

The man never did anything to me. He’s been dead over 10 years. And I hide his picture. There are no pictures in my house, of anyone. Just empty picture frames. In the picture my dad looks happy, healthy. Half-smiling with his siblings. I just wanna hug him. Please, God. Please… Send him back to me. Like last year at jazz. I hear him. Not him healthy. But him.

The picture is of -, Dad, # & Danny. – doesn’t talk to me. Dad is dead. Danny killed himself. And I don’t know how to contact #. She doesn’t seem to hate me. I hated that picture because – sent it to me. But it’s special. The only pic I have of my dad healthy.

I wish he wasn’t a secret. That I could’ve shared my life with him instead of lying. Everything. Fathers are people not secrets. So are daughters. I didn’t want my mom to see the picture so I hid it. Guilt. Shame. Longing.

He’s not real. GET THAT AWAY FROM ME. (pause) Let me be. Please, I don’t want him to see me. I love you, Dad. Back in the drawer now.

I should plaster my walls with pictures. Start making life real.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

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Bitch, you crazy

Posted on April 5, 2012 by

4-4-12     1:48pm

I wonder how many people PMS has actually killed. I have had THE worst 2 weeks, not just wanting to kill other people (pretty standard), but myself. It took all my energy not to do it. There are stressors in my life but the magnitude of this building freakout was not in proportion. Last night and the night before were THE worst. And then today I got my period and I’m crashing. I feel so much better.

I’m accustomed to the physical symptoms of PMS and being moody, but nothing like this. Being crazy as a standard doesn’t bother me but being crazy from PMS does. I feel like it devalues the experience. Oh, it was just PMS. She’s just hormonal. Well just almost killed me. Damn. I already have one diagnosis that means “it’s all in your head.” I don’t need another that means, “Bitch, you’ just a crazy woman.” I believe they call that one PMDD. Like it really needs a name.

(sigh) I’d like to be less crazy. I have enough trouble managing/handling my day to day symptoms. I don’t know why this is worse now. When I was in high school I had horrible cramps and PMS, but since I’ve been on antipsychotics I’ve been fine. I tried birth control once but it made me WAY worse. My doctors tell me I shouldn’t have kids, which makes me wonder why I even have a functioning system at all. I don’t know, but I do. And it’s trying to kill me.

Bitch, you crazy.
Bitch, I know.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

Posted in Journal, Vent | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

Jesus & Happy

Posted on April 5, 2012 by

4/2/12

Jesus,

Did anyone tell you what happiness is? That you had a right to feel it? I’m pretty sure the knowledge/awareness of “happy” and the expectation that I should or should be able to feel it are fucking me up.

Have people always expected to feel happy? What if feeling awful is the default? If I was okay with feeling awful my life would be much better. Is this an American thing? I do NOT feel happy.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

Posted in Journal, Wondering | Tagged , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Cheetos in a teacup

Posted on March 30, 2012 by

3-30-12     4:23am

Sometimes I wonder why I’m still awake at four o’clock in the morning, like tonight as I sit here eating my Cheetos out of a teacup. Chip bags are just annoying. And then something happens. Something always happens. Right as I started to think about heading for bed I got a crisis FB message. Now I’m chatting with said friend.

The conversation reminded me of something my doctor told me a few weeks ago. He said he doesn’t believe that I’m going to get better. I let the comment slide. Had I been feeling particularly awful it could’ve pushed me over the edge. But I’m not. It was actually helpful. After feeling upset for awhile, I decided that if I’m not going to get better I might as well have fun where I’m at. I don’t have to like it, but I don’t have to feel tortured by not healing. I spend an enormous amount of time and energy trying to figure out what’s wrong with me and how to fix it. It’s exhausting. It goes in waves. Energy, answer-seeking, exhaustion, loss of hope, lull, happy, hopeless, desperate, repeat. I’m not abandoning the cycle completely, but right now I’m not searching. I’m coping. My goal is to start LIVING.

Wow. What a concept. I don’t really understand this living thing. It’s always been about getting better and doing worse and fending off death. Or hastening death. But never about life… (ponder as I continue my crisis chat)

I never thought I’d live to be this old. 26. People say it’s a small number, that I’m young. I don’t see it that way. When I was little my dad had Huntington’s Disease. It’s a nasty illness that basically eats your brain and you die. And there was a good chance that I had it too. It wasn’t an option to consider the future. I still don’t even really understand what that means. So it baffles me when I realize I’m 26. Half the time (really more) I don’t remember how old I am and people think I’m either dramatically older or younger, depending on the day.

I’m not sure I want to embrace the concepts of life or future. It’s almost safer to just have now. If I expect to live ’til I’m 40 and then become terminally ill at 30, I’m gonna be pissed. But if I only expected to live ’til yesterday, it’s a prize. You know? They say life’s a bitch, but it’s much quieter.

Anyway, there’s always a reason that pops up when I think there’s no reason. Tonight it was a good one. I just wish my teacup of Cheetos was bottomless. DAMN! I just remembered I wanted to try eating them with chopsticks. Do I even own chopsticks? I don’t know.

It’s 4:45am and I can feel the wave of energy come over me. I would call it psychomotor agitation but it’s not unpleasant, more like a hyper puppy waiting to play. I still follow the sunrise rule but it’s dark out. I guess my internal sunrise comes sooner. That or I’m sensitive to Cheetos and crisis. I feel like a teenage girl about to meet Justin Beiber. Seriously. Only I’m alone in my kitchen talking to my invisible computer friends. Maybe one of them’s Justin Beiber. Could be. You never know. He could be randomly googling the Panda Express kids meal, which is oddly the number one thing people google to get to this blog. Who knew? Eat a kids meal, get new readers. Works for me. All for the low price of $4.95. Sweet. And sour. ;)

Gosh I’m bored. This darkness sunrise makes my thoughts race. I need to bounce up and down and yell and shout and sing and MOVE. AHHHHHHHHHHHH! (deep breath) I should take my night meds.

I’m 26. I found a Subway today that still carries regular mayonnaise. Thank the good Lord. And the bad one too. I’ve yet to learn how to be a kid but it’s on my to do list. Workin’ on it. I should take my night meds. Stream of consciousness. Does a body good… So does Oscar the Grouch, and drugs, and Cheetos in a teacup. Here’s to hoping my friend lives.

Love, Michelle

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

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A Guardian and other randomness

Posted on March 30, 2012 by

3-30-12     12:55 am

i wonder how the mind works seven in the night. Tonight I went to a bar to hear music. I pondered the plasticity of the brain and soft shoe dancing. And “Mona Lisa” made the joints of my ring finger tingle. I wrote about my feelings and fears, drank tea and ate bad chicken. Altogether a good night.

I was disturbed though by this one waiter. He’s never nice to me. He tries to appear to be but he’s cocky. He asked to see my ID to be in the bar after I’d already ordered. I said since they serve food there’s no age limit. He said I would need a “guardian” with me. Wow. How old do I look? I’m not drinking. I’ve been there many times before. My behavior is not disruptive. I walk around and write. Even 20 year olds don’t have guardians. I felt offended. He blamed it on his manager. I guess tea drinking chicken eating writers are not wanted as regulars there. Quite disconcerting. For the record, I’m 26. And sober.

I talked to Jim today about my trip to GA. I went to Possum Trot last weekend and had a blast, remembered how much I love clogging and how much I need to do it more. The project/idea side of my brain started scheming and I decided I need to take a trip to GA to find myself through clogging for a month. My mom is completely against it, says it’s ridiculous and crazy. My friends and providers think it’s great. I think it’s awesome and exciting and terrifying. But I so wanna do it. I found a craigslist room for rent ad there and actually emailed about it. I want to find me. Wherever I left her she’s waiting.

I took a trip to GA 8 years ago under very different circumstances. I’ve grown a lot since then. It’s something to remember. I want to learn to be more independent, to take care of myself and not have to rely on others. I think this might be like a missions trip. Mission: Find me. Get away for a time from everything here, everything doctor, illness, all the labels and expectations. Write, dance, breathe. I don’t know if it will happen but the planning gives me hope. A thing to believe in. A thing to be.

It’s weird. Today I hear the cadence of what my thoughts should be, but I can’t quite hear the words. It’s annoying. And free. Really it’s not free, but it should be. Knee. Things rhyme but they don’t make sense. Whatever. Just me. I spent $95 at Victoria’s Secret today to get a free umbrella. I shoulda just bought an umbrella. They never have panties that fit me. I know I have a big butt but it’s not THAT big…

Zoe’s on the door and I can’t think. I noticed at the workshop this weekend that I didn’t have as much trouble thinking. Less confusion and thought blocking. And the more days of not dancing the worse it gets. I have to wonder if I danced every day if I’d be less confused. Life processed through dancing makes sense. Life processed through other things is just a mess. Oh yes. (sigh)

I’d really like some peanut butter and jelly. Not so much the bread. Imran. (big smile) I know I’m rambling, but I like rambling, and so do you. Here’s to not making sense. (clink)

I gotta sleep. I feel like someone rearranged all the connections in my brain and it no longer works right.

Happy trails, Michelle

PS – I’ve lost my love of capital letters lately. like wearing pajamas to work.

(happily watching Stand Up For Mental Health videos and random YouTube comedy)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

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Now I am…

Posted on March 21, 2012 by

(continued from “I am from…”)

3-21-12     4:07pm

Now I am what?

Now I am stronger.

Now I am less afraid.

Now I am starting to own myself, to upgrade from the standard model.

Now I am more honest, less moody, more willing to be vulnerable.

I am learning to trust.
I am learning to be me.

Now I am sharing my writing.
I am putting it out there, even through fear.

Now I understand there doesn’t have to be a what.
And that’s scary. But I’m here. I’m not leaving.

I come back to that.
Now I am.

–

The cadence makes me nervous.
The content makes me cringe.

(breathe…) Just be.

Face burns, stomach turns. I feel tingly.

I need to paint the sky.
About to pass out.

I feel scared of being.
No identity.
I feel scared of me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

Posted in Journal, Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

I am from…

Posted on March 21, 2012 by

7 minute writing from the prompt “I am from…”

3-21-12     2:52pm

I am from brown carpet and air, a place the sun sometimes shines.

I am from stripped cars and “don’t make any noise” and “get down.”

I am from “hide.”

I am from hospitals and nursing homes.
I am from watching the almost dead.

I am from the place in my soul that screams DANCE!

I am from me.

I am from the places I try not to remember – of pain and drugs and heartache.

Sometimes I forget where I’m from.
Sometimes I try not to remember.

I am from “do it perfect or I’ll leave you.”

I am from “you’re a horrible person.”

I am from the place that pushed me to move on, to run away, to save my life.

I am tired of being from. So now I just am.

I was from.

Now I am.

(thought continued in “Now I am…”)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

Posted in Journal, Poetry | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment

I had a birthday recently

Posted on March 21, 2012 by

3/21/12     1:45pm

I had a birthday recently. I just remembered this. I never responded to the 150 or so posts on FB – not because I’m rude. I just couldn’t deal with it.

It seems I have a birthday every other year. One year of party, one year of hiding. This was supposed to be an on year. My prediction was wrong.

This year I wanted to celebrate being alive, to treasure the gift. It didn’t quite work that way.

(too painful)

Breathe…

Need to sing it or throw it up out of me. My head hurts. The words are backed up in me. About to explode – no sound. I think I should take less Seroquel. Three pounds of water weight in 3 days.

I’m sitting in my yard pulling cattails (the weed). Jenny’s excited to go to Possum Trot with us. I’m second guessing my offer. I am SO tired. SO hurting. I cannot make it rain.

I had a birthday recently, a great lunch with a friend and an entire day’s meltdown. Loud weepy crying spells. I locked myself in the garage, bathroom & car. I smartly went to hear music and unsmartly tried to drink. I had a birthday.

I am now 26. I never celebrated 25. Like it never happened. I don’t want to be 26. I want to be 25. Divisible by five, a nice round number. I don’t like even age numbers. 26 starts the Sex & the City part of life. I don’t own enough pairs of heels. Yet somehow I’m here, sitting barefoot on a towel on my lawn in the shade of shirts on the clothesline pondering my age. I don’t even feel 18.

I don’t want to remember but I hate that I can’t. I see snapshots. Re-experience. The rest is blank. Sometimes I ask people what they remember about me because I can’t. They’re confused. Well, honey, so am I.

Angela (my birthday lunch friend) said she’s been honored to watch me grow through the years into who I am now. Who am I now? I don’t remember. I tried to think of what changed me, something. The only thing in my mind was when I thought I was dying. It really shaped who I am, gave me a platform. I don’t take as much shit anymore. I appreciate. I hold dear. I am more grounded in my work. I feel steady knowing I know my shit and that no one can take that from me.

(pause to freak out about new freckles)

11 years ago yesterday I entered the hospital for the first time. 11 years ago tomorrow there was a shooting at my school. It’s been a long 11 years.

(call from S- to say M- is married. tears.)

I’m tempted to say I’m happy for him, but I’m not. Good people have good people. I’m not one of those people. Why didn’t J- just tell me instead of saying it was crazy, I was crazy? Why not just wear a ring or post it on your FB profile? Much easier. Nothing is easier.

(hear “Do You Love Me?” from Fiddler)

Watching a dizzy ant.
Sometimes crazy doesn’t deserve to be loved.

I would like to throw up my gut. Then maybe I wouldn’t hurt so much.

There is a place in everland.
Fall behind the glass.
Where people fall out of touch.
They lie right on the grass.
Behind the glass
For all to see.

Happily ever after land,
A place that taunts me,
Haunts me.
I watch them go there.
(quiet)

It all falls away.

I had a birthday recently. I’d rather not remember.

(rocking)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

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My bitter love isn’t

Posted on March 21, 2012 by

3/20/12     10:25pm

Something magical between S- and M- tonight. I am left with a feeling of peace, calm. The most beautiful set – emotional, powerful, soft. He had a realization. He shared some music with her. I watched. I treasure the privilege. It was a moment, her listening, him watching intently. A love. A piece of magic.

I wish I had something like that. Not a romantic love, but a trust. A history. A hug.

I am so grateful to share in the energy, to talk with S-. To pretend. Maybe if I imagine it I can live it in my head. I’ll be loved and no one can get to me. Love will protect me. Bitter love.

- doesn’t know I like him. And he doesn’t like me back. And that’s okay. Bitter love. The silence doesn’t go away.

Dear God,

I watch the dots pass by me.
I am not in control.
You drive my car down many paths.
I am not in control.
The dots pass by. I fill with light.
I am fire. And then I am ash.
But I am not in control.

Be, they say, not do. But how?
Please, God. How?

The dots pass by.
I listen and breathe.

-M

My sadness fills rivers.
My heart, it shrivels.
My body is in pain.
I am alone.
I am alone.
-

Jesus, I can’t feel you. Are you there? I’m scared. I choose love but feel fear. I feel alone. Am I alone? Why can’t I feel love? Is it a brain thing? It just is. Everything just is. Could you make everything isn’t? I’d appreciate that.

My toes are cold. The tv is on. I’d like it if is were isn’t. Would life be better in isn’t? I don’t know. Please, bitter love, love me or go away. My bitter love isn’t.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

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When I lost…

Posted on March 21, 2012 by

4 minute writing exercise at a workshop

3-17-12     11:30am

When I lost my faith I stopped dancing. When I lost my dancing I lost me. Somewhere in a corner she is locked up, crying quietly. I lost me. I don’t understand. She understands less. When I lost my faith, I lost me.

I used to believe I could do anything, that somehow God had blessed me and I would do good. But now I do this. They say this is me. But in the mirror she’s not what I see. When I lost my faith, I lost me. I miss being me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

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Polka Dots & Puppy Dogs

Posted on February 27, 2012 by

2-27-12     12am

I’m sitting in my living room working on my friend’s MacBook Pro, with which I am falling in love. We are helping my mom with an aptitude test online and I can faintly hear the radio coming from my room.

I haven’t journaled in some time. I’m afraid to open the book. And when I do I just draw. I drew a picture today of my feelings. It was a bit weird. I send bizarre emails to my therapist and have started walking in circles talking to myself again. There is simply too much going on in my life. But my friend’s boyfriend fixed my wifi so I can work from the couch. I also love her dog. Quite helpful. And my cat is readjusting to life with a dog in the house.

I know I haven’t blogged in forever. I’m sorry. There just hasn’t been anything I can really say online. I’ve been having a lot of really intense symptoms mental health wise and some nasty body symptoms as well. My body is just freakin’ out and they finally found something wrong with me. But not something definitive. They’re slowly trying to figure out what’s going on with my neck/throat. I’m having trouble swallowing and throwing up and choking. The muscles connected to my larynx are popping and it hurts to sing. And apparently I have a nodule on my thyroid. So I went for a barium swallowing test and upper GI series and will have a biopsy of the nodule. I don’t really care what comes of it. I just need it to be over.

I just finished helping teach a clogging class at an elementary school. I had so much fun. It was physically more than I could really handle, but I loved the kids and having a reason to be out of my house. I also started bowling again. I didn’t go this week but I really like it. And the bowling alley cafe has awesome food.

My mom’s looking for a job. I’m trying to make meaning of my life. And it’s almost my birthday. I seem to have a birthday every other year and this is an on year. Last year I had a non-birthday. This year I want to celebrate. I’m not sure how but I’ll figure something out. I’m alive and I’m grateful. I pray a lot more these days. Give myself over to God. I realize that I have no control over my life and that scares me. But instead of just being scared I can acknowledge that I don’t have to be scared alone, that He is always with me.

I don’t know what’s going on or how to fix it. I know not the how or why. I’m just cruisin’. Sticking to one moment at a time. Not trying to write a masterpiece here but just a note to say I’m still alive and haven’t forgotten this thing called a blog. I’m just in the middle of a twister right now waiting to get out. Having some fun. When the writing comes back I will blog again.

Take home message: I recently discovered I love bowling alley corndogs and I’m now in love with new version of leggings. I now like wearing dresses. And I’m getting tired of pizza. I thought I wanted a dog, until I lived with one and realized they don’t purr. If dogs purred, they’d be close to perfect pets. I love having a friend living here. I wish I was the one looking for a place to live. I feel scared a lot. I miss my tv. I haven’t gone to jazz in a long time and the void is rotting my brain. I still love laundry. I still want to feed the ducks. And I still love NCIS and stickers. I wear a lot of mismatched things now. I love polka dots, and all things sparkly. I’d really like to pay my bills. And going to an awful board meeting today made me appreciate my board meetings SO much more. I love being alive. Finally.

Love, Michelle

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

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You’re Just You: Wisdom from the Voice in My Head

Posted on January 22, 2012 by

1/22/12     12:25pm

What’s wrong with you? You’re just you. Nobody else could be you. And they wouldn’t want to if they knew what it meant. And you’re pretty damn good at it. So keep doin’ it. You’re the only one who knows how.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

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I am not a teacher

Posted on January 18, 2012 by

1/17/12     3:44pm

I was thinking about Mrs. Lindsay asking if I want to be a teacher. I would LOVE to be a teacher. But I think my adherence to rules is quite lacking. I do things my own way, follow my own rules. I couldn’t get through college. My options would be plenty if I had finished.

Teaching dance is something I love to do. In my own time and my own way. I get to use my quirks to help others understand. And to understand them on their way. This kid came up to me today and told me his aunt died. I don’t know why. People tell me things. They always have.

In my 6th grade yearbook we all had to answer where we thought we’d be in 10 years. I said I’d be on Broadway or teaching kindergarten. (sad) It’s almost 15 years later. (sad) I am successful in what I do. But it’s not Michelle. How do I find Michelle?

Kids think I’m a teacher. I buy school supplies, love glitter and often carry markers. I color-code, categorize and specialize in creating systems to increase efficiency. I own a billion dry erase boards and use them every day. Systems, colors. I use sticker charts to pay my bills. And I live at Staples. But I’m not a teacher. I’m just me.

I don’t know how I got here. It was so great to see everyone today. I wish I had something great to tell them. I am the kingpin of a local non-profit. I run my own empire. Pretty cool when worded that way. I want to want me.

I miss teaching SO much. But I am not a teacher.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

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