Category Archives: Journal

Insincerity is NOT a benchmark of adulthood

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9-2-11

Insincerity is NOT a benchmark of adulthood. It is a result of being brainwashed. And it is what lands us all in therapy.

What is the first thing our parents teach us when we’re little? Don’t lie. And what is the second thing they teach us? To lie. How are you feeling? No, you don’t feel that way. That doesn’t hurt. You shouldn’t say things like that (even though they’re true). Don’t lie. Didn’t I tell you not to lie? Are you listening to me? Don’t lie now. Gosh, wasn’t that movie amazing? (NO) We are taught to say only what others want to hear, that our feelings don’t matter and that we should not, by any means, ever share the ones that aren’t pretty. And definitely never tell the truth.

So when they ask us how we’re feeling, we’re “fine.” And everything inside us is a raging wildfire burning us alive but there’s no one to tell it to. And we’ve been told for so long that our feelings are not valid or real that we now don’t even know what we’re actually feeling. Or some people claim to have stopped feeling at all. And then one day we go crazy. We scream at the boss or blow up a car or run through the streets naked yelling something about George Bush and Al Gore making love at Burning Man in a pig-filled mud pit. And everyone says that we’re crazy. Oh, he was such a nice boy. But really, we’re not crazy at all. We’re just fucked up due to brainwashing that tells us we shouldn’t and therefore don’t feel the way we do and, IF we still do, that we should NEVER communicate it. (sigh) Seriously.

And it takes many years of therapy to learn to trust and to know what we’re feeling and to TELL THE TRUTH. Holy God, that’s a difficult task. Most people are truth-intolerant, you know that? They just don’t want to know. When they ask how I feel they don’t really want an answer. If I tell them, their response is certainly not helpful. Then I feel ashamed because I certainly must’ve done something wrong by HAVING that feeling AND by sharing it. Oh gosh. Now what do I do with this shame I now feel about having a feeling and the guilt I now feel ‘cuz I can’t tell anyone about my shame because that’s not something I can share either. Guess it’s another secret I have to keep.

And again, “How are you doing?” “Fine.”
Inner dialogue: DAMN, I hate my life. Nobody listens to me. Nobody cares. I’m all alone.
Inner therapist: They can’t know what you don’t tell them, Michelle.
Me: But they don’t want to know! AHHHHHHHH!

And again, “How are you?” “Fine.”
Inner dialogue: This is never going to end. I should kill myself now.
Inner therapist: Probably.

And again, “How are you doing?” “AAAAAHHHHH! I FUCKING HATE YOU!!!!!”
Other person: “What a bitch.”
Me: Damn straight. Get the fuck out of my way.

This is not a part of adulthood. This is some fucked up shit.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Overwhelmed by Technology

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9/2/11     1pm

I feel overwhelmed by people and technology. And noise and light and everything else. But right now it’s technology.

Can you name 10 things you interact with every day that don’t require electricity, aren’t connected to the internet, and don’t run on batteries? I’m not against these things but they’re taking over my life. My 10 are my journal, purple pen, cat, furniture, backyard… Well, I guess I don’t have 10.

I find myself surrounded by technology, which isn’t always a bad thing, but people use this technology to get to me. Something is always beeping or ringing or my mom’s phone alarm is going off. She sets that thing for EVERYTHING completely unimportant. Between email, FB, phone, text, SoU and Google+ I am completely available to harass all the time. I’ve taken up reading on my phone, which is great for the 15 seconds it’s not beeping, buzzing or ringing. I wish I never got a smart phone. And I got an i-pod touch from a friend recently when mine disappeared. I’m very grateful to have portable music but I can’t stand the damn thing. Touch is not my mecca. Give me buttons. I want to control it with my eyes shut. It adds to the confusion, the overwhelmedness. WHY IS EVERYTHING SO COMPLICATED?

And all these damn things emit their own energy. Energy, energy, energy. Even when they’re silent they make themselves known. And simply looking at them I’m overwhelmed. Everything is on the computer these days. WHAT HAPPENED TO PEN AND PAPER? I’m FREAKIN’ OUT. 

My two phones, i-pod, camera, tv, microwave, computer and radios should NOT be running my life. The first thing I see when I wake up shouldn’t be email. I do not want to be addicted to my smart phone, dependent on technology. I even need my scanner now to communicate with my doctor. The machines are taking over.

I HATE YOU.

I could turn them off but that would be allowing myself to a) admit I’m not important, b) possibly miss something important, or c) deal with my own thoughts. Even more overwhelming.

I am so agitated right now. I need drugs.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Showgirls & A Funeral

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8-17-11     8:15pm

So, I was just accosted by scantily-clad feathered apathetic showgirls following a traveling Mardi Gras brass band in the middle of a casino. In August. I just came from the best funeral ever. Duck-feeding, bubble-blowing, swings, walking in circles, good music, and more good food than I could ever eat all on a lake at sunset at the end of summer with a cool breeze. Now I’m listening to warm thick syrup flow in my ears and throughout my body. (dreamy sigh) I’m wearing a pretty dress. The only normal thing about today was seeing Jim. I like it. :)

I always wanted to be a showgirl. I know. It sounds weird. Shut up. It was my dream to be beautiful and wear feathers and dance on tables at casinos. I told my mother this in high school. She flipped. Understandable. But really, what else is a young dancer gonna get paid for that doesn’t involve college, teaching children or stripping? Unfortunately, I took the wrong drugs and got fat and now I am destined to a life of watching other showgirls who SUCK while inhaling smoke and writing about life.


For some reason this casino doesn’t allow cameras. For some reason I don’t care. ;) There are these awesome silver globes hanging from the ceiling. I want to lay on my back and just stare at them like stars. The wall beyond keeps changing colors and Allison glows. Ah, such a wonderful
night.

Why do old people like casinos? What is it about flashing lights and large displays of food that makes them want to give their money away? Hmmm… If only we could mimic this effect…

Gold dust at my feet, on the sunny side of the street.
–
It is the soft rain that makes the fire worth bearing. “I Wish You Love”

“Living there you’ll be free if you truly wish to be.”

You know, there is a point at which I can no longer tolerate anything touching me, including clothes. Gets interesting when that point happens in a casino. I go home tonight with a purse full of lingerie and jewelry. Lol.

What a day. What a day.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

You are confused and you are searching

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Yes, I am. Stop reading my mind.

I don’t know what’s going on.
It’s hard to breathe and move and walk.
I am so tired. Can’t tell if I’m hungry.

I don’t know what I’m searching for and have little energy to do it.
Awhile back I was searching desperately for the answer to what’s wrong with me. Now I just watch it work. I guess it’s like learned helplessness. I’ve spent so many years listening to doctors tell me there’s nothing wrong with me that even when I know something is really wrong I don’t waste my energy telling them because it’s not worth the hurt. It hurts when they try to convince me I’m fine. I’m not stupid. I’m not making things up. I wish I had someone who believed me AND was qualified to help. And who took my insurance, of course. Good luck with that.

I put on my FB last night, “I’m enjoying my life.” I am.
—-
Last year was about freaking out and struggling and growing and learning how to die. How to accept. This year is about fun, letting go. Learning who I am and how to enjoy me. To relax and just have fun. This is what I’ve got. This is me.

I was angry today. I remembered a few nights ago my mom once told me I passed out when I was little. I finally remembered again today and asked her what happened. She said I fell and hit my head on something when I was 2 or 3, “a table or something.” Apparently I was out for “a few minutes” and had a concussion. I don’t know how she never thought this was relevant to tell me. Just like I never knew my grandpa died of heart disease until last week. SO IMPORTANT! (sigh) I knew I had a history of head trauma but… How could she think that was unimportant? At the very least it skews the data for every research study I’ve ever been in.
—

I’m trying to watch the Tonys. I can do a few minutes at a time. I feel agitated but very weak. A quite annoying plight. It’s like trying to light a cigarette with a match in the rain.

Breathing…
I’m so tired…
Just breathe.

Confusion makes everything clearer.
I’m waiting for the answer to come to me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Looking Good:

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6-7-11         6:10pm

I look good today. My favorite pink shirt that makes me look skinny, the black capris I like.

I’m sitting in a CBT lecture about the purpose of feelings. I’m glad that I’m here but I can’t follow the lecture. It’s not organized enough for me. I just came from Office Depot. I landed there after an “Ooo, Shiny” moment.

My voicemail system kept telling me I was entering the wrong password, not reading my entries and shutting me out. After 3 tries I called Verizon, whose system also shut me out, twice. And I started screaming. I screamed at my phone, slammed it into my journal a few times and threw it in the back seat. And magically Office Depot appeared. Oooo, shiny.

I asked my mom to pull over and explored the store for awhile, where I discovered my next project find. I brought my mom in and bought the stuff and she helped me return some stuff. But they charged me the wrong price. Something I could not deal with. I wandered away and sat by a trash can and just kept repeating, “I don’t understand. Why can’t it make sense?” She fixed it but tried to tell me when that happens I have to do something. I told her there’s a difference between knowing I need to do something and actually being able to do it.

I saw my psychiatrist today. I told him all about the past few weeks. I consulted my mood chart to remember. He said, “That’s sad. Your brain is playing tricks on you.” No shit, Dr. N. Lol. He always says, “You should see a shrink.” He makes me laugh. He said I should go to BYU (clog camp). He thinks it’ll be good for me. I’m scared but I think it’ll be good for me too.

This lecture is a weird mix of pieces from other lectures. Like leftover therapy stew.

(walk around the garden talking to myself)

Today I asked my mom, “What is a turkey sandwich?” Dr. N says my brain just checks out, shuts down in times of acute stress. But I can’t remember what was so stressful. I think a combination of the extreme stress from Dr. T and my session with Jim last week. But they were not close together. I’m surprised I’m not more stressed by or dwelling on the lack of music in my life. The days just fade into each other and I forget. I’ve been watching DVDs lately. I never watch DVDs.

Gosh I love this garden.
I’m convinced today someone turned the stone fountain. But I’m pretty sure it’s me. I’d like to sit here every day. On the bench under the trellis, listening to the waterfall, walking the labyrinth, staring at the fish. Watching the bubbles slide down the stone fountain. The lavender bush on the path. Today there’s a detox girl walking with her visitor. She talks and talks and talks.

I picked a fuzzy pea pod off the trellis plant. I wish I could sit here every day. Where the world stops for a moment and I find me, looking good. What a day.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

The choice is clear

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6-6-11

The choice is never clear.

I made a decision today – to go to clog camp next week. In Utah. With my mom. For $340.

I haven’t been to clog camp since 2004. I really want to go but my gut says No. It’s a lot a lot of money but that’s not the only reason why. I don’t feel safe to go. I don’t feel healthy enough. I just want to be me again. You know? Maybe just for a weekend. To not be confused or scared. To dance like everyone’s watching. To feel confident and free.

I remember feeling that way at clog camp. On top of the world. With people I love. They call me The Machine. For my steel trap memory. We eat popsicles in the late afternoon.

The choice is never clear.
Nor is the question. I don’t even know what it is. What am I asking?

Why am I going?
What is the purpose?
Will I get to go again?
If I go will I be able to handle it? If I can’t, what happens next?
If I don’t go, will I be able to forgive myself for my illness stealing my dream?

(sigh) Wow.
The choice is never clear.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

I am the yellow clock – unabridged

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6-5-11     11:12pm

I am afraid of this clock.
I found it staring up at me from a pile of magazine clippings.
This clock is my life.

I have no concept of time, which usually doesn’t bother me. But lately the things I have in place of numbers have fallen away and I am not able to navigate very well. My confusion is growing by the day, and I can’t process or remember things. I am so tired. I don’t know what’s going on.

I am the yellow clock.
My motor keeps on ticking, even though my hands are broken and my numbers have fallen away. I would buy it. The tick’s all I care about anyway. I don’t want to know what time it is.

Time increases my anxiety. You have to do this right away or that by tomorrow. Hurry up. Call him now. Answer the phone. Have you sent that email? Did you prepare for tomorrow? What’s tomorrow? I don’t even know today. And I don’t care about tomorrow. Can’t you see?

I don’t know what’s going on in my brain. Whatever it is is good at what it’s doing. Last year I thought I was gonna die, and I didn’t. But I’m not convinced that I’m here to stay. Or even if I am how much longer I will be Michelle. I’m scared because I don’t know it, I can’t control it and it won’t go away. It is slowly taking me.

The clock cannot fight the clock maker. I can’t even see what He’s doing. I just watch how it affects me. I once was an intelligent person. Now it’s a struggle to order dinner. I don’t understand things. My emotions are not in my control. I don’t read. I write when I can. And can is fading. I can’t remember. (staring…) Please.

I am the yellow clock.
If you find me please tell me what time it is and what that time means.

—–

What is the purpose of a clock?
To be a foundation, a guide. To know what’s going on at all times and to be right.
To always be on, to be perfect, to propel the world.

So what happens when a clock does not work anymore? How do I become an art piece? What do I do when it’s my job to sound the alarm and I don’t know what time it is? When I am the fire alarm and I’ve forgotten what fire is? When I know what fire is but I can’t make a sound?

I don’t know how to be an art piece. I just know I need to learn.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

I am the yellow clock

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6-5-11     11:12pm

I am afraid of this clock.
I found it staring up at me from a pile of magazine clippings.
This clock is my life.

I have no concept of time, which usually doesn’t bother me. But lately the things I have in place of numbers have fallen away and I am not able to navigate very well. My confusion is growing by the day, and I can’t process or remember things. I am so tired. I don’t know what’s going on.

I am the yellow clock.
My motor keeps on ticking, even though my hands are broken and my numbers have fallen away. I would buy it. The tick’s all I care about anyway. I don’t want to know what time it is.

Time increases my anxiety. You have to do this right away or that by tomorrow. Hurry up. Call him now. Answer the phone. Have you sent that email? Did you prepare for tomorrow? What’s tomorrow? I don’t even know today. And I don’t care about tomorrow. Can’t you see?

I don’t know what’s going on in my brain. Whatever it is is good at what it’s doing. Last year I thought I was gonna die, and I didn’t. But I’m not convinced that I’m here to stay. Or even if I am how much longer I will be Michelle. I’m scared because I don’t know it, I can’t control it and it won’t go away. It is slowly taking me.

The clock cannot fight the clock maker. I can’t even see what He’s doing. I just watch how it affects me. I once was an intelligent person. Now it’s a struggle to order dinner. I don’t understand things. My emotions are not in my control. I don’t read. I write when I can. And can is fading. I can’t remember. (staring…) Please.

I am the yellow clock.
If you find me please tell me what time it is and what that time means.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

I feel

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5-16-11       11:36pm

I feel so sad… Like I’m wearing a cape of sad. It’s gray and warm. It weighs me down. I have to carry it everywhere with me. Doesn’t carry it’s own weight.

I am so tired. Tired lives with sad. It comes in purple polka dots and rides along on the cape. It won’t let go. It won’t let go of me. It becomes part of the sad.

I am so angry. It sets my sad on fire but the tired puts it out. I’m afraid of my anger. It’s not afraid of me. It ravages me insides, takes my life. But all they see is sad & tired. It’s so important to me and nobody sees.

I need to take a class on anger. Not how to “manage” it but how to feel it. How to own that I’m angry and not have it eat me. How to coexist. How to do that.

I feel. I feel. I feel. (sigh)
Then I don’t.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Soooo…

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3-29-11 11:43am

I know I haven’t blogged in forever. Sorry about that. My blog starts in my journal and there hasn’t been much I could put online.

I wanted to check in, let you know I’m not dead. I spent 3 weeks in the hospital trying to get my meds right. Still working on that. Not even close. Tweaking my list of diagnoses. Dealing with voices in my head, confusion, and big mood swings. Random happiness. I’m functioning more efficiently than a month ago… It’s not good.

I went to a clog convention this weekend that was a short reprieve from the madness, polka-dotted with madness. I’m so grateful for Scotty. And for learning I still can dance. Pain or not, it’s do-able. And I decided I should teach dance again and came up with this grand plan. I brainstormed all day and was so happy. And then I got home. And now none of it seems possible. I don’t understand. A friend wrote on my FB wall, “Michelle has returned from her alternate life on Planet Scotty to the real world on Planet Shit.” Exactly. It’s like detox.

My mom’s having surgery tomorrow. Instead of spending time with me she’s cleaning the house. What? She’s freaking out about it. My doctor told her I am NOT to take care of her.

(break for Mom to freak out in apology for something she didn’t do. I can’t take this. I feel like I’m gonna throw up. And I’m pissed.)

I went to my group last night. I just wanted to talk. Instead I facilitated the most intense group of my life. My stalker is back and came to my group. I also had a very manic guy. I’m really glad I had a good group there to help. I can’t do this. I am alone.

Right now I am supposed to be supportive and empathetic of my mom, productive for my choir and the group, and effective at taking care of myself. Well, I’m not. I’m angry and sad and completely NOT effective. My new med’s making me fat. And I don’t know what to do. It is simply too much.

Soooo… I stopped for a moment to pass you a note. (deep breath). Lady Gaga sings “Just Dance” behind me. You have no idea.

-Michelle

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Remember

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2-20-11                4:30pm

Some things should just stay forgotten. I found something today, something I didn’t remember existed. A book of notes from the cast of My Fair Lady. In it were so many memories and accolades, things I need to hear and things I wish I had never found. Not because they’re not wonderful but because they are too difficult to read. I miss that life. It was a very hard time for me but it was the best. It is so far away now. And I am not in the theater. And I’m not doing what I love. Yet it’s here, in this box, reminding me what I’m not. What I could be. What I was. What I don’t want to remember. It wasn’t all bad. I wasn’t all bad.

I don’t want to remember anymore.

M

I am not touched

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1/11/11 2:10am

I just got an email that says, “We have all been touched by the tragic event in Arizona.” (sigh… twice) I am so angry to keep hearing about this thing. I’ve been trying to lower my stress level. I get stressed very easily. Confused very easily. I had just succeeded in lowering my blood pressure to a non-explosive level and was calmly sitting in my aunt’s kitchen when she handed me the paper with the headline “Congresswoman Shot in the Head.” Really? I immediately could not breathe and my heart was pounding. Not because I care about this woman. It was an involuntary response. I skipped that article but read a tiny one about Obama and the whole Wikileaks thing. And I was so upset. Why? It’s all out of my control.

I’m not touched by the event in Arizona. I really don’t give a shit. The dj on the radio was freaking out about it, comparing it to the Kennedy assasination and 9/11. What? Do you not have anything better to worry about? Maybe something concerning your own life or family? Sure, I could be a news junky and devote my life to being distressed about every horrible thing in the world. But I prefer to spend my energy on doing things I enjoy and caring for people I love. Is that really such a bad thing?

I don’t watch the news. I don’t read the paper. If it’s really that important someone will tell me. I take a sweater and an umbrella if it’s cloudy. Everything else will settle on its own. Why can’t people understand that? Do not assume that I am touched.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

More about Jenga

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1/4/11     9:49pm

I saw Dr. T today. I made it through my appointment without crying. By the time I left, my lips and eyes were twitching, I was fighting my urge to vomit and couldn’t breathe. I took some Xanax, sat in the sun on his steps and sang “Lord, I Love You.” Then I got cinnastix from Pizza Hut and potato soup and salad from Outback. Then I went to sleep. I just woke up.

I texted S- earlier. She really sucks at empathy but it was nice to interact. I was gonna go to the cog lecture with M- but I need to knock myself out.

I didn’t go to Mom’s appointment today but I sent questions to ask the doc and notes. She’d told me there was a tear (singular) and I assumed this surgery would be simpler, less difficult to recover from. But she didn’t ask what her most recent MRI means ’til today. She has 4 tears again, like last time, but THIS time she may have “blown her bicep.” What? As well as redoing a more complicated version of last year’s surgery, he may have to “cut through and reroute” the muscle.

She didn’t seem concerned as she told me this. I stayed as calm as I could. I asked what happens if this doesn’t work, since she only has workman’s comp until August. She doesn’t know. (deep breath…)

I just sit here, not numb but not feeling, eating hot dogs, repulsed by the sound and light from the tv. Make it rain, please. I’m sleepy.

When the Jenga tower is falling, it’s scary. But once I’m on the ground in the rubble it doesn’t matter anymore. I just stare and wait. I texted S- earlier that I feel like my life is a Jenga game and someone just toppled the tower. She sucks at empathy. Kiwis in a shoe store is a lesson I never learn. She said, “Well then change it and don’t let anyone control the tower but you.” “I am the tower,” I said. “Well be the board too,” she replied. I don’t think she’s ever played Jenga.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Jenga: Life Edition

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1/4/11     3:24am

I keep thinking “I feel like I’m going crazy.” I know it’s a thought. I’m experiencing crazy.

Last night I slept in a chair in my living room. By 4am, several hours into an SVU marathon, I was so confused. I felt my eyes melt and roll down my face and was convinced the computer chair in the kitchen was going to kill me. It was safer just to sleep. I went to group tonight. I did pretty well except for not being aware enough of the people around me, which is something I’m usually good at. I expect decompensation in the winter and summer but I’m not sure how to combat it. Jenga explains everything.

If you’ve ever played Jenga you know there are 3 blocks at the base of that skinny tower holding everything up. The object of the game is to remove as many pieces as possible placing them on top to make it taller. Each of the other levels starts with 3 pieces too but the foundation is the most important. For me those blocks are Music, Safety/Food/Sleep, and Therapy.


If I don’t have the safety piece, music and therapy can still hold me up. But if music and therapy/support are out and it all rests on food & sleep, anything can topple the tower.

Right now the whole thing is teetering. I’m on the edge looking down. Don’t take that piece! But it’s scheduled to be taken the 19th, like wisdom teeth. And I don’t know what to do.

The blocks higher up in Jenga: Life Edition don’t seem equally as strong as the wooden ones.

(click)…

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Melting

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1-3-11     2:46am

My eyes
They melt & run down my face
Law & Order will not make me better
I feel confused, distracted
Stressed.

I feel so sad
So desperate & lonely
I miss S-
I need a hug.

I work really hard to stay stable…
But I can’t control what goes on outside me.
I can’t be on my own.
It makes me crazy.

I haven’t seen S- in 2 weeks.
Mind keeps telling me she’s dead,
I’ll never see her again,
I’ll be alone forever.
I’m cranky.
I fight with my mom.

I don’t understand.
My brain works slowly.
Annoyed M- in the card game.
Let me work at my pace.

I don’t want to go
Please don’t leave me.
Please
Please
You’re hurting me.

If you take down the walls of an aquarium, how’s the water supposed to stay in?
Holes take longer but you still lose it all.

Jenga explains everything.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Wilting

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1-2-11     3:12pm

I feel like crying. I feel very alone and I don’t know what to do. I’m sitting on my bed. Just came in from writing about trees after storming out because Mom was bugging me. If you ask for my help you can’t get mad at me for not doing it YOUR way – “the right way.”

I stood outside for awhile hearing Silent Night. I am so confused yet so aware. And so tired… My season is gray. I am surrounded by stupidity, evil, things that make no sense, things I wish didn’t make sense. And it’s all beyond my reach. I’ve been trying to convince my mom to get a dog. I can’t even take care of myself.

In all likelihood, soon I won’t remember this and I will feel pleasantly confused and tuned out. But I’m not there yet. There are windows of reality to endure. Mom doesn’t understand why I’m  mad. And she thinks I’m mad at her. I’m usually not. And there’s no way to fix it. It just is. Need some disco and a nap.
—
I am wilting. I am laying on wet leaves in the forest staring up through the trees at the sky. I know the wolf is coming, the flood. I just need to lay here.

Reality is contagious. Careful where you point that thought.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Tree Seasons

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1-2-11     2:52pm

There are 3 trees and a daisy bush that I watch from my back stoop. They teach me about life. (pause)

I’ve been watching them lose their leaves and wondering what they must be thinking.

Why are you leaving me?
Oh my God, what’s happening?!
No! No! Please! That one is my favorite!
He’s my best friend!
I’m cold.
Why isn’t anyone helping me?

Then humans come in and cut off branches completely out of their control and haul off their leaves on the ground.

It’s much like our lives. And it happens in seasons. But do they know? Do they understand? Is the tree freaked out by this major loss or does it understand what is happening, why? Is there an innate acceptance that this is what is and any attempts to stop it are futile?

Each of the trees is in a different stage of unleafing. I wonder if they compare themselves to one another and feel jealous or proud.

Why does HE still have leaves?
Haha! Sucker. I have more than YOU do.
You all lose. I’m leafless first.

What do they think of the nonshedding trees? Is there grief over the loss? It got me thinking about the cycle of grief.

Life has cycles, like trees, but not Kubler-Ross’s five cycles. I believe there are four, matched to the seasons. Love (summer), Loss (fall), Grief (winter), and Acceptance (spring). They can change at any time for any reason but in my life they tend to go in this order.

Love (intense feeling) could be a person, a project, an idea or ideal. Loss (involuntary action) is its fall from dream-state, it’s emerging reality of flaws or its actual loss. Grief (reaction) is the processing of loss, reaction to a lack of control, and reassessment of who we are without this and why we are still here. And Acceptance is the freedom to move on openly knowing we will lose again but embracing the moment anyway.

Some days I look in the mirror and am surprised at my leaf count. I thought there were 3 left. I was sure of it. But today they are gone. And it’s cold. And the daisy bush is dead. I know just on the outside but that is all I see.

What are your tree seasons?

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© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Garth Therapy

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12-31-10     4:57pm

I’m sitting in the car outside Albertson’s listening to Garth Double Live. Mom’s in freak out mode for the party tonight, that starts in 3 hours. (deep breathing…)

I want to trade my Wii for Possum Trot. I really want to go to BYU but I think Possum is more attainable. As long as Scotty’s there… Yep. He’s there.

I really need some stuff to look forward to. Right now I am groundless. No choir, no S-, no jazz, no talking in group, no dance, no predictable non-stressful social interations, nothing fun coming up on the calendar. No real reason to be here. I don’t want to not be here. I just need meaning and purpose and fun. Time for me to relax and to be productive and to play, scheduled, with other people, regularly.

Sitting alone in a dark car listening to Garth & writing is therapeutic.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010