8-29-10 12ish pm
I feel happy, warm inside. Just saw K- in the bathroom. She said, “Keep your head up.” I do. I told her I feel more happy now that I’m sicker than when I was less sick. It’s weird, but nice. Last night was wonderful and then difficult, but today is good again. And I am so grateful for this moment.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
This is part blog, part letter.
8-29-10 1:52am
Comfort. Bliss. Pain. (clogging)
There is no feeling I know that tops twirling on a dance floor while clogging with people I love. There are people here this weekend that I’ve known forever and love dearly, whom I never see. They are my family. I just want to be near them. I’ve not much to say. I just want to be close. There’s something special about not having to say anything…
(fight with Mom)
Breathing. Tears. I don’t want to leave this place. I don’t want to go home tomorrow. Not because nothing bad ever happens here but because with these people I know it will be okay. That I will be okay. And I’m not.
I just watched Boston Legal. I went to a gathering last night of friends and it felt so good to have fun, to laugh and feel happy. And to be physically close to people. There are hugs here that make me feel loved…
I don’t see a lot of people like that. And sitting next to one makes me happy and sad. Happy and grateful for the moment and sad that it’s ending. I long to be close to someone, to be held and comforted and loved. To have someone to curl up with, a hand to hold. Instead I have a pillow at the end of a hotel hallway, a purple pen and a journal. And an angry mom sulking in a hotel room over me not putting my pajamas on. What the fuck? Yeah, I’m bitter. (deep breath…) Crying.
Your life is fundamentally at odds with the world. Therefore nature rejects you. (Failure to Launch)
—
This weekend has not been about illness or drama. My illness has affected my dancing but no one has asked me about it. No one’s asked much of anything. It’s been nice to have a break but it feels like this huge secret. I have this big clogging family and they’d be supportive if they knew (I imagine). But they don’t…
I cried at Lynnda’s slideshow tonight not because I knew her well but because I think of that stuff. I wonder what will happen when I die, who will notice, what the service will be like. I cried for me. In case you’re wondering, when I die you should dance. And if there’s a slideshow, please splice the music smoothly and don’t use “I Will Remember You.”
… I don’t have a name. I just want to dance, to feel that free feeling and the warmness of being close to you. You bring me comfort. I don’t know why. You just do. It makes my heart tingle. And for that I am grateful. Thank you.
(deeeep breath) I just wanna dance.
-M
8-23-10 2:33am
I feel peaceful tonight, calm. (big smile) Listening to worship music on YouTube.
I was thinking about Tick Tick Tick today. The ending was missing something. On the end it should say, “So let’s play.” I’m not waiting for anything. If today is what I have, I’m gonna have fun. And I think you should too. Let it rain. Feel the drops on your face and smile. (rocking but happy)
Tonight is a haze. My body hurts but I’m happy. I feel free. I don’t know or care why. I feel like something big is about to happen that God’s been preparing me for. I don’t know what, good or bad, or why. I just know that it’s coming and whatever it is He’s got my back.
I am so grateful for what He’s given me. For my unique perspective. And for the ability to see that it’s time to play. Writing last night about illness and death somehow made me happy. It peaks my anxiety, but it’s like letting go of what isn’t and grabbing on to what is. And I like what is, even if it isn’t perfect.
(wave of nausea and trouble breathing… yawn.)
I can’t speak for tomorrow, but tonight I love and accept myself. It’s like a big warm hug from God. :)
—
It feels like I’m standing in the ocean and my emotions are changed with each passing wave… but the waves aren’t knocking me down.
—
It’s time to say goodnight… It’s time to say goodnight… It’s time to say goodnight (goodnight). It’s time to say goodnight… It’s time to say goodnight… (repeat until sleeping ;) )
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
8-22-10 2:56am
I was listening to Sacha talk to this guy on Friday about his son, a singer who’s not living up to his potential. And there was something she said that sticks with me. It’s a very small and powerful phrase. “Tick tick tick.” He’s 24 and time’s a wastin’. There’s not much left.
It has a different meaning for me, but it’s generally the same.
Tick tick tick
Your life is almost over
Tick tick tick
Before you melt away
Should you stay one more day
What will you be?
Will you be free?
Will your dreams come true or will you watch them melt away, today?
Tick tick tick
I don’t know what time it is
Tick tick
Or what day, or the year
Tick
I don’t care.
I just want to be happy.
Tick
How to be happy … what was I saying?
Tick tick
I know the time is running
Tick tick tick
Faster than I can see
Tick tick tick
And soon I will catch up,
Or maybe it will catch me.
But hopefully when we meet we’ll have some good stories to tell,
Of dancing (tick) and singing (tick) and feeling mighty swell.
Cuz when we meet up (tick) I won’t be walking away.
Tick tick tick.
Just give me one more day.
I know my clock is ticking, in every meaning of the phrase. It makes me quiet and fills my face with vapor. Tick tick. (close my eyes and sigh…) I won’t be walking away.
(thought continued in So Let’s Play)
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
8-22-10 1:35am
I can’t remember what I did for my birthday this year. I remember the night before at Bing Crosby’s and the black dress. I remember at Ralphs not letting them buy me cupcakes (I don’t like Ralphs’ cupcakes.) I remember opening the four cards Mom got me and the bouquet of flowers, but I have no idea what I did that day. Maybe I was sick. I know there was a plan and that it didn’t get followed… (flash) Dinner at Rubio’s. Yes. That wasn’t the plan though. I don’t even remember if I had a party sometime that week. This concerns me as I think it’s something I SHOULD remember. Don’t you?
(break to watch the rest of “Blue Collar Comedy Tour Rides Again”)
I got out my ring last night that I bought when I tested negative for HD. I was thinking about it because last week Sacha mentioned wanting to buy herself an engagement ring and the ring I have is just that. I’d forgotten how beautiful it is. Sadly, after a few hours it hurt my finger so bad that I took it off. Apparently my fingers are fatter now. But I wondered what my reward to myself will be when I get the results of this upcoming test.
I’ve been waiting on a diagnosis for years now. And the list I was expecting from a friend is not coming so I called my neurologist Friday night on a break and told him which test I want him to order. There is one dx I’m looking at in particular. It’s called DRPLA. Good luck Googling it and finding anything useful. This is the best thing I found http://www.ataxia.org.uk/data/files/drpla.pdf. It seems to fit and I’m hoping it’s what I have – not because I want it but because I want an answer. I want a name, some validation. You know? I want to be able to say, “See, I’m not crazy. I DO have an illness and it has a name.” I’d have an answer for, “Why are you twitching?” I’d have some proof that’s it’s not, in fact, a conversion disorder but it is in my head. In my BRAIN, not my thoughts. In my fantasy today I would get this wonderful/awful news and have a Celebrate Life party. The news itself would be a relief. This part of the search would be over. However, if it’s not what I have, it would be devastating… I want to have that party. I want to know what’s going on.
I talked about it with my therapist this week. It’s great having a neurology professor as a therapist. I asked him if he had any tips on dealing with cognitive impairments and he said if it is cell death in that region of the brain the best thing I can do is dance. God is good, isn’t he? (big smile) I also bought a ping pong paddle and balls. It’s all part of the story, revealed one page at a time.
I’m so exhausted. I really should sleep now. I’m going to a piano thing tomorrow and have to be on the trolley in 8 hours. Yuck. Hopefully it’s worth it. Thanks for listening.
Love,
Michelle
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
8/20/10 1:15am
Mom is throwing a no-one-cares-about-me fit. (sigh) I hate these nights. There is so much guilt and tension. She’s stressed. I get it. No control. Life caving in. But it’s not my fault that she doesn’t talk to anyone. And I don’t appreciate her putting me down when she’s upset.
There is nothing right I could do tonight. I don’t want to talk to her. I’m not in an understanding mood. I’m NOT her friend. She drove me around today, which I’m grateful for, but now she’s mad at me for never finishing projects. I counted all the change in her piggy bank tonight and she told me to put it back in. What? And she’s constantly fighting with the cat. I know she’s into everything but it’s NOT IMPORTANT. Zoe being on the counter is not worth getting upset about. She’s not gonna learn if you’re never not mad at her. If everything is wrong, nothing is.
Zoe was stuck balancing on the door tonight and I told Mom to sit down, that scaring her wouldn’t do any good. She was so angry. She sat down at the computer and said nobody cares about her. (I have a headache now.) Then she stormed off into her room mumbling to herself.
This week she’s mad at me for not being stable, not being able to make decisions, not understanding what she says. I can’t answer your question if I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I can’t twitch my nose and be magically symptom-free. I can’t make money appear out of nowhere or make Zoe a calm kitten.
—
Today was pretty good. I saw Jim and ran errands, went to the Jazz 88 happy hour, and then to see Janice Edwards who sang “Come In From the Rain” for me. And I decided that some time in the future I want to have a baby. Even if it is selfish… And I brainstormed a new project that might actually be successful.
I may not be able to finish a sorting project. I may rock randomly and be confused easily, but I’m living my life. I’m making it. I’m doing what I need to do to get by and to be happy. I can’t make her happy.
(breathe…)
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
8-4-10 3:12am
FB Status: I feel overwhelmed. And reality is crowding my think space.
I feel so sad and lonely tonight, and there’s no one I want to talk to. I eat white cherries and breathe through my mouth because the tension is too much. Garth Brooks’ “One Night a Day.” Exactly. I miss Fantasia. Zoe doesn’t cuddle. She just looks at me confused when I cry… then licks her butt.
A friend asked today (rightly so) why I’m not blogging. Deep breath. Sometimes it’s too much. I wrote something a few days ago but didn’t have the energy to type it. I haven’t been writing much at all. I’ve been sick.
I had a few better weeks but I’m back to headaches, weakness, dizziness, trouble breathing, exhaustion, zapping (now accompanied by louder vocalizations). Sometimes I’d like to write but holding a pen is too much energy. Other times there is just nothing on my mind.
I know it is my body’s resting/recovery state but I spend a lot of time dissociated, in my own world. I can’t control it. It’s not always bad. I’m just not here. I don’t know what day or time or season or month or year it is, or where I’m supposed to be, or why I am where I am. I go places and do things but I don’t experience them, and if I do I often don’t remember. I really should find someone who can figure out what’s wrong with me, but I don’t have the energy or I forget.
Another reason I don’t write is because I can’t handle what I have to say. I’m not ready for it to be real or it isn’t something I think would be worth sharing.
I have a lot of people in my life and the only person I share with is my therapist. No one knows what’s going on, and no one asks. I got a call from a friend last night and when I hung up I wondered. When I talk to people, what is it that I talk about? What do they hear?
I know when I talk with certain people there are specific things they talk about. The topics don’t change. But what are my topics? I don’t often share back. And I hate not having somebody to talk to that listens. I’m grateful to have had a friend to listen earlier tonight.
I haven’t been blogging about the crazy stress in my life. I am approaching disaster and there is nothing I can do about it. There is drama at the group I am trying to avoid. And more than I can handle at home.
M- said I can’t tell but I can’t hide her secret. It’s eating me alive. And it’s not really a secret. She’s still on workman’s comp for her arm that’s not healed and they stopped paying her. So she’s fighting it. (I don’t know why that’s a secret.) But, consequently, we have enough money for rent and that’s it. It’s not like there’s any slack or cushion. And I’m broke. I took out another card but it makes me wanna vomit.
The level of stress feels like poison in my body. I want to purge, to vomit or sweat it out or to break myself. To make it not hurt. But I can’t. So I listen to music. And pray.
Today we had a fight. Somehow we got on the topic of life insurance. And I said I would be shit out of luck if she died. She said no that I’d have money from the insurance and continue to live here. I pointed out that that would not be possible and why. She got all upset and said she’s sorry she can’t buy me a house to live in after she dies. I said I don’t want a house. Why would I want a house? I said, “I’d like to live in a condo in a high-rise with a maid and a doorman and an elevator.” That sentence felt good. And then she said it. “Ha! Right. Like that’s gonna happen.” (pause) I went outside.
Reality’s a bitch. I know what mine is but don’t throw it in my face. If I want to dream about living the good life, let me. I don’t do it often. It feels good. Even though I know it’s just a dream.
I was nominated member of the month today on a website I’m a part of and they sent me a list of questions to answer. One of them is what is my ultimate goal in life. (sigh) Really? To be happy. To not feel like this. To not be sick.
I want more than anything (at least in this moment) to be able to do whatever I can think up. To be “normal” and have a career and a relationship, a home, a car, some kids, and money. I don’t want to be here, dancing with illness and not dancing, trying to make it through the day. Filling my schedule with stuff. Padding the time. Eating hot dogs. Getting texts from the internet. I don’t want to be stalled anymore. I am withering.
I need to find meaning & purpose.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
7-29-10 10:33pm
I ran into an old friend at the show tonight who told her friend I’m a great dancer, “like dance dance,” and said we should go dancing sometime. I said I’m better at choreography than freestyle, social dancing. I should’ve just said thank you, but these days dancing makes me nervous. It has me wondering who I am. I haven’t answered that question in some time.
Who am I?
I am a person who’s been here for 23 years, sometimes a girl, sometimes a woman. No, 24. I am often lonely. I am here to help others.
I am not who I used to be or who I will be in the future. Today I can’t say that I have a purpose. I am thrown around in the tide. I should let go.
I am sad. I am affected by other people, more than they could know. I am a person who is so sad that her dreams are gone and who cries at night.
I got an email announcing Rockette auditions today. The first kid in line for rush is moving to New York for the dream. My friends are making it. I’m just idling. Party cuz I’ve stopped believing, partly because it’s physically and mentally too taxing. I can’t handle it. I KNOW I wanted nothing more than to be successful in performance. It’s what makes me truly happy. It’s who I am down to my core. A person who dances to all emotions and hears music constantly, who sings and recites lines randomly, who has no idea who she is without these. It’s like Susan’s poem. Who is a dancer without the dance? I don’t know.
The show was incredible tonight and I felt happy. But that small reminder of what I am now has me fighting back tears on the trolley.
The things I hear in my head: I am nothing. You have failed. Street team? Are you kidding me? You’re a fucking joke. You may have a fancy title and a glossy business card, but you’ll never be more than a crazy person playing pretend. They’ll find out, and they’ll leave you, and you’ll have nothing. They’ll leave anyway. You, are nothing. Actor, always remember you are replaceable. I know.
No matter how much I work on loving myself, how many hours of therapy, positive affirmations, “friends” on FB… the number of hours I feel happy to be alive, I come back to the reality (my reality) that I am nothing.
Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Me feeling helpless giving everything to God. But I can’t imagine that’s what he wanted. For the default state of His people to be suffering. I try really hard. I do good things and I help people and pray…
But I am still sick. And I am still sad. I still have no money and my family is approaching crisis. And I can’t go to the dance convention in a few weeks. And I can’t breathe. And I don’t want to be here anymore. Drama at my group, in my inbox, in the mail. Now even in the place where I go to escape. There is no escape. Don’t know why I keep running.
I don’t know who I am. I just know how I feel. Confused. Tired. Sad. My body hurts. At times I feel happy, joyous, angry, anxious, befuddled, undone. I am simply the canvas to their art.
I once was the star attraction, the main event. Now I am the crew. Cellophane. Eject please.
I thought about killing myself tonight but I don’t have the energy to recover.
7-30-10 6:37pm
Part 2
Today I am sick but right now I feel happy. I am a person with unpredictable illnesses doing my best to get by and enjoy life. Yes. That’s an answer I like.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
7-13-10 11:20pm
I feel sad tonight. Not sobbing-my-life-is-over sad. Just quiet, subdued. I turned off the tv. I’m not online. I’m not texting anyone. The music in my head is soft.
I went to Sea World today with Sarah. Mom made stroganoff for us first. We did a ton of stuff today, but I wasn’t there. I didn’t experience it. It’s like sleepwalking. I’m just floating, vaguely aware of what’s going on around me. I’m back in hibernate mode. And I’m tired…
(staring)
In hibernate I don’t think a lot. I listen. I stare. I want to be alone. It doesn’t help to be with people because I don’t understand what they say or don’t care. It’s not that I don’t like them. I’m just not here. I don’t remember what people say, my own thoughts. I’m exhausted but not sleepy. I am emotionally needy. I am most likely, in hibernate, to make bad decisions about men, to throw things out that I want, and to run away. In the deepest of hibernate is when I have found myself walking in traffic and usually ending up in the hospital.
I would say it’s a varying level of dissociation. I rock. I often can’t control where my eyes go. I can’t look at you when I talk. I am distant, quiet. This is when I miss people the most. People special to me that I’ve lost or never see. I could walk for hours in the night, just thinking. I don’t want to go home.
The daisy bush is half-dead. And it’s hot inside. I’d like something to do right now but I can’t focus. I’m sitting on my patio, rocking, listening to an abnormally loud cricket and the cars. Mom is typing. Zoe’s talking to me. My bracelet, which I often feel is strangling me, feels light. Weird.
I wish I was in the hospital. Not because I need to be but because it’s predictable and safe. I can handle the structure. Nobody asks me to make big decisions and when I lay down in bed at night I know I’m okay. And that I can breathe. And that someone’s on my side.
It’s simple there. It’s outpatient life that’s crazy.
(pause to FB with Mom)
In hibernate happy comes more easily. So does sad and upset. Often for no apparent reason or for a reason no one else understands. My emotions are fluid and pure, unpredictable. And I simple have to/get to surf, to ride. There is no other option. –
I feel exhausted. It’s hard to write. The light gets brighter when the microwave stops. I’m almost to fantasy. I feel confused.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
7-11-10 3:36pm
Flying backwards through space and time on the trolley is like falling in Alice’s hole. But sadly when it stops there are no talking animals to greet me.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
I wrote this in 2001 and was thinking about it tonight. I need someone to tell me, “Ssh, I know.”
(Click on the image to make it bigger)
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
I wrote this while listening to Sacha sing tonight at the Westgate. Quite an experience.
7-9-10 8:29am
Tonight here it is like Christmas. I close my eyes and expect to walk outside into whipping wind and snowflakes. I would feel the cold on my cheeks and smile and flinch. Feel cozy by a fire, like warm maple syrup, and cuddle up. Watch children run around and write to Santa.
Tonight there are people talking all around me. It’s annoying but I float above them. Twirl around in the sky.
Shhhhhh… Listen! Magic.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
7-5-10 4am-ish
I write when my head won’t stop spinning. I write when I’m upset, when there’s something I can’t get off my mind, when my pen just can’t move fast enough.
Tonight the music races in my mind. I am exhausted but I’m in a frenzy. The Good Morning ringtone plays over and over. My eyes are tense but my body is tired. The flashlight is too bright but I don’t want to sleep.
I feel sad and nervous with spikes of happy. Very nervous. I don’t get people who write when they’re stable. I know this blog is called Writing Towards Happy but you’ll notice I don’t write much when I’m happy. When I’m doing well, my nose is not buried in a journal. I’m out experiencing life, feeling calm. Like the past week or so. I don’t not experience happiness. It just doesn’t give me words.
It is the passion of discontent, of pain, that fuels me and that I love and hate so much. Words are powerful. Words are tools. Words let me speak to the unknown and to myself. To not forget. And to say what I can’t.
I’m writing towards happy, jumping in puddles along the way.
-Michelle
7-6-10 3:12am
I write the things I can’t say, and the things I have no one to say to.
I don’t sit down to write an assigned subject. I write what’s on my mind. The stuff that won’t stop running through my head. Some of it’s funny. Some of it’s passionate. Some of it doesn’t make sense to anyone but me. But that’s okay because it’s my head.
When I talk in my head, people listen to me. They may be imaginary but they’re listening. And they’re always there. This is the reason I can have an entire IM conversation with someone who’s not online. It’s SOP in my head. (standard operating procedure)
I sat at the fair tonight and wrote in my head to a friend about all the memories I have with him over the years. It never saw the page but it’s what will when I write.
I’ve found that putting things in writing can be so much more powerful than a comment. And the words aren’t swept up in the emotion of the moment. I’m not screaming at your face. I’m sending you a calculated response, hopefully when the emotion has died down. Or I’m reading you my calculated response. Even better. My ability to convey and persuade and get a point across effectively is one of my most prized. I make change with words. How cool is that?
And there are times that I don’t write. When the emotion is too high. When there’s nothing to say. Or when I can’t handle what it is I have to say. Or when I simply don’t have the energy. So much is lost between the thought and the page. Sometimes I wish I had streaming text of my thoughts to my journal.
When do you write? And why? How do you make change?
-Michelle
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
7-5-10 12:25am
(unspellable groan) Why, God, do you bless me with so much shit?! I swear hoarding is the disease of the blessed. Tonight I’d like to be a little less blessed.
Today I went through some purses. Now my room is a disaster, more so than usual. My bed is engulfed. It’s more reorganizing, repositioning, than purging. I managed to give up two sweatshirts and a purse – to the couch that is. Who knows if they’ll ever make it out of the house.
I’d like to be blessed in ways other than possessing the talent to possess so many different things and the lack of talent or ability to get rid of them. I know why I do it. It’s a big part of my life. But sometimes it can get overwhelming.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
7-4-10 1:24am
Tonight I need to go back to fantasy. Reality is too much.
I hear “Impossible” sung by Sacha & Daniel in my head. “I would sell my very soul…” Did you?
They worked so hard, all my doctors & therapists, to bring me out of my fantasy world into reality. To teach me to see the world around me, to experience the now. But now I can’t seem to get back.
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to feel this. I want someone to write to, someone to talk to in my head, something to look forward to when I’ll see one of my fantasy people and get a recharge of hope again. Is that too much to ask? What’s wrong with fantasy?
Guided imagery, hypnotic pain reduction, meditation. It’s all fantasy. Why not me? Give me back my fantasy.
—-
“Impossible” is intertwined now with “The Work Song” from Cinderella – the song the mice sing while sewing her dress.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
I went to Croce’s again Thursday night to hear Allison Adams Tucker sing. The food was memorable in a less than good way, but it’s not the food that stuck with me. It’s the service. These journal entries walk you through the night.
7-1-10 7:10pm
I am so very unhappy right now. I feel trapped. Pinned in a corner.
I came to Croce’s tonight to hear Allison sing and to eat my comped goat cheese salad. I sat down, opened the menu, and noticed there is a minimum order of $25 per person that is absolutely NOT okay to not meet (per my server.) M- is NOT here tonight so my salad won’t be free. I’m extremely unhappy.
I’m a good customer and I don’t appreciate being told (more like informed) that if I’m just going to drink cocktails all night and take up space I have to pay at least $25 to sit at a table. In other words, you’re poor therefore you don’t deserve to sit or be here.
I feel like crying. There are tears in my face. I haven’t ordered yet. I just want to leave. I just want to take my poor ass elsewhere and disappear. It’s really not okay to make someone feel this way.
Message: You’re not welcome here. You’re not good enough.
I don’t like crying in bathrooms.
Action urge: Leave
Real want: To stay and be accepted and not have to fight
Options:
7-1-10 7:35pm
Ever have those days when you find yourself crying in some random public bathroom wondering how you got there again? Today is one of those days.
I managed to mop up my face and am now waiting on the waitress who’s ignoring me. Her eye makeup is so outrageous that she’s hard to look at and when she’s bitching at me it’s worse.
I’m cold and I’m having stomach pains and I’d really like to know where poor people are allowed to sit so I can order. I wish I drank. I need something. Half a Xanax may be in order.
—–
Maybe a whole. Waitress said I can sit here. It’s fine. And I said it’s not. You just said it’s not. And she said, “I get what you’re doing. You’re a writer.” And I said, “No, actually, you don’t get what I’m doing.” She’s being nice now but I don’t want her niceness. You really can’t patch it up with a smile. Hearts don’t mend that quick.
8:39pm
M-’s here now. He straightened everything out.
I’m cold. I took 1mg of Xanax and am only slightly tired. Needed it.
Tonight I was treated very differently based on who they thought I was. At first the waitress was very rude to me. I was the poor person wanting to order less than $25 of food and sit at a table – completely unacceptable. Then I began to write. When she came back she was suddenly nice, for no apparent reason. A fancy looking guy delivered my meal. I took a picture of it and began to eat. Then she came back over.
She asked me who I write for. I told her I write for me. I should’ve told her I’m not allowed to say. She said they (whomever they is) remembered me from last time and didn’t know if I wrote for Yelp or a different site. She asked if I’m a musician. She was being quite friendly. Then she left and I went back to being a normal customer. She was willing to make special accommodations for a reviewer.
You see, she only made one mistake. You suck up to someone you think is important BEFORE bitching at them. Important distinction. She didn’t have a clue who I was when she was firmly advising me I am too poor. But when the pen came out, so did the service. It shouldn’t be that way. Fact is, we don’t know who anyone we interact with really is. So we should be careful how we treat them. I deserve as much respect as the person ordering lobster just because I’m me, because I walked through those doors and I’m your customer. I shouldn’t find myself sobbing in the bathroom trying to figure out what to do.
The music was wonderful.
7-5-10 1:53am
(tonight)
I really like Croce’s. They’ve got great music and the manager and waitstaff are nice, minus the poor person drama. But I will have a hard time going back there. I don’t like being reminded of my class or put in my place, and I don’t like feeling like I don’t belong. And I didn’t feel that way before this interaction. I felt like I kind of fit in. I was excited to be there, to be a part of it. I made a reservation for the table I wanted, knew exactly what I planned to order, dressed up. Now I know that next time I should just sit at the bar. But I can’t help feeling like it’s the back of the bus. You know? That there they see through what I’ve worked really hard to become (professional, respected, well-dressed) to the little girl in hand-me down clothes watching Cinderella a hundred times just dreaming of being a princess. That’s not fun. It just makes me sad.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
7-3-10 11:13pm
I feel really sad tonight. Mom and I went to watch fireworks but I still feel sad.
I went to see Sacha sing last night and I can’t seem to shake what happened. At first it was quiet with a few people there. I felt lonely but I had the perfect cozy corner and was comfortable. Then Lavelle came and the energy picked up.
I went to ask how to find his cd info on FB and he and Peter (his friend) invited me to sit with them. I didn’t want to sit with them. I go to concerts to get away from people. But it’s kind of rude to turn down an invite when I’m sitting alone.
(Breathe…)
I hope I don’t see him again. He likes me. He wants to write me poetry (so he says.) He wrote a poem-like thing complete with bad grammar and signature in my journal. He asked what kind of food I like and I said I have food rules. He said that sounds complicated and he’s an artist, he doesn’t need anyone more complicated than him. I resisted my urge to say, “Wow, you’re vain.” If you can’t handle my not eating seafood I am definitely not the girl for you.
He sat next to me to talk but didn’t, which is good because I just wanted to listen to Sacha. When he left he came back, leaned down and thanked me for being sexy. I said thank you. He said, “(pause) No, thank you.” I’m pretty sure it was meant to be flattering but I didn’t feel flattered. I just felt dirty.
He then proceeded to hijack “At Last.” Now NOBODY interrupts that song. I don’t care if the roof is caving in or your hair is on fire. It can wait. Hold your breath. Part way into the song he starts singing random lyrics full-voice from the audience. He is singing for all the world to hear. I’m confused. Sacha’s confused. Johnny just keeps playing. My anxiety goes through the roof. Eventually he stops and Sacha finishes. Having a great voice is awesome but song hijacking is never cool. He pulled a Kanye. He stole Sacha’s moment. But not only did he steal her moment, he stole mine. I love that song, 4 minutes of fantasy. It’s like waking a child who’s sleepwalking. You just don’t do it. In my book it’s right up there with peeing in the Holy water, screaming “FIRE” in a crowded theater, or yelling, “I have a bomb strapped to my body!” on a plane. It’s disrespectful, outrageous, upsetting.
Consequently, I took myself and my anxiety attack home. I found my Xanax and have been stewing about it since. Lavelle called me last night but I was too tired to talk and had nothing to say so I didn’t answer.
My upsetness isn’t just about his actions. It’s about what they mean about me. Blame Cog for the Downward Arrow Technique running my life, but it all comes back.
Yes, I’m complicated. But I’m honest. After “For All We Know” I told him that’s one of my favorite songs. He said, “Then you should be happy.” “It’s not a happy song,” I said. I listen to lyrics. I care what people say and why and what they don’t and what they’re thinking.
That man could not handle who I am because (core belief and/or truth) I am broken. And I’m not ashamed of it. I don’t need to change for someone else. If I’m not acceptable the way I am, move on. But please, do it respectfully. You may be a player but I didn’t come here to get played. Or reminded that I’m complicated and undateable. I came to get away and to dream, and to see Sacha.
Peter has his work cut out for him keeping Lavelle in line.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
6-26-10 12:11am
On any given day I have 4 goals.
If I achieve #1, great. Two or more is heaven. I don’t have the luxury of wanting more and this is really what I need. They sound simple. They sure aren’t easy. But they’re what’s important to me now. What are your goals?
© Michelle Routhieaux 2010
6-20-10 2:59pm
It’s Father’s Day today, and the one person I miss is Marc. As I think about all the people who semi filled that role, he’s the one who made the difference, the one whose love I miss the most. Thank you , Marc, for everything. I miss you.
Michelle
Writing Towards Happy 