Giving Tuesday – Indeed

Posted on May 5, 2020 by writingtowardshappy

5/5/2020 3:19AM

Well, it’s three in the morning and I don’t actually want to be up. (I know, right?) It’s officially #GivingTuesdayNOW. In case you didn’t know, that’s today’s version of the Giving Tuesday that happens after Thanksgiving (right after #CyberMonday). It’s been a huge deal to the nonprofit community for the past few years and COVID-19 has provided the perfect opportunity to have (or establish) a second one during the year. It’s not just for COVID-19 relief or for non-profits providing direct services to COVID-19 patients. #GivingTuesdayNow is a day dedicated to helping out ALL non-profits, since a lot of the burden of holding up society in both supply and morale has fallen to them/us in the past several weeks. It comes at a cost. (In case you don’t feel like reading, my list of ideas for how you can help my group is here.)

The non-profit dearest to my heart is DBSA San Diego – the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance of San Diego. As many of you know, I’ve been a part of it for many years. DBSA San Diego at its core is a network of free peer-led support groups for people with any kind of mental health challenge (mental illness) and their family & friends. That means that groups for people with a diagnosis are run by a person with a diagnosis and family groups are run by a family member of a person with a diagnosis, and so on. In order to facilitate groups, those leaders first had to be active participants in the support groups for a minimum amount of time and be stable. Groups are held almost every day of the week all over the county with our home base and office/library being the VA in La Jolla. All groups are drop-in, no RSVP necessary, no copay, no limited number of visits and you don’t even have to tell us your real name. ;).

When the world started shutting down for COVID-19, we were given a courtesy call – 1.5 hours notice that we would be locked out of the VA and unable to hold groups there, or even get to our stuff, “indefinitely.” When I said I hardly believed the forever aspect of “indefinite,” I was told it wasn’t likely we’d be back. Since then I’ve been told we will NOT be kicked out of there for forever, but that doesn’t affect the impact it has on the groups and our people.

We continued meeting in person for as long as possible, missing only 2 days of meetings. A local pizza place helped us out with space (SUPER grateful to RoundTable) and after a LOT of research a small team of us rolled our meetings over onto Zoom, learning together, training others across the country. Despite my fighting it tooth and nail, all of our in-person locations folded. Some will not be coming back to life after the Quarantine is over. We are currently offering 6 Zoom groups per week, including one dedicated Family & Friends group. (schedule can be found on our Meetup group www.Meetup.com/DBSA-San-Diego)

As I watched org after org shut down their groups, close their doors, stop their services, I’d shout at my email and the tv. While others were bored out of their minds and learning to make banana bread while day-drinking in their sweats, we weren’t.

DBSA San Diego provides all support groups free of charge and has continued to provide support groups and crisis services throughout the pandemic. We have a saying in the La Jolla group that we really have lived up to. We say, “Mental illness doesn’t take a holiday and neither do we.” Indeed. Our outreach activities have been cancelled since there are no events in the community, but crisis support and advocacy are still happening. And support between members is as strong as ever. We are still saving lives. I pray it stays that way. I also pray for all the group members who don’t have a computer or internet connection, or don’t/cant for whatever reason get online for a Zoom meeting. We don’t collect information so there’s no way for us to reach out to everyone.

I don’t know what “re-opening” DBSA San Diego will look like. I know it will not be too soon. In the meantime, there is this pesky thing called #GivingTuesdayNow. As my inbox has filled for weeks with orgs asking for money and orgs telling us how to ask for money and when or whatever, I thought I might ask you. I don’t have it in me to make everything just the way it should be – to fix all the data and make pretty campaigns that are well thought-out and put together. I did have a little in me tonight though to piece together the different ways available for people to give to DBSA San Diego today. The easiest way of all is just to share this or share our services with someone who needs them. We at DBSA work incredible magic with very little.

DBSA San Diego is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization led by ALL volunteers and funded entirely through donations from people like you. (EIN 46-4731973) We do not receive state or federal grants or funding. 2019 was a really rough year for fundraising and we haven’t gotten to “pass the bag” in any meetings since the shutdown. We could really use your help!

Anything you can do is greatly appreciated. According to the how-to emails and webinars I’m supposed to draw on the fear and uncertainty of the Coronavirus/COVID-19 and these “unprecedented times.” I swear I HATE that word now. When it comes down to it, here’s the deal – DBSA San Diego is awesome. They are saving lives every night and every day and will continue to do so. Please help. Here is a good collection of ways you can help DBSA San Diego.

Thank you for caring.
Michelle

PS – When you donate to DBSA San Diego, the funds STAY in San Diego. Make sure which DBSA you’re donating to before you give. ;)

COVID Rant

Posted on March 10, 2020 by writingtowardshappy

3-10-2020 12:17am

I am so sick of this stupid fucking COVID-19 response. It’s RIDICULOUS and WILL kill more people than it saves. It’s quarantine this and cancel that EVERY FUCKING DAY. I don’t give a shit about COVID-19. What I do give a shit about is how the people “fighting” or “preventing” it are interfering in my life.

Is this random virus the next Ebola come to wipe out whole states at a time in a bloody gory mess? Or is it just a new illness that happens to be smarter that we are at the moment but is still being managed, for the most part, by modern medicine? Seriously.

It’s the numbers that make me sick. (No not Donald Trump’s precious numbers).

There are 19 deaths in this country from COVID-19. (see WHO Situation dashboard for up to date numbers ) There is ONE, yes ONE, “presumptively” positive woman diagnosed in San Diego and ALL the town goes nuts! The VA shut itself down, declaring a Level 2 Infectious Disease protocol. UCSD made all its classes virtual for the Spring quarter. Everyone’s FREAKING OUT!

Besides just being annoying and totally interfering with my life and others, the actions and inactions the government is recommending are GOING to kill people. Think about it. When you isolate or “quarantine” people (or recommend that people quarantine themselves), PEOPLE GO CRAZY. In a society already suffering from depression, and anxiety and pathological loneliness, suicide rates should be set to spike. Pharmacies can only mail-deliver certain medications. What about the rest and the pharmacies that don’t? And what about the controlled substances that require us to go in to the doctor every month and for them to submit electronically? And what about the mailmen? The businesses that provide for communities are shutting down and the stores that are open are being raided. Caregivers who are isolating or quarantined are not caring for those who can’t care for themselves. What happens to them? Death. People don’t eat. Random swaths of children or teenagers just congregate wherever since school is out. Parents who aren’t even sick have to leave jobs, shutting down more businesses, to take care of children who aren’t sick but whose schools have been closed due to the panic.

Even instructing people to wash their hands for 20 seconds at a time will push us closer to being back in a drought we just escaped. Or for people who prefer to “sanitize” their hands constantly, good luck on not having terribly dry hands, killing all the good bacteria, and totally messing with your body’s natural balance. Don’t get me started on the people making their own hand sanitizers. This is also a great public validation for all the people with contamination fears or harm obsessions as part of OCD. I can hear it now, “See? The world really IS a terrible place and I should wash my hands in bleach forever.”

I was trying to figure out the other day why this disease response bothers me most. Then I realized it’s financial. My dad had Huntington’s Disease, what’s known as an Orphan Disease because there are so few patients with it that finding a cure is not fiscally responsible. There aren’t enough patients who would take the drug to pay for the development of the drug, even if they know it would work. This COVID-19 is a gold mine, a race to the cure for biotech companies who know that people and, presumably, governments around the world will buy their medication and possibly require their vaccine. Whoever gets there first wins. Safety requirements and timeframes will be waived because SO MANY people are affected or at risk. Me? I went to chicken pox parties as a child. I’m no fan of disease but I don’t think anyone should be separated from society or that big pharma profits should allow for the spreading of hysteria.

Think about it. What if we could have this kind of attention and serious concern for things we ACTUALLY deal with on a regular basis? This illness has killed 20 people in the US and people are going nuts. But according to the CDC, “34.1 million adults aged 18 years or older—or 13.0% of all US adults” have diabetes. That’s a disease we know how to treat and yet more than 80,000 die here of it each year. We lose 22 veterans per day to suicide alone. (You know the number is higher.) In California, someone dies by suicide every 2 hours. 1 in 5 Americans will experience a mental illness sometime in their life. 1 in 25 will experience a severe mental illness. The suicide rate for some mental illnesses is as high as 25%. We HAVE treatments that work, therapies that are proven to work yet it’s not profitable enough to freak out the public enough to convince them to pay for the treatment and engage them enough to follow through it. No. Toilet paper raids and mass hysteria sounds so much more productive. Grrrrrr…

I spend a lot of time helping people and this nonsense not only makes that more difficult but makes all of our lives worse. No one is addressing the high number of highly suggestible people who will develop purely somatic symptoms. I’ve seen anxiety addressed once in the news-frenzy but not the paranoia and delusions this is creating. I’m also very concerned about the push for people not to touch each other or be close. Touch is SO extremely important. What is the effect on the human body when we remove touch? It’s nasty. It’s worth the rant, even though I know it will change nothing.

Michelle

Thought Train

Posted on July 10, 2019 by writingtowardshappy

I found this in a stack of papers recently and still love it.

Changemaker

Posted on May 1, 2019 by writingtowardshappy

5-1-2019 4:08am
I was asked recently by a therapist to make a vision board for myself. I really struggled with the assignment and it took two weeks but this is what I came up with.

19-04-23 Vision Board

©Michelle Routhieaux 2019

I don’t understand

Posted on July 27, 2018 by writingtowardshappy

7/27/2018 4:26pm

I don’t understand. I may have written about this before but I don’t remember and I don’t really care.

I don’t understand. To me it’s a simple phrase with a simple meaning. There is no extra fluff attached, no alternate meaning. Last year my therapist and I got into it because I kept telling him I didn’t understand what he was saying and he told me he believed what I meant was that I didn’t agree. Nope, only disagreed with that.

I don’t follow like other people do. Or maybe I follow too closely. I am cursed with the ability to spot errors, omissions, incongruities, however small. I need the info coming at me to make sense and if it doesn’t I will say that I don’t understand. I am blunt. I ask questions. I have no qualms with raising a stink to get an answer. It is especially disturbing to me when someone “answers” my questions with responses that are unrelated. I will state so and repeat the question, rephrasing it if necessary. A few years ago I started giving up after a few tries but not before stating that my question had still not been answered. I have somewhat of a fan base in some settings because of it. It’s not fulfilling to engage with someone who’s not the slightest idea what I’m talking about. In fact, it’s maddening – probably to both sides but for different reasons. I’m looking for information. If the person doesn’t have it, or won’t give it, it would behoove them to just say that.

People think I’m being rude or annoying. They jump to conclusions about my motives or what I really think or mean. I’m accused of alternate intentions. They tell me what I should say or do or think or not think instead. They often get very upset that I don’t understand and/or that they don’t understand what I mean when I point out whatever they said doesn’t make any sense – in general, not just to me. If they stop to follow the line of thought and learn what’s missing, sometimes they will admit that it really doesn’t make sense. Usually instead I just get confronted with anger, accused of things or people just walk away or insult and then ignore me, then pretend it never happened.

Sometimes the topic is important to me and I’m upset AND don’t understand. Usually though, I’m somewhat devoid of emotion or visibly confused or disturbed when asking questions attached to, “I don’t understand.” I can’t always communicate very well in that state. It’s the mockery and invalidation that usually push me over the edge. I’m not stupid. I can read body language and I understand your words.

Over the years I’ve learned how to convert curiosity/question/notice/wonder straight to bitter hopelessness and move on with my day. I can feel my self turn to ash and float downwards inside me as I do nothing or walk away. Fighting the thought that I don’t matter isn’t worth it because in those moments it’s completely true. What I have to say or my concern or thought doesn’t matter and if I pursue matter-ing it could (and has) make things worse. I ask much like Sheldon Cooper, with a level of non-intellectual understanding only slightly higher.

So I end up hating people. That I very much understand. I “speak Michelle,” as a provider of mine said long ago, and not many others do. I am cross-lingual in a few other person-dialects, but in observation the two-way mirror only reveals one side. This morning’s argument was me asking for details about an event I was asked to donate something to for a raffle, which I believe is questionable but didn’t point out.

Excerpts from convo this morning:
Person B: We always have raffle giveaways at our events to promote wellness…
Me: Why?
Person B: Why what (sic)
Me: Why have a standard of giving things away?
Person B: It’s not a standard. It’s something we like to do for our members. Why not? It’s generous. Omg!! You don’t like free mental health stuff??? Interesting.
Me: Don’t put words in my mouth. Free mental health stuff is fine sometimes, but it all costs money and at the end of the day I have to sit with and justify on paper what we spent the group’s money on. Does that make sense? I don’t mind contributing to your raffle. I just wanted to know the details.

I was livid but calm in text. If in her language “always” doesn’t equal a “standard,” there is no purpose in trying to get through.

It’s harder for me to interact with other humans I don’t understand than to harm myself by attempting to fill my own needs without engaging them. This afternoon’s debacle is within myself about why the HELL I can’t do anything today because I can’t think because my head hurts on the one day I have actual time. (PRN)

So very alone. I hate myself.
I don’t understand.

On Zumba…

Posted on June 30, 2018 by writingtowardshappy

6/30/2018

I don’t understand why more guys don’t do Zumba. It’s free or cheap live exotic dancing in a socially acceptable setting. No one expects the dance to look great. In fact, most of us hate those skinny bitches who do it all perfect and sexy. Fuck them. Since I’ve lost weight and can dance I think I might be one of them now. But I don’t care. It feels fucking good.

I do things in Zumba I’d never do in “real life.” I want to be watched, complimented, to be in the dance and then walk away. It’s all a practice. This one’s just more sexy. And currently mostly a reprieve from men seeking women. What a comedy that might be…

The Only Safe Space

Posted on May 30, 2018 by writingtowardshappy

5/30/2018

We talked a lot about the concept of impermanence. The colors were bright and the idea scared me. I was present, some of the time, but answered, “Bubbles!” at a less than ideal moment. I went outside in a very dark space and started blowing bubbles I had in my purse. As I pondered, I watched the bubbles pop – like Cinderella does when she’s scrubbing the floor and singing. I watched the bubbles pop. And it dawned on me that they were proof I am capable of accepting an impermanent thing without freaking out.

Then I figured I should probably go someplace safe. At first nothing came to mind, but then I remembered I have a list of places on a crisis plan in my journal. I tried to recall them instead of looking and, as the places came to mind, I asked myself what they all had in common… The only thing these places had in common was me. So, the only safe space is me. It’s a lot to take in.

Session 5/30/18, Drawing 6/19/19, Description 7/7/18
© Michelle Routhieaux 2018

There’s still hope in Brown

Posted on February 28, 2018 by writingtowardshappy

2/28/2018 IMG_20180228_0007_NEW

God Loves

Posted on February 12, 2018 by writingtowardshappy

2-12-2018When I was really little I used to get bored in church. I was that kid that couldn’t stand children’s church when it was really daycare but had no idea what the pastor was talking about in actual church. So my mom and I would pass notes and sometimes she’d write phrases for me to copy. This is one of those phrase papers. I found it in a box of things from before I was 5. :)

Stroke Code Thursday

Posted on February 2, 2018 by writingtowardshappy

2/1/18 11:07pm

Today has been one of the most harrowing days of my life. I’m currently propped up on pillows on the couch staring, half-watched the tv. Mom’s falling asleep with Ellie in the chair, intermittently telling me random things. I’m trying to to type but it’s extremely difficult.

I went to the VA MH Council meeting this morning – no problems. I mean, I didn’t want to go and felt a bit out of sorts but no more than normal. I was running late but participated a lot and socialized with Jean & Howard and McCail after, walked down with everyone. I didn’t want to leave just yet, wasn’t sure about plans for the day, so I sat down in the lobby and journaled and charted. It’s something I’ve done before. I like having moments to myself, unrushed, and I like watching the volunteer interactions there at the front. I was starting to feel like my blood sugar was low, getting a bit weak and disoriented. I wrote it down. I was alarmed when I got up to leave and began stumbling to the right. My purse is heavy and I used it as a counterweight. I figured if I could just get some food I’d probably be just fine. I made it to the Valet, ate a glucose tab, made it to the Chipotle parking structure, thought things were fine. I worked on something on my phone before getting out of the car. But when I did I was still falling and stumbling to the right. I had a heck of a time trying to get up the broken escalator stairs. I was starting to freak out as I waited at Chipotle. It was hard to breathe but I wasn’t feeling anxious. I made it through the line leaning on the counter, could barely hold myself up. I held myself up on the table until I could sit down. A growing portion of the right side of my face felt pressure, then tingling, then burning. Lips sat in a pout. My right hand and arm were shaking so bad I couldn’t eat more than a few bites. It wasn’t like anything I’ve ever experienced and God in my head kept telling me, “GO.” I knew I wasn’t safe to drive. I drank half my soda, bagged the food, and called an Uber. Thankfully, there are many around me.

I was lucky to arrive at the hospital in an utter lull. I knew what would probably happen and did – Stroke Code. Front of the line, many nurses and doctors all around testing everything under the sun. I was having trouble speaking clearly, moving my right side purposefully, holding a steady gaze. I had no pain. I wasn’t anxious. I was actually quite peaceful. All I’d wanted to do that day was get my nails painted but that would have been after Chipotle. Lots of blood tests, urine tests, eventually an MRI.

They were much less interested when they figured out I’m a psych patient. Reminded me SO much of Adrienne and scared me, but I was exhausted – both from shaking so much and fear and from the Ativan they gave me to try to stop the shaking for the MRI. I couldn’t move if I’d tried in the MRI thanks to drugs but I couldn’t stop the twitching/shaking. It’s been like that sometimes in the past few weeks. I don’t know why. The MRI people were nice. The last doctor not so much. The nurse came in and said great that my mother was there and she could drive me home. Ummm, excuse me what? The doctor came in and said my MRI of my brain was perfect and there was nothing wrong. I looked up at him and said, “I’m gonna have to call ‘Bullshit’ on you for that one there but continue…” He gave no explanation of any of what happened or why, how to prevent it from happening again, what to do if it comes back. Nothing. He just left. Dickwad. It’s really hard to type this ‘cuz my fingers are unpredictably shaking and I’m mostly lying down ‘cuz I’m too weak to continue sitting.

I didn’t call my mom ‘til just before the MRI. I knew she was off work then and she’d want to know. I didn’t ask her to come or for anything. I specifically did not need people freaking out around me. Minus all the patient reports outside, that room was so peaceful. I prayed and watched and felt. I listened. I tried to write. It worked a little. There was no tv or music, just me. And that was okay. The Ativan toward the end made me really tired and I know it’s still making me tired now. I’m still getting waves of confusion and dizziness. I contacted Dr. M but I think he wasn’t there.

So what do I do now? I asked David and Soleil for cancellations tomorrow and David called me. After talking a little, I get to see Soleil tomorrow. He says if there’s nothing wrong with my brain then it’s all psych and I’m under a tremendous amount of stress. Don’t you throw that psychosomatic crap at me. When I’m stressed my pain gets worse. I don’t go ‘round fake believing I’m having a stroke. Too much work if nothing else. I told him I agree I’m under a shit ton of stress but ALSO that something neurologically is WRONG with me, STILL. Fluids don’t solve that. Neither does the Chinese food I ate after. Nor will a few hours’ sleep. Today, though, wasn’t stressful before this. I wanted to get my nails done!

I need help but God only knows what with. I’m SOOOO tired and sore. God save the queen. Here’s to a tomorrow sans weakness, shaking, falling over and pretty large needles. Here’s to a tomorrow that’s not so scary and more easy to understand. Please pray if you do. Thanks.

Strong Enough

Posted on December 13, 2017 by writingtowardshappy

12/13/2017 1:30pm

I’m sitting here scanning a box of poetry from high school. It’s been under my bed for years, now next to the couch for months. Today is the 17th anniversary of when suicide became real to me. I wish it’d never happened. And the impact of this writing I only read a few lines here or there of gives me ultra goosebumps, makes me extremely nauseous, and if I was standing I’m sure I’d collapse. (and the tears…) (“If You Want Me To” by Ginny Owens)

I want to be right in the middle of the pain. I feel SO guilty. I LEFT her there. But she was me. And I can’t get her now. And she just screams and screams and screams. I can’t imagine having been my teachers when I wrote or spoke emotional truth. (stare…)

The music is very loud and I’m not sure what to do. Supposed to give a friend a ride to a group I’m leading tonight, at which I anticipate there to be some problems. I can’t be this person, or get into this person, and then do that. But not doing it validates that she doesn’t matter and never has. (head in hands…) (“Stronger” by Mandisa)

I wish I could see David today. I need to write too. Something specific. This is really best done somewhere with a garden. ;) I have to be strong enough to stand with her. I have to be strong enough for her, strong enough for me. Strong enough to let go.

Spots of Self-Compassion

Posted on November 13, 2017 by writingtowardshappy

11/13/2017

If you see me with pink spots drawn on me, they are to remind me to be compassionate towards myself. :)

Yoga Therapy Art_0146 (2)

Polka-speckled Universe

Posted on July 14, 2017 by writingtowardshappy

7/14/2017 12:29am

You know, I never thought it would be this way. Maybe because I never really thought. No one taught me what’s required to be a successful grownup, what it’s like to lose a love, to lose your life.

I’m sitting on the living room floor. Just switched from “Code Black” episodes to meditation music on the tv. I’m surrounded by the contents of what yesterday was my purse. I emptied it this morning and haven’t been able to figure out what to do with it. The air is on but I’m not hot. There isn’t always a happy ending.

I stayed home today. Got home super late from the ER with a friend. I didn’t have anything pressing today so I slept, kind of. Woke up to a call from another’s doctor. And the headache from the night before. It pressed on unto an 8, still moving. Took 5 prns and a few hours to even somewhat subside. So confused. The muscle weakness made an appearance today. I made a few videos. I did that the other day too. I haven’t been writing. I’ve been so scared. Too scared to pick up the pen or to write truth on the page. Or I want desperately to write but am too physically weak or tired or in too much pain to do it. Or I just can’t post what I need to say because the truth that’s eating the inside of me will eat through the outside of others. So much I want to tell David and I’m so scared. I really wish x was here but she’s not.

I’m so tired. I’m dancing the line between driving and acquiring a new bracelet. It holds no magic power though. I’m sick. I can and do help a lot of people, but I’m still sick. I feel so alone. Disconnect from those around me. Talk of needing to find a sustainable way of living long into the future without the help of others terrifies me. I’m trying to hold out ’til the 20th for my ECT with Dr. M. I got a confirmation call today about an appointment with a new neurologist on Monday that I thought had been cancelled. Honestly, I don’t have it in me to figure out food much less bring together all the facts this lady needs and communicate them in a way that makes sense to humans. (silent tears to piano music)

(long pause, visualization)

Was it meant to be this way? Always on the outside? Maybe one of my parents was successful living disconnected but made me with someone normal and I’m some fucked-up hybrid with all the skills a disconnected person needs to survive but an incredibly deep need, a longing, together to be. A polka-speckled universe. Cornflower blue. (pause)

I need to reschedule a meeting tomorrow so I can leave an appointment early to meet with a friend’s doctor, who is also my doctor occasionally and that of one of my other people, to talk about things she won’t agree with or understand and come up with a solution I don’t support at all. I had it all planned out – appointment in La Mesa, meeting at the cafe next door, picking lavender for the afternoon and then the OCD meeting. Maybe a visit in between. Now the appointment is in Miramar at a facility I need to powwow with but shouldn’t right now, in a place that embraces secrets as I hunt for my truth. My meeting will be replaced with a few hours of arguing. It may be followed by helping a person discharge, which will take the rest of the night. If not, the other person hopefully will be there by then. I take refuge in the quiet moments there. I talk to the staff and take in what my body calls love – acceptance, warmth, care and concern. We help each other and they’re proud of me. (staring)

I know what I need. And I can’t have it. Even if it was there I can’t do it right now. I had two somewhat regular gigs helping people that paid for my doctors. Now they’re gone and I have to solve for x. I have a little bit of savings and my mom is helping me, which is a trigger and a blessing. I surrender. I’m not sure what to do. I was already really struggling. Now the bumpers are down and I’m on my own. My therapist talks about finding a way to be self-sufficient one day. Right. I’ve no idea how.

I need to write but I need to sleep. And I’m craving candy. I get paranoid around this time of night and I keep thinking someone’s here, that someone’s watching me. I have to go. I’ll pray for you if you pray for me. Kinda like buy one get one free. ;) I really wish that I didn’t feel censored and that I could write and keep up with my charts. 6 years of my charts. I WANT to do them. They matter to me. I must sleep.

Sunday (vent)

Posted on April 30, 2017 by writingtowardshappy

4/30/2017 12:32pm

I can’t do this.

I’ve been home about a half hour. I took an Uber from 1925 Elm, wherever that is. It has not been a good day.

I actually woke up when my alarm went off at 8:30am and started researching how Facebook Live works so I could share Women’s Day at the church with my friends. K- had texted letting me know T- was speaking because he knows my friend really likes her. I didn’t get an event up yesterday due to the NAMI Walk but I put it on my page and I wanted to be able to share it, especially with that friend. I told a few people at the NAMI Walk too.

My body hurt quite a bit today from missing my 5pm meds yesterday during a nap, but I got up and took a shower. I had laid out my clothes – a really cute black and white skirt and black top. I heard my mom getting dressed, which baffled me since she neither likes that church, or Women’s Day, OR ever wants to go there. She said she just hadn’t been feeling well. Bullshit. She’s spooked from almost dying and wants to go to church so somehow “going with” me, which means driving me, which means us being late on a day I’m specifically trying to capture everything, seems perfectly sane. Right. But my balance is off today and I’m running into walls and dropping everything and I still fucking hate everyone, carried over from yesterday. I forgot my purse and she was determined for me to eat yogurt instead of writing or changing the last few settings on my phone or figuring out how to tweak a camera accessory to work with my phone.

She was pissed that I’m cranky, for which there are more than a few reasons, some of which are physical. When we got to the church we were the ninth car, including -’s. “Where are the humans?” I said. We were eight minutes late so I thought maybe for once they started on time. The doors were closed. No one opened them. I let my mom in. When the few humans who were there noticed my mom was there they were all excited and happy to see her and saying how they’d been praying.

(make a smoothie, move to couch, turn on piano music)

Everyone was happy to see my mom. I’m glad they paid attention to her. I sat down. The service hadn’t started yet, which I find annoying. – came down from going over a song to hug my mom. He hugged me too. He looked old today and I said so. He said it looked like I got the notification. He gestured towards my outfit. I told him I had no idea what he was talking about. The other ladies for Women’s Day were in black & white. I’m assuming that’s what he meant but I still have no idea. I said I wish I had gotten the notice/notification for this day sooner so I could send it out to my people. He said no, that he didn’t want any more notices or people, he just wanted Michelle. I stared/glared at him confusedly. What the fuck was he talking about? I told him you can’t have Michelle without notices or reminders, and I bring people. Again with the no more notices, just Michelle. He said he was changing things, blah, blah, blah. I looked at him again and said, “Don’t make me hit you today. I am not in the mood.” I was not joking and there was no way what I said would have been taken that way. I don’t even remember the last thing he said to me. I just know it was in the same vein. I grabbed my purse, stood up, hands raised in surrender and said, “I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t be here. I’m out.” And I stumbled my way down the aisle and out of the church. I guess I’ve stormed out of enough events in my life that no one bothers to follow, or text, or call. It’s not in the best of neighborhoods. I don’t like being followed, but I’m not sure what meaning to attach to being ignored.

I don’t know what – was referring to, or what he meant. I certainly don’t understand. It was his notice I was talking about. HE sent it to me. He calls me his “new evangelist.” While I don’t like that word, it’s a type of outreach. What is Michelle without networking, without outreach? Really? Go ahead and define me without anything related to connecting people to other people or resources, without some component of organization or information, without sharing, or teaching. I dare ya. Spreading the Good News, or sharing the Gospel, is NETWORKING. I can’t not be me. And I don’t intend to.

I was aware as I left that I didn’t have my journal but I didn’t dare turn back to get it. I walked. I had my purse and my phone. I walked up 49th to Federal, down to Euclid and called an Uber at Elm. I knew it wasn’t safe for me to be walking there. I don’t fit in. I didn’t care. If someone had tried to mug me I would have just handed them my purse. It’s not worth a fight. I’m dressed too nicely on a Sunday morning to be a prostitute and I’m white so that rules some things out. On Federal a police car passed me, turned around and drove past me again. He did this several times. I was paying attention to my surroundings as I walked, but also to my body. Yesterday and today my face has been tense and twitchy, but I noticed something new today. As I walked, my hands were open static, palms forward. They just stayed there. My fingers weren’t moving. My soul was frozen. I give up. I stopped to smell red and yellow roses, said hello to the homeless people as I passed on the street. I smelled the two types of jasmine, picked one. I stopped to stand under the shade of a few trees. I just wanted to write but I had no paper. I needed a safe place to stop.

I wish I had wanted to die. Precarious situation. I’m used to feeling awful and wanting to die. It brings relief and I’m okay. But I didn’t want to die today. I just couldn’t stop the feeling. It’s all over. Nowhere to go from here. Dr. M said we can reset the inside of my brain but not my life. Sometimes I think it’s better to feel worse than good. At least in death there is hope. In this, it’s just endless bullshit followed up by a helping of confusion and then some more shit on the side. Why try to feel or get better if being better hurts worse?

There were no words in the UberPool. Driver barely spoke English. Before he arrived I looked down at my phone and my mom had sent me a text message. It read, “Don’t let the Devil keep you from being in church this am. Come back in, please.” I replied, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ll see you later.” I was so hurt. How dare she? Sure. I use everything I have in me to get to a service I’m doing something special for, am extremely triggered and offended by something someone important says to me, leave so I don’t scream or hit someone or say something their delicate ears can’t handle and somehow it’s the DEVIL keeping me out of the church? Riiiiiiiiight. I’m in bed with Satan and my goal is to fuck up the church and cause a scene wherever I go just to get in the way. I’m sorry I never realized the beauty of this plan. I suppose all the people I bring and media I share are Satan-derived too. I earn Hell-points for everyone I bring to church or convert and extra for each time I get upset and leave. (close and roll my eyes) Why even try?

M’s coming over in a half hour to work on folders. I don’t care to see anyone. I don’t want to work. I hate the new labels. I need to return the proof for the table runner. I need a nap.I think I’m getting sick too and my doctor isn’t returning my message. (sigh) Mom called to say she’s bringing food home. I JUST WANT TO WRITE AND SLEEP.

God, please help me.
Happy Sunday.

Sent by God

Posted on March 15, 2017 by writingtowardshappy

3/15/17 10:54pm

A strange thing happened tonight. I was out to pizza with a friend and I had my dog Ellie. I know crazy people are drawn to me but tonight’s variety was different. I was at the counter waiting for a change in receipt when a disheveled man came in from outside and asked about Ellie. He started talking about PTSD service dogs and mentioned he was homeless. He told me he saw a super famous doctor in La Jolla once. I asked if he was a vet and he said no, that he wasn’t part of “the killing machine.” I tried to end the conversation and go back to my friend but no such luck.

The man came with me and sat down with us. He said there was something he wanted to tell us, something important. I have no idea what it was. I do remember him saying the word “bitchin'” and his name being Greg. My brother’s name is Greg and he’s the only one I’ve ever heard say that word. I wanted to give him a low income housing resource. Instead I heard about his experience being homeless, his family structure, some pro-Trump ranting, and how if he’s going to join a gym it has to be 24 Hour Fitness because it’s right down the street.

The man was filled with tears. He knew we wanted him to leave, yet he stayed. He asked if he could pray for us. He put out his hands and I held one and closed my eyes. He said a powerful prayer for my friend and I. God was there. I could feel it. He walked away and we took our pizza and left. The feeling stayed with me that God was there. Before I got in the car he showed up again and said to me that he really needs my help and would I PLEASE help him to get some place to live, some place with a bathroom and a shower, that he would work hard. He just really wants help. It was sincere. He never asked me for money or to buy him anything. He came to bring God to me.

I got in the car and told my friend about faith, that what is holding me up now is faith. I don’t understand what’s happening and I can’t fix or change it, but what I have is an unending faith and a posse of blessings and a crowd of people who love and support me. I have Jesus. I let go and trust. I am held. I’ve been really scared and, as my friend would say, “losing my shit,” and tonight God sent me a homeless man to refocus, to reconnect. He didn’t go anywhere. He never stopped caring for me, making everything right. Sometimes I just can’t see.

Thank you so much, God, for loving me. Please show me how to help your servant Greg.

Have you Smiled yet?

Posted on January 14, 2017 by writingtowardshappy

1/14/2017 1:06am

Now that all the crazy end-of-year giving charity hype is over I have to ask, have you Smiled yet?

I’m always looking for new and easy ways to raise money for my group DBSA San Diego. I love Amazon Smile. Here’s how it works:

Charities can sign up with Amazon for an Amazon Smile account.
People like you and me go to smile.amazon.com and sign into Amazon. If you have a direct link, you can choose that charity easily. If not, you can search from a list.
Then just start your shopping from smile.amazon.com instead of plain old http://www.amazon.com. An easy way to remember is by just using the Amazon Smile extension for Chrome that you can find here. Sometimes there will be a pop-up to remind you if you’re on the regular site.
When you buy things through Amazon Smile, your chosen charity gets 0.5% of the price.

To choose DBSA San Diego, use this link: https://smile.amazon.com/ch/46-4731973
The location says Chicago, IL because that’s where we’re headquartered.

Shopping through Amazon Smile doesn’t cost you anything extra. You only have to sign up once. All the same products are available. You just get to help out in a really great way. There’s even a little note by each product if it’s a purchase eligible for donation.

I’d appreciate everyone joining to support DBSA San Diego and sharing with friends.
Even if you don’t support my charity, it’s a really great program.

Windows of Opportunity

Posted on December 5, 2016 by writingtowardshappy

12/5/2016 9:38pm

yoga-therapy-art

I’m sitting in the VA parking lot. The potluck was tonight and I pulled it off well, got a special award from Libby. I cleaned up and socialized, kind of. I feel weak and dizzy and faint, like before I passed out yesterday. I walked the stairs anyway. I want that star.

(rest on my fist the space between my eyes)
Mom didn’t come.

I missed my opportunity. I fucked up. This is my fault. I need and wanted ECT. In the time I could have done it and recovered I tried something else to appease my doctor, which went horribly wrong. Now I’m in a med change. She’ll want to know if it’s working tomorrow.

Is my new med helping? Is it better or worse? I’m not sure how to answer that. Before I was severely depressed and non-functional. I wanted and needed ECT and had time to do it but needed help with logistics. Now I don’t know what I am. My best guess would be rapid cycling mixed episode with mild psychotic features and marked memory impairment. I go back and forth from bitter to rage to desperation to confusion – lots of confusion – and back. The period I’m not supposed to have now comes for about 3 days every week and a half. I’m bingeing a lot, making myself ill, impulsively maxing out my credit cards. I shut down completely in private and in public at inopportune times. I’m isolating from everyone, including D-. Fighting with Mom every day. Is that better or worse?

I missed the opportunity. They don’t come often. Today I went back to work for F-. I’m expected at group and outreach events and appointments. Because my moments are split I don’t get to pick ECT anymore. I don’t get to do what I know works for me ‘cuz I’m feeling now. Fuck.

(curled over, feel my heart beat on my skin)

I’m cold.
What do I do now?

Just keep working.

I didn’t matter enough to fix. :(
Not my turn.

3 – When Daddy hides the roller skates, run run away.
No like Daddy clip his fingernails.
Ice live in penguins, Mommy.

I get to see J- on Thursday. I don’t know how I’m going to pay for it but I want my life back. I NEED me back.

What do I want/need help with?

coaching through PRYT training – fundraising, planning, accommodations, follow-through, step by step
going through my stuff
fitting all I own into my room
conquering the garage
dancing again consistently
financial planning
losing weight
standardize & wrap up group business
have friends again
sing again
be in a musical again
scheduling – me + responsibilities
being around my mom with compassion

(stare, hear a GameBoy game song)

3 – I want to go humbly. I mean home. You bozo.

(VA police sweep)

The difference between now and then is that in the darkness I felt hope.