Writing Towards Happy

The experience of making positive change in my life

How do you do it?

Posted on October 11, 2015 by writingtowardshappy

1

From: 8/24/15 1:32pm

M- said several times he and other people want to know “how she does it.” Well, how do YOU run from a dragon? In a methodical, complicated & somewhat randomized fashion. He smokes. I work. There’s no difference – except that I can breathe. I’m constantly running. It’s not to be admired. Yet it is.

I really don’t feel well.

How do you do it?

Don’t stop
Never stop running
Trust no one
Don’t share feelings
Better yet, don’t have them
Always watch, listen
Note any sign of danger
Network extensively
Tell only the required truths
Make allies, not friends
Schedule EVERYTHING
Learn the rules & the rules in play
Learn how to exploit the loopholes
Study systems
Hide out to spend time alone
Have an acute understanding you are NEVER safe.
Love from afar
Do not engage
Learn to walk away
Turn rage into ash inside your soul
Develop a network of safe support
Be whatever you need to be in the moment
Be specific
Focus on tasks
Never lose sight of the big picture
Ignore pain
Never admit weakness
Learn by doing
Do what works
Know God. Believe God.
Don’t make promises or keep secrets
Have at least one safe grounding person you trust who wants nothing from you
Try not to remember what you love, that this is not you
Avoid emotion-producing situations
Walk towards the fire
Cry out to God, “Why can’t I matter too?”
Distract from the fact you don’t feel love
Ignore painful personal facts
Avoid free time
Do projects
Don’t take no for an answer
Spend time alone
Scream
Pull your hair
Ask questions no one answers
Say important things no one understands
Spend time in psych hospitals
Take lots of drugs
Stop eating occasionally
Maintain control
Run from feeling trapped
Cry in private – public restrooms, parking lots, in the dark, behind dumpsters, silently
Get your love from hugs
Never think about this
Throw yourself into helping others
Hate almost everyone
Take your meds on time
Chart your progress – detailed & scientifically
NEVER STOP RUNNING
Choose measurable tasks over humans
Thrive on lists
When given the option, choose kids or animals or the disabled over adults
Learn to ignore
Swing
Twirl
Write
Run away every once in a while
Come back. Don’t talk about it.
Never let your guard down, even at home
When you fail, back away, shut people out, try again.
Sing
Rock
Pray
Never stop running
Then eventually die
But not without doing it all the right way

(stare)

That’s all for now.

PS –

Don’t forget to hate people, vehemently
Remember to eat
And always keep a hair clip, journal & cardigan on hand.

So if you want to know how I do it, my best answer is God.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2015

So… this is life

Posted on March 21, 2015 by writingtowardshappy

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3/20/15 9:55pm

So… this is life.

It’s 9:55pm. I’m sitting on the tile floor of a hotel next to an ATM. The world around me seems surreal. I did Scotty’s dance, taped Missi’s. People greet me and ask how I am. Some of them ask with a knowledge from Facebook of the hospital. Some have no idea. To those whose eyes say they know, I am trying to be honest. A new thing for me. My doctor warned me I would overheat on seroquel and geodon. She failed to tell me what to do not to. One intermediate Scotty workshop brought my blood boiling to a point it shouldn’t reach until well into a Saturday night dance or several advanced routines in a row outside on a hot summer black asphalt day. I must brainstorm for tomorrow. But I’m tired.

(breathe)
There’s cold air blowing on me.
I really love to dance.

I’m not sure why I feel sad here. I don’t feel connected. I don’t feel alive. I guess I don’t feel ready. Will I ever? I want to dance again but I don’t have faith in me. I need help to believe. I don’t even know what a healthy person’s life looks like. What am I s’posed to want? And for whom?

(deep breath)
STOP (DBT skill) Now what did that stand for? (practice skill) Well, now I feel sadder.

Check the facts:

I’m at Possum Trot.
I’m sitting alone in a noisy lobby.
I feel sad and scared.
I am also excited to be here.
I feel free on the dance floor.
My face and neck are twitchy.
I stayed awake today.
I got to hug and laugh with Scotty.
I am able to dance w/o pain.
Mom is here.
I am scared for it to be over.
I really want to dance and feel loved.
I am fragile.
I am safe.

I’d like to watch Peg + Cat now.
My head hurts.

I want to feel safe.
Will I ever be a dancer again?
I need to go to sleep.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2015

Non-linear

Posted on March 19, 2015 by writingtowardshappy

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3/19/15 5:30pm

Non-linear. My thought is non-linear today. I was willful and skipped my Geodon. I also didn’t eat. Now I have a big headache. I can move today. My muscles don’t hurt. I can breathe easier. Literally. (move to stairs)

I thought I could wait for my mom here with some ice on my face. Instead my mom wants me to play with the girls. No.

I sound like a meth-addict today. Or crack. My thoughts jump on lilypads scattered. They come out fast in somewhat coherent globs. There are pauses where words should be. My muscles are twitchy, reactive. The ones on my face have been vibrating all day. I have periods of nerve pain, intense. I question me driving, stayed home extra hours today when I wasn’t okay. I feel small and scared. I want to go home. My face BURNS.

Tomorrow I will start half-dose in the morning and full dose at night. Dr. H is not mad at me, thankfully. I just want to feel better. Better. Me. Non-linear. I want my think back, please. With less pain. Maybe migraine today. I’m losing time. It floats away. The sound attacks my head with spears. Don’t let me ever have kids. Really.

Non-linear. My head hurts. Please.

I did some projects today. No. I want to go home please. Non-linear. Me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2015

Useless

Posted on March 13, 2015 by writingtowardshappy

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3/13/15 10:25pm

It’s like there are no useful thoughts in my head, yet I am acutely aware there is something I’m supposed to do.

(swing outside)
I feel like a rat in a toilet bowl scrambling to survive the flush. Chemically dulled. Staring. Curled up. Twitchy. Tics. I want the med work in the hospital to stick. Why can’t it be simple? I’m not feeling hope. I’d like to cry. No tears.

Word of torture: USELESS
Rebuttal: Human
Reply: Broken
Answer: Jesus

(pray, swing)
I’ve been seeing a grey fuzzy cat that’s not there. I miss Dr. N.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2015

Unimportant Grace

Posted on February 15, 2015 by writingtowardshappy

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2/15/15 2:30pm

I want to die. I played Apples to Apples. I’m in a spiritual service now on repentence, turning toward goodness. Apparently lent starts next week. Hot damn. Who cares? Aside from Auntie. Not me.

     I need to go home now.
     It’s too far, too much.
     This transition will hurt.

I am proving how unneeded I am. (sigh) Damn. I am at once important and not important at all. Dr. N. It’s important to understand my unimportance. I can only get out if I do. I don’t want to. I don’t know how to know and survive. Jesus, help me. Thank you, Lord.

It is only through being unimportant that I am freed to do something else.

I don’t want chocolate.
I don’t want steak.
I only want to feel okay.
Soaring freer than ever before,
Far up over the open door,
I watch what’s left here on the ground.
Where I am headed there is no frown.
No time, no terror, no second base.
Only the glow of His great face.
I don’t want chocolate.
I don’t want steak.
I only want to feel His grace.

I miss you, Sonny.
Only surrender.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2015

Day 18 – Looking Forward

Posted on February 12, 2015 by writingtowardshappy

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2-12-15 5:30pm

Day 18. I think I’m getting better. Today I realized I haven’t been harassed by an electrical outlet in days. I don’t even want to die 24/7 today. What a concept. I even danced in my room. I admit I did it because it was part of my homework, but I did it. I’ve been working closely with my doctor here and with a therapist.

I’m having trouble concentrating. There aren’t many thoughts in my head right now but the ones that are are being diverted by Comedy Central blaring behind me and the sound of my fingernails on the keyboard. Mom’s coming tonight. I keep thinking it’s Friday and that there’s an OCD group tonight. Neither are true. It is, apparently, almost Valentine’s Day though. Not that it matters. One day after Friday the 13th.

I’d like to write something helpful here or even somewhat coherent, but I don’t really see that happening. (deep breath) Oh, how I long for the sound of quiet. I’m hoping I’m allergic to someone’s perfume or something else here and not to my new medication. I can barely breathe through my nose and my head and ears hurt but I don’t have a cold. I’ve also been getting migraines and having eye pain every day. Today was definitely better than the past few.

What I’m looking forward to:

Playing with Ellie at dog beach
Getting my nails done
Sleeping in my own bed (first time I can say that!)
Holding the girls
Watching NCIS
Seeing Soleil
Eating at CBW
Using my BackJack
Having a computer all to myself
Going to Possum Trot
Visiting Auntie
Driving
Going to church
Gospel Choir

Feels good to look forward to something positive. I can’t recall the time I was able to do that last. Praise the Lord for Dr. M and D- and my mama. Here’s to more posts in the near future with substance and grace.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2015

Feed Me

Posted on December 23, 2014 by writingtowardshappy

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12/23/2014 1:04am

It’s 1 in the morning. I just finished baking three batches of cookies and a pan of brownies. I’m tired. I haven’t blogged in forever. I forget how long. It’s not personal. I’m not writing much either and when I do it’s not stuff I can post. I’m getting sick. Forced down time.

I’m really struggling. The stress has been building for months and I’ve watched my functioning slowly and quietly deteriorate. Saturday I had a total shutdown and couldn’t speak or move. Then I could move but not speak. The words came back Sunday but were touch and go. I almost got hit by a car yesterday because I wasn’t paying attention. I was too focused on trying to eat something so my blood sugar didn’t get any lower. I visited a friend in the hospital a few days ago and she joked that I should be her roommate. I didn’t tell her it was quite possible.

Today was a lot better. I saw Jim and he said I should adopt a hospital schedule. I’ve done it before to get through hard times. It just makes me sad. I carry a Snuffleupagus around for safety. Yes, the Sesame Street character. I’m not eating enough or I’m bingeing. I am tired all the time. I don’t know what’s happening but something is taking over my brain. I have a solo in the Christmas Eve program at church and I think that’s my only solid reason to be here. Tonight I have a scratchy throat and I’m praying for God to sing through me and preserve my voice for the show. I’m not sure what comes after that. Mom and I are doing Christmas at our house just us. I’m not looking forward to it. I just don’t feel Christmas this year. I miss Dr. N terribly and I can’t think straight.

I see Ashley tomorrow. I don’t know what to say. I need help. I’ve been having panic attacks and allergic reactions from things I eat even though I’m not supposed to. I left group early tonight because I was too anxious and I couldn’t tolerate hearing any more stories. No one followed or asked. I wanted to share what’s going on with me, how I’m scared and feel so alone. But I left. I hid and ate. I need help.

I’m not feeling poetic or wordy tonight. No creativity flows from me. Just the remnants of a disagreement with the oven and the faith to ask God to heal me. Even just the cold. I want to go home. Someone please feed me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2014

Purpose

Posted on October 2, 2014 by writingtowardshappy

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Thoughts after a friend’s comments today. She made my life make sense.
Yes, I am safe.

10/2/14 12:45pm

“It’s your job to help them make sense. You’re really good at that. You have a unique angle… Praise these people for the good they’re doing.” -C

Judgement (piano music)

Anger at incompetence
↓
They’re doing their best
↓
Your best isn’t good enough
↓
My best isn’t good enough
(sigh)
It never is.

She pointed out I let things get me upset. There are many thing worth being angry about. I don’t understand artificial limits. Things are SUPPOSED to make sense. People are supposed to be good and competent and do their jobs well. Life is supposed to be good. Objects belong in their assigned places. Needs should be met. There should be love.

Yet, there is chaos. The force of the world turning empties the drawers. Walls fall down. Good people die. Fourth graders run the world.

IT’S NOT RIGHT.

People wonder why I get mad. I can have empathy for individuals, not so much for systems of care. The happy people seem to not have or have overcome this programming. I observe them operating calmly under the belief that people are good, practicing forgiveness and rest. This is utterly foreign to me. When I try this I have to not care. I stop giving a shit and my anger turns to bitterness. It erases my hope.

The anger is what propels me, causes me to seek or make change. People don’t like it. I assume they think I do, like I could walk away if I tried. There’s nothing else inside.

(quiet pause, close my eyes)
I want to die.
(watch the people)

When you take the anger I sit on the floor, silent, looking up at you. Who’s my mommy? Will you take me home? I don’t belong here.

(silent)

Inside the donut.
Goosebumps.
Thank you, God.
Thank you, C.

—

“Lord I’m Ready Now” by Plumb plays over and over in my head. It’s so intense. I’m ready to let go. I don’t want this anymore. Fall into the arms of Jesus and weep. I feel so alone.

Yes, I’m a bitch. It’s all I know. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Teach me your ways.

Read the book.

Shut up.

(deep breath)

Go.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2014

Ya can’t fix tile with a laser beam

Posted on July 18, 2014 by writingtowardshappy

2

7/17/14 3:17pm

Do you want to stop dissociating? (therapist)

I want to not feel trapped. I want to not need to escape reality. I want to get what I need and to know that I have it. And what I have it for. I want ME.

I’m so exhausted. I fight but I can’t get out of my mind. I want to cut the pain out like a tumor. Just GET it OUT. I rarely cry. I’m surrounded by fog. My life is a lie it seems but only to me. I’m the one who can’t quite reach it.

Put on a smile. Dress nicely. Run to catch up. What day is it? Who cares? Just follow the box. This meaning is big-picture stuff. Just keep trodding along.

(slow deep breath, confusion)

I don’t want to be sick. It has benefits but not worth dying for. Why stay propped up on toothpicks when you could run? Have you tried?

(shutting down)

Tuesday I had a strong response and shut down in group. B- was the trigger. I didn’t say anything. (falling asleep) I want to be able to read menus again. I don’t know how I’m doing right now. When Ashley states it objectively it sounds bleak. I can’t remember what I’ve done or am doing. I’m very reactive. I can’t make decisions. I zone out driving. I hear music or racing thoughts or nothing. I get hot or cold for no reason. I’m not interested in people or activities or life. I’m having a really hard time making my bed and handling finances. I’m not brushing my teeth. My hair is falling out. I’m gaining weight. I’m picking again. I’m thinking in pictures. I can’t tolerate reading email and I’m not responding in a timely manner to text or voicemail. I’m not interested in tv. I have nightmares and wake up sweaty. I’m tired. Head pain and stomach pain are literally mind-numbing. Dr. T says I’m falling apart. I am.

I’m working really hard. I don’t know why I’d do that if I didn’t want to change. Groups and therapy are stressful. Who would volunteer for that? I’m not a glutton, nor do I like punishment.

Oddly, I don’t feel angry or offended at the question. One would think I would be better by now, might think I’m not trying. I just feel sad. It’s a question I’ve asked others. Do you want to get better? Yes. I do. Life is better than treatment. But life is trying to eat me. Or so my brain tells me. I do what the voices tell me.

Honestly, I do not want to be present for this. But if I don’t experience it I won’t have a chance to remember. “I feel like a hamster,” I kept telling them. Trapped and people are watching me. They gave me Risperdal and Depakote. “I broke the stone statue” led to being under close observation. I don’t speak the language. Shawna tries but she rarely “speaks Michelle.” I don’t want my own language, don’t want to need translation. I just want to be, to understand, to experience just what’s real. I imagine it might be boring but I want the opportunity to try.

I don’t want to lose my superpowers, just to put them away for awhile. Ya can’t fix tile with a laser beam.

Love, Michelle

PS – I want out of my body. It hurts not to move or dance. When offered opportunities I freeze with fear. GET IT OUT.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2014

Pain is a hat

Posted on July 1, 2014 by writingtowardshappy

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6-30-14 2:07pm

Pain is a hat.

Pain is more of a hat than a liver. It can’t hurt me. It’s not part of me. Letting go isn’t loss. Hanging on isn’t gain. Pain is a hat.

I just finished with Soleil. Amazing session. I started out very agitated, scared. I talked about being scared Dr. Nicolas will be mad and afraid to go back to being sick. A small dot in my stomach was me.

I laid on my back and she put her hand on the dot. We talked. I couldn’t trust, was still scared, so she held my hand. It was grounding. She was real. My hand felt real. She touched my forearm (real), my upper arm (real). She stretched out my arm, pulled. It was the reach of a line, a dance stretch. It opened up the inside of my upper arm, like when I twirl. I joined my other arm. I was calm. So calm. I felt pleasant joy. No anxiety. I listened to the tick of the clock, felt my heartbeat in my stomach. And I remembered what I told Ana – that maybe the pain/feeling doesn’t want to be there either. Am I fighting a friend, an ally?

Pain is just a hat. I can take it off and still be me. It and emotion and life are experiences. I choose pink glitter. I can change hats every day. Or leave one on for years. Or wear more than one at a time. Or I can wear no hat at all.

Some hats have magical powers. When I wear them I transform or change, but they don’t affect the real me, the foundation. Except the ones that are tattooed on, but those are more like skidmarks, scars, memories.

Pain is a hat.

(pause)

So, I guess it doesn’t matter what I go through, whether I’m sick or treated or not. Telling Dr. N doesn’t make the hat more real. Taking medication to remove it doesn’t remove me. Pain can’t hurt me. It’s a hat. Pain is a hat.

Thank you, God. Thank you.
For Soleil, and for hats.

—

Remember realizing Dr. N isn’t mad at me. I’m mad at me for not getting better. I want this fucking done. Get in the game, bitch. He just wants me okay.

My head hurts.

Getting better or healing and the process are no less painful, but I’m no longer afraid to do it. Me minus illness still equals me. I may be ragged but I’m still here, fighting, waiting for you.

I want a gluten-free brownie.

Me too.

—

I’m hungry but I don’t want to move or leave. I’m sitting in the sun in the parking lot. I hear the cars. They seem real. (run my hands over all of me) When I touch me I seem real. Then it fades quickly away.

A baby fell on its head in my car.

No it didn’t.

(sit under the trees)
(notice the breeze)

Train!

I don’t feel safe to drive.

(clasp my hands together)

I’m real.

Choose to hold on to the happy. Why not?

(13) I have to tell Dr. N.

It’s okay to be scared.

I agreed to tell Ashley when I need to use a skill to drive. I don’t want to . Where am I going? WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING ME?!

TICKLE FIGHT! :)

—

Dr. N called me back. I told him I’m okay. I was at the moment. But I’m not.

I remember with Soleil God was a big fuzzy purple shoe bag that scooped me up. It was dark inside and I was trapped, so scared. I couldn’t see. He pulled the drawstring tightly closed when life was dangerous and let me look out the top when it was safe. Life was land.

Sometimes there are reasons we cannot see.

(13) I don’t want to wait here. This is stupid.

Is my life a sheltered workshop?

© Michelle Routhieaux 2014

Are you the pumpkin man?

Posted on November 30, 2013 by writingtowardshappy

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11-29-13 11pm

Well, I feel tonight. Jumbled words in my mind let go with the music. A moment just to stop.

I watched the hall empty, mesmerized, listening to the sounds, taking it in. Streisand-man is annoying. Otherwise a wonderful night. Even the food was good.

The anxiety is trying to escape me but it’s stuck inside my body. Tweet tweet goes the bird dog. Scream. I said SCREAM. (scream)

(deep breath)

Parked in Old Town.
I miss my mom.
Want to run away.
Or just run.
I don’t know why.

Feed the toilet.
Arms not right.

Are you the pumpkin man?

Where am I?
Take me home.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2013

I wish it was Tuesday

Posted on November 30, 2013 by writingtowardshappy

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11/28/2013 10:29pm

Dear God,

I wish it was Tuesday. My voice is stuck inside me and nothing reaches the page.

I’m sitting in the car outside Mesa Vista. Light from Cog lights my page. I feel myself falling in slow motion, like a feather through Jello. Life moves quickly around me. I feel lifeless. Can’t move. Can’t stop. Another holiday out of touch. I need to catch this one early.

December is coming. Tomorrow’s Black Friday. I’m about to break. Double on Wednesday. I need so badly to be held. God? What are you training me for? What do you need me for now? I need you. I need a lot of things. I don’t want to end up back in the hospital and that’s the direction I’m headed.

Red flags

Self-harm
Dissociation (more frequent & intense)
Desperation/Agitation cycle
Nightly dreaming
No interest in food (ED + decreased appetite)
Increase in blood pressure
Episodes of tachycardia
Weak/Dizzy
Depersonalization
Derealization
Really out of it
Increase in switching
Intense need to be held
Confusion
Decrease in personal hygeine
Severe fatigue
Rocking
Racing thoughts or no thoughts
Feel my face hanging, heavy
Late frequently
Anhedonia
Can’t complete tasks
Catastrophize more often
Don’t care about my appearance
Not feeding animals
Sleeping in makes me feel worse
Soul-crushing depression
I just watch from behind the glass

Coping Skills I’m Using

Day list (when I remember)
Walking Ellie
Sticking to a schedule
Eating nut bars
Deep breathing
Singing
Watching NCIS
Decluttering
Sensory distraction – light, temperature, sound
Scented candles
Getting out of the house
Eating regularly
Rocking
Chewing gum
Projects

Triggers

Driving
Mom
Too busy – outreach, S, appts
No music nights
No free/down time
Money problems
Ankle injury
Gluten-free transition
-‘s episode, –
J/M/S drama – trust
Brother’s HD
DBSA business woes
Heartland scuffle on Monday
Clogging – Quarternote end, dying, teaching, etc.

What do I need?

Modified schedule w/emphasis on self-care
Talk to my providers
back to Day List
Go back to the bus half time
Meet with a dietician
Go back to Dizzy’s
Start writing again
Find/schedule more alone time
Go back to the gym
Schedule garage time
Pray

Let go.

Schedule – weekly
Menu

© Michelle Routhieaux 2013

Incubation vs Hibernation

Posted on September 9, 2013 by writingtowardshappy

1

9-3-13 2:22pm

I was thinking about my life today while driving to Eastlake for a pickup. My doctor says I’m making so much progress, that he knew I had potential but never expected me to come this far. But where am I? Where am I going?

I’m not headed in any particular direction. It’s a day to day struggle to stay alive. I’m not in school pursuing a career. I don’t have a husband or kids. I’m floating, stagnant, goal-less. Well, I do have 2 goals but I’m not doing very well on them. I’m temped to starve to death or maybe just walk in circles. When I think about it I freak out. (deeep breath) Is this the end of the yellow brick road?

The word incubation came to mind followed by hibernation. I have stopped almost all events and responsibilities. I am tired. But I don’t think I’m hibernating. I am largely motionless but I am being nurtured and growing. This pause in my life is productive. My mind is catching up to me.

I feel very nauseous, head pain, weak.

I am incubating. If I don’t die, I’ll hatch. I will arise into my new life and follow the path wherever God leads me.

I’m scared to leave this place. I’m not moving forward. I am being carried. The angels are around me. My breath…

Incubation is painful like physical therapy. I am stretched and molded and melted, filed and rearranged. My body is trying to kill me. Maybe I need to die to live.

I really feel faint.
I need to lie down.
And see Dr. Collan.

Right now I feel panic like last night. I’m hovering on a subject so painful, raw. I want to go back to USC.

WHY did you take that life from me?
Why even show me or care?

My life is over. I want a new one. I want to die.

FG – If the new life was different but as fulfilling as the old one, would you stick around?

Hell, yeah.
I need. I just don’t know what.
Jesus.

I’ve walked right out of my shoes. Now I walk on air – off-lifing. Where am I headed, running in circles in an incubator. I’m not ready to leave. But I’m close. I want a better life, to be free. That’s progress. In hibernation I shut down and rest. It rarely involves conscious growth.

I’m helping S- tonight. I’d rather be working on the Comfort Drive. I need to prepare for my mom’s trip and I need someone to help me improve my backing.

I feel overwhelmed but I’m here, incubating. I will be here as long as it takes. God help me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2013

Since 2009

Posted on September 9, 2013 by writingtowardshappy

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8/13/13 3:18pm

What’s different now than in ’09 with Marc? I’m embracing the fact that I’m alone. Dr. N taught me that not all people leave and that I can be safe. Jim taught me how to face my fears through ERP instead of cognitive reasoning. DBT gave me a set of skills to use when I’m freaking out that work. I became closer to God and reassessed my priorities and relationships when I thought I was going to die. I started developing a sense of self. Now I am not so desperate and needy. I started developing systems to get me through the day and track my progress. I faithfully attended DBSA both sharing and learning new tools. I surrendered the pain and defined acceptance. I started doing things for me, in particular attending jazz gigs and making friends with non-crazy (or at least non-diagnosed) people. I gave up and found life. My mom is nicer to me now. I rarely scream or freak out or run away. I use assertiveness daily. I don’t take bullshit anymore. My need for an intense attachment to one person has diminished greatly. I feel more safe, supported. I’ve learned and practiced more boundaries. I’ve moved away from the cognitive approach. I stopped going to school. I found a doctor and therapist who meet my needs. I need the hospital less. My HD phase has passed. I am free.

I forgot to tell Dr. N today that I’ve been thinking about school. I want my degree. I think I’m ready. I think I’d like to major in social work. I should try WRAP and PET first both as prerequisites and to see if I could handle it. I think I might. I don’t think I’m ready for full or part-time. Maybe one class at a time. I have scholarship money I need to use…

(walk around)

I stood up for myself when threatened at Scripps. I walked away stronger, determined. I took care of me.

I learned to say no and to say yes. I’m doing much better with change – if you can imagine. I’ve dealt with health issues bigger than me. I’ve been broken and risen up again, not through ashes but rules. I learned how to observe and listen, to practice empathy. I catch myself earlier in the process so I don’t blow. I’m learning to stand on my own.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2013

Recipe for a Day List

Posted on August 18, 2013 by writingtowardshappy

5

8/18/13 5pm

This is my day list. I use it every day. Today I updated and prettified it. If you’re trying to make one and want customized bullets, use Word instead of Publisher.

My day list has been so helpful for me. I have memory problems and things an average person would have no problem remembering slip my mind and run away. Like somehow it’s a trap and they finally escape. So awhile back I decided to make myself a list of things I need to do every day to remind me. I put it in a page protector (clear plastic cover) and mark off each thing with a dry erase marker as I do it. I made a space on my wall to hang it last night because I keep losing it. My day list gets me through the day.

The day list has helped me keep up with self-care when I’m really depressed and make sure I come back to basics when I’m manic or agitated. I find that when I’m doing better I don’t need it as much and when I’m doing exceedingly bad I don’t even remember I have one. Thankfully, my psychiatrist reminds me.

I feel accomplished when I do everything, which is pretty rare. I am grateful it reminds me what to take with me. I made it. I love it. I’m proud of myself.

Recipe for making your own day list:

Ingredients – 1 sheet protector, 1 sheet of paper, pencil or pen, 1+ dry erase markers

Think about what you NEED to do every day (not what you think you SHOULD do or what someone else thinks you SHOULD do).
Write those things down in an order you are most likely to do them.
Place the paper in the sheet protector.
Put the list in a place you’ll see it every morning, next to a dry erase marker.
Use. (Do a task, mark it off, erase marks at the end of the day.)
Revise as needed.
Celebrate your accomplishments!

Just a note – some people think my list is stupid. My mom doesn’t get it. She hassled me about it at first. Why do I need a list? Can’t I just remember that? Honestly, no. I’m glad I kept using it. If it works for you, do it. Let me know how it goes. :)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2013

I feel the need to write…

Posted on August 4, 2013 by writingtowardshappy

Reply

8/4/13 12:54pm

I feel the need to write but I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m scared. Everything’s changing.

Today I stand tall, walk confidently. A bug sits on my pen. I feel grounded. Diane gave me jewelry. I got many compliments on my appearance, my dress. I feel calm. My head doesn’t hurt yet. I can write without pain. I am removed from me. Watching. It all goes away.

Yesterday I went to a party. I was severely depressed & moderately agitated to begin with. I lied on my floor barely moving, begged myself not to go. But I did. I’m not good at being social. Small talk annoys me. I wanted to leave but I came for S-. I forced myself to participate, to observe. I ate the food, though it scared me. I pet the cat. In my journal I wrote, “I will end up in the hospital soon if I don’t get this under control.”

Today I feel like I’m floating. I sit in a parking lot hugging the sun. A ball of desperation has been growing in my throat causing my voice to be crackly. My body has been weak & riddled with pain. I’ve wanted to kill people all the live long day. The pain has seeped down from my head through my body and into my soul. My thoughts are tainted. They are often not mine. I feel the tears burn my face from the inside. The screams, they live in my forehead. And somewhere deep inside is me trapped in a dungeon surrounded by fire on an island of hate surviving solely on ice chips. She’s going to die…

T- says I look worn down, that she can see the sadness and pain in me. Sometimes it is too great and she must look away. Sorrow runs deep.

I have so much to be thankful for. I am ashamed that people can sense or see my pain. I’m not doing it right. I’m supposed to be perfect and happy. Someone noticed last night and mentioned it. I was devastated.

I am an emotional trash compactor that rarely gets emptied. Sad, tired eyes often imply wisdom. I’d like to let it out. And take these shoes off. I want OUT. I want out.

I went to see about a debt consolidation loan on Friday and the guy talked at me for an hour. Yes, I’m not in the best situation. No, I don’t know how to fix it. I feel thoroughly TRAPPED. I think I could do it from scratch, learn, change my ways. If only I could get there. Someone please help me. (not really) I’m not wearing the right underwear.

My feet hurt.
I’m hungry.

There are so many tasks to do. They will never all be done. I just work as I can. Futile. And eat Chobani yogurt. I need a fan. (not really)

Five of my toes are numb.
I want to go home.

I’ve spent a lot of time lately mapping out how to map out my life. I’ve not had the energy to put the plan into play but it’s coming along. I need to play. And pee. I’m scared.

I need structure, achievable goals, and rewards. Music, dance, art, exercise. SLEEP. I’m a ball of need. And I just keep giving. I feel lonely, alone, even around people. I’m very bothered by things out of place. My other-energy boundaries have eroded. It all comes in. And then I seem pissy and want to kill people and they say I’m rude. Well, you try it, bitch. (deep breath)

I want to sleep and wake up feeling better. My head hurts. I’m hungry. It’s way too hot.

(sit. breathe.)

I breathe the evil out of me. Don’s off beer for 2 weeks for MOHS. We’ll see how that goes. I started NuvaRing today. I hope I don’t gain weight. If I tolerate it well I may be able to decrease or cut out a few other meds. (wave of nausea) I need meds now… Done.

I want to get a FitBit. My therapist is concerned about my sleep and I want to lose weight. I think a monitor and program will help me. Hopefully. Even as just a reminder. I want to be Me again. She is thin. She loses weight. She’s amazing.

My face, hands & feet tingle. My stomach protrudes, despite lack of food. My head hurts. I do not move, but for my hand. My eyes are weary above a faint smile. God is good. Amen.

(fall asleep)

PS – My thyroid biopsy came back normal. I’m waiting on the other one. I’m quite sick for being so healthy. I guess I’m ahead of my time.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2013

My Brain is a Beach Ball

Posted on February 19, 2013 by writingtowardshappy

2

(writing from the hospital)
2-3-13 9:20am

I was just sitting in morning meeting thinking. A 2″x 2″ metal square is depressing the front of my brain. It has a nice matte dark finish. It’s pressing on my brain. Impairing, altering my ability to think. Throwing off track the course of my eyes. Making me want to die.

I began to desire the removal of this pressing weight, but my brain might float away as it’s done in the past. Filled with the glory of the Spirit and the creativity of a child. To twirl and leap in the sunshine, to build empires in the night. To despair and fall into self-destruction from harnessing such energy.

(distraction)

I certainly don’t want that, though it’s fun for a night. Like a beach ball flying up in the air when you fall off to the side.

I started thinking of the beach ball, of its resting state. It doesn’t require compression, being held under water, and it doesn’t float away – if cared for properly. I suppose proper genetics and nurturing allow a beach ball to progress without incident. But if it’s stabbed or over or under-inflated or dried out or forgotten, you never know. Under tremendous pressure it will pop. It may also take on water very slowly, become ever so much heavier until one day it is deemed unusable and its human walks away.
My brain is a beach ball.

My brain is beautiful. Beautiful in its complexities and creativities and jerks. In its random fuck yous and kindnesses and deep appreciations. In its expression of itself and God to others. I sometimes want to hide it. I feel ashamed. I hold it under water and I pray for it to die. I hide it in the shed. I drag it through the rocks. I leave it in the sun. The damn thing is indestructible. I don’t know why it loves me. I don’t know why it sticks around.

For some reason my brain has yet to kill me or allow myself to do it. It hasn’t banned me from knowing how or walking through it many times. It just says, “Not now.” God says, “Not now.” I trust Him. He sent Dr. Harvey to sit with me last night. My brain has never left me. I have altered it, drugged it into submission, injured it, begged & pleaded. It has a passion for life. For learning and love. It holds tight all the things I’ve let go of for me, all the things I’ve forgotten. It tucks away what I can’t tolerate. My brain is amazing. I love my brain.

I really hope they can help me here to make a safe zoo for my beach ball brain so the world will be fun and I can think but I’ll be okay. I so want to be okay. Please help me be okay. Someone is standing on my brain.

My brain is a beach ball.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2013

Me

Posted on January 6, 2013 by writingtowardshappy

3

(Note – Yes, I am safe.)
1-6-13 6:30pm

Just got home from RENT. I went with Taylor. Cried through most of it. Exhausted now.

I miss Brandon. I miss my theater family. I miss being me. All of the goodness that I am now isn’t ME. I miss Sarah and Mr. B, knowing I had a role, a purpose. All of that was taken from me.

It’s something we never talk about in therapy. We talk about sense of self. We don’t talk about me. Is it too late to get her back? Is she gone forever? Is the opportunity gone for me to be me? I so desperately need me.

Please.

–

I pulled a healing card today that says this, “It’s important not to get stuck in therapy. Therapy is a necessary boat that takes you across a rough river to a new shore. In time, though, you must step out of the boat and onto new earth and never look back.” There is a passage with it about not carrying the raft forever and being wary of letting supports be a substitute for life.

I don’t understand. Illness took me. Therapy took my life. Therapy forced illness to cough part of me up and became my life. I can’t get the real me back. If I let go of groups and therapy I have nothing.

I wish someone had warned me, told me, “Don’t let go! Not for anything.” But they didn’t. They were living. Now I am scared to breathe.

A little girl wants me to teach her to dance. I’m terrified. Please don’t touch me. You don’t understand.

Who am I?

I am a little girl.
I am a friend.
I am a dancer.
I am an artist.
I am a patient.
I am a child of God.
I am me.
I am not what I feel.

(“I’ll Cover You”)

I want to scream out, “PLEASE HELP ME! Someone’s taken my soul!” But no one’s there to listen, only hear.

If I can’t be who I was, I don’t want to live at all.

You couldn’t tolerate the stress of who you were.

I can’t tolerate the stress of now.

Touche.
Take your AZT.

I think if I got into a show it would bring me back. I would find me again. I NEED me.

Me is dead. She is gone.

No she’s not! I saw her last week.

Elvis has left the building.

My head hurts.
I want to die.

I know.
Do you honestly think in your state of mind you could do it?

I’ve done it before.

But not with the physical ailments.

True.
What am I supposed to do?
I can’t do this anymore.

Sing, take drugs & teach.
Work your way up.
Peanuts to packing peanuts.

Fuck that.
When do we start?

I want to die.

I know.
I’m tired.

Triggers

Theater
RENT memories
B- memories
USC memories
shame about my life
missing Sarah
believing I can never have me back

Vulnerability Factors

Janet’s death
pre-existing severe depression
exhaustion
allergies/infection
headaches
holidays

Thankful Taylor is texting me. Need to take – and -.
Make a plan, Michelle. You can do this.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2013

Feelings

Posted on January 6, 2013 by writingtowardshappy

2

1-4-13 7:27pm

In the silence music comes to me.

Now “I Need a Miracle.”
Before “Walk on the Water.”

Waves of intense anxiety followed by crashes. Labor of feelings.

(breathing)

I colored. I am a unicorn. My head hurts.

I’m glad Mom doesn’t have the tv on.

People keep asking if I’m okay. I don’t know what to tell them. I want their support. But I don’t want to want it. I don’t want anyone to know I need help.

15 LEAVE ME ALONE.

There was so much love and support at the group last night. I couldn’t take it in. I felt squirmy.

15 Leave me alone. Stop talking to me. Hide under my desk.

I’m not supposed to feel. Don’t you understand? Feelings are for secrets, closed
doors and letters. I don’t feel. I dance.

Feelings get me in trouble. I am not allowed to have them. I am pro other people openly having feelings, sometimes. I, however, tuck them away safely in a vault that eats at me. I can’t even get to them if I want to.

Feelings are scary and dangerous. They make me feel ashamed. It is my job to be strong. It is my job to be a robot. Do the work, listen, comfort, be.

I am angry that other people can have feelings but not me. I feel them in a tiny ball, an orb in the center of my brain, best friends with the hippocampus. They hover there and tell me what to do. I speak this out loud as I write it purely monotone, a few syllables at a time. I stare. My head hurts. Please help me.

*Smack* Don’t you EVER say that again.

I see other people cry and they’re comforted. I’m not easily soothed. I get angry. I don’t want people touching me. I don’t want them to know. I want to be fucked up in private and then go back to my life. I don’t accept help. I feel lonely. I push people away. But not out of unlove, out of self-stigma.

15
Leave me alone.
I don’t trust them.
People who say they will help lie.
They just hurt you.
It’s a trap.
Stay in the dungeon where it’s safe.

FG
She doesn’t understand.
She has good cause not to trust.
She is learning.

13
She is killing us.

FG
Maybe so.

I want to cut or hurt myself to feel. I could cry a few days ago. Now I just stare. Tears in my forehead. Crashing. Must sleep.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2013

Janet was my friend

Posted on December 29, 2012 by writingtowardshappy

12

12/29/12 5pm

Dear Jesus,

I don’t know if she believed or not, but I like to believe that Janet is in your arms today. Please bring her all the comfort and peace that she couldn’t find here and introduce her to joy. Thank you for the time you gave me with her. She is an amazing friend. Please be with Chrissy as she deals with this trauma and help me to provide comfort and support to the group. Give me strength to hold everyone up, to maintain my link. Thank you for giving me the resources and fortitude to do this. Thank you for hope.

In your name I pray, Amen.

Janet 2010

Janet hung herself.
I’m going to the donut shop now.
To be with Joe & Chrissy.
(pause)
Janet was my friend.

Chrissy found her.
Janet was my friend.
I saw her on Wednesday. We worked, talked, had dinner.
I knew she was bad.
I didn’t know how close.

Was the cleaning up all part of the plan?
I doubt it.

She hung herself in the bathroom.
The bathroom we just worked on.
With the flowered rug.
And the Tinkerbell towels.

Janet was my friend.

We went to Noodles & Company after.
She bought me food. We talked.
She laughed.

I met Janet in 2004 in Henry’s group when she was living with her family in Borrego and getting ECT. She was a wreck, but she helped me. She would walk me through guided imagery. We talked on the phone hours a day. She jumped out of a car on the freeway, ran away. Her parents screamed at me. So much drama. But she was my friend.

I couldn’t tolerate her anymore and was glad she disappeared. I hadn’t seen her in years when she showed up at DBSA. I heard of a Janet and prayed it wasn’t her, but it was. I was scared it would be the same drama with her parents and Fidaleo and 17 drugs. But it wasn’t. She was different.

The crippling depression Janet experienced while at DBSA was a vast improvement from when I met her. She had skills, sometimes hope, and a desire for a good life. She lived on her own or with a roommate, drove a car, fed her cats. Those cats were her family, her reasons for living. And the whole month of Halloween.

Janet was a broken little girl living the devil’s fairy tale. With a body that wouldn’t die. But I guess enough is enough sometimes. Her body & mind were weary. It was time to let go.

I can’t imagine her believing it would work. One last try out of desperation. Care for the cats and care for myself. I don’t blame her. She endured years of torture, loneliness and pain. The people she wanted love from the most were mean to her. She had nothing left in the reserve. No doctor, dwindling meds, persistent severe depression. She had her note cards and her kitties and her best friend. She fought the good fight and now it’s over.

Janet was my friend.

I find myself grappling now with the what if and why questions. The words that have no answers. The words that need no response.

I’m going to the donut shop.
Janet was my friend.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012