3-24-10                 12:20am

I gave a presentation today at the RICA Peer Liaison meeting. I’d known about it for awhile but chose not to prepare anything. I tend to do better when I’m under pressure and haven’t prepared much. It’s an odd phenomenon but it seems to work well for me. So I printed out a report to use as a template as I ran out the door late. My mom thought it was somewhere else so we were more late but I managed not to get super mad at her (in words) and the presentation was awesome. AWESOME. When I got back to my seat I was flying high. I sent a text to a few friends that said, “AHHHH! I’M AWESOME!!! Lol. What a rush!” Then it hit me. I forgot something. It wasn’t Earth-shaking at first. Just a realization. Then I started to feel angry. REALLY angry. It was like the feeling was taking over me. I couldn’t stop it. So I decided to write. What else is there to do in the middle of a meeting? The thought process was this:

3-23-10                 2:18pm

AHHHHHHH!!!! I feel excitedly ANGRY! AH! (Breathe…)

Urges: Kick the wall. Scream. Hit something. Run. Cry.

Body: Face tingling. Teeth on my tongue bothering me. Feel cold. Yawning. Eyes water. Hair in my eyes bothering me. Shoulders moving. Feet feel claustrophobic in shoes. Shallow quick breathing.

Thoughts: I am awesome! I’ve failed.

Trigger: Realized I forgot the “we don’t take holidays” clause. Mom remembered but didn’t tell me.

Coping options: Take Xanax. Breathe. Write. Go outside. Accept.

Action options: Say something. Say nothing. Tell Karin later.

My mind was racing. What was I to do? If I said something it might be inappropriate. I’d never been to one of these meetings. If I said nothing, I would kick myself from now until eternity. Telling Karin later would just be a copout. There was a pause and I spoke up. My anxiety was SO high. But it worked! It was appropriately timed and led to 2 other comments people had forgotten. Yes! Success! I circled “Say something” under action options and breathed a big sigh of relief.

I’m proud of myself. My Cog and DBT and assertiveness training and guts combined today to help me achieve a great thing. And I’m honored to share the process. :)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

3-22-10                 10:11pm

My stomach is trembling but my heart is happy. I skipped group tonight and watched “Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory.” I’d never really watched it before, listened, understood… Pure imagination.

(Breathing…) I had quite an adventure today. My body held up better than I expected. I can’t say it is often I find myself wandering the streets of North Park on a Monday afternoon in a party dress, or writing in a window seat of the Manchester Grand conference center, or riding the Orange Line and soaking in the view. No. I’ve never done any of those. (pause) But they were fun.

I wish my mom would turn off the news. Take an umbrella & a sweater. You’ll be fine. It’s interrupting my imagining.

Fun lesson of the day: Steak tacos make good foot warmers. :)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

3-22-10                 5:28pm

I’ve been thinking about this for awhile. I don’t often feel a strong connection to people, sometimes because I don’t want to. I find myself distanced, separate. There is something between us.

Yet, people seem to be drawn to me. I don’t know why but they tell me things. They tell me things I would never want to know, things I don’t need to know, things they don’t tell anyone else. They tell me. Probably ‘cuz I listen. Sometimes I share back but most just want me to listen. This I expect in group, but it happens every day.

It’s somewhat like confession. People come to sit with me or send me an email to dump their shit. Then they get up and walk away, and they’re gone. Until they again need a listener. Sometimes I wonder if they think about me and what I’m to do with all this information. They may be just passing through but I stay. And I don’t have people that I get to confess to, who answer my calls and texts at all hours just because. And I do have feelings… But I’m smart enough to know not to leave them with the ones passing through.

Then I thought, “Maybe I’m the one who’s just passing through.” It’s not like I make a real effort to put roots down anywhere, to stay attached to anything realistic. I live in fantasy. Maybe I’m passing through. If I wasn’t here there would be someone else to spill to.

This confession thing puts me in a tight situation sometimes. For instance, there is a place I go every week to hang out. For some reason, people are drawn to talk to a girl sitting alone writing in a bar on a Sunday night. I don’t know why, but they are. So they come & they talk to me. One by one they spill their stories. The problem is that I get both sides. They think I’m biased because their boss is my friend, and I am, but I’m not “on her side.” I find myself wanting to solve the problem, but realize it’s not my problem to solve. So I sit back and watch, knowing what’s happening from every angle, unable to do anything about it. Who’s trust do you betray to remedy the situation? What’s confidential and what can’t I live without sharing? I don’t know. So I watch and listen, and I just pray that it turns out well.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

3-22-10                 3:59pm

I never cease to be amazed by the amount of judgment around me. Yesterday, Pastor Jeremiah was talking about inviting strangers into your home and loving one another. Mom and I went to Marie Callender’s for lunch and we passed a homeless man on the off ramp. I asked if we could bring him to lunch. She said no, wouldn’t answer why. She said she would bring lunch to him but not him to lunch. I said, “I get it. You’re not willing to fellowship with the untouchables. I just wish you’d actually say it.”

Do you fellowship with the untouchables? However you might define that. I hang out with a lot of different people. There aren’t many who scare me, whom I shy away from being near. There are a few but, for the most part, people are just people. Everyone has a story. That’s not to say I don’t judge people. I do. But those judgments aren’t static and are based on experience more than stereotype. In my current list of friends and family there are criminals, sex offenders, smugglers, poor, disabled, awkward, soon-to-be-homeless, just plain weird and funny looking people. And they trust me because I don’t care what makes them weird. I care how they are. I listen to their feelings. And I trust them because I don’t have a whole lot to lose, and they’re often much better friends than the “normal” people.

I came today to meet 2 people I barely know for drinks. I posted this on my FB page and a slew of advice followed. It’s still coming. I get it on my phone. I am amazed at the things people are saying. It’s not safe. Have 911 ready on your phone. Don’t get in the car with them. That it should be okay as long as I take someone I really know well. What happened to trusting people? Have they never been on a blind date? This was not a date, but it’s this same fear-based mentality that causes people to teach their kids not to talk to strangers. The only problem is EVERYONE’S a stranger. It’s a hard thing to unteach.

People are not bad just because they’re people. I hate a lot of people but I hate them with reason. Give a stranger a chance. Talk to someone on the bus, or your grocer, or the person next to you in line. NOT being afraid to talk to people has allowed me to make friends with and network with an extensive group of people I would not otherwise be associated with.

I talk to people. I stop on the median and sit down to talk to the man with the cardboard sign. What others run from, I walk towards. (Except natural disasters. Those aren’t pleasant.) I accept rides from strangers I am reasonably sure won’t kill me. It’s gotten me in some tricky situations, but it’s also saved my life. I make connections with powerful people in the community by not being afraid to approach or talk to them.

TRY IT. You might find a new friend. Or someone you can help. Or someone who can help you.

I know how to dial 911 and I don’t appreciate being told to fear the Boogieman, that the world isn’t safe. That may be true. But if the Boogieman IS out to get me, I’d rather spend the time I have left happy than scared. Wouldn’t you?

Fellowship with the untouchables. Talk to strangers. Make yourself uncomfortable. Let me know how it goes. That Boogieman might turn out to be your new best friend.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

3-22-10                 3:25pm

I am so sick of hearing, reading, and watching people fight about healthcare reform. This thing that’s meant to help us stay alive is tearing us apart. Come on. Really? I’ve read many people claim by reforming healthcare Congress is stealing our freedom and ruining our country. I read posts about how all the people without insurance are just poor lazy bastards who don’t manage money well. They bitch and complain about cost and the deficit. But, honestly, who really cares? And how does increasing the deficit, which will happen anyway, directly affect YOU? Someone said yesterday, “At least the poor make out.” (sigh) To that I say, “Eat shit and die.”

Since when did health become something people were mad at poor people for wanting? Really. Part of me hopes they never understand why this is important. However, the rest of me wishes they would be struck with a terrible disease, lose their job and insurance, and be forced to attempt to make it, to survive. Not on savings. But on life. You can never fully understand until you’ve been there.

The “government programs” they think are so horrible and flawed and need tossing are what keep me alive every day. No, they’re not perfect. But they’re something. I’m not an irresponsible, lazy, dumbass working the system for a buck like they’d make me out to be. My life has worth and I deserve to be healthy, no matter my income or age. What makes me less worthy?

I find it interesting that the conservatives are so against helping people. The religious right is trying to convince America that loving their neighbors as they love themselves is wrong? That sacrifice for the greater good is bad? It’s almost Easter. I think they need to stop and ask, “What would Jesus do?” My answer is that He would bear that cross, help the needy and sacrifice Himself.

You don’t know what tomorrow may bring. You just might be the one standing in line at the food pantry or welfare office just days after posting your hatred of “those people” on your FB page. But oops, now you’re one of “those people.” How things change…

There are many people who come to me for advice, who want or need my input, who trust my judgment. I make change. I save lives. I have value. I am also poor. I receive disability and am alive thanks to Medicaid and Medicare. It’s very offensive and I feel hurt by posts referring to “people” like me so negatively. You don’t even know me. But I know you. You hate me because I’m stealing your money and corrupting the country, but you jump at the chance to have lunch with me to pick my brain. Do you see the irony?

(sigh) I feel sick.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

3-21-10                 7:32pm

Can you imagine if everyone in the world had a dream and everyone pursued that dream? If everyone had a goal, a positive destination? If everyone was allowed to dream as big as they could, no boundaries? What would we see? How would we change? What would you dream?

(Inspired by Sacha’s version of “Pure Imagination”)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

3-21-10                 6:30pm

There are 3 situations in life – the game, the dance, and the puzzle. Any interaction you have is one of these 3.

The game is where you use strategy to defeat your opponent. A puzzle is where you use your observational skills to learn what you can, make connections, and fit things together. The dance is moving gracefully, toe-to-toe, through the process.

Ideally, what you learn in the puzzle gives you the strategy to win the game and then dance through life. Because doing anything else through life is just boring. And ineffective. The dance is that stage that you reach eventually where you just know how things work. You know what to look for in the puzzle. The game doesn’t throw you like it used to. You are able to freestyle, quickstep, miss the puddle. I think I’m living the dance. Where are you?

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

3-21-10                 3:58pm

I went to church this morning with Mom. I’m not a big fan of this church but I took something from the message. I am like Jesus.

Now, hold your horses. I’m not manic. I don’t think I’m God, not having delusions of grandeur. I’m just a lot like Jesus. My name, Michelle, means “who is like the Lord.” I never understood but I see it now.

The church is always pushing, saying to be more like Him. I might not follow the church, but I am. I give what I have to the needy, put others first even at my own expense. I fellowship with the untouchables and the wealthy, but I’m neither. I am here for a set amount of time to achieve a purpose I don’t fully understand. I walk alone and think radically different than others. But I have followers. Only I don’t know where they’re following me to. He broke the rules, made new ones, changed lives. So, yes. I think I’m like Jesus.

I may not love my enemies but I respect them and treat them well. I help even the people I hate. I have compassion for those who hurt me. I know that I’m here for a reason, but also that I’m just passing through.

PS – The message had nothing to do with this.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

3-21-10                 2:54am

There is a daisy bush in my back yard. At least that’s what I call it. I want to be like this bush. It has taught me a lesson.

This bush has never flourished. It had flowers when we moved in but I wouldn’t say it called out to me as completely alive. Then a few winters ago everything froze. All our plants died. The grass was covered with ice, which is weird considering this is SoCal. And the daisy bush all but died. In fact, half of it literally turned white. It was sad. We weren’t sure what to do. We just left it. It would have a few flowers here and there. Mom wanted to just leave it and see if it would come back on its own. I just wanted to get rid of the thing and plant something else, which really means it would’ve turned into weeds cuz we don’t plant things. But one day Mom went out there and tried to break off a small piece of the white part in the hopes that maybe that would help. To her surprise, that whole side came off.

So now we have half a daisy bush. You can see where the other half once was. It’s still white. But a funny thing happened. It started to bloom. That bush has more flowers on it now than ever. When I look at it now I can’t help but smile. It just needed to lose the dead weight. Like painful things in our lives, we were afraid to take that piece off. Mom avoided it. I would’ve rather killed the thing. But facing the problem, getting rid of the pain brought healing.

I want to be like the daisy bush. I want to have the courage to prune those things from my life that cause me distress and steal my happiness or convince me to give it away. I want to be strong enough and to be willing to endure the pain of that loss in order to get to the beauty. I can do it. It’s the only way. I want to be like the daisy bush, fully in bloom, to thrive and to flourish.

©Michelle Routhieaux 2010

3-21-10                 1:56am

Why has all cyber laughter become LOL? Sure, there are variations but they’re all some form of audible laughter. What ever happened to the silent chuckle? Is there a cyber term for when you smile and think something’s funny but don’t actually laugh? Really. Cuz I write a whole lot of Lols but it’s not very often that I actually do. What’s your take?

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

3-20-10                 5:19pm

Wow. How did it get to be 5 o’clock? (deep breaths…)

What do I feel? What is the experience?

I feel the pressure of my body on the bed, how it supports me, where my head meets my arm. My tongue on the back of my teeth. That feeling of differentness where my legs hang off the end of the bed. The beginnings of a headache. Heat on top of my head.

I hear the birds chirping outside the closed window, the subtle vibrating sound of the pen on the page. The neighbor’s dog. My feet crack. Myself breathe.

I’m aware that I feel very tired. I feel my heart beat. My whole body moves with its pounding. I stare at the page and am distracted by the whites of my nails.

I taste bacon fat and pizza grease. I hear my mom bitch about putting stuff away. I practice Teflon mind, choose not to reply.

I see the ripples in the blanket next to me, see the lined pattern of the grip of my pen. I feel that tickle in my eyes and nose that tells me I have to sneeze… But I don’t…

I stop to experience everything around me… Not judging. To appreciate it just as it is… There is nothing that needs to be changed or moved in this moment, fixed or organized. I don’t need to be anywhere or do anything or help anyone but myself. And right now that’s just being mindful. Living in whatever moment I’m in, experiencing my feelings without judging, just being.

I like to be.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

3-15-10                 11:33pm

My addiction to Facebook is interfering with my addiction to ramen. I am so distracted that it gets cold. I don’t know what to look at. Do I read or eat? I don’t want to miss out on the ramen but I also can’t miss one second of extremely boring information on FB. Why? I don’t know. The forces pull me apart. Lol. It’s actually stressful. Conflicting addictions. Maybe if they weren’t both in the kitchen it would be better…

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010



3-15-10                 10:20pm

I still have that feeling. The feeling that I’m going to die soon. I thought it might be a delusion but it’s not. According to Princeton’s web dictionary, a delusion is “an erroneous belief that is held in the face of evidence to the contrary.” Nope. Not a delusion. It may be an erroneous belief but there is no evidence. There is no way you can prove that I won’t die tomorrow. Except for my brain, my body’s in pretty good health. But that doesn’t account for the rest of the world. Some things you just know.

Mothers know when something’s wrong with their child. Birds know when it’s going to rain. Cows can sense the earth shake. Why can’t I know this? What makes it so bad? You don’t know any more than I do. But I’m pretty certain I know more than you do.

There is a longing in me to be free. To be free from this life. I guess I’m kinda like those people who just keep waiting for Jesus to come. I long for peace. Quietness. Where things are spelled right and movies are free. Those golden streets. I’d like to see them. I’d like to hug my dad…

This feeling separates me. It’s motivation to do only what I really want to, to feel happy for me. And sad. And mad. For me. Board meetings seem largely insignificant. Why should I waste this precious time?

I own this feeling. I’m ready. You don’t have to be.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

3-15-10                 9:49pm

I hear the music of the closing credits. It rolls through my head. An incredibly sad movie. Full of emotion and truth. Silence. I didn’t see it coming. That’s the beauty. The degree of heartbreak and wrongness, the fact that it just shouldn’t be. Yet, it is. I am grateful to see.

Remember Me. It makes me quiet. I haven’t cried like that in a theater for years. Completely captivated. Remember me. A good distraction. A cinematic revelation, a reel of lessons passing quickly on the screen. There are parts I still don’t understand. Like what happened to Caroline. Some things I may never understand…

Like why rescheduling tonight’s meeting was easy. Why I’m sitting in a movie theater and not a hospital. Why Seroquel in the morning allowed that to be. Why my mom is getting sick. Why my cousin thinks I’m evil. That one I actually do get.

My cousin hates me. That’s okay. I hated her first. If she took the time to understand why she might hate me less, but I doubt it. It doesn’t matter. Ann Wald hates me. But I don’t hate her. I wonder who else hates me. Like, really hates me. Cringes to think my name. You ever wonder?

Remember me. What do I want people to remember about me? What do I want to remember about myself? I want to remember that I love to dance more than anything in the world. And that I love hugs and singing and being in the spotlight. I want to remember that I get angry often and for a reason. And that even though no one else understands how important the reason, that doesn’t lessen the importance. I want to remember what it feels like to be respected at Tiffany’s and to soar on Dumbo, and to smile on Space Mountain. I want to remember what it’s like to feel pretty, that feeling of not wanting to look away from the mirror.

I want to remember me. Remember me crying, and screaming, and laughing out loud until I can’t breathe. Me. The me that writes winning presentations 10 minutes before, sends everything in late, and is willing to fight. For what’s right, however ridiculous. Me at USC and me in the ICU. It’s all me. I am the same person. I just encompass many bodies. Many personalities, many personas. Russell said last week we should do lunch because I’m not the same Michelle he used to know. Indeed. Quite different. But I’m still me. Trying to remember me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

3-9-10   8:38am

Can you imagine what it would be like if every symbol & letter on the keyboard had a sound? The letter G, an A note. The enter key, a snare beat. What a symphony typing an essay might be…

3-13-10                 9:03pm

I found myself in an awkward situation this week. I met a guy at Applebee’s. He excites me. We had a rapid fire banter about words and Disney movies. It was great. Then he went on break and never came back.

In traditional Michelle style, I looked him up. He’s fucking hilarious. He makes me giddy. But I’m not sure what to do with it. I told my friend on FB chat and she said I had to talk to her cousin. What? Okay.

So her cousin comes on. First she says my friend says I’m a bit of a hermit but not to worry because she goes through guys like butter. Lol. Really? Okay. Then she proceeds to give me advice. I should go back to Applebee’s in “tight geans” and a low-cut blouse and wait for him to talk to me. She said I should let him dominate the conversation and not to correct him too much unless he “understands the pun.” The more she typed, the more concerned I was. And amused. She asked if I was “nerviousse” and talked a lot because that’s important. I said, “So is spelling.” “Fuck spelling,” she said. She tried to spell nervous like 5 different ways. I said, “Feeling nervous?” She didn’t get it. She said not to worry, that she’s “more literate off paper.” I said that was good, except that literate refers to reading.

I sat there and thought, “I have reached a new low.” But then I wondered if it’s really a low. Reading the crappy dating advice of an 18 year old who can’t spell and goes through guys “like butter” at 3 in the morning on Facebook may actually be a step up. It is a step in the right direction at least. I can’t expect to come in at the top. I’ve got to start somewhere, right?

So if it’s a low or a high I’m not sure. But at least it’s something. Right?

3-13-10                 8:52pm

I struggled with this question before I started one. Everyone seems to have a different idea. Someone asked me this week what the tone of my blog is, said that his friend was struggling to get down the bloggers’ lingo and the right tone. What? I just write.

I don’t know how you define a blog. For me, it’s an avenue for me to share what’s on my mind. I don’t need rules or tones or styles or expectations. I’m not out to impress. I just write.

Someone commented recently that this is what a blog should be. Great! I’m glad you agree. Just write. Then call it a blog.

3-13-10                 8:29pm

I decided this week what I want to be when I grow up, and I think I already am. I know the word falls in the same category as prophet, psychic and gypsy, but I want to be a visionary. I am a visionary.

You may be thinking, “What the Hell does that mean?” Well, it means I have a vision and then I make it happen. That’s what I’m good at. It’s what I like doing. I see things that are wrong and come up with creative ways to fix them. I am a visionary…

I’d like new business cards. White with a pink daisy, yellow center, with just my name & info, the link to my blog and the title Visionary. Eat my pixie dust.

3-13-10                 4:07pm

Text to Sarah just now:

“I’m gonna die soon, if not today. The stupid people have infiltrated me like cancer and are taking me down. Grrr.”

Her answer:

“?”

It’s like those black blobs the walls are shooting at Mr. Incredible in Incrediboy/S-‘s computer corridor. He’s Mr. Incredible but the sheer volume of these things takes him down. Synthro? What is his name? (I can think over music but not commercials.)

I am confused and disheartened by the state of my mind today. I am all over. I woke up at 2. The sunshine overwhelmed me. 5 minutes after finishing a bowl of ramen I HAD to have a toasted turkey sandwich. I was laughing and laughing. Like something was extremely funny. Too funny. My mind is racing with music and great comebacks, funny musings, creative thoughts. It’s frighteningly speedy. Then suddenly, in the middle of eating chips & filling my pill box, it stopped. I could barely lift a chip. I felt extremely sad. My whole body sinks.

I called Medicare, which is always a recipe for disaster. This woman actually had the guts to be mad at ME for not having the info SHE needed to help me. (deep breath…) Death by stupid. It’s coming soon. I’m going to have a heart attack. A coronary or an aneurysm or a stroke. Because of the stupid people. And they don’t know it. But somewhere at the top there’s a smart person who’s turned. And this person KNOWS if you irritate a smart person enough, eventually they will just die. I’m convinced that my head might just explode and little pieces of colored confetti will fly everywhere. There is one rogue smart person at the top plotting to kill us all off. And no one will think to blame the stupid people or the smart person at the top. My question is what’s the payoff? What reward could be worth such a thing as killing off your own kind? Or what horrible thing happened that serves as motivation? Or maybe it’s like the elf-girl in Santa Baby 2: Christmas Maybe.

I feel my spirit erode. I want to cry but I don’t have the energy. I laid back down. I’m so tired that it’s hard to sit up. It’s hard to open my eyes. I am freezing cold. My right leg is on and off shaking. The radio in the living room seems so loud. I’m in my room.

I hate feeling this way. Blankets don’t make me any warmer. They’re just heavy. I’m extremely anxious but Xanax will just make me sleep. My lips are tingling. My right eye feels weird. And I’m stuttering. I don’t stutter. Ever. I’m scared.

*I just told my mom when I die I want her to read my blog and journals.

I honestly feel like I’m dying, like there isn’t much time left. The other day I thought if I only live 10-20 more years then my mid-life crisis was timed appropriately. But today I don’t think I’ll make it that long.

• Please, make sure someone reads my writing. I wanted it published. In color with the pictures. But I have no money.
• (note about life insurance policies and how to distribute funds)
• Give my clothes to someone who will enjoy them. Keep whatever makes you happy.
• Have everyone wear bright colors and do the Hokey Pokey, the Cha Cha Slide, and play Big Booty (ask a Summerstock person) at my funeral.
• I thought I wanted to be cremated but I don’t. It robs me of the opportunity to get dressed up one last time. You can do whatever you want with my body when you’re done, but dress me up. Show me off. Let people appreciate me.
• Find out what was wrong with me, PLEASE. Give it a name. It really matters.
• And tell – that I loved him. He never knew.
• PS – Please bury me in my clog shoes. And donate my brain to research. And have the community event for Susan’s film.

(more writing and another list)

• Point out the stupid of the world, for my sake.
• And remember the bad, not just the good. I can be a kiniving bitch. Don’t throw that part of me away.
• And please, paint my toenails hot pink.
• And serve ramen at the funeral reception. :)
  

I’d like to turn the radio on but it’s always too loud and it competes with the music in my head.

(rant about how I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a butter knife than go to another board meeting.)

Talking makes me dizzy…

3-12-10                 1:33am

I’ve been thinking about this concept for a few weeks now. It started with me realizing that people don’t really leave me as often as I thought. They just continue to hurt me and I choose not to move. And I wondered why it is that I keep going back to the people who I know hurt me. It’s like touching fire. Each person is this fascinating fire. It’s exciting to watch and to get up close. But when I reach out and touch it I get burned. Instead of realizing it’s hot and not touching it anymore, I think, “Well, maybe if I just try it this way.” And I touch it again, and again, and I keep getting burned.

I wrote, “It’s like a challenge, a video game level I just can’t get past. I keep trying. I need to keep trying. I need to keep trying and I need to stop. But I can’t walk away from the fire. It keeps me alive.”

I went to sleep thinking about that and realized it’s not touching fire. It’s dancing with fire. It’s like a passionate tango. There is energy and tension and emotion. I did a tango in The Boyfriend with a guy I hated. The energy between us made the dance incredible. The more he made me angry, the more I wanted him. I got to be sexy and angry. He threw me on the floor every night. And it was wonderful. Best dance I ever did.

Dancing with fire takes guts and skill. If you do it right, it can be incredibly beautiful and fulfilling. Exciting. Overwhelming. But you will get burned. I’ve found that once I danced successfully with fire, nothing else would do. I cannot do without the excitement. I cannot do without the fire. I don’t want to get burned, but I need the warmth to keep me alive.

It reminds me of when I was really little and we went to the boat parade with my grandparents. There was a lantern in the sand I warmed my hands on. Naturally, I figured if my hands were warm near the lantern they would be warmer on the lantern. Lol. I burned my hands really bad. Too bad that lesson hasn’t transferred in my brain to people.

Someone asked me why I go back to the pain. It’s usually because whomever I’m going back to gave me something I really needed just when I needed it and I want more. Like a fix. They were there for me when no one else was, gave me a hug at the perfect time, understood, listened. Could be a number of things. And I desperately want more. So I try 10,000 different ways to get it. But it’s a random pattern of reinforcement. Like slot machines. It’s what drives the pigeons crazy. They press the lever hundreds of times because they never know when they’ll get the treat and when they won’t. I’ll admit. I’m a crazy pigeon who dances with fire. And through the blood, sweat, tears, and pain, the dance is usually worth it. But I always, always get burned.