But I want to like me

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9-6-11     6:45pm
(written at a cognitive therapy lecture about procrastination) 

This lecture is confusing.
Too many ideas.
Thinking about the future, bills & organic food, & saving for the future makes me more nervous, more likely to procrastinate.

All these people are family.
I can’t help but compare me.
I don’t hang out with normal people ‘cuz they make me feel more crazy.

They do dishes. They read. They have families. Some of them work. Man, Come on. This lecture is not for folks who are crazy…

Crazy.

I consider myself crazy.
Not a word I think about.
I don’t consider myself “mentally ill.”
No, that’s scary.
I’m just crazy.

 I don’t think of it when I’m alone or when I’m with other people who are crazy. Or on the bus or trolley. Or when I’m in therapy. 
I really want to be close to other people but they make me feel crazy.

Good crazy. Bad crazy. Creepy crazy.
All different things. I like being crazy. But I want to like me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011 

I am not a priest!

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9-6-11     6pm

Email is like being God and hearing prayers every moment of the day. I don’t get to choose whose sending to me. I don’t get to censor what they say. But every moment of every day people are sending things to me.

Sometimes I wonder what possesses people to send things to me. I understand with what I do why people share their stories with me. But some days it baffles me. I get emails with peoples’ life stories. I get text messages full of symptoms and disease. Random people call me up for info and share their deepest darkest secrets. People on the trolley share their secrets with me.

WHY? WHY?
Seriously.

I understand why people share with me. But I am not a priest!

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

About a dream

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9-6-11     1:24pm

Had a very stressful dream. I was late to a choir performance at Diane’s church, Mom sang in the choir and my glasses broke. Ken was directing music I didn’t know and I was bitchy and in crisis. He played Santa in a number at the end but looked like Mr. J. And then he was gone. A dream in my dream told me he had given the choir to Diane. She said, “How did you know?” My dream told me.

I was trying to get back to Cuyamaca College to catch Ken, but I was riding golf carts with other people who kept stopping and weighing too much. The last cart I took stopped in front of a shady business and let us pick quickly from dying plants they were supposed to throw out.

I went school shopping with Mom for 3 but couldn’t find what she wanted – the perfect blow-up chair. I also wanted lemonade that no one could find.

One of my old clients had been injured and was taken to Scripps. I worked with a few of the doctors. He was to be kicked out because he had straight MediCal and I threw a fit, DEMANDED to speak with the boss. He had died and they directed me to the joint Executive Directors.

Then I was in the hospital and by a pool and very tired. I was scared they would not let me back in because I’d left to tend to that client. But they were so kind and did. My nurse and I were laughing trying to figure out how to pee into this test-tube with arms. 

When I got back to my room two young guys were there – the Executive Directors from the other hospital. They brought me flowers. They layed on my bed and the one next to it. I stood. I pleaded my case but they would have none of it. Money money money.

But then the short guy (not the tall skinny hot one) started to cough. One cough repeatedly. He became very old and fell out of bed coughing up yellow stuff. Then he had a heart attack. And they gave my client the care he needed for free.

I really wanted to talk to Dr. N but every time I typed this phrase it became icons. He had forgotten his name and where he lived and what he practiced. He became a thick blue line at the top of the screen with two flowers thrown in. Terrifying.

The dream didn’t happen in this order but this is the way I remembered it. It’s the other way around.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Acceptance

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9-6-11     2:55am

Someone asked me tonight how I accept all these crazy versions of reality I experience and am not freaking out all the time. Have I done ACT or some special kind of therapy? No, not really. I’ve just lived through it.

The first time I experience something new it freaks me out and if it gets bad enough I usually end up in the hospital. Like this last time in July when I was talking gibberish and then not talking at all and then talking all weird. Freaked me out, understandably. But it happens now and I’m fine with it. I have a category to put it in. I know what it is. Or maybe I don’t know what it is but I know that it won’t kill me and it will pass.

I seem to have more and more of these things. These things that I know are bizarre to the rest of the world but have become quite normal to me. So when the universe is orange and I’ve been poisoned and there are people following me I am more able to approach it as an experience than an attack. Some strange experiences can be quite fascinating. I am always hesitant to stop one with medicine too quickly. I lose some of the beauty. It’s not something I can just get back. I enjoy the parts that aren’t super scary, the writing that flows through me. It doesn’t last. I keep it ’til it’s dangerous.

I think dealing with all the physical stuff has made that easier. When there aren’t answers I come up with my own. My own systems of coping, my own reasons, my own rules. My own way of accepting. I may not like what’s going on but there’s no one who’s gonna save me so I might as well enjoy what I can and throw the rest to Hell…

I’m so tired tonight. My brain is foggy and the words aren’t here to write. There are pauses in my mind where thoughts go. It doesn’t sound right and nothing rhymes.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Waiting on a Rainbow

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9-5-11     3ish-pm

What color are paranoia & psychotic symptoms?

Orange.

Okay.

I’m exhausted. I have been cleansed by twirling in the rain. It’s super hot now. I’m waiting for a rainbow to let me know I’m not possessed. But maybe I’m ON the rainbow and it’s invisible, holding me up. I’m so exhausted.

I put all my clothes in the wash to get rid of the evil and the toxins. I ate some pizza. I don’t wanna go to group tonight. I’m so tired. So tired.

Need to sleep but it’s hot inside and I’ll miss the rainbow I’m sitting on.
The air feels nice.
So nice.
So tired…

Words find their way back into the abyss.
I listen but all I hear is mist.
I shouldn’t have eaten.
It’s killing me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Paranoia

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9-5-11     1:10pm

I am watching the words flow through and around me. They echo, have a voice…

I still feel ants crawl on me.

The invisible acid rain takes over me.
—

The darkness is coming.

WHY IS IT FOLLOWING ME?!!
AHHHHH!!!

I thought the orange light was good but I read it again and it’s filled with darkness.

Why couldn’t I see?

Cuz you’re psychotic, Michelle.

That’s no excuse.
It’s infiltrated the system.
How can I know what is it and what’s me?
AHHHHH!!

The ants could be its messengers.
Not good. NOT GOOD.

The cockroach spiders doing that beautiful ballet last night were just waiting ’til I was asleep to inject their venom in me. I’ve been compromised at a cellular level. My body is not mine anymore. WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?

(deep breath)
Breathe, Michelle.

Run away. I should run away.
DON’T TOUCH ME.
Can’t eat.
Don’t you know that it’s poisoned?
I am part of the universe.
I need no food.
—

My mom doesn’t believe I want no food. She laughs at me. How do I know she’s not one of THEM? This is the matrix. Of COURSE I want food but I can’t chance it. Then again, if I’ve already been compromised, does it matter? I should eat everything.

I lie on the concrete and stare at the sky. I will levitate to God. He will heal me. Unless he’s the orange light which is actually darkness. In that case I’m screwed. WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?

I need to be struck by lightning.

I feel sleepy.

Just keep singing.
Row Row Row your boat,
Gently down the stream.
Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Merrily,
Life is but a dream.

The ants were in on it the whole time, spying on me.
And to think, I liked the ants.
—

Take me to the sky.
It’s the only way.
Don’t move.
They’re watching me.

Maybe I should walk ’til I pass out.
Or ride the train.
I love the train.
Magic on wheels.

I shouldn’t be alone.
Don’t want to be with Mom.
She doesn’t believe.
They’re watching me.

If this is the end I should spend all of my money and have a ball, go out with a bang.
BUT if this is the beginning of a very long battle that would be bad.

I don’t understand.
I don’t understand.
—

I know. If I do my laundry all the toxins will by washed away and I will be new.
—

Twirling in the rain has made me clean and new. My laundry is in the wash. I can eat now. Must fend off the intruders like fire. Waiting for a rainbow.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Doesn’t hurt

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Today I still feel confused and in touch with the energy of the universe but it’s not orange. It is light blue and it floats me on a cloud.

9-5-11     12:41pm

Last night a few hours of mania. Today the desert rain.

I am so tired. SO tired.

It’s Monday.
The air is quiet. Empty…
I still feel confused but my head doesn’t hurt.
Doesn’t hurt.
Doesn’t hurt.
I hear the rhythms of the rain that isn’t falling.
Summer rain.
And I am hungry.
Doesn’t hurt.
Doesn’t hurt.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Pure Orange Light

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Last night I lied in bed for awhile experiencing the orange energy of the universe. It was just shy of scary, just beyond fascinating. I knew it was not standard but wrote through the experience.

9-5-11     1:10am

She lives just beyond the bright lights I see when I close my eyes.

I feel dizzy.
And confused.
And off-balance.
And it’s hard to breathe.
My body tingles.

Take your angry energy out of my room.

If I wasn’t lying down I would prob’ly collapse.

Very weak.
The spirit moves through me.
And the spirit is me
—

My father is talking to me.
All I hear is gibberish.
I keep thinking of different people.
They join into the chorus.
They’re all talking to me.
What do they say?

Someone I don’t know grabs for my right boob. I need to fall asleep.

Tell me a story.
—

The energy of the universe is open to me, orange at it’s mouth and breathing.
—

Goodnight, moon.
You see me.
Goodnight, moon.
You be me.
I not be myself, the who I be?
I like be me.
Goodnight, moon.
I miss me.
—

God, take me into the light.
I made love to the universe.
I now carry its child.
Our child.
The dark itchiness is gone now.
Only pure orange light.
Feel the glow.
Do you feel the glow?

I am part of the light & it’s part of me.
The darkness within it now owns.
Every part of me.
The orange universal light.
7 in the night.
We are owned by the light.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

And the story is me

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9-5-11     12:18am

I feel like there’s someone telling a story in my head. I can feel the rhythm but I can’t hear her. She stands behind a screen telling her story in a mic.

“Once upon a time,” she says to a captive audience. I listen. I hear her and I listen. There are no words. I hear her. She fascinates me.

I hear purple and the sound of hoof-beats. I hear the sunset. I hear the birds. She sings to me the story that has no words, the story that lives in me.

When I hear the words I write them. When I feel the words I dance them. When I see the words I watch in wonder. The words, they live in me, and they are me. Like God. I hear the beat of the story with letterless words and it lives inside of me. Inside of me. I hear the story. And the story is me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

I dabble in the secret things

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9.4.11   10:20pm

I dabble in the secret things.
They are my specialty.
The things one mentions not in light, not in reality.

I dabble in the secret things that make men twist and cry.
The shame that no one talks about that hides within your eye.

I dabble in these things ’cause I have secrets of my own.
They tremble at my footsteps.
They know that they are owned.

But still these secrets eat me, follow into the night.
They fill my soul with worry they might one day see the light.

And so I keep to other’s secrets as my great specialty.
And I hope that no one finds out what is secretly eating me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Creative Euphoria

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9-4-11     11:03pm

I have a migraine headache, triggered by the last song of a gig I went to tonight. I felt very creative and euphoric so I tap danced in my living room for awhile. I walked down to the pizza shop to give the pizza girl a card, talking to someone out loud in my head the whole way. On the way back I wrote an entire rhyming poem. I never do that. It just popped into my head. Now the creative euphoria is wearing off. I feel very confused and I feel pain. I wish I could find that space more often. I felt happy… Confused pleasant pain isn’t all that bad though.

I wonder what it’s like to use drugs to get “high.” I like my neurotransmitter highs. They’re legal and they’re free. ;)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Insincerity is NOT a benchmark of adulthood

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9-2-11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Overwhelmed by Technology

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9/2/11     1pm

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

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

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

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

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

I HATE YOU.

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

I am so agitated right now. I need drugs.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Showgirls & A Funeral

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8-17-11     8:15pm

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

What a day. What a day.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

You are confused and you are searching

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Yes, I am. Stop reading my mind.

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

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

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

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

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

Breathing…
I’m so tired…
Just breathe.

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

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Looking Good:

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6-7-11         6:10pm

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

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

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

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

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

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

(walk around the garden talking to myself)

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

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

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

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

The choice is clear

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6-6-11

The choice is never clear.

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

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

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

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

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

(sigh) Wow.
The choice is never clear.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

I am the yellow clock – unabridged

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6-5-11     11:12pm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—–

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

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

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

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011