Never Break the Sunrise Rule

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5-17-10                 12:50pm

So, if you didn’t read my last post, there’s a sunrise rule. Never break the sunrise rule. Grrr. It’s never good.

I can stay up all night every night as long as I go to bed before sunrise. I can fall asleep to the birds chirping and the glow outside, but if I don’t go to sleep then… First I get really happy, hypomanic. Then I get very agitated, then exhausted. I used to be able to just stay up for the day. Not anymore. The happiness also used to last. Also not anymore.

So I went to bed around 8am. Set my alarm for 9am because I really wanted to go to this free concert in La Jolla at noon. I ignored the alarm. Then my phone kept going off. Really? Why do people call me in the morning? It’s evil. At 11am my pdoc called for the second time so I answered the phone. I could barely understand what he was saying. I layed back down and the phone rang again. My neuro’s receptionist arguing with me, trying to convince me that I did NOT call twice last week. Really? Cuz I think I would know. And I checked my phone. Going back to sleep is not possible since it’s now light out and I did not take my Seroquel, since that would make getting up in less than eight hours almost impossible. So now I’m stuck with this dilemma. I have energy though I’m tired and I’m up. It’s only almost 1pm. I have nowhere to go. I need to write minutes and an agenda for the board meeting tonight and write a letter and mail some packages, but none of that is interesting. I’m hungry, but for some reason my mom’s not awake. I don’t know why she’s still sleeping. And she got angry when I asked. She said, “You sleep ALL day. Why do I have to be up?” Geez. I don’t care if she sleeps. It’s just out of character.

Note to self:

Never break the sunrise rule. Always take your Seroquel. And learn to cook so you don’t stave. Otherwise, you’ll have nothing to do, too much energy, and go crazy.

Michelle

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Breaking the Sunrise Rule

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5-17-10                 6:36am

WAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!! :D

Good music + breaking my rule about staying up past sunrise = hypomania. YAY! Lol. It’ll only last for a few hours, but gosh it feels good.

I feel accomplished today. It’s not something I feel very often. Thirteen pages of Excel documents later I’ve finally made sense of my org’s finances. Maybe not the way an accountant would but it makes sense to me and they refused to hire one. It involved screaming, Xanax, laying on the sidewalk outside watching the ants for awhile and imagining the cars whizzing by were waves, a 5 hour nap, a taco salad, and a very long night. But it’s done! (big sigh) And it wasn’t done on the energy of hypomania either. That came after.

I’m debating on whether I should, no whether I will, sleep this morning or not. I know I should. But I feel so God damn great. Full of energy with the morning coldness and glow. (dreamy sigh and big smile) A few hours ago I was leaning on my clothes line repeating “I hate my life. I hate my life.” Now I love my life. It’s more like I love this moment. Life is beyond me.

Board meeting tonight. There’s a free concert I’d like to go to at noon in La Jolla, which means I’d have to catch the bus at 9:40 and walk a ways. Still have the minutes and agenda to do. Also need to get started on this month’s newsletter. And get a hold of Ken to get all the info I possibly can about the concert this Friday that I have done NO promotion for because I have no information. ACK! It’s fucking crazy, I tell you. Crazy.

When there’s this much energy coursing through my body it’s hard to decide what to do. Sleep is relatively impossible. But I don’t feel like sitting in one place to type an agenda or think about minutes. I just want to walk in circles or bounce up and down and giggle. If the things around me were organized it might be easier to find something to do.

(sigh) Grrrr… The energy also adds to my ability to be easily pissed off. I got this HUGE project done last night and mom wants to know if every other project that crosses her mind is done and why not. AHHHH! SHUT UP! Just sleep. Just sleep and pretend I’m not here. Okay?

Do they make radios without commercials? They’re so annoying.

(very agitated, leg tapping incessantly, eyebrows furled) Grrr… (6:48am)

I shouldn’t break the sunrise rule. Gonna be a long day.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

IT’S NOT OKAY!

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5-15-10                 9:35pm

Why is it that when my computer fucks up it pops up a box to tell me and then makes me press “Ok.” It’s the only option. IT’S NOT OKAY! I want a button that says, “No, you fucking whore, it’s not okay. FIX IT!” Or maybe one that says “Eat shit and die, stupid computer.” I have gone through 10 cds today and gotten THREE that burned correctly. The last one I threw at the wall and it broke in half. No, iTunes, it is NOT okay. (shake my head and sigh)

…

For some reason my mom thinks if I just “let it rest” and try again tomorrow something will be different, that it will magically work. That might work with an overheated shredder, but not this. For an intelligent person who has taken computer classes her stupidity amazes me. She thought that maybe if I just adjusted the volume on the computer speakers that the cd would burn correctly. What? What does volume have to do with a cd drive that pops out randomly? Really.

“Why do you keep putting them in there?” she asked. I’ll give you that it’s a valid question. Why, knowing my computer eats them, would I keep feeding it cds? Random reinforcement. Three out of ten times it works, but I never know which three. It’s what causes research pigeons to go crazy and gambling addictions. Random reinforcement. If I don’t feed it cds, I’ll never get the one out that I want. And I want several. Glad I bought a lot of cds.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Can pigeons float?

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5-15-10                 4:15am

So, it’s 4 in the morning and I have “For Now” from Avenue Q running quickly through my head. I have yet to see an earwig tonight, which is making me worry that something’s wrong. I’m not sure what. And I’m wondering if pigeons can float.

Yes, pigeons. I was at the beach with my mom the other day just watching. Birds, dogs, people, and of course waves. This group of pigeons discovered a patch of seeds on the ground and after eating for awhile flew off together. They circled around a few times before flying off toward the sea. And I wondered, can pigeons float? Cuz I know ducks can. Or at least they can swim. But these pigeons, they didn’t come back. You know? I know that birds can fly really far without stopping, but pigeons don’t migrate. They just eat fish. (I think.) So once they get out to wherever in the ocean they’re going, what to do they do? Can a pigeon eat a fish mid-air? I can’t imagine flying all that way to eat a fish mid-air and then flying back without stopping. So I’m wondering, can pigeons float?

©Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Maybe it’s time to dream

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5-15-10                 2:55am

My friend posted this today:

Is wondering what’s more important love or a dream? What was the biggest thing you had to give up to pursue your dreams? –S

My original response:

I gave up my dreams to pursue me.

But I’ve been thinking. Why does one have to be more important? Can the dream not be love? Can you not love the dream? Do you really have to choose?

I did give up my dreams to pursue me. But maybe I’m thinking of the wrong dream. I gave up my dreams of being on Broadway and of getting a Ph.D. and of curing disease and having a family, of owning a dance studio and having a place and a dog. But the dream I followed was me. The dream of stability, of enlightenment. Okay, so I wasn’t after enlightenment but it would be nice.

The biggest thing I gave up in my pursuit of happiness has been control. I am pretty successful at what I do and in my recovery. And the biggest thing I keep giving up is control. Accepting that I am not in control is uber hard to do but so important. It’s not me who’s driving my destiny. I can’t control others or my body or the world. My life is in God’s hands. I still like being in control of things. Just not everything.

I also gave up thinking I matter so much and giving a damn. I used to care what everyone thought. It was so stressful. But now, there are very few people whose opinions I respect and whose criticism can throw my whole world off. I just don’t give a shit. I can’t afford to. I don’t have the energy and it doesn’t help me. Realizing I really don’t matter that much is hard but it’s helpful. That thing I said that’s stressing me out probably DIDN’T ruin his life. My late bill won’t kill me. Missing the meeting is NOT the end of the world. And without me, life goes on.

I also gave up love. I’m not sure I can say I gave it up though because I never had it. I don’t think I’ve given up the dream of love, just the hope that it will ever happen. I don’t stress about it most days. It’s out of my control. I’m just doing what I can.

I used to dream big. I remember dreaming about a party for my sweet 16. I remember it included ice sculptures. Lol. In reality I got a banner at Possum Trot and a dance with Jeff Driggs. Not quite an ice sculpture. The retreat was dreaming big. REALLY big. So is the movie night event this summer and the studio. But they’re not dreams I actually expect to happen.

I gave up my dreams to pursue me. Now that I’ve found me, maybe it’s time to dream.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

What keeps me going

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5-15-10          2am

Choir, FB, music, Malan, group, hugs, getting out of my house, texts from Sacha, movies, friends who aren’t idiots, texting those friends about the ones who are, my therapist, sleep, people who surprise me with their kindness, writing, and lots of burritos. And ramen, and drugs, and a good sense of humor. Musicals. Gosh, they’re wonderful. :) People who know what I’m talking about. Sing-a-longs. People who ALSO randomly sing and dance in public.

I’m listening to the “Avenue Q” soundtrack. I LOVE it. Makes me smile. :) I like this pink color too. It’s soft and fuzzy. I love that after a really crazy hard day I can sit here and type soft pink fuzzy letters while listening to “If You Were Gay” and smile until my face hurts and bounce in my chair. (big sigh) The good moments in life. :) They are what keep me going. Appreciating so deeply the special people in my life. Knowing there’s only now. (zap) Yes, only now. And now. And now. (big smile) I love musicals.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Keep Dancing

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I sent this to a friend today and I need to say it to myself.

“I know you are very strong to have gotten to where you are. You have calluses in the perfect places to survive the dance. But you’re still delicate enough to get blisters, still vulnerable. It’s beautiful. Keep dancing.”

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

“I don’t know” is NOT acceptable

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5-14-10                 6:03pm

“I don’t know” is not an acceptable answer from a doctor. It might be if it was followed by a referral to someone who DOES know, but it’s not. I am going insane. My neurologist refuses to call me back. I just spoke to my psychiatrist on the phone. He said he has no idea what’s going on with me or how to help. He said it looks like a little bit of everything and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He also said that every doctor who sees it is equally as confused and therefore ignores me or refuses to return my calls. This is unacceptable!

I am so fucking tired of “I don’t know.” He told me today his observation is that I do well when I’m moderately busy and terrible if I’m overscheduled or bored. Yes, that’s true. But he also said that he thinks since I have little to do now that I should do more and distract myself, that having extra time is making me hyper-aware of my physical symptoms. (pause) Really? Cuz when you’re head hurts so bad you can’t stop crying or throwing up or half of your body is tied up in twitches and zaps or you can’t think straight, I’m pretty sure YOU are going to notice it whether you’re busy or not.

The hospital is the place I go when I don’t feel safe. Times when feelings like now don’t pass. But this is the guy who treats me at the hospital. And every damn person’s answer is “I don’t know.” How am I supposed to accept this? The song on the radio keeps repeating, “I’m fallin’ to pieces.” Yes. What do you do once you’re IN pieces already?

“I don’t know” or silence are not acceptable answers. This is a crisis. This is NOT a drill. I guess I’m the only one who hears the alarm.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Ballet Memories

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5-14-10                 12:02am

I miss ballet so much. The dance, not the people. And Talara. I guess she’s a person, but a very special one. M- posted a song that took me back. “Le Petit Nicolas” by Gabriel Yared. I closed my eyes to listen. I felt the choreography in my body and saw rain and a pink and purple sunset from the door of my old dance studio. I felt the cold. My body tingled. It flashed from that to the view of darkness from a stage with a black floor, the glow of yellow light from above. I danced in an ivory tutu with a bead on my forehead at the point of a hair piece. In the silence at the end I heard applause and felt warm.

I miss ballet. I miss telling a story with my body. I miss lyrical as well but it’s not as dramatic. Having a place to put all the emotion is a gift. The energy and sadness, the joy and the pain. To shape them into something beautiful, delicate yet empowering…

There were green parrots every day in the summer that would squak for awhile around sunset.

I still have my bloodstained pointe shoes. They were Talara’s. So much driving. So much music. So much beautiful pain.

I love the dance. I hate the people. I’ve never met a ballet person, other than Talara, who got it, who understood what it was like to be me. Ballet’s not cheap and poor people don’t do it. Just the outfit and shoes required for a class are expensive. And there are so many non-dance rules for what you can and can’t do and wear – colors, hair, tights, skirt types and lengths. I can’t process it all. It’s like a cult. And if you don’t get it or do it wrong, it’s like you’ve got Rabies. I’m sorry. I have no money and like pants. But I love the dance.

It’s a dance in which I place my body on purpose.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Slow Fade – Breadstick & A Music Rush

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5-13-10                 3am

This song keeps running through my head. I’m nearing the end (I hope) of a fade. I have been falling gradually but significantly in the past few weeks. I’m concerned. Based on history, it shouldn’t be long before I’m quite crazy.

I realized today just how fucked up I am. The choir performance went fine, except for my not knowing which Friday the festival is on, even though I’m planning it. On the way to the taste test the confusion began. Now taste tests are not that difficult – sign in, eat, answer questions, get paid. I’ve done a ton of them. Not easy for me today. I was confused by the signs that said “Panel” instead of “Taste Test.” The software I’ve used for several years I couldn’t figure out. Halfway through I changed. I went from being alert, enjoying the food, and answering fully to very weak and tired, anxious, and unable to think, read the questions or answer clearly.

I went to my therapist’s from there and tried to comprehend his face as I explained that I’ve been convinced that I’m either being followed by spirits or losing my mind and that God is still following me. I’m aware that these are crazy things, but they’re very real to me. And they’re scary. He classifies them as psychotic. I don’t blame him. He asked how much I believe this could be my brain tricking me. About 50/50. I believe in spirits. Apparently he doesn’t.

I left there and had the most peaceful time at the beach. I found a rock that looks like a moray and took it, but I feel weird about that. There’s a spirit in the rock. And morays have always creeped me out.

I knew not to go home so I met a friend for dinner and a movie. But I had 2 hours to kill at the mall beforehand. I returned something and went to the food court to be schooled by a breadstick. There was a guy giving samples. They were scrumptious. He was too talented and smart to work there. So I decided to order some and looked at the menu. It said under Side Orders “Garlic Breadsticks $1.29.” I asked how many are in an order. The non-sample guy said, “One.” Mass confusion. “But there’s an S. That indicates plural breadsticks.” He just looked at me. My anxiety was through the roof, heart racing, confusion rampant. I asked how much this one non-plural breadstick was and he said, “$1.42.” (?) “But the sign says $1.29.” “Plus tax,” he said, as if it was the norm for people to quote the price including taxed. I was poised to have a meltdown, literally…

(continued 5-14-10  5:02pm)

“Pump up the Jam” is playing now and I’m needing to dance. Music is a drug. A wonderful one.

Yes, I am approaching crazy. But for this moment I feel happy. A breadstick made clear the level of impairment confusion is causing me. I think I’m having a plethora of seizures. I’m writing down what I can. I have a journal just for that. Right now I am listening to music. Today I attempted to read a fashion blog. Didn’t work so well. It’s okay. Rocking and dancing in my head, completely thrown off by the sound of the wind chime outside and my mom clanging dishes. My neurologist is again NOT calling me back. Not a smart thing to do. I mean really. Why would you piss off a crazy person whose symptoms are triggered by being upset? My psychiatrist called me back this morning but I was sleeping.

Yes, I’m concerned. No, I don’t have any extra brainpower to devote to it. I have so much confusion and I’m going through these cycles of wide-eyed happiness followed by zaps and face stuff and exhaustion and headaches. The song on the radio now is driving me nuts. I don’t want to leave my computer chair.

(break to go outside)

I love Ricky Martin. I like being in my own world in the music. All the memories and the images in my head. (big yawn) Gosh, I’m tired. Give it about 10 minutes… Nope, just 30 seconds. Tapping, full of energy. Typing correctly is not easy when your arm is resting on your moving leg. ;)

Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance” always speaks to me. It’s so true. “I can’t remember but it’s alright, alright. Just dance. Gonna be okay…” Dance and music make almost anything okay.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

What Happened – A Wire Monkey Life

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5-13-10                 2:22am

Tears. They run down my face. An old friend just said, “Keep smiling. You’re prettier when you do so.” I keep hearing “I Will Rise” by Chris Tomlin. It’s merged with “Slow Fade” by Casting Crowns. A few moments earlier looking at this picture he said, “You looked so happy and cheery… What happened to you?” It caught me off guard. I laughed, then fell silent. It’s a powerful question. What happened?

(breathe)

I could say I don’t know what but I do. A slow fade. The chorus of the song says:

It’s a slow fade, when you give yourself away.
It’s a slow fade, when black and white turn to gray.
Thoughts invade
Choices are made
A price will be paid when you give yourself away.
People never crumble in a day.
It’s a slow fade.

What happened? A slow fade. That picture was taken around 8th or 9th grade. I know because of the earrings. I wasn’t always happy and cheery but it was Possum Trot, Scotty was there, and I was way more dedicated to faking it.

Life happened, simply put. A long succession of losses and disappointments, a constant unfulfilled need for comfort and striving for perfection. Over time it eats my spirit. It breaks me down. I erode like a malt ball in your mouth. A teacher described me as “gracefully weathered” in high school. I’m still not sure how I feel about that. I guess it’s like broken but beautiful and not made with Crackle.

I think there’s only so much one can take. It was a slow fade into madness, a quiet but not uncommunicated one. There were letters. Thousands of them. I wrote through everything. Not a single letter answered. The silence, and music, and dance, and theater, unrequited love and loss, and watching, and waiting, and writing, helping and working too much, sleeping too little, people fucking with my head and school. They unraveled the bit of me I had put together. When life doesn’t stop there’s no chance to recover. And when it stops completely, that needs recovery too.

I don’t know where along the way I lost me. The me that giggles and growls and cackles when excited. That believes in fairy tales and believes that people are good. I see her sometimes but she’s not happy… I wish I could make her happy.

If I had to pinpoint what happened I’d say a lack of love & understanding, of comfort. A wire monkey life. I just want to be loved. To be held. To feel safe. (pause) To have a person instead of a book.

The picture he was referring to

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Comparison & The All-Perfect Person

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5-11-10                 2:46am

I don’t compare myself to other people a lot. Or at least I don’t consider it comparison. But I observe almost everything. And I think. A lot. I remember when I was younger saying, “I think, hope and love too much.” I think I still do. But I find myself processing my observations and wondering what they mean about me.

I was supposed to be going to New York in two weeks to sing at Carnegie Hall. At first announcement it would be covered by grants. As time went by it would not and I have no money. I hate hearing about this trip to New York because I will not be going. I don’t want to know. Just don’t tell me. And please quit asking if I’m going. Another friend is going next week. Another is there now. I don’t understand. I get the logic. No money, no trip. But I don’t get the reason behind no money. Why life is what it is, why I’m here. A distant friend died last week and in the email I got it said he fulfilled his dream of singing at Carnegie Hall last year. I almost screamed. WTF!

I look at the lives of the friends I grew up with, what they’re doing. Some of them have totally bombed but most of the people I was close to in dance and theater are still in dance and theater. The musicians are musicians. They’re doing what they love. But I’m not. I guess you could call that comparison, but I don’t want to be like them. I just want to be doing what I love.

I don’t know how I got here or why. I didn’t wake up one day and choose this. But I can’t change it. And it’s dangerous to try. I’m know on a journey towards something. I just don’t know what.

There are people who are very special to me whom I barely know and try very hard not to freak out with my interest. It’s not socially acceptable to be completely intrigued by someone and communicate it. The words that come to mind are obsessed and stalker. But I’m not a stalker. It’s a way of life. It works like this.

At any given time, I need to have at least one all-perfect person. I know this person is not really perfect, but to me they’re pretty close. I find them interesting. They make me think. There is just something about them that is special. And they like me back. I hang out around this person. Not usually with them. I try not to bother them too much. But I help them as best I can and they help me back, sometimes. Just knowing I have this person in my life makes me feel safe. Being near them helps me feel calm. I need this person, would do anything for them. It’s not romantic. They’re usually like a mentor or teacher or counselor type person. Sometimes just someone I look up to. Everything revolves around them. But like I said, they’re not really perfect. And eventually something happens. They make me angry or I make them angry and they die or leave or move and I lose them and my whole world falls apart. And I have nothing until I find another.

It’s a twisted system, I know. I’m really trying to make it different. But I did not have a cloth monkey. I don’t understand how it’s supposed to work. That cloth monkey study is something I think about often. There is such a need…

I’m constantly scared of losing people. People I don’t really have. I need them. I need the fantasy. I really just need.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Help & A Magic Dress

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5-11-10                 6:04pm

M- posted this this morning:

What would you do if you knew someone needed your help, but you knew there was nothing you could do to help?

I’ve been thinking about it all day.

I find myself in that position often. So many people want or need my help, but I often don’t have it to give. I pray. And call my contacts. I have an extensive network of colleagues and resources. I usually know someone who can help or know someone who does. But there are situations that can’t be fixed, hearts that can’t be mended, questions that have no answers.

The short answer is – I pray. And I hurt. I have to accept there is nothing I can do. It’s not easy. And sometimes there is something I could do but it would hurt me to do it and I have to say no. And sometimes I have the perfect solution but it’s not my problem to fix.

Helping people is tricky. Many times I find what people are looking for is not a solution but comfort. Someone who will listen, a hug, a note just to say you care. For me, just being near people who mean a lot to me helps. Like Sacha. Her voice and her presence, for the most part, are calming to me. If there’s nothing I can do, it’s not my help they need.

I run a non-profit support organization for people with mood disorders and their friends and family. I see a lot of people in crisis. I get 3am phone calls, emails and texts 24/7. I’m the designated crisis person because I know what to do, what to say, who to call or not call and why. But it takes a serious toll on me. And it’s taken many years to realize that I can’t save them all. It’s not my responsibility. Does it hurt me to watch some suffer? You bet. But, for my own sake, I can’t save them all.

So I do what I can do, what I’m willing to, and I pray. God, please hold this person. They’re hurting and there’s nothing I can do. Then I make sure I have the support and comfort I need. Helplessness eats at me, especially if who I can’t help is special to me.

I also find it frustrating when I’m the one asking for help and there are no answers, there is no response. It would be nice sometime to find someone like me who will do everything in their power to find an answer. Until then I pray, and write, and sing, and accept, and help people. Every day.

—–

5-12-10                 2:17am

I love what he said later: “I just wish I could make a magic dress that when worn would heal anyone of sickness or woe.”

That would be such a beautiful dress. I close my eyes and smile just to think of it… Makes me feel light yellow and reminds me of the little yellow house I dreamed someday to own. :) I don’t know of a dress that can heal but the one I bought for my birthday this year made woes goes away for awhile. I was still sick but when I wore that dress I felt beautiful. And that feeling, that feeling like I was worth it and could conquer the world, won out for awhile. Just one night. I remember that feeling. It didn’t matter that I was sick. I just felt good. I didn’t want to take it off…

Tonight it makes me wonder why if everyone’s searching for the answers we haven’t found them yet. I don’t know. A magic dress. Why not? Are clinical trials required for healing articles of clothing? Hmmm… Sign me up! :)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

You Suck

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5-9-10                   3:18am

So, I was thinking about enabling tonight. Which really bugs me. There is this thing I see happen a lot. Toxic kindness. When you tell someone they look good even though they look horrible just so you don’t have to say it. When you tell someone, “Great job,” even though they just bombed. When you smile and pretend. How does that help?

We are doing people a great injustice by being kind. Sometimes it’s more productive for us all to just say, “You suck.” Like little girls growing up in dance. It does NOT help if you think everything they do is wonderful. God forbid their teacher does. If no one ever points out their mistakes, if no one says, “You look horrible. Send that back,” how are they gonna know? They will think they are just wonderful and one day get to competition and see all these other girls that are better. They will not just wonder why they didn’t win, but also why everyone failed to mention THEY SUCK. Helpful? I think not.

Who ever decided it was bad to tell the truth? I’m a bit, okay more than a bit, directly honest than most. But it’s usually not a bad thing. If it is, it’s still just the truth. Like I said to a friend the other day, “You’re getting fat.” Okay. It’s the truth. Maybe not a socially acceptable one to point out but it’s not heresy. NOT telling the truth, NOT saying “You suck” can be harmful. Now I know there are times when lying is necessary, but not as often as people claim. I think we’re just afraid people won’t like us. That we’ll hurt someone’s feelings. That we’ll lose friends. Well, what are our friends losing because we don’t tell them? Who doesn’t help us cuz they don’t know what we need? What embarrassment might we have saved had we just said, you suck? Think about it.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Skirt-vention

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5-9-10                   3:10am

There needs to be a skirt-vention in clogging – an intervention for skirts. There needs to be a rule that if you’re wearing a layered skirt there should be at least one more layer than the number of hooks on your bra.

I don’t know what it is with mature women and clogging skirts. Just because the waist still fits does not mean it’s age-appropriate. If I’m praying you don’t twirl, your skirt’s too short. There are a few key offenders here but every year the number grows because the wardrobe doesn’t change. Skirt-vention. Some skirts are just not okay. And how do you say that to a person, really? “Um, hey there. That skirt is way too short. You should stop wearing it.” That’s a semi-kind way. Do you have any ideas?

And a note about bloomers that I sometimes see. Butt-ruffles are reserved for those under 5 and over 65, and only over 65 because they don’t know it’s wrong. Don’t kid yourself. It’s really not cute. Really. I promise.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Swinging – On the Other Side

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5-9-10                   2:27am

When I read posts from M- I feel such compassion. I don’t know just what draws me to him. I’ve never met him. I only know him through FB. I think it’s the fact that he’s genuine. (My stomach hurts.) And the volume of genuine posts. If you make me think or occupy enough of my think-time, you become a close friend, whether I know you or not.

I noticed tonight he seems to swing a lot. Mood swings that is. Extreme highs and lows. Joy and strife. I was riding with my mom thinking about this. I felt concerned and wondered if he’d ever sought help. I realized it’s not really my place to ask but also that it’s not my place to kill the dream.

I realized – I’m on the other side. If I could go back to my days of creative highs and performance and laughter and joy and strife and craziness, would I? I have given up so much in the pursuit of not happiness but stability. And what do I really have? Not stability, less happiness, I guess less strife. Less psychosis. But there is little traveling, almost no dancing, no theater. My grand ideas are mostly limited to mental health and don’t usually happen. I have no degree. I have talent but I’m not doing what I love. I’d like to go to Fresno in a few weeks for a convention but I can’t afford it, have a choir performance and Survivors of Suicide Loss Day. I’d much rather do midnight workshops and dance all day.

I didn’t know what I was signing up for when I started taking medication. I just needed to get the Hell away from what was happening. I think if I’d been accurately diagnosed things might have been different. Maybe not. I remember the first night I heard voices. It was the scariest night of my life. I’ve been through a lot of scary things, but that tops it. My psychiatrist told me it was “normal” for people with depression to hear voices and not to worry, did nothing. (deep breath…) I would not go back to my days of skinniness and days of dancing and top of the world highs if it meant taking back the voices and the visions and the feelings and everything that went with them. But I yearn for those days. If you haven’t experienced them, you can never understand. It’s why we go off our meds. To feel them. Sometimes almost anything is worth getting that back. It’s like trying to convince yourself every minute that eating only peanut butter and jelly for the rest of your life will be as full-filling as eating as much of the best food you’ve ever tasted for a month and then starving.

This bitter perspective is not quite something someone new to mental health should hear or can handle. Would you jump at that? Maybe if you are desperate or REALLY like peanut butter. But it’s something they NEED to hear. But nobody says it. Nobody says to the artist, “This pill may save your life but you won’t paint the same.” No one says to the actor, “The stage might not be your friend.” No one bothers to tell the dancer, “By the way, in six months you’ll either be too fat to dance or you’ll be fat enough that you hate yourself enough not to.” No one says that. They should. But they don’t.

So I find myself on the other side. I’ve been through creativity and performance and crazy wonderful and terrible highs. And I’ve been through years of treatment and its ups and downs and effects. And now I’m here, on the other side. I think I’ve learned all I can from programs. Therapy keeps me going because it gives me someone non-judgmental to talk to. But I usually have the answer or it’s me that has to figure it out. I’ve been on tons of meds. I’m not on many anymore. And I watch people. I watch them feel and interact. I know when something’s wrong and sometimes what. Not much surprises me. Not much other people say scares me. And I want to help. What I have been through helps, but it doesn’t not hurt. It takes from you. It’s not free. Life in entertainment may be crazy but it’s a choice. Everything is a choice. (sigh)

I wish there was a way to get “better” without losing the creativity. Without losing what makes us us. On the other side now. I can’t cross back. Not for long…

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Every Day

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Life hands you things sometimes that you cannot understand. today is one of those days! –MB

5-9-10                   2:20am

Every day is one of those days… Every day.

Every day I wake up and wonder why I’m living the life that I am. Every day I can’t understand just what’s happening to my body or why. And there’s no way to stop it. Every day. There are things I understand less than others, like Randy. I don’t not understand his action. I don’t understand my reaction. But it’s hard to say I understand less crying for no reason in a Taco Bell drive through tonight and shedding my seat belt and sweater and bra and curling up in a ball unable to talk. (pause) That I don’t understand. But I’m lucky enough in that moment to know that, although I have no idea what’s going on, it will pass. And it will happen again.

Every day…

Every day.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Redeemed

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5-5-10                   3:38am

Tonight I am grateful for music on YouTube – Sara Bareilles, Norah Jones, Vanessa Carlton, Michelle Branch, Regina Spektor and Charlotte Martin. Whoever created that playlist is a genius. I’m grateful for pianos, and for writing, and for people who read my writing. For purple paper, and the color pink, and glitter. For my mom and for Susan and Mags. I may not get my life or stuff around me but I sure appreciate the music.

Tomorrow is another day. Doctors appointments, things to pick up and do. Hours of blankness, nothing. But just for now there is quiet and good music. Just me and the earwigs.

Listen. “Redeemed” by Charlotte Martin

“Where is the hand for me to reach?
Where is the moral I’ll never teach myself?
In all the black, in all the grief, through all the pain
And unbelief- these are the words that they all scream. I am redeemed.”

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Clothes – I Don’t Get Them

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5-5-10                   1:46am

I went shopping on Sunday and thought of Malan. I was so confused. I really don’t understand clothes. I like looking pretty but getting there is a task. I’d settle for presentable.

I don’t get clothes. I tried on a ton of stuff and, for the first time ever, I looked like a bat. A bat! I put my arms out and I had wings. Now why, I ask, would I want that? My goal is to look thinner not wider. Really. Some things are cute on the hanger but look terrible on. So I make sure to pick up things I’m reasonably sure I’ll hate in case they spontaneously look great. Sometimes works.

Then there are those things I just stare at and wonder about. I have no idea what that is. Is it a dress? A shirt? A scarf? How do I put it on and what is it supposed to look like? If I have to ask these questions I’m probably not the target audience, but I’d like to know. If I knew, I might buy it or at least try it on.

I really need someone to follow me around (more like lead me) and tell me what to get and what not to and, “Oh, Honey. No. Put that back.” Like Said in Fashion Valley or my friend Sarah who lives in Boston. I would appreciate some sort of guidebook in the store that tells me what I’m looking at. Like a program at a play. I asked the fitting room attendant at Victoria’s Secret just why I would want to buy the bra I was trying on. She was confused. I said, “I know this style of bra was intended for a particular style of clothing but I don’t know which one or in what situations this bra would be useful.” She had no helpful answer. I don’t understand! I might buy the damn thing if I knew what to do with it!

(sigh) Sometimes I wonder what goes through the head of a designer when he/she is designing. Do they consider what the average consumer, such as myself, will be up against when trying to figure out their clothes? Okay, so maybe I’m not average, but I am a consumer and I’d like to buy clothes less stressfully. You know?

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010