It’s all a game really

11-27-10     4:35pm

If you don’t want me for what I am, I don’t want you for what you’re not.

It’s all a game really. I just got off the phone with S-. She’s got a date tonight she’s getting dolled up for. I have a headache. We had a conversation (well, more like an argument) about the institution of dating and expectations. She believes and plays along. I play along but I resent the game.

She was telling me how it’s important to look your best and how you can tell a lot from how a person looks about what they believe, who they are, their character. In reality these are assumptions & judgments. The thoughts are real but not necessarily accurate. She was saying how it’s important not to put all your cards on the table in the beginning or they won’t want you. I know that well. But anyone who doesn’t want me because of who I am or where I’m from or how I dress is not someone I want anyway.

I KNOW it’s a game. I dress the part. I play but I don’t follow all the rules. And the last thing I need to do is reel some guy in who thinks I’m something I’m not, fall head-over-heels for him and have him leave me when he finds out who I am. I also don’t want to fall in love with someone who’s not all of him. I want to see the unacceptable side, to know what I’m getting. Show me the CARFAX.

Her interpretation of me based on my dress is that I’m meticulous. I am, but not about my dress. What she sees is what I choose to show her in the game. What she believes based on that image is her interpretation. I have no control over that. I know very well that people are looking, for the most part, for a sane well put-together self-sufficient mate with little drama, little debt, and a rosy disposition. I am also aware that I am not that. I may play the game to get what I want (or close to it) but in a mate I want someone who loves me for me. Someone who loves that I put my hair in a clip and carry Play-Doh in my purse and walk my cat, who’s not scared that I’m sick and doesn’t roll his eyes at my food rules. In return, I can accept imperfection, unpolished shoes, “bad” feelings, and annoying habits. Just love me for me. In the words of Meredith Gray, “Pick me. Choose me. Love me.” I’m tired of playing the game.

I want someone who loves me when I don’t love myself. In pearls and in sweats. When I haven’t showered in a week. When I can’t stop throwing up. When I’m inpatient. When I’m angry. And when I’m not.  Because that’s me. There is more to me than just what you see.

What do you see when you look at me? What goes through your mind? Sometimes I think you get it. Then there are days like today when you’re so far away. (deep breath) So very far away…

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010


7-3-10                  11:13pm

I feel really sad tonight. Mom and I went to watch fireworks but I still feel sad.

I went to see Sacha sing last night and I can’t seem to shake what happened. At first it was quiet with a few people there. I felt lonely but I had the perfect cozy corner and was comfortable. Then Lavelle came and the energy picked up.

I went to ask how to find his cd info on FB and he and Peter (his friend) invited me to sit with them. I didn’t want to sit with them. I go to concerts to get away from people. But it’s kind of rude to turn down an invite when I’m sitting alone.


I hope I don’t see him again. He likes me. He wants to write me poetry (so he says.) He wrote a poem-like thing complete with bad grammar and signature in my journal. He asked what kind of food I like and I said I have food rules. He said that sounds complicated and he’s an artist, he doesn’t need anyone more complicated than him. I resisted my urge to say, “Wow, you’re vain.” If you can’t handle my not eating seafood I am definitely not the girl for you.

He sat next to me to talk but didn’t, which is good because I just wanted to listen to Sacha. When he left he came back, leaned down and thanked me for being sexy. I said thank you.  He said, “(pause) No, thank you.” I’m pretty sure it was meant to be flattering but I didn’t feel flattered. I just felt dirty.

He then proceeded to hijack “At Last.” Now NOBODY interrupts that song. I don’t care if the roof is caving in or your hair is on fire. It can wait. Hold your breath. Part way into the song he starts singing random lyrics full-voice from the audience. He is singing for all the world to hear. I’m confused. Sacha’s confused. Johnny just keeps playing. My anxiety goes through the roof. Eventually he stops and Sacha finishes. Having a great voice is awesome but song hijacking is never cool. He pulled a Kanye. He stole Sacha’s moment. But not only did he steal her moment, he stole mine. I love that song, 4 minutes of fantasy. It’s like waking a child who’s sleepwalking. You just don’t do it. In my book it’s right up there with peeing in the Holy water, screaming “FIRE” in a crowded theater, or yelling, “I have a bomb strapped to my body!” on a plane. It’s disrespectful, outrageous, upsetting.

Consequently, I took myself and my anxiety attack home. I found my Xanax and have been stewing about it since. Lavelle called me last night but I was too tired to talk and had nothing to say so I didn’t answer.

My upsetness isn’t just about his actions. It’s about what they mean about me. Blame Cog for the Downward Arrow Technique running my life, but it all comes back.

Yes, I’m complicated. But I’m honest. After “For All We Know” I told him that’s one of my favorite songs. He said, “Then you should be happy.” “It’s not a happy song,” I said. I listen to lyrics. I care what people say and why and what they don’t and what they’re thinking.

That man could not handle who I am because (core belief and/or truth) I am broken. And I’m not ashamed of it. I don’t need to change for someone else. If I’m not acceptable the way I am, move on. But please, do it respectfully. You may be a player but I didn’t come here to get played. Or reminded that I’m complicated and undateable. I came to get away and to dream, and to see Sacha.

Peter has his work cut out for him keeping Lavelle in line.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010


5-30-10                 4:29am

Is this what pretty girls feel like?

I’ve never had a problem with guys. They simply have not been interested. Except the over 40, creepy, crazy crowd and the dirty old men, but they’re easy to deal with. Not so lately. The guy I really liked might as well be dead. But for some reason everyone else, or at least a good portion of else, is now interested in me. I don’t know what changed.

N- asked me out last week, which really threw me off but now I like. But so did two lesbians, whom I turned down. Tonight it was the drunk guy who thought I was married to Uncle Dave. There is a quasi-business contact I have that I need to keep who woke me up today to ask me to a Padre game, or a movie, or dinner, or to go square dancing, or God knows what else. I can’t stand this guy but he’s so overly happy to talk to me. And I’m talking to a friend online now. I said that I’m craving Vienna pickles and that I hate feeling hungry. He comes back with, “And I’m craving you nake. [sic]” What? What a way to make a girl feel like a piece of meat.

I don’t quite understand, maybe because I’m not a horny guy. But these types of advances are not a turn on, they’re not pleasant, and they’re not welcome. Sure, I like compliments and I like to feel sexy (crying), but I can’t. I just can’t. I need someone to realize that I am not okay. I’m not.

I told him about a piece of meat and he says, “no. not a piece of meat. I would say more like a piece of art. something special. one of a kind.” It’s these things that make me cry. It’s beautiful. But hearing it reminds me that I’m sick. He wants the one thing I cannot or will not give him. I just want not to be ill.

When I was out with N- last week, as I listened and watched I noticed he was full of hope. Me, not so much. I am tired. So tired. And I would like to spend more time with him, but he’s exceedingly busy. I am exceedingly sleepy. And I need more than a few text message every few days.

There are these constant reminders of what I’m not. I didn’t want to go to that party tonight. Not because I don’t like my friend, but because it’s really hard for me to be around people who have what I want and people who are asking me what I do and if I’m in school and all those normal-people questions. I don’t drink, I don’t work, I don’t want to talk about my group, I don’t drive or have a boyfriend, and I don’t want to talk about any of it.

Gosh I hate myself right now. I don’t want to be having this conversation. (on FB) He asks the tough questions. They remind me of who I am and who I don’t want to be. I feel sad…

Ah damn. Light out already? Gimme a break, sun. I hate Daylight Savings. And I still want a Vienna pickle.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010