I don’t understand

7/27/2018     4:26pm

I don’t understand. I may have written about this before but I don’t remember and I don’t really care.

I don’t understand. To me it’s a simple phrase with a simple meaning. There is no extra fluff attached, no alternate meaning. Last year my therapist and I got into it because I kept telling him I didn’t understand what he was saying and he told me he believed what I meant was that I didn’t agree. Nope, only disagreed with that.

I don’t follow like other people do. Or maybe I follow too closely. I am cursed with the ability to spot errors, omissions, incongruities, however small. I need the info coming at me to make sense and if it doesn’t I will say that I don’t understand. I am blunt. I ask questions. I have no qualms with raising a stink to get an answer. It is especially disturbing to me when someone “answers” my questions with responses that are unrelated. I will state so and repeat the question, rephrasing it if necessary. A few years ago I started giving up after a few tries but not before stating that my question had still not been answered. I have somewhat of a fan base in some settings because of it. It’s not fulfilling to engage with someone who’s not the slightest idea what I’m talking about. In fact, it’s maddening – probably to both sides but for different reasons. I’m looking for information. If the person doesn’t have it, or won’t give it, it would behoove them to just say that.

People think I’m being rude or annoying. They jump to conclusions about my motives or what I really think or mean. I’m accused of alternate intentions. They tell me what I should say or do or think or not think instead. They often get very upset that I don’t understand and/or that they don’t understand what I mean when I point out whatever they said doesn’t make any sense – in general, not just to me. If they stop to follow the line of thought and learn what’s missing, sometimes they will admit that it really doesn’t make sense. Usually instead I just get confronted with anger, accused of things or people just walk away or insult and then ignore me, then pretend it never happened.

Sometimes the topic is important to me and I’m upset AND don’t understand. Usually though, I’m somewhat devoid of emotion or visibly confused or disturbed when asking questions attached to, “I don’t understand.” I can’t always communicate very well in that state. It’s the mockery and invalidation that usually push me over the edge. I’m not stupid. I can read body language and I understand your words.

Over the years I’ve learned how to convert curiosity/question/notice/wonder straight to bitter hopelessness and move on with my day. I can feel my self turn to ash and float downwards inside me as I do nothing or walk away. Fighting the thought that I don’t matter isn’t worth it because in those moments it’s completely true. What I have to say or my concern or thought doesn’t matter and if I pursue matter-ing it could (and has) make things worse. I ask much like Sheldon Cooper, with a level of non-intellectual understanding only slightly higher.

So I end up hating people. That I very much understand. I “speak Michelle,” as a provider of mine said long ago, and not many others do. I am cross-lingual in a few other person-dialects, but in observation the two-way mirror only reveals one side. This morning’s argument was me asking for details about an event I was asked to donate something to for a raffle, which I believe is questionable but didn’t point out.

Excerpts from convo this morning:
Person B: We always have raffle giveaways at our events to promote wellness…
Me: Why?
Person B: Why what (sic)
Me: Why have a standard of giving things away?
Person B: It’s not a standard. It’s something we like to do for our members. Why not? It’s generous. Omg!! You don’t like free mental health stuff??? Interesting.
Me: Don’t put words in my mouth. Free mental health stuff is fine sometimes, but it all costs money and at the end of the day I have to sit with and justify on paper what we spent the group’s money on. Does that make sense? I don’t mind contributing to your raffle. I just wanted to know the details.

I was livid but calm in text. If in her language “always” doesn’t equal a “standard,” there is no purpose in trying to get through.

It’s harder for me to interact with other humans I don’t understand than to harm myself by attempting to fill my own needs without engaging them. This afternoon’s debacle is within myself about why the HELL I can’t do anything today because I can’t think because my head hurts on the one day I have actual time. (PRN)

So very alone. I hate myself.
I don’t understand.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2018


How do you…?

5/13/06     11:26pm

I’m sorry I haven’t written in awhile. It’s not because I don’t think of you. I’ve been busy and scared to share the truth. Today’s truth is not so scary.

It’s almost midnight. I have a bunch of stuff to print for an event I have to leave for by 6:30am tomorrow. I’m trying to read a few articles on FB but my computer is too slow to load them, thanks to having to redistribute my cloud files and them ever so slowly resyncing. The tv in the living room is blaring an infomercial and my mom is in her bedroom talking to her jackass boyfriend on the phone. Mine just sent me a short video mocking people who have too much stuff in their front seat when you go to ride with them. Last week he wrote “horder” in the dirt on my back window. I don’t understand. It’s a trigger for me to be made fun of, but if you’re going to do it anyway at least spell the insult right. He finds it funny. I don’t. My car is full of donations waiting for a specific space at a specific hospital that means a lot to me. There’s nothing humorous about that.

I folded clothes for a friend this morning after a long walk. I couldn’t breathe so I rolled on the floor and stretched for awhile. If I listen in the quiet my body tells me what I need. I met with someone about a partnership with my support group and had a muscavado brownie. Fucking amazing. (Eclipse Chocolate) I wrote beforehand in the car, enjoyed the peace of just the sound of wind in the trees. A man with some unnamed movement disorder kept driving around looking for parking. Eventually he came up to me on his motor scooter and handed me a beautiful red garden rose. He said he came to take his girlfriend to dinner but she wasn’t there. So I got the flower and a dinner invite. While I passed up the offer for tacos, the rose was nice.

I wrote for about two hours tonight. I went to my therapist’s office and laid on the floor in the hallway. There was no one there but the cleaning crew. It was a good safe choice for writing, complete with great jazz music overhead. (God-damn vacuum infomercial. Grrrr. I’d turn it off but that would attract my mom’s attention and she would start in on me again.) (sigh) Too late. She’s silently scolding now.

I don’t understand. All I want to do is write. I want to be by myself somewhere quiet and encounter my mind, vent my soul for a night. I miss riding the bus and trolley. I had that time to listen to music, to think and write. I could solve problems and develop ideas. I could passively observe. Doing everything quickly does not appeal to me. I want the privilege of moving slowly. God’s showing me a direction He wants me to move in but I’m too distracted to take the path. Like anything is really more important than God’s will, right? I feel sad and I want the right and the space to just feel it.

My ECT is on hold and I’m facing multiple losses right now. I don’t really talk to my friends. I’m not leading groups very often. I’m working on sharing in them. I’m starting to unfold and re-experience the traumas in my life. It’s scary but worth it. I want the darkness out of me. I want to let it go. I’m trying to learn to be a girlfriend. I suck at it but there has to be something said for trying.

I’ve been trying slowly to organize my possessions and get rid of things. I know I have too much but some of the stashes have a reason and most of the boxes are wired with memories. That’s not just a box of envelopes. It’s so much more – 3 therapy sessions worth of stories. And there are a LOT of boxes. Boxes, piles and bags everywhere. I have my stuff, group stuff, mom’s stuff, dance stuff. I have no office so my things are everywhere. I try. I know my mom and I have “issues” when it comes to things. Let’s face it, we’re hoarders. I know that. Do you think I don’t know that? I try my best not to think about it every day. It hurts when someone throws it in my face.

I’m so tired. I have a resource fair in the morning and then a Super Choir rehearsal. I’m hoping after to do some writing. Most likely I will be chastised all morning to type instead. Can’t I do both? Life is not all about work. I know this. My mom does not…

I’m sorry. I’m rambling. I just felt like talking with my fingers to someone and you were the person/audience that came to mind. I miss writing and sharing me. What helps you set aside everything you’re doing to follow what God’s told you or what you’ve discerned, even when it goes against all reason and odds? How do you set aside what logic tells you is required and do what you know your soul NEEDS? I don’t know how to do that. I want to learn. (Mom is at it again, nag, nag, nag. I wish she could just be content.)

I have to go prep for the event I don’t want to go to now. I hope to share with you more soon, maybe even some core truths. We’ll see. Thanks for listening.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2106

I am not a priest!

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.


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

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Just One

12-21-10    3:01am

People don’t get it. It just takes one. One tiny thing to change my mood. A look, a thought, a smell, a word, a song. Just one.

I work really hard to maintain my sanity, to balance all the people and memories and places, to refute the distortions, to pick out what’s real from what’s not. It’s like walking backwards on a tight rope 100 feet in the sky blindfolded during Santa Annas in the desert over a pit of hungry tigers and fire. Most days I do okay. But it just takes one thing.

Today was very stressful. I made it through my group and my meeting, enjoyed dinner with a friend, worked on the Thursday Poets Rally. And I had found a bit of peace. The sound of the rain. The feel of my breath. And there it appears – a Facebook message that reads, “Thanx for nothing!” Really? Do you have to be such a bitch? I can’t control the fact that you have no tact but I also can’t control how you make me feel. I can attempt to use logic to change that feeling, but I can’t change the seething anger in my soul. You take perverse delight in waking the colicky child I had finally calmed for the night. Just because you can! And for what reason? (Don’t reach) It’s all about you.

People don’t think. Most people I interact with don’t take the time to wonder how what they say will affect the next person. They don’t care if I’m teetering on the edge. Not their problem. I might be able to handle just one. But they’re everywhere.

I want to move away, get a new phone number, change my email and my FB, and my blog. I can’t take it anymore. People are making me crazy. I am too tired to put up with their shit. It’s too much.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Insufficient Funds

12-20-10    12:10pm

I fucking HATE PEOPLE! Oooooooh! I just want to scream. All they ever think about is themselves. You should read the messages I get – email, text, IM. They tell me their problems, what they want, why they’re mad. Why I should care, say “poor baby,” kiss it and make it all better. Most days I can handle the rush. Not today. I’m not afraid of the storm but don’t shower me with shit.

There are some people who are predictable – like the girl who texts me symptoms. Not “Hi, how are you?” but things like “my scalp is really itchy”

(call from a stupid person)

or that she’s having horrible heartburn. There is the one who calls but doesn’t want me to answer, the ones that are 99% of the time mass messages, and the ones from people who always want my immediate attention. I am surrounded by people in various states of disrepair.

And then there are people like J- who send multi-text rants to me about my friends, complete with insults against me, with not so much as a forward and are CONFUSED when I’m upset. What? About 10 texts in I texted back, “J- I don’t need this right now. You just randomly text me to bitch about S- and then insult me for no apparent reason. Leave me the fuck alone. You didn’t even ask how I am today.” His response? “Are you ill? If so, my apology.” Ill or NOT this is ridiculous. He continued his rant and said he’ll text me later.

I have a board meeting tonight. My mom is freaking out about our mostly bare Christmas tree and her online bill thing not working and the rain. She said to eat cereal for breakfast but when I was eating it changed her mind and said I should eat a bagel. I open the door to hear the rain. She shuts it and goes back in her room. I’m gonna make brownies. She decided maybe she should make them. Maybe we should NOT decorate the tree we fought so much about (because she refused to decide) because of Zoe. Or MAYBE since it’s raining we should only put on the generic glass bulbs that shatter instead of the breakable ornaments we love. I don’t get it. Then she cries because she’s making me mad and if I’m mad it must mean she’s a horrible person and she should just die.

**NEWSFLASH! I have feelings too!**

I don’t mind helping friends in need but it’s not my job to rescue you. And if I do and you jump back in the water, don’t expect me to happily risk my life for you again. I woke up to a call from Illinois about this woman’s brother who is bipolar and has a restraining order against him (blah, blah, blah) for threatening to kill his wife. Do you think that’s a happy way to wake up? Everyone wants something from me. There’s not much left to give.

I’m so angry…

Now Mom’s bitching about food. She’s upset that I don’t want to eat because she told me to eat cereal and I did. She said that’s not what she said, then that it is. Is it too much to ask for a little peace? When the walls of my castle are under attack it would be nice if the people inside didn’t add to the stress.

There is a board meeting tonight. I hope it goes off without a hitch. I’m tired of people saying they’ll do things and bailing, doing things that require damage control, or being all bitch and no work.

I am tired. I feel weary and beat. I want to be alone. Just leave me alone. I want to go somewhere on the bus in the rain, to get wet, to listen to music. To feel my jaw unclench itself, my eyes let go. I want to ride the train. Get out of my way. You’re cramping my brain.

The bank of Michelle has insufficient funds. Please seek help elsewhere.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Some days I’m just crazy

12-1-10 6:47pm

I’m sitting on the sidewalk at 30th and Laurel. My hand is so cold I can barely write. My heart is on fire.

I went to the art show tonight to find that none of my art was displayed. They neglected to tell me this. Apparently, the gallery chose 1 piece from every artist and they chose that I read my poem instead of taking up space with my art. I did not want to read that poem, especially tonight, and I left.

I know I’m not Picasso. I don’t paint huge masterpieces. I use markers and crayons. But I don’t paint or create for fun. I put my heart on the page as it is, what my feelings look like on the inside. And I don’t share what I create because it is so personal to me. But I took a chance this time on an art show that didn’t ask for brilliance. It asked for me. And I felt proud of what I had created.

The message given tonight was “there’s no room at the inn.” Not altogether disturbing. But the message received is “you’re not good enough.”

I am good enough, just not tonight. Just not long enough to stay and pretend to be happy and read a poem about my dying inner child, whom I can’t save. Not enough to not be crushed and hurt. I don’t have a collection of glass bowls or silver jewelry. I just have me. That’s it. A- thinks she offended me. I’m not mad at A-. She is a pawn in the game. I thought for a moment, “Why, God? Why?” But it doesn’t matter why. It just is… It just is.


I feel like a horrible person. It is the silent car ride home after a behavior – walking out of somewhere or screaming or telling someone off or running away. It is what I need to do in the moment to stay alive and sane, but no one else understands it. They want to know what’s going on and why and what the hell I’m thinking. Does it matter? No. All that matters is I’m not okay. But it’s not me that they care about. It’s the behavior. God forbid I embarrass myself or anyone else.

I have learned well that in the moment I want to scream or am beginning to tremble or cry I need to leave. If I stay, bad things will happen. People other than me will be hurt. And no one cares to see a tantrum or a meltdown. Nobody cares. And few are truly equipped to be helpful.

Now my mom is angry. I’d like a banana smoothie but we have no bananas and she broke the blender – a year ago. I don’t want to go home. I miss Sarah.

I should’ve gone to the Grant. I need music. I need to be free.


I don’t understand why this is happening. I don’t understand why this is me. Why things don’t make sense. Why people are mean. Why I can’t tolerate change or surprise or defeat.

A little over 5 hours ago I left an art show I was very upset about. I walked until I could walk no more, then sat on the sidewalk to write. Mom picked me up and I bought comfort food and stuffed my face while surfing FB. I was SO upset about the show. And then I forgot. I knew I was upset but not why. I’ve been typing blog posts and tonight’s writing feels ages away. It’s not important. I mean it is. I don’t understand.

I don’t want A- to be mad at me. If I had stayed there would have been a scene. Me crying and screaming is not art show material. There is no one to be productively angry at. Just a bunch of people I like and want to keep as my friends. I can’t do that if I’m screaming at them.

I wish I was the kind of person who could take it in stride, just roll with the punches and move on. But I’m not. I can’t stop the feelings, especially when they’re at 100%. And when I’m already upset. I don’t want to be the crazy person. I work really hard not to be. But sometimes I am. I can’t stop. But I can move it away from the people. I’m sorry, A-. I just couldn’t do it today. I just couldn’t do it today.

Some days I’m just crazy.
I am out of control.
Not everyone’s, just mine.
I wander the streets.
I walk quickly.
I have a destination but it’s abstract.
I never quite make it.
I talk to myself.
I talk to God.
I talk to whoever it is that’s bugging me.
And my feet carry me away, quickly away.

I don’t usually know to where I am heading.
Some place I can hide or be alone and cry,
Where no one will bug me or find me.
Somewhere safe.
Not in the literal sense of the word but the feeling.
But nowhere’s safe.
And eventually somebody finds me.
And eventually I have to go home.
And face the fact that everyone thinks I’m crazy.

Well, not everyone.
There are a significant number of people who believe nothing’s wrong with me.
They believe I’m not sick, that I don’t have problems.
It’s all make believe.
But whether or not they believe, to most the wandering is not okay.
The anger’s not okay.

I don’t know what she told them.
Rationally, I am a mental health consumer who left the art show without reciting poetry due to a mental health event that I had no control over.
To me, I’m a horrible person who ruined A’s night and made a fool of myself. A crazy who’s not worth saving.
I feel awful.
Did I have to remember this?

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Dear Me

Journal entries – Dear Me is a fight I had with myself today.

11-15-10     11:48am

Today’s show is brought to you by the letter F, as in flashbacks – the experience of re-experiencing something, usually something you prayed never to experience again. Splendid. Tomorrow’s show brought to you by the letter S, as in sarcasm.


Why am I wearing sequins? Ask me why I’m wearing sequins today. Because everyone will say I look beautiful and not ask how I feel. Actually, I thought they’d make me feel better. The brush-off is a secondary benefit. It’s not making me feel any better.

I wanted to walk to catch the bus to lunch. But I missed that window of upset energy. Too much FUCKING planning. Now I’m tired and want to sleep and cry. I posted on my FB “I can’t do this.” P- said, “Do what?” Does it really matter?

Dear Me,

Stop saving me. I don’t want to be saved. Ya hear? Why aren’t you listening? Why can’t you DO something? Paralyzed by pain and fear. I don’t want to be here.

Yes you do! You just want to be loved. And YOU can’t give that to me. You fucking failure.

ME? I keep you alive. Every fucking day you don’t want to go on and I pull you out or put you to sleep or find you whatever crazy food will distract you long enough. You are the failure you. You NEVER change.

That’s right. I’m the failure. Saving lives and managing crazy people EVERYWHERE I go is failing.

Yes. You’re not doing what you love. You are withering.

I’m not withering. I’ve already died.

Then why are you still fucking up my life? WHY do I keep having to save you? to find reasons for you to go on?

Because I don’t want to die.

Can we make up our minds? I thought you were already dead.

I am.

No you’re not.

Yes I am.

Then how are you writing?

It’s you that’s writing, remember? You’re the one who keeps saving me.

I hate you.

I hate you too.

I’m still hungry.


You’re on.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

How are you?

11-7-10                2:07am

I shall continue my wee hours pissed off rant with some thoughts about the phrase “How are you?”

I think it should be stricken from the English language, from any language actually. It’s an AWFUL phrase. Who the Hell came up with it? Seriously. 99.9% of the people who ask me that don’t give a fuck how I am. They don’t care about my day, nor are they equipped to handle it if I told them. They want me to say good or fine or great. Some of them don’t even stop walking. Why can’t they just say, “Hey.” And if they do stop, “Hey, Nice to see you.”

It doesn’t make any sense. You’re supposed to ask me how I am and I’m supposed to lie. And I’m supposed to ask you back and be satisfied with your non-answer or lie and then move on with my life. What? WHAT IS THE POINT?! And then people get all flustered when I actually want to know how they are, how they’re feeling. Gosh, that’s so personal. And if I should choose to say something other than one of the few acceptable responses there is shock and awe. WHAT?! You’re not OK?! What ever could be wrong? (subtext – please don’t tell me.) Someone asked me the other night if I was okay. I said no. He said, “Be okay. That’s my motto,” and walked away. I had a meltdown. Don’t worry. I cried where no one could see me. Couldn’t risk not being okay in public. (roll my eyes)

Acceptable replacements: How are you feeling? How’s your day? What’s going on? Anything you actually want the answer to.

I just don’t understand. The How are you? interaction makes me feel separate. Like there was an opportunity for an actual connection but it just didn’t happen. It was “fine.” I’m pretty good at reading past people’s non-answers but they usually aren’t as invested in reading past mine. What’s the point really if it’s nothing that will ever be said? But I would rather walk away at “fine” with someone I know doesn’t care than open myself up to feeling worse from their stupidity.

Everyone asks and nobody cares.

How are you?
Go to Hell.
Alrighty then. I’m fine, thanks.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Illness. It’s bigger than the horses.

9-19-10                2:45am

Illness. It’s bigger than the horses. I’ve been hearing “Wild Horses.” The chorus plays over and over in my head. “Wild horses, couldn’t drag me away. Wild horses, couldn’t drag me away.” Maybe not, but illness is bigger than the horses.

Today I am sick. It’s almost 3am and I’ve been awake altogether for less than 4 hours. I really wanted to go out tonight but I couldn’t. And it made me so angry. Conscious enough to know I can’t go but sick enough to be able to do nothing about it. “For All We Know” lulled me back to sleep and woke me up.

For all we know, right? It’s why I went out with Matthew this week and it’s why I see so much music. And why I’m terrified. Because I know. I am acutely aware of how precious life is. And God keeps reminding me that it’s not in my control.

I should have known a sick day was coming. I’m kinda glad I didn’t. I had fun. I went to hear music 3 days in a row this week. Last night I was riddled with zaps and freezing cold and anxious and feel asleep on the trolley, and in the car, and while waiting for food. And today I just couldn’t wake up. Really bad headache. Extreme exhaustion. And anger at the situation.

Wild horses couldn’t drag me away from the music. But illness is bigger than the horses. This invisible force I have little control of. I feel like crying but I’m just too tired.

Headache’s coming back. I’m writing by flashlight in my dark room.


I’m grateful for Matthew and my teddy bear.



© Michelle Routhieaux 2010


9-17-10                3:09am

Sometimes I just want to disappear, like now. To just walk away and go some place new, to start over. Core belief tonight – I’m not wanted. I don’t know why. Nothing particularly bad happened. I listened to great music with a good friend, watched “House” and pet my cat.

There’s something that’s been bothering me that I can’t really talk about here. It eats me, makes me tingle inside.


I am so sad. And so scared. And so, alone. And I’m so tired of feeling this way. If I’m right and I really am sick, what’s gonna happen when I can’t go out in search of happiness anymore? If I feel this way now and I’m out every day doing things I enjoy and can’t stand to be alone or in the house, what happens when that’s gone? Huh? I’m not disturbingly ill now and I hardly see anyone.

It was something I read on FB, a trigger tonight. An answer to something I’d been wondering, a question I didn’t ask.

Just listened to this. It’s amazing. “Wild Horses” by Natasha Bedingfield. Not what I was looking for, but I’m very glad to find it. I feel like I need to go out in the wilderness for awhile, to have it out with God and be alone and try to figure this out. Talk to myself, and scream, and cry, and be quiet. With no computer. Just my journal and a phone. I’d rather be alone by myself than just lonely. And when I have sufficiently reconciled with what is happening to me, maybe I can come back to my life. Or maybe I’ll break that family tradition and just stay on the mountain. Might be easier that way.


They call me Ms. Marshmallow

9-8-10                  11:32am

There were times in my life when I would have considered an 18 minute yoga video for beginners lame. However, today I approached it with VCR remote in hand and cursing at the tv. Are you supposed to curse at a yoga video? Seems rather un-zen. Anyway, I made it through in about an hour, quite ungracefully, and rather perturbed. If I’m going to go to the effort to get INTO a yoga pose I’d like to stay there for more than 5 seconds (I counted – hence the pause button). You’d think I hadn’t taken a step in 3 years. Yes, Dr. T. I’m a marshmallow. Ya happy?

I woke up this morning at 7:33 thanks to forgetting to take my night meds. I don’t even know what my meds do anymore. I’m just so tired. So I decided to stay up, even though I’d only slept 4 hours. Why not? Well, we’ll get to that later. I’ve been experiencing this thing where I feel very agitated with an extreme desire to move with zero energy or ability to do so, often when I wake up but other times too. It’s like torture. Like being trapped in your own body. With the blanket on I’m too hot, with it off I’m freezing. There are small bursts of energy when I finally flip myself over like a pancake or roll to one side. Then I lay there not moving, wondering why. It’s like all contact from my brain to one or more of my limbs has completely gone away. Sometimes my voice goes on hiatus too. The thoughts are there, but nobody’s answering.

So I finally found the energy and wherewithal to get up and decided to start my journey to non-marshmallowness by attempting to walk to the donut shop. Dr. T had suggested walking somewhere for coffee but I don’t drink coffee, and I like donuts, and I happened to remember there’s a shop up the street. Ooh, I just remembered 7-11’s closer. Might start with that. But I needed to take a shower. So I took a shower and then couldn’t breathe, so out went the donut shop. So I settled on sitting for awhile and then had a bagel and watched Nick, Jr. I was cool with traveling with Dora through the desert to deliver Cowboy cookies to a blue cow named Benny playing harmonica in a rocking chair, but traveling through space to return Inky, Plinky, Blinky, Dinky and Al to the purple planet is a bit much. What do people DO during the day who don’t work or go to school? I sleep until my life starts around three every day. Today I played with Zoe, whom I might add is fucking crazy.

I eventually decided to try one of my many exercise videos that I’ve owned forever and never use. Instead of Richard Simmons that I know I like I figured I’d start with something simple – AM Yoga for Beginners. Grrrr. I even got out my pink yoga mat. I made it through, huffing and puffing and cursing and pausing and cursing some more. It’s supposed to make you feel energized. Energized is not quite the word I would put on it. I feel mentally alert, but I’m physically exhausted, and shaking, and my eyes are watering, and I can’t stop yawning. Not sure what about that is energized.

So now it’s 11:46am. I exercised on purpose today. The result – urge to watch QVC and say, “That shit is whack, man.” Not sure what they’re putting in that AM Yoga video. I’ve been up for 4 hours. In my normal day it would be dinnertime now and I would be off to a group or to see music or something active with people. But no, it’s not even noon. What, the fuck. Seeing my therapist at 2pm. Hoping to be awake for that. I need a nap…

(sigh) 11:52 and it decides to kick in? NOW I’m agitated? It said ENERGIZED not AGITATED. (zap) Breathe… I need structure and people.


© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

I Can’t Make Her Happy

8/20/10               1:15am

Mom is throwing a no-one-cares-about-me fit. (sigh) I hate these nights. There is so much guilt and tension. She’s stressed. I get it. No control. Life caving in. But it’s not my fault that she doesn’t talk to anyone. And I don’t appreciate her putting me down when she’s upset.

There is nothing right I could do tonight. I don’t want to talk to her. I’m not in an understanding mood. I’m NOT her friend. She drove me around today, which I’m grateful for, but now she’s mad at me for never finishing projects. I counted all the change in her piggy bank tonight and she told me to put it back in. What? And she’s constantly fighting with the cat. I know she’s into everything but it’s NOT IMPORTANT. Zoe being on the counter is not worth getting upset about. She’s not gonna learn if you’re never not mad at her. If everything is wrong, nothing is.

Zoe was stuck balancing on the door tonight and I told Mom to sit down, that scaring her wouldn’t do any good. She was so angry. She sat down at the computer and said nobody cares about her. (I have a headache now.) Then she stormed off into her room mumbling to herself.

This week she’s mad at me for not being stable, not being able to make decisions, not understanding what she says. I can’t answer your question if I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I can’t twitch my nose and be magically symptom-free. I can’t make money appear out of nowhere or make Zoe a calm kitten.

Today was pretty good. I saw Jim and ran errands, went to the Jazz 88 happy hour, and then to see Janice Edwards who sang “Come In From the Rain” for me. And I decided that some time in the future I want to have a baby. Even if it is selfish… And I brainstormed a new project that might actually be successful.

I may not be able to finish a sorting project. I may rock randomly and be confused easily, but I’m living my life. I’m making it. I’m doing what I need to do to get by and to be happy. I can’t make her happy.


© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

“I don’t know” is NOT acceptable

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