Tag Archives: journal

Bitch, you crazy

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4-4-12     1:48pm

I wonder how many people PMS has actually killed. I have had THE worst 2 weeks, not just wanting to kill other people (pretty standard), but myself. It took all my energy not to do it. There are stressors in my life but the magnitude of this building freakout was not in proportion. Last night and the night before were THE worst. And then today I got my period and I’m crashing. I feel so much better.

I’m accustomed to the physical symptoms of PMS and being moody, but nothing like this. Being crazy as a standard doesn’t bother me but being crazy from PMS does. I feel like it devalues the experience. Oh, it was just PMS. She’s just hormonal. Well just almost killed me. Damn. I already have one diagnosis that means “it’s all in your head.” I don’t need another that means, “Bitch, you’ just a crazy woman.” I believe they call that one PMDD. Like it really needs a name.

(sigh) I’d like to be less crazy. I have enough trouble managing/handling my day to day symptoms. I don’t know why this is worse now. When I was in high school I had horrible cramps and PMS, but since I’ve been on antipsychotics I’ve been fine. I tried birth control once but it made me WAY worse. My doctors tell me I shouldn’t have kids, which makes me wonder why I even have a functioning system at all. I don’t know, but I do. And it’s trying to kill me.

Bitch, you crazy.
Bitch, I know.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

Jesus & Happy

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4/2/12

Jesus,

Did anyone tell you what happiness is? That you had a right to feel it? I’m pretty sure the knowledge/awareness of “happy” and the expectation that I should or should be able to feel it are fucking me up.

Have people always expected to feel happy? What if feeling awful is the default? If I was okay with feeling awful my life would be much better. Is this an American thing? I do NOT feel happy.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

Cheetos in a teacup

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3-30-12     4:23am

Sometimes I wonder why I’m still awake at four o’clock in the morning, like tonight as I sit here eating my Cheetos out of a teacup. Chip bags are just annoying. And then something happens. Something always happens. Right as I started to think about heading for bed I got a crisis FB message. Now I’m chatting with said friend.

The conversation reminded me of something my doctor told me a few weeks ago. He said he doesn’t believe that I’m going to get better. I let the comment slide. Had I been feeling particularly awful it could’ve pushed me over the edge. But I’m not. It was actually helpful. After feeling upset for awhile, I decided that if I’m not going to get better I might as well have fun where I’m at. I don’t have to like it, but I don’t have to feel tortured by not healing. I spend an enormous amount of time and energy trying to figure out what’s wrong with me and how to fix it. It’s exhausting. It goes in waves. Energy, answer-seeking, exhaustion, loss of hope, lull, happy, hopeless, desperate, repeat. I’m not abandoning the cycle completely, but right now I’m not searching. I’m coping. My goal is to start LIVING.

Wow. What a concept. I don’t really understand this living thing. It’s always been about getting better and doing worse and fending off death. Or hastening death. But never about life… (ponder as I continue my crisis chat)

I never thought I’d live to be this old. 26. People say it’s a small number, that I’m young. I don’t see it that way. When I was little my dad had Huntington’s Disease. It’s a nasty illness that basically eats your brain and you die. And there was a good chance that I had it too. It wasn’t an option to consider the future. I still don’t even really understand what that means. So it baffles me when I realize I’m 26. Half the time (really more) I don’t remember how old I am and people think I’m either dramatically older or younger, depending on the day.

I’m not sure I want to embrace the concepts of life or future. It’s almost safer to just have now. If I expect to live ’til I’m 40 and then become terminally ill at 30, I’m gonna be pissed. But if I only expected to live ’til yesterday, it’s a prize. You know? They say life’s a bitch, but it’s much quieter.

Anyway, there’s always a reason that pops up when I think there’s no reason. Tonight it was a good one. I just wish my teacup of Cheetos was bottomless. DAMN! I just remembered I wanted to try eating them with chopsticks. Do I even own chopsticks? I don’t know.

It’s 4:45am and I can feel the wave of energy come over me. I would call it psychomotor agitation but it’s not unpleasant, more like a hyper puppy waiting to play. I still follow the sunrise rule but it’s dark out. I guess my internal sunrise comes sooner. That or I’m sensitive to Cheetos and crisis. I feel like a teenage girl about to meet Justin Beiber. Seriously. Only I’m alone in my kitchen talking to my invisible computer friends. Maybe one of them’s Justin Beiber. Could be. You never know. He could be randomly googling the Panda Express kids meal, which is oddly the number one thing people google to get to this blog. Who knew? Eat a kids meal, get new readers. Works for me. All for the low price of $4.95. Sweet. And sour. ;)

Gosh I’m bored. This darkness sunrise makes my thoughts race. I need to bounce up and down and yell and shout and sing and MOVE. AHHHHHHHHHHHH! (deep breath) I should take my night meds.

I’m 26. I found a Subway today that still carries regular mayonnaise. Thank the good Lord. And the bad one too. I’ve yet to learn how to be a kid but it’s on my to do list. Workin’ on it. I should take my night meds. Stream of consciousness. Does a body good… So does Oscar the Grouch, and drugs, and Cheetos in a teacup. Here’s to hoping my friend lives.

Love, Michelle

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

A Guardian and other randomness

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3-30-12     12:55 am

i wonder how the mind works seven in the night. Tonight I went to a bar to hear music. I pondered the plasticity of the brain and soft shoe dancing. And “Mona Lisa” made the joints of my ring finger tingle. I wrote about my feelings and fears, drank tea and ate bad chicken. Altogether a good night.

I was disturbed though by this one waiter. He’s never nice to me. He tries to appear to be but he’s cocky. He asked to see my ID to be in the bar after I’d already ordered. I said since they serve food there’s no age limit. He said I would need a “guardian” with me. Wow. How old do I look? I’m not drinking. I’ve been there many times before. My behavior is not disruptive. I walk around and write. Even 20 year olds don’t have guardians. I felt offended. He blamed it on his manager. I guess tea drinking chicken eating writers are not wanted as regulars there. Quite disconcerting. For the record, I’m 26. And sober.

I talked to Jim today about my trip to GA. I went to Possum Trot last weekend and had a blast, remembered how much I love clogging and how much I need to do it more. The project/idea side of my brain started scheming and I decided I need to take a trip to GA to find myself through clogging for a month. My mom is completely against it, says it’s ridiculous and crazy. My friends and providers think it’s great. I think it’s awesome and exciting and terrifying. But I so wanna do it. I found a craigslist room for rent ad there and actually emailed about it. I want to find me. Wherever I left her she’s waiting.

I took a trip to GA 8 years ago under very different circumstances. I’ve grown a lot since then. It’s something to remember. I want to learn to be more independent, to take care of myself and not have to rely on others. I think this might be like a missions trip. Mission: Find me. Get away for a time from everything here, everything doctor, illness, all the labels and expectations. Write, dance, breathe. I don’t know if it will happen but the planning gives me hope. A thing to believe in. A thing to be.

It’s weird. Today I hear the cadence of what my thoughts should be, but I can’t quite hear the words. It’s annoying. And free. Really it’s not free, but it should be. Knee. Things rhyme but they don’t make sense. Whatever. Just me. I spent $95 at Victoria’s Secret today to get a free umbrella. I shoulda just bought an umbrella. They never have panties that fit me. I know I have a big butt but it’s not THAT big…

Zoe’s on the door and I can’t think. I noticed at the workshop this weekend that I didn’t have as much trouble thinking. Less confusion and thought blocking. And the more days of not dancing the worse it gets. I have to wonder if I danced every day if I’d be less confused. Life processed through dancing makes sense. Life processed through other things is just a mess. Oh yes. (sigh)

I’d really like some peanut butter and jelly. Not so much the bread. Imran. (big smile) I know I’m rambling, but I like rambling, and so do you. Here’s to not making sense. (clink)

I gotta sleep. I feel like someone rearranged all the connections in my brain and it no longer works right.

Happy trails, Michelle

PS – I’ve lost my love of capital letters lately. like wearing pajamas to work.

(happily watching Stand Up For Mental Health videos and random YouTube comedy)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

Now I am…

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(continued from “I am from…”)

3-21-12     4:07pm

Now I am what?

Now I am stronger.

Now I am less afraid.

Now I am starting to own myself, to upgrade from the standard model.

Now I am more honest, less moody, more willing to be vulnerable.

I am learning to trust.
I am learning to be me.

Now I am sharing my writing.
I am putting it out there, even through fear.

Now I understand there doesn’t have to be a what.
And that’s scary. But I’m here. I’m not leaving.

I come back to that.
Now I am.

—

The cadence makes me nervous.
The content makes me cringe.

(breathe…) Just be.

Face burns, stomach turns. I feel tingly.

I need to paint the sky.
About to pass out.

I feel scared of being.
No identity.
I feel scared of me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

I am from…

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7 minute writing from the prompt “I am from…”

3-21-12     2:52pm

I am from brown carpet and air, a place the sun sometimes shines.

I am from stripped cars and “don’t make any noise” and “get down.”

I am from “hide.”

I am from hospitals and nursing homes.
I am from watching the almost dead.

I am from the place in my soul that screams DANCE!

I am from me.

I am from the places I try not to remember – of pain and drugs and heartache.

Sometimes I forget where I’m from.
Sometimes I try not to remember.

I am from “do it perfect or I’ll leave you.”

I am from “you’re a horrible person.”

I am from the place that pushed me to move on, to run away, to save my life.

I am tired of being from. So now I just am.

I was from.

Now I am.

(thought continued in “Now I am…”)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

My bitter love isn’t

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3/20/12     10:25pm

Something magical between S- and M- tonight. I am left with a feeling of peace, calm. The most beautiful set – emotional, powerful, soft. He had a realization. He shared some music with her. I watched. I treasure the privilege. It was a moment, her listening, him watching intently. A love. A piece of magic.

I wish I had something like that. Not a romantic love, but a trust. A history. A hug.

I am so grateful to share in the energy, to talk with S-. To pretend. Maybe if I imagine it I can live it in my head. I’ll be loved and no one can get to me. Love will protect me. Bitter love.

– doesn’t know I like him. And he doesn’t like me back. And that’s okay. Bitter love. The silence doesn’t go away.

Dear God,

I watch the dots pass by me.
I am not in control.
You drive my car down many paths.
I am not in control.
The dots pass by. I fill with light.
I am fire. And then I am ash.
But I am not in control.

Be, they say, not do. But how?
Please, God. How?

The dots pass by.
I listen and breathe.

-M

My sadness fills rivers.
My heart, it shrivels.
My body is in pain.
I am alone.
I am alone.
–

Jesus, I can’t feel you. Are you there? I’m scared. I choose love but feel fear. I feel alone. Am I alone? Why can’t I feel love? Is it a brain thing? It just is. Everything just is. Could you make everything isn’t? I’d appreciate that.

My toes are cold. The tv is on. I’d like it if is were isn’t. Would life be better in isn’t? I don’t know. Please, bitter love, love me or go away. My bitter love isn’t.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

When I lost…

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4 minute writing exercise at a workshop

3-17-12     11:30am

When I lost my faith I stopped dancing. When I lost my dancing I lost me. Somewhere in a corner she is locked up, crying quietly. I lost me. I don’t understand. She understands less. When I lost my faith, I lost me.

I used to believe I could do anything, that somehow God had blessed me and I would do good. But now I do this. They say this is me. But in the mirror she’s not what I see. When I lost my faith, I lost me. I miss being me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

You’re Just You: Wisdom from the Voice in My Head

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1/22/12     12:25pm

What’s wrong with you? You’re just you. Nobody else could be you. And they wouldn’t want to if they knew what it meant. And you’re pretty damn good at it. So keep doin’ it. You’re the only one who knows how.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

I am not a teacher

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1/17/12     3:44pm

I was thinking about Mrs. Lindsay asking if I want to be a teacher. I would LOVE to be a teacher. But I think my adherence to rules is quite lacking. I do things my own way, follow my own rules. I couldn’t get through college. My options would be plenty if I had finished.

Teaching dance is something I love to do. In my own time and my own way. I get to use my quirks to help others understand. And to understand them on their way. This kid came up to me today and told me his aunt died. I don’t know why. People tell me things. They always have.

In my 6th grade yearbook we all had to answer where we thought we’d be in 10 years. I said I’d be on Broadway or teaching kindergarten. (sad) It’s almost 15 years later. (sad) I am successful in what I do. But it’s not Michelle. How do I find Michelle?

Kids think I’m a teacher. I buy school supplies, love glitter and often carry markers. I color-code, categorize and specialize in creating systems to increase efficiency. I own a billion dry erase boards and use them every day. Systems, colors. I use sticker charts to pay my bills. And I live at Staples. But I’m not a teacher. I’m just me.

I don’t know how I got here. It was so great to see everyone today. I wish I had something great to tell them. I am the kingpin of a local non-profit. I run my own empire. Pretty cool when worded that way. I want to want me.

I miss teaching SO much. But I am not a teacher.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

I am SO hungry

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1/6/12     11:28pm

I am so hungry. SO hungry. I can’t BEGIN to tell you how hungry I am. Even though I know I shouldn’t be.

I go through phases where I don’t eat much and am not hungry at all. Then there are times like now when I just can’t stop eating. I don’t have an eating disorder. I’m not on a new medication. I’m just HUNGRY. It’s so frustrating. I’m literally salivating, even after just eating Chinese food and drinking a bottle and a half of water.

I don’t know what to do about it. My hypothalamus hates me. There are so many random things going on with me. And last week’s mania. And my staying up super late now yet sleeping 12 hours a night when I was going to bed earlier and sleeping about 8 hours. And my inability to control my body temperature. And getting fever blisters on my lips again. And feeling SO cold. And now HUNGRY. And more horny than usual. What the fuck is going on with me???

I can’t keep eating and get fat again. I can’t tolerate being fat. But I can’t tolerate feeling hungry either. I Googled around for appetite suppressants and all I found were diet pills. I don’t want to lose weight (although it wouldn’t bug me). I just don’t want to gain it by eating when I couldn’t possibly be hungry but feel starved. This is a problem for me.

If I don’t eat, I continue to feel hungry. If I don’t eat for long enough, I get sick. But not knowing when I’m actually hungry interferes with my knowing if I’m going to get sick. If I do eat because I feel hungry, I don’t feel full. I feel even MORE hungry. Which is worse. But I have to eat something. And if I don’t eat, and eat and eat, it’s like I’m going to explode. What is the solution? Is there one? Or do I just have to wait until my body swings back the other way to eating almost nothing? A few months ago I couldn’t eat more than half of a kids meal at Panda Express. Today I finished off a two entree plate, with the chow mein, 4 spring rolls and 3 sodas. And, while the physical fullness was painful, I still felt hungry. As I do now. I don’t know what to do.

(sigh) I’m hungry.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

Is there such a thing?

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1/4/12     12:20am

Oh, good God. The race has begun. They interruped my tv show to talk about the Iowa election today. It’s all over FB. Really?

I used to somewhat like politics. I thought voting was exciting. I thought I could make a difference in the world. But it’s not true. I have zero faith in the system. I don’t understand why Iowa and Florida are so important. And I know that no matter who wins they will cut social services and healthcare and try to kill me. And that my entire year will be spent trying to avoid radio, print and tv ads by the people vying for the position of person who can kill me and all the people fighting each other about various propositions.

Was it always this way? This sleazy and annoying? What would FDR think? Would Benjamin Franklin embrace this insanity or climb back into his grave? I can’t imagine him loving our “progress.”

It would be nice if I could just sequester myself until after the election, or at least close to it. Where is the hope? I need some political hope. Is there such a thing?

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

Moments of Happy

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1/1/12     5:26pm

I don’t know where to find it but there is a piece of research about smiling that I’m using as a coping skill tonight. It says that smiling works both ways. We smile because we’re happy, but smiling also makes us happy. Even when we’re not.

At first I thought it was bullshit but then I remembered doing it in theater and tried it again. Smiling (happy or not) sends a rush of chemicals through the brain. I can feel it. So I’m doing it tonight. Smiling largely while unhappy. It actually works for a few moments. You should try it.

Moments of happy. Free and immediate. No prescription necessary. So what if I look funny? I have moments of happy.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

Take me to the pirates

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1/1/12     4:30pm

I woke up today hearing myself say, “I have no reason to be happy.” It was strange. Right out of a dream, literally.

There is a light hope in the air. It’s 2012 and new things will be happening. I got a request to be an AVID tutor today. Instead of feeling excited I feel terrified. I already committed to volunteering for 6 weeks to teach dance, which I am thoroughly enthralled by, but it also scares me. I’m not good at balance. I need stuff to do but overwhelm easily and my body just freaks out. I’m scared to live. I didn’t use to be.

I remember when my life was a whirlwind of activity. No one could keep up with me, except my mom. I taught dance and went to school and tutored and wrote and did projects and theater and choir. I had jobs. I had a few friends. I don’t really know what happened. Somehow I lost me.

Now I’m afraid to leave my house some days, terrified not to. I see doctors, go to groups, don’t dance. I write when I can and I live in the fantasy. I live in the fantasy. I want to have a full and productive life. I’d rather be healthy.

I’m frustrated because 2 days ago I was freakin’ out. The pirates were coming and I was happy. Everything was fascinating. I was floating and the world was on edge. But the pirates are gone now. They left me. Why would they leave me? Doesn’t anyone love me? Don’t they understand that I want to go home? My brain feels frozen and hurts. I feel so sad.

(Breathe… Breathe.)

Pervasive sadness has no words. Take me to the pirates.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

The State of Affairs in Michelleville

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1/1/12     6:55am

(sigh…) I feel sad.

The last of my guests left an hour ago and I just finished posting pics online. I’m sitting in my chair watching the sunrise out the window. Zoe is playing. Mom’s asleep and Margaret’s online.

I feel sad. Tonight I had a party. Another in a long string of annual ones. Sober game nights with specific friends. I got dressed up. I felt really pretty. We had food and played games and laughed. And of course banged on pots and pans. I shouldn’t feel sad but I do.

There was a little girl here tonight. She was no less than disturbed. She was telling us all about her 5th grade life – specifically the people she hates and their drama. I’ve never felt so old. I had nothing relevant to tell her and was honestly bored. As the night went on we all grew more concerned and disturbed. That child is fucked up, possibly dangerous. I’ve heard a lot of things but I’ve never heard a 10 year old talk so vividly about her need to kill specific people in planned out ways. The kid is evil. And she was freakin’ out. I needed her to leave. I still feel her energy.

(deep breathing…)

I do not look in the pictures how I feel. In fact, I look like a fat hooker. Take back the sands of time.

I think what was most upsetting is that nobody texted me at midnight. No Happy New Years, no FB posts. I didn’t send any midnight texts because Mags was here and my friends were gigging. My best friend disowned me this year and my other friend’s in Ohio. I know it’s annoying to get bombarded with holiday texts from random people, but not even one? The State of Affairs in Michelleville.

I am tired, and I feel sad, and I think my contacts are stuck to my eyes. The pirates came and left without me and I feel sad. Quiet. Sad.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

2011 Blog Report :)

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12/31/11     6:55pm

My favorite part of the blog year is the annual report. I think I did great this year. My readership has grown. Last year I had 204 posts and 4,600 hits. This year only 44 posts but 2,400 views. That’s great. All of my posts come from my journal and there was a lot of stuff I just couldn’t post this year.

I’m really proud of myself for keeping my blog going even when I thought it was doomed. It’s scary to go back to posting after long dry spells. If you’ve ever considered starting a blog I say GO FOR IT! Maybe a ton of people read it. Maybe nobody reads it. But you get to have a voice and share it with the world. I took a chance. I feel proud and accomplished.

Check out the report from the WordPress helper monkeys (click here.)

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,400 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 40 trips to carry that many people.


© Michelle Routhieaux 2011, image from WordPress annual report

On Writing

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12/31/11     2:56 pm

I got the most amazing compliment today:

“I just wanted to say that I love your writing. I admire the imagery and honesty in what you write and it is something that I aspire to do in my own writing. I just find it comforting that I can read such an honest take on a day to day life and still feel like I am reading a novel or fictional narrative. Thank you for making me think about my own life when I read about yours. Never ever stop writing, else I shall have one less comforting element to appreciate.”

I haven’t written much or shared my writing in a LONG time and this week it just started pouring out. It’s like pressured speech only in thoughts and they don’t come out my mouth.

People tell me I write like a story. It’s just what I hear. And what I hear corrects itself if it doesn’t sound right. Different moods have a separate cadence and on days like today they just flow. It’s like a rainstorm from a clear sky. As I get more out there everything rhymes and be comes poetry. And then it just stops. Close the book and wait.

I used to write letters. Everything has a story. I listen. Just listen. You might hear writing too.

—

8:03pm

When I write, it’s like having someone to talk to. Someone who doesn’t talk back or argue, who doesn’t judge, who just listens and nods. I have a therapist and a few friends to talk to now but I didn’t used to, and I would write. And write and write and write. Letters to people who never wrote back. And as painful as it was that they never wrote back, it allowed me to just be free. I still write as if I’m talking to them. As if someone kind is intently listening. When I am angry they are angry too and when I am sad they comfort me. All in my head, and on the page.

For a long time I couldn’t really communicate in spoken word. Not that I couldn’t talk. I was just terrified to share my feelings and to speak honestly. And for good cause. I couldn’t even read my writing to the people I wrote to. I was too ashamed. Thankfully, Cog cured me of that. It’s still hard to read my writing to people or to just come out and say what I’m thinking. But I’m getting pretty good at it. I listen to my thoughts and I hear my writing. The rest is what you see. Thanks for reading.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Dec 31st

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12/31/11     2:30pm

I just sent out the end-of-year giving email for my organization. I couldn’t do it before now. And honestly, what’s the rush?

I get all these letters and emails about how it’s SO important that I give money before Dec 31st. They’re filled with guilt-inducing stories and desperate pleas. I feel obligated to give and angry. Giving shouldn’t make me feel angry. I should want to give.

Dec 31st is not a magic day. There is nothing particularly special about it. Except that it’s the end of the tax year. But come on, if you need a tax deduction that bad you should’ve started giving months ago. But, since someone somewhere decided this day should be special, I am riddled with guilt. Even if I don’t read the solicitations, I feel guilty for deleting them. (sigh)

I am proud to say this year we’re not hurting for money. We’re not broke. We dealt our cards right and we’ve been blessed. We’re doing well. If someone wants to give us money, great. But not ‘cuz it’s Dec 31st. This day was made to party.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Tacos in Space

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12/30/11     11pm

J- was really high tonight. I noticed immediately. It was annoying. It seems hypocritical of me to judge him for being stupid. But everyone knows I hate stupid people.

I got the best compliment from Barbara, whom I met for the first time tonight. I heard someone shout my name (her) then, “I want to be you!” Lol. THAT is awesome.

I’m really hungry. Got the jazz munchies. Need tacos. It’s always tacos. Mmmm. Tacos.

I’m on the trolley. I feel like I’m floating. I’d write on the lines but it’s hard to write at all. My hand wants to dance. Or float. It wants to float. I keep it grounded with the pen. Hmm. I need tacos. (3) I like tacos. :)

I hear strange piano music as I ride through the mist. They should sell this as “an experience.” That it is. Tacos in space. Tacos in space, man. Tacos in space.

You know, when I take my pearls off and ride the trolley with a bag of recyclables, people think I’m a hooker.

The music won’t stop in my head. It just keeps playing, faster and faster. It’s tiring me. Please. I just need tacos. I don’t want to interfere with the tune passing through me. But I’m dizzy and so cold and it’s hard to breathe. Music passing through me.

G, the strange experiences happen a lot around you, when you play. Why? What is it you’re not telling me? You are a portal. I am a seed.

(switch to “I Hope I Get It” from A Chorusline)

—

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011