Tag Archives: phoenix rising yoga therapy

Awake

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7-25-14     1:23pm

Awake 7-24-14

I am awake.
I am alive.
Nothing bad happened.

We talked about radical acceptance. “I don’t like it. I don’t want it. AND I can tolerate it.”
I added, “AND I can love it.” I am awake.

I told her I want to wake up. I shared some past. I curled up tight in a ball. I talked about fear and confusion. She allowed me to feel what it’s like to be scared and confused, to stay with it. For me that’s new.

I notice I’m having trouble remembering. I was skipping around the numbers.

From the ball I took a chance and uncurled. I laid on the floor, moving my fingers and toes. Then I went upside down – plowish pose. Things were instantly better. I’m calmer upside down. I struggled in my head to find the courage to ask to do a back bend. When I did I shared the arguing in my head.

Soleil put her feet on my back and supported me as I peeled off the well. I opened my eyes to look at her briefly. I felt sheer freedom, relief. Then an overwhelming wave of nausea. I’ll call it emotion. I stayed with it for as long as I could then came down and put my hands and forehead on the wall. I breathed heavily. I was awake.

I learned the emotion is much stronger and closer than I thought and that I can access it when I want. I can be awake and have nothing bad happen. I can sit with and love my scary thoughts and the parts of me thinking them. I also noticed how real and very close my past is. I don’t want to run anymore. I am weak, and that’s okay. I want to integrate. I think I’m ready. We work together.

Lately I hear music almost constantly. The numbers in my head fight and change course. I feel pressed. I must always be working. I don’t want to wake up one day when I’m 50. I want to live life now. And take a nap. Soul-searching is exhausting.

I am awake.
I am alive.

(continued 7-26-14)

I felt.
Identified a want/need.
Allowed myself to want.
Let my self ask.
Used courage.
Took a chance/risk.
Asked for what I wanted.
Was honest about feeling scared.
Asked for help.
Trusted that she wouldn’t hurt me for asking.

Trusted her.
Experienced the uncertainty.
Stayed with it.
Participated.
Let go into the pose.
Embraced the feeling of freedom.
Let myself feel it.
Acknowledged pain when it came but didn’t stop even though I felt scared.

Watched the sensations grow
– pins & needles & burning in my left hand and arm
– extreme nausea
Chose to move up and sit back even though I was scared to get in trouble
– rested my hands and forehead on the wall
Watched myself breathe deeply, heavily.
Did not judge the moment.

What did I practice?

  • Patience for me
  • Trust
    trusting me
    trusting she wouldn’t hurt me
    trusting her words
    trusting her to support me
    trusting my own judgement
    trusting what my body tells me to do or not to
    trusting my instinct
    trusting God
  • Staying in the moment – present/awake
  • Staying with a feeling
  • Feeling
  • Telling the truth
  • Being Real
  • Being Michelle
  • Just being
  • Allowing myself to be happy, playful, and do basketball court angels

When I was scared I curled up so tight in a ball. I didn’t know I could get so small. I took a chance when prompted to uncurl. The dance is stuck in me. I must get it, let it out. I must set me free.

(listened to RadioLab)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2014

Still Worth Saving

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7/14/14     2:05pm

pink button 7-14-14Still.

(several sighs)

I feel my throat burn and face and hands tingle. The chaos floods back in quickly. I drew my picture. Then I colored out the anxiety.

Today I let go.
I am worth saving.
I am still worth saving.

Still. That implies that I was before.
I’m also still okay.

I feel nauseous and scared.

(go outside)

(stretch, toes in grass, look at sun & upside down trees)

I am okay.
I’m afraid of the pain.
I’m afraid of the pain being real.
It’s everything I want.
If I go through it, will it subside?
If I come to life, will I want to be in it?
Will I be able to get back out?

I am okay.
I’m still okay.
I don’t know what that means.

I’m accessing. I’m getting closer to her. I’m letting her take over me.

I feel frustrated because today it’s different. I went from chaos at an 8 to a 0 with Soleil. I practiced trust and truth, hanging on and letting go, listening. (wave of sadness). Then chaos clamped down like a dungeon door trapping me in when I left.

(image in my mind of me begging at the door when the back of my cell had no wall)
Just turn around.
You’re still okay.
It’s okay to save you.

Remember today, resist self-sacrifice.
Eat. Move your body. Believe.

That’s all ’til next time.
Over and out. –

© Michelle Routhieaux 2014

I am not broken

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I am not broken crop 7-8-147/8/14     11:55 am

Hear music:

It’s not over.
It’s not finished.
It’s not ending.
It’s only the beginning.
When God is in it, all things made new.

It played in my head before and resumed again.

I visited the dungeon. I sat with 15. She gave me a button. I’m not broken. And I’m not sure I believe it.

I’m not broken.
The button is real.
The sickness is real, but I am real too.

I talked about my kidneys and Ashley. My body held all of my sins and strife in a hollow ringing dark blue ball in my back. My body said to let go. Let go. I can’t follow the pattern of movement and change. Hands, feet, rocking, stretching. A whirl in my head like a blender. Then we were there. I went to the dungeon. I went to see 15.

Mom says not to go down there, that she’s bad and deserves to be punished and alone, a disgrace to the family. She eats spaghetti. But she’s not. She’s just a little girl looking to be loved. She’s not broken. I’m not broken. It was cold there. She sat on the floor instead of the bench. The door was open. I sat next to her. I didn’t say a word.

Her hair was stringy, eyes big. She was younger than me, scared but she didn’t run away. She just watched me. I wasn’t scared of being caught like before. I didn’t try to change or convince her. She’s not broken. I’m not broken. This isn’t our fault.

I feel nervous as I write this, like someone is watching and will find out and get me.

(someone screams in real life – look up)

She gave me a trinket, a small button with an anchor on it. It was dark blue and textured. She is the anchor and she is not broken. She is REAL and I have to save her. Or do I? Maybe I could just be her friend, hold her hand. Maybe she can teach me.

I decided that maybe I could take her a picnic. She had a very important message for me – “You have to dance.” The phrase comes to mind, “Don’t let me die in vain.” Is she really dying? I want the time to love her. She’s not broken. I’m not broken.

I set a goal to dance with some videos this week and to re-query Trisha about space. In order to be successful in teaching while sick, I need to drop my pride and be open. That is hardest for me. It’s why 15 is in the dungeon and why I don’t teach kids. I’m terrified.

It’s a made up fear.

No it’s not.

Kind of.

Okay, a little. But SOME of it is real.

Yes.

Plan for the ending.
Then LIVE.

Touche. Live.

Almost everything scares me. I stuff the fear inside the blue ball. Shame is placed in the dungeon. Sadness lives in my core. Anger stays in my head. Before the ball, fear burrows everywhere wreaking havoc on all of my cells. Uncertainty or loss take my breath. Overwhelm lives in my throat. I hold tight to the spiky pain. It makes me dizzy and confused. And exhausted.

I’m not broken. (deep breath)

I need to visit and learn from her. She survived. She’s real. The button is real.

All of the worries and fears of a few hours ago are gone. God gave me Soleil and 15. I prayed on a dandelion that God would set me free. I pondered the insight of a eucalyptus before it sheds. (My foot tingles) I remembered I grew like a tree last year and the tree on my wall to symbolize that.

I’m growing.
I’m real.
I’m not broken.
And I’m hungry.

It doesn’t matter what I lose.
God is holding me.
He has always provided, always will.
It’s not my plan.
It IS my life.

I’m not broken.
I’m real.
I have to dance.

I feel dizzy.

—

I just looked down at my anchor button and realized it’s a J for Jesus. (smile) Praise God. Yes, He is my anchor.

I am not broken

© Michelle Routhieaux 2014

Pain is a hat

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6-30-14     2:07pm

Pain is a hat 6-30-14

Pain is a hat.

Pain is more of a hat than a liver. It can’t hurt me. It’s not part of me. Letting go isn’t loss. Hanging on isn’t gain. Pain is a hat.

I just finished with Soleil. Amazing session. I started out very agitated, scared. I talked about being scared Dr. Nicolas will be mad and afraid to go back to being sick.  A small dot in my stomach was me.

I laid on my back and she put her hand on the dot. We talked. I couldn’t trust, was still scared, so she held my hand. It was grounding. She was real. My hand felt real. She touched my forearm (real), my upper arm (real). She stretched out my arm, pulled. It was the reach of a line, a dance stretch. It opened up the inside of my upper arm, like when I twirl. I joined my other arm. I was calm. So calm. I felt pleasant joy. No anxiety. I listened to the tick of the clock, felt my heartbeat in my stomach. And I remembered what I told Ana – that maybe the pain/feeling doesn’t want to be there either. Am I fighting a friend, an ally?

Pain is just a hat. I can take it off and still be me. It and emotion and life are experiences. I choose pink glitter. I can change hats every day. Or leave one on for years. Or wear more than one at a time. Or I can wear no hat at all.

Some hats have magical powers. When I wear them I transform or change, but they don’t affect the real me, the foundation. Except the ones that are tattooed on, but those are more like skidmarks, scars, memories.

Pain is a hat.

(pause)

So, I guess it doesn’t matter what I go through, whether I’m sick or treated or not. Telling Dr. N doesn’t make the hat more real. Taking medication to remove it doesn’t remove me. Pain can’t hurt me. It’s a hat. Pain is a hat.

Thank you, God. Thank you.
For Soleil, and for hats.

—

Remember realizing Dr. N isn’t mad at me. I’m mad at me for not getting better. I want this fucking done. Get in the game, bitch. He just wants me okay.

My head hurts.

Getting better or healing and the process are no less painful, but I’m no longer afraid to do it. Me minus illness still equals me. I may be ragged but I’m still here, fighting, waiting for you.

I want a gluten-free brownie.

Me too.

—

I’m hungry but I don’t want to move or leave. I’m sitting in the sun in the parking lot. I hear the cars. They seem real. (run my hands over all of me) When I touch me I seem real. Then it fades quickly away.

A baby fell on its head in my car.

No it didn’t.

(sit under the trees)
(notice the breeze)

Train!

I don’t feel safe to drive.

(clasp my hands together)

I’m real.

Choose to hold on to the happy. Why not?

(13) I have to tell Dr. N.

It’s okay to be scared.

I agreed to tell Ashley when I need to use a skill to drive. I don’t want to . Where am I going? WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING ME?! 

TICKLE FIGHT! :)

—

Dr. N called me back. I told him I’m okay. I was at the moment. But I’m not.

I remember with Soleil God was a big fuzzy purple shoe bag that scooped me up. It was dark inside and I was trapped, so scared. I couldn’t see. He pulled the drawstring tightly closed when life was dangerous and let me look out the top when it was safe. Life was land.

Sometimes there are reasons we cannot see.

(13) I don’t want to wait here. This is stupid.

Is my life a sheltered workshop?

© Michelle Routhieaux 2014