Pondering imaginary dragons…

9-6-12     12:14am

I find myself pondering imaginary dragons tonight and sending long poetic FB messages to people I barely know. About imaginary dragons. “Leverage” is on the tv and my cat’s in the window behind me. So much is going on.

I haven’t been writing because I haven’t been writing. Nothing seems to make sense. Not all of which is a bad thing. But most of which is rather trite. Or is that trifling? I’m not sure.

My mom’s boyfriend is staying with us. A love story for sure, except the part where I live with it. Everything is changing. I gave Zoe a tampon (in the wrapper) tonight to play with. She’s having a ball.

I want to write witty or poignant pieces to share with the world. Most days recently I’m working on just thinking. The blog crosses my mind without substance and I let it go. But writing about dragons tonight was, for a moment, in the right voice. And then it passed. Wisdom and truth from the voice in my head. This is what she says:

“About imaginary dragons… Sometimes what we train for is not what we’re meant to do. And the skills we learn are not for the purpose that we learned them. And sometimes windmills are shapeshifting dragons. And sometimes dragons aren’t dragons at all. But your dragon’s existence doesn’t hinge on your belief in it…”

She is smart. I miss her.

I really enjoyed choir tonight. Singing with my choir and my people are healing. So was the carne asada burrito.

I ramble a lot lately. I don’t make much sense. I can’t remember things and I can’t concentrate and I don’t really care. I go back and forth between uber confused and really agitated. Mood’s good when I’m confused most of the time. I type well with my eyes shut but not with them open. When I can’t stop staring at the ceiling I’m extra confused. I sing and talk to myself and rock. I am functionally impaired. The writing doesn’t come.

My old doctor was nice to me today, congratulated me on my success with my group. Then he backed me into a corner. I didn’t show my anger, just my confusion. I bypassed his request/rule and left. But all the memories came flooding back. This man who didn’t help me, who made me SO angry, whom I couldn’t leave for 5 years thanks to his prescribing, was nice to me. I had to leave. I walked around the parking lot talking to myself for awhile. Unresolved past now in the present. Imaginary dragons. Isn’t everything imaginary?

Do you ever just stare at things and utter seemingly meaningless sentences to hummingbirds or air? I can count backwards from 100 by 3 or 7 just fine. It’s counting back by 1 that gets tricky. Do you have change for a ten? I can’t find it. People just don’t get why I can’t handle change. IT’S NOT SAFE. I have enough trouble navigating the world with a constant set of rules. Quit fucking around. I’ve got mail to open.

My sequin shirt doesn’t fit now. What a shame. I like bacon. Do you like unicorns? I need to dye one purple. There’s a guy I like. I think he likes me too. So I ponder imaginary unicorns. Or was it dragons? I’m not sure. Maybe one day soon I’ll be writing with substance again. Until then, yogurt for all.

From the unicorn base,

PS – If I haven’t told you already, Icees from Target are quite helpful when I’m very upset. So is wandering. I wander a lot. ;)

PPS – (stare and listen…)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2012

On Writing

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.


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

They don’t own me

9-15-11     2:34am

I am so angry right now. I can’t even express to you how angry I am.

I just wrote a blog post. Personal feelings I would like to post on my personal blog. I believe I have the right to have feelings and to be angry and to write about those feelings. But the issue I wrote about is not a new one, just the beginning of a majorly huge issue for me that has caused many problems. And I’m so angry tonight because I’m sitting here debating over whether or not to post the damn thing because I don’t want repercussions from the entity it talks about.

I shouldn’t have to censor myself on my own turf to avoid offending someone or ones. Yet I feel like I have to. WHY? Why does it matter who my opinions offend? Part of me is worried my venting will have an effect on interorganizational drama, but there is already interorganizational drama. (Or is that intra? I never know. Between the two.) It’s no secret. I don’t understand why I feel like the bad guy here.

Several months ago I sent an email to a friend regarding some of these issues. She asked me, as a friend, my opinion and I gave it to her straight up. She sent said opinion to the person it was about and said person reamed me for it. When did things change to a world where I have to like everyone? To agree with what people do? To pretend things are ok? They’re not. They weren’t. And they probably won’t be. But I still feel guilty. And for that I feel angry.

I don’t care who’s offended by my writing. I just wish people would take it for what it is.

Oppression through self-imposed pre-posting guilt and consequent deep deep anger. Wow. It’s like writer’s Hell. I’m posting it anyway. Whatever comes of it comes of it. They don’t own me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

When I Write

7-5-10                  4am-ish

I write when my head won’t stop spinning. I write when I’m upset, when there’s something I can’t get off my mind, when my pen just can’t move fast enough.

Tonight the music races in my mind. I am exhausted but I’m in a frenzy. The Good Morning ringtone plays over and over. My eyes are tense but my body is tired. The flashlight is too bright but I don’t want to sleep.

I feel sad and nervous with spikes of happy. Very nervous.  I don’t get people who write when they’re stable. I know this blog is called Writing Towards Happy but you’ll notice I don’t write much when I’m happy. When I’m doing well, my nose is not buried in a journal. I’m out experiencing life, feeling calm. Like the past week or so. I don’t not experience happiness. It just doesn’t give me words.

It is the passion of discontent, of pain, that fuels me and that I love and hate so much. Words are powerful. Words are tools. Words let me speak to the unknown and to myself. To not forget. And to say what I can’t.

I’m writing towards happy, jumping in puddles along the way.


7-6-10                  3:12am

I write the things I can’t say, and the things I have no one to say to.

I don’t sit down to write an assigned subject. I write what’s on my mind. The stuff that won’t stop running through my head. Some of it’s funny. Some of it’s passionate. Some of it doesn’t make sense to anyone but me. But that’s okay because it’s my head.

When I talk in my head, people listen to me. They may be imaginary but they’re listening. And they’re always there. This is the reason I can have an entire IM conversation with someone who’s not online. It’s SOP in my head. (standard operating procedure)

I sat at the fair tonight and wrote in my head to a friend about all the memories I have with him over the years. It never saw the page but it’s what will when I write.

I’ve found that putting things in writing can be so much more powerful than a comment. And the words aren’t swept up in the emotion of the moment. I’m not screaming at your face. I’m sending you a calculated response, hopefully when the emotion has died down. Or I’m reading you my calculated response. Even better. My ability to convey and persuade and get a point across effectively is one of my most prized. I make change with words. How cool is that?

And there are times that I don’t write. When the emotion is too high. When there’s nothing to say. Or when I can’t handle what it is I have to say. Or when I simply don’t have the energy. So much is lost between the thought and the page. Sometimes I wish I had streaming text of my thoughts to my journal.

When do you write? And why? How do you make change?


© Michelle Routhieaux 2010