First Things First (Blog #307)

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Last night I stayed up til four in the morning in hopes of caching the super moon, blue moon, full moon eclipse, but my body said no. Still, I set my alarm for six this morning, and when I dragged myself out of bed and looked out my window, there was the moon–mid-eclipse. Two hours before my intention was to put on some clothes, go outside, and watch this spectacular event in the freezing cold for an entire hour. But standing in my underwear in my warm bedroom, I thought, Screw that, and went back to bed. I woke up two more times in the next thirty minutes to look out my window. The last time, I couldn’t see the moon–at all. Later, when I crawled out of bed just before noon, I thought, Maybe in another four hundred years.

Yesterday I checked out four books from the library. Well, five, but four of them were about marketing. (The other one was about quantum physics and the nature of reality.) Anyway, I’ve been working with this swing dance event as their marketing director and have had my eye on one of the books for the last couple weeks. But then I started looking through the marketing section thinking, THAT looks interesting and THAT looks interesting, so now I have so many books on my nightstand that I look like a college student.

Next thing you know, I’ll have to buy a backpack.

Information comes to you when it comes to you.

I read one of the marketing books last night. Today I made my way through half of one of the others. (I love learning.) Now my mind is flooded with ideas. Why I never thought to focus my attention in this way when I owned my own business, I don’t know. Maybe I was just too close to it, too overwhelmed by being an owner/operator/instructor/janitor. Maybe the material makes sense now BECAUSE of my past successes and failures. Regardless, information comes to you when it comes to you. And no matter what I’m getting out of this project officially, I really am having fun, and I’m learning things that I can only assume will serve me–and hopefully others–for the rest of my life.

Now it’s four in the afternoon. In four short hours, I’ll be performing with my improv comedy group, The Razorlaughs, at local restaurant. We’re being “given a shot” on one of their slow nights–a trial run of sorts. If tonight goes well–if people show up, buy food, take advantage of their drink specials, and (oh yeah) have a good time–it could become a regular thing. I’m only slightly nervous, by which I mean I feel like throwing up and going to the bathroom all over myself. My mom asked me if I was ready, and I said, “Well, it’s improv, which by definition means I can’t be.” That being said, our group does have a plan. We know which “games” we are going to play, who will participate in each scene, and–most importantly–what we are wearing. I feel fortunate to be working with an extremely talented group, so things should go well.

I can let you know how it turns out, or–better yet–come join us.

Earlier I had a choice to spend the afternoon working on the swing dance event or spend it journaling, meditating, and working on the blog. I chose to do the latter, reminding myself that these are the MOST important things I currently do. They matter more than ANYTHING else. I thought, Take care of yourself first, Marcus. You’ll have time for the rest later. This “first things first” idea has been on my mind lately. Yesterday I blogged earlier than normal so I could watch a movie with a friend. We ended up visiting until midnight, and I was better able to enjoy myself because I wasn’t thinking, I really need to get home and talk to myself on the internet. Likewise, I’m imaging the improv show will go better tonight because I will be able give it more of my attention.

People say you can’t pour someone else a drink from an empty picture and that you should put your own oxygen mask on first. I’ve always thought this sounded nice, but I’m coming to really believe it, and it’s part of the reason I think the swing dancing event can wait a day or two. It’s the reason I put so much time and attention into therapy and this blog. I really want to get my shit sorted out. Not so I can say, “Look at me and all my neatly-sorted shit.” But because sorting your shit out clears the way for a better future, not only for you, but also for everyone else you come in contact with. It puts the past where it belongs–the past–and leaves you present, right here, right now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We're allowed to relabel and remake ourselves.

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Finding the Middle Path (Blog #306)

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Last night, despite trying, I couldn’t fall asleep until six in the morning. About four I realized it was a 98-percent-full moon, so I’m blaming that. This sort of thing has happened before. I’m guess I’m “sensitive.” That’s fine. But if I have to be up in the middle of the night, exhausted, at least I could turn into a werewolf or something cool, like Michael Jackson in Thriller. No such luck. No dancing with the dead for me. Nope–I only got four hours of sleep–and have absolutely nothing to show for it.

Let’s talk about my outfit.

Today I’m wearing a hat I got from my ninety-five-year-old friend Marina. She says she found it in a bar in Hawaii several years ago–on the head of a Greek sailor. (Swoon.) She apparently asked this guy for it, and he actually gave it to her! You’d just have to know Marina. Anyway, she passed it on to me last year. I’m not sure what the official style of the hat is, but it’s made my Cavanagh, originally cost eighteen dollars (according to the tag inside the brim), and fits my head perfectly. I saw my therapist today, and she said I looked like Elvis–“before he got fat and started singing in Las Vegas.” Talk about a compliment. “That was worth getting out bed for,” I said. “What do I owe you?”

Today we talked about the book I’m reading on Reichian Therapy. My therapist had heard of it, or at least its creator, but didn’t know much about it, so I explained the basic premise and what my experience with it has been thus far. This is something I appreciate about my therapist–like, she never acts territorial or suggests that her way is the only way. She almost never “directs” my therapy. Rather, she encourages me to explore different methods and find what’s right for me.

I told her the book I’m reading says over and over again to go slow. Again, she encouraged me to trust myself. She said, “Remember that those books are always written as if the reader knows absolutely nothing. They’re written for people who are just starting school. You’re at graduate level, so you can pace yourself how you think best. And if you ever get in over your head–just call me and make an appointment.”

Now that I’m processing it, this conversation went along with another one we’ve been having off and on lately, about trusting others and being able to ask them for help. Admittedly, I’m extremely self-sufficient. I hate asking for help. This, my therapist and I agree, is the result of being “let down” by the world on a number of occasions in my childhood. I’ll spare you the details, but I basically grew up thinking, Fuck all y’all. I’ll take care of this myself. (I don’t recommend this attitude, but if you got it, you got it.) My therapist said, “It’s okay to be able to take care of everything from A to Z, but–again–it’s about striking a balance and finding the middle path. You don’t have to do EVERYTHING all the time.”

I realized on the drive to therapy that I’m pretty overloaded lately. I’m working my ass off in therapy and on this blog, I’m reading all the time, and I’ve recently taken on this project for the swing dancing event. I told my therapist today that I’ve been listening to people solid for the last week and sharing their stories online, sometimes to critical reception. I said, “I don’t know how you do this every day and don’t drink yourself to sleep at night.” She said, “It’s hard.” So we discussed boundaries I can set with the projects, as well as other ways I can take care of myself. With this is mind, after therapy I went out for beer and pizza. Granted, this wasn’t one of my therapist’s specific suggestions, but I decided to improvise.

And it worked. I’ve had a delightful afternoon filled with carbs, self-nurturing, and more carbs.

Now it’s seven in the evening, and I’m at the library. I’m meeting a friend soon to see a movie, so I need to wrap this up. Like quick. I see both these acts–the movie and the shorter blog–as acts of further self-care and finding the middle path. No more work for the day, Marcus. It will be there tomorrow. Just enjoy your life. Just enjoy your damn life. So no more go-go-go. At least for now, it’s stop-stop-stop.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing physical was ever meant to stay the same.

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These Things Happen to Humans (Blog #305)

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Whoops. I just realized my camera is still set on “beautiful skin” mode from last night, so tonight’s picture is once again highly airbrushed, and that’s why I look like a cartoon. Oh well, there are worse things in life. Currently I’m propped up in bed, where I’ve spent most the day, either working or reading. Since it’s a heated waterbed, it’s the warmest seat in the house, and I’ll probably just stay here until springtime. Of course, I’ll get out of bed to eat meals and use the bathroom.

I’m not a complete animal.

I recently started working with a large swing-dancing event, and in an effort to enhance the event’s “sense of community,” I’ve started a series of social media posts in which we profile individual dancers, competitors, instructors, and organizers associated with the event. (Not profile like something a police detective would do, but profile like tell their stories and let people get to know them.) So far I’ve interviewed about a dozen people and written about three of them. I can’t tell you how rewarding this has been. Having attended this event, which often boasts over five hundred dancers, I’ve often felt–um–disconnected–because it’s easy to get lost in the crowd. Sure, maybe you spend the whole night dancing, but you can still walk away feeling like you don’t really know anyone and no one really knows you.

I’m hoping this project will, in some way, change all that. I know it’s changing it for me, since I’ve already fallen in love with twelve people I wasn’t in love with before. Maybe “fallen in love” isn’t the right phrase to use. What I mean is that with each person I interview, I begin to care about them. The more I learn about who they are, where they came from, and what’s important to them, the more compassion I have for where they soar and where they stumble. Earlier today someone whom I have always seen as completely confident and a total badass told me they spent most their developmental years feeling inadequate, that they “wanted desperately to be cool.” This evening another badass dancer told me they started dancing as a way to cope with their parents’ divorce. They said they grew up in a conservative home, and three-minute dances were a way to practice small talk, something they didn’t learn as a homeschooler.

There isn’t a one of us who isn’t human.

What I’m taking away from all this is the simple reminder that everyone has a story, and every story matters, at the very least to the person who tells it. I know that often when I’m in large crowds, I start comparing myself. It’s easy to do at dance weekends. You look around and find one reason or another to feel more than or less than. But story by story, person by person, I’m learning that we really are all equal. People are just people. Just because you can dance like a motherfucker doesn’t mean you’re not struggling at home. Just because your face is nice to look at doesn’t mean you don’t have a heart that’s capable of being broken. These things happen to humans, and there isn’t a one of us who isn’t human.

As much as I’m enjoying this project, it’s also taking a lot of my energy. It’s not easy to truly listen to another person, to intentionally pry into their lives then try to be okay with whatever you find there. Someone told me they had three people in one hour walk away from them because they weren’t wearing a certain-color wristband and, therefore, weren’t “good enough.” This happened several years ago, but they haven’t forgotten it. When I asked someone else what dance did for them, they started crying. They said, “I’m an introvert. Words are hard for me. Dancing lets me express myself in a way that I simply can’t verbally.”

This is an emotional roller coaster to go on, really getting to know people and asking them to unload on you. And, honestly, it’s a strange thing to do. I get on the phone with total strangers and start asking about their childhoods. Usually I say, “My name is Marcus, and here’s what I’m doing. Okay, let’s dive right in.” The average conversation lasts anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour, and before it’s over, in most cases, I’m asking questions I’ve never asked most my friends. All of a sudden I’m elbow-deep in someone’s else’s life. Earlier tonight I sent an email to someone I’ve only met a few times and asked, “What do you worry about at night?” and “Has dance saved you from anything, and–if so–from what?”

It’s a lot to keep your heart open for another person.

I’m finding that I have to pace myself through conversations like these. My original (and overly ambitious) intent was to write a story a day from now until the event, which would be about fifty stories. Now I’m thinking maybe five a week will suffice. As much as I enjoy getting to know everyone, it’s a lot. It’s a lot to keep your heart open for another person. Plus, most the conversations, by design, are one-sided. That’s okay, but the pacing part means that I need to take time for me–read a book or watch a movie, find somebody who’s willing to listen to my story as much as I’m willing to listen to someone else’s. I mean, I do have a good therapist and intend to use her. This, I think, is simply about balance, about recognizing my strengths alongside my limitations, about realizing that I’m a human too.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If anything is ever going to change for the better, the truth has to come first.

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Makeup, Filters, and Manipulations (Blog #304)

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Oh my god, y’all. I just discovered a beautiful-skin button on my camera. Well, actually, it’s a sliding scale, this little thing you drag back and forth in selfie mode. (How have I not noticed this before?) On one end of the scale is “your normal, ole, raggedy-ass skin,” and on the other end of the scale is “bibbidi-bobbidi-boo, don’t you look marvelous?” Perhaps you’re already familiar with this digital witchcraft technology, but seriously–in under two seconds, every skin issue I have disappeared. The histamine in my forehead, the dark circles under my eyes, the blackheads–all of it–gone. Of course, I don’t look any different in person, but online my face is–for all intents and purposes–healed.

Thank you, Jesus.

That being said, I think I look kind of ridiculous. That’s why I’m laughing in the photo above. I mean, that’s simply not my face. Additionally, the photo makes me think of my senior photos. This afternoon my friend Bonnie stopped by the house (with more food!), and she was looking at them, since they’re hanging on my parents’ walls. I said, “Those are heavily–heavily–airbrushed.” Mom added, “Of all the times for Marc’s acne to flare up.”

Maybe God’s a dermatologist.

The worst of the acne, I remember, was a dime-sized scab, smack-dab in between my eyebrows. Talk about an angry-looking son-of-a-gun. I’m honestly not sure what God was thinking when he invented acne. As if teenagers don’t have enough challenges, so let’s give them something that will boil, bleed, scab, scar, and puss-up–on their faces. Like, welcome to planet earth–don’t expect it to be easy, kid. (Uh, thank you, Lord?) Who knows? Maybe God’s really a dermatologist, or gets some sort of commission at the JC Penny’s makeup counter. I don’t mean this to sound sacrilegious, I’m just saying–it would explain a few things.

On one hand, I’m grateful that there are things like airbrushing and makeup. In my entire adult life, I’ve only used them occasionally, but they have come in handy a number of times (like my senior photos or that time I never performed on Broadway). My friend George says, “Ain’t no barn that don’t look better with a little paint on it.” With this is mind, when I look at my senior photos, I’m grateful that big zit isn’t there. But whereas I’m all for putting your best foot forward, I hope I don’t ever get used to being “heavily airbrushed” because it just doesn’t seem real to me. It feels like I’m trying to fool both me and everyone else about the way I look. I suppose someone else’s motivation for covering up imperfections could be different. (That’s okay.)

I’m not trying to start a debate about makeup. (Thankfully I don’t seem to have many debaters for readers.) I’m honestly not exactly sure where I’m going with this, since I don’t feel strongly one way or the other about the topic. Like, I’m mostly for being authentic and doing the best with what God gave you. But I also do my hair every day, pick out clothes that fit just so, and have ears that are pierced. I use filters on Instagram. Even on this blog, I almost always take my pictures from a certain angle to ensure that my chin doesn’t look bigger than my forehead. So I’m okay with making changes and “manipulating reality.” I just want to be perfectly clear. Anytime you see a picture of me online or anywhere else–that’s not the real me–it’s just a picture.

Maybe this point seems obvious, but I think it bares fleshing out. Recently I interviewed someone and wrote a story about them for an online project. I did this sort of thing for five years when I used to work for a local magazine, and my intent–every time–is to leave out anything that might be construed as negative. I guess this could be viewed as makeup for storytelling, presenting the person in the best light possible. But even when my intentions are best, the interviewee isn’t always completely pleased. In this recent case they said, “Well, I would have phrased that differently. I would have left that part out.” My response to this sort of thing is always the same–“Of course you would have. But this is my story about you, not your story about you.”

Insert smiley face here.

You can’t manipulate anyone into loving you.

Okay (I got it). Here’s where this is going. All of us work so hard to put our best foot forward. I guess we should. I mean, don’t let yourself go, honey. (Gay guys like to call everyone “honey,” Mom.) Still, I’m coming to believe that you can airbrush and make up and filter all you want–do what makes you happy–but it won’t make a damn bit of difference–a real difference, that is. Like, I can spend twenty minutes on capturing the perfect selfie and think I look flawless, and you can take one look at it and think, God, his hair’s a mess, and I wish he’d stop wearing the same shirt every day. In other words, if you’re making yourself up to get someone else’s approval–stop it–because you can’t manipulate anyone into loving you. People either embrace you for who and what you are–or they don’t.

For me, this is (finally) starting to be okay, and I think it has to do with authenticity. In other words, the more I accept myself exactly as I am, the more I genuinely like me and the less I care whether anyone else does or not. For one thing, no one else’s story about me will ever be my story about me. It’s just not possible. What’s more, no one’s story about me–including my own–will ever be completely accurate. Like, if I say my skin looks fabulous, and you say it looks just okay, who’s to say which of us is right? Isn’t it just a matter of opinion, and isn’t the truth probably somewhere in between? I’m not saying criticism doesn’t bother me, but I am saying it bothers me much less than it used to. I get over it faster. Also, I know there will always be something to criticize about this body if I or anyone else wants to criticize it. Better then to love this body (and every body), without conditions, which is to say, just as it is, with or without makeup, filters, and manipulations.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Abundance is a lot like gravity--it's everywhere.

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Changing for the Better (Blog #302)

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Well, Daddy is worn out. I guess it’s “whatever is wrong with my body.” I’m trying to be patient. This morning I found out the referral my doctor sent to the “immunologist” has been received. I say “immunologist” because Google says he’s actually an “infectious disease specialist.” Personally, I don’t think this title instills calm in a patient. A paranoid patient like me, that is. All day I’ve been thinking, I probably have a rare African virus–something I caught from a mosquito. Go ahead and put me in quarantine. But back to the referral. “It’s on his desk,” the lady who answered the phone said. “It can take a few weeks for him to review, then his nurse should call you. Currently, we’re booked until March.” My shoulders caved in. I said, “Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.”

After I got off the phone, I realized a couple months really isn’t that long to wait for someone as smart as this guy is supposed to be. A relative recently waited six months to see a specialist, so March is better than July. Anyway, all I can do is see what happens, rest as much as possible until it does.

As part of the marketing job I’ve taken on recently for a large dance event, I’ve spent a lot of time this week on the phone, interviewing people about their experiences in the dance world. What works for you? What doesn’t work for you? What are you pissed off about? So far, this has been a fascinating journey. Everybody–everybody–has a story, and they’re usually willing to share it if someone will listen. That being said, it takes a lot of energy to listen, to let someone else unload their ups and downs on you. Plus, it’s not easy to stay focused, to stay present with someone else. More than once I’ve caught myself thinking about dinner and had to say, “Wait–could you back up?” Seriously, I’m convinced therapists earn every dollar of what they charge.

This evening I drove my aunt to get her hair cut, since I knew where we were going and she doesn’t like to drive at night. Well, first of all, she got a spunky new do. But then we went out to eat at Chili’s, and that’s where things really got interesting. “I ate there a while back, and my waiter was really cute and probably gay, she said. “So let’s go see what we can find out.” Y’all, this is my seventy-year-old aunt, trying to hook me up.

“Okay, I’m in,” I said. “Hell, even if he’s not there, I like their fried chicken.”

Well, whoever this fella was, wasn’t there. (Oh well.) But the fried chicken was. (Yippee!) Plus, another gay guy ended up being our waiter. (He was pretty cute, but kind of young.) My aunt said, “So you have a–what’s it called?–gay-dar?” I said, “Well, yeah. Some people show up on it more readily than others, but when a boy in Crawford County wears jeans that are tight from top to bottom and shimmies every time he sets an appetizer on the table, it’s not rocket science.”

After we each had a glass of wine, my aunt started flirting with our waiter. “This is my nephew–Marcus,” she said, holding her arms out toward me as if I were the prize on a game show. Like, Behind door number one is Marcus Coker, a middle-aged man from Van Buren, Arkansas, who still lives with his mom and dad! Anyway, then she proceeded to talk about her haircut, about how when you get older EVERYTHING starts to sag, so you have to keep your hairline shorter. “People look where your hairline stops,” she said as she pointed to the sides of her face. Our waiter said, “You do have nice apples.”

Later I had to explain to my aunt that apples were cheekbones. She said, “OH! I thought he was talking about my boobies.”

I’m seriously not making this up. (Welcome to my family.)

Now it’s almost eleven. I’ve been typing for just over an hour. And I don’t know if it’s how my body feels, the running around, the wine, or what. But I’m honestly done. Daddy is done. Earlier my nephew and I played this game where we buried each other in pillows. At one point I was all covered up, and he turned the lights off and said, “Good night.” I thought, Don’t tempt me–I could straight-up pass out this very instant. I guess when I don’t feel well I’m always thinking a day could be better than it was, better than it is. But the truth is, despite my low energy level, today was a great day. Maybe, just maybe, it was a great day because of my low energy level. I told my therapist recently that when I’m sick, I’m kinder to myself and the world around me–I’m a better listener–a better understand-er. Of course, I want this thing to go away. I believe it will. But I know it’s changing me and changing me for the better, so I can’t hate it. I don’t think you can hate anything that makes you love more.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If you're not living a fully authentic life, a part of you will never be satisfied.

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Healing from All Angles (Blog #301)

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Last night I started reading a book called Reichian Therapy by Jack Willis. I’d never heard of Reichian Therapy before, but I ran across it while doing my Googling thing, and it’s apparently based on the work of psychologist William Reich, who was a student of Freud’s. His theory was that behavior springs from personality, which springs from “character,” which is the deep down part of you that you never think about and is totally your parents’ fault. Neuroscientist Candace Pert say your body is your subconscious mind, and Reich says it this way: a person’s character is manifested in their body. So rather than simply doing “talk therapy” for the mind, Reich developed a method for both the mind and the body.

Anyway, this book I started reading–it’s  thirty-five dollars on Amazon or free if you download it here. (Warning–it’s five hundred pages long.) So far, I’m about one hundred pages in, and the theory behind the therapy makes a lot of sense to me. Willis says that when a child cries, it’s a full-body experience–their eyes water, their face contorts, their chest heaves, their breathing changes. When an adult comes along and says, “Quit your damn crying,” all of those physical processes have to stop. If a child gets the message that crying is wrong or embarrassing often enough, tension develops throughout their body in order to prevent crying not just in their eyes, but also throughout their entire body. If this doesn’t change, the adult child may be able to cry, but it will look simply like a few tears streaming down their cheeks, not the heaving-sobbing deal. Unfortunately, their character and body literally prevent anything more. And maybe they think, I wonder why my shoulders are so tight.

Willis’s book is unique in that not only is it free, but it also appears to relay, in detail, a series of exercises and practices to “change character,” release tension from the body, and promote healing on multiple levels. I’m just getting started with the exercises, but since one of them is simply looking at yourself the mirror every day, I’m already a fan. But seriously–the idea is to look at yourself the way you would a stranger in a restaurant, asking yourself, “What is this person feeling? Are they anxious? Are they elated?” Last night when I tried this, I realized how tired I looked around my eyes. Then I noticed that my jaw looked angry. I’m not sure what this exercise did on a subconscious level, but it did connect me with self-compassion. You’ve been through a lot, Marcus. Go easy, would you?

During the next exercise (which I was practicing when I took tonight’s selfie), I was instructed to “make faces.” You know, raise your eyebrows, shift your jaw around, flare your nostrils, whatever. Again, I’m not sure what this accomplished–I’m assuming it was about releasing tension–but it sure was fun.

The last exercise I’ll mention involved reaching your hands out in front of you and holding the position for twenty seconds. I tried it a couple times, and the first time I reached slightly up. The second time, however, I reached down. That’s funny, I thought, why would I reach DOWN? Well, I immediately remembered being a small child and how my dad would set me and my sister on top of the refrigerator. I remembered this being fun, but I also remembered wanting to get down and not being able to. Thus the reaching down. (Like, help!)

I don’t recall why I was on the refrigerator–maybe I was in time out, maybe my dad was kidding around, maybe he was on the phone. Maybe I asked to be up there then changed my mind. Regardless, I couldn’t get down when I wanted to, and part of the message my little brain and body received was, “You can ask for help, but that doesn’t mean you’ll get it. Better to take care of yourself.”

See how easy it is to screw up your children?

Honestly, that was it last night. There wasn’t a big emotional upset or hub-bub during the reaching exercise. I didn’t get upset with my father. I felt a gentle letting go in my shoulder blades, nothing major, then had that brief memory. The book says this is normal but not the goal. So try not to pay too much attention to sensations that arise, memories that come up, or emotions you feel. Just let them be, then let them go. Also, do the same for your dreams, which is where the big changes really happen and could get a little weird or crazy after doing the exercises. Last night I dreamed I had worms and a small octopus crawling under my skin, so maybe that means I’m doing something right–or Reich, as it were. (I crack me up.) Anyway, the book says the weird stuff isn’t the point–letting the mind and body fix themselves is. So go easy and take it slow–the slower, the better.

Whatever needs to happen, happens.

I think it’s really fascinating that the memory about reaching out and asking for help came up last night. Just this week my therapist and I discussed my independent nature, my determination to do everything on my own. Then that night, the night before my mom’s surgery, I had dinner with some friends and students, and all three of them–unsolicited–said, “We really do want to help you if we can. You don’t have to do this alone.” Honestly, I don’t know if the conversations with my therapist and friends sparked the refrigerator memory or if the book exercise did. It really doesn’t matter. But I’m coming to believe that when it’s time for healing to happen, you get it from all angles. Misperceptions are corrected. The body shifts ever so slightly. Whatever needs to happen, happens. This is the mystery I’m always talking about, the idea that for all the problems life creates, it creates that many more solutions.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Every stress and trauma in your life is written somewhere in your body.

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Me and My Body (Blog #300)

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Today Mom came home from the hospital. She walked through the front door, sat down in “her chair,” and hasn’t gotten up since. Both my sister and I have felt under the weather all day–wiped out, tired. Maybe mine is my chronic sinus problem. Regardless, we’re quite the pitiful lot. My three-year-old nephew, Ander, on the other hand, has been full of energy. Sometimes that kid is so loud, I swear he could wake the dead–or at least his sleeping uncle. I honestly think you could strap him to the top of an ambulance and tell him to scream, and it’d be just as effective as any siren. Of course, he doesn’t care that he’s loud. Nor does he care that he spilled an entire bowl of shredded cheese on the living room carpet.

Kids–not giving a shit since the beginning of time.

This afternoon while my sister and aunt were changing my mom’s bandages, Ander and I went outside to play with his scooter. Well, he played with his scooter–I decided I was too big for it. He only fell over once (we were on our way to the mailbox, then all of a sudden–plop). Thankfully, he bounced right back up, like a little ball of rubber. No kidding–children are like Tupperware–virtually indestructible. Also, boys apparently have no concept of dirt. Maybe some of the gay ones do, but I really think any boy has to start doing his own laundry before he really “gets it.” Ander kept “accidentally” falling down in our front yard, right where our friendly neighborhood gopher and the recent rain have turned what was once a lush, green lawn into a mud pit. I kept thinking, It’s going to take your mother two hours to get that stain out of your britches!

Of course, he wasn’t concerned, and when he wasn’t rolling around in the dirt, he was rolling around in the leaves, throwing them up in the air, covering himself in fall foliage and dead grass. “I’m in the leaf pile!” he’d say. “You’re uncle is tired–let’s go inside,” I’d reply.

He kept looking at me like, “Tired? I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

I spent the day reading Mind Over Medicine by Lissa Rankin, M.D. I heard about the book two or three years ago while listening to a podcast and finally picked it up at the library earlier this week. I’m not done with it yet, but the book discusses the powerful role that the mind, healthy relationships, and a positive environment can play in healing. As a medical doctor, Lissa said she used to fret when her child hurt himself. But after doing a lot of research into the body and such things as spontaneous healing, she now teaches her son that his body is a powerful healer. What I love about this idea is that if he falls down and scrapes his knee, rather than freaking out and being afraid, he says, “My body knows how to fix itself.”

To be clear–because people worry about this kind of stuff–yes, if their child got cancer or were hit by a car, they wouldn’t say, “He’ll be fine on his own,” they’d rush him to the hospital. Still, even in a serious situation, the idea is the same–the body is smart. Given the right support, it knows how to restore balance. Perhaps children instinctively understand this. Maybe that’s why they pop right back up after they fall off their scooters, unless of course we adults scare them by flipping our shit. Oh my god, are you okay!

Earlier today while doing chi kung, even before reading the book, I gave myself a hug and told my body that I trusted it. I’ve still felt like crap all day, but I think this was and is an important step in healing. Personally, I know that I’ve spent a lot of time not trusting my body, believing that it didn’t know how to fix itself, or that no matter what I tried, it wouldn’t work. Plus, I’ve spent a lot of time not liking this about my body, not liking that about my body. And yet, my body has given me every experience I’ve ever had. (Think about that–and thank your body that you can.) And it doesn’t just let me sit at this keyboard or play with my nephew–it’s watching out for me. A couple days ago I wrote about some great feedback I got from my gut, and a lot of interesting things have been happening in meditation lately (crying, letting go, stuff like that). So I’m starting to believe that my body really is on my side–it wants me to be in healthy relationships, it wants me to let go, it wants me to heal.

Now I’m thinking, We’re BOTH doing the best we can.

Tonight’s blog is number 300. That’s 300 days or nights in a row of writing. When I started this project almost a year ago, I really thought it was just about writing, about developing a discipline and working on my craft, the one I want to spend the rest of my life doing (if God and my body will let me). But somewhere along the way I realized this project is about more than writing–way more. It’s about healing. Maybe that sounds like a funny thing to say when I’m once-again sitting here feeling poorly, but I’m talking about healing deep down, about finally loving every well and broken part of yourself, about finally taking care of yourself, about knowing, really knowing, that your life has a purpose and nothing can stand in the way of it. For me, this has happened–is happening–one word and one day at a time. For this change in perspective and direction, me and my body are more grateful than we could ever say.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Even if you can't be anything you want to be, you can absolutely be who you were meant to be. Don't let anyone else tell you differently.

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Come to the Middle of the Seesaw (Blog #299)

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Today Mom had a bilateral mastectomy. The surgery lasted a few hours, and she had a hot doctor. (A hot, hot doctor.) Like, a very hot, hot doctor who went to and graduated from medical school, probably knows the difference between “your” and “you’re,” and didn’t have a ring on his finger. (I’m just sayin’.) In other important news, the surgery itself went well. The cancer had NOT spread to Mom’s lymph nodes. The anesthesia seemed to wear off fine, and when I last saw Mom this evening, she was being given “the good” pain medication. One of my aunts is staying with her tonight, and she should be home tomorrow. So, thank you, Jesus.

One of the good things about having a family member who has cancer, or who used to have cancer, is that people bring you food, and not a little of it. (If there’s a silver lining, I’m going to find it.) This afternoon my friend Bonnie brought my entire extended family chicken nuggets (and fruit and cookies AND coffee), with a variety of dipping sauces. I mean, if there’s any way to make sitting on your butt in a hospital waiting room for five or six hours any better, this is it. Oh, and she brought even more food to the house for dinner, the most important item being homemade cinnamon rolls. And whereas Mom is the one who actually has (or had) cancer and can’t have any solid food until tomorrow, I personally have been quite comforted by all the calories.

In addition to eating delicious food and visiting with family and friends, I spent most the day in the waiting room sending emails and Facebook messages. I’ve recently been brought on board as the marketing director for a large dance event, and my first goal is to get feedback about the event from those who have attended it in the past. So far it’s going well, but at some point today, my eyes started to glaze over. Like, I can only reach out to so many strangers and say, “Hello, I’m Marcus. Here’s what’s going on. Would you be willing to talk to me?” before it doesn’t feel genuine anymore (even though it is). I told Bonnie I felt like a door-to-door salesman, saying the same thing over and over again–

Unlike everyone else on Facebook, I’d actually like to hear your opinion!

This is something I never had the courage to do when I owned a business or ran my own dance event. Being so involved, I would have taken any negative or constructive feedback as purely destructive feedback. I would have taken everything too personally. But I don’t have that hangup with someone else’s event. I can listen to people’s stories–the good, the bad, and the ugly–as a neutral party. So far I’ve talked to about a dozen people, and it’s been fascinating. I’ll spare you the details, but as much as some people have been over-the-moon satisfied, others have, well, not been. Having professional distance from their personal experiences, I’m able to sort their feedback into two basic piles–This Problem Needs Fixing, and This Person Needs Fixing.

I think this is what a good therapist, even a good doctor, is able to do–step back and see what’s really going on. Once my therapist told me, “I’m basically just an observer of your life.” I can’t tell you what a difference this has made, having someone who’s not attached to my outcomes. As much as I love my friends and family, they weren’t “getting the job” done when it came to my mental and emotional health. First of all, it’s not their job to help me grow in that way. Second, most of them haven’t been trained with the proper skills to do so. Lastly, they’re simply too close to me, the way I’d be too close to them if we were talking about their personal growth. You know how it is when you’re too close–you interrupt each other, boss each other around, don’t believe each other’s compliments. You think, “I’m not beautiful. You’re just saying that because you’re my mother.”

This neutral party has been on my mind lately. (I recently blogged more about it here.) Obviously, that’s what mom’s hot doctor was today–a neutral party. Not that he doesn’t care about his patients, but he’s not so wrapped up in their personal stories that it affects his job. And whereas a patient or a family member might sweep a health problem under the rug or ignore a problem, a doctor would (ideally) be the last person to do that. Like my therapist or me in my role as marketing director, not being wrapped up in personal stories allows him to see clearly where the problems are and what can be done about them.

Even storms pass away.

I’m currently thinking of a seesaw. If you’re on either end of a situation, one minute you’ll be up and the next minute you’ll be down. But the neutral position is where you’re unmoved by whatever life throws at you. It’s steady even when the world isn’t. Additionally, if you stand in the middle of a seesaw, you realize that what’s up for one person is down for the next and that nobody stays up or down for very long. You see that life is always changing and everything circles ’round. I think this is the lesson of Jesus walking on the water. (Don’t try this at home, kids–it’s symbolic.) The storms of life raged all around him, but he wasn’t affected by them. Not that he didn’t see them, but he knew that “this too shall pass.” Even storms pass away. And because he’d found that neutral, steady, centered point within himself, then–and only then–was he able to reach out his hand and help another. “Keep your eyes on me,” he told Peter. In other words, “Come to the middle of the seesaw. Don’t be distracted by things that are always changing. Give your full attention to that which cannot and will not be moved.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It's enough to sit in, and sometimes drag ass through, the mystery.

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Listening to Your Gut (Blog #298)

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You know how sometimes people, especially southern people, will compliment you and insult you at the same time? Like, I just love that shirt you’re wearing! It completely covers up your muffin top. (Uh, thanks?) Well, I had something like this happen not too long ago. I ran into an acquaintance, and in the midst of catching up, they said something unkind about me. (I’m intentionally being vague.) It was said as a joke, and since we were in public, people nearby were laughing–hell, I was laughing. But as soon as it happened, I felt my solar plexus tighten up, the way it might if some guy in a van handed your toddler a lollipop or you were on the Titanic and felt ice-cold water rushing into your cabin. Like, Houston, we have a damn problem. The conversation quickly moved on and ended, but there was no denying what my gut–my physical body–was telling me. This person wasn’t joking–they were being a douchebag. Sure, they’d disguised their insult, but it was an insult still the same.

I walked away like, Thanks for this big wooden horse. Where did you say it came from again–Troy?

Today I had therapy and told my therapist about this situation, with more specifics than I’m including here. “Am I making something out of nothing?” I asked. “Am I just being sensitive?” My therapist said that no, I was reading things correctly. She said, “They weren’t even being a douchebag. Douchebags cut you off in traffic. They were being straight-up mean.” Then she said, “You may not have done anything about it in the moment or called them up later and gave them what-for, but it’s a really big deal that you instantly knew there was a problem and that your body is speaking to you like that.”

Honestly, I think we all know when something is “rotten in Denmark.” Caroline Myss says that our chakras, our energetic bodies, are always “scanning” our environment and giving us feedback. Like, You need to get out of here now, This job isn’t right for you, That guy can’t be trusted, or, Something’s wrong–call your mother. Most of these messages come through our third chakra (located at the solar plexus), a feedback loop which is alluded to in such statements as, “I can feel it in my gut,” and, “He makes me sick to my stomach.

Personally, I know that my gut has been talking me for a long time, but I also ignored it for a long time. Had the Trojan Horse deal happened five years ago, I would have thought about it for days and convinced myself they were just joking. I would have thought, They hugged me! As I understand it, a person’s relationship with their gut (or instinct or intuition) is like any relationship. It has to be nurtured. In other words, it’s not that your gut ever stops talking to you, but it only speaks loudly and clearly if you freaking listen it. This loudly and clearly part is what I’m currently focused on. I told my dad about this situation tonight, and he said, “Were you offended?” I said, “No, I wasn’t offended–I just KNEW I was being sold a pile of shit.”

The truth has to come first.

This quick-read, I think, is the result of all the work I’ve done in therapy and on this blog. As I see it, it’s the result of authenticity. The clearer you see what’s going on inside of you, the clearer you see what’s going on outside of you. It’s that simple. I’m not saying I’m the absolute-truth meter in all situations, but I am saying that the more I develop a rapport with the truth, the more it sets me free from everything unlike it, including “fake” relationships. This process isn’t always fun, and I don’t necessarily recommend it, but my therapist says the benefits “will serve you until you’re six feet under.” Plus, it beats inauthentic living and lying to yourself. I mean, whether it’s a run-in with a Trojan Horse, a bad relationship, or a miserable job, you can ultimately only do something about a problem when see it for what it actually is–a problem. And if anything is ever going to change for the better, the truth has to come first.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It's enough to sit in, and sometimes drag ass through, the mystery.

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