The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (Blog #287)

Yesterday I felt like a million bucks, as good as I’ve felt in the last three months, and I wore a pair of vintage bell-bottom jeans that came from 1970s JC Penny’s to celebrate. They’re blue in color with white pockets on the outside, tight in all the right places. When I found them at a thrift store, they had the original tags on them. Anyway, they enhanced my good mood because I can only fit into them when I’m at my current weight or less. Five extra pounds on these hips, and there’d just be no way. I saw my therapist yesterday, and after she raved about the pants and I told her about my recent (three-pound) weight loss, she said, “I’m glad you’re a skinny bitch.”

Since I haven’t been to therapy in a few weeks, I caught my therapist up on my (very) recent health upswing and the good news I got last week about my emergency room visit being paid for by the hospital. I said, “I keep trying to believe that the universe isn’t on my side, but it keeps proving me wrong.” She said, “All your needs are being taken care of.”

Later we discussed people who idealize their therapist. She said, “I’m not as important or as ‘necessary’ as some of my clients think I am. I may have some information they don’t, and they may have some information I don’t. But when you put someone on a pedestal, there’s only one direction for them to go.” (Down.) This is something I appreciate about my therapist. From day one, she’s always been “real” in the way she talks, dresses, and presents herself. Never once have I gotten the impression that she didn’t have struggles and problems of her own. Of course, this has made it easier to relate to her, easier for me to show up “warts and all.” Additionally, she’s never set herself up as “always right” or infallible. Rather, she’s encouraged me to follow my inner truth. “If your gut tells you one thing and I tell you another, go with your gut. That’s what’s best for you, no matter what anyone else says.”

This is something that’s been historically easy for me to forget. I read so many books and listen to so many other people, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking that other people know better for me than I do. Of course, we can all learn from each other, but I had dinner last night with my friend Marla, and I told her that now I absolutely know that my biggest strides have come this blog, from sitting down every day and getting to know myself, from first discovering and then speaking my truth. If someone else hears me, fine. What’s important is that I hear me, that I get quiet and listen to what’s honestly going on inside.

I can’t tell you how much I recommend this–getting honest with yourself. I’m not saying you need to start a daily blog and tell the world about your inner goings-on. Of course, if you want to, knock yourself out. But I am saying there’s a certain healing that happens when you simply get real about everything happening in your life and when you own your story–the good, the bad, and the ugly. (In my experience, it’s a lot of ugly.) I guess this is what most of us are afraid of, embracing all our “unacceptable” parts. In a world where every picture we post is expected to be just so, it’s difficult to look at our own faults, wrinkles, and unpleasant emotions, let alone share them with others. But there’s a freedom that comes when you accept yourself for who you are and where you’re at, a freedom only you can give you, something you simply can’t get from another.

Healing never looks like what you think it will.

At some point last night I hit a wall. My million-dollar feeling suddenly felt like a dollar and seventy-five cents. I got super tired, kind of light-headed, nauseated, and jittery. This morning I felt–uh–better, and decided to drop two of the supplements I started a couple days ago. (Google said they might be to blame.) Now I feel–meh–could be better, could be worse. Tomorrow I see my new medical doctor and am hoping for some answers, a least a little more help, another piece of the puzzle. But even this illness, something I consider “ugly,” has been a way to get to know myself, to look at my inner goings-on, to further realize that all my needs are being taken care of. Healing, it seems, never looks like what you think it will.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The deepest waters are the only ones capable of carrying you home.

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Me, The Eyeball Oracle, and Macklemore (Blog #286)

Yesterday I drove to Sapulpa, Oklahoma, to meet my friend Elisabeth and visit The Eyeball Oracle, an iridologist named Phyllis who owns and works at Rock Creek Herb and Vitamin Company. An iridologist is someone who identifies problems in your body by looking at your eyeballs. (I’m not making this up. It’s on Google.) Since I arrived early, I was the first in line. When Phyllis showed up two hours later, there were at least a dozen other people behind me. As I understand it, this is pretty common with Phyllis, who’s been practicing iridology for over forty years (she learned from her grandfather, who learned from his father) and never charges for her services.

Y’all, it was fascinating–and easy enough, at least for me. After introductions, I sat in a chair and stared out a window while Phyllis  looked at my eyes from a few feet away. For maybe a minute or two, Phyllis took notes, stating that we’d first talk about what she observed, then there’d be time for questions. Get this shit. The first thing she said was, “Have you ever had an injury to your left leg or had pain in your right hip?” I said, “Well, the right hip has been a major problem these last several years, and when I was a kid my left leg was twisted, although it never hurts now.” She said, “That’s what created the imbalance, though.”

Phyllis recommended two products for my muscles and ligaments, one of which was a blend of calcium and magnesium and came up later when we discussed my sometimes-nightly leg jerks. In addition to my left leg/right hip issue, Phyllis and I went through eight things or categories she observed in my eyes–thyroid, pancreas, PH of colon, left kidney, stomach/digestion, right adrenal, heart, and (I think) memory/focus. (That was a joke.) For each thing we talked about, Phyllis had recommendations. For my thyroid, which she said contributed to my feeling of being overwhelmed at times, it was two supplements (amino acids) and one vitamin (D3). For my colon, it was black cherry juice (1/3 cup a day). This is something I appreciated, that there was just as much advice about diet (eat things that are red, green, and purple, not things that are white and yellow) as there was about herbs and vitamins.

The diet recommendations, Phyllis said, came from the Blood Type Diet, a theory which proposes that each blood type (A, B, AB, and O) should eat differently. She said, “When I was a child, my grandfather would put all this food on the table and say, ‘What does YOUR body want?'” Phyllis guessed my blood type as A. It’s actually O. There were a couple things like this, observations she had that didn’t “hit home” for me. For example, when she talked about my pancreas and asked if I ever felt my blood sugar drop, I said, “Not really. Sometimes I get light-headed, but it’s better when I stay hydrated and keep my electrolytes, like salt, up.” Phyllis didn’t seem fazed by this, and she wasn’t pushy, which I respected. On my paper under pancreas/blood sugar, she wrote, “Good.”

By the time we got to the end of Phyllis’s list, nothing had been said about my sinuses, which have been my major complaint these last few months and, well, my entire life. When I asked about them, Phyllis–first of all–didn’t say any of the things I’ve been afraid of hearing, things like, “You’re covered in mold,” “You have a yeast infection,” or, “You have an auto-immune disorder.” She didn’t tell me I was beyond hope or repair. Rather, she said that following the Blood Type Diet should help with allergies and mucus production, and the other products already discussed should help with overall immune function. Then she recommended a few products, two of which I’ve never tried before. At the end of the session, she gave me all her notes, on which she’d starred the “priority items.” She said, “Start with your sinuses if you want. Work on your muscles and ligaments later. Come back in six weeks, and we’ll see where you’re at.”

Here’s one of the four pages Phyllis gave me. I chose this one to share because I spent all day yesterday thinking she’d written “Carlos” under “Right Adrenal.” I kept thinking, What’s he doing there? Is that the guy who started The Blood Type Diet? Then last night I realized she’d actually written “Carbs,” as in, eat the good ones–not the bad ones. Carbs, Marcus, not Carlos. But I guess the advice would apply either way.

After I saw Phyllis, a couple other people went, then Elisabeth did. “She told me I had eyes that were sweet and kind,” Elisabeth said. “Well,” I replied, “She certainly didn’t tell me that.”

Not that I’m bitter.

The entire time I was with Phyllis, I never felt pressured to buy any products from her shop. That’s something a lot of the online reviews are clear about. If you want to go and just get your eyes read, you’re more than welcome to. That being said, I did end up buying five things Phyllis recommended–two for my sinuses, two for my thyroid, one for my muscles. I’d told Elisabeth, “Please don’t let me buy the entire store,” and she came through. She said, “You already have that and that, just different brands, and you can wait on that and that and try them later if you want.” By the time it was all over, I spent about as much as I would to see a doctor at a walk-in clinic, a little more than a hundred bucks. At Phyllis’s suggested dosages, I’ll need to restock some of the products in two or three weeks, but that won’t cost any more than all of the other shit I’ve tried these past few months, certainly not more than some antibiotics. None of those things, by the way, have made a remarkable impact on my health.

Phyllis said I should notice a difference within 72 hours, so I started taking the pills before I left the parking lot. One of the ones for my sinuses had eucalyptus in it, and within twenty minutes I could not only smell it, but also taste it when I burped. Now it’s less than twenty-four hours later, and whereas my sinuses aren’t completely dried up, they are better. Likewise, the dark circles under my eyes are lighter, and (I think) there’s less histamine in my face. Maybe I’m just hoping, but I can definitely tell something’s going on–there are sensations, pulses, in my legs and feet that aren’t normally there. I don’t know another way to say it.

I’ll continue to keep you posted, but here’s this, maybe the most notable difference–I woke up feeling great today. I’ve been off-and-on sick, gross, and dragging ass for over ninety days, but–simply put–I’ve been happy today. I’ve had good energy, I haven’t been tired behind my eyes, and I’ve felt like my problems are manageable, my body is capable of health, and the world is full of possibilities. This is no small thing, of course–huge progress. While making breakfast I was singing and dancing along with MacklemoreI feel glorious–glorious–got a chance to start again.

Part of me is dismissing what happened yesterday, thinking I wasted my time and threw my money away–again. I’ve been thinking, It’s just a coincidence, Marcus. You woke up feeling pretty decent yesterday. Maybe you were already healing. Still, here’s what I know. I’ve been working my ass off for over three months trying to get better–reading books, buying vitamins, doing visualizations. Most of this has been on my own, and it’s been exhausting. But this week is about changing that. Yesterday I saw Phyllis, and I see a new medical doctor later this week in order to cover all my bases. And I can’t tell you how grateful I am for all the help and guidance, from wherever it comes–from a lady who looks into my eyes, from a bottle of vitamins, whatever. From above. It’s good to feel better, of course, but it’s even better to know you’re not alone down here.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All things are moving as they should.

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Me, The Moth, and The Eyeball Oracle (Blog #285)

Currently it’s 9:15 in the morning, and I’m in Somewhere, Oklahoma, waiting to see The Oracle.

Let me back up.

I woke up at five this morning, although my alarm wasn’t set to go off until six. You know how it is when you’re both eager and anxious about something. You can’t sleep. Plus, the waterbed was especially hot last night, and my legs kept jerking. They do that sometimes, go into these violent, sudden twitches just as I’m starting to nod off. It’s startling, maybe related to my magnesium levels. Of course, the internet could be wrong–it’s been wrong before. The body is a mystery. Anyway, at five-thirty I decided there was no point in continuing to try to slumber, so I got up, got dressed, meditated, wrote in my journal, and made breakfast and a full pot of coffee in preparation for my big day.

Last week my friend Elisabeth messaged me and said she’d been hearing a lot about a woman near Tulsa who practices iridology, a field of alternative medicine that basically identifies problems in one part of your body based on the appearance of another–specifically, your eyeballs. Like–I don’t know–that fleck there means your liver is broken and is in need of repair. (Take this vitamin, do a colon cleanse, and call me in the morning.) Elisabeth said four different people had recommended this lady, that she was thinking about going, and that I should go too. (If I wanted.) “Maybe she could help with your allergy and sinus issues,” she said. Well, on the scale of weird things I’ve tried over the years, eyeball gazing actually ranks pretty low, so I said, “I’m in. Let’s go tomorrow.”

Since the vitamin shop where the iridology lady works ended up being closed last week, I’ve been on pins and needles ever since, just waiting for today. I’ve spent a lot of time reading reviews online, and everyone that talks about this lady absolutely raves. They call her The Oracle. (Personally, I like The Eyeball Oracle.) They say they’ve been seeing her since they were a child, she’s always spot on, she helped when no one else could–shit like that. So I’m hopeful. That being said, this isn’t my first alternative medicine, stranger-things-have-happened rodeo, so I’m trying to keep both feet grounded in reality. I’ve mentioned recently that I’m seeing a new medical doctor this week, and that’s still happening. I’ve been telling myself, Do your weird shit first, get all the information you can, then go talk to someone who went to college.

Like, “Doc, a Native American told me my liver was broken. Fact or crap?”

On the drive here this morning, I listened to my new favorite podcast, The Moth. If you’re not listening to it, you’re missing out. It’s basically real people telling stories about anything and everything, without notes, in front of a live audience. It’s delicious. This morning I heard a story about a girl who grew up with a mom who was both a nudist and a stripper. The story started when her mom stripped for her and her brother one evening as her step-father manned the music. This reminded me that there is no such thing as normal–there’s only “normal for you.”

Another story I heard earlier was about a gay actor and writer in California who had two different psychics tell him that Montgomery Clift, the famous actor, was trying to communicate with him from beyond the grave, trying to get the man to write his story. (Clift was closeted, and apparently both he and the man had had facial reconstruction following respective accidents.) Whether you believe that something like this is possible or not, the story really is fantastic to hear, and as the host of The Moth pointed out, is true to the person who told it.

Now I’m inside the shop, waiting. The lady isn’t scheduled to be here for quite a while, but the online reviews said to show up early, so that’s what I did. At first, I was the only one waiting. Now there are two other ladies, and Elisabeth is on her way. We’ll see what happens. Originally I’d intended to blog after this person looks into my eyes, looks deep into my eyes, but I’ve decided to make this a cliffhanger and post about the results tomorrow. But I’ve been thinking, This is a little crazy, but the universe is a big place. How do we know what’s possible? Who’s to say what’s “normal”? Maybe a dead movie star can talk to a stranger. Maybe a medicine woman can look into my eyes and reveal my body’s secrets. I’m open to it. After all, the universe, like the body, is a mystery. Of course, I’m trying to stay grounded in reality, but am more and more open to what reality can look like.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Take your challenges and turn them into the source of your strengths.

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Feeling Weak, Feeling Strong (Blog #284)

Lately I’ve backslidden on my sleep schedule, staying up until almost sunrise and waking up in the afternoon. But because I’m getting up early (by anyone standards) tomorrow to run around, I set my alarm for before noon today. Like, maybe I can ease myself into this. Y’all, it’s awful. I’ve been ready to go back to bed all day. Now it’s five in the evening, and I’m working feverishly to finish the blog before I teach dance in an hour and a half. Since I’ve got to go to bed early tonight–I’ve just got to–this may be more of a sprint than a marathon. Some days all you can do is show up.

This afternoon I finished reading a book by Laura Day about intuition and how it relates to healing. It’s due back at the library tomorrow, and I’m finding that having a deadline is a good way for me to get things done. Anyway, the book mentioned something about feeling “comfortable and proud” in your body, so I’ve been chewing on those words, since they’re not the first adjectives I think of when describing how I feel in my skin, but I’d like them to be. I guess sometimes I feel that way, and I know I feel that way more than I used to. I’d just like to feel that way more often–comfortable and proud.

Hum.

Whenever I get a sinus infection, my go-to adjective for describing the way I feel is “weak.” All my energy is just up and gone. It feels hopeless, like all my vitality has been buried next to Jimmy Hoffa, never to be found again. Much to my non-amusement, “weak” has become a kind of joke in our family, a word we toss around whenever one of us feels bad–like, poor, poor, pitiful me.

As a healing exercise, the book I finished earlier suggested remembering a time when you felt strong, almost unable to contain yourself, absolutely powerful. This isn’t exactly easy to do when you feel like someone’s unplugged you from the wall, but I assume that’s exactly the point, to reconnect with the best possible version of yourself. More than anything else, the exercise made me realize that weak isn’t simply a word I use to describe myself when I get sick. I mean, I don’t put it on my business cards or even think that word on a day-to-day basis, but I often feel that way, like I’m unable to affect change in my life, unable to move forward, unable to heal.

Just bringing my attention to this fact has made me realize that it’s not true. Like, I can look at my life and list dozens of places and situations in which I’m able to get things done, make progress, be effective. And yet still that feeling is there. I guess I get hung up on the things that aren’t happening yet, the things that aren’t healing. I start comparing myself, giving all the praise I have away to others and saving little for myself. This is something I intend to work on, gently if possible. I just looked up “weak” on Google, and whereas the first definitions is “lacking physical strength and energy,” the second is “easily damaged.” Synonyms are frail, feeble, delicate, fragile. This is good information to have, since I don’t feel THAT way at all. Even when my energy is low and things aren’t happening as I’d like them to, I don’t feel that kind of weak. Rather, I know there’s a part of me that’s eternally strong. That’s the part of me I want to spend more time with, the part that’s not only confident, but also comfortable and proud, simply happy to be alive, sure that it can weather any storm.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Everything is progressing as it should.

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The Internet, My Ass, and Other Things That Drag (Blog #283)

Currently it’s seven in the evening, the weather outside is cold and wet, and my internet speed is dragging ass, as am I. That being said, things could be worse. Things could always be worse. On the upside, I just took a shower and actually shaved my face. Please alert the media. The biggest news, however, is that I’ve lost weight. A while back I blogged about letting go of the idea that I’d ever be 180 pounds again, that I’d ever lose those last three pounds. Well, since the holidays I’ve been doing “what the hell ever” with my diet, meaning I’ve been eating peanut butter out of the jar. So I’ve been assuming that I’ve been gaining weight, not losing it. But when I got on the scale today, there it was–180 pounds exactly. Go figure.

Of course, my first thought was, Wouldn’t 175 be nice?

Aside from noticing that I’m never quite satisfied, I’ve been thinking that sometimes you just have to stop trying so hard. This is difficult for someone like me, someone who considers himself a do-er, to do. However, along those lines, I’m giving it a shot today. In terms of my diet, I just ate some more peanut butter (while giving my body the silent directive, Let’s metabolize!) In terms of my physical health, I’ve stuck to last night’s decision to stay off the internet, to stop looking up my symptoms and home remedies. Just be sick, Marcus. Just let your ass drag.

I just paused to back up tonight’s progress, and my internet is so slow that it took ten minutes to save and reload. Seriously, this is worse than dial-up. I feel like I’m in high school again, downloading pictures of Scott Wolf and Leonardo DiCaprio to my A drive. (A drives are what old computers used for 3.5″ floppy disks and not a sexual euphemism, Mom.) Anyway, clearly the universe is out to teach me patience–through my physical body, through my circumstances (I’m living with my parents!), through the damn internet. I guess it thinks I need help in this area.

But what American doesn’t?

Now I’m restless, ready to be done with this, go eat some more peanut butter. Maybe talking about patience isn’t the way to acquire it. I keep thinking about what to say next. Last night I watched a Netflix documentary called Holy Hell, about a religious cult led by an abusive, Speedo-wearing, former-porn-star homosexual. Y’all, one of his “disciples” made him a fruit salad–every morning–that looked like The Last Supper or something similar–as an act of service. For over twenty years, this man was able to convince hundreds of adult men and women that he was a divine messenger–like Jesus. And I have trouble getting a dozen people to like my status on Facebook.

Obviously I’m doing something wrong.

I’m not sure how this cult story fits into tonight’s blog, but I’ve been thinking about all the crazy things people think, do, and get themselves involved in. Personally, I’ve never joined a cult, but I have joined some internet forums that are pretty far out there, gone to a few weekend retreats about “energy healing” that would raise some eyebrows. Just with respect to my recent sinus infection, I’ve tried (and blogged about) a number of “crazy” treatments. I plan to try more before the week’s over. Thankfully, I don’t catch much flack for most of what I do, but whenever I do catch flack, here’s what I think about it–If you were in my shoes, you’d understand.

Along these lines, Byron Katie says that we are all believers and have to act out of our beliefs. For example, if you had a sinus infection and believed you had to do something about it, you’d be all over the internet. Or if you felt lost and believed some guy meditating in a Speedo could lead you to God, you’d follow him and make him a fruit salad every day. Likewise, if I believed what you believed, I’d do whatever it is that you’re doing–worrying about my finances, arguing with my partner, getting Botox, whatever.

Patience is about acceptance.

This is something I think about a lot, beliefs and what comes from believing them. Like, I know I can cause myself a lot of grief if I believe that I need to weigh less than I do in this moment or that things in my life need to move faster than they are. That second one is a big hang-up for me–I always think the internet, my ass, and even the universe are dragging along. Ultimately, I think patience isn’t so much about endurance, gritting your teeth and waiting for whatever it is to happen. Rather, I think it’s about acceptance, realizing that you’re pushing against the entire universe if you want right here, right now to move any faster or be any different than it is.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our shoulders weren’t meant to carry the weight of the world.

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Me, My English Teacher, and Nancy Byrd Turner (Blog #282)

It’s nine in the evening, and I’m finally sitting down to blog. I’ve been putting it off for a couple hours now, distracting myself by scrolling through social media and looking up rare sinus-related diseases on the internet. I’ve got to stop doing this, since it only takes about two seconds for me to convince myself that I’m “histamine intolerant” or “magnesium deficient” or that I have mold and moss, like the kind you see on the north side of trees, actually growing inside my head. Rather than read a book or watch a comedy special on Netflix, this is how I’ve decided to entertain myself until I see the doctor next week, by turning every health problem I have into a conspiracy theory that only I and the world-wide web can unravel.

I know–I could use a new hobby.

Earlier this week I spoke to my friend Marla, who was recently sick with the crud, maybe the flu. She’s better now but said there was a point when she just gave in to the illness. So I’m thinking of doing the same thing, saying, “Fine. You win. I quit.” I mean, it’s not like I haven’t tried or put up a good fight. I’ve made some progress. I’m better than I was. But I’m not myself. And surely there wouldn’t be any harm in spending a few days in bed, at least until I can see someone with a medical degree, throw all my vitamins and herbs down on their table, and say, “Here–this is your problem now. You figure it out.”

This afternoon I had coffee with my friend Lorena and told her that one good thing that was coming out of my being sick for so long was that I’m developing both patience and empathy. Like, one day I’ll be able to look at someone else who is overwhelmed and discouraged by their situation and say, “Hang on. Things will turn around for you one day. I promise.” Honestly, I hate this. I mean, patience and empathy are fine characteristics to carry around in your back pocket–I think you should have them–but I hate that, like a good husband, they’re so damn hard to acquire.

Can I get an amen?

Looking at the picture of Lorena and me, I’m thinking I need to shave my face. But this is another thing about not feeling well–shaving, or even taking a shower, feels like a daunting task, something I need to talk myself into, something I should get a gold star for after I finally do it. Like, Look over here, World–I bathed! I haven’t always felt this way about basic hygiene, but it’s amazing how “one little infection” can drop you to your knees and lower your standards. All of a sudden the word “accomplishment” has a very different meaning than it did before. It’s like you’re two-years old again, proud of yourself for, I don’t know, putting on pants.

I told my dad all this earlier, about how cleaning up felt like such a big deal. Currently he has a cold, but even when he feels well, I think he only showers once or twice a week. He said, “Just wait until you get thirty or forty more years on you, son.”

This is what passes for a pep talk in my family.

When I was in high school, I had a dictator for an English teacher–Mrs. Shipman. (I mean dictator as a term of endearment.) She used to interrupt us while we were praying–talking to the god of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob!–in order to correct our grammar. Talk about someone who means business. Once she hunted me down in the lunch room to let me know that I’d misabbreviated “etcetera” as “ect.” instead of “etc.” in a party invitation I sent home with her son. I can still remember her finger pressing into my shoulder, the way she leaned over me as I was eating my Lunchables, the way I broke into a sweat. Honestly, I think it was overkill, but I’ve also never made the “ect.” mistake again.

Anyway, Mrs. Shipman made us memorize poems, and a few of them have never worked their way out of my brain, a fact I’m actually grateful for. One of those poems, by Nancy Byrd Turner, goes like this–

Courage has a crimson coat
Trimmed with trappings bold,
Knowledge dons a dress of note,
Fame’s is cloth of gold.
Far they ride and fair they roam,
Much they do and dare.
Grey-gowned Patience sits at home,
And weaves the stuff they wear.

Now it’s ten o’clock, and I’m ready to call it a night, at least wrap this up so there’s nothing else I “have” to do until tomorrow. I’m thinking of curling up in this chair with a hot cup of herbal tea and reading a book or watching a comedy special on Netflix. I’m telling myself, No more internet searches regarding your health, Marcus. No more playing medical detective. This is me giving in, if only for a night. This is me acquiring patience–grey-gowned, anything but sexy, necessary patience.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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More often than not, the truth is a monster. It gets in your face and makes you get honest. Sometimes the truth separates you from people you care about, if for no other reason than to bring you closer to yourself.

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All The Pieces for Healing (Blog #281)

Yesterday when I rinsed out my sinuses, something new came out–a clear blob, about the size of a dime, with the consistency of a jellyfish. That’s peculiar, I thought. A quick Google search revealed that it may have been–possibly–something called biofilm, a protective coating sometimes formed by harmful bacteria that makes getting rid of them difficult. A bacterial condom, if you will. In my nose. The body is such a mystery. Anyway, whatever that thing was, I’m glad it’s not inside me anymore. This is how my grandpa used to feel about farts. “More room on the outside than there is on the inside,” he would say.

Last night I went to bed at two in the morning but lay awake for over four hours, part of the time watching Netflix, but mostly wondering why I wasn’t tired. Maybe I’m feeling better, I thought. Maybe I’m feeling worse. Finally, I decided it was because I forgot to take Benadryl, something I’ve been using lately to help with allergies, but only at night because it makes me drowsy. I hope I’m not becoming addicted, I thought. But then I got out of bed, tossed back a couple pink antihistamines, and was out before I knew it–until two this afternoon.

Today I ran some errands and ended up buying two new herbal teas. This is something I’ve been doing lately, trying different teas to hopefully boost my immune system, decrease my allergies, and heal my sinuses. I’ve inadvertently started a collection. I’m one of those people. (Shit.) So far, I’m not sure the teas are making a difference, but at least they taste nice enough and have fewer calories than alcohol. That being said, they are also significantly more boring, by comparison. I mean, when was the last time a warm cup of dandelion tea got anyone laid? (Tequila makes my clothes fall off, Mom.)

Well, actually scotch, but I digress.

Earlier this week I finished the two-thousand-piece puzzle my family started working on over the holidays. Considering that my nephews were turning the house upside down and the fact that my sister found a couple pieces in the pockets of my mom’s housecoat, I kept thinking I’d get to the end of the puzzle and find pieces missing. But that wasn’t the case. All the pieces were there. Everything came together. (Miracles never cease.)

Isn’t it gorgeous?

Last night while meditating I decided to start thinking of my body as strong, even when I don’t feel well. My logic for this is that even though I’ve been having significant allergy and sinus issues these last few months, there are hundreds of problems I don’t have. Like, I don’t have boils, leprosy, or diverticulitis, to name a few examples. Whenever I get a cut, my body heals it. Likewise, it fights off numerous infections and neutralizes various threats every day, largely without my help. So I’ve got to assume it’s doing the best it can, that eventually we’ll get things figured out.

With this new attitude in mind, I’ve been more optimistic today. Next week I’m seeing a new medical doctor, and I plan to look further into alternative therapies, things like acupuncture. I’m actually excited about finding an answer, getting myself back in tip-top shape. My retired psychologist friend Craig says that every piece of a puzzle is important, that there are no unimportant pieces. I guess for a while it’s felt like some of my pieces were missing, like I’m an incomplete puzzle. But I’m starting to believe that all the pieces for healing really are here, it’s just a matter of putting them together in the right order and of being patient, trusting that all things are worked out in their own time.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"No one comes into this life knowing how to dance, always moving with grace."

How Hope Begins to Grow (Blog #280)

[This morning my sister sent me some family photos she took while she was in town, so I’m sprinkling them throughout today’s blog, even though they aren’t “on topic.” The last one is my favorite, since it didn’t really turn out but is completely authentic, at least for my nephews.]

Yesterday my dad started coming down with a cold–a common cold. Since I’m both already sick and a hypochondriac, I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours absolutely paranoid that I’ll catch whatever he’s got, wiping down every surface he touches with soap and water, hearing him cough and imaging his germs traveling through the air ducts and into my susceptible sinus cavities while I sleep. We’re all going to die keeps running through my head. Now all I can think about is whether I need to get out of the house and buy some more vitamins, search the internet for additional home remedies, or just pray to god I live long enough to see my new doctor next week.

This is me WITH a therapist.

It seriously blows to wake up and start the day overwhelmed. Even before my feet hit the floor this morning, I was obsessing about my physical health, wondering if I’ll ever feel like myself again or if this is just my “new normal.” Then I started worrying about money, being single, and male-pattern baldness, every problem for which I don’t have an immediate answer. Stumbling into the kitchen, I noticed I was low on groceries, which only further added to my anxiety, since groceries cost money. Finally I had this thought–Would you just calm the fuck down, Marcus? Why don’t you pour yourself a cup of coffee AND THEN see what the world looks like?

As it turns out, the world is better caffeinated, and after breakfast I decided to take a closer look at some of my “problems,” meaning I organized a stack of paperwork that’s been piling up since the middle of last year. Specifically, I sorted through medical bills, since I went to the emergency room a few months ago for a skin infection and my insurance didn’t pay for a dime of it. Well, I spoke to the hospital a while back, and they said they’d put in a request to charity services and that I should hear something within thirty days. So far, all I’ve gotten is more bills, so this afternoon I figured I needed to call them again. But before I did, I reread the letter the same hospital sent me earlier this year, the one that granted me financial assistance with the sinus surgery I had almost a year ago.

Y’all.

I don’t know how I missed it before, but the letter said that ALL hospital services received through the middle of November last year would be covered at–um–one hundred percent, meaning the emergency room visit should be covered too. Optimistic, I called customer service, spoke to the nicest lady, and told her what was going on. Praise god and all the saints, she confirmed that the services would be covered, that there was only confusion because the two places I received treatment (for the sinus surgery and the skin infection) were in different regions of the country and therefore in different computer programs. But no problem, she said, we’re getting it sorted out, and please ignore any further bills.

“Okay,” I said. “I can do that.”

And get this shit. Then she started updating my profile, asking about my current (and basically nonexistent) income. “I’m confused,” I said. “If the previous assistance covers the emergency room services, why do you need additional information?”

“Oh,” she said, “that’s because the financial assistance program expired for you in November, so I’d like to re-up your enrollment in order to cover future medical costs.”

Wow.

How do you even respond to kindness like this? My first thought was to say, Holy crap, I don’t like girls, but would you go on a date with me? But then I realized you don’t have to sleep with every person who does something nice for you, so I simply said, “Thank you so very much. I really appreciate all your help.”

After the good news earlier today, I started to worry again, to re-focus on my health and other financial problems. (It’s a bad habit.) But then I remembered that in my journal this morning I told the universe I needed a break, that I could use a win. Well, obviously, I got one. (That was fast.) So now I’m trying to simply enjoy it, to bask in the relief, to show some damn gratitude for one big problem solved.

Like, thank you, Jesus.

But seriously, I can’t tell you what a shot in the arm this news is. Having worried about this medical bill for weeks now, it’s really a load off. My therapist says this is how you start believing in good things again, how hope begins to grow. You live most your years disappointed, really convinced that life isn’t on your side, that things will never get better. But however slowly, case-by-case, life starts to prove you wrong. Despite all your worrying and thinking This situation is impossible, miracles start to show up. You begin to believe you’re not in this all by yourself. Moved to the point of tears, you think, Healing really is possible.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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When the universe speaks—listen.

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Late to the Party (Blog #279)

Today I’ve been obsessing about what might be causing my allergies. My latest fear is that it’s my waterbed, so earlier this afternoon I stripped all the sheets off it in order to check the bladder, the thing that holds the water, for mold. I read online that if there’s a leak, mold can grow on the outside of the mattress. Also, it can grow inside the mattress if the water isn’t treated, which I’m sure mine hasn’t been in forever. If that’s the case, the internet says it will smell “musty.” Well, I didn’t immediately see any leaks or mold on the outside. Also, things didn’t smell musty on the inside. So maybe I’m not sleeping on a deathtrap.

Phew.

All that being said, now all the sheets are off my bed, so I’m thinking I might as well add conditioner or cleaner to the water while I have everything taken apart. Except I don’t have any. I just called a couple mattress stores in town, and no one carries waterbed supplies anymore because it’s not the 1980s. I told one guy, “I guess waterbeds are a little out-of-date.” Which just means I’ll have to order the conditioner online and–once again–try to be patient. I hate that.

Last night I taught a dance lesson at a friend’s house. Their eight-year-old son greeted me at the front door wearing a pajama onesie that looked like one of the Ninja Turtles. It was the cutest thing you’d ever want to see in your life. It even had a hood on it. On his feet he had a pair of red-and-black plaid slippers. Since I hate the winter and spend four months out of the year shivering, all I could think was, God, that entire outfit looks so warm. So later I asked the kid where he got the slippers, and in all his innocence, this is what he said–“My mom bought them for me.”

Oh, of course she did.

By the time the dance lesson was over, I decided I had to do “something” about my winter woes. So I drove straight to TJ Maxx and bought 1) a thicker pair of sweatpants for wearing at home and 2) a long-sleeved thermal shirt for all occasions. Then I started my hunt for slippers. Y’all, I looked at TJ Maxx, Burlington’s, Target, and Kohl’s, but apparently everyone else in the River Valley had the same idea I did–before I did. I couldn’t find a single pair of slippers that were my size.

Well–correction–I couldn’t find a single pair of “cute” slippers that were my size. I mean, this is about keeping my feet warm, but it’s also about maintaining certain fashion standards. Not to reinforce stereotypes, but I am, after all, a homosexual, and you never know when you’re going to walk out of your parents’ living room on your way to the mailbox and stumble across Mr. Right, who–quite possibly–will be so impressed with your handsome slippers that he’ll immediately think, Now there’s someone I want to marry.

These are thoughts that I actually have. And yes, I’m in therapy.

After all the running around last night, I ended up finding an acceptable pair of slippers at Walmart, of all places. Tickled shitless with myself, I immediately came home and changed into my new sweatpants and house shoes. And whereas I’m thrilled with the sweatpants, y’all, I know why they call them slippers–my feet keep slipping out of them. That being said, my feet are significantly warmer–and cuter–so I’m still considering myself a winner. Now just to check the mail and accept my wedding proposal.

It occurs to me that I am often “late to the party.” Like, not long ago I discovered this new technology called Bluetooth. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Likewise, last night I spent over an hour shopping for slippers–something I’ve never bought before. Of course, they were hard to find because the rest of the world was on top of it–they bought slippers months ago. Maybe I’m resistant to change. I get comfortable doing things a certain way, like sleeping in a type of bed that’s older than I am. I guess we all like our routines. We get stuck in shoes, beds, or even relationships that are hard to get out of because they’re familiar. We think, Maybe I can make this work a little longer. In my experience, this thinking isn’t effective, like walking around in bare feet in January. Ultimately, you have to acknowledge the winters in your life, the things that aren’t working, then do what you can to warm yourself up.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Sometimes life can really kick you in the balls and make you drop to your knees.

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Cussing Out My Inner Director (Blog #278)

A few days ago my apparently very intelligent car, Tom Collins, told me that one of my tires had low pressure. This happened a couple months ago with the same tire. Luckily I was right by a gas station. Even better, it was one with free air. How about that? Sometimes life throws you a bone. The next day my brother-in-law said, “Did you know you have flat tire?” Well shit. I guess I ran over a nail. Sometimes life takes the bone back. As my dad said, “Son, you’re starting the new year off right.”

Today has been overwhelming. It began when my alarm went off in the middle of a dream in which I was both ill-prepared and late for a stage performance. I couldn’t get my hair to “do right.” Consequently, there was an announcement that the show would start six or seven minutes late. The director was not amused. When I tried to explain myself, she went straight for my gut and said, “You’re not even that entertaining.”

“Fuck you,” I said, and that was it.

This was not a pleasant way to wake up, my heart already racing. Additionally, I knew I had a lot to do today, including getting the flat tire repaired, finishing a book due back at the library, and writing today’s blog before teaching dance tonight. This is something I like to do–create lists of things I “have” to do that really aren’t that important. I mean, the flat tire was important–I need my car this week. But is it really the end of the world if I don’t finish a library book? Can’t I check it out again? And haven’t I written late at night plenty of times before? Still, I give myself these deadlines.

Now it’s four in the afternoon, and most of my to-do list is done (except the blog). Since I was stressed out, my dad took charge of the flat tire situation. The tire store is just a couple blocks away, so he called them and told them what was going on–we’ve got a flat tire and no way to air it up. Well, one of the guys actually came to the house with an air compressor and blew the tire up enough to get it to the shop. How great is that? Anyway, while that was being done, I finished the book I mentioned, the one about sinus health I’ve talked about before. (I’ve had the book for a full six weeks.)

On one hand, I’m glad to have the book finished. On the other hand, I’m overwhelmed (again) by all the recommendations it provided. My body really isn’t feeling great today, and when that’s the case, I just can’t think about buying two dozen vitamins, installing an air filter, finding (and paying for) an acupuncturist, starting a meditation practice, and learning to walk on water. Talk about frustrating. The book said that people with sinus issues often have “unexpressed anger,” but honestly, the main thing I’m angry about is the fact that I’ve been so fucking sick for three months and that getting better sounds about as easy as obtaining enlightenment. Maybe if I threw the book across the room, that would help. Or I could just start cussing more.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I know part of my frustration with not feeling well is the deadline thing. Like, next week I’m seeing a new doctor, but I think, I need answers now. I need to feel better now. This mentally, of course, contributes to my running around the internet, spending all my time and money looking for the latest home remedies and snake oils. I realize I’m not being patient. If anything, I’m being desperate. That sounds about right. I’m desperate for things to improve.

I plan to talk about it in therapy, but I think the dream was about deadlines too, that feeling of pressure I put on myself to perform, whether that’s daily blogging or making something “great” of my life. I want everything to be just so, and it feels as if life isn’t moving fast enough. Perhaps not so deep down, I feel like I’m not good enough. “You’re not even that entertaining.” The good news, of course, is that I told the harsh director to fuck off, meaning my subconscious is starting to question all my self-judgments and artificial deadlines. It’s saying, “Wait a damn minute, I’m doing the best I can here.” This is something I have to keep telling myself, that I’m doing the best I can, I have plenty of time, and there’s nothing to be desperate about.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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One thing finishes, another starts. Things happen when they happen.

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