It Doesn’t Feel Like Bleeding Anymore (Blog #366, Birthday #1)

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So. We meet again.

Yesterday was my 365th blog post (wow), which means that today is technically my “blog birthday” or “blogiversary.” (I celebrated with my friends pictured above–Jennifer, Me, Nathan, Aaron, and Kate. Aaron and Kate’s little boy picked out the balloons and tiny dinosaur that I’m holding. The dinosaur was perfect because of this post.) Anyway, one year ago today I was at the library, writing my very first post–about how my shirts reeked of fabric softener (thanks, Mom) and how I needed to soften up. Since then (March 31), even though this site didn’t go live until April 4th, I’ve written one post per day. In the beginning it was tough work. I’d stay up all night, sometimes for six or seven hours, banging my head against the wall hoping something–anything decent–would fall onto the page.

At some point, however, I didn’t have to try so hard. If I found myself struggling, thinking, What am I going to write about?, I’d just say that–“It’s three in the morning, my back hurts, and I’d rather be doing something else.” If I were editing my posts for a book, I’d cut out “primer” statements like these, but I think they work here and at least help to get me going. Anyway, not only is the process faster now (some posts take an hour; yesterday’s final post took four and a quarter), but I also trust it more.

Suddenly you see a sign.

Earlier today I told my dad that I know not every post is “out of the park.” (Look, Ma, I’m a homosexual and just used a sports analogy.) In my mind I look back over the last year and definitely have my favorites, ones that either made me cry or laugh from start to finish. As a recovering perfectionist, I’d love for them all to “soar,” but I realize that’s simply not possible. Some days I feel like shit or am simply tired of digging deep and examining my past (believe it or not). But as I told my dad, here’s the funny thing–when I sit down to write a blog, I rarely know in advanced if it’s going to flop or fly. Sometimes I think I have nothing good, touching, or encouraging to say, then as I’m typing, something of that nature just pops up. It’s like you’re driving down a road at night with no particular destination and suddenly you see a sign for somewhere interesting. Turning the wheel, you think, Oh! THAT’s where I’m going.

Several people online and in person have asked me what’s next. “Are you going to keep writing?” they say. Well, the short answer is yes. Writer’s write, and now that I’ve established a daily practice, I don’t intend to stop. Plus, it doesn’t “feel right” to end this project. Going forward, I’m sure my direction will change. Early on when I started writing, certain “themes” developed, issues I was dealing with, things my subconscious obviously wanted to work out. And not that all my problems are solved because I’ve been talking about them for a year, but I’m sure different themes and issues will present themselves for “year two.” Personally, I can’t wait to see where this road leads me. That being said, I do have other projects I’d like to work on (including turning this last year’s work into a book), so I imagine that some of my posts will be shorter or less introspective.

This morning I got up early (like, before nine o’clock) to meet my friend Marla for cinnamon rolls, coffee, and more celebration. Marla gave me my first official writing job at a local magazine and has been a wonderful friend and writing mentor for quite a while now. One of my “cast of characters” here on the blog, she was part of my very first blog post and in my very first blog post picture, so it felt fitting for us to meet today–although, honestly, I would have preferred to meet in the afternoon. (If you ever want to find out how much I like you, ask me to get up early.)

Y’all, if you ever want to feel good about yourself, ask Marla to write you a letter. This morning Marla gave me a beautiful, gorgeous, encouraging letter–a congratulations for my big milestone. Here’s a small part that I’d like to share. “Ernest Hemingway said, ‘There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.’ You did not so much bleed as you did heal.”

Y’all, I agree with both Ernest and Marla. (I’ll explain.)

Like Hemingway, I’ve come to believe that writing isn’t hard. What is hard however, is bleeding, exposing yourself, being honest. What’s hard is driving down a dark highway not knowing where you’re going, all the while knowing that others are watching. But, if you can get past that part, if you can learn to care more about yourself and what you’re doing, what you believe you’re called to do, that’s where it gets easy. As soon as you’re okay with bleeding, admitting that your life is a mess and you’re just as lost as the next person, that’s the sweet spot.

It’s a bitch that it works this way, I know, and all I can say is this–I didn’t make the rules down here.

Like Marla, I believe that I’ve healed (a lot) this last year. Not that I don’t still have things I’d like to work on and improve, but thanks to my therapist and this blog, I’ve slayed a lot of dragons in the last 365 days. And here’s what I’d say to anyone–before you can put yourself back together, you have to be okay with letting yourself completely fall apart. You have to look at every “unacceptable” thing in your life–all your faults, foibles, and fears–and find a way to love yourself anyway. In other words, you have to be “okay” with bleeding. Ironically, when you are, it doesn’t feel like bleeding anymore. It just feels like being honest.

It just feels like the truth.

The setting free process never looks like you think it will.

A year ago I subtitled the blog “The truth will set your free (sort of).” (I wrote a blog about it here.) A year into my truth-seeking and truth-sharing process, I absolutely agree with our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. The truth will set you free. (Hey, the guy knew a few things.) I’m still sticking to the “sort of” part though, since the setting free process never looks like you think it will. But much like the writing process, much like driving down a dark road, I’m coming to trust the process of life, to be okay with only being able to see as far as my headlights reach, to trust that the mystery of life leads us toward healing and freedom and not away from it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Growth and getting far in life have nothing to do with where you’re physically standing.

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The Thing I Was Forgetting (Blog #365!)

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Since moving in with my parents over a year ago, I’ve developed this nasty habit–I can’t walk out the door to go somewhere without walking back in. Like, I get to my car and realize I’ve forgotten something–my car keys, my laptop or phone, my coffee mug. It drives me crazy. My dad says I’d forget my head if it weren’t screwed on. (Everyone’s a comedian.) This is my dad’s way. He’s taken to making jokes, at least laughing, every time I say goodbye and fifteen seconds later say hello again. “I forgot something,” I always say. “Who does THAT surprise!” he responds.

Y’all, I guess this really has become a thing, since I even did it in one of my dreams last night. I was leaving some sort of convention, already on the outside of the building, and remembered I’d forgotten something. (I don’t know what it was.) Sometimes in dreams I’m trying-trying-trying to run, but I can’t. Instead I move in slow motion. (My therapist says this is about my feeling that my life isn’t moving fast enough.) Well, in last night’s dream, I RAN back inside the building, looking for whatever it was I forgot. The building was huge with lots of levels and stairs, and I ran down every one. On the way back up and out, however, I crawled.

A weird thing happened this morning while I was getting ready to make breakfast. My mom started radiation this week, so she and my dad were gone and I had the house to myself. I know, I thought, I’ll put on some music–I’ll listen to a CD. Well, our stereo system is older than Moses, and I guess it has a short in it, and I couldn’t get the CD option to work. So I started futzing with the wires, and a song crackled through the speakers. I only caught a few words, but they sounded familiar. Moving me down the highway. Figuring I’d briefly tuned into the radio somehow, I switched the function button on the stereo from “CD” to “Radio,” but a different song was playing. Go figure, I thought. Still, all during breakfast, that lyric kept running through my head. Moving me down the highway.

Each person is important.

Y’all, thank God for the internet (and peanut butter). That lyric–Moving me down the highway–is from a song called “I Got a Name” by Jim Croce. It’s beautiful. As soon as I looked it up and played the full version, I started crying. I’ve had it on repeat for the last two hours. The first verse of the song starts off like this–Like the pine trees lining the winding road, I got a name, I got a name. Like the singing bird and the croaking toad, I got a name, I got a name. To me this means that I am equal to, just as important as, any other one of God’s creations. To me this means that each person, including me, is important.

Talk about a hand-delivered message from the universe.

Today’s blog is number 365 (in a row). Tomorrow (March 31) is technically my “blog birthday” or “blogiversary,” but as soon as I hit “publish” today, I’ve officially crossed the digital finish line and completed one full year of daily writing. Holy crap, y’all, I did it. It took a ton of time, a lot of tears, and not a little frustration, but I did it. (Way to go, me.) Honestly, I don’t know what to say. Earlier today my dad said, “It’s got to feel good.” And he’s right, it does. I feel happy, proud, nostalgic, hopeful, and even sad. It’s everything.

Big dreams take commitment.

As I’ve said before, when I started this project a year ago, it was mostly to establish a daily writing practice. I truly believe that writing is part of the reason I’ve been put on this planet, and I’m not ashamed to say that I have a lot of big dreams around the topic I’d like to see come true. Therefore, my logic when I started this blog was the same as it is now–if you want to see your dreams come true, you’ve got to be willing to consistently do your part. Several times over the last year, my friends and family have referred to me as “disciplined.” Personally, I think that word makes it sound like I’m punishing myself over here, that every day I sit down and grit my way through a thousand-word blog. Not that every blog is easy, but overall gritting my way through is not my experience. So a better word for me is “determined” or “focused.” The way I see it, I’ve got a big dream over here, and big dreams take commitment. It’s that simple.

If I’ve learned anything over the last year, it’s that big dreams (and life in general) may “happen,” but they don’t happen the way you think they’re going to. (What would be the fun in that?) Another thing I’ve learned is that as long as you’re working on your dream or–better said–doing the thing you believe you’re called to do, it matters less and less whether or not your dream actually comes true. In “I Got a Name,” Jim Croce says it like this–Like the north wind whistlin’ down the sky, I’ve got a song, I’ve got a song. Like the whippoorwill and the baby’s cry, I’ve got a song, I’ve got a song. And I carry it with me and I sing it loud. If it gets me nowhere, I go there proud. In other words, at some point it becomes enough to try. So long as you’re following YOUR path, it doesn’t matter where it leads you.

But back to my forgetting things. Just like in last night’s dream, when I started the blog a year ago, I thought I was ready to go “outside,” to step out into the world and make a way for myself. But true to life, I forgot something. I forgot to go “inside” first. In the dream I RAN inside and down (into my unconscious), which I think represents my last four years in therapy and all the work I’ve done on this blog. In the beginning, I was “gung-ho.” But as anyone who has walked this path knows, going inside takes a lot of hard work. Just like daily writing, it takes determination, focus, and commitment. Also, most the time you feel like you’re going nowhere, which is what it felt like in my dream as I was crawling. (Encouraging, I know.) But the point, I think, is that I was moving. Moving me down the highway, slowly working my way up and out.

In the dream, I never found whatever it was I was looking for. Perhaps this means that whatever it was wasn’t important, but I think it means that as I pursue my real-life dreams, the point is not to find something or get something. Rather, the point is to go inside before you go outside. This has been my experience in my first year with this blog. A year ago I thought I was looking for something external, but what I found was something better, something internal. 365 days ago, I thought I was sitting down to write about me, but now I know I was actually sitting down to MEET me, to get to know my authentic self and remember to take him along no matter where I go. As it turns out, what I was looking for was myself. All this time, the thing I was forgetting–was me.

Freedom is everyone’s birthright.

In “I Got a Name,” Jim Croce never says where the highway he’s moving down leads. But he does say this–I’m gonna go there free. More than any other goal I have or dream I’d like to see come true, this is my determination–freedom. And after a full year of going “in and down,” here’s what I know–if you’re stuck in a bad relationship, if you’re constantly worried, if you can’t let go, or if you don’t fully love and accept yourself–you’re not as free as you could be. But more and more I believe we live in a universe where freedom is not only possible, but also inevitable. Indeed, no matter how deep your wounds or how profound your pain, I believe freedom is everyone’s birthright, that even if you have to crawl, you will somehow find your way out of the darkness and into the bright light of day.

[To any and everyone who has spent any amount of your time on this blog these last 365 days, to anyone who has offered a kind word or thought in my direction, to anyone who has given me their support and encouragement–I am profoundly grateful. May all good things be yours, and wherever life takes you, may you go there free.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Storms don’t define us, they refine us.

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The Cave You Fear to Enter (Blog #364)

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Tonight’s post is number 364 (in a row). That means it’s the next-to-last post for “year one.” Wow. First of all, what a trip. Second of all, tomorrow is the big day. To use an analogy I got from my friend Bonnie, I feel like a high school senior. Like, I’m graduating. (I feel like I should have a ceremony with a cap and gown to celebrate, but I’ll probably just drink a beer instead.) And yes, just like a high school senior, everyone is asking me, “What are you going to do next?”

My answer: Hell if I know.

As I’ve contemplated my last few posts for this year, part of me feels like looking back. Several months ago I told myself that I was going to go back and re-read all my previous posts before the one-year mark, maybe do a “highlight reel.” Remember that time I was in a car wreck and later cried in my driveway while listening to Bette Midler? Well, that hasn’t happened. I still intend to re-read everything at some point, but not before tomorrow. Also, I’ve considered using my last couple of “year one” posts to discuss what’s happened this last year in terms of my site statistics and talk about some of my personal rules for blogging–things I absolutely insist on doing or not doing every time I sit down at this keyboard. Lastly, I’ve thought about listing my goals, what I’d like to see happen next. And whereas I do intend to do these things “soon and very soon,” I’ve decided not to do them until after March 30th (that’s tomorrow).

My reason for waiting to deviate from my current format is that I’d like to finish out this year the same way I began it. A year ago I remember going to the library and starting this project–just me, my laptop, and an idea. My primary goal at the time was to develop a daily writing practice, and that much I’ve done. My secondary goal was to stick to a theme–my life, my search for truth and authenticity, my mental and physical well-being. This is why, even when I meet someone else with an incredible story, I never talk about them unless there’s a direct application to something I’m dealing with. If my blog’s theme were “incredible people I’ve met,” that would be a different matter.

My story is our story.

Sometimes I look at the number of people who have read this blog since I started it and think, Meh. Other times I think, Holy crap! Honestly, the fact that anyone reads it on a consistent basis (which some people tell me they do–thanks, Mom) blows me away because this is clearly a blog about me, and I don’t find my day-to-day life all that interesting. But I guess what is interesting are some of the things I deal with or struggle with, things like balance, boundaries, growing up, letting go, patience, and self-acceptance–since these are things WE ALL struggle with. In short, if someone finds a connection here, surely it’s only because my story is our story.

My therapist says that when one person lives authentically, they give other people permission to live authentically also. Like, if you wear what you want to wear every day (because YOU like it) and don’t give a shit about what society thinks, you somehow communicate that others are free to decide what’s best for themselves. Likewise, even if you have to keep a friend at arm’s length because they’re overbearing or rude or whatever, you’re modeling healthy behavior to both your friend and anyone else who cares to notice. Of course, in both examples, you’re primarily taking care of (and loving) yourself, which is the main thing.

This afternoon a friend and I were discussing authenticity and the blog, and she said she thought I was brave, that it was a big deal to put myself “out there.” So I’ve been thinking about this today, like, Do I think of myself as brave?

Uh, sort of, not really.

Y’all, I get that what I’m doing here may sometimes seem like a big deal. Like, not everyone would get on the internet and talk about their sexuality, their crush on Zac Efron, their Dad having been in prison, their mom’s cancer, or whatever they happen to be nervous, thrilled, or angry about on any given day. But just so I’m clear, I don’t sit down and write about this stuff intending to brave. Sure, there are times it takes a deep breath and an internal pep talk in order for me to hit the “publish” button, but being brave is always a secondary consideration. The main thing–the primary consideration for me–is always, “Am I going to be honest?”

As I recall, this question presented itself to me in my very first post, which included a story about how I ran into a man who had previously hit on me. At that time, I knew I wanted to start the blog, but I hadn’t planned on “coming out” my very first day as a blogger on the world-wide web. But there it was on day one, and I was either going to honestly talk about what went on in my day and in my life or I wasn’t. Having spent most of my life being vague or private about my sexuality (and even having lied about it years ago), and likewise having been largely unsatisfied with the results of that behavior, I mustered enough courage to try something different–the plain, simple, unadulterated, this-is-me, take-it-or-leave-it truth.

What a novel concept.

Perhaps bravery is simply having run out of better options.

Joseph Campbell says, “The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.” In my experience, this is true. (I hate it, but it is.) For all the times I’ve been afraid to hit “publish” and did, it’s paid off a hundredfold. For every time I’ve questioned whether or not to share my authentic truth or experience and did, I now look back and think, Why did I even hesitate? That’s what a positive experience it’s been for me. Now I think, Why did I wait so long (to quit that job, tell someone to fuck off, or wear what I want to)? Yes, it takes courage or bravery to step into the cave you fear to enter. But I know from personal experience that when you’re absolutely worn out by everything else NOT working, that’s when you’re also the the most willing to step into the shadows. Perhaps this is what bravery really is–simply having run out of better options, being so totally frustrated by the outside world that all you can do is go within.

[The dog in tonight’s photo belongs to one of my dance students and is named CoCo, which is one of my nicknames and the “author name” I use on this blog. Curiously enough, CoCo and I have become fast friends.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Damn if good news doesn't travel the slowest.

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You Can’t Go Home Again (Blog #363)

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It’s almost three in the morning, Daddy is tired, and tonight’s blog (number 363) is one of the few that I’ve written (or am writing) on not-my-laptop. Hang in there, I’ll explain.

For the most part, today was just a day. I slept in, finished reading a book, took a nap. This evening, however, was something else. First, when I woke up from my nap, I got a letter in the mail that said my health insurance was ending in–uh–three days. Shit, I thought. My appointment with the immunologist is next week! Well, it took a few minutes, but I remembered that a friend (and blog reader) of mine works in health insurance, so I called her. “Oh,” she said, “they probably just need you to update your income information. Let me make some calls. Don’t worry until I tell you to.” Y’all, I can’t tell you what a relief this is, that even though the “problem” isn’t solved yet, I have someone who’s not only experienced with this stuff but is willing to help. (Phew.) Once again I’m reminded–no one is alone.

Also, thanks, friend.

Tonight our improv comedy group, The Razorlaughs, had our monthly performance at a local restaurant. We were short a couple members, but thankfully some talented (hilarious) friends of ours were in the audience and were able to fill in. (The show went great.) Afterwards, I went over to my friends Justin and Ashley’s house to eat Taco Bell, have a few drinks, and–apparently–play the longest card game ever, Phase 10. (I came in second, even though we technically quit before the game was over, since some people have to go to work in the morning.) Anyway, I’m at Justin and Ashley’s now, as I opted to stay here rather than drive home not-drunk-but-not-sober-either.

Good choice, Marcus, good choice.

We were like Three’s Company.

For those of you that don’t know, Justin has been one of my closest friends for the last eighteen years. As he says, we’ve known each other longer than some people have mortgages. We met on the debate team in high school and moved in together in 2009. Now Ashley is his wife, but back then they were just dating, and after a while Ashley moved in with Justin and me. Well, she actually moved in with Justin, but I came along with the deal. Anyway, for several years all of us lived together here on Reeder Street (where they still live, and I am now), and we were like Three’s Company or whatever. Looking back, it really was magical. Having lived with my parents until I was–uh–twenty-eight, this was truly my first “on my own” home, the first place I thought of as mine, even though it technically wasn’t. (Justin bought the house, and I paid rent.) Still, when I moved in I got to pick the colors for my room and have some shelves installed in both my room and my closet. Plus, I got my own bathroom and half the office, and Justin pretty much let me do whatever I wanted.

Again, for four years, this was my home. This is where I ate my meals, this is where I brought my dates, this is where I meditated, and this is where I taught dance lessons when I wasn’t at the studio. But eventually, things changed (like they do). In 2013, just as Justin and Ashley were preparing to get married, I decided to move out of the Reeder Street house and in with my ex. (If you’re familiar with the blog, you know that relationship didn’t end well, but it did send me to therapy, and that turned out great. Consequently, now I live with my parents and have this blog. Such is the mystery of life.) Anyway, I’ve been back to Justin and Ashley’s a number of times in the last several years, but tonight is my first time back in my old room, my first time sleeping here, since I moved out.

Currently I’m trying to take it all in and not get too emotional. The room itself is still the same–the walls are still brown and orange, the shelves still hang where they did before. As I’m writing I keep looking around the room, picturing my old bookshelves, my old knickknacks, even my old ceiling fan–all things that no longer even belong to me since the estate sale. Like, I couldn’t find them if I wanted to–they only exist in my mind. And yet there I can find them as if it were yesterday. There was a red leather chair sitting where the bed is now. A picture of my sister hung low on the wall, underneath the window. (The nail hole hasn’t been filled in.) I used to cry in this room. I used to laugh in this room.

They say you can’t go home again, and I guess that’s true. Both back in my old room at my parents’ house and back in my old room at Justin and Ashley’s, I feel a twinge of the familiar. These places are comfortable, filled with memories the way the sky is filled with clouds–here one minute and gone the next. And whereas I’m grateful for both my old rooms–for a night, for a year, whatever–I know that I have long since outgrown them. Things are different now. I’m different now. This is what not being able to go home again means–not that you can’t be in the same physical space you grew up in, but that you can’t turn back the clock to a time when things were simpler or less complicated. You can’t exchange your memories for reality. You can’t un-live your life or un-grow yourself.

The past is no more serious than a cloud in the sky.

Three more posts (including this one) away from a full year of blogging, and this is what being in my old room reminds me of–how much I’ve grown. Honestly, my life has been a roller coaster since I moved out of here. Sometimes it’s been a real bitch, actually. But even though I’d like to see some things in my outside world change, I love where I am on the inside, and I see every bit of my past–including this room–as having brought me to where I am now. For this reason, I’m grateful for my past, with all its tears and laughter. But I also know that I wouldn’t choose to go back or relive any of it if I could. The past is the past, for a reason. I’m glad it’s over. Looking back, I remember being so over-the-moon or distraught about countless things. Now I’m like, whatever, just as surely I’ll be “whatever” about my cancelled insurance a month from now. So surely the past (and even the present) is no more serious than a cloud in the sky, here one minute and gone the next. Surely we weren’t meant to cling to any of it. Surely life was meant to be lived right here, right now, and then let go of.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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Talk about a Serious Gain (Blog #362)

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It’s two in the morning, it’s been a long but good day, and I don’t know what to write about. Tonight’s blog is number 362, the first of “the final four” that will complete “year one,” so it feels like it should be profound. But–chances are–it won’t be. Still, at least I’m here writing. Barring something catastrophic, I’ll soon be celebrating having written every day for a year, at which point it won’t matter which posts were profound and which weren’t. At that point what will matter is that each post, just like each piece of a puzzle, has contributed to the entirety or the wholeness of this project.

Today my therapist and I celebrated the anniversary of our first session together, which was technically four years ago this last Saturday. (My friend Bonnie refers to this date as my “psycho-versary.”) Granted, the “party” wasn’t a huge deal–like, Zac Efron didn’t jump out of a cake or anything. We didn’t even have streamers. But we did take a few moments to acknowledge all the progress I’ve made and all the work that both of us have done these last several years. This is something I hope to do more often–stop and recognize how far I’ve come, rather than simply thinking, But I have so much further to go.

Tonight I taught a dance lesson at a friend’s house, and this afternoon she sent me a message that said, “If you show up early, the boys (her young sons) would like to show you the Legos they put together over spring break.” Y’all, these kids are adorable. For maybe twenty minutes they showed me their all the toys and gadgets they’ve put together recently. And despite the fact that most the toys were recommended for children below the age of ten, I was fascinated. I used to play with similar toys when I was their age, and I still love figuring out how one thing connects to another.

As the boys were showing me their treasures, they kept using a phrase I’ve never heard children use before. They’d say, “One new thing we gained is this robot” or “One other thing we gained is this dinosaur.” That word–gained–is something I’ve been chewing on tonight. First, I’ve been thinking about the fact that gain implies something positive and worthwhile, something you’re proud to have. Like, I’d never say, “I gained another sinus infection.” But I’ve also been thinking that in order to gain something, you have to lose something else. In order to gain something, you have to pay a price. The boys, for example, may not have had to purchase their toys, but somebody did, and the boys at least had to spend their time putting the toys together.

As I think about it now, I realize that how a person spends their time and resources is a dead giveaway as to what they value. Like, I can look at the boys’ room and tell they LOVE building things, creating things, and learning. Personally, I love these things too. Also, I love and value writing, which is why I write this blog every day (every damn day). Granted, I lose or give up plenty in order to do so–hours of my time, hundreds of my dollars (for web hosting and design), and missed opportunities (time with friends, etc.). Sometimes, I’m sure I have bitched about these losses. Just tonight I told my friend Bonnie that I was “still” living with my parents. But I’m reminded that for every thing I’ve (willingly) given up in order to write this blog and practice my craft, I’ve GAINED so much more in return.

For one thing, I love, like, and accept myself a hell of a lot more than I used to.

Big gains come at a high price.

Naturally, this same line of thinking could be applied to my time in therapy. Today I told my therapist that of all the good things that have come out of four years of therapy, the very best–like, above and beyond all the others–has been reconnecting with my authentic self, my truth. Talk about a serious gain. The more authentic I am (the more I share myself “warts and all”), the more comfortable I am in my skin and in the world around me and the less anxiety, stress, and nervousness I feel. Sounds great, right? Well, it is. But big gains, naturally, come at a high price. In my case, I’ve spent countless hours and dollars on therapy, books, and other personal growth material. I’ve shed a lot of tears and had a lot of hard conversations.

Still, every minute, every cent, and every challenging thing has been worth it because I’ve gained me. (Now I think, What a terrible thing, to live without yourself.) In this sense, just like I think every blog post is important because each is a link in an unbroken chain, I’m starting to think that every good, bad, and ugly thing in my life is important, perhaps even necessary, because each has somehow brought me to where I am now, this place where I’m meeting myself. I’m always saying that I don’t recommend this inward journey (because it’s hard), but that’s not true. It is hard, but I absolutely recommend this inward journey because in my experience it’s the only way to really put the pieces of your life together, to see how one thing connects to another, to finally become whole.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our world is magical, a mysterious place where everything somehow works together, where nothing and no one is without influence, where all things great and small make a difference.

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We All Have Elephants (Blog #361)

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This morning I woke up in Tulsa, Oklahoma, at my aunt’s house. In no real hurry to get back to Arkansas, I spent a couple hours reading a book I bought this last Saturday, which, by the way, was the four-year anniversary of the first day I saw my therapist. Talk about a wild ride.

The book I read, The Magician’s Elephant by Kate DiCamillo, is about an orphan boy who is searching for his long-lost sister, whom a fortune teller predicts he will find by following an elephant. Said elephant literally magically appears in the boy’s town when a stage magician tries to produce a bouquet of flowers and produces the elephant instead. (Everyone, including the magician, was amazed–except for the lady whom the elephant landed one when he apparated. To put it mildly, she had a very bad day.) I believe the book was intended for children or young adults, but I personally found it delightful.

Toward the end of the story (spoiler alert), there is talk about making the elephant disappear, sending it back to wherever it came from (probably Albuquerque), which the magician says he cannot do. However, the narrator of the story says, “If the world held magic powerful enough to make the elephant appear, then there must exist, too, magic in equal measure, magic powerful enough to undo what had been done. There must be magic that could send the elephant home.”

This is something I’ve been chewing on today, something that speaks to my soul. So many things in my life historically and recently have felt like these giant, unsolvable problems, like elephants that show up in my living room and refuse to leave. (Hey, get your dirty feet off my coffee table!) As an example, four years ago I couldn’t see my way out of a bad (really bad) relationship. God, things were such a mess, I didn’t even realize what a mess they were. It was like I was drowning and didn’t know it. But stumbling across my kick-ass therapist, I lucked out. The universe threw me a lifeline.

Also, I don’t mind saying, it’s been a long journey to shore.

Sometimes when I tell people I’ve been in therapy for four years, I imagine them thinking, You must be really fucked up. Maybe they aren’t actually thinking that, but if they are, I honestly don’t believe I deal with issues that are all that different from anyone else’s. We all have relationship problems, family problems, work problems. We all have elephants. In my case, I know that a big reason I had relationship problems is BECAUSE I had other (childhood) issues that hadn’t been properly addressed. (For one, I’d never learned about boundaries and wouldn’t have known a boundary if it’d hit me in the face.) My point is–it’s taken some time, but my therapist and I have dealt with every all of my “elephants in the room.” With hard work, courage, and what my therapist calls “sitting in truth,” we’ve effectively made all my elephants disappear. At the very least, we’ve shrunk them down to a manageable size.

The universe is full of big answers.

As I look back at the last year and this blog, it’s been a lot of ups and downs. Based on how I’m feeling this very moment (worn out and tired), it’s been A LOT of downs. Feeling well or normal has been a struggle, believing that I’ll be back on my feet physically and financially has been a struggle. But surely these are just elephants too, and surely all is never lost. For me, it’s important to hang on to this idea that no matter how bad your circumstances, they can and will turn around, to believe that if an elephant can show up in your life, it can also disappear, to believe that just as the universe is full of big problems, it is also full of big answers.

[Thanks again to my friend Frank for the High School Musical calendar. I hung it on my wall as soon as I got home today! Talk about daily inspiration.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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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.

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Sometimes Your Teeth Fall Out (Blog #360)

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Last night while sleeping at my Aunt Terri’s house in Tulsa, I dreamed that one of my teeth fell out, a molar. I was chewing on something, and the damn thing split in half. Well, I was horrified. (I hate it when my teeth fall out.) There was blood and everything. As I was collecting the pieces, an elderly woman gave me several of her teeth as well. (Thanks, lady.) Still, I gathered up all the pearly whites, got in my car, and headed toward the dentist.

Y’all, today was another great day. First of all, when I woke up this morning, I had all my teeth. (Phew.) As if that weren’t enough, then I got to use them when my aunt took me to brunch at the restaurant where my cousin was our waiter. (It was delicious, and the service was exceptional.) Seriously, folks, molars are super handy to have, especially for things like–oh–chewing.

Don’t take your teeth for granted.

After brunch my aunt and I went shopping at a giant antique mall. “I’m good for about an hour,” I said, just before we went inside. Well, one thing led to another, and somehow we stretched an hour into two-and-a-half. Considering all there was to look at and be amazed by, it’s a wonder we both walked out with only one purchase a piece. (I got a book, and she got a book.)

After the antique mall, my aunt and I came back to her house, slipped into some comfortable chairs, and started chatting. Among other things, we talked about her job, her old neighbor (whom you can catch a glimpse of in the painting behind me in tonight’s selfie photo), my parents, and my therapist. We even talked about my dream last night, the one where my tooth fell out. Here’s what I said–

First, despite how awful it felt to lose my tooth in the dream, I figure the dream was positive, since my therapist has yet to tell me that one of my dreams wasn’t positive. Second, teeth typically represent power or our ability to “break down” and “digest” our experiences and problems, so usually dreams about losing teeth have to do with feeling powerless. (Having been unemployed and living with my parents for over a year now, I’d say that sounds about right.) But here’s where the dream gets interesting. For me, old people in dreams represent my old ways of thinking, my old ways of doing things. Well, the old lady in the dream gave me her broken teeth. In other words, she couldn’t handle her problems on her own. Even if she wasn’t, she acted powerless. I, on the other hand, got in my car (cars represent the direction your life is going) and headed to the dentist.

“So maybe you’re better at handling your problems than you’re giving yourself credit for,” my aunt said.

“I think you nailed it,” I replied.

By the time I left my aunt’s house, it was after nine in the evening. Y’all, I got over halfway home, and my aunt sent me a message. “Marcus, you left your laptop!”

Well, shit, I thought. I HAVE to go back. I haven’t blogged today.

So that’s what I did. I turned the car around, drove an hour to Tulsa, grabbed some late night food, and went back to my aunt’s house. (That’s where I am now.) Obviously, part of me is frustrated. I don’t love the fact that I wasted gas and toll money or that I forgot my laptop the same way I apparently forgot my toothbrush on the way here yesterday. (Thank God for my finger.) But if I’ve learned anything during this last year, it’s that life is FULL of detours and rarely goes as planned. As my mom said when I called to say I’d be home tomorrow, “Things hardly ever happen 100 percent like you think they will.” Plus, other than being tired, I’M OKAY. In the grand scheme of things, this is no big deal.

As I’ve continued to process last night’s dream, I think it’s interesting that I dreamed about teeth and going to the dentist while I was here in Tulsa. See, my uncle, who’s no longer alive, used to be a dentist. He was also a Boy Scout and a handyman. My aunt’s house is full of light switches he wired, pictures he hung up, you name it. I didn’t dream about him “specifically” last night, but I do think I dreamed about him generally, and here’s the important thing about that–my uncle (the dentist) was the type of person who always knew what to do. In this sense, I think my aunt was right–I think the dream was about recognizing that even when things go “wrong” in my life, even when I feel powerless, I can still come up with a plan or ask for help.

Surely we can all regroup and try again.

I also think it’s interesting that the car I was driving in the dream was a convertible. (I don’t usually dream about convertibles.) This probably has to do with being “adaptable,” being able to adjust to whatever life brings me. Again, life doesn’t always work out like you think it’s going to. Sometimes your teeth fall out. Sometimes and many times, nothing goes as planned. You find yourself backtracking, feeling like you’re wasting time on roads you’ve already been on, feeling like you’re powerless to do anything about it. But surely we can all adjust, surely we can all regroup, ever thankful that WE’RE OKAY and get the chance to try again.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Healing is like the internet at my parents’ house—it takes time.

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The Most Important Lesson (Blog #359)

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Currently it’s just after midnight, and I’m in Tulsa, Oklahoma, at my aunt’s house. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve stayed here, sometimes in the spare bedroom upstairs, sometimes on the couch downstairs. (I’ll be on the couch tonight.) When I was in my twenties and traveling to various dance events, I used to pit-stop here a lot. At some point my aunt just gave me a key, like, come and go as you please. You know how it is when you’re part of the furniture. You walk in, throw your keys on the table, and immediately relax. No matter what kind of day you’ve had, it’s okay because–well–you’re home.

Y’all, I’ve had the best day. Spring is in the air, the weather is glorious, and Tom Collins (my car) and I had a great drive into town this morning. Right off the bat, my friend Frank and I had coffee. Frank and I met each other through our Reiki group and keep up by email. Plus, Frank reads the blog and regularly sends me encouraging messages, like, You’re not alone–I feel that way too. Well, we had a delightful chat, and get this shit. As we left the diner where we met, Frank said, “I was cleaning my closets out recently and–I don’t even know where I got it–but I found something I don’t think you can live without.” Naturally intrigued, I said, “I can’t WAIT to see it.”

Y’all–it was a 2009 High School Musical (Zac Efron!) wall calendar! Talk about the perfect gift. I seriously couldn’t stop smiling.

I can’t wait to hang it up.

And yes, I’m a 37-year-old man.

Well, as if that weren’t enough, I then met my friends Kara and Amber for dinner. We were supposed to meet recently in Fayetteville (we all live in different cities), but I got stuck in a bad traffic jam and couldn’t make it, so we rescheduled for today. And whereas the company was amazing–like, it really was great, and I love, love, love our talks–what I’d really like to discuss now is the desserts. We split this chocolate cake and gelato thing that was UH-MAZING, as well as a gooey blueberry cake situation that was better than any one-night stand or long-term relationship I’ve ever had. I’m not even a big fruity cake fan, but this thing knocked my socks off. I mean, it was a huge FO.

FO (pronounced eff-oh) stands for Food Orgasm, Mom.

After dinner I attended a local swing dance. I didn’t tell any of my Tulsa dancer friends that I was coming, so I got to surprise a few of them. Plus, some of my Arkansas dancer friends were in town, so it felt like a little reunion. Y’all, I had some great dances. By the time the night was over, my shirt was dripping wet. Plus, it turned out to be my friend Marina’s birthday. No kidding, she turned 96 today. 96, and this woman was wearing a t-shirt that said, “Where’s the WIFI at?” Talk about an inspiration.

For me, there’s something about dancing in Tulsa. When I was cutting my teeth as a young swing dancer, my friends and I used to drive to Tulsa to learn how to Lindy Hop. (When it comes to dancing, Oklahoma is “slightly” more progressive than Arkansas.) Anyway, that’s how I met my friends Gregg and Rita (whom I’ve traveled with over the years), and that’s how I (eventually) met Marina. And no kidding–as much fun as dancing can be with a stranger, it’s even better with your friends. Really, there’s nothing like it, moving to the music while you’re holding hands with someone who’s known you and loved you through all of life’s peaks and valleys.

Tonight’s blog is number 359, which means that I only have seven more posts to go (including this one) in order to reach a solid year of daily writing. Just thinking about this fact, about crossing the one-year finish line, makes me emotional. A year ago this was just an idea. I remember exactly where I was standing and what was going on when it came to me. And whereas I was excited about this blog, I had no clue (none) how it would change me for the better. Closing in on “year one,” I can honestly say this is both the most difficult and simultaneously most rewarding project I have ever undertaken.

No exceptions.

In the beginning of this project, there was a part of me that imagined my life would look different by now, that I’d either have more readers or a book deal, or that I’d be living in a different city. Now I think it’s safe to say that none of those fantasies will materialize within the next week. But honestly, that’s okay. You see, the universe likes to play tricks on people. A year ago I thought I was starting this blog in order to get something, like a ticket to a better life. Perhaps I wouldn’t have started it any other way. But somewhere along this journey, I realized that a deeper, wiser part of me actually started this blog in oder to BECOME something.

In almost a year, I’ve written over 350,000 words, each one as honest as I could make it. Some of you–God bless your hearts–have been there for every frickin’ one. And yet despite all these honest words, this is where words fail me, since I can’t find a way to properly describe what a beneficial thing this strange trip has been (and is). I can try (I have tried and will continue to try), but I really believe that if you want to know, you have to take the trip for yourself. You have to go where your spirit calls you.

When I talk about “becoming something,” what I really mean is “becoming someone,” specifically–yourself. And that’s the weird thing–a year ago I wouldn’t have said that I wasn’t me. And yet there were so many places in my life where I was intimidated or afraid, places where I felt “less than.” Likewise, there were so many times that I’d bite my tongue or people please, hide my truth or shut myself down in some way. And all of that is different now. I can’t say exactly when it happened, but I can say exactly where it happened–right here at this laptop. This is where I’ve sat down 359 times in order to–often unknowingly–discover and meet myself, to get honest about what I want, what I feel, and what’s happening inside.

Of all the lessons I’ve learned, perhaps this is the most important…

But back to words failing. When I walk into my aunt’s house, I know I’m part of the furniture. Likewise, when I sit down to dinner with my friends Kara and Amber, I know I can let my hair down. It’s the same when I’m on the dance floor with my friends Greg, Rita, and Marina. In these moments, these fleeting moments, I’m home. But after this strange trip, now it’s like I’m home all the time. Somehow I got a ticket to a better life, but it’s not an external one–it’s an internal one. Now no matter where I am or whom I’m with, not only am I less intimidated and less afraid, I’m also more comfortable in my skin. Less and less do I feel “less than.” More importantly, I know that no matter what happens, I’ll always have one person on my side, one person who will be there for me and love me unconditionally. This one person, of course, is me. Of all the lessons I’ve learned in the last year, perhaps this is the most important–this one person is enough.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing was made to last forever.

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A Still, Small Something (Blog #358)

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Today I’ve felt great, almost normal, whatever that is. My skin rash barely itched at all this afternoon and evening, and the redness continues to fade. My parents are convinced it was all just a reaction to our changed laundry detergent, an argument my dermatologist didn’t buy when I saw him two days ago. Because of this difference of opinion, a chunk of my skin is now missing, on its way to Texas to be (as far as I’m concerned) unnecessarily examined under a microscope. Whatever the results, I suppose the scar on my skin will long serve to remind me that I once had a very miserable two weeks full of itching and burning (where no one wants to itch and burn). What’s more, I’m reminded that just as a problem or illness can show up without warning, it can just as quickly turn around or disappear.

Presto change-o.

In other news, my energy level has been pretty solid and consistent today. I have a lingering cough from the last time I had the flu, but it’s really nothing serious. Granted, I could find more things “wrong” if I wanted to, but–all in all– I feel basically human and can’t tell you how exciting that is. Seriously, y’all, I spent the day doing nothing special–I wrote a blog post for a friend/client, ate with my parents, read a book, taught a dance lesson, and washed Tom Collins (my car) in preparation for going out-of-town tomorrow. No big deal, right? But having spent these lasts several months up and down with my health, I feel like I just climbed Mt. Everest–super proud! I’m actually tickled shitless to just go to work and do everyday things. And whereas I used to take these “average” activities for granted, now I’m grateful for them.

Like, thank you, Lord Jesus, that I was able to tie my shoes today.

The book I read this afternoon, written by The Disney Institute, is called Be Our Guest and specifically deals with the Disney business model and the company’s superior customer service practices. Y’all, it’s fascinating. Walt Disney (the man) apparently used to be concerned with “infinite details.” To this end, doors in Disney hotels have two peepholes–one at an adult’s level, one at a child’s. Additionally, the texture of the streets change from one area of the park to another. Likewise, even the trash cans (which are spaced 27 steps apart because Walt noticed that was how far people would walk before throwing their trash on the ground) are designed to match their surroundings.

All evening I’ve been thinking about this phrase, infinite details. Tonight I taught a dance lesson to a new student. This was only their third lesson, but they’ve already picked up on the fact that I, too, am concerned with infinite details. (The term most my students use is “picky.”) But with this student, my pickiness doesn’t seem to be a problem, since at some point during tonight’s lesson they said, “I’m a bit of a perfectionist too.”

Perfection is technically impossible.

I bring these two things up–being concerned with infinite details and being a perfectionist–because I’m beginning to think there’s a significant difference. In my experience, being a perfectionist is hell. I can’t speak for anyone else, but when I’m in perfectionist mood, I’m not happy unless everything is “just so.” And whenever I demand “perfection” from either myself or another, I never end up satisfied because “perfection” doesn’t exist in the way most of us think about it. In other words, there’s always SOMETHING else to improve or work on. Therefore, striving for perfection is not only frustrating, it’s also technically impossible.

As I see it, the idea of perfection inevitably is linked to inherent value. In other words, we perfectionists believe that if we get all our ducks in a row we’re somehow worth more as a person or somehow more lovable. But having spent the last year basically living everything I previously considered “un-perfect” in life–not having a job, being constantly sick, and, uh, living with my parents–I now believe that my inherent value (or anyone else’s) has absolutely nothing to do with station, situation, or specific skill sets. More and more, I accept and love myself “as is.” So one day I’m sick as a dog and don’t “produce” a thing. The next I’m fit as a fiddle and busy from dawn til dusk. How is one version of me any more perfect than the other?

Perfection has little to do with that which changes.

This is an idea I’d like to hold on to going forward. I’d like to drop the idea of perfection, or at least the idea that it’s something that I don’t already have and need to strive for. Sure, I imagine I’ll always be concerned with infinite details, little ways I can improve my dancing, my writing, and even my health. But if all the details don’t come together, if I don’t get everything “right,” I no longer want to believe that that makes me “wrong.” After all, don’t details come and go? One minute you get a dance move, and the next you don’t. One day you’re sick, and the next you’re not. Suddenly you have a scar on your skin. Is there anything in our lives that can’t turn on a dime, presto change-o? Of course not. So perhaps perfection has little to do with that which changes and everything to do with that which doesn’t. For surely there is a still, small something inside each of us that never changes, something that is timeless and untouchable, something inherently valuable and lovable–something perfect.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Both sunshine and rain are required for growth.

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Spring Is Coming (Blog #357)

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It’s five in the evening, the sun is shining, and welcome to The Daily Rash Report. (Thank you for joining us.) As many of you know, for the last week I’ve had a rash where no one wants a rash. Yesterday my dermatologist said he wanted to do a biopsy, so now as we speak a small piece of my scrotum is being shipped to Houston, Texas, to be analyzed in a lab by a complete stranger. My dermatologist said, “If you get a bill from Texas and think, I didn’t go to Texas–Well, part of you did.” (Everyone’s a comedian.)

Hopefully my scrotum is being mailed in a box marked “handle with care.”

I’m glad to say that the rash is much better today. The perfectionist in me would like to go on record as saying it’s not “completely better.” Like, if I stare at it long enough, I start to worry. That being said, the itching has significantly decreased. It’s not keeping me awake at night like before, and I was up for over two hours today before I even noticed it. Likewise, the redness and swelling have gone down. Again, it’s not a miracle, but I think we’re headed in the right direction. (Fingers crossed.) At the very least, I no longer want to cut my junk off with a kitchen knife, which–last week when things were at their worst–I briefly considered as a viable option.

So, thank you, Lord, that I no longer want to do that.

This morning I received an encouraging message from my dear friend, Sara. She said that her daughter used to struggle with skin issues and that after much frustration and many failed medical and alternative therapies, they ended up solving the problem with diet and probiotics. Considering that I’ve been gearing up to focus more on my diet lately and that my doctor already has me on (some) probiotics, it was the just nudge I needed. So this morning I cut out bread and coffee from breakfast, and this afternoon I ordered more probiotics on Amazon and picked up some Kombucha (a probiotic drink) from the health-food store.

For those who are interested, here’s a full list of what I’ve done or am doing in order to treat this rather-personal rash.

  • Washed and double-rinsed my sheets, towels, and all my clothes in “free and clear” detergent by ALL
  • Applying prescribed steroid cream (Triamcinolone) twice daily
  • Applying a probiotic mist my regular doctor suggested for other skin issues twice or three times daily (I can’t tell that it works, but I’ve already paid for the shit and might as well use it.)
  • Taking an Epson salt bath once a day (recommended online for eczema, etc.)
  • Sleeping or being naked as often as possible in order to “air out”
  • Cutting back or cutting out wheat, dairy, sugar, coffee, and alcohol (although I may have a beer tonight)
  • Drinking Turmeric or Dandelion tea instead of coffee (Turmeric is an anti-inflammatory, and Dandelion is a diuretic or “cleanser.”)
  • Increasing intake of flax-seed and fish oil (Again, these are anti-inflammatories and sources of Omega-3 fatty acids.)
  • Drinking Kombucha and taking daily probiotics

I realize this is a shotgun approach, but clearly something is already making a difference, so I’m going to keep everything up. Plus, I assume that the problem has had multiple contributing causes (overall decreased immunity, stress, diet, detergent/irritants), so it might as well have multiple contributing solutions. Either way, we’ll see what happens.

Now it’s six in the evening, the sun is still shining, and birds are even chirping. I can’t tell you how much hope I receive from the the simple fact that it’s not dark and cold outside, from just a little improvement in my environment and physical well-being. It truly is a shot in the arm. Earlier today my friend Sara said, “Spring is coming to EVERY area of your life!” I said, “I am naming and claiming that benediction.” But seriously, I hope she’s right. I really hope she’s right.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Kindness is never a small thing."