Let’s Taco Bout Gentrification (Blog #109)

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Last night I slept on the futon in what used to be our dining room so my sister and her boys could use what used to be her room, where I normally sleep. (That was confusing even to me.) Anyway, I think I slept for two hours before my nephew Christopher woke up with a full tank of gas and essentially started crowing like a rooster, at which point my sister said (in the loudest whisper I have ever heard), “BE QUIET. YOUR UNCLE IS TRYING TO SLEEP!”

Trying, of course, was the operative word.

I’m just going to put this out there–I don’t think my nephew really gave a shit. I mean, I used to work at a summer camp. Asking a seven-year-old to be quiet is like asking a newborn puppy to kindly not shit on your brand new shag carpet. Good luck. But I do think my nephew tried–for a moment–and I guess that’s what matters.

There’s a saying in life–know when you’re licked–so I went ahead and got up and made half a pot of coffee for me and my sister. Upon seeing the pot only partially full, she said “That’s cute. You must not have children.” Point taken, lesson learned. While we both drank what coffee we did have, my sister scrambled eggs, and then we ate breakfast together while the boys fussed at each other and the younger one, Ander, got in a fight with the coffee table and lost.

Don’t worry, kids are practically made of rubber.

After breakfast my friend Bonnie picked me up for another road trip to Austin (Yippee!), which is where I am now. I wish I could make the ride down here sound terribly interesting, but there’s only so much you can say about borrowing and drooling on your friend’s neck pillow or buying a bottle of Coca-Cola because it has your name on it–almost.

From now on, you’re welcome to call me “Marco,” but if you think I’m going to answer “Polo,” you’re sadly mistaken.

When Bonnie and I first got to town, we stopped by her daughter’s new Pilates studio, which just opened today. (Part of the reason we’re here is to help decorate the studio.) From there we checked into the Airbnb where we’re staying for a few days. Y’all this is my first Airbnb experience, and it’s so neat. Really swell. I guess they are all different, but this one is part of a lady’s house that’s been sectioned off, and it’s super cute, super eclectic, super Austin. Here’s a picture of the couch. Later Bonnie hung the sock monkey from the chandelier. (Why not?)

Here’s a picture of the front door taken from the couch. The stained glass window has a piece of tin foil on one side, but Austin’s the type of place that makes you think maybe that was part of the design. Bonnie said, “I love that everything is unique. Nothing is perfect. Nothing is too matchy-matchy.” I said, “It’s nothing like a hotel. It feels like home.”

There’s a note on the refrigerator with the WIFI network and password. Get this shit. The network is named “Dogs Against Gentrification.” (Crazy, right? Like dogs give a shit–about politics, that is. I know, I know–Keep Austin Weird.) Anyway, I’m not ashamed to say that I had to look up gentrification, which turns out to be the process by which a home or neighborhood is made to conform to the tastes of the middle-class. (Apparently it’s a big deal here.) Also, gentrification can be the process by which a person is made more refined or polite. (Think about what they did to poor Eliza Doolittle.)

This evening Bonnie and I walked to a restaurant called The Austin Taco Project, and it was ridiculously tasty. One of the advertisements said, “Let’s taco bout it,” so I think I’m going to start using that in all it’s varied forms–Let’s taco bout it–We can taco bout it–I’d like to taco bout gentrification. You know, stuff like that.

Wanna taco bout tacos?

Anyway, earlier today Bonnie and I taco’d bout pet peeves, specific phrases people use that drive us up our respective walls. Bonnie said she hates it when people say, “You’re having too much fun,” as if there’s a limit on how much joy a person is allowed to experience. I said I hate it when people say, “You should be ashamed of yourself,” as if any of us needs any more fucking shame in our lives. Lastly, I said I hate it when people say, “You’re being selfish,” which–rather than being a simple and accurate observation–is more often a technique used to get someone to behave the way someone else thinks they ought to.

At some point while seeing my therapist, I saw a picture on Facebook of a couple of people I don’t particularly like or admire, people I used to hang out with but don’t anymore because shit happens. Anyway, these people had the nerve to be together, in public, apparently having a good time. I mean, they were actually SMILING. (One of my friends tells a story about a movie or something in which one character says, “What? You just expect them to spend the rest of their life poor, alone, and brokenhearted?” To which the other character says, “Is that too much to ask?”) So I told my therapist about this, including the part that I hated that it bothered me at all. I said, “Obviously they can do what they want.”

She said, “Yeah. They’re–autonomous.”

This is a concept I have to keep reminding myself of, and although I don’t know much about gentrification, it sounds a lot like not respecting another person’s autonomy. I mean, it’s easy to do. I make judgments about other people’s behaviors all the time. You’re house needs to look a certain way. You’re having too much fun. You say fuck (more than I do)–you should be ashamed of yourself. Why didn’t you call me back? You’re being selfish. But the fact is that everyone–everyone–gets to decide what’s best for him or her. And so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else, it’s frankly none of anyone else’s business, including mine. (Ouch. I hate that.)

But the great thing about recognizing someone else’s autonomy is that in so doing you also recognize your own. As it turns out, whenever you give respect, you get respect, at the very least from yourself. And something wonderful happens whenever everyone makes their own decisions and doesn’t conform to what someone else thinks is best. After all, conformity is the stuff hotels are made of. Whereas that’s nice enough for a weekend, who’d want to live there? No, it’s much better when each of us is unique, and the lot of us aren’t perfect or too matchy-matchy. I’m sure the dogs against gentrification would agree–that’s when it feels like home.

Of course, if you think otherwise, we can always taco bout it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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Into and Out of the Woods (Blog #106)

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Some days it’s hard to stay awake no matter how much coffee I pour down my throat. Lately it seems like I’ve been getting close to half a pot a day, which may explain why even at four in the morning my mind is racing and I’m currently thinking about how much fun I could have with a hula hoop or a pogo stick, both of which I suppose are rather Freudian objects. But then again, what isn’t?

Today I finally finished the book about fairy tales I’ve been reading, and while discussing the prince’s slipping the glass shoe on Cinderella’s foot, the author pointed out that it was an act of commitment, like slipping a ring on your lover’s finger. Sounds sweet, right? But then he said that rings represent the vagina and fingers represent the penis, so the giving and exchanging of rings is clearly symbolic of sex (among other things).

I mean, I’ve been to a lot of weddings, but I’ve yet to hear a pastor share THAT tidbit of information.

Anyway, I’m short on sleep today because I got up early to go to massage therapy, chiropractic therapy, and physical therapy–all for the second time this week. Considering I also went to regular (mental health) therapy this week, I’ve had about all the therapy I can stand. (Change is exhausting.) That being said, my inner teacher’s pet felt like it got several gold stars in the last several days because my therapist told me that I was out of the woods, meaning that after over three years of therapy, I’ve tackled all the big shit. (Yippee!) She said (oh by the way) I’ve actually been out of the woods for a while now, that if that weren’t the case, it would mean one of us wasn’t doing their job. So that felt good, and then today the new massage person I saw told me my fascia was “very responsive.” (Why thank you, I thought no one would notice.)

But seriously. More gold stars!

If it sounds like my head is getting bigger than normal, don’t worry. The physical therapist, who’d told me earlier this week that I was going to “be cleared” today, told me that I needed to come back at least two more times and that we needed to “try something new.” (Fine. Just don’t take my gold stars away.) Here’s a picture of what we’ve been trying, a moist heating pad and an electronic stimulation machine that feels so good I have to remind myself not to moan out loud. I was told I could ring the bell if I needed anything, but also told, “It doesn’t work for room service.”

Shit.

When I walked out of physical therapy, I noticed a “no smoking” sign posted close to the front door. I suppose this is normal enough for a health facility, but DIRECTLY UNDER the sign was a butt can overflowing with cigarettes.

In addition to being ironic, there are so many things wrong with this picture that I just can’t even. (So I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions.) But since I’ve lately found myself in the business of making a therapy lesson out of damn near everything, I will say that the butt can by the “no smoking sign” is obviously enabling. (And that’s not a good thing.) Additionally, I think having a “no smoking” sign directly next to a butt can is a lot like having a boundary without any direct and immediate consequences, which–if you didn’t realize–is no boundary at all.

When my therapist and I first started working on boundaries, I said that I didn’t like it when people picked lint–or whatever–off my shirt because the act often assumes a level of intimacy that I’m not usually comfortable with. (Certain people, like my family and close friends, can get away with this behavior. However, straight women who are in love with me–can not.) Anyway, once after I’d identified this boundary with my therapist, a straight woman who once confessed her love for me leaned over and removed something from my shirt. “Please don’t do that,” I said. “I’d prefer you just tell me that I have chip crumbs on my nipples. And if you absolutely must remove them yourself–please don’t use you mouth.”

Okay, that’s not exactly the way it transpired, but I did ask her not to invade my personal space without permission. Well, it happened a couple more times, and one day I actually grabbed her wrist before her hand could get to the piece of shirt fuzz that was stuck in my five o’clock shadow. “I asked you not to do that,” I said. You should have seen the look on her face–totally worth the entire awkward moment and my feeling like a bit of a jerk. But here’s the best part–she never did it again. Instead she’d say, “You have something on your shirt,” and then passive aggressively add, “I know you don’t like it when I touch you.”

Damn right I don’t.

Boundaries are about starting small, enjoying initial successes, and practicing.

That particular incident may seem like a silly thing to brag about, but it was actually a gold star moment for me. I mean, my therapist has always made a big damn deal about boundaries, and even though I was resistant to them at first, I finally came around. As my therapist says, “Boundaries make people feel safe.” I’ve been thinking lately just how long it can take to really get good at anything–dancing, writing, “therapy shit.” I know that so many times I look up to great dancers and writers and think they “just happened.” But as my friend Barbie says, “The man at the top of the mountain didn’t just fall there.” With anything you’re working on, especially something like boundaries, it’s about starting small, enjoying initial successes, and practicing until you get your relationships like you want them.

Still in shock about the wedding ring / vagina thing, I will say that the fairy tale book didn’t say EVERYTHING was about sex. Not EVERYTHING is Freudian in that sense. For example, in fairy tales going “into the woods,” like Hansel and Gretel or Little Red Riding Hood, represents the need to find one’s personal power and inner strength. Of course, it ain’t easy. After all, the woods is where all the scary stuff happens because the woods is where the wolves and dragons live, not to mention the witches who want to bake you into their gingerbread cookies.

So if you want to survive the woods, that means even you nice little boys and girls have to stand up for yourselves, face your dragons, and maybe even sit a witch down for a heart-to-heart and say, “For crying out loud, I don’t like you like that! Get your hands off my effing shirt.” Then that witch will–finally–get out of your way. (If she doesn’t, shove her ass in the closest oven you can find.) I promise, not only will you feel like you’ve just been given a gold star, but you’ll also be more empowered, one step closer to being out of the woods.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Everything is progressing as it should.

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On Being a Broken Record (On Being a Broken Record) (Blog #91)

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This afternoon I swam laps. Mostly I kept getting pissed off that my new goggles were leaking, but I managed to swim thirteen hundred meters, which is three hundred more than a few days ago. As I was getting ready to leave, in the locker room, there was a kid running around, maybe waiting on his friends. I’m guessing he was about seven, but hell, he could have been twelve or thirteen. I mean, everyone’s getting Botox these days, and it’s really hard to guess someone’s age. Anyway, this kid kept singing, “Singing in the shower,” a line from a song by Becky G. Just that one line, stuck on repeat. Over and over again.

Singing in the shower.

Singing in the shower.

Singing in the shower.

I wanted to scream. Geez, kid, learn the rest of the freaking song!

This morning when I woke up I felt skinnier. I’m guessing you know how it goes when you’re on a diet, exercising. You get up one day, and things feel a little tighter, a little lighter. Maybe the scale doesn’t agree with your assessment, but you know–something’s different. Well, the first thing I thought was, There you are, Peter, which is actually a line from the movie Hook starring Robin Williams and references Peter Pan, and not my personal Peter–thank you very much. Anyway, in the movie, Peter Pan has grown up, and he returns to Neverland a middle-aged, overweight lawyer. Of course, none of the Lost Boys recognize him, until one day when one of the boys takes off Peter’s glasses, looks deep into his eyes and says, “Oh, there you are, Peter.”

So I guess it’s a good thing that the line popped into my head this morning. Eating better, exercising, and down several pounds, I’m starting to feel like my physical self again. Also, I feel like I should mention–my armpits don’t smell like bleach anymore. (This is something I blogged about several times over the course of many weeks, some funky body odor that showed up and wouldn’t go away.) The problem has been better for a week or so, but I’ve been cautious to “speak too soon.” But for whatever reason–better diet, Gold Bond Powder, Holy Water–it seems I’ve been healed. Thank you, Jesus. I smell like myself again.

There you are, Marcus.

This evening my friend Marla and I attended a book signing for our friend Anita Paddock at Chapters on Main (a local bookstore) in Van Buren. (Anita’s second book, Closing Time, was recently released.) I told Marla that when our house burned down when I was four, my parents gave our kitchen cabinets and some bathroom fixtures to a family friend who, at the time, lived and worked in the building where Chapters is now. The cool part? The cabinets are still in use, in the coffee shop section of the bookstore. Even better, the baristas handwrite fun and encouraging notes on every cup of coffee. Pictured above, my cup tonight said, “Love Yourself.” I joked with Marla, “Not a problem!”

Tonight I went for a walk, something a friend recently referred to as a “midnight ramble.” On my way back, several blocks from home, I patted my stomach and actually said out loud, “There you are, Peter.” Of course, even though it was after midnight, there were two ladies sitting on a front porch right beside me. Geez. Of all things to say when talking to yourself. There you are, Peter.

Since I got home tonight, I’ve been thinking that I’m a lot like that kid at the pool this afternoon. I’ve got this phrase on repeat. There you are, Peter. Singing in the shower. Whatever. Once I heard the mind referred to as “an idiot box,” meaning that it just repeats itself over and over again. I guess it’s harmless, albeit annoying, when it happens with a song lyric or a movie quote. But of course, it can happen with anything, so a little phrase like–I’m just gonna shoot from the hip here–“you’re fat” or “you’ll never get a date as long as your armpits smell like cleaning chemicals,” can do a lot of damage when it goes on–and on–and on.

There’s a technique my therapist talks about called Broken Record. It’s basically used to enforce a boundary with someone you care about who simply isn’t “getting it.” You boil your boundary down to a one-liner and keep repeating it. I won’t talk to you when you raise your voice. And no matter what they say–ifs, ands, or buts–if they scream or yell, your answer is (calmly) always the same. I won’t talk to you when you raise your voice. And if you have to–I’m leaving/hanging up now.

We teach people how to treat us.

I think the idea behind Broken Record is twofold. First, we teach people how to treat us, what’s acceptable and what’s not. Second, people learn by repetition, and it can take a while to re-train someone, to let them know your rules of engagement have changed–for real this time.

Sometimes my therapist and I talk about positive affirmations, which are pretty big in the self-help/new age world. If you don’t know, positive affirmations are simply positive statements you write down or say to yourself that you want to be true in your life. For example (as mentioned in a previous post), I, Marcus, and a brilliant and prolific writer. Or as my coffee cup suggested tonight, I love myself. So you just say that over and over again, letting it sink into your subconscious, which apparently is a slow learner. In essence, you have to Broken Record–yourself.

Personally, I have a love/hate relationship with positive affirmations. Sometimes I think they’re wonderful, and sometimes I think they’re a bunch of shit. But as evidenced by the phrase I’ve had on repeat today–There you are, Peter–it’s obvious that I’m already talking to myself, my mind already has a record on repeat. So the question is, would I rather be playing the record that says, “I’m fat, I’m fat, I’m fat,” or the one that says, “My God! I’m stunning, I’m stunning, I’m stunning”?

I vote for “I’m stunning.”

The way I see it, everything you tell yourself is an affirmation. It’s just that somethings are a hell of a lot more positive than others. And if you’ve been telling yourself one thing–something negative–most of your life, it’s going to take a minute to turn that truck around.

Sometimes I marvel at people like Anita who actually get a book written. It seems like such a daunting task. But just like this blog, it’s simply a matter of sitting down and writing like a broken record–over and over again. At first it’s just a word, a sentence, a paragraph. And then before you know it, it’s a thousand words. Two months later, it’s a book. Honestly, I wish it were easier. I wish I could wake up tomorrow and have a six-pack. (I mean, I could have a six-pack of beer tomorrow, but not a six-pack OF ABS.) And I wish I could write a book in a day, and learn the Argentine Tango in a day, and learn everything I’ve learned in therapy in three years–in a day.

But that’s simply not the way it works. Rather, it’s like swimming, one action on repeat. (Hopefully with a decent set of goggles.) It’s a balanced meal, a good habit, lots of positive self-talk–done over and over (and over) again.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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And God knows you don't make everyone else happy. But this is no reason to quit or be discouraged, since doing what you love and feel called to do is never--never--about gaining acceptance from others.

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Energetic Vampires (Blog #73)

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The week I started this website, I was out for a walk and took the above photo. If for some reason you can’t see it, it’s a road sign that says Dead End. I thought surely I could work it into a post about where I felt my life was headed, or maybe one about a number of relationships I’ve been in. However, tonight I’m using it mainly because I’m not sure where this post is going, I need a picture to use, and I’m tired of taking selfies. Hard to believe, I know. Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s just a phase–like being gay. (One time I actually had a former student say this about my sexuality TO MY BOYFRIEND. It didn’t bless me.)

This afternoon I watched a movie called From Dusk Till Dawn starring George Clooney and Quentin Tarantino. One of my dearest friends recommended it, and if he were here right this moment, I’d tell him exactly what The Good Fairy told Little Bunny Foo Foo–I’ll give you three more chances. (Warning: If you haven’t seen the film, I’m about to spoil the plot for you.)

The movie is about two brothers, bank robbers, and murderers (George and Quentin) who are running from the law and kidnap a former priest and his two children, using the family’s RV to escape to Mexico. Once there, they go to titty bar to hand off some of the stolen money, and then SHIT GETS WEIRD, meaning almost everyone turns into vampires.

Vampires.

If you didn’t see that coming, I didn’t either. I kept staring at the screen wondering if I’d accidentally changed channels, but I hadn’t. Well, the rest of the film is everyone killing everyone else–daylight, crosses, lot of wooden stakes to the heart–the usual vampire stuff. Only George and one of the children survive. And that’s the end.

What the hell?

It was like–SURPRISE!–in the worst possible way.

I messaged my friend and said as much, and he said he LOVED the dramatic plot twist. But here’s my problem. There’s a concept in writing called “the contract with the reader,” which says that by the end of the first paragraph or chapter, it should be clear what the story is about. Early on, the reader (or viewer) should be able to say, “Oh, this is a story about an orphan,” or “This is a story about a prostitute who falls in love with a millionaire.” And then, knowing what you’re getting yourself into, you should be able to sit back, relax, and watch the story unfold and the characters develop.

But From Dusk Till Dawn effectively pulled a bait and switch, promising a movie about two guys running from the law, possibly about a former priest and why he lost his faith, but delivering a vampire flick instead. It was like–SURPRISE!–in the worst possible way. I’ve spent the entire evening trying to find something, anything, redeeming about the film, but I’ve got nothing. No one changes or learns anything, and there’s no happy ending other than the fact that the surviving kid gets the RV and George gets five percent off the money he owes the guy he was meeting at the titty bar. (Come on, make it ten. My brother turned into a vampire, and I had to kill him. It’s been a rough day.)

I realize this is becoming somewhat of a rant, so I’m going to wrap up my dissatisfaction with this film by saying that I get it. Things don’t always turn out like you think they’re going to. Life is full of surprises. Sometimes you waste two hours of you life on a bad movie.

But I’d hate for the film and this blog post to be a complete waste, so I’d like to talk a little bit about vampires. Believe it or not, vampires are discussed in a lot in self-help material and even in therapy. Apparently, vampires are real, not in the blood-sucking sense, but in the energy-sucking sense. You know those friends you always walk away from feeling drained–the ones who monopolize the conversation, complain all the time, take-take-take and never give? Those are vampires. I mean, they’re not bad people–we all do it from time to time, probably not on purpose–but they’re certainly not healthy to have hanging around your living room or favorite titty bar either.

To be clear, if you have a friend who’s a vampire, I’m not suggesting you put a wooden stake through their heart. I doubt wearing a cross would do any good. But do try something. In my experience, the answer is almost always a good solid boundary. In the case of the former student who challenged my sexuality to my boyfriend, there were a lot of instances in which they’d get jealous or upset if my attention went anywhere other than in their direction. They’d say, “Well you’ve danced with her three times but me only once.”

Talk about sucking the life out of you.

We had a number of conversations about everything going on, and I eventually asked the person to leave. In essence, I whipped out the holy water and said, “That’s enough. I’m taking my life back.” My therapist says that when dealing with vampires, boundaries don’t always have to be so dramatic. She says that sometimes the people who drain us are people we really care about. Maybe they’re family. In those cases, she says that we can “gear down,” go from talking to them every day to a couple of times a week.

Honestly, I think the people in our lives should be like a well-written story. We should be able to know what they’re about pretty early on. We should be able to say, “Here’s a person who needs a lot of attention,” or “Here’s someone who’s a good listener and is always trying to help.” Of course, people change and lives are complicated, but if someone initially presents themselves as one thing and later there’s a big plot twist–oh shit, he’s a vampire!–well, Houston, we have a problem. Reach for your crosses.

In my experience, some relationships, especially ones with vampires, are dead ends. Period. But my therapist says, “Life is long,” so I like to leave room for the idea that anyone or any relationship can circle back around. Plus, we all go through times when we’re more needy than others. But over the last few years, I’ve consciously chosen to spend more and more of my time on roads that are going somewhere, traveling with people who give life more than they take it. As Robert Frost says, that has made all the difference.

When Your Mood Stinks (Blog #70)

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I’ve been in a foul mood pretty much the entire day. In addition to being hungry because I’ve recently cut back on carbs and sugars (and all the things I love so dearly), I didn’t get much sleep last night, since I got up early this morning to go to therapy. (I’m sure it wasn’t the first time someone showed up in a bad mood. I mean, that’s kind of the point.) So that’s how I woke up, and then even before I got out of bed, I decided the screen protector I put on my new phone a couple of days ago was a PIECE OF SHIT because it wasn’t registering touch very well, which is a problem for–I don’t know–a touch-screen phone.

So that pissed me off.

And then when I got dressed, I couldn’t find my favorite ring. (I almost always know where my things are, since I’m anal retentive and hyper-organized and consequently so much fun to be around.) I looked everywhere–my man bag, my toiletry bag, my luggage–and couldn’t find it, so I started thinking that I must have left it in Nashville somewhere.

So that pissed me off more.

I almost always enjoy therapy, but since beginning this blog, I’ve started thinking, Good, it’s therapy day–more material. (On certain topics, my therapist, family, and friends have started letting me know in advance–don’t write about this. Fair enough.) But more often than not, I’m finding that what happens during that one hour in therapy is rarely the thing for the day I end up blogging about. Go figure. So I’ll just say that it went well, other than the fact that I was wearing shorts and a tank top and the waiting room felt like a meat locker.

After therapy I had lunch with my friend Ray, and I showed up a little early, so I sat in my car and Googled the screen protector I bought for my phone. I found out that I should be able to remove the protector, which made me feel better. But then I realized I would still need to replace it with another brand, which seemed overwhelming, so I put my phone away.

For lunch Ray introduced me to the best brussel sprouts I’ve ever eaten. I assume they were fried in unicorn fat and dipped in ranch dressing made by fairies, but since I’m on a diet, I didn’t ask any questions and instead focused on the fact that they were green.

In and of itself, a bad mood isn’t a problem.

I told Ray that I was upset about the screen protector on my phone and that I’d decided to not do anything about it–take the screen off, call the company, throw my phone across the damn room–until I got more sleep and adjusted to my diet. Ray reminded me of the acronym HALT, which stands for Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired. The idea behind the acronym is to to slow the fuck down (halt) and not make any big decisions whenever you’re one of those four things, since you’re probably not going to make the best decision anyway. (Personally, I think the H could also stand for Horny. Don’t make any big decisions when you’re horny.)

Just speaking from today’s experience, I’d also suggest that if you have three out of the four letters going on, don’t even bother leaving the house. Just try again tomorrow. Maybe wait until next week if you can.

The rest of the day has been–okay. I picked up a few books at the library and took a nap when I got home. Currently, the nap feels like a distant memory. This evening I went for a long walk and saw a skunk–twice. I’m pretty sure it was following me. Whenever something like this happens, I assume it’s a sign from the heavens rather than–you know–a skunk with bad eyesight thinking my black and white tennis shoes would be nice to make babies with.

Anyway, I looked up skunks on Google, and it turns out that it takes a few days for them to replenish their famous odor after it’s released. Because of this fact, they’re pretty cautious about using it and will only do so if there’s a real threat. In terms of spirituality, skunks represent independence, discernment, and good boundaries. (If only skunks had boundary bumper stickers that said, “Stay away or get the spray.”)

When I got home from the walk, I found my ring. It was in my man bag hiding behind the Ibuprofen. That made me feel a little better, but I’m still hungry, angry (about the phone), and tired. The day itself has gone well, but it’s felt like there’s been a bad mood on deck the entire time, just itching to step up to the plate and take a swing. I’m proud to say I haven’t really let it, but it’s certainly been tempting. I think that if I’d engaged more with the phone problem or tried to do anything more challenging than tie my shoes, I would have screamed or cried or both.

Since seeing the skunk, I’ve been trying to make a lesson out independence, discernment, and good boundaries. (Bad boundaries–stink?) But I don’t think that’s it. Rather, I think my bad mood today is like the skunk I saw tonight. In and of itself, it’s not a problem. There’s not a thing in the world wrong with being hungry, angry, or tired (or all three at once). So long as most of me can step over to the other side of the street and proceed slowly (don’t make any sudden moves), it’s all right. But get too close to a bad mood, and look out. To modify a familiar quotation, speak (or try to fix you phone) when you’re hungry, angry, lonely, or tired, and you’ll make the best speech you’ll ever regret.

Talk about stinking things up.

Okay, I’m going to bed now. Surely this skunk of a bad mood will go away soon enough.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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The Truth Is a Monster (Blog #42)

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This morning I helped my friend Madeline redecorate her home. For a while, I just kept walking around the house, going from room to room and thinking about what needed to go where, but I couldn’t decide. After a good bit of this, I finally sat down in a chair in the living room. Instead of thinking, I decided to feel. Call it intuition or Feng Shui, but there were areas of the room that felt crowded, and there were spaces on the walls that didn’t feel like they could breathe as well as others. There were pieces that didn’t feel like they got along with each other, like they needed to be separated.

Having checked in with my feelings, I could then explain them to Madeline. “See, all these pieces look hand-made, they don’t belong next to the ones that are mass-produced.” But it wasn’t something I could articulate before I sat down and checked in with my gut. Once I did, we were off and running.

Here’s a picture of three pieces we grouped together because of their complimentary colors.

This afternoon I watched a movie called A Monster Calls. It’s about a boy whose mom is terminally ill and his encounters with a tree outside his window that turns into a monster. The monster tells the boy three stories, for which the boy must tell the monster a story—his nightmare. I really wanted to love this movie, but I didn’t. (I’ve had this same experience with several people and more than one piece of chocolate cake.) Having said that, there was a pretty profound scene in the movie that I loved. (I’m about to tell you about it, so if you’re hell-bent on watching the movie and not knowing what happens, I suggest you put this blog down, go watch it, and come back to the next paragraph. If you’ve already seen it or don’t care, tally forth.)

Toward the end of the movie, the monster comes to collect the boy’s nightmare, and the boy kind of beats around the bush and says, I can’t tell you the truth, I can’t say it. But the monster is really big and really intimidating, so the boy finally comes out with and says that he wishes his mom would die—he loves her—but he wants the whole thing to be over—it’s too painful.

(Since we’ve come this far, I’ll go ahead and tell you that the monster tells the boy his feelings are normal, very human. More than anything else, he says, the boy is very brave for being honest.)

The movie made me think of a situation that came up in therapy once. I was having some difficulties with a friend who was crossing some boundaries, and although I knew I had a problem, I couldn’t articulate it. So kind of like the monster in the movie (and I mean that in the most endearing way possible), my therapist got a little aggressive and said, “Do you want to spend time with this person or not?” And I kind of sheepishly said, “No.”

And my therapist said, “Say it again.”

So a bit more forcefully, I said, “NO.”

And my therapist said, “Say it again.”

“NO!”

My therapist shot to the edge of her seat, clapped her hands together like a televangelist casting out demons, and said, “THAT’S your truth!”

In the movie, the boy thought that he would die or be punished when he spoke his truth, and he was surprised when he didn’t. My reaction to my truth that day in therapy wasn’t that dramatic, but I was surprised that I felt so strongly about the relationship with my friend. I mean, we’d spent a lot of time together. I cared about them.

Over the next few days, I was able to make sense of the truth I’d spoken in therapy. I’d been angry with my friend for quite a while but had been biting my tongue (my therapist says that hurts). I was sweeping problems under the rug.

The thing that I have slowly learned over the years is that my gut is trustworthy. Looking back, I can see so many times that it was telling me to slow down or back away or run like hell. But I almost always made excuses in favor of avoiding a confrontation. (Red flag? No problem—full speed ahead!) However, now I’m learning that relationships are like decorating a room. Sometimes things get crowded and you need space to breathe, and sometimes things don’t go together and they need to be separated. And maybe it takes a little work to make the necessary changes, but it always feels better when you do.

At least in my case, I’ve found that sometimes I have to get out of my head and stop thinking about things so much. I have to sit down and check in with my gut. When I do, the truth is always right there waiting for me. And I don’t blame anyone who runs from the truth because the truth isn’t always pretty, and the truth isn’t always easy. More often than not, the truth is a monster. It gets in your face and makes you get honest. And sometimes the truth even physically separates you from people you care about, if for no other reason than to bring you closer to yourself.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Boundaries aren’t something you knock out of the park every time.

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some boundaries, please (blog #27)

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My therapist says that when I first showed up in her office, I was a “fucking mess.” (How’s that for honesty?) I remember coming home after that first appointment and my ex asking me what she said, to which I replied, “She said we have zero boundaries.” We both agreed that was true, but looking back, I’m sure neither one of us knew what a boundary even was. Well, my next therapy appointment was two weeks later, in the morning. That afternoon, I moved out of my ex’s house. I’d finally had enough of the lying, cheating, manipulating, and fighting. I’d finally gotten a boundary.

(The above photo was taken about the time I started therapy, after I broke up with my ex and dyed my hair blonde. It’s included so that you’ll know what a “fucking mess” looks like.)

For the last three years, my therapist and I have continued to talk about boundaries—what they are, why they’re important, how to get some (it’s not as simple as you’d think). The subject comes up so often, it could easily turn into a drinking game. Like, if you sat on the other end of the couch and took a shot for every time one of us used the word “boundaries” during a one-hour session, you’d probably have to crawl out the door and call an Uber to get home.

If you don’t know me, I have this problem with having an “all or nothing” mentality. It’s like I either eat super healthy every meal of every day—no bread, no corn, no sugar, no alcohol (and also no fun)—or I eat cake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Well, I don’t recommend living in this manner, and I’m working on it. But that way of thinking is always playing in the background. Like, in therapy I tend to think of myself as having “zero boundaries” or “perfect boundaries,” even though my therapist points out that all of us are somewhere in between. Boundaries are something we’re always working on—good boundaries here, not-so-good boundaries over there.

In my experience, my not-so-good boundaries are usually a result of my desire to please other people. Like, I’ll do whatever you ask—you don’t even have to pay me—if you just like me. And please don’t yell. Or write my name on the board. And whereas there have been plenty of experiences over the years that I knew were wrong or inappropriate or just not okay with me, I ignored a lot of those things in favor or making someone else happy or, at the very least, not rocking the boat.

This morning my Dad and I went to Waffle House. There were two middle-aged guys next to us, and they started talking to the waitress. Well, I guess it was her birthday, since she said something about being twenty-one. Then one of the guys said, “Has anyone given you your spankings? Come over here and I’ll give you your spankings.” Personally, I was disgusted because the guy clearly didn’t have boundaries. And I can only assume the girl didn’t say anything (like, “Watch it, asshole) because she didn’t have any either, or, more likely, she wanted to keep her job.

Several years ago, I had a student who would touch or pat me inappropriately. For the longest time, I ignored it. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal and that I needed the money more than I needed to draw a line in the sand. Well, I finally had enough, so one day I said, “Keep your hands off my ass.” When that didn’t fix the problem, I told her she wasn’t welcome anymore. Sure, I felt a hit in my wallet, but I haven’t regretted it once. Apparently, self-respect feels better than money. (Who knew?)

After some time had passed, I ran into that same student in a parking lot, and she wanted to come over and give me a hug. Well, I didn’t want to, so I put myself behind the door of my car and said, “I’d rather not.” So she stood several feet away, and I stood behind my door, and we talked, and it was a decent conversation.

When I told my therapist about the incident, she said, “How did it feel when you stood behind your door and told her no?” And I said, “It felt great, like a rush, empowering.” And I thought my therapist was going to jump out of her chair. I actually think her arms flew up in the air, like her favorite roller derby team had just scored a point. She said, “THAT’S what a healthy boundary feels like!”

This last weekend, I had a similar experience, although on a smaller scale. I was at a dance, and a grown woman (who was very pleasant), came over and told me that her friend wanted to dance with me but was too shy to ask. Well, I understand being intimidated by other dancers. It can be REALLY hard to ask someone else to dance. That being said, I don’t recommend getting one of your friends to ask for you because, well, we’re not in junior high anymore. Maybe in the past I would have asked the lady’s friend to dance, but this time I decided to be a boundary setter instead of a people pleaser. So I said, “She’s welcome to ask me. I promise I’ll say, ‘Yes.’” Unfortunately, the lady’s friend never came over.

It’s never a minor thing to take better care of yourself.

This evening, I taught a dance lesson to a couple who’s only been once before. They messaged an hour before the lesson and asked if I could meet half an hour earlier. Well, I hadn’t cleaned up yet, but I figured I could make it fifteen minutes early, so that’s what I said. As I was getting ready, the people pleaser in me wanted to rush around and get there faster. But I forced myself to slow down—to shave, to clip my fingernails, to actually get ready and to stick to my boundary. And we were all earlier than originally planned, and no one was upset, and everything was fine.

As I think about these two incidents, there’s part of me that considers them pretty minor. But they were good practice in setting boundaries, and it felt good to have them. What’s more, I didn’t walk away from either situation feeling like I’d compromised a part of myself in order to make someone else happy, and that means I didn’t walk away with any resentments. I know that in the past, I’ve often been resentful—or angry or bitter—when someone else was doing something I didn’t like. And while it’s easy to blame the other person when something like that happens, the truth is that I was the one who was putting up with it.

My therapist says that boundaries are the Holy Grail in therapy—they’re that important to good relationships and mental health. So with that reminder, I guess it’s never a minor thing to work on boundaries. It’s never a minor thing to teach people how to treat you. It’s never a minor thing to take better care of yourself.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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