Keeping Yourself at Arm’s Length (Blog #185)

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It’s two in the morning, and I just woke up from a nap. After a hard day of–well–reading and that’s about it, I was beat. I did go for a two-hour walk, so maybe that’s what did me in. Maybe some days life just catches up to you. Either way, I’m not sure the nap helped. Currently I can’t quite get my brain to turn on and stay on. It feels like I’m futzing with the switch–up and down, up and down–but there must be a short in the circuit. In terms of writing something brilliant, funny, or profound, things aren’t especially looking up. I realize a writer saying that is a bit like a restaurant saying, “Come on down–our food is–meh,” but it’s honest.

As my friend Trey used to say, “Some days chickens, some days feathers.”

Yeah, today is definitely a feather sort of day. Usually I go for a walk–I don’t know–around midnight. But tonight I went for a walk at 7:30. I thought, Be like the rest of the world, Marcus. The sun is setting. This will be so picturesque. So I took off down the street, crossed over the interstate, and entered what I like to think of as a less populated area of town–kind of country, no sidewalks. Well, shit. There were cars everywhere. Why people weren’t at home with their families on a Sunday evening like God intended, I’ll never know, but I kept stepping off the road and into the ditches to avoid becoming a headline in tomorrow’s newspaper.

I should probably give in and become one of those people who wear reflective tape or blinking lights when they go out walking. You know the ones. I could even wear an orange vest, or if I wanted to really gay it up, somehow rig a disco ball to hang over my head. Maybe just stretch pants with a lot of sequins would do. Anyway, I eventually made it to a part of town with fewer cars and more sidewalks, but the whole affair gave me a lot of sympathy for animals. If they’re anything like me, they’re probably really pissed off at all the people in automobiles who have the nerve to actually use the roads for driving on. As for the animals who only come out late at night, I don’t blame them.

The book I’m currently reading is called Childhood Disrupted: How Your Biography Becomes Your Biology, and How You Can Heal by Donna Jackson Nakazawa. (That was a mouthful.) Beautifully written, the book outlines how trauma in early life can lead to chronic inflammation and the loss of healthy immune function in later life. This afternoon I read about techniques you can use to help yourself heal, many of which were familiar–yoga, chi kung, mindfulness. But there were a couple of techniques I hadn’t heard of, so I immediately went to Google in search of practitioners to visit and workshops to attend. Well, I couldn’t find anyone or anything locally, and that caused me to freak out a little, the same way I do anytime I see a recommended reading list. My friend Bonnie says I get stressed because I misread “recommended” as “required,” but either way it always feels as if “health and healing” and “the right information” are just beyond my grasp.

Oh good–a new way to stretch tight muscles. Oh crap–I have to fly to Switzerland to learn it.

Overwhelmed, I put the book down, went for the walk in traffic I mentioned earlier, and listened to another book (on tape) about a woman who had a near-death experience. Naturally, I thought, I need to have a near-death experience! Honestly, I love all the information, but I could do without the internal pressure that tells me constantly to transform or be like somebody else. The last time I saw my therapist she reminded me of the time I fasted from reading, watching, or listening to anything that could be considered positive or helpful, and it may be time to do that again. I’m envisioning spending a solid week watching Queer as Folk or listening to Come On Eileen on repeat, maybe sniffing some glue if I start thinking too much.

Now it’s 3:30, and I’m at 700 words. My brain is still nowhere to be found, things are moving slower than normal, and I think this is what it felt like in the beginning–not the beginning of the world, but the beginning of this blog. What am I going to say now? Well, your guess is as good as mine, especially since I keep getting distracted by Facebook and an article about the zodiac signs that just informed me Virgos (like me) are the most difficult sign to love because 1) we’re the most self-sufficient sign, 2) we approach relationships from a managerial position (which is apparently not a turn on), and 3) we tend to keep people at arm’s length until we know we can trust them. Well, first, that sucks but seems accurate. Second, if this sounds like a drag to any potential partners, don’t worry–I’ll take care of it–I’m sure there’s an answer somewhere on a recommended reading list.

Well, crap. I think I just proved their point.

I heard recently that no one person holds your health or life in their hands. You could be on your deathbed, and if heaven or the gods decided they wanted you to live, you would. I think this is a good reminder for me. So many times I get caught up thinking that I need more information or yet another bodyworker in order to get the kink out of my back. This sort of thinking, of course, is about as peaceful as going for a walk on the side of a busy road. But the truth is I already have a ton of information, and I’ve worked with more professionals than some people work with in a lifetime. Plus, healing never seems to be something you find at the end of a chapter. Rather, I think it comes in those moments when you’re able to break down your walls, let love in and out, and therefore stop keeping both others and yourself at arm’s length.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We follow the mystery, never knowing what’s next.

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As It Turns Out, I’m Normal (Blog #179)

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I got up early today, I have to get up early tomorrow, and I just spent the last hour watching The Voice with my parents instead of writing. We also ate gas station pizza. Today I had lunch with my friend Ray, and he asked if I ever wanted to say, “Fuck it,” and skip a day of blogging. “Only every day,” I said. “Recently I thought, Maybe I could just double up tomorrow and sleep for a change.” Ray said, “That seems like a slippery slope.” I agree, so this is it, this is my life. I write when I’m happy, I write when I’m sad. Most days, I write when I’m tired. I guess this is how parents of infants feel–sleep deprived–putting something (or someone, rather) before themselves. At least my laptop doesn’t require diapers and my blog doesn’t throw up on me.

Now that I think about it, I throw up on my blog.

Last night, unable to go to bed “early,” I started a new Netflix series at three in the morning. The show is called Embarrassing Bodies, and it’s about three British doctors who set up shop in the middle of town so everyday people with medical problems can walk in, sit down, strip down, and get some damn answers. Last night’s episode was about skin disorders, and people showed up with acne, warts, psoriasis, itchy penises, and oversized vaginas. Y’all I was raised in church. I saw more skin than a teenager sees on a porn site. Except for the part when they gave a man a breast reduction and actually cut his nipple off, I couldn’t look away. It was fascinating.

Today I saw my therapist and told her about recently being at a party and comparing myself to other people. I said, “I mean, there is a part of my brain that gets that just because someone is pretty doesn’t mean they have their shit together.” Seriously, my therapist got out of her super comfortable chair she rarely gets out of, gave me a high-five, and did a victory lap around her office. (I thought I was going to have to hand her a water bottle.) But when she sat back down, she said, “When you see someone who’s all put together on the outside, they’re most likely NOT put together on the inside because we only have so much energy to spend on ourselves. The more effort a person puts into impression management, the less effort they have to work on their interior.”

I said, “I’m glad I can recognize that looks aren’t everything, but whenever I’m in those situations, there’s still a part of me that feels like everyone else is a handsome adult and I’m just a teenager with zits on my face.” Then she said, “So why can’t it be both? Why can’t you feel both ways? Our society is so obsessed with black-or-white thinking, but life is gray. It’s okay to feel two things at once.”

Oh. Phew. That’s good to know.

This afternoon I went to a bookstore, bought a book called The Dream Giver by Bruce Wilkinson, then went to the library and read it. I also checked out another book, even though I’m currently reading several others. This is a little game I like to play with myself–always thinking I’ll read more than I actually will. Anyway, The Dream Giver is written from a Christian perspective and–in part–is told as a parable. Specifically, it’s about a guy named Ordinary who is a Nobody but wants to be a Somebody and see his Big Dream come true. What I loved about the book is that it says we all have dreams we are born with, things we were meant to do or be. It also says that dreams are always outside your comfort zone, there will always be obstacles and challenges, and–at some point–you’ll definitely, most certainly, and without-a-doubt feel like giving up.

Uh, accurate.

Here’s a seemingly random picture of me, my friend Jake, and his girlfriend, Karyn. They both live in Canada, and we had lunch recently when they visited. The reason the picture isn’t random is because Jake is the one who told me about The Dream Giver. (Thanks, Jake.)

Last night on Embarrassing Bodies, person after person sat down with the doctors and said, “I’m so embarrassed by this skin tag on my butt hole,” or, “I’m so embarrassed the skin on my legs has cracked and bled for the last twelve years. I never go to the beach.” Watching the patients, I was filled with compassion. I thought, It’s okay, you’re only human. Along those lines, the doctors were wonderful. In almost every case, they said, “This thing you’re worried about is really common. We see it all the time and we have an answer.” But the line that got me was, “People shouldn’t feel ashamed or embarrassed because we’re all basically the same.”

Honestly, I think this is often what I’m looking for–the confirmation that I’m “normal” or “not alone.” Just seeing one episode of Embarrassing Bodies has already made me feel better about my body. As for my interior, I love that my therapist said it’s okay to carry around two feelings at once. I don’t have to feel just one way–I don’t have to be any different than I am in this moment. Talk about a relief. And in terms of my dreams, it’s good to read about other dreamers, dreamers who have gone before me. Once again, they say, “You’re okay.” Sure, there will be days when you want to throw in the towel, quit writing, eat pizza, and watch The Voice. That’s normal. There will even be days when you think moving back home–or whatever–is a setback. Don’t worry. It’s really just an opportunity to rest and find out who you are and what you’re made of before the journey really picks up.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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The Tiniest Seeds (Blog #178)

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Three and a half years ago I met my therapist–my first and only therapist–for the first time. I haven’t been keeping track, but I’m guessing I’ve sat in her office roughly a hundred times. By anyone’s standards, I’ve come a long way. The journey has–without a doubt–changed the course of my entire life for the better. In one way or another, the things I’ve learned about myself and the world around me in that office impact me positively every day. I think about this stuff constantly. Hell, I started a blog about it. (You’re reading it.)

Tonight’s blog is number 178. That’s five days shy of half a year–almost six months of daily writing and self-reflection. Even for someone obsessed with mirrors, it’s a lot. Aside from going to therapy, however, I’m coming to believe it’s the best the thing I’ve ever done. Little by little, I’ve come to understand myself more, come to understand others more. Word by word and post by post, I’m growing in self-acceptance, balance, and authenticity. I have a tendency to get wrapped up in the outer–the number of readers I have, the number of likes I have on Facebook, the amount of money I have in my wallet. But when I think about what’s inside and what really matters, I’m forever grateful for that first trip to see my therapist, that first blog post on March 31, 2017. I didn’t know it at the time, but these two things would change me from the inside out.

About a month ago my therapist suggested I buy a plant, so I did. Honestly, I don’t have a green thumb. I mean, I can water plants and keep them alive in a pinch, but I don’t talk to them, pay them much attention, or buy them pretty things. Plants, after all, aren’t twinks. Consequently, I’ve never had a plant that lasted very long. But this time around, I intend to do better. For the last few weeks, I’ve watered the plant as instructed, kept it in a good spot, even gazed at it fondly once or twice. I haven’t named it yet, but I’m thinking about it. Maybe Grant–Grant the Plant.

That sounds good.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been listening to an audio series by Caroline Myss about archetypes. The theory is we all have them, and they play a huge–huge–role in how we live our lives and the way in which our souls develop. Whether you realize it or not, you speak the language of archetypes constantly because your soul speaks in symbols. This is the way dreams work too. Anyway, as an example, recently my mom said, “I know you’re not a caregiver.” Well, she was right. It’s not that I can’t be caring, but don’t ask me to be a nurse (like she is), or watch over a sick relative. I simply don’t have the caregiver archetype. But if you need to learn how to dance, how to write, or–say–what an archetype is, I’m your guy because I do have the teacher.

With that background laid out, last week Caroline was discussing the gardener archetype. She said some people just have it–the green thumb. They can make something grow no one else can because it’s IN them. They respect the spirits of plants, and the spirits of plants respect them and respond to them. If this sounds like you, you’re probably a gardener. If it doesn’t, you’re like me–something besides a gardener. Anyway, when I heard all this, I immediately thought of my Aunt Tudie. She LOVES gardening–she’s great at it–always has been. Oh my god, I thought, she has the archetype!

So tonight I took my “therapy plant” down to my aunt’s house to repot. I recently bought a bigger pot for it so that it will have room to grow, along with some peat moss. Y’all, this plant is already becoming an expensive little son of a bitch. But that’s okay–it makes oxygen, which I’ve heard is important.

Watching my aunt work tonight was nothing short of beautiful. It probably wasn’t a big deal to her, but it was to me. You know how you tend to take your relatives for granted? Like, Oh, that’s just my aunt. As if someone’s life stops when you’re not in it. Well, I guess I’m guilty of this. Maybe I’d just never paused long enough to watch my aunt do the thing that she loves. Tonight she slowly removed my plant from its old pot and gently tugged at the bottom roots. Then she added the peat moss to the new pot, put the plant in, and lightly packed down the dirt with the care of a mother rocking a newborn to sleep.

“Have you always loved plants?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” she said, “I’ve always had my hands in dirt. I love watching things grow–the way something can start as the tiniest seed and then absolutely blossom into the biggest thing.”

After my plant was potted, my aunt pointed out the new growth on top. “Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” I said.

“See how they’re drooped down? That means they need more water. But the fact that they’re there means the plant is doing well on your kitchen table.”

Then she noticed the dust on the leaves, so she took a spray bottle, misted the leaves with water, and used her fingers to clean them off–one by one. Y’all, it may come across strange on “paper,” but I started crying. The way my aunt held those leaves–there’s not a person alive that wouldn’t want to be held that way. She was so tender. Personally, I won’t forget it for a long time–the night I recognized my aunt for who she is–a talented, skillful, and kind gardener.

It’s not a little thing.

Sometimes it’s necessary to “repot” yourself.

Before I left, my aunt showed me a plant she had potted beside her carport. On top were buds that had dried out, and she picked them off and tossed them in the yard. She said next year there would be flowers everywhere, and she figured that out by trial and error. I’ve thought a lot tonight about the seeds we plant, sometimes when we don’t even know it. I guess that’s what I was doing when I started therapy three and a half years ago. Once my therapist told me that everything I ever needed was already inside of me–if she did anything, it was only to provide an environment in which I had room to grow. So I’m reminded tonight about the importance of environment, self-care, and kindness. Sometimes–it seems–it’s necessary to “repot” yourself. As I continue to write every day, I’m reminded to treat the process and myself with respect, trusting that as even the tiniest seeds are planted and cared for, they’ll absolutely blossom and grow into the biggest things.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We're allowed to relabel and remake ourselves.

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The Best of Things (Blog #146)

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To this day, one of my top three movies is The Shawshank Redemption, which–extremely briefly–is about a man named Andy who is falsely imprisoned and eventually escapes after years of slowly chipping away at a concrete wall. (If you haven’t seen it, I’m sorry to spoil it for you.) One of the final scenes involves the night Andy escapes. After crawling through the tunnel he’s made, he breaks open a sewage line, crawls through hundreds of yards of you-know-what, and eventually emerges on the other side of the prison walls. It’s pouring down rain, and as Andy stretches his arms out wide, the water washes over him. Finally, he’s free.

The movie concludes when Andy’s best friend, Red, is released from prison and breaks his parole to join Andy on a beach. (It’s very sweet in a heterosexual sort of way.) Previously, Red had told Andy to accept his fate, that he’d be stuck in prison for the rest of his life. He says, “Hope is a dangerous thing.” Andy’s later response is one of the best lines in the movie, maybe any movie: “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things.”

Last week I read a book called Scared Selfless by a psychologist who was severely abused and traumatized as a child. In short, her step-father used her as a sex slave and prostitute until she became a teenager. For several years, she dissociated, meaning her psyche seriously compartmentalized the horrific experiences, and she was able to go about her day-to-day life interacting with her step-father as if everything were “normal.” When she got to college she started having flashbacks, and although the shit really hit the fan, the good news is that she started the long road to healing. That road included a number of psychologists (at least eight), a diagnosis of multiple personality disorder (dissociative identity disorder), and discovering that she was a lesbian.

It’s a lot to process, I know.

Today I took the book to therapy and asked my therapist a few questions out of curiosity. There’s a comment in the book that “during prolonged trauma, denying one’s feelings can be beneficial and adaptive” because–why focus on your terrible life if you can’t do anything about it? So I asked my therapist if that was true, if it was “okay” to shut down sometimes, to put part of you in a box until you can deal with it later. My therapist said that in severe cases, it’d be hard not to. But–and she sort of pulled back the corners of her mouth before she said this–she didn’t think it was ever healthy to deny one’s feelings, to compartmentalize. She said, “I think a better response would be hope. Okay, this sucks, and maybe I can’t do anything about it now, but it’s only temporary. Everything is temporary.”

Although I’ve been through a number of traumatic experiences, I can’t imagine the level of trauma the lady who wrote the book endured. Still, I can appreciate anyone who shuts down or puts things in a box because I know I did that for the longest time. I remember being fifteen when Dad when to prison. I started paying the bills, driving myself to school, falling asleep on the floor at night while I was studying. I kept a four-point average, and after school I’d type up legal work for my dad and his friends. Looking back, I should have been mad as hell, come home crying on a regular basis from all the pressure. But I only remember crying a handful of times in six years.

I know enough now that the reason I fell in love with The Shawshank Redemption was because I felt like I was in prison too, trapped in a situation I couldn’t get out of. More specifically, I both knowingly and unknowingly took parts of myself and put them behind a concrete wall. In particular, I took one rather large part and put it in a concrete closet. For years I played the roles of the dutiful son, the teacher’s pet, and the nice boy. And whereas I can’t say that those roles were disingenuous, I can say that they didn’t represent the whole of me.

Here’s the deal–if you’re not whole, you’re in prison. 

My therapist says that hope is real, that she’s seen it change people’s lives. In my experience, it seems that hope has been, as Emily Dickinson would say, the thing with feathers. Some days it’s been right there, others so far away. And yet it’s always returned, sometimes in the form of a book, sometimes in the form of a movie I can’t stop watching, sometimes in the form of my therapist. When I consider the last twenty years, it’s amazing to me that I didn’t fully recognize the prison I was in. Like Andy’s friend Red, I guess I’d simply gotten used to being there. And yet part of me obviously knew there was more to life. Hey, get us the fuck out of here. We don’t like all this concrete. This place could use some color and a new set of curtains.

The last few years have often felt like tunneling my way through a thick wall–little bit by little bit. Like Andy crawling through the sewer, my therapist says she’s in favor of digging into and dealing with all your shit until it’s under your fingernails. (Then you can clean it up.) In short, healing hasn’t always been a pretty process. But I do think it’s been worth all the hard work. Even since starting this blog, I’ve felt like a lot of walls have come down. Yeah, I’ve been through hundreds of yards of shit, but I’m more complete now than I ever have been. Last night–at four in the morning–I went for a run, and it started to rain. Rather than go back, I just decided, I’m in this. So I spread my arms out wide and let the water wash over me like a baptism. I wish I could describe it better. My feet were hitting the pavement, my lungs were working overtime, my heart was beat, beat, beating. Several times I splashed around in puddles as if I were a kid again. It felt like every piece of me was there–it felt like freedom–it felt like the best of things.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing is set in stone here.

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God Is Extravagant (Blog #125)

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Today I really only did two things–went to therapy and went to the lake. So really, I went to therapy twice. Y’all it was a great day. Sometimes I wish my therapy sessions could be recorded as part of a reality TV show–that’s how great I think they are. More specifically, that’s how funny I think my therapist is. Out of context for privacy, today she said, “That guy was a death trap on wheels,” “She sounds like she was too cute by about half,” and, “What happens when the shit hits the fan?”

Maybe you would’ve had to have been there. (Go to therapy!)

After therapy I drove to meet my friend CJ, who lives near Beaver Lake. A few weeks ago she invited me up to go kayaking (anytime), so I figured today was as good a day as any. Ever the consummate host, CJ had the kayaks ready to go, and by that I mean they were in the back of her truck and loaded down with fried chicken. So I threw on some super-cute swim trunks, a t-shirt, and some flip-flops, and we headed for the lake. In fewer than ten minutes, we were in the water, CJ in her ten-foot red kayak (along with her dog), and me in her twelve-foot blue one.

Y’all, I’m pretty sure today was my first time in a kayak–ever. Boats, canoes, rafts–sure–but never a kayak. WOW. I’ve been missing out. Per CJ’s instructions, the first thing I did was “get as naked as possible,” which means I took my shirt off. Then for maybe an hour, hour and a half, we paddled around–on our own, together. At one point I hopped out, swam around a while. Back in the kayak, I noticed how difficult it was to paddle whenever a boat sped by. The waves would hit the side of the kayak, making it difficult to go forward. But then I’d turn my boat into the waves, head on, and I could cut right through them.

I figure there’s a lesson there somewhere, something about not turning away from life’s challenges. But I will say this. Currently, my arms are worn out. Perhaps it would have been easier to let the waves push me along, to not fight them. Honestly, I don’t think there’s a right or a wrong, an only this or only that. Today in therapy I told my therapist about a situation that happened recently wherein someone I’d just met referred to me as “a hetero.” They were just making an assumption (I assume), but there was a small window of time where I could have corrected them. But I didn’t. For about a day, I gave myself a hard time for not “being authentic,” or “speaking my truth.” Then I cut myself some slack–I don’t have to out myself to every stranger I meet.

My therapist said sexuality is personal, and it can get exhausting to ALWAYS call bullshit, to face every single wave directly. So sometimes you turn your boat sideways, sometimes you even turn your boat and go the other direction. In other words, sometimes you speak up, sometimes you don’t. And that’s okay. As my friend George says, “You don’t have to attend every fight you’re invited to.”

Between seven and seven-thirty, CJ and I pulled over and ate fried chicken on a large rock. It’s possible I ate almost the entire bag. It was SO GOOD. CJ’s dog kept staring at me the whole time, like we were suddenly best friends. (Literally, bitch, please.) Little sucker even sneaked around and licked my fingers.

But who could blame her?

After dinner we got back in the kayaks, paddled under Highway 12, and watched the sunset. Then we packed things up in CJ’s truck and headed back to the house. Within ten minutes we were sitting on the front porch eating homemade banana nut bread. Talk about delicious.

Last night I read that “God is extravagant.” The idea came from The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, and yes I’m aware that I’ve been talking about the book nonstop for the last six weeks. But don’t worry, it’s “only” a twelve-week program, so we’re halfway there. Anyway, the author basically said–Look around–God is fancy–He likes pretty things. He didn’t just make one pink flower, he made hundreds. And what about all those different snowflakes! I mean, it’s not that I haven’t considered life’s abundance before–I have. I’ve certainly read a lot about it. But there’s something about that word–extravagant–that made things click for me like they never have before.

Today my therapist said that one of the hallmarks of mental health is flexibility in thinking. She said that when people get locked into right-and-wrong or black-and-white thinking there’s not a lot of room for growth. Well, although I’ve wanted to see abundance all around me for a long time, I’ve been pretty locked into scarcity for a while now. I don’t know, maybe thirty years. (Give or take.) But I have been trying to be flexible–to see abundance even during a period in my life when certain things are lacking (like–I don’t know–a job). So all day today, I kept looking for extravagance. And guess what?  It was there–in the humor of my therapist, in all that water, in all the rocks, trees, and clouds, in all the colors in the sky. And did I mention there was fried chicken?

Talk about going over the top.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Your story isn’t about your physical challenges.

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Humpty Dumpty Fell off the Wall (Blog #118)

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Today my therapist was in rare form. I swear, sometimes I think she should be a standup comedian. When I walked into her office wearing flip-flops, shorts, a tank top, and a bandana (hair all wild), she said, “Please don’t take offense to this statement, but you look very Olivia Newton John.”

“On the contrary, I take that as a compliment.”

For some reason, my therapist was super chatty our entire session. For a while, when I first got there–we actually talked about her life. (This doesn’t happen very often.) At some point, when I moved on to “the list,” she said, “I guess you’re going to make me WORK today. I was really hoping to just shoot the breeze with you.” Then she added–

“And I don’t care–put that shit on your blog.”

In the course of unpacking things today, we got on the topic of synchronicity (which I blogged about last week), and she said that Jung (his friends called him Carl) believed that everyone (and that means you) has a psyche that’s been broken, since being a human is a real kick in the pants. Like Humpty Dumpty, you end up with all these fragmented pieces. She said, “You’ve got Insecure Marcus, Self-Critical Marcus, Marcus That Can Be A Snot.” (It’s a lot, I know. At least I look like Olivia Newton John.) Anyway, she said the process of putting yourself back together is called “integration,” and therapy is just one of the many ways to do it. (Meditation is another.) As for synchronicity, Jung believed it’s happening all the time, but we become more and more aware of it as we integrate. Integration is how we “get on that wavelength.”

I spent this evening with my friends Barbie and Steve. Barbie and I met through dance (she’s an instructor) about ten years ago, and she’s one of the most positive people I know. Hell, one time she hosted a positive people party–no Debbie Downers allowed. Just picture a day of hanging out on the lake and drinking beer with a bunch of smiling unicorns. That’s how fabulous it was. Anyway, Barbie and I haven’t seen each other in forever, so she invited me over for dinner to catch up.

So get this. After dinner we went downstairs to Steve’s workshop. Several years ago he started a hobby of making knives, and now he’s gotten really good (really good) and sells them. So Steve laid out several of his latest knives, as well as some that were in process. Here’s a picture. Most the blades are Damascus steel, which is steel that’s been folder over on itself and hammered out several times over. I think some of the handles are giraffe bone. The belt buckle and one of two of the smaller knives are made from pietersite, or as the kids these days would say, “Peter’s A’-ight.”

So Steve was showing me several boxes of knife parts and rocks, stones, and bones. And then he brought this sucker out.

Any idea what that is? No clue? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a walrus penis. That’s right–you heard me. As Steve said, “Now THAT’S a boner.” Apparently, although humans don’t, a lot of mammals have literal penis bones (the better to screw you with, my dear). Of course, like any pecker, they come in all shapes and sizes. Steve said that a some hunters will wear a raccoon penis bone as a necklace. They call it a tooth–wait for it–prick. A toothprick. Yes, you too, can take any old, wornout penis, shine it right up, and turn it into jewelry–a necklace, a knife handle, whatever.

Talk about recycling.

As if that weren’t enough entertainment for the evening, when I told Barbie I needed to go to the bathroom, she led me to the back of the house, pointed out a toilet that looked like a spaceship, and said, “I’ll leave you two alone together. Oh my god, y’all. Not only was the seat heated, but it was also a bidet, this magical gift from the gods that sprays warm water on your backside and then–AND THEN–blows warm air in all the right places. I swear. It was better than a boyfriend. Like a meditation, really.

Before I left, Barbie played for me on her wooden flutes, a new hobby she’s picked up. Here’s a video I snagged while she was playing one of them. There’s something about that sound that’s so mesmerizing, so calming. I honestly feel more spiritual just for having listened to it, although I’m guessing I shouldn’t be bragging about that.

As I drove home tonight, I thought about pieces and parts. When Steve makes his knives, he takes the frame of an old knife, steel he gets from a friend, a Walrus penis he gets from–I’m just guessing–Ebay. Of course, there are other parts, but he has to bring them all together, and it takes a lot of sawing and hammering and sanding and buffing. I’ve never done it, but shit–I’m sure it takes a lot of time and patience. It’s like learning to dance or to play an instrument. But when all the work is finished, you’ve got his beautiful, integrated thing. All parts working together as one.

I used to wonder if healing was really possible, if you could take a broken egg, superglue it back together, and have the same egg again. Well, obviously you can’t. Once your psyche breaks, that person is gone. (Sorry for the bad news.) But I do think that just like one of Steve’s knives, you can piece yourself back together. A little therapy here, a lot of therapy there, some meditation, time spent with people who love you for who you are. Before you know it, you’re a new person, even better than the one before, a far cry from the one who fell off the wall.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You know when someone crosses a line. You may not want to admit it, but you know.

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The Book of Yourself (Blog #112)

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This afternoon Bonnie and I started hanging curtains at Annie’s Pilates studio. (Are you on the edge of your seats yet?) I say started because we only got them hung in one of the two rooms, since we ran out of time because earlier we decided to 1) sleep, 2) pack to move from one Airbnb to another, and 3) eat tacos instead. Anyway, it’s all coming together. Here’s a picture of the reception area. I’m in love with the colors, as well as that awesome  coffee table and the black bowl on it that holds all the chocolate candy (not pictured).

Yesterday we made two trips to the same store to buy an essential oil diffuser for Annie, but none of us could get it to work today. So we made another trip, and while Bonnie drove, I read one of the five books I’m currently working my way through. When we got to the store, the girl behind the counter looked at us like we were idiots and didn’t know how to operate a machine with only one button on it. “You could always call the company and see if they could help you,” she said.

I immediately wanted to pull my hair out.

No.

I wanted to pull her hair out.

“We just bought this, and it clearly doesn’t work. I personally don’t want to call the company and waste any more time,” I said. So the lady ended up calling the for us, but guess what? The company was closed for the day. So rather than take a dumb store credit, we walked out not only with a broken diffuser, but also with higher blood pressure.

Think of Jesus, Marcus, think of Jesus singing Kumbaya. Come by here–me–come by here.

In need of a break, Bonnie and I checked into our second Airbnb for the week and poured ourselves a couple of beers in the frosted mugs we found in the freezer. (Talk about a classy joint!) But on the serious, this place is super duper cutie pie. (Hi, my name is Marcus, and I talk like a junior high cheerleader.) It’s a bungalow behind a main house, so it sits back off the road.

Here’s a picture of the bed, right as you walk in the door. Notice the lamps on the wall are table lamps that have been mounted sideways. (Everyone should be so lucky.) Anyway, I love creative people.

Here’s my “bedroom,” which is also the dining area. That’s a vintage lamp above the table, and the couch transforms into a bed. Also, the vinyl floor is by Allure and comes from Home Depot, which I only know because I installed one just like it once. (It’s okay if you don’t care. I really don’t either.)

Outside there’s an honest-to-god fish pond with a waterfall, which I can hear running now. It’s beautiful and relaxing, but it’s not helping me stay awake to write.

While Bonnie rested earlier this evening, I read more in The Artist’s Way. I’m currently on week four of twelve, and although I’ve been really pleased with the whole program so far, this week’s assignments include something called “reading deprivation,” which is exactly what it sounds like. No reading–for a week–seven whole days. Uh, wait, but I read all the time. I’m currently reading five different books. I’M AN OVERACHIEVER. I can’t–stop–reading. But I guess that’s the point, to give yourself a break, to focus more on what’s going on in YOUR head rather than someone else’s.

Shit. No more escaping into books.

So after a momentary internal temper tantrum (and finishing the chapter of the book I was reading in the car earlier), I stacked up my books, my Kindle, and even a magazine and shoved them to the other side of the table. Honestly, it felt like locking my own offspring outside in the cold. I’m sorry, Daddy’s got other things to do right now. But he loves you–never forget that–and will be back in a week.

For dinner Bonnie and I walked to a place called Haymaker for sandwiches and drinks. Y’all, my Bloody Mary had a Slim Jim and a piece of cheese in it. How cool is that?

Welcome to Texas!

After dinner I’d planned to attend a swing dance while Bonnie went to the first night of the Kizomba (Latin dancing) festival she’s attending this weekend. However, I was pretty wiped out and decided I could use some time to myself, since asking strangers to dance and meeting a lot of new people can take a lot out of me. So instead I went for a walk, learned a little bit more about the layout of Austin, and came back and took a bubble bath in the most adorable little bathroom you’d ever want to spend time in. Check it out.

I actually spent over an hour in the tub, something I rarely do. I dragged a little cabinet over, set my laptop on top of it, and watched the first episode of Will, TNT’s new series about William Shakespeare. Then I dried off and plopped down on the pull-out couch and watched the second. The show’s pretty good, and apparently Shakespeare was a PILF. (The P stands for playwright. Figure out the rest.) I seriously thought about binge watching all the episodes, but I’ve got this blog thing going on, so I exercised self-restraint. (It does happen occasionally, but it’s not currently happening now with regard to the potato chips I’m eating.)

At one point during the show-watching (not in the bathtub), I picked up my phone and clicked on a couple of articles that had been posted to Facebook. But in the middle of reading the second article, I remembered that I’m not supposed to be reading, so I stopped. This could be harder than I thought.

Actually, I’m kind of looking forward to this not reading thing. As much as I enjoy reading, it’s always on my “to-do” list. I see all the books I own and all the others on my Amazon Wish List, and it feels like I’ll never get them all read. (I hate to break it to you, Marcus, but you probably won’t.) So there’s always a slight amount of internal pressure–read more, learn more, grow more, BE MORE! The thought of shutting that down for a week sounds nice. Plus, it will give me more time to do other things–practice yoga, sing Kumbaya, get mounted sideways.

A girl can dream.

The more honest you are about what’s actually happening inside you, the happier you are.

When I first started therapy, my therapist told me she didn’t have any friends with whom she spoke every single day. Even with her best friends, she said, they only spoke once a week, twice tops. “I spend that time with myself,” she said, “I work on myself.” Well, at the time this wisdom was easy enough in theory but harder in practice. I had a number of friends with whom I spoke or communicated with daily, and I couldn’t see that changing. However, eventually, all those relationships failed or morphed into something else. As a consequence, I’ve spent a lot of time alone over the last three years. Sometimes it’s been difficult, of course, but I know myself better now than I ever have. As it turns out, the more you get to know yourself, the more honest you are about what’s actually happening inside of you, the happier you are. If you stay on the right path long enough, I imagine you get to a point when you don’t have to have all the distractions–watching television, texting with friends, reading five books at once. Rather, you simply read the book of yourself, the only book you truly can’t do without.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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As taught in the story of the phoenix, a new life doesn't come without the old one first being burned away.

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The Way of the Dinosaurs (Blog #98)

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Last month while I was in Austin with my friend Bonnie, we (Bonnie) took a wrong turn one day and ended up driving through a local neighborhood. Well, Austin is weird, so someone had fastened a large toy dinosaur to a dead tree in front of their house. Bonnie thought it was so cool. She said, “When I move to Nashville, I want a dinosaur in my yard.” After that, we kept seeing dinosaurs wherever we went–in a modern furniture store, on a t-shirt. You know how it works when you get focused on something–it’s everywhere. But just like that, dinosaurs became a kind of mascot–for having a new life, for having something to look forward to.

At least that’s how I took it.

The night after we got back to Fort Smith, I finished the blog about five in the morning. Earlier that evening I’d been in Fayetteville, stopped at Walmart, gathered supplies. I couldn’t find a single large dinosaur, so I settled on a troupe–or is it a flock?–of small dinosaurs. Still under the cover of night, racing to beat the sunrise, I drove to Bonnie’s house, circled the block to see if there were any lights on inside, and then parked my car across the street and headed for a tree in her front yard, toy dinosaurs and a pack of push-pins in my hands. Fifteen minutes later, five different types of dinosaurs were lined up neatly on a slanted tree trunk, looking as if they were slowly marching their way to the top of the tree–or maybe to extinction.

I’ve been concerned that a horny squirrel might mistake the t-rex for a lover or that a thunderstorm would come along and–once again–wipe all the dinosaurs off the face of the planet, but each of them has held strong. Tonight I went to Bonnie’s to hang out with her family on their front porch, and all five of those guys (or gals–I didn’t check) were right where I left them.

Bonnie thinks they’re great, by the way.

This evening I’ve been thinking about all the things that irritate me, all the things that make me mad. It’s not that I’ve been obsessing about them, but you know how it goes–you can’t really help it, especially when you’re tired. So I’ve been remembering that rude lady I talked to at the insurance company yesterday, kind of having imaginary conversations where I stick up for myself, tell her to go jump off a bridge, or say she sounds just like a frustrated lesbian. (Sometimes I do this sort of daydreaming with people I deliberately don’t talk to anymore, people who didn’t respect my boundaries. My therapist says it happens because I never told those people what assholes I thought they were. She also says it’s too late to tell them now. That ship has sailed. Oh well.)

Caroline Myss says this is one of the ways we keep the past alive. We think about it and think about it. We build resentments. She says every day we wake up with a hundred energetic dollars, and most of us are near broke before we get out of bed because we’re worried about something that happened at work yesterday or angry about something a relative said six months ago. Before you know it, you don’t have any money left for spending right here, right now. This, I think, is the lesson Jesus was teaching when a disciple said he’d “be right there” but needed to bury his father first. “Let the dead bury the dead,” Jesus said. In other words, leave the past where it belongs–in the past.

Sometimes you have to go back before you can go forward.

I guess it’s ironic Bonnie and I chose the dinosaur as a mascot for the future–you know–because dinosaurs clearly don’t have one. Honestly, dinosaurs associate much better with the past (they’ve been dead a long time), and I think it’s interesting how hard our culture works at keeping them alive. We buy plastic toys of them, put them in a friend’s tree, make big productions about them. Of course, this is innocent enough. But I know I often do the same thing with my actual past–make a big production out of it. I think, “If I ever talk to that person again, I’m gonna really let ’em have it.” I tell my friends, “Can you believe that bitch?” But the truth is–like the dinosaurs–the past is over, even though I often refuse to let it go. Instead, I spend my precious energy trying to bring the dead back to life.

I had someone tell me once that therapy was concerned mostly with a person’s past. They may not have meant it like this, but I got the impression they thought therapy could be used as a way to stay stuck back there, maybe blame someone else for all your problems. (My friend Ray calls people that do this “whiners.”) Thankfully, that hasn’t been my experience with therapy. I remember that first day when my therapist asked me why I was there. I said, “Well, I’m dating a guy and it’s a mess. We met last year and moved in together a few months later.”

“That was a very lesbian thing to do,” she said.

And then for nearly an hour I marched out all the stuff I thought I’d never talk about–sort of a preview of coming attractions–basically job security for her–all the parts of my past that I’d swept under the rug for over thirty years. Since then, I guess you could say that we’ve been concerned with the past. But the point has never been to bring it back to life–because it’s never really been dead. The point has been to understand it, to have compassion for the guy who lived it, and in so doing–finally let it go the way of the dinosaurs.

In this sense, the dinosaur is the perfect mascot for the future because all too often it’s the past that holds us backs and weighs us down. What I mean is that sometimes you have to go back before you can go forward. So whether it’s something that happened yesterday or something that happened thirty years ago, you deal with it and you put it in perspective. And then–like a flock of small dinosaurs–you take the pieces of your past, put them neatly in a row, and march them toward extinction, leaving yourself free to have a new life, to have something to look forward to–right here, right now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We always have more support than we realize.

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Another Person’s Perspective (Blog #94)

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Last night I slept for about twelve hours. Between not sleeping much the night before, being in a damn car accident yesterday, and taking a handful of drugs, something must have made me tired. For the most part, I’m not in pain. However, the front of my neck is extremely tender, tight. It’s funny how you take your body for granted when it works. Sitting up is fine, but whenever I lie down, sit up, or roll over on my side, I have to use my hands to support my big-ole head. Apparently that’s the protocol when your neck has been cracked like a whip. Ba-chow!

I spent most of the afternoon reading A Study in Scarlett, which is the first of the Sherlock Holmes novels, written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I’ve never read any Sherlock Holmes stories before (don’t judge me), but I discovered that I could buy the complete works on Amazon for my Kindle for 99 cents, so I did. From what I can tell, most of the stories are told from the perspective of Dr. Watson, and that was the case (detective word!) for the first section of the book I read today. However, the second section went back in time and was told from a different, unknown narrator. The third section was told by Dr. Watson, although most of it was in the voice of a different character because he was being quoted verbatim.

This evening my parents and I listened to the last two episodes of the S-Town Podcast, something we started several weeks ago. First, if you haven’t listened to it, I think you should. This was my second time through, and it was just as wonderful as the first time. It tells the true story of John, a genius clock repairman from a place in Alabama that he refers to as Shit Town. John’s concerned that a murder has been covered up by small-town politics, but as the tale progresses, the focus becomes more and more about John. By the end of the show, several of John’s friends have been interviewed, each shining light on different parts of his personality and life.

(The above picture is me listening to the podcast with a microwaveable rice bag on my sore neck. Personally, I don’t think floral patterns are my best look, but we only have one rice bag and–clearly–it has flowers on it.)

For obvious reasons, I’ve been thinking a lot about stories. More specifically, I’ve been thinking about the perspective from which stories are told. Today when I started the Sherlock Holmes book, I assumed the entire thing would be told from Dr. Watson’s viewpoint, since that’s how it started out. But then–wham!–section two was someone different talking, someone unidentified. As a writer and a reader, I’m not usually crazy about this way of doing things, since the voice I hear first is the one I most identify with, get used to, and root for. But one of my takeaways from today is that there’s always more than one perspective. Regarding the Sherlock Holmes novel, there’s no way Dr. Watson could have known in detail what happened twenty years ago, so someone else had to step in to fill in the blanks. In the podcast, many people had to be interviewed in order to get a more complete picture of John, a picture that wouldn’t fully come into focus if he were the only one talking.

I’ve heard it said that everyone is the main character in their own movie. Like I’m my main character–the star of the show–and everyone else is a supporting actor or actress, maybe just a stand-in or an extra. (Sorry.) But that’s true for all of us. You’re the main character in your story, and I play some other role–maybe your son, your friend, your dance instructor, or simply a total stranger whose blog you read.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with any of this, but since I’m my main character, it’s extremely easy to forget that there are other valid and helpful perspectives other than my own. I’m not always right. (This is not a quote to be used against me later.) I’m sure this idea could be applied to a lot of things, such as–I’m not always right about dancing. But the thing that I’ve applied it to today is–I’m not always right–about myself.

Honestly, I have a handful of insecurities I deal with almost daily, most of which have to do with my physical body, my talents and abilities, and my finances. (Is there anything else?) On each of these topics, there’s a narrator in my head telling a story that basically boils down to, “You’re not enough” or “Life would be better if you were different.”

Having another person’s perspective can help balance out the thoughts you think about yourself.

This is one area in which having a therapist has been extremely helpful for me. I like having a professional someone who’s not involved in the day-to-day details of my life weigh in on everything. Having another person’s perspective, having someone else tell their story about me, has helped balance out the thoughts I think about myself. Marcus, you have many talents. Marcus, you have a lot to offer someone. Marcus, you’re full of shit sometimes.

I could probably spend the rest of my life trying to remember that my opinion–about anything, but especially myself–is not the final word. After all, I’m pretty identified with, pretty used to that voice in my head. Even when it’s not kind to me, I still seem to root for it, assume that it’s right because it belongs to me. But the truth is that one character’s voice makes for a rather one-side story. If all the world’s a stage, all of our voices need to be heard. And if another’s perspective, another’s story about you is kinder than the one you’re telling yourself, surely that’s a story worth listening to.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our struggles unearth our strengths.

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This Beautiful Omelette (Blog #92)

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Four years ago I was living with my friends Justin and Ashley and had just started dating my ex, the one that strongly encouraged me to go to therapy, by his actions, not his words. I remember one weekend in June spending most the day in bed with him, watching movies, eating pizza, feeling like we could build a life together. Justin and Ashley had just gotten a new puppy named Artemis, and we all went out on the back porch, played together, ate donuts for breakfast.

Here’s a picture of me and Artemis, taken that day. Artemis is a boy, but he was named for Artemis the girl, the goddess of the hunt in Greek mythology. Obviously something like this can cause a lot of personal and psychological damage, as evidenced by Johnny Cash’s song, A Boy Named Sue, which is about a boy whose father names him Sue in order to make him tough. I imagine Artemis has caught a lot of crap from the other boys around the hood and at doggy daycare for having such a feminine moniker. But I honestly don’t think he’s bothered by it one bit. So way to go, Artemis. Do your thing, honey.

This evening I had dinner at Justin and Ashley’s. They still live in the same place, the place I called home for so many years. Tonight their living room was filled with stuff from their office and my old room because they’re in the process of rearranging furniture, organizing. Justin apologized for things being in chaos, but you know how it goes–you have to break a few eggs if you want to make an omelette.

As Justin was showing me the changes, we came across a poster board that some of my friends and I made when we were on the yearbook staff in college. Justin and I were friends back then, so we put his photo on the board with the words, “Heartbreaker?–Or Broken-hearted?” (Feel free to cast your votes in the comments below.)

Looking at that photo tonight brought back a lot of memories of Justin, like the first time I heard him play Chopin, the time he dyed his hair to look like a leopard, or the time when I finally came out to him and he said, “I know. I was just waiting on you to say it.” Even though all those memories and many more happened over a long stretch of time, it’s easy for me to slam them all together, label them “Justin,” and take all the time we’ve spent together for granted. Considering the fact that Justin’s been working on a Duck Dynasty beard for several years now, it’s nice to remember that I knew him when he had a jaw line, back when his face saw the light of day on a regular basis. It’s nice to be reminded that some people are in this thing called friendship for the long haul.

Normally Justin and Ashley leave their two dogs outside while we eat dinner, but it started raining tonight, so they brought them in. Since Artemis is four, Justin said he’s “well into middle age” in dog years. As that would be twenty-eight human years, I guess that means that I’m well into middle age too. When the hell did THAT happen?

Here’s a picture of me and Artemis now that’s he all grown up and won’t fit into my lap anymore.

When I lived with my ex, I remember being so confused. We used to fight all the time, and I don’t fight–with anyone. I remember raising my voice, even yelling at times. We always ended up arguing about stupid shit. Why wasn’t he in more of my Instagram photos? I tried so hard to have an adult conversation, to explain calmly, Uh–I’m not in ANY of yours, but the only thing that would get his attention was when I’d start crying. I’d be in bed, knees to my chest, and then he’d finally be attentive, listen, and say he was sorry for being such a shit. (I added that last part.) “That’s when he’d act like a human,” my therapist would say later.

One of the things I love about Justin is that he’s an absolute audiophile–he loves music–loves to listen to it, loves to talk about. So tonight after dinner, Ashley went to bed because some people work for a living, and Justin and I sat in the living room and listened to honest-to-god vinyl records. Justin’s got this glorious vintage chair that sits low, pulls you down into it, and refuses to let you leave. It could have belonged to anyone’s grandfather, and for two hours I sat in it, drank beer, and drowned myself in the sounds of Tom Waits, Sting, and Simon and Garfunkel. It felt like going to church. (What! Your church doesn’t have beer and Tom Waits?) Of course, Justin and I continued to talk, that sort of easy conversation that bounces back and forth between the serious and lighthearted, the kind you can only have with someone who’s stood beside you when you were broken-hearted.

When you’re actually in chaos, there aren’t enough words to make it better.

Sometimes I wish I could go back and talk to myself four years ago, tell myself that it’s going to be all right, that I know things seem like such a fucking mess now, but I promise they’ll get better. I remember right after the breakup and starting therapy, my dear friend Tracy said, “Chaos precedes creation,” meaning that out of the turmoil that was my current life would come something beautiful. Sometimes you have to break a few eggs if you want to make an omelette. Of course, when you’re actually in chaos, there aren’t enough words to make it better. So maybe if I could go back and talk to myself, I wouldn’t say anything at all, but instead crawl in bed beside myself and give myself a hug.

They say that time heals all wounds. If that’s true, I think a good therapist helps speed up the process. Of course, I know there are many roads to healing, and that’s simply the one I’ve been on lately. In A Boy Named Sue, the boy in the song searches for and finds his estranged father, intending to kill him for giving him such an “awful name.” But after a tough barroom fight with his son, the father says he understands his son’s anger but “it’s that name that’s helped to make you strong.” In this sense, I’m grateful for the all the fights I had with my ex, all the chaos and shitty things that happened, all the time I’ve had to heal. Of course, I don’t think Sue’s father or my ex deserve any trophies, but someone had to crack the eggs to make this beautiful omelette.

Just like I can look at pictures of Justin and see how much he’s changed and pictures of Artemis and see how much he’s grown, I know that I’ve also changed and grown beyond measure. Physically, I look pretty much the same as I did four years ago. In terms of geography, I’m still in the same town. But on the inside, where it counts, I’ve travelled great distances.

Sometimes I think I’m a whole new person, someone who didn’t exist before, like I went from here to there on a map. But in terms of authenticity, I think “here” is both where we start and where we’re going. Authentic is how we’re born, and we travel to “there” when we start changing who we are, letting people treat us like shit because we want them to love us. In that sense, I think most of my work the last for years has been a returning, a remembering of who I was really born to be. Just before I left Justin and Ashley’s tonight, Justin played one final song by Simon and Garfunkel, and I think they said it best. Gee, but it’s great to be back home.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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None of us is ever really lost. At least we're never really alone. For always there is someone to help point your ship in the right direction, someone who sees you when you can't see yourself.

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