On Chasing Tail (Blog #418)

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Today has been a full day. I’ve been full of coffee, consequently full of anxiety, and–this evening–full of spaghetti. But seriously, folks, I’ve been nervous all day–buzzing, even before the coffee. This morning I woke up and took my blood sugar just because I’ve been so on-edge physically. And whereas my blood sugar was a little high (my dad said it was great, but he’s a chocolate-cake-eating diabetic that thinks anything under 300 is “great”), I’m not sure that it would explain my feeling shaky. Oh well, just one more thing to talk to my doctors about next week.

This afternoon I had a follow-up appointment with my dermatologist regarding my very personal rash (where no one wants a rash). An inflammation whose cause is unknown, that’s what the nurse said it was when the biopsy report came back over six weeks ago. Thankfully, things are a lot, lot better, but not completely back to normal. This seems to be a theme with my health this last year–issues improve, but like all the flies in my parents’ kitchen, they don’t go away. (Assholes.) Anyway, the doctor today said it was technically “a dermal hypersensitivity that could have a number of causal factors.” In other words, my boys are pissed off and no one knows why, but I should continue to “keep things dry and avoid friction.”

“Oh–and–that’ll be a hundred-and-twenty-five dollars, Mr. Coker.”

Seriously, I don’t know any business other than the medical profession where people PAY to be told, “We don’t know what the answer is.”

Yesterday I blogged about being scared of everything, specifically trying new things like penning a travel-writing article or picking out pictures for a travel-writing article. My therapist says that owning your fears is a big part of healing, and I guess she’s right, since yesterday I was all a-twitter about picking out pictures, but this afternoon after having owned my shit last night, I got the entire job done with little to no anxiety. That’s me smirking about my accomplishment in the photo above. The Peabody Duck, which I got during my travel-writing trip to Memphis, is actually a disguised USB drive with press photos on it. (The Peabody is a famous hotel with trained mallard ducks that march down a red carpet and into a fountain in the lobby every day.)

How cool is that?

I’ve spent the rest of the day running errands, teaching dance, and reading a new book about stand-up comedy by Stephen Rosenfield. It’s genius, and my inner student loves the fact that stand-up, just like dance, has its history and pioneers, as well as its tried-and-true rules that are meant to be followed as well as broken. Really, I’m riveted, and I’d probably be done with the book by now except I keep going to YouTube to watch the comedians the book mentions. Of course, this isn’t a terrible way to spend an evening–laughing. Plus, as the book points out, comedy takes life’s tragedies and makes them bearable. When we can laugh at our burdens, they automatically become lighter.

Here’s something. For years, maybe even decades, one of my biggest gripes about my lovely father is that he’s an interrupter. Specifically, he’s a me-interrupter. At least that’s what gets on my nerves. This usually happens when I’m in the middle of a story, often in response to his asking, “What did you do today, son, oh fruit of my loins?” Like, let’s say I’m going on about being in the dermatologist’s office and how the dermatologist is telling me, “You don’t want to use steroid cream and anti-fungal powder at the same time because that would be like mixing milk and flour together and getting frosting.” But before I can even get to the part about the dermatologist saying, “And you wouldn’t want GENITAL FROSTING,” Dad’s interrupts me and starts talking about a cake with chocolate frosting he ate at the senior citizen’s center last Friday. Like, licking his lips and everything. “It was WONDERFUL.”

Historically, this type of behavior has really pissed me off because (as my father’s child), being interrupted makes me feel minimized and unimportant, as if what I have to say doesn’t matter. I’ve said this to Dad before, and he says that’s not the case. “If I don’t say what I’m thinking right away, I’ll forget it,” he says. And whereas I don’t completely buy this excuse (or buy it at all), I have come to accept it. At the very least, since interrupting is my dad’s habit with–well–most people, I’ve come to not take it so personally.

[At this point I’d like to apologize if I’ve ever interrupted you, dear reader, and say that I really have been working on fixing the problem for a while now.]

Okay. All that being said, this morning I’m sitting at the breakfast table, still in a daze from the anti-histamines I took last night, chewing away on grilled chicken and scrambled eggs. And BAM–out of freakin’ nowhere!–Dad starts apologizing for “all those years” he interrupted me. Oh my God, y’all, I almost choked on my cheddar cheese. Suspicious, I said, “Where is this coming from?” Dad said, “Well, your aunt interrupts me on the phone sometimes when I’m in the middle of a sentence, and IT DRIVES ME CRAZY.”

I put down my fork and leaned back in my chair. “Payback is a real bitch.”

Sometimes you have to give up wanting something before you can actually have it.

Twelve hours later, I’m still in shock. All these years of asking Dad to change and getting nothing, and now this, unsolicited. Not that I expect Dad’s habits to turn around overnight, but–as they say–the first step is admitting you have a problem (not someone else admitting you have a problem). But truly, I’m in awe at the way life works. Wayne Dyer tells a story about a cat that chases its tail. Of course, he never catches it. Then one day he decides to give up trying and go about his life. Later the cat comments, “You know, it’s funny. Now my tail follows me everywhere I go.” To me this means that sometimes you have to stop trying so damn hard. To me it means that whether it’s an apology or the answer to a healthcare problem, maybe you have to give up wanting something before you can actually have it. (Ain’t that a bitch?) So this is my new mantra–Stop chasing your own tail, Marcus. Now as for chasing someone else’s tail, well, that’s another matter.

That was a sex joke, Mom.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing physical was ever meant to stay the same.

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Getting a Grip (Blog #416)

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It’s 1:45 in the morning, and I’ve been putting this off for over an hour. I don’t feel well. I don’t feel awful, but I don’t feel well. I’m tired, irritable. My body is shaky (it has been for a while now), and it’s driving me crazy. I’m imagining that–on top of everything else–I have a neurological disorder, that I’m breaking down from the inside out. I’ve been Googling supplements all day, a compulsion that typically gets me nowhere. Maybe I’ll give up Google next year for Lent. But then again I’m not even Catholic. I guess I could convert, but that’d just be one more thing to do. Like my plate isn’t full enough already.

Get a grip, Marcus.

I’ve been thinking this would be a good way to start my autobiography, should I ever choose to write one: Thirty-seven, that’s how old I was when Meghan Markle married Prince Harry and my life fell apart. But then I don’t know where I’d go from there.

Get–a–grip, Marcus. (Focus.)

Today I spent the afternoon at Starbucks working on one of my travel writing stories, and that’s about it. I did run into an old dance student (who thought I was in Austin because everyone thinks I’m in Austin except me, who knows I’m not in Austin but instead living with my parents, who, incidentally, are not in Austin either) and had a lovely conversation. It always amazes me when something like this happens, randomly running into someone you haven’t seen in years and jumping right in with each, getting real. In the span of ten minutes, we talked about health challenges, going to therapy, and places where we consider ourselves to be weak. And I really don’t know this person that well. But the whole experience was so–refreshing.

It was the best thing that happened today. Being honest, that is.

Everything is progressing as it should.

This evening I taught a dance lesson to a student who thinks they should be progressing faster than they are. (They all do.) Having worked with hundreds of students over the years, I keep saying (truthfully) that they’re actually progressing faster than average, but you know how people can be their own worst critic. Anyway, here’s what I’ve been thinking about the situation. When you’re a new student, you don’t have anything to compare yourself to. If you do, it’s probably Dancing with the Stars, and THAT won’t make you feel good. But as an experienced teacher that works with everyday people who aren’t spending forty hours a week preparing for a competition, I can stand outside a student’s frustration and see that things are going just fine–they’re normal–everything is progressing as it should.

My friend and I talked about something similar today–the benefit of having a good therapist, someone who’s experienced in human relationships and emotions who doesn’t know you and can stand outside your drama and comment about what’s going on. There’s such a stigma about going to therapy, but who couldn’t benefit from a relationship like that? At one point in the last four years, I was dealing with a particularly difficult person in my life, someone I cared for but who came with excessive baggage (like more baggage than Rose had on the Titanic). “Why do you have this shit show in your life?” my therapist said. Blunt, I know, but no one else I was talking to was being blunt, and it was just the thing I needed to cause me to look at the situation in a different way, to realize that I could–change things.

Imagine that.

I told my friend today that sometimes I felt like the poster child for going to therapy, but it’s only because it’s been such a good and positive thing for me. I don’t pretend that it would be the same for everyone else, but I do think it’s worth trying, just like I think learning how to dance is worth trying. I mean, you already know how to sit on the couch or go to the movies or whatever it is you know how to do. Honestly, I think it’s fear that stops people from trying new things that could help them. Maybe embarrassment. I know there have been plenty of times I’ve actually felt apologetic as a dance student for not knowing something, not being better at something. I felt the same way in therapy when my therapist asked why I was putting up with such bad behavior. I thought, Why didn’t I know this already?

It’s okay to ask for help.

Of course, the answer is simple–because no one taught me. No one taught me how to dance or how to have healthy relationships (before they did)–probably because no one taught them. Likewise, no one (except for my therapist, who’s a professional) is teaching me how to navigate being thirty-seven, living with my parents, and having a health challenge (or two). After all, who knows these things?! Aren’t we all just figuring life out as we go along, aren’t we all just doing the best we can? This has been my experience, so I’m trying to get a grip and remember that it’s okay to admit you don’t know everything, that it’s okay to ask for help.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"When you’re authentic, your authenticity is enough. You don’t need to compare."

On Bravery (Blog #412)

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Two days ago I saw my therapist and we discussed money, which is a theme lately. Later that day while talking to my friend Bonnie, I said, “I wonder what I’ll write about tonight. I could talk about my therapy session, but it was emotional, and–believe it or not–there are days when I don’t want to share my emotions with the internet. There ARE times when I want to keep my therapy sessions private.”

Bonnie didn’t miss a beat. “I understand, but your blog IS called Me and My Therapist.”

Of course she was right (damn it), so that night I wrote about–you guessed it–me and my therapist. You can read the blog post here, but it’s essentially about my crying in therapy because I’m often paralyzed by anything involving finances (which is most things). The post also talks about why this is the case, the main reason being that when dad went to prison when I was fifteen, I had to handle the family finances (and it was terrifying). Anyway, I saw my therapist for another session this afternoon, read her the “I cried in therapy about money” post, and cried AGAIN.

Y’all, not to brag, but I’m getting pretty good at this crying thing.

My therapist and I talked more about money today, but I’m honestly worn out with that topic for this week, and I’m not sure I could even do her wisdom and encouragement justice right now at three in the morning. (I’m exhausted and am TRYING to keep this short, but I will say that she said overcoming my fears about money was largely a matter of gaining perspective, of realizing that the “monsters in the room” are simply shadows.) But there is something I would like to talk about, and that’s that after hearing my blog post, my therapist repeated her recent comment that I have big balls.

Well, she didn’t actually say that today, but she did before. Today she said, “Marcus, you’re really brave to share your emotions and experiences the way you do.”

Y’all, other people have said this before, and I never know quite how to respond. I get that it takes a certain amount of courage to put yourself out there, but having done it for over a year now, I guess I take it for granted. This project has been so beneficial for me personally, I think, Why WOULDN’T you completely expose yourself (emotionally, not physically) to the entire planet? But I do get it–it’s scary to tell the world your secrets. So I tried to flesh out with my therapist why I do this, and the best I came up with was, “I have to. I just have to.”

I guess this statement–I just have to–could be taken the wrong way. Even as I’m writing and reading it, I think, That sounds like I’ve “been called” to write this blog, like I’m a missionary of emotions who has no other choice but to share his feelings because “it’s the right thing to do.” That’s not how I mean it. Yesterday I mentioned situations in which my heart pounds with anxiety and the only way to get it to stop is to do the thing I’m afraid of, and THAT’S what I mean when I say, “I just have to.” I mean I’ve been shoving down my emotions, disconnecting from myself, and living inauthentically for so long that I simply can’t handle the pain any longer.

I wanted a way out.

So for me this project isn’t the result of my bravery or courage–it’s the result of my suffering. It’s a result of my desperation, my hoping that something–anything–will fix my hurting heart. That’s why I went to therapy in the first place–I was miserable and wanted a way out. Even now I want a way out of my financial fears, a way out of my health problems. I’m tired of them, tired of dragging these things around by myself. They’re exhausting. That’s why I talk about everything to my therapist, and that’s why I write about (almost) everything on the internet–because doing so makes my burdens lighter. It turns my monsters into shadows. If this looks like bravery to someone else, perhaps it is, but it feels like healing to me.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Everything is progressing as it should.

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Shattered (Blog #410)

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Last week I saw my therapist and we talked about money, a subject that almost always makes me twitchy. “It’s like your heart is in your throat,” she said. That night I went for a run to chill out, then wrote a blog in which I explored how my childhood feelings about money have apparently gotten all mixed up with my current feelings about money. You can read the blog here, but the big takeaway was that I was completely overwhelmed once as a teenager when I had to meet with our bank regarding our failure to make mortgage payments (since Mom was sick and Dad was in prison), and that feeling of “I’m in over my head when it comes to money” has never completely gone away.

Or gone away at all, really.

Of all the blogs I’ve written, that one about going to the bank as a teenager was perhaps the most emotional for me, meaning I broke down crying while writing it. Granted, I’ve cried plenty of times while blogging, but this was ugly crying, not movie-star crying. Serious boo-who-who-ing. Anyway, I saw my therapist this afternoon, and I read the blog to her and cried some more. “See, this–is–wha-what ha-ha-happens,” I said, adding that I hated the fact that I’m a thirty-seven-year-old man who feels like a teenager when it comes to anything financial. “I’m a fuh-fuh-fucking mess.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Let it out.”

Later, when I was more calm, my therapist said, “You’ve never told me that story before. That was a big deal, and it makes absolute sense that you responded the way you did. Anyone in your circumstances would walk away from that experience thinking that money was scary, dirty, and hard to come by.”

“It’s not?” I said.

As we continued to flesh things out, I told my therapist that I’ve thought about that day at the bank a lot over the years. It’s not like I haven’t known “that was a bad day.” But seriously, until I broke down while blogging about it last week, I didn’t realize what a formative event it was for me, how intimidating and frightening it was. “You were acknowledging it in your head, but not in your heart,” my therapist said. “You normally don’t do a lot of crying in here, but the fact that you are now is a good thing. It means you’re ready to get this sorted out and heal. It means you’re ready to grieve for that teenager.”

I think that’s such a poignant word–grieve–since I don’t often fully acknowledge what all I lost when my dad went to prison. Obviously there was the childhood thing–I grew up way too fast. But then there were things I lost you might not think of, like my sense of power, my feeling of belonging in this world, my pride in my circumstances. Oh yeah, and that feeling I had when I was a kid about how money was exciting and fun, something to be enjoyed (and not overwhelmed by). Where did that part of me go?

Because I’d really like it back.

My therapist says that your past doesn’t determine your future, that just because things were shit when you were a teenager doesn’t mean they have to be shit forever. (God, I hope she’s right.) She also says that with everything that went on in my childhood, I could have EASILY ended up addicted to drugs, and the fact that I didn’t only goes to show how resilient I am. (So that’s something.) I hope my repeating this compliment doesn’t sound like bragging, since I’ve never once used the word resilient to describe myself (before now), and I didn’t plan it this way. It’s not like there was a moment in my childhood when I thought, Dad’s in prison and the bank is on our back, but I’m not going to shoot heroin up my arm–no, sir, not me–I’m going to be resilient!

No emotion is ever truly buried.

But seriously, I don’t know why one person who’s dealt a shit hand in life turns to drugs and another doesn’t. Likewise, I don’t know why my sister has always been one to cry about things in the moment and I’ve (apparently) always been one to bury my emotions for decades. But I do know from personal experience that no emotion is ever truly buried. You may keep it down for a while–fool yourself and others–but it’ll come up somehow. (Just you wait.) Also, getting back to that long list of things I lost when I was a child like my feeling of belonging and pride in my circumstances, I don’t think these things were ever truly lost. Separated, maybe. But surely I can reconnect with them. Surely anyone can reconnect with themselves. For what is resilience but this, the firm belief that all shattered things can somehow be put back together.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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if you're content with yourself and you're always with yourself, then what's the problem?

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Totally Mixed Up (Blog #405)

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Last year, in the midst of starting this blog, I began walking late at night. It was a good way to get out of the house, clear my head, and organize my thoughts before sitting down to write during the wee hours of the morning. At some point I began jogging, running, something I hadn’t done in forever because of a hip that’s historically given me a lot of grief. I had to start slow, but eventually worked myself up to eight miles. And whereas my hip never fell in love with running, it did tolerate it, especially if I took time to stretch my legs and didn’t pound the pavement every day.

When my immune system went haywire last October, my night-time strolls and midnight marathons took a long vacation. There was just no way. Even if I’d felt like a million bucks, I’m not sure I would have left the house, since it was winter and cold outside, and I hate winter and cold outside. All this to say that despite my aversion to pollen and even though spring is literally in the air right now, last night I went for a jog–one mile. Let’s just see how our body responds, I thought. Well, the jog went great–but get this shit. As I was jogging, it was like my body was remembering every walk or run I’ve ever been on. I took a route I used a lot last year, and all these memories came back of specific podcasts I was listening to along those streets, of particular thoughts and emotions I was sorting out before blogging about them.

That’s weird, right?–the way your memories get tied to distinct locations or activities and can come flooding back at a moment’s notice? It’s like the past and the present get totally mixed up in your head.

Today I saw my therapist, and we talked about money. Y’all, I hate talking about money. First of all, no one ever taught me how. Second of all, growing up, most of my experiences with money were negative. Like, we never had enough of it, or what we did have (in the form of possessions) was taken away (in a house fire), stolen, or repossessed. This is why I write so much about abundance–it’s something I want to believe in, but haven’t always had a lot of proof of. So today when my therapist and I were talking about a couple business situations like the insurance claim regarding my car accident last year, I practically broke into a cold sweat. “You’re all twitchy,” she said. “Yeah,” I replied, “because I’m afraid I won’t be able to handle myself.”

“Then it’s my job to support you emotionally until you do feel like you can handle yourself,” she said.

Since leaving therapy this afternoon, I’ve continued to be a nervous wreck. It’s a little better now because I went for another run earlier–two miles–and that helped burn up some energy. But even as I’m propped up in my childhood bed, I can remember where I was sitting when I was handed the family checkbook as a teenager, how I felt completely inadequate to do what was being asked of me. I can remember exactly where I was sitting at the bank the afternoon I met with our loan officer and told him we could no longer afford our mortgage payments as long as Dad was in prison. I was sixteen. On one side of the desk was this confident man in a suit and tie, three times my age, and on the other side was overwhelmed me in a pair of jeans and maybe a collared shirt, crying, embarrassed. And even though twenty years have elapsed between then and now, when it comes to money, I guess a large part of me still feels like that little kid–all twitchy. It’s like the past and the present are totally mixed up in my head.

How do you fix a problem that’s twenty years old?

Now it’s three in the morning, and I don’t know how I’m going to sort this one out. I guess I don’t have to tonight, but I do want to–get it sorted out–at some point. I simply can’t keep living on this side of the desk, practically paralyzed by the world of business, by–the world. And yet, how do you fix a problem that’s twenty-years old? How do you learn to walk again, let alone run when your legs are trembling with fear? Honestly, I don’t know. But perhaps you start by recognizing that despite your past and your trembling legs, you’re still standing. Perhaps you start by realizing that life even in its most intimidating moment wasn’t able to completely knock you down. Because surely that fact alone would mean that you are strong, much more capable of handling yourself than you were previously giving yourself credit for.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"No one's story should end on the ground."

Suddenly Feeling Warm Again (Blog #404)

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Just shy of a year ago, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. For a couple months I didn’t mention it on the blog, but then I did, in this post. For several months last year, Mom underwent chemotherapy, then had a double mastectomy this past January. As I understand it, at that point she was cancer free, but for the last six weeks she’s been getting radiation five times a week in order to increase her odds of staying in remission. Well, today was her last treatment. Other than taking a pill and (I’m assuming) the occasional checkup, she’s done.

What a year.

At the end of this last February, my dad went to the emergency room for his own set of issues, most of which had to do with his heart. In the hospital for a solid week, he’s been slowly improving ever since, largely due to the fact that my mom has taken over his diet. She counts his carbs, measures his sodium, keeps track of his calories. (Dad calls her The Food Nazi.) Also, Dad’s going to cardiac rehab, getting some exercise. Well, in just over two months, he’s lost 55 pounds. Isn’t that wild? Personally, I never thought I’d see the day. Like, I would have placed bets against it.

I’m just being honest.

As long as I’ve known him, my dad has been a big guy. He had a heart attack when I was in my early twenties, and, by his own admission, it didn’t scare him a bit. However, it did scare me–I started jogging that same day. Then I started going to the gym, and I’ve been off-and-on obsessed with my health ever since. For a while–a long while–I gave my dad a lot a shit about his weight. We’d go out to eat, he’d order a cheesecake, and I’d shoot him “the look.” Sometimes I’d even say, “Are you really going to eat that?”

He’d often reply, “You know, you’re not fun to go out with anymore.”

At some point, I quit trying to convince Dad to eat differently. I mean, I’d tried everything–information, logic, guilt–and nothing worked. Once he said, “You can’t say anything I haven’t thought myself,” and eventually I let that sink in. I thought, It’s his life, not mine. Then I started acting like it. It took some time, but I dropped all the food conversations. I got rid of the look. Slowly, there was less tension between us. Consequently, not only did we get along better, but I also liked him better. He hadn’t changed, but I had.

When Dad saw his primary care physician the week after his hospital stay, he said, “Doc, what I really want to know is–when can I have a cheeseburger?” In the past other doctors have said, “Never, Mr. Coker. You will NEVER eat a cheeseburger again.” (As Dad likes to say, that went over like a fart in church.) But this guy said, “How about you lose fifty pounds, AND THEN you can have a cheeseburger?” This strategy actually worked with Dad. For the last two months, he’s weighed every day, and has often beamed as he’s shared his results. Just a few days ago, he hit his (first) goal weight–he lost fifty pounds.

A storm can leave your life just as quickly as it enters it.

All this to say that today our family went out for cheeseburgers to celebrate. After Mom’s last radiation, she and Dad met Dad’s two sisters (my aunts) at Freddy’s Steakburgers in Fort Smith, which Dad’s had his eye on ever since they recently opened. (As I’m eating Autoimmune Paleo, I ordered my burger without the bread–but kept the cheese. So sue me.) And whereas we looked like everyone else in the restaurant–just a family eating burgers–it was a big deal–a ritual, really–an acknowledgment that big, scary things can and do turn around. For me it was a reminder that a storm can leave your life just as quickly as it enters it, that you can spend years in the darkness drenched and shivering, and then one afternoon the sun can break through the clouds. Perhaps this is what hope and healing are, suddenly feeling warm again as you watch the waters that nearly drowned you disappear into thin air.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We don’t get to boss life around.

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Shadow Dancing (Blog #401)

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Well hell. I just spent thirty minutes trying to connect my laptop to the WIFI at a local coffee shop to no avail. I’ve had this problem before–a message that says another device is connected to the network with my IP address–but this is the first time I haven’t been able to resolve it. So now I’m connected to MY hot spot and using MY data, which feels stupid because THE WHOLE POINT of blogging at a coffee shop is to use THEIR free internet. But I CAN’T connect to their free internet, so what am I EVEN doing here?

Oh yeah, I’m drinking coffee.

Yesterday I did my second live video on Facebook. I know this isn’t new technology, but as I’m usually late to the party, it’s new to me. So I’m excited about it. In yesterday’s video, I shared an essay I wrote in September of 2016 that helped initiate all my big life changes–closing the studio, having an estate sale, and–ultimately–starting the blog. Additionally, I read yesterday’s blog–which was #400–out loud. If you missed it and would like to see it, here it is. (It’s about 26 minutes long.) As I continue to hit milestones with the blog, my plan is to share other previously unshared essays and/or short stories.

After last night’s live video, I went dancing with my friend Bonnie. Well, sort of. We went to a swing dance, but the attendance was super-low, so we pretty much walked in then walked right back out. As a former organizer of dances, I kind of hated doing this because I know how much difference every person makes, but as an attendee I thought, This just isn’t going to work for me. We ended up at a local restaurant where a rockabilly band was playing, and since there wasn’t enough room for dancing, we simply listened (and snacked).

Y’all, the place was a bit of a dude bar. You know, pool tables, waitresses in Daisy Dukes, Hells Angels scattered about the room strategically. Mid-evening, when I had to go to the bathroom, I was forced to wade through all of it. Weaving my way around burly guys with pool sticks in their hands, I thought, What have I gotten myself into? Well, I guess I was wearing a look of suspicion on my face when I cautiously opened the door to the men’s room, as one of the guys at the urinals said, “You opened that door like a serial killer, bro.”

Seriously? This gay boy has been called a lot of things over the years, but never bro.

I mean, a serial killer.

Later in the evening, Bonnie and I went Latin dancing in downtown Fayetteville. That’s where we took the above picture, inside some sort of blow-up, light-up, bounce-around tent that I assume was meant to look sophisticated but really just looked tacky. Business owners, before doing something drastic like this, remember the following little poem by yours truly:

When you’re straight,
It’s okay to decorate.
But if your vision
Includes an “inflatables” decision,
Trust a homo–
It’s a no-no.

Getting home late from the dance last night, I slept in this morning. Then this afternoon I taught a couple’s dance routine to a group of teenagers, the group I spoke of yesterday and have been dreading working with for nearly two months now. And yet, after all that worry about them being awkward and me being awkward and us being awkward together, everything went great. We worked for two hours and went from them know pretty much squat to being able to perform the entire minute-and-a-half routine. Throw in a little practice and some nice outfits, and they’ll be golden. And y’all, the experience was actually fun for me, working with “the kids,” seeing them progress. I actually felt–well–proud.

You can speak your truth and stand beside it.

This has been on my mind lately, how something in real life is so often the complete opposite of what I’ve imagined. During the group lesson I missed a call from the insurance agent of the guy who rear-ended me (in the worst way possible) several months ago. So when the kids left, I called them back, and despite all my anxiety over speaking to this person, the conversation went fine. A couple months ago my therapist said, “I bet you’re a better negotiator than you realize. I bet you could actually be tough.” And not that I did any tough negotiating today (I just gave them my email address), I did think, I can say what I want. I can speak my truth and stand beside it. I guess life is funny this way, turning what I thought were monsters into simple shadows on the wall, shadows that quite often turn out to be fun to dance with, shadows that shrink as I step closer to them.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We can hang on and put everything safely in its place, and then at some point, we’re forced to let go.

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Remembering (Blog #398)

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This afternoon I saw my therapist and told her about my meeting Del Shores on Sunday. I shared this bit of news as if I were a junior high cheerleader at a slumber party, and she responded in kind. (I love it when people rejoice with me appropriately.) Then I told her about receiving good news about my medical bills last week and ended the conversation by groaning, “So maybe the universe isn’t such a bad place to live after all.” My therapist raised her hand as if she were about to offer a benediction. “It has its moments,” she said, then bowed her head slightly. “It has its moments.”

After therapy and a quick trip to the library, I met my friend CJ for an evening in Fayetteville. For dinner, we went to Herman’s, a steak and rib joint that’s been around for decades, but it was our first time there. Y’all, it was pretty great. We both had steak, and they were super big, super juicy. Good stuff. And I was so proud of myself for staying mostly on Autoimmune Paleo. (I ate hash browns, but NO tomatoes, peppers, or bread!) That being said, when CJ suggested dessert, I did think, Oh, fuck it and started fantasizing about the possibilities. But thankfully (I guess), I didn’t have to exercise my willpower or decide to further break my rules for the evening because Herman’s doesn’t have a dessert menu. What they do have, however, is a basket of (free) multi-flavored Tootsie Pops.

Insert my eyes rolling here.

I can’t tell you how unimpressed I was. When the waitress brought the basket to our table, I felt like I was a toddler at a dentist’s office. Granted, it worked out for my diet, but come on–a sucker for dessert? (I politely declined.) I can only assume a straight person came up with this idea. (No offense, straight people, but a gay man would NEVER propose an idea like this.) I asked the waitress, “Do people actually get excited about this basket of suckers you’ve laid before me?” With a completely serious face, she replied, “Some people do.”

A sucker at a steakhouse. I’m still not over it. (Some things are really hard for me to let go of.) However–for both your sake and mine–I’m going to try to move on with my life. (Here I go.)

After dinner CJ and I went to see a play at Theater Squared. Well, we did stop in a local sex store first, but since we did that last year, it wasn’t exactly a novel or notable experience. If you’ve seen one dildo, you’ve seen them all. That being said, if you haven’t seen a seventeen-inch dildo or a rainbow-colored “pride” dildo like I did tonight, then, yeah, maybe you should get out more often. And I guess the glass dildos were notable, what with their different shapes and colors. Some of them were quite pretty–stunning, actually. Had it been winter and had they not been in the penis-shaped vibrator section, I could have easily mistaken them for Christmas tree ornaments.

Just imagine. Presents under the tree AND on the tree.

But back to the play we went to see, The Hound of the Baskervilles, or as my mother misheard when I told her about it a couple days ago, The Hound of the Basketball Pills. It’s a Sherlock Holmes story, of course, but this version has been adapted as a comedy, and y’all, it was hilarious. Three extremely talented actors played twenty (20!) characters in two acts, and I was completely in stitches. They never missed a beat. It was the perfect way to get out of the house and remind myself, once again, that the universe “has its moments.”

But seriously, I highly recommend the show. Go see it. (It’s playing until May 27.)

Then I stand a little taller.

Something I often notice when I go to therapy or see a wonderful show like I saw tonight is that even if I’ve spent the week worrying, fretting, or even bitching about my problems (my often very real and in-my-face problems), all of that falls away. If only for an hour or two, I forget about the past and am strongly reconnected to the present and the idea that life is good. I love these moments when I forget about myself, these moments when my worries simply vanish into thin air. Then I stand a little taller, without all that weight on my shoulders. Then I move about the earth as a star moves about the heavens–confidently. Remembering that I belong here, that this is my home, I continue steadily along my path.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Your story isn’t about your physical challenges.

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A Different, Kinder Tale (Blog #397)

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Today was an easy day. Day ten on Autoimmune Paleo, I’ve fallen into a routine. A boring, bland, void-of-chocolate-cake-and-all-things-worth-living-for routine, but a routine nonetheless, one that looks like cooking, eating, cleaning up, then doing it all over again. All this, of course, when I wasn’t sneezing today. I don’t know who came up with the idea of sneezing. Granted, it’s a fabulous way to expel unwanted particles from a person’s nose, but it’s just so violent and gross. Last night while typing, I sneezed into my shirt to keep from blowing mucus all over the blog (you’re welcome) and ended up shooting snot into my formerly white tee.

Disgusting.

Burdened by allergies, I took a nap this afternoon. Then I woke up, cleaned up, and hurried out the door to teach a dance lesson at a student’s house. This is how I typically live my life, filling up every minute with something, rushing from one thing to the next. But I guess the universe has been trying to slow me down this last year, changing my routine, sprinkling illnesses and allergies here, there, and everywhere, forcing me to put the brakes on. Take a nap. Slow the eff down, Marcus.

And yet I’m slow to get the message. I spend all day thinking about what I “should” be doing, work that “could” be done. Tonight I showed up to my dance lesson thirty minutes early because I didn’t double-check my calendar and thought, Crap, I could have gotten some work done, even slept longer. But it turned out to be the best thing–my student has a dog that LOVES me, and she (the dog) gave me the biggest hug when I got there. Two legs wrapped around my waist, she wouldn’t let go. Then I sat down on the couch, and I had her on one side and another dog (pictured above) on the other, both cuddling up and wanting attention.

I was smitten. I actually relaxed (briefly).

This afternoon I finished reading a book by Chis Van Allsburg called The Chronicles of Harris Burdick. One of the most magical books I’ve read in a long time, it requires a bit of a backstory. Harris Burdick, I guess, was a real person, who showed up one day in the office of a book publisher with fourteen beautiful illustrations, each with a title and a caption, and most of them mysterious. One showed a frightened man in his living room. The man’s holding a chair above his head, looking at a large lump under the carpet. The caption says, “Two weeks passed and it happened again.” (Good, right?) Anyway, Mr. Burdick said if the publisher was interested, he’d return the next day with more illustrations and the stories that went with them. The publisher said that indeed, he was interested, so Mr. Burdick left the illustrations in the man’s office.

But he never–ever–returned.

Fast forward a little, and the publisher and Mr. Van Allsburg (who wrote Jumanji and The Polar Express, by the way) published the illustrations in a work called The Mysteries of Harris Burdick in hopes that the author would come forward. But he didn’t. However, the drawings were so provocative that children and adults have been creating their own stories around the images and captions since they were first made public in 1984. Then in 2011 came the book I finished reading today, in which fourteen best-selling authors (like Kate DiCamillo, Lois Lowry, and Stephen King) each take an illustration and caption and spin a magical tale from them. It’s glorious.

As much as I enjoyed the stories in the book today, I couldn’t help but think that in most (if not all) cases, had I been the author, my stories would have been completely different. I’ve been thinking about this a lot today, the notion that two people can look at the same thing, and their brains can go in totally different directions. And who’s to say that one person’s story is better or “more right” than another’s, especially when it’s impossible to know what The True Author intended? I look at my life and think I need to speed up, that I need to be doing more. My therapist looks at my life and says, “Slow down. Take it easy. One day you’ll be so busy you won’t be able to.” Honestly, I like her story better than mine, so I really am trying–to slow down, take it easy, relax, nap.

Nothing is set in stone here.

We look in the mirror and are convinced that the picture we see is the picture the world sees. And yet this hasn’t been my experience. Time and time again my therapist has mirrored back to me a self that’s kinder, stronger, and more talented than I’ve ever given myself credit for. I assume this is true for most of us. We downplay our strengths, cut ourselves short, and refuse to give ourselves slack even when we’re doing the very best we can (damn it). What’s more, we imagine our endings to be one way for so long that no one can convince us it could be otherwise. But I’m learning that we can rewrite our stories. We can tell ourselves a different, kinder tale, one where we are the hero and everything turns out maybe not perfect, but all right and better than before. And who’s to say it can’t come true? I’m honestly coming to believe this, that we can change our endings if we want to, that nothing is set in stone here.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Some things simply take time and often more than one trip to the hardware store.

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A Form of Healing (Blog #391)

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Today I wore a vintage sailor’s cap and a vest, and tonight during our monthly comedy show, the other performers referred to me as both “Oliver” and “a Newsie.” I saw my therapist this afternoon, and she said I looked very “Fiddler on the Roof.” (My response to this was to start singing, “If I were a rich man.”) But clearly everyone agrees–I look like a character from a musical, someone one who can sing and dance but doesn’t have a lot of money.

Sounds about right.

My therapist’s big push this afternoon had to do with patience and abundance. We talked mainly about my quirky immune system and how I’m currently dieting and mentally considering everything from paleo to past-life regression as viable options to figure out my body’s problems and therefore cure myself. My therapist’s suggestion was to hang tight, be patient. She said it sounded as if I’d landed in the right place with both my primary care physician and immunologist, that surely they could find an answer. “In the meantime,” she said, “if your body is tired, take a nap. I know you’re hung up on being productive, but you’ve produced for years. It’s okay to rest. No one is judging you. You’re THE ONLY ONE judging you.”

Boy, does she know me, or what?

If the inside can turn around, the outside can too.

In terms of abundance, she said she thought I’d made a lot of progress seeing both the world and money as abundant. Now, she said, it’s time to focus on seeing health as abundant, to believing that my body and my doctors can and will eventually find an answer to whatever is going on. I don’t mind saying this is a challenge for me. I’ve dealt with sinus infections for so long and have been sick so much recently, it’s tough to believe–like really, deep-down believe–that things can turn around. That being said, the way I see the world has completely turned around in the last several years, as has my internal health, my mental and emotional health. So surely if the inside can turn around, the outside can too.

Fingers crossed.

Tonight at the comedy show, I went around to all the tables close to the stage, introduced myself, and passed out little slips of paper that we use for one of our skits. This is something I almost always do, but I normally do it with a glass of scotch in my hand. Tonight, however, since I’m on this Autoimmune Paleo Diet, I did it completely sober. Y’all–talking to strangers is MUCH easier when you’re tipsy. I mean, they don’t call alcohol a social lubricant for nothing. That being said, I survived. And get this–I met one lady who ended up giving ME a pep talk. She’d asked if we ever bombed, and I said, “MOST of the show usually goes well, but there are always moments when we struggle.” Then she said, “Yeah, but you’re up there trying, putting yourself out there, and that’s what matters.”

Isn’t that great? I said, “I’m going to blog about this tonight.” (I think she thought I was kidding.) And get this too–she was wearing a necklace that said, “Hope.” Well, I’ve been really working on hope lately, so it was the perfect reminder. Maybe someone else would say my seeing this lady’s necklace was just a coincidence, but I took it as a personal message from the universe that I was on the right track, that hope was actually an okay thing to do. This is something I’ve been thinking about today, whether the universe puts certain people and messages in my path (or anyone’s path), or whether those people and messages were there all along and I just finally noticed them. I’m honestly not sure that it matters, since it seems that when a person’s subconscious is ready to work on something, it can clearly use anything–a therapist, a total stranger, a necklace–to get its point across.

Healing is possible.

Tonight the lady I met, along with her husband, said, “Don’t be nervous. If your family’s not here, we’ll be your family tonight. We’ll cheer you on.” How cool is that? For me it felt like that moment in Oliver! when he gets adopted by The Artful Dodger. Consider yourself at home! But seriously–I think abundance starts this way, recognizing a stranger’s smile or someone’s random and generous offer of support for what it is–a form of healing. And I am slowly starting to believe this, really deep-down believe this, that the world is our home, that people are good, and that healing is possible.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We all need to feel alive.

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