Nobody Wants to Deal with Hairballs (Blog #1050)

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Hum. All day I’ve been dragging ass, fighting to keep my eyes open, and now that it’s midnight-thirty I’m wide awake. Surely it doesn’t have anything to do with all the coffee I drank this afternoon and evening. Who knows? Life is a mystery.

Speaking of mysteries, let’s talk about hair loss. (Why, Marcus?) Because this afternoon I fished a huge glob of hair (about the size of a baby raccoon) out of my shower drain. And whereas there was once a time–back when I had short hair–that I NEVER had to do this, now I have to do this on a regular basis. Shower drain hair extraction. Indeed, now that my hair is shoulder length I pull hair clumps out of my drain, hair brush, hair dryer brush, and carpet constantly. Ugh. Our bodies are so strange.

They shed, they molt, they fall apart.

For some reason I can’t get the image of that hair clump out of my head. (The inside of my head, I mean, since I obviously already got the hair clump out of the outside of my head.) I think because the actual clump so clearly demonstrated the idea of buildup. Like, for days and weeks I was losing hair in the shower, and it was slowly but surely collecting in the drain. And whereas it was keeping the water from draining optimally, I didn’t notice until today. Until everything got to be “too much.” Alas, isn’t this usually the case? We gain five pounds a year and think it’s not a big deal. Two decades later we wake up wondering what the hell happened. Likewise, we ignore our traumas and dramas, insisting we’re over them. Then “all of a sudden” we find ourselves constantly anxious, stricken by panic attacks, addicted.

Or worse.

I don’t know, we live in a Bandaid society, an “it’s fine, I’m fine” society. Like, the worst happens, and we’re so focused on “getting back out there” as soon as possible, keeping a stiff upper lip. For the last six years I’ve been focused on healing through therapy. For the last three years I’ve been focused on healing through this blog. And whereas I’ve spent the majority of this time wishing I were on the other side of this work (so that I could be OUT THERE doing something else like making money or being noticed), lately I’ve been really appreciating the opportunities I’ve been given to slow the fuck down and pull the hairballs out of my mental, emotional, physical, familial, relational, and spiritual drains. To be IN HERE. So that the rest of my life can run more smoothly.

So that things can get better instead of keep getting worse.

Looking back, I can see that my body’s been asking me to pump the brakes and clean things up for a while now. Like, decades. Alas, I was more inclined to push, push, push past the internal and external pain. To use a Bandaid, a pill, a cigarette. You know, we think that if we tell ourselves something isn’t a big deal long enough, it won’t be. And yet it always is. A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet, and a big deal is a big deal even if you call it a little deal. Sooner or later we all face the music. Sooner or later we all sit down to a banquet of consequences (Robert Louis Stevenson). Sooner or later we all sit down to our lives.

One thing I know about cleaning out your shower drain is that even if it’s gross (and it is), it’s worth it. Recently I tried a new therapy thing and ended up crying, weeping, and wailing about things that happened twenty-five, thirty-five years ago. (My dad’s arrest, our house fire.) Not because I never mentally accepted that these things happened, but because–apparently–I never emotionally accepted that they did. What I mean is that MY BODY internalized my reaction to these events rather than externalized it. (And never forgot it, either.) Thankfully, now this reaction has been expressed. Sure, it was gross, but it was also cathartic and–what’s more–freeing.

Now it’s done. Really over.

If you’d known what to do, you would have.

There’s an idea in self-help that we’re all doing the best we can with what we’ve got. To me this means that although NOW I can look at my younger self and see that the push, push, pushing, the pills (by the way, I’m talking about Tylenol, not Oxy), and the cigarettes weren’t THE ANSWER, they were all I had at the time. Back then I didn’t have therapy or this blog or any of the other wonderful things I’ve discovered, well, in my thirties. This is the way of it. We learn as we go. All this to say that, please, don’t give yourself shit for not cleaning out your drain sooner. For one thing, hairballs are gross. Nobody WANTS to deal with them. For another, if you’d known WHAT to do, you would have. So keep pressing forward. Keep learning and keep healing. And remember–

We shed, we molt, we fall apart. We begin again.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can't build a house, much less a life, from the outside-in. Rather, if you want something that's going to last, you have to start on the inside and work your way out, no matter how long it takes and how difficult it is.

"

Don’t Throw Yourself Out (Blog #1037)

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What a day. What a productive day.

I’ll explain.

A few days ago my parents’ garage door broke. And whereas it took me a while to figure out what the problem was because the door itself was fine and the motor was working, it ended up being a shattered plastic gear. (The motor turns the gear, and the gear turns another gear that moves the chain). Anyway, this afternoon I took the motor down from the ceiling and fished out all the broken pieces, six in all. Then, in hopes that I could buy a replacement gear, replace it, remount the motor, and call it a day, I called two local garage door companies. Well, nothing’s ever easy. Both companies said, “Unfortunately, that motor’s older than God, and no replacement parts are available.” And get this shit! The guy at the second place said, “The manufacturer doesn’t want you to fix your old motor; they want you to buy a new one.”

“How much will that cost?” I said.

“$375 including parts, labor and installation, and tax,” he said.

Turning my feet toward the front door, I said, “I’m gonna have to pray about that.”

Determined to find another solution, when I got home I went to work gluing the gear back together and thinking of ways I could reinforce the spokes with nuts and bolts. Then I decided to take another look on eBay, even though I’d searched earlier and couldn’t find a gear designed anything like mine. And whereas I still couldn’t find an exact match, I found an acceptable one, the difference being that my old gear turns a smaller, separate gear, and the one I ordered turns a smaller, built-in or attached gear. Anyway, considering it only cost $20 and can be returned if it doesn’t fit, it’s worth a shot.

Fingers crossed.

In order to detach the garage door motor from the ceiling, I first had to go to the hardware store. I needed a socket/socket wrench, which I had, but I wasn’t strong enough to turn it (the screws were in studs). So I went to Lowe’s to get an adapter that would allow me to connect the socket to my power drill. This did the trick. All this to say that the adapter caused me to get very excited about all the different-sized sockets lying around in my Dad’s and (dead) Granmpa’s respective toolboxes. I kept thinking, Now I can use those! So this evening I organized both toolboxes, including all the sockets and socket wrenches. Then, because one thing leads to another, I cleaned out and organized the drawers in our garage, the ones that we’ve been throwing all our random screws, nuts, nails, and washers into for the last thirty years.

Of course, this has made it a pain in the ass to find anything.

But not now. Now it’s all organized. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am about this. Not only did I throw away a bunch of crap we’ll never use, but I also found a bunch of crap I never knew we had. For example, in my Grandpa’s toolbox were all kinds of files, wedges, hex wrenches, and plumbing tools. Stuff that will definitely come in handy!

Grandpa used to say, “You take care of your tools, and your tools will take care of you.” Along these lines, I’ve been thinking about how we’re so quick to throw things away, but when we simply take care of our stuff, it continues to serve us. Sure, there are times when a garage door motor goes kaput and it’s time to start over. But how often do we start over when we really don’t need to, just because a salesman tells us we should? “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” they say. More and more I’m learning it’s worth checking into other options. It’s worth being persistent and creative and searching for answers. It’s worth taking care of your stuff.

Your body is capable of a lot.

Likewise, it’s worth taking care of your health. For the last six years and especially the last three, I’ve been focusing on just this. And whereas I’ve hit a lot of rough patches along the way, I feel like I’m really starting to make progress. Despite what well-meaning doctors (like me and you, they’re doing the best they can) have told me about certain diagnoses being irreversible (“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” they say), I’m convinced my body is capable of healing most anything. Indeed, after decades of dealing with mental, emotional, and physical problems, I’ve beginning to see many of them disappear. So it will forever be my encouragement to anyone who’s struggling on the inside or outside to hang in there and don’t take no for answer. Get a second opinion. Garage door salesmen don’t have all the answers, and neither do doctors. I’m not saying you’re never going to die (you’re GOING to die), but your body is capable of a lot.

Don’t throw yourself out just yet.

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.

"

Saying Yes to Adventures (Blog #113)

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When I woke up this morning/afternoon, the first thing Bonnie said was, “Would you like to go on an adventure?”

“I sure would,” I said. “Does it involve leaving this couch?”

“Yes,” she replied. “It involves going to a wig shop.”

“Then yes, I definitely want to go on an adventure.”

So that’s what we did–we went to a wig shop–but only after we had coffee and tacos. I mean, no one wants to shop for “spare hair” on an un-caffeinated, empty stomach. That’s just asking for trouble. Anyway, I’ve never been wig shopping before, so it was like an education. There were wigs of every size, shape, and color, and Bonnie taught me about about curls, tight knits, and lace fronts. “It’s an entire world,” she said. “An entire world.”

This afternoon we went back to Annie’s Plates studio to hang the rest of the curtains and put together a piece of furniture for the reception area. Hanging the curtains was “just okay,” but I can’t tell you how much fun I had reading the instructions and putting together the furniture. (I know–it’s crazy–a man who reads directions. What can I say? Miracles never cease.) I guess it reminded me of working with Legos. You start off with a bunch of random pieces, everything scattered about, and then all of a sudden–something wonderful appears.

Voila!

This morning I got a message from my friend Micah. Micah and I graduated high school together–our class had a grand total of twelve–but I don’t think we’ve seen each other since, except on Facebook. Anyway, he said he noticed that I was visiting Austin and that he was too–and would I like to get together?

“I sure would,” I said.

Another adventure.

So this evening Bonnie and I met Micah and his wife, Lindsey, in downtown Austin at a restaurant called Searsucker (it’s like the pants, but spelled differently and tastes better). Y’all, I don’t mean to sound like a total redneck, but this place was fancy. I mean, the men’s bathroom was fancy (I didn’t go in the women’s). They actually had throw-away hand towels with their name printed on–every–single–one. I was totally impressed. First the bar I went to the other night has a box of condoms in the bathroom and now this. It really is the little details that make you feel important.

So get this shit. No fewer than six different waiters–each one of whom I’m pretty sure had a thirty-inch waist–came to the table to ask if we were done with our cheese board EVEN THOUGH there were still three pieces of cheese and two pieces of bread left on it. Like, You’re not planning on EATING that are you?

Well, yeah, we were. I mean, is that the wrong answer? Are you not supposed to eat the food here?

Anyway, after a delightful evening of appetizers, drinks, and conversation with Micah and Lindsey, Bonnie and I ran a quick errand, and then she dropped me off at a swing dance at a restaurant that had a dance floor made out of old bowling lanes. How creative is that? Well, the dance was about an hour’s walk from where we are staying, so I wasn’t sure how I was going to get back. (Bonnie had stuff going on, and Austin told Uber to go screw themselves.) But–honestly–I’d had enough to drink that I wasn’t worried about it. “I’ll figure it out,” I said.

So just about the time that the dance was winding down, Bonnie walked through the front door and said, “I went back to the place to change before going dancing myself, but I remembered I gave you the key.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, “I guess that would come in handy.”

So bummer for Bonnie that she got locked out of the house, but yippee that I didn’t have to try to navigate my way home with the brainpower you get when you have a disappearing cheese board and three scotches for supper. (I can’t imagine it would have been pretty.) Well, as it turns out, Bonnie and I were both craving breakfast foods, so we stopped at an all-night diner, where I ate chicken and waffles and drank two more beers (I had one at the dance)–because all of that seemed like a good idea at the time.

When we finally made it back to where we’re staying, Bonnie took off for her late-night Kizomba dance, and I walked to buy a pack of cigarettes–again because it seemed like a good idea at the time. (Like you’ve never done anything you’ve regretted later.) Anyway, on the way back from the gas station, a guy sitting on the curb asked if I had a light. Well, whenever that happens and I don’t have a lighter, I always feel so useless, like maybe how Clark Kent would feel if little Timmy were stuck in a well on a day when his Superman outfit just happened to be at the cleaners. But tonight I was like, “You bet I do. I JUST bought it.”

Here I am to save the day!

Well, the guy says he has his own smokes–American Spirits–but they’re in his backpack. So he starts digging around in there, digging around, but not finding anything. And I’m just standing there, like a slightly impatient, kind of tipsy superhero with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, if you can imagine that sort of thing. So I’m waiting, and the guy’s still rifling through is backpack and says, “DON’T WORRY, I’m not going to pull a gun out of here.”

Well, I hadn’t thought of that, but I immediately thought, What if he has a gun in there? What if I die over a pack of Camels and the twenty-four dollars in my pocket? That would seriously suck.

Thankfully, that didn’t happen. As it turns out, the guy was drunk (too), and he invited me to sit down. Why not? I thought, Yet another adventure. So he started talking about this guitar, this cheap piece of shit he bought on Amazon. “I know it’s nothing special,” he said. “But this case, it’s got all these bumper stickers on it. This case has been all over with me.” And then he told me about some of the places he’d been–Louisiana–Florida–I can’t remember where all. But Florida is where he got the bumper sticker about equality. “I like girls,” he said, “but if you’re not hurting anyone–and it doesn’t involve animals or children–I don’t see why it matters who you sleep with.”

“Why don’t you take some of my cigarettes,” I said. “Here, take a bunch. I really don’t need them.”

So he took a couple but kept searching his backpack for his American Spirits. I said, “You’ll find them later. It’s like when you try to remember a name, but can’t, and then you eventually remember it when it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, a name always matters,” he said. (This next part is where his drunk wisdom started to miss the mark.) “Not everyone is born with a silver spoon–or a golden spoon–or a platinum spoon–in their mouth. But a name–that’s something.”

“What’s your name? I said.

“Woody. My name’s Woody.”

Bonnie and I have talked a lot this week about meaning, the way we as humans interpret the events in our lives, whether or not everything is random. I’m open to the idea that it is, but I personally like the thought that reconnecting with an old friend in one of my favorite cities or sitting down with a stranger for a cigarette aren’t accidents. I can’t say what it all means or if it does even, but I can say what it means to me. I really have come to see life as an adventure to say yes to, and that includes wig shops and small reunions and talking to people I wouldn’t normally talk to. From the outside, maybe it looks like a bunch of pieces of wood and some building materials, maybe it looks like a bunch of bumper stickers slapped on an old guitar case. A bunch of random pieces, everything scattered about. But put it all together, and Voila! All of a sudden, something wonderful appears–a piece of furniture, a life, an entire world.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"That love inside that shows up as joy or enthusiasm is your authentic self."

Trying to Keep Both Hands Open (Blog #95)

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I’m just going to say it. My mood sucks. I mean, if you were here, I’d be pleasant because it’s not your fault, but I’d be faking it. Some muscle in my back spasmed all last night. When I woke up, my neck hurt in a few new places. The pain comes and goes, and I can’t very well turn to the left. (Zac Efron, please come around to my right side so I can see you.) As Grandpa used to say, I’m stiff in all the wrong places. From the shoulders up, I’m so rigid that I feel as if I’m turning into Pinocchio–the boy made out of wood.

Today was a day for adulting, something I particularly loathe when I don’t feel well. It’s like I just want to hide under the covers and let someone else handle things, let someone else take care of me. Of course, I’m thirty-six and too much of a control freak to let that happen. The insurance company called today with an estimate of what my car is worth–or rather–isn’t worth. Considering how old it is, I guess the amount is all right, but it’s not really enough to buy something comparable. I spoke with a friend who works in claims, and he gave me another, slightly higher estimate. So I’m officially in “negotiations,” which I know sounds very suit-and-tie, but actually happened while I was in my pajamas.

This afternoon I picked up a rental car, which I can use until the property claim is settled. (That’s me and part of the car in the above photo.) The lady from the insurance company said, “You can use it up to two days after the check is cut. If that sounds short, it’s because it is.” (How’s that for honesty?) I said, “Two days really isn’t much time to find and buy a new car.” She said, “I know.”

One of my friend’s recommended a car lot he and his family have used longer than I’ve been alive, so I stopped by there after picking up the rental car. The guy was super helpful, seemed like a straight-shooter. He had one car, a Ford Focus, with a reclaimed title that he said he could sell me for about what the insurance company was offering. I may go drive it tomorrow. But–honestly–I don’t want a Ford Focus. He also said he’s got an SUV arriving later this week that sounds pretty great, but it’s more than the amount of the insurance money. I haven’t seen the vehicle yet, but all evening I’ve been doing that practicality versus desire thing because I could really see myself in an SUV.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Last night before I went to bed, I smoked a cigarette and threw the rest of the pack in the toilet because I was flat out of willpower and knew what would happen if I didn’t. I waited a minute to flush it, so I got to see a nice stream of tar and nicotine seep out each cigarette and run to the bottom of the bowl. Disgusting, I thought. But all day I’ve been thinking I should have immediately fished them out and used a hairdryer to bring them back to life. What a waste, I’m currently thinking. This is what nicotine can do to a person. One minute you love it, the next minute you hate it. Desire comes and goes.

Here’s a picture of me and my friend Mary Anne. It was taken at the Greenwood Junior Cotillion as part of a patriotic-themed Halloween event. I include it now because 1) I need a picture, 2) tomorrow is July 4th, and 3) I currently feel anything but free. So–irony.

In order to distract myself from my cravings, tonight I watched two-thirds of a three-hour movie called Titus. My friend Justin recommended it, and I just have to say, “What the hell?” It’s a sort-of-modern day take on a Shakespeare tragedy, which–I think–is hard enough to understand without adding in murdering, raping gladiators who smoke cigarettes (nicotine!) and play video games. I wanted to throw my laptop across the room. This sort of ignorance happened with one of Justin’s other movie suggestions recently, so I’m officially revoking his cinema-recommendation privileges as of this moment.

So let it be written, so let it be done.

Tonight I went to Walmart for coffee filters because I’m out and can only handle so many frustrations and challenges in one day. This may not come as a surprise because–Arkansas–but people were shooting off fireworks in the parking lot. Inside I picked up the coffee filters, some bananas, and two cans of vegetarian baked beans for tomorrow and headed to the check-out. Well, I had such a “screw the world” attitude that I actually stepped in front of an old lady who got to the line at the same time I did. Her basket is full, I thought. I only have a few things. Well, Jesus must have been watching because the lady asked if she could go ahead, since she was with the guy in front of me. I looked at their TWO full baskets and said, “Sure. I’m not in a hurry.” Internally I added, God hates me.

This may not come as a surprise because–Arkansas–but I ended up being related to both the lady and the guy. (She’s my mom’s aunt; he’s my mom’s cousin. We only see each other when someone dies because we’re tight like that.) Honestly, I don’t remember ever having a conversation with my great-aunt before. But we chatted for a few minutes. Turns out we’re on the same schedule–stay up until six in the morning, wake up at four in the afternoon. I mean, we didn’t hug, but I found it fascinating. I wish I could tell you why random shit like this happens, but it doesn’t make any more sense to me than getting in a car wreck or that business with the insurance money.

The mystic Meister Eckhart said, “It is permissible to take life’s blessings with both hands provided thou dost know thyself prepared in the opposite event to take them just as gladly. This applies to food and friends and kindred, to anything God gives and takes away.” I always love this quote when God is giving, but whenever God is taking, I kind of hate it. Lately I’ve been thinking that I didn’t have that much more to give–I’m  pretty much worn out here, Jesus–but apparently I have a lot left to give–like a car, maybe some money, part of my health, and my good mood.

Here you go, Lord, take all you need.

There’s this feeling when you’ve been smoking cigarettes and you haven’t had one in about twenty-four hours, sort of like you want to run up the walls, jump out of your skin, or maybe shove a rusty knife into someone’s leg. You think, This will never get better. But then you wait a day or two, maybe a week, and it does. You look back and think, That wasn’t so bad. In the process, you find a lot of compassion for anyone who deals with addiction. So in terms of my stiff neck and needing to buy a new car, I’m currently halfway up the wall. I don’t have a rusty knife, but you’d better still keep your legs away. That being said, I have every confidence that given enough time, I’ll come back down the wall and find myself more understanding, more compassionate. Since God works in mysterious ways, I’m trying my best to keep both hands open, to gladly accept whatever comes and goes.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can’t play small forever.

"

From a Distance (Blog #93)

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This probably won’t come as a surprise, but I love Bette Midler. I guess there are certain requirements you have to meet if you want to be a card-carrying homosexual, and I’m proud to say I checked that one off at an early age. For this I blame my late Uncle Monty, who, although straight, also loved The Divine Miss M. (I suppose this is allowed). I remember sitting in his dentist’s chair as a child this one weekend when it was just the two of us at his office. Uncle Monty loved music, and that particular day he had Miss Otis Regrets on repeat. Just that one song, over and over for maybe an hour. It was the first time I’d heard anyone do that, play a song so many times that it becomes forever a part of you.

This morning, on the way to a funeral, I was in a car accident. It happened in Fort Smith where Free Ferry turns into 74th, this sort-of blind curve that leads into a steep hill. I made the curve, and as I came onto 74th, a rather sizable and stupid turtle was (slowly) crossing the road. So I swerved to the right side of my lane, and then back to the left, successfully dodging the son of a bitch. But the car in front of me had come to a dead halt–in the middle of the damn road!–I guess to play Jesus and save one of God’s more ignorant creatures. Slamming on my brakes, I stopped just in time to miss hitting them.

But the guy in the pickup truck behind me–didn’t.

It’s funny how moments like that one both slow down and speed up all at once, like a rubber band that’s pulled slowly backwards and then snaps forward–BAM!–and it’s over. A rubber band snapping–that’s what my neck felt like. And then all at once my coffee was splattered across my dash, my change scattered all over the floor, the baseball cap that was on my head–in the backseat.

For a few minutes, it felt like a dream. I’d only slept a few hours the night before–I’d just had the shit knocked out of me–everything was being processed about as slowing as that fucking turtle was crossing the road. I pulled my car over, so did the others. A lady yelled from the accident site, “Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said.

An old man crawled out of the pickup truck. He had hearing aids. He looked confused. He said, “What happened?”

My guardian angel is obviously getting paid about as much as I am.

The lady and maybe her son were then next to us. Is everyone okay? And then they were gone, back to the accident site, kicking the remains of my back bumper into the grass. At the same time–I think–the tortoise rescue team either moved the turtle off the road or picked it up and put it in their car like a couple of cat burglars except–obviously–different. I don’t remember them saying anything during this whole process, and then they–what the actual hell?–got in their car and drove off. Assholes. (This is me learning to express myself.)

The old man gave me his business card. I gave him mine. His hands were shaking. He couldn’t find his insurance. And then he did. I walked down to the accident site and looked around. My magnetic hide-a-key had come off my bumper. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve used that thing. I lock my keys in my car constantly. I picked it up. Tearing a piece of styrofoam off my bumper, I put it in my front seat and called my insurance company. The man still seemed confused. I was on the phone with my agent, but he kept talking, saying–I think that’s the wrong insurance card–No, it’ll work–Do we need to call the police? No, we don’t. My agent says we don’t have to if we don’t want to–I don’t want to. I’m going to be late for the funeral.

The man drove off, and then I did. I didn’t even think to look at his truck, see how badly it was damaged. Then on the phone with his insurance company, I pulled into a hospital parking lot and filed a claim. The lady was super nice, but she actually said, “I hope the turtle is okay.” I thought about the fact that my neck had recently functioned like a slingshot, the fact that I could hear birds chirping through the open spaces in my trunk, the fact that my guardian angel is obviously getting paid about as much as I am lately.

I replied, “That turtle can die.”

Next I drove to the funeral, my bumper scrapping my tire the whole way, myself leaned back like a gangster because I couldn’t get my broken seat to return to its full and upright position. At the funeral parking lot, I got out and looked at the damage again. My bumper looks like a park bench, I thought. It’s so dented in, you could curl up and take a nap on that thing–like a cat, like a whole bunch of cats.

By this time I was thinking more clearly, so I called my parents. I’m okay, but I was in a wreck. I’ve gotta go, but don’t ever park your car in the middle of a street to save a reptile. Then I called my chiropractor and my massage therapist. Both of them said they could see me today, but it would mean leaving the funeral early. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

For the next six hours, I was in and out of offices. The chiropractor, who was at least a seven and a half, said it was “nothing major.” I thought about saying, “Nothing major! Do you want to see my rear end?” but figured he wouldn’t know I was talking about my car. He said I had a slight compression in my neck joints, probably due to tight muscles. So he adjusted me, ran some ultrasound to reduce inflammation, and told me to come back next week. Then I went to my friend Justin’s house because I had time to kill and didn’t know what else to do.

Well, Justin, who knows a ton about cars and pretty much everything, is what we affectionately call a wet blanket. So he took one look at my car, pointed out that the entire frame was compromised and compared it to a can of soda pop that’s been stepped on by a circus performer. He said, “There’s no going back. It’s totaled. See how this door won’t open and that wheel is no longer perpendicular to the ground?”

“That’s a bad thing?” I said.

“Yeah. And you probably won’t get much money for it.”

(Pause.)

“Where did you say you keep your beer?”

My massage therapist, Ron, was a miracle. Is a miracle. (Go see him.) He worked on me for about thirty minutes, got my muscles to relax, and put bright blue Kinesio Tape on my neck, which is supposed to promote healing and blood flow to injured muscles. That’s me (with the tape) and Ron in the photo up top.

Next I went back to Justin’s, and we got lunch. Justin, who prefers the term “realist” to “pessimist,” said I should go to the doctor and request x-rays. That way, in the event that I’m really screwed up, there’s proof from the day of the accident. So Justin drove, and that’s what we did.

The receptionist at the doctor’s office had a basket of pens with a label on it that said, “Pens,” but when I first noticed it, I honestly thought it read, “Penis.” God knows what Freud would say about that, but I just figured it meant I’m ready to start dating again.

The doctor said there were no broken bones, nothing out of place. Phew! He also said it was a good idea that I came in early, that I got ahead of things, and he wrote a prescription for a muscle relaxer, an anti-inflammatory, and–Score!–a pain pill. So my last stop today was the pharmacy. Well, no, I take that back. I went to Starbucks for a White Chocolate Mocha and a chocolate chip cookie so I could go home, take drugs, get fat, smoke cigarettes, and generally feel sorry for myself. (My therapist has previously endorsed this sort of behavior on exceptionally difficult days. She calls it “comforting.”)

When I got home, I pulled my car, Polly, into my parents’ garage. I got the car from my Grandpa Pauline after she passed away, and it occurred to me this evening that I would probably never drive her again. At least in Polly–no more trips to see my Aunt Terri, Uncle Monty’s wife, in Tulsa–no more trips to see my therapist. In a strange way, it felt like a death. At the same time, I was glad I didn’t buy those new car mats I’ve been thinking about for over a year.

It’s funny how grief and joy get all mixed up. As I stood at the end of the garage and alternated oral fixations–coffee, cookie, cigarette–I put my earbuds in and searched for Bette Midler’s Experience the Divine: Greatest Hits, an album I’ve had on repeat off and on for over fifteen years. For probably twenty minutes I played From a Distance over and over. It’s about the idea that “from a distance,” everything looks beautiful, everything is just right, everything is–okay. It says, “God is watching us–from a distance.”

I thought about the fact that some days God feels so far away. Some days life is already a lot to handle, more questions than answers really. And then a couple of turtle-lovers and a guy who’s not paying attention come along and fuck things up even more than they already are. It’s like everything is falling apart. But then again, in my case, I got excellent, immediate care. What’s more, insurance paid for everything. So far, I haven’t spent a dime. So in that sense, it felt like everything was coming together, that God was anything but far away.

In one of the most profound books I’ve read about healing trauma, I learned that the physical body often releases trauma through crying and even shaking, as might be evidenced–respectively–by a small child, or a duck that ruffles its feathers after a fight. Before I knew this, I didn’t trust my body to cry, to curl up in a ball if it wanted to. Most of today, I’ve been in “I can handle this” mode. I haven’t been angry, upset, sad, or worried. But this evening while listening to From a Distance, all the emotions hit me, just a hard as that fucking truck did. So when I started to cry, I didn’t push back the tears. I welcomed them. And when my body started shaking, I slumped down into a ball, leaned against the side of the house, and tried to make room within me for all of life’s mysteries. I can only imagine that from a distance, it was quite a beautiful thing to see.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We all need to feel alive.

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Free Enough for Now (Blog #90)

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You know how they say the truth will set you free–like that’s a good thing? Well, I’m not completely convinced. For the last thirty minutes–honestly–I’ve been running from the truth. What I mean by that is that every day I sit down to blog and almost always “know” what I’m supposed to write about. Most of the time, that’s okay. But sometimes, there’s a big part of me that really doesn’t want to tell the entire fucking internet that I’m an out-of-work homosexual who lives with his parents or that I’ve spent so much time with chocolate cake over the last several years that we’re about to enter into a common-law marriage with each other. But for some stupid reason I decided to start a blog about being honest and vulnerable, which means–damn it–I have to be honest and vulnerable.

Sometimes I hate that.

Yesterday I started reading a juvenile fiction book called Wonder. It’s written by RJ Palacio and has been turned into a movie starring Julia Roberts and Owen Wilson that will be released this fall. Here’s a link to the trailer (you should watch it if you feel like crying), but it’s basically about a boy with an abnormal face and his search for acceptance, authenticity, and love. I’m not done with the book yet, but the first hundred pages are told from the boy’s perspective, after which other characters, like his sister and a friend from school, share their perspectives. As a reader, I was a bit thrown when I realized someone else had hijacked the narrative, but I was fascinated to get more than one perspective.

This evening I went to dinner with a couple of friends at El Zarape because our friend Jimmy was waiting tables and it never hurts to know the guy pouring your margaritas. That’s us in the above picture, including Jimmy, minus the friend who DOES NOT like to have his picture taken. (I personally have a lot of dislikes but–obviously–that’s not one of them.)

For dinner I had a meal called Molcajete, which is basically steak, chicken, and cactus fajitas, served in a giant, appropriately pig-shaped goblet that I referred to as The Holy Grail. Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Amen.

So here’s the part I know I’m supposed to talk about but really don’t want to. For the last week or so, I’ve really wanted a cigarette. I mean, I quit smoking six months ago, so I sort of thought the temptation part was over, at least when I’m brushing my teeth, driving my car, or blogging. But one of my friends who’s gone through the twelve-step program says temptation doesn’t work that way, that you can go months without a craving, and then–bam–one shows up “out of the clear blue sky.” (If only boyfriends worked that way.)

Well, I’ve been handling all the cravings like a champ, even the ones that have basically been so persuasive and seductive they might as well have been Zac Efron lying next to me in bed saying, “I want you. I don’t want anyone else except you.” It really hasn’t been a problem to say, “I’m sorry. You’re cute and all, but I’m saving myself for fresh air.” But tonight at dinner–out of the clear blue sky–I had a REALLY BIG margarita, something that always lowers my standards, so when dinner was over I ended up saying, “Fuck it. I want you too, Zach–I mean–cigarettes.”

But really. Look at that thing. It would probably lower your standards too.

So I went to the gas station to buy a pack, and I’ll be damned if they hadn’t stopped selling my favorite brand, so I walked out. And went to the gas station across the street. Which had also stopped selling my favorite brand. (My mom later said this was “a sign from the universe.” I hate it when people use something I would say against me.) Anyway, I went with a different flavor and smoked one and a half. I actually quit in the middle of the second cigarette, which, historically, I don’t do. I wish I could tell you they tasted terrible, like sin and regret, but I loved every bit of them. Of course, that’s the part that scares me, so I locked the pack in the trunk of a car because I figured I’d be less likely to smoke anytime soon if they were there.

This is a strategy that may not work, since–you know–it was my car and I have the keys.

The truth doesn’t suck.

Back to being honest, I have a lot of shame around smoking. I’m not exactly sure why, but it’s probably because–at this time in history–it’s rather frowned upon. I’m afraid of what other people will think. Anytime smoking has been on my list of things to talk about in therapy, I’ve always shown up with the sirens on, lights flashing. OH MY GOD, I SMOKED ONE AND A HALF CIGARETTES LAST WEEK! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? MAYBE I SHOULD LIE DOWN ON THIS COUCH. I KNOW–LET’S TRY HYPNOSIS. But no matter how worked up I get about the actual thing, my therapist is always like, “This again? Who gives a shit about cigarettes? You’ll quit when you want to. Now would you stop judging yourself already?”

I’ve been thinking tonight about how I’m a lot like that book I’m reading. I like to think of myself as one central character, like, this is my story. But the fact is that this is our story. What I mean by that is that there’s a part of me who loves cigarettes, who comes out of the woodwork when I drink margaritas the size of crock pots. Likewise, there’s a part of me that hates cigarettes, who came home and immediately took a shower, who’s typing now, who’s usually in charge. And there’s a part of me that judges myself, and there’s a part of me that doesn’t, that accepts that I’m human, that understands I need to break the rules I’ve set for myself–occasionally.

I’m learning that all of these parts, all of these characters, deserve to have their say. I mean, I’ve tried to get rid of some of them, but they’re simply not going anywhere. I might as well listen to all of their perspectives. I know that lately I’ve been listening a lot to the character that says, “Do more. Get shit done,” so I’ve been reading and writing and exercising and eating well and go-go-going constantly.” But that’s only part of the narrative. And my guess is the character I’ve been ignoring and hearing as, “Smoke a cigarette,” was actually saying, “Would you stop being such a hard ass and take a damn break for a minute?” (Must be a problem with my ears.)

I mean, yeah, I could take a break for a minute. I’d actually like that part of the story.

Okay, that wasn’t so bad. I admit it. The truth doesn’t suck. I mean, I don’t know that I feel “set free,” but I do feel lighter, less worried, less ashamed. Hum. Surely that’s a good thing. And maybe–just maybe–that’s free enough for now.

[Lastly, Happy 42nd Wedding Anniversary to my parents. I’m really glad you decided to get hitched, even though Dad said it was possible for me to be here even if you hadn’t. I wanted the blog tonight to be about you and not cigarettes, but that muse wasn’t talking.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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