Determined (Blog #388)

Yesterday I announced to the world-wide web that I’d be starting a restrictive diet tomorrow, and I’ve been in a bad mood ever since. Like, I haven’t even give up bread or coffee yet and I’m already going through withdrawals. Last night I piled shredded cheese onto a dozen Triscuits, and was practically apologizing to the wheat and dairy–I’m so sorry I won’t be able to eat you for at least thirty days. It’s not you, it’s me. Dad said he thought part of my bad mood and general irritation was due to having been treated and fed like royalty for ten days then returning home to Van Buren. He may have a point. Imagine–here I’m having to prepare my own meals.

It’s so–what’s the word?–barbaric.

Since the food ax falls in the morning, I just went grocery shopping to stock up on all things healthy. (Don’t I sound excited?) Y’all, grocery shopping goes so fast when you can’t have chips, sauces, sugar, dairy, grains, or anything that tastes good. You just whip your cart around the fruit and vegetable section (woowho!), grab some protein, and you’re out in a flash. And I don’t know what it is–I came home with three big fabric bags of food, and I’m still afraid of starving this week. As if I’m going to waste away because I’m giving up beer and peanuts.

But really–I’ll miss you, Corona.

I keep telling myself Autoimmune Paleo is a good idea, that I’ve tried everything else to support my immune system, that eating well can’t hurt. This morning I woke up at ten, was awake for a few hours, then crashed hard for a nap. I’ve been feeling good lately, but my energy has disappeared since coming home from traveling. Maybe it’s “just something else,” or maybe it’s the vaccines I got Friday. I read online that those can make you tired, and my arms are still sore at the injection sites. Regardless, I feel like I’ve got to try something. I’m just not good at sitting still.

We live in a big, infinite universe.

I think this drives me a lot, the idea that life can be better. My body has been dragging for months, years really, and I’m at the point where I’m willing to try almost anything to see improvement. I’m simply not willing to accept the way things are–for the moment, yes, but not forever. This is why I continue to go to therapy, to explore different avenues of growth and self-development. We live in a big, infinite universe, and I refuse to believe that I have to live the rest of my life tired and exhausted or nervous, afraid, and insecure (about anything). Some days I have more resolve than others, but overall I’m determined–I’m going to have a better life; I’m going to find my way home.

Don’t stop looking for answers.

This is something I would tell anyone who is struggling internally or externally–don’t stop looking for answers. Sure, there are plenty of times that we have to accept life for what it is, and there’s a lot of peace in that. But I don’t think that means we have to believe that the way things are now are the way things will always be. After all, everything changes. And what else is hope but a belief that not only do things change, but also that they change for the better? That’s what I’m coming to believe, that hope is a good thing and a real thing–that even our challenges exist in order to call us toward something better and more beautiful within ourselves, to reveal our strengths, to remind us that we are so much more than we ever realized.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s a lot of magic around you.

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my inner control freak (blog #6)

Attention: Today’s blog was brought to you in part by Corona. (Alcohol: Helping control freaks let go and inspiring writers since Hemingway. Please drink responsibly.)

It’s eight in the evening, this is blog number six, and all day I’ve been sure that I have nothing left to write about. Like not just for this post, but ever. I’ve spent all day thinking about topics to discuss, and none of them seem interesting or right, so I’m convinced all my good ideas are dried up, inspiration is done talking to me, and I should just resign myself to watching soap operas with my parents for the rest of my natural-born life.

My therapist would probably call this type of thinking an abundance issue, like, everyone else has all the good ideas and there aren’t enough good ideas left for me (scarcity). My homosexual friends would probably just call me a drama queen. (We may be getting warmer.) I, on the other hand, am pretty sure I’m a control freak. (Take as much time as you need to get over that shocking revelation.)

Earlier today, I went for a walk around the neighborhood, reconnected with one of my favorite people, and got a much-needed haircut from my dear friend Bekah. (The above photo was taken post-haircut–Doesn’t it look great?–and that’s Bekah’s dog, Charlie. And for those of you who are prone to make assumptions about gender identification, Charlie is a girl.) After the haircut, Bekah and her husband and I visited, and they shared stories about their teenagers that not only made me laugh, but also made me thank Jesus I’m not a parent.

On the surface, the day was great. But as a general rule, I always run a low level of anxiety about something, and today that something was whether or not I’d be able to come up with a good topic for tonight’s blog. Had you been able to listen to my thoughts, you would have heard something like–There’s a mailbox with a pineapple on it–I could write about pineapples—No wait–What about squirrels?–Or clouds?–Ideas are like clouds–I heard that once in a meditation class–Maybe I could blog about my haircut–Has my therapist ever said anything insightful about my hair?

After eight hours of this bullshit, I decided to go out for Mexican food and beer. (I guess that guy who lives in my head and talks so much likes beer, or it at least makes him tired, since he’s quieter now.) At dinner, I started thinking about Bekah and her husband and what happened right before we parted our good company. Bekah said, “Where are we going to eat?” and her husband said, “I don’t know,” and then Bekah said, “Okay, but really. What are we going to eat?” and her husband said, “We do this every day. She can’t stand not having a plan.”

Well, I can relate to Bekah. That’s exactly how I feel about my blog posts every day–What am I going to write about?–What’s going to happen next?–Okay, but really–What am I going to write about?

My Aunt Terri has been in a book club, ironically named the No-Name Book Club, for as long as I can remember. She told me several months ago about one of her friends in the club who, anytime she starts a new book, reads the last paragraph first.

If this woman’s behavior makes you mad (like it does me), I’ll give you a moment to calm yourself down. (You might consider drinking a beer. I’ve heard that helps.)

Personally, I believe reading the last paragraph first is the same thing as cheating. Like, it drives me crazy when I watch movies or detective shows with my dad because he’s constantly trying to guess the ending, like–Do you think it was the guy with the limp?–I bet she sleeps with him and then steals all his money–The owner probably started the fire for insurance money.

More cheating.

What I realized at dinner was that when it comes to books and movies, it’s easy for me to think, Just let the author tell their story–Trust them–Sometimes it’s fun to be surprised. But when it comes to writing, and especially when it comes to when I’m going to move out of my parents’ and get on with my life, I’m a lot more like my dad and that lady in the book club than I care to admit. I can’t stand not knowing. Just like Bekah, I can’t stand not having a plan.

As a kid, I remember being a neat freak, which is probably just a control freak in a bow tie. It’s like everything had to be in its proper place. Well, it must have been pretty bad because one time I was at a friend’s house and I started cleaning his room for him, focusing mostly on a cabinet that had a giant glass jug full of coins, except my friend had carelessly thrown a bunch of coins all over the floor, so I picked them up and put them in the jar. I can still see the pennies. They seemed happier, shinier, where they belonged.

My friend wasn’t so impressed. He called his mom in from the other room, like, Mom, can you believe this? Marcus is a fanatic. (Fanatic. That was the word he used.) I had to look it up later, but I knew it wasn’t a compliment. (How a seven-year-old manages to have a stellar vocabulary and a sloppy room, I’ll never understand.)

Looking back, I know the control freak in me is related to our house burning down when I was four. And I’m sure it didn’t help that Mom was sick. It’s like, live through a few surprises and you can quickly figure out they’re not all fun, so you end up taking control where you can get it. But whereas it makes sense to me why my personality developed the way it did, I have to say, sometimes it can be really exhausting always having to put my pennies in a jar, always having to know what’s coming next, always trying to figure out the end of my story. I’m sure it’s the way Charlie feels about people always assuming she’s a boy–it gets old.

I’m hoping this blog will be a way for me to relax a little. It seems that ideas to write about inevitably show up in their own time, and I’m usually pleasantly surprised. I know that lately I’ve been looking at my life as if it’s not in order. I’ve been thinking that I need to take control and make something happen. But really, life doesn’t need my help. It’s bigger than that. And I don’t know if someone else is writing the story of my life, but if they are, I can only imagine that they would appreciate my letting go a little bit and trusting them because, obviously, we’re not to the end of the book yet. What’s more, I see now that pennies are probably happier not stuck in a jar. No, things that shine do better when they’re scattered about. Sure, they’re vulnerable out there, not knowing where they’re going to end up, but at least their destination hasn’t already been decided and all things are still possible.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It’s hard to say where a kindness begins or ends.

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