A Thousand Wallet-Sized Photos (Blog #591)

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It’s two in the morning, and–I know I say this a lot, but–the day has gotten away from me. I slept in until one this afternoon, and even I thought, For crying out loud, Marcus Anderson Coker, wake up earlier. But for the last week I’ve been tired, tired, tired, like seriously dragging ass, and I haven’t been today. Rather, I woke up–how do I say this?–excited to be alive.

So maybe I just needed some serious Zs.

After an obviously late breakfast, I spent this afternoon digging through my old yearbooks–pre-kindergarten through college–because while going through old photos lately I’ve come across handfuls of unlabeled “wallets” and wanted to figure out what picture was taken when. This project took nearly three hours but definitely helped me organize both my photos and my brain. Oh yes–I had braces from sixth grade to eight grade, then I frosted my hair in high school, then I dyed it red in college, AND THEN I dyed it blue (also in college). The other thing this project did was remind me, sort of all at once, how frickin’ awkward it is to grow up or to generally be alive. I mean, the braces, the haircuts, the zits. Ugh. my senior portraits were airbrushed to hell. Not to mention the fashion.

Personally, I did the baggy shirt thing for WAY too long.

I guess about junior high, maybe a little sooner, is when the awkward thing really started for me. I found one photo taken between sixth and seventh grades from a back-to-school pool party in which I was the only guy wearing a t-shirt in the swimming pool because I didn’t like what puberty did to my nipples. I realize this level of criticism is normal. You hit puberty, and EVERYTHING changes–some things for the better, some things for the worse. At some point, you end up despising your own body. (If this wasn’t your experience with puberty, just wait until your metabolism slows down or your breasts start to sag.) But I never remember thinking ANYTHING was wrong before puberty. NOTHING was too big, too small, too anything. It just was. Now I think most things are–too something, that is. Like, I don’t care for my posture, and when I look back at my junior high photos I think, That’s when I started slouching. So not do I pick on the current me, I also pick on the former me.

And he’s not even here to defend himself.

Not that I want to go back to the age I was in elementary school when everything was all “ain’t life great,” but I would like to go back to that level of self-acceptance and self-kindness.

This evening after dinner I went to Fort Smith to help my aunt with her internet and do a couple odd jobs. Then I went to a friend’s house to help them with a phone/computer thing, and since phone/computer things always take MUCH longer than expected, ended up eating dinner again. “Have you eaten,” my friend said. “Well, yes,” I said, “but I’m ALWAYS hungry.” Anyway, this is where the bulk of my evening was spent, at my friend’s house, working and catching up. We laughed, laughed, laughed. This is so important, I think, since it’s really easy to stay at home, dig through your memories, get stuck in your head, and take both yourself and your life way too seriously.

So that’s my two cents for tonight–if you know someone who makes you laugh, ask them if you can come over. (Tell ’em you’ll fix their phone or computer.)

When I got home from my friend’s, it was nearly midnight, and I’d intended to start blogging right away. But then I decided to crop all the “photos of yearbook photos” I took while going through my annuals this afternoon, AND THEN I thought, Wouldn’t it be nice to have them all lined up neat and orderly, like in a collage? AND THAT turned into a nearly two-hour long project that involved not only learning how to use a new phone app, but also doing my damndest to not demand perfection of myself.

Maybe that photo should be a little bigger and slightly to the left.

This is apparently a lesson I’ve been trying to learn for a while, the not demanding perfection of myself thing. While looking through my college yearbooks (for three of four of which I was the editor), I noticed a “letter from the editor” in which I said, “You’ll find plenty of mistakes here. But like life, this is meant to be fun.”

This is meant to be fun, Marcus.

I don’t know, if I got to someone’s Instagram feed and find nothing but “perfect” photos, like every single frickin’ one is magazine-quality beautiful, I think, Bitch, please. Because that’s not real life; it’s not even close. Real life is awkward smiles, bad haircuts, and zits on your face. It’s crooked teeth, a stain on your (baggy) shirt, and posture that’s never quite “right.” It’s everything you could fit into a thousand wallet-sized photos. At the same time, it’s not that–because real life is REAL life. It’s something that’s lived, not something that’s captured with a camera. It’s whatever time you woke up today, whatever you did this afternoon, and the sound of two friends laughing. It’s whatever is happening right here, right now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Transformation doesn’t have a drive thru window. It takes time to be born again.

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Inside the Office (Blog #587)

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Yesterday I was tired, tired, tired, and despite a full night’s sleep last night, I’ve been dragging ass all day today. Like, I haven’t quite been able to “turn on.” Not that I’m sick, I just feel “off.” Oh well, some days are like this, you walk around in a fog. What else can you do? Personally, my plan is to blog sooner (like, now), grab dinner with a friend, retire early, and try again tomorrow.

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

This afternoon as I was on my way to lunch, a friend called who was having car trouble. Their engine had overheated. “I don’t know anything about this stuff,” they said. “Shit,” I replied, “I don’t either.” Nonetheless, I met them where they’d pulled over–at a gas station–and called a friend of mine who DOES know about cars. But before we could get very far, a man driving a tow truck came over. “What’s going on?” he said. “I was a mechanic for twenty-five years.”

As it turns out, my friend had a leak somewhere, and all we had to do was add water to their radiator in order to get them home, which wasn’t far from where we were. It was that easy, and this angel didn’t ask for anything in return. “I’m glad to help,” he said. Anyway, I know it wasn’t really my problem, but I was still struck by The Goodness of it all. And I don’t know–it’s just a hunch, but I imagined later that this gentleman, my friend, and I probably didn’t vote the same way yesterday. And yet none of that mattered in the moment. It was just one human helping another. One human being kind to another.

My lunch this afternoon was with my friend Ray, and it was like a catch-up power hour. Not only did we laugh, laugh, laugh, we also got serious, talked about our hearts, and even discussed business. I absolutely love this, bouncing around The Peaks and the Valleys with a dear friend. And it didn’t matter that I was feeling “off” or not at my best. The Goodness showed up anyway.

After lunch I saw my therapist, and we ended up talking about the blog. For background, I should say that my therapist is more than aware of this project (we discussed the idea before I started it) and fully supports it. Also, she’s read some of the entries–and I’ve read some of them to her–but she doesn’t read them regularly because “that’s your thing, and this is our thing.” Anyway, we were discussing how I describe the therapeutic process online, and she said, “You do tell people that I’m real fucking crazy, don’t you?”

I laughed for a solid minute before I said, “I don’t think I’ve ever said it quite like that.”

What my therapist was communicating was that she’s–apparently–not your typical therapist. I say “apparently” because I’ve never been to another therapist and therefore don’t have anyone to compare her to. Still, I have heard stories of other therapists and have read A FEW self-help books. (Whenever I say this, my therapist adds, “hundred thousand–a few hundred thousand self-help books.”) This being the case, I would have to agree, my therapist doesn’t seem “typical” by any stretch of the imagination. “I’m not textbook,” was how she put it this afternoon.

Again, not having anyone to compare her to, I’m not sure what else to say about what we do. Other than what’s already been said. Still, I’m willing to try, since people have told me that they’re curious about therapy and how it works. Well, for me, it’s pretty simple. I show up, say hello to the receptionist, and plop myself down on a couch after I’m called back. The couch is just where I like to sit, although I’ve been told some people lie down, sit in a chair (I used to do this before my therapist rearranged her office), or even on the floor. She sits directly across from me. (I once had a friend tell me their therapist actually sat on a platform ABOVE them. I would have been out of there so fast.) Anyway, we talk. Often she affirms; sometimes she confronts. Mostly, she offers different perspectives. Today I told her about the recent situation where I told someone who’d said, “Shame on you,” “Don’t talk to me like that,” and my therapist said, “Good for you, and they better be glad it wasn’t me. I would have stood up and shown them the door.”

So that’s how it works. Voila! Now I know that’s an option if I ever want to use it. Get the hell out, Samantha! I don’t know–I might try it if the situation ever happens again.

And I’m sure it’ll happen again; life always gives you more chances.

Truth doesn’t affect change when it’s read; it affects change when it’s lived.

This is the hard part about therapy–actually USING the skills I learn there in the real world. Because it’s not THAT difficult to entertain a new perspective. This, I think, is why MEMEs, which I think stands for “Minimal Effort, Minimal Effect,” and “8 ways to change your life” blogs are so popular. It’s not that they don’t contain or express truth; they can and do. But truth doesn’t affect change when it’s READ; it affects change when it’s LIVED. So what’s difficult is INTEGRATING a new perspective, to bring a new perspective into every facet of your life. For example, if you get an ounce (just an once) of self-esteem, that means you suddenly have to hold both yourself and the world around you to a higher standard. Don’t talk to me like that. This is where the rubber hits the road, and–I’m not kidding–it’s hard as hell. (I don’t recommend it.)

But really–I do recommend it, and it’s worth it. It’s just hard as hell. That’s okay. It’s the way things work here on earth. Nothing comes for free, even a change in perspective. Everything comes with a price.

With the right person in your corner, you can face whatever life brings you.

To summarize, therapy itself, at least in my experience, isn’t complicated. It’s simply a conversation, and we all have conversations every day. How many times have you called a friend or sat down over coffee with someone you trust because you were trying to work something out? That’s all therapy is, except the person sitting across from you is–hopefully–a professional, someone who’s–ideally–unbiased about your situation and an expert in human relationships and emotions. Granted, if you’ve been giving yourself a snow job about what’s actually happening in your life, an honest conversation with your therapist might be difficult. I’ve fallen apart a number of times over the years while finally admitting, I’m angry with this person. I’m miserable in this relationship. I’m afraid of what will happen if I end things. But I’ve always been fine–more than fine–with what happens INSIDE the office. Again, the hardest part is what happens OUTSIDE the office. Still, none of us goes through life alone, and with the right person in your corner–I’m confident–you can face, head on, whatever life brings you.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Go easier on yourself.

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The Mystery Isn’t That Simple (Blog #580)

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Today I interviewed three different computer repair businesses in my quest to get my laptop repaired. (I spilled tea on the keyboard; electronics and liquids don’t go well together.) And whereas all the places quoted–uh–about the same price, only one had good customer service. The other two ranked low to medium at best. In one spot, I was treated like a “customer” at the DMV. Like, take a number, asshole. So I just walked out. Fuck this, I thought. I have other options.

You always have other options.

So now the plan is to visit the “winning” store in person tomorrow, as I only spoke with them on the phone today. I’ll let you know how it goes.

This afternoon, in between visits to computer repair stores, I saw my therapist, and we did a double session because she’d had a cancellation. Hum. What to say? After I told her a few stories, including the one about walking away from bad customer service, she said I’ve clearly been listening to my gut lately and to keep that up.

More on that in a minute.

Later we talked about self-talk, beliefs, and whether or not someone (specifically, me) feels worthy of having their dreams come true. And whereas we’ve had these conversations before and I feel like I’ve made a lot of progress in this area, today I started crying when she repeatedly looked me in the eyes and listed several good (and “worthy”) things about me. Yeah, why is that such a big deal, to have someone affirm you? I guess because I’m so used to thinking that success belongs to other people–but not me; that dreams come true for, I don’t know, the Kardashians–but not me; that everyone else is “good enough”–but I’m not.

My therapist called this “a flawed perspective,” and in my experience it’s not the easiest thing to get rid of, even when you really want to. Like, I’ve been reading self-help books and rocking this therapy thing for A WHILE NOW, and it’s not like I’m unaware of thoughts that race through my head. I say race because thoughts are lightning fast, especially little ones like, That won’t work, No one will like that, or, Nothing I do is every good enough. And I guess it’s easy to think that quick little thoughts don’t matter, but think them often enough, and thoughts like these can slowly choke a dream.

To death.

I normally don’t cry in therapy, so I’d like to be clear about why I think it’s notable. So often we “think” we’ve handled an issue. Like, Oh yeah, I’m fine with abundance. I believe in that shit. Well, you can blow a lot of smoke up someone else’s and even your own ass, but you CAN’T fool your body. On the contrary, your body always knows the truth. So when I find myself crying, that’s a good thing, since it means I’ve finally hit something with substance and not just an idea. It means, Sweetheart, it’s time to really take a look at this.

My therapist said she thinks I play small or fail to take steps toward some of my dreams because I’m afraid of rejection. (Uh, who isn’t?!) But after sharing a personal story that involved her being rejected multiple times and ended with her opening her private practice, she shared two pieces of advice.

One–Not everyone who shits on you is your enemy. In other words, with time and perspective, we are often grateful for things that didn’t work out.

Two–Because our greatest strengths lie on the other side of our greatest fears–and I quote–“Bring on the rejection, motherfuckers!”

I’m going to be processing all this, but in the meantime, I’d like to circle back to listening to your gut, which, as I’m fond of saying, sounds good if you say it fast. What I mean is that “going with your gut” is often lauded in today’s society, and yes, I think it’s something you should do. Like, I might have been taken advantage of–or just been frustrated– if I’d bowed to convenience and had stuck around in those computer shops today even though something felt off. And when my therapist asked if I wanted an extra hour and that felt “on,” that clearly worked out.

Woowho. Go gut.

But to be clear, I ran all over God’s green earth today trying to find a place my gut liked, and that was a pain in the ass. And because I stayed in therapy an extra hour, I ended up crying, and I’ve spent the rest of the day queasy because, What am I gonna do now? And because I’ve listened to my gut countless other times in the last four years, I can’t tell you the number of people I used to be friends with that I no longer talk to. Granted, I think I’ve saved everyone involved a lot of drama, but watching multiple friendships fall apart is a real bitch and–quite frankly–isolating.

In my experience, your gut doesn’t care if you run all over God’s green earth, doesn’t care if you cry, doesn’t care if you lose your friends, and doesn’t care if you’re lonely. It does, however, I believe, WANT you to be as healthy and as strong as possible, and–well–maybe that requires some challenges. (I’m sorry. There’s no maybe about it. It does require some challenges.) Also, I think it requires some tests, meaning you have to listen to your inner guidance in the little things if you expect to get guidance in the big things. Like, this week I’ve been working on organizing my photos, just because I feel like I’m supposed to. (I keep thinking about it; the idea won’t let me go.) Well, if I ignore that prompting and later wonder what I should do about a relationship or a job, why should my gut bother talking to me when I’ve plainly demonstrated that I’m not interested in what it has to say?

Today I walked out of a computer repair business, twice, just because something inside me said, Leave. And I don’t know why–your gut never answers this question–maybe it’s because my answer about that relationship or job is IN ANOTHER STORE. Regardless, what I do know is that some of the biggest shit storms I’ve been through in my life have been because I ignored a still small voice inside me (a simple “I wouldn’t do that if I were you” is often all your gut will give you), so I don’t need to know why.

But–obviously–because I said so, that’s why. It is MY gut, after all. I just don’t–hum–have to understand my own reasons.

This is the weirdest thing about the universe, ourselves, and healing. For one thing, nothing is a straight line; you can’t say what causes what…or why. For example, if I hadn’t spilled my tea on my laptop and gotten up early to go to the shop this morning, I wouldn’t have had time for the double session in which I had an emotional breakthrough. Does one thing explain the other? Not necessarily–The Mystery isn’t that simple–but I think it’s all connected.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Perhaps this is what bravery really is--simply having run out of better options, being so totally frustrated by the outside world that all you can do is go within.

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On Cleaning Up the Past (Blog #578)

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It’s 8:30 in the evening, and I just finished eating dinner–a bowl of chili and a salad. Before that, I went on a two-hour walk around Van Buren. Everyone has their Halloween decorations on display. And whereas one creative person went all out and put a skeleton pushing an old-fashioned lawnmower in their backyard, two nextdoor neighbors–Christians, I assume–simply stuck matching signs in their front yards that said, “The only ghost that lives here is the Holy Ghost.”

Groan.

And then there was the family whose yard was already full of Christmas inflatables. I don’t know–I’m all for the celebrating the virgin birth of Christ, but I really feel like these folks are jumping the gun. I mean, it’s still October!

I guess that’s what you’d call a premature immaculation.

This afternoon I spent several hours organizing old photos, a project I started yesterday. Ugh. This is going to take a while, since despite my sorting hundreds of photos today, I still have thousands to go. Oh well, what else am I doing with my life?

Here’s a picture of my progress thus far. The photo sticking up is from my 21st birthday, on which I went out for–wait for it–coffee. (I’m not kidding.) Anyway, I have a “tab” for every major place (junior high, high school, home) or event (summer camp, trip to Thailand, etc.). Thankfully, many of the photos have dates printed on them or I just remember–That was 1995–but in some cases I’m just guessing–Uh, I think that was sometime in college. Isn’t that weird how certain details of your life can just disappear?

Here’s a picture I found from my sophomore year in high school. I was 16, and our class was on a field trip. Check out that beret. Can you believe I used to tell people that I was straight? I filed this picture under a section called “The Power of Self-Delusion,” alternatively titled “Reasons Everyone Knew before I Did.”

While sorting through pictures from elementary school, I found images of old classmates who are now dead. This was a real shock to my system, to see them as I remember them–young, vibrant, full of potential–and yet know that they’ve long stopped breathing.

Hum. No one thinks it will happen to them, but it happens to everyone. Death, that is. “What will you do with your one wild and precious life?” Mary Oliver asks.

Also while going through elementary school photos, I ripped up some pictures of a kid that I thought was–quite honestly–a jerk. Not that I assume he’s a jerk now, but at the time, for sure. So twenty years later–rip, rip, rip–that felt good.

My therapist says that some of the deepest and longest lasting wounds we carry are from childhood. I guess because we’re so impressionable, our hearts wide open. So I’m trying now to be okay with whatever arises while looking at all these old photos, to be open to any thoughts and reactions I may have shoved down that want to come up. Like, Awe, I liked him. Or, What an asshat! Because I’m tired of self-delusion. I’d rather be honest. For this reason, as much as I see this project as a “tidy” and “orderly” thing to do, I also see it as a healthy thing to do. That is, I see it as another way to get real, a symbolic act to get my past in order, to clean it up the best I can and properly put it behind me.

[Me and my longtime friend Neil. From seventh grade, I think, spirit week.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We always have more support than we realize.

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Me and My Ship (Blog #452)

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Earlier I spoke with my therapist, and when I told her how tired, worn out, and frustrated I’ve been lately, she asked about the blog. She said, “You can tell me to go fuck myself, but what if you took a break from it for a while–maybe a couple weeks?” I said, “I know that I won’t blog every day for the rest of my life, but I’m really proud of my unbroken chain. I’m not ready to give that up.” Still, my body needs a break. My soul needs a break. I can’t keep pushing-pushing-pushing myself, pouring my guts out every night for two or three hours when I’m already exhausted. I can’t keep running on empty.

So we decided on a compromise–shorter posts–earlier in the day–lists instead of full paragraphs–limericks even.

There once was a boy from Nantucket
Who had a blog and said, “Fuck it.”

Things like that.

I’m going to try. Now it’s seven in the evening–instead of one in the morning–so that’s a start. When signing on, my internet was slower than my sex life. I got so frustrated I wanted to spit. That’s how I feel a lot lately–frustrated–like things aren’t moving as fast as I want them to. My therapist’s advice today–“You can’t push the universe. Don’t hustle. Rest instead.” Along these lines, I’m going to try to listen to my body and my spirit. Right now all they want to do is hit “publish” and go for a ride in my antique car, Garfield. I haven’t gotten him out since last year, though he never fails to make me happy.

I told my therapist I worried how other people would respond to shorter posts, since that’s not the pattern I’ve established. She said, “It’s your blog, for your pleasure, for your personal growth. And no one’s paying you, so fuck what anyone else thinks.” She talks like this a lot. Like a sailor. I adore it because I don’t. Sure, I cuss, but I’m often too concerned with what others think of me and my ship to say, “Up yars” or “Go play the plank, Matey.” But I’m working on it. Because she’s right. This is my ship, and I’m allowed to take ‘er out to sea or let ‘er rest in the harbor if I think she needs it.

So this is me saying, “Fuck it–I’m done for the day.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We are surrounded by the light.

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You Should Use That Thing (Blog #433)

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It’s just before one in the morning, and it’s been a long day. A good day, a fun day, but a long day. Several hours ago I started getting tired, and now my allergies are acting up “just enough.” For these reasons, I hope to keep tonight’s blog quick and to the point. You can do this, Marcus, you can do this.

This afternoon I saw my therapist and read her last night’s blog about my wanting to go easier on myself. She said that voice I have in my head, my inner coach, critic, or asshole that’s always demanding more is essentially my inner child, that part of me that developed early in life and has the need or drive to be constantly productive and perfect. “That strategy was really helpful when you were younger and had a lot of responsibility on your shoulders,” she said. “And you can still rock out perfection if you need to redecorate a house or perform a dance routine. But you don’t have to rock it out every minute of every day.”

My therapist’s suggestion for responding to my inner child was to use compassion. Like, I shouldn’t say, “Listen here, you little shit,” then tell that demanding part of me to screw off. Rather, I should reach for understanding and actually dialogue with myself. (“I’m not encouraging schizophrenia,” she said.) Something like, “I know you think we need to be ‘doing something’ constantly, but we are doing something–we’re watching a movie. I hear you, baby, and I’m making a different choice.”

Sounds easy enough, but changing my mind and thought patterns (like for real) often sounds too good to be true. “And this can happen?” I asked. “It’s possible to live one way for thirty years then effectively turn things around?”

“Yes, I see it every day,” she answered. “Well, sometimes every other day, but still–people can change.”

So that’s good news.

My therapist and I also talked about me finding my voice. (Where did I put that thing?) The conversation was in the context of my saying that I’d started sticking up for myself with the car insurance company of the guy who rammed into my last year, telling the agent that what she was offering to settle the case was “pitiful” and “unacceptable.” I told my therapist I was weary of being nervous both generally and whenever I have to confront someone, of acting like I don’t belong here, of feeling unimportant or small (like I don’t have anything to contribute).

“You’re tired of not being heard,” she said.

“Yes, I’m tired of not being heard.”

I SAID I’M TIRED OF NOT BEING HEARD.

(That was a joke.)

After therapy I ran some errands and ended up at a used bookstore. (I’m prone to do this sort of thing.) And whereas I hardly ever get into good, engaging, balanced conversations with total strangers, especially other guys, especially guys sort-of my age, I did while at the bookstore. I’m mentioning this fact for two reasons. First, life is full of surprises, and–apparently–kind people. Two, just one hour after leaving therapy and talking about wanting to be heard, I was randomly told by a complete stranger, “You have a great voice. You should use that thing.” This was said in reference to my potentially doing voice work (radio, advertising, etc.), but I took it as further confirmation from the universe–Speak up, speak out, you’re on the right track.

Give yourself an abundance of grace.

This evening I stopped by to see my aunt, who’s getting ready for a yard sale. Sitting down in an old chair on her lawn, I propped my feet up on an ottoman, and the neighborhood stray cat jumped up in my lap. Y’all, this never happens with me and cats, but this fella rubbed his head all around me, stretched out, made himself at home. I kept thinking, God, I hope he doesn’t have fleas, but it really was adorable, the sweetest thing. Thankfully, I’m beginning to enjoy moments like these more. Sitting there this evening, I never once considered that I needed to be elsewhere, doing other things. My therapist says we think of abundance as strictly about money, but it’s also about moments like these and receiving all the love and encouragement life has to offer. It’s about having an abundance of self-acceptance, an abundance of compassion for your inner child. It’s about giving yourself an abundance of grace to grow, to learn, to change, to find your voice.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Of all the broken things in your life, you’re not one of them–and you never have been.

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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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Being scared isn’t always an invitation to run away. More often than not, it’s an invitation to grow a pair and run toward.

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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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It's enough to sit in, and sometimes drag ass through, the mystery.

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Walking Through the Woods (Blog #347)

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This afternoon I saw my new dermatologist (my old one stopped accepting my insurance), and I showed up with a list of problems. Eight, to be exact. I’ll spare you the details, but the doctor listened then answered my questions one-by-one. Always overly worked-up about any health concern, I half-expected him to say, “It’s hopeless–you’re a leper,” but he didn’t. As a matter of fact, he acted as if he’d seen it all before, which I suppose he has. Anyway, he said I should keep an eye on a small cyst, recommended I use different powder to keep my skin dry, and cauterized some broken blood vessels on my face (ouch). Then he said, “As for your moles, don’t grow any more. There–another problem solved.”

When I left the dermatologist’s office, I went to the Department of Motor Vehicles to get a duplicate registration for my antique car. (I lost my old registration.) According to the “take a number” number I took when I walked in, there were forty people ahead of me. Since there were a hundred the last time I stopped by, I decided to stay.

Y’all, I seriously think the DMV was modeled after one of Dante’s Circles of Hell. It’s not cute to look at, the lighting is terrible, and the chairs are uncomfortable. (Clearly a gay man was not involved in the design process.) Additionally, everyone who goes there has to wait, and yet there aren’t any magazines to look at, nor is there any coffee to drink. Even the place where I get my oil changed has coffee! The people who work at the DMV call out numbers one-by-one, but if you don’t jump straight up like a jackrabbit when it’s your turn, they skip right over you. (Three-thousand and forty-six!) It’s worse than bingo at the Methodist church. And when they do call your number, it’s not like you get to ride Space Mountain or anything fun as a reward for all your time in line. Nope–you get to hand them money.

What a racket.

My standards have, quite frankly, plummeted as of late.

After it was all said and done, I think I spent about forty-five minutes at the DMV today, and the replacement registration only cost me a dollar. So life could be worse. (Could it, Marcus?) Afterwards, I went to Walmart to pick up the powder the dermatologist recommended. Y’all, I was so excited because the doctor gave me a coupon–two whole dollars off! I would normally shudder to use a coupon, but my standards have, quite frankly, plummeted as of late. So I found the powder, pulled out my coupon, and got in line. (Again, with the waiting.) Well, I immediately got pissed off because the cashier started talking to the customer in front of me about her brother-in-law, who recently had a stroke. She went on and on about it, then told the customer, “Have a blessed day.”

Okay. I’m not TRYING to be a complete dick here. I’m sorry this lady and her family have problems. I get it–I’ve got problems to. (I write a blog about them.) But as a former business owner, I just don’t think it’s appropriate to verbally vomit on your customers. All right–so this was the mood I was in–a little irritated–and then it was my turn to check out. Handing the lady the powder, I proudly presented my coupon. Well, shit. She said it was expired. Realizing I hadn’t even bothered to look at the print on the back, I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Okay.” But then she held the coupon in my face and recited the expiration date to me. “Twelve, thirty-one, two-thousand-seventeen.”

I said, “I believe you.”

Waving the coupon around as if she were swatting at flies, she replied, “Sometimes they print them really small, but this clearly says it expired a few months ago.”

I said, “I believe you.”

Oh my gosh, I was so mad. Like, let it go, lady. (Let it go, Marcus.)

After this disconcerting encounter, I saw my therapist. For a while we discussed my health and how I’ve felt so beat-down, kicked-around, and worn-out lately. My therapist said, “I’m not a medical doctor, but I think you’re going to outlive all of us. This is a difficult patch for you, but I really believe you’re going to come through it.” Then she said, “We’ve entered a new part of the woods in your warrior training. (She’s never referred to our sessions as “warrior training” until today–GRRR!) This is the part where you have to keep believing in yourself no matter how difficult things get.”

Y’all, I hate this part.

Later my therapist and I (the grammar nerd in me almost called the blog, My Therapist and I) discussed my upcoming blog birthday. Today’s blog is number 347, so that means that in less than three weeks, I will have met my original goal–one year–365 days in a row of writing. I can’t tell you how much this stresses me out. Granted, on one hand, I’m getting excited. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished here and intend to celebrate. On the other hand, I’m terrified because I don’t know what to do next. Do I keep blogging or do I quit and work on other projects? If I keep blogging, do I change topics–do I change blogs? These are questions I ask myself.

This evening I’ve been feeling “all the pressure.” When I got home earlier, I noticed a red patch of skin that must have “flared up” after I left the dermatologist office, so I’ve been freaking out about it. What if something is horribly wrong? Also, I’ve been thinking that I’ve “got” to figure out the blog. My therapist and I discussed the possibility of my adding a donation page for those who would like to support me and this project (something I’ve been hesitant to do), and I’ve been worried about making “the right” decision.

Honestly, I’m overwhelmed. Life has been a lot to handle for quite a while now, and my plate is full. (Did you hear that, Lord? My plate is full. F-U-L-L, full.) I know this is why I’m irritated by every little thing and am overly concerned that something else, even something small, will go “wrong.” This last weekend I was at a coffee shop, and a little kid came out of the bathroom and was trying to open the door to go outside. Just a toddler, he was leaning on it with his entire body. Looking at me, he said, “I’m not strong enough to open it.” This is what life feels like for me lately, like I’m doing every damn thing I can here, and doors still aren’t opening.

We all walk through the woods together.

Yes, I did help the little kid open the door. And since then, I really have been working on coming around to the idea of letting others help and not trying to do everything myself. Today my dermatologist said, “Call us if things get out of hand.” (Uh, sir, things got out of hand a long time ago.) I know my therapist is there if I need her. I still haven’t settled everything from the car accident I was in last year, and tonight I had two attorney friends say, “Let us know when you want us to step in. We do this all the time.” This is really good for me to remember, that I’m not alone in all this, that just because I’m struggling doesn’t mean I’m struggling alone. We all walk through the woods together.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We all need to feel alive.

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