On Rip Van Winkle (Blog #820)

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I’ve said before that I sometimes have dreams of yelling at people. Saying, “Fuck you, Nancy!” and things like that. Well, I also have daytime fantasies of telling people off, courtroom-type dramas in which I either replay a situation that happened weeks or years ago or imagine a future circumstance in which I get to tell someone to “Go to hell, Harry!” I don’t know if you do this sort of thing, but it’s fun. At the same time, it’s exhausting, since it’s like the past is never over, the future never safe.

It’s like you’re never–what’s the word?–free.

When I’ve talked to my therapist about these fantasies, we’ve agreed it’s because I’ve spent so much of my life not saying what I really feel. By trying to be everyone’s friend and get everybody to like me I’ve essentially created an imbalance. That’s what the dreams and fantasies are about, evening things out, since, really, I’m neither Mr. Nice Guy or Mr. Asshole. I’m somewhere in between I’m Fine and I’m Pissed Off As All Get Out.

We all are.

Because the pissed-off part of me refuses to go away on its own, I’ve been working on speaking up when I’m angry. Not because it’s fun or pleasant, but because, in my experience, every part of me deserves to be heard and–here’s something–staying silent doesn’t work. Well, it works if you want to make other people happy instead of yourself and–consequently–create a lot of internal anxiety, nervousness, tension, and stress. Not to mention a stomach ulcer and inauthentic relationships. Biting your tongue is great for these things. However, having tried people pleasing, biting my tongue, and being “nice” for decades and realizing (finally) that they can’t give me what I want (personal freedom, inner peace, and happiness), I’m trying something novel–honesty.

A couple examples.

Lately I’ve been posting my blogs to my Instagram account, and after I posted yesterday’s blog, someone I don’t even know, a mental health worker in Texas, commented, “Love this! Mental health is so important! Check out my profile if you’d like; I’m all about giving people the tools they need in order to get to be where they want to be!” Well, this immediately pissed me off, and not just because they used an exclamation point at the end of every sentence. I kept thinking of a business friend of mine who always says, “Build a relationship with me before you try to sell me something.” Anyway, two years ago I would have brushed the whole thing off thinking, What if I upset this person? What’s it even matter? But as I’ve said before, our emotions show up for a reason, and if we don’t listen to and honor them, we’re going to pay the price.

So I responded: “Thank you, and I agree. Also, my comments section is for conversation and isn’t intended as a billboard for total strangers to use. #boundaries”

Immediately, I felt better. And whereas part of me wondered if I ruined this person’s evening, the majority of me didn’t care. Because they showed up on my turf and started it. If they had a bad evening, they did that. Plus, and this is an important point, I wasn’t a total dick. In other words, although my pissed-off fantasies often involve name-calling and violence (and if yours don’t, you’re not being honest with yourself), I didn’t demean this person as a human or “fight dirty.” Instead, I firmly said, “I’m not okay with what you did there.”

Along similar lines, tonight my Dad and I went to Waffle House, and our waiter was, in my opinion, a little too friendly. I don’t know, I like space when I eat, and this fella was up in our grill, dancing and singing around our table. Then when he brought our ticket and Dad said he couldn’t read the small print and I said I’d help him, the waiter stood there watching and eventually said, “Are you gonna make him wait?” To which I replied, “Well, I’m waiting for to walk away.” (He did.) Why did I say this? For one thing, because I didn’t want to discuss money and this guy’s tip in front of him. For another, it was the plain, simple truth–I WAS waiting for him to walk away.

A while back I ran into someone with whom I’d had a bit of a falling out. In my mind the whole situation was a big damn deal, but, really, things were just awkward. In this respect, the running into each other was a good thing because it forced a changed in my perspective. Also, it gave me a chance to be honest. That is, when the falling out was eventually brought up by the other person, I got real serious and said, “We can talk about that if you’d like.” In response, they said, “Oh, it’s no big deal. Water under the bridge.” And whereas I was thankful they didn’t call me a bastard or throw their drink on me, I had a hard time believing it truly wasn’t a big deal, or at least a little deal. If that had been the case, they wouldn’t have brought it up.

My therapist says that most of us live our lives unconsciously. This means we’re not truly aware of our thoughts, feelings, and emotions, and THIS means we’re not truly in touch with our own behavior. Consequently, we say things like “it’s fine” and “water under the bridge” even if we don’t mean it. (Here I’m speaking from my personal experience, as I grant that I can’t know what was true for the person I mentioned above.) We play nice and bite our tongues, then wonder why our stomach hurts or why we dream about throwing things. The truth slips out in sarcastic comments and passive aggressive statements.

Remember the story of Rip Van Winkle? I read it tonight, and it’s about an unhappy, passive, “hen-pecked” husband who’d rather attend to anyone’s business but his own who falls asleep for decades. When he wakes up, his entire world has changed. There are new shops in town, his wife is dead. He’s absolutely elated–he’s finally free. Again, this is about living unconsciously versus consciously. When you’re unconscious, you “go along to get along,” you put everyone else first. When you’re conscious, you’re free, free to be yourself, whatever that looks like–happy, elated, somber, pissed-off.

Freedom is worth all the effort.

Sometimes my therapist shares helpful examples from her personal life, and recently she told me that she was involved in some difficult circumstances that required her being honest. And whereas my experience of her is that she LOVES confrontation (because she’s told me this before), she said that lately it’s been challenging. Because sometimes life is hard and doesn’t let up. “Would it be easier to roll over or let things slide?” she said. “Of course it would. But I did that for years, and I’m not going back to sleep.” Both then and now, this statement–I’m not going back to sleep–brings tears to my eyes. Because as difficult as it is to speak up, advocate for myself, and have difficult conversations, the consequences of staying silent are worse. I’ve been asleep, and it’s hell. And not that I claim to be fully awake, but, if like Rip Van Winkle, it takes me twenty years (or twenty lifetimes) to fully wake up, so be it. Having tasted freedom, I know freedom is worth all the effort.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Abundance comes in many forms.

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On Tick Bites, Emotions, and Self-Acceptance (Blog #817)

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This morning my dad said he had an area on his back that had been “itching for weeks” but that he couldn’t see. You know that spot in between your shoulder blades. Well, sure enough, he had what I initially thought was a mole that was red and inflamed. Pissed off, really. Dad said, “I’ve been scratching it with the back scratcher.” Alas, this story doesn’t end here. As I took a closer look at Dad’s mole, I discovered it was a tick. An honest-to-god, bloodsucking dog tick. And, y’all it was still alive. I can’t tell you how grossed out I was. (I’ll spare you the picture I took.) I thought, These things wouldn’t happen if you had your own apartment, Marcus. Still, I rubbed the tick with an alcohol swab, and it backed out. Then I flushed it down the toilet.

Following The Great Back Tick Incident of 2019, I rushed around today from one thing to another. First I taught a dance lesson. Then I saw my therapist. Then I saw my physical therapist. Then I saw my massage therapist, then my chiropractor. I know, I know, all this help, and I STILL have problems. What can I say? It’s hard out here for a pimp. Anyway, finally, this evening, I attended my friend Marla’s short story writing class. And whereas I stayed up late last night and TRIED to write the middle of the story I started last week, I didn’t get very far, just a hundred words.

When I confessed my “sin” of not having written more this last week, Marla said, “That’s okay, you got a hundred words. A hundred words is something.” And whereas my inner perfectionist disagrees and thinks a hundred words isn’t “enough,” I know she’s right. A couple months ago I completed what was supposed to be a 1,000 piece puzzle only to find out that a single, solitary piece was missing. Talk about wanting to pull my hair out. Still, the point remains, every piece of a puzzle is important. Likewise, every word, sentence, and paragraph in a story is important. For one thing, you never know where something will lead, what something is connected to.

This is what I keep telling myself as I’m working on my short story, that it’s just as important to get all the pieces laid out on the table as it is to put them all together. Indeed, when writing, you’ve got to find out what you’re working with. This means sitting down consistently and shaking your conscious and subconscious minds out onto the page. THEN you can begin to arrange, THEN you can begin to make sense of things. Marla says writing is “so healing” because, in effect, you get to use your characters to work through all your issues. I agree. Even though I haven’t written a lot of fiction, this project has taught me that if you want good writing, you’ve got to let everything inside you bubble up.

Lately I’ve been having dreams in which either I or someone else has been 1) yelling or 2) behaving like a slut. Always in these dreams there’s another person, or me, doing just the opposite–speaking calmly or being a perfect gentleman. My therapist says the meaning of the dreams is obvious. Good Boy Marcus and Bad Boy Marcus are “trying to figure things out.” This is what you have to face whenever you write or otherwise decide to work on yourself–that, in the words of Uncle Walt (Whitman), you contain multitudes. For me this means that although I’m almost always a “real nice guy,” I have the potential to be (and sometimes am) a real prick. (“What’s wrong with being an asshole?” my therapist says.) Though I’m usually a finicky prude, I have the potential to be a real whore.

As one book I read about one’s shadow said, the back is as big as the front.

Honestly, I don’t like this setup. I’d much rather think of myself as all this and none of that. However, having spent years believing that parts of me were bad and needed to be ignored, silenced, flushed out, or otherwise done away with and having tried unsuccessfully to eradicate these parts of my personality, I’ve finally come around to a rather novel concept–total self-acceptance. This means all of the Marcuses are welcome here–Marcus the Nice Guy, Marcus the Asshole, Marcus the Prude, Marcus the Slut (as long as he’s not stupid). Now, does this mean that I’m going to go to any of these extremes? No. (Don’t worry, Mom.) But it does mean that every part of me is going to be heard before any final decision is made about pressing matters.

There’s an idea in the world of healing that your body only creates pain or discomfort when it believes there is something wrong. For example, my dad’s back itched because his skin had a tick attached to it. So the itching was actually a good thing. It was a signal that something needed attention. This is what I’m truly coming to believe about our emotions–that every single one of them is there to help us. They show up to say, Houston, we have a problem. Or, if it’s anger that shows up, Houston, we have a fucking problem! Of course, at times our emotions can be explosive. In my experience this happens when I shove them down. Oh no, I’m not angry. Alas, ignored emotions, like ignored ticks, only grow bigger. So the sooner you listen to (every part of) yourself, the better.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Abundance is a lot like gravity--it's everywhere.

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On That Which Supports You (Blog #816)

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It’s four-thirty in the afternoon, and I’m in between appointments. Two hours from now I’ll be teaching a couple how to dance for their wedding. Yesterday they messaged me and said they’d been doing something few couples ever do–practicing. And whereas I’m hopeful (hope springs eternal), I’ve been in this business long enough to be prepared for mediocrity. Not that mediocrity would be the worst thing. Indeed, it would be leaps and bounds from where they started two months ago–rock bottom. That being said, mediocrity is not The Goal. The Goal is fabulous, stunning, like, oh-my-god wow.

Since I have a break in my day, I’ve stopped at a local park to blog. As the weather is gorgeous, I’d rather be outside of the shade of this pavilion, strolling and soaking up the sun. Alas, dear reader, I’m a dedicated and self-sacrificing daily blogger, so here I sit, writing. Truth be told, although this writing project has to happen at some point today, I’m using it to procrastinate another writing project. I’ll explain. Three weeks ago I started a short story writing class taught by my friend Marla, the goal of the class being to, by the end of the class (a week from tomorrow), produce a fully fleshed out and hopefully interesting short story, a short story being approximately 1,500 words. And whereas I’ve written more personal essays and non-fiction features of that length than you could shake a stick at, I’m not sure I’ve ever written a fiction short story of that length. Or any length.

In short (story), I’m terrified.

This feeling of terror is what I felt a week ago today when I first sat down to work on Marla’s assignment. At that point I only had a single sentence, a sentence that popped into my brain over two years ago like, Maybe that could be a story one day. Well, despite my all-day trepidation of I don’t know where this is going, shit, shit, shit, I don’t know what else to say, that single sentence, in the space of an hour, turned into three entire paragraphs, or three-hundred and nineteen words.

When I finished those three paragraphs Monday and read them in class the next day, I was elated. I felt like a rosy-cheeked kindergartner on show-and-tell day. Look what I did. As much as being enthusiastic as a writer, I was enthusiastic as a listener. Stephen King says that the author of a work is its first reader, and although my story is only a three-hundred word baby, I really do want to know how it’s going to grow up. I want to know what happens next, how this thing is going to end. Unfortunately, over the last week my wide-eyed enthusiasm about my story has turned to dread because–damn it–I’m the one responsible for writing it. In other words, if I want to find out what happens, I’m going to have to put my butt in a seat and do some actual work.

In terms of this blog, I’ve come to trust The Process. For over two years I’ve written daily and–I swear–most days I have no idea what I’m going to say. And whereas this used to scare me, now I just believe. There’s something there. Maybe I can’t see it, but I believe it’s there. Not because I have faith, but because I have over two years worth of proof. Something always comes up. My creative well is deep.

This creative confidence is something I’m trying to develop with respect to writing fiction. And whereas I wish it would simply show up and shine, I’m betting I’m going to have to work at it, to sit down every day, every damn day and practice like I ask my dance students to. Part of the problem, of course, is that I put a lot of pressure on myself. I tell myself, Let’s just sit down and play. Let’s just see what happens. Inevitably, however, I get one good sentence or paragraph and create a standard of perfection. I think, This can’t be mediocre. This needs to be fabulous, stunning, like, oh-my-god wow. This needs to pay the bills.

This, of course, is recipe for stress.

Recently I read something to the effect that when you have a longstanding desire or dream, you don’t have the privilege of getting to see from whence it springs. Think about how you can see a tree but not its roots. Or how you can see a building but not its foundation. In other words, our deepest wants for our lives (like, I want to be a full-time, paid writer) come from our subconscious, so although we’re conscious of That Which We Want, we’re unconscious of That Which Supports What We Want, of that which created what we want in the first place. I believe this is where creative terror comes from, believing that your dreams don’t have any roots or foundation, believing that you’re drawing water from a shallow well.

A few years ago I started a fiction novel. Like the short story I’m working on now, it excites me. Even though I haven’t touched in forever, whenever I think about my first paragraph, I absolutely melt. When I read it to my friend Marla way back when, she said, “Marcus, I can’t believe this is inside of you.” I think about this encouragement of hers a lot. As recently as this morning I picked up a random book and read things that I think will be useful whenever I get back to that story. My point is I think there’s something subconscious that wants me to write it, that’s supporting me in writing it.

There’s an idea if self-help and spirituality that we’re more afraid of being powerful than we are afraid of being weak. Because we’re used to being weak and we’re used to playing small. These things are comfortable, familiar. But being strong and big, being endlessly creative, the author of glorious stories? Whoa damn. My therapist says that getting what you want in scary. And although I’m not “there” yet, I agree. Just the idea of my dreams really coming true often keeps me from sitting down with my stories and finding out what’s there. Because getting what I want would mean really changing and not playing small anymore. It would mean no looking back. It would mean saying, “Here I am, World–roots deep, foundation strong–fabulous, stunning, like oh-my-god-wow supported.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. And whereas it's just a single step, it's a really important one.

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The Final Say (Blog #811)

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I’ve spent a large part of the day focusing on a literal pain in my neck that has bothered me for months and is sometimes worse than others. It’s this constant tension that often turns into a pounding headache. Thankfully, if I focus on it and breathe just so, it loosens up. Not completely and not permanently, but some.

Ugh. I wish it would just go away.

I keep hoping for a miracle with my neck, but it’s probably going to take several more days, weeks, months like today, moments when I slow down, breathe, and do my best to relax. That’s what this pain in my neck has been good for. It’s a reminder to be gentle with myself, a reminder that I’ve been through a lot. Most recently there was that car accident two years ago, but there were a few other car accidents before that. When I think of those, it makes sense that my neck is stiff, on high alert. It’s traumatized. I’m traumatized.

This is a sentence I’ve been getting comfortable with lately–I’m traumatized. Not as a badge of honor or like, oh, poor me, but as a simple fact. I’ve read a lot about trauma. Plus, having experienced it in many forms, I can say that often its result is freezing–a petrification, a stiffening of the body. As grandpa used to say, stiff in all the wrong places. Of course, it doesn’t take a car accident or even an emotional trauma to cause one’s body to lock up. It can happen if you spend years hunched over a desk or piano. All this being said, I truly believe that what can be frozen can be thawed out, to follow the metaphor. This is part of my frustration. I really believe that my body can heal, so I get all the more irritated when it doesn’t right this damn minute.

Another opportunity for patience.

One of the things my therapist and I often talk about is how life or the universe seems to test you when you say you want something. For example, after my declaring that I was tired of my ex’s immature bullshit, I was presented with a long string of inappropriate suitors. Because I was used to inappropriate behavior, I was deeply tempted to hang out–and more–with these fellas. Sometimes I actually did. Ultimately, I raised my standards not only in theory, but in practice. My point is that in a way life was saying, “Do you REALLY want something better, or are you going to settle?” Likewise, I’ve turned down a number of shit job opportunities because they either weren’t what I wanted to really do, or because the pay wasn’t enough. There have been times that people have asked me to lower my hourly dance rate. And sure, I could knock off 25 bucks instead of staying home and reading a book, but the truth is I’m worth my full rate–so that’s what it’s gonna take to get me off this couch.

My therapist says that even when she was first starting her practice, she refused to see certain potential clients. Even now she won’t work with couples, for example. Not that she doesn’t know how, but she doesn’t enjoy it. My point is that even though she could–in theory–be making more money, it’s more important for her to make money doing what she enjoys. And because she’s been purposeful about how she wants to spend her time–because she’s “followed her bliss”–she has as much business as she can handle. She says this is what abundance looks like–getting clear about what you want and sticking to your guns until the universe delivers.

Again, it seems the universe tests you when you want something–a better job, better health, better relationships. It puts you through “trials” because it has to know if you can handle that better thing you say you want, if you have integrity. In other words, are you going to compromise your standards?

My therapist says it’s been her observation that the people who are the least happy in their lives and jobs are the people who don’t stand up for themselves, speak their truth, and say what they want. Instead, they bite their tongue and accept whatever comes along. I understand this–I did it for a long time. But more and more it’s my goal to not settle in any area of my life. If this means sitting on my parents’ couch reading a book instead of suffering in some shit job working for some shit employer, then I’ll sit on my parents’ couch and turn pages until the day I die (sorry, Mom and Dad). I’d rather be poor than let my soul shrivel. If it means being alone instead of being with someone who refuses to treat me well, I’ll be alone. I like my own company just fine.

In the Bible there’s the story of a rich man whom Jesus told, “If you want to join me and my band of merry men, you’re first going to have to get yourself a pair of tights and then sell all your shit and give it to the poor.” (I’m paraphrasing and mixing fairy tales, of course.) One interpretation of this story is that it’s not so much about the man’s literal riches, but his mental riches. In other words, if you want what the Christ-mind offers, you’ve gotta divest your mind of all its previous notions and ideas about, well, everything. Because you can’t put new wine (new thoughts) in an old wineskin (old mind). In other words, if you want salvation, you’ve gotta start fresh.

Behold, all things are becoming new.

Along these lines (I think), Caroline Myss asks the question, “Is there anything you wouldn’t do to heal?” What if healing required leaving a toxic relationship, moving across the country, or quitting your job–would you do these things? Asked another way, is there anything you wouldn’t do for salvation? Because in my experience it’s not free. Indeed, when it comes to salvation (personal growth, individuation, peace of mind), life asks for everything you treasure–your lovers, your possessions, your friends. This is the story of Job. Give it up. Nothing belongs to you anyway. If it comes back to you, fine, but at least by that point–hopefully–you will have gotten clear about the fact that nothing external really matters. It’s what’s on the inside that counts. It’s always and forever, without exception, your soul that has the final say.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Getting comfortable in your own skin takes time.

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On Listening (I said, ON LISTENING!) (Blog #810)

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This morning I got up early to take my dad to the donut shop for his belated Father’s Day present–because he said he wanted a donut as his present instead of a burger or steak dinner. Talk about fun. Talk about a sugar rush. Talk about a cheap date. Every son should be so lucky. For under twenty bucks, I made my dad’s day. Seriously, the man loves donuts. Of course, I certainly wouldn’t turn my nose up at one.

Or two, filled with chocolate, for that matter.

This afternoon I taught a dance lesson to a couple who’s getting married soon. While discussing the need for a solid dance frame, I had the follower connect with me in closed (standard ballroom) position, her left arm on top of my right, her right hand in my left. At first, her arms were loose, “spaghetti arms.” But then she matched the tone in my arms (steady, like a wire hanger), and it felt like things “clicked.” “THERE!” I said. “That’s how you tell your partner–I’m listening.” At this point her fiancee, who works as a therapist, said, “Ahhhhhhhh.”

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately–the importance of listening. It’s something my therapist is awesome at, not only listening to, but remembering what I say. For example, despite the fact that I’ve seen her for five years, she’s never taken a single note–and yet she never seems lost. I’ll mention a name of a friend or an ex, and she’s right there. “Oh yes,” she’ll say, and then she’ll mention something she remembers about that person. When we’ve talked about her excellent memory, she’s said, “I exercise the shit out of it,” meaning that it’s something she consciously works to improve, not just with me, but with all her clients.

So often in conversation I’m thinking about what I’m going to say next. But recently I’ve been trying to listen more, to keep my damn mouth shut and pay attention the way my therapist does. This morning at the donut shop the lady behind the counter said she hears ALL KINDS of stories. Well, for a writer stories are gold, but you can only HEAR them if you’re NOT TALKING. Recently I started to say something at the same time one of my friends did, so I used a phrase I’ve been trying to use more often–“You go ahead.” My dad says that if he doesn’t say something right away then he’ll forget it. My take on this is that waiting to talk is an excellent way to IMPROVE your memory. My therapist says that if you forget something you were about to say, it wasn’t that important in the first place.

Listening, however, isn’t just important in your external world. It’s also important in your internal one. What I mean is that so often we listen to what others have to say about our lives and how we should be, and we even talk, talk, talk about our problems to anyone who will let us. But how often do we really get quiet and listen to our own hearts and minds? How often do we check in with not what we think we should think and feel, but with what we actually think and feel? In my experience, not often enough. Since starting therapy and this blog I’ve had countless experiences in which I had to finally recognize–I’m pissed, I’m hurting, I’m overwhelmed, I’m traumatized. These experiences are why I sometimes refer to myself as sweetheart–Sweetheart, I’m here for you–because I’ve ignored so many parts of myself for so long and am now trying my damndest to listen to them. To shut up and hear myself for once.

This evening I attended my friend Marla’s writing class and shared the beginning–because I only have the beginning–of a short story I wrote last night. When I started writing it I only had a sentence, one single sentence that’s been in my brain and in my phone for probably two years because, Maybe that could turn into a story one day. Despite the fact that I THOUGHT about that sentence all day yesterday, I couldn’t add anything to it. But then last night I closed my eyes and got quiet. I thought, Who is saying this one sentence, and what do they want to say next? I’m listening. And just like that, the voice of my main character started talking. Within an hour, I had three paragraphs of their story.

Tonight after I read my first three paragraphs in class, Marla and I were chatting and I realized something about my story that I hadn’t planned or done on purpose–that my main character had something important happen when they were four and that four was the age I was when our house burned down. And whereas I’ve always thought the fire was a source of trauma for me (and still think that), in my character’s story I referred to their important event as a gift. My point is that our subconscious and even our conscious minds and bodies are always trying to heal us, always trying to get us to move forward. Look at all the good that came from that horrible situation. Sure, we can fight this growth process, but one way or another, our issues are going to creep up and asked to be healed–in our dreams, our relationships, our art. So all the better if we can be conscious, if we can work with our issues intentionally, if we can say, Sweetheart, how can I help you move on? I’m listening.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Everything is all right and okay.

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The Universal Salve (Blog #803)

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The dog I’m taking care of this week wakes me up at 6:30 every morning to go for a walk. A natural night owl, this routine does not impress me. Still, I knew it was “a thing” when I signed up for the gig. Today I flopped back down on the mattress after our stroll, intent on getting some more rest. And whereas I finally fell asleep, it took a while. When my alarm went off two hours later, I was in a daze. Surely it’s not to time get up already, I thought. And yet it was. It was time.

The day itself has been go-go-go. First I had therapy, then physical therapy. Then I saw my chiropractor (it clearly takes a village to keep this mind and body in shape), then came back “home” to walk the dog and shove some food down my throat. Then I went to my friend Marla’s writing class. I was thirty minutes late, but–shit–it was one of those days. We do the best we can.

Back at the house, I noticed I missed some calls from my parents. Then I saw them drive by and thought, Oh crap. Someone has died. They couldn’t get me on the phone, so they’ve chased me down. Thankfully, this was not the case. They just happened to be in the neighborhood at my aunt’s and wanted to take me out for a late dinner. Anyway, it was the nicest surprise, the perfect end to a long day. We had lovely conversation, laughed a lot, said “I love you.”

Lately I’ve been thinking about embarrassment. My embarrassment. The truth is, and I feel like I’ve said this before but jokingly, there are a lot of things in my life I don’t love right now. A lot of things I’m embarrassed by. Like, uh, living back at home with my parents. Like walking other people’s dogs for a living. Not that I’m not grateful for a place to stay and money in my pocket–I am–but I’m almost forty and–believe it or not–have other aspirations for my life. Aspirations that don’t involve picking up warm poop with a plastic bag. On the one hand (the hand I pick up the warm poop with), it’s not something I’m–um–proud of.

On the other hand, and I was thinking about this on the way to therapy today, I am proud of myself. What I mean is that even if no one else knows or acknowledges it (and I don’t expect anyone to), I know what’s inside of me. I know what my dreams are, what I have to offer, and what the deepest parts of me both want and need to express. I could go into detail, but suffice it to say that if I got to the end of my life and, looking back, realized I’d lived my life like everyone else or lived for the approval of others, I’d regret it. This is to say that although I often feel embarrassment about not having a lot to show outwardly for these last few years, I have zero regrets about the internal work I’ve done. Plus, I do have the outward work of this blog, and this blog has forever changed me for the better–as a human being and as a soul.

This is no small thing.

Additionally, these last few years have afforded me a lot of opportunities for healing with respect to my family. My parents and I have had numerous conversations–truthful, healing conversations–that never would have happened had I not been living back at home. At least they hadn’t happened in the thirty-six years prior to my return.

My therapist says that some people think that you can heal anything with Vick’s Vapor Rub. “Some people think it’s a universal salve,” she says. “Well, the universal salve for most every emotional problem we ever have is honesty.” This has been my experience–that simply by stating the truth, healing begins. It’s why I’m saying tonight that I often feel embarrassed. I’m not looking for anyone to make me feel better about my situation, for acceptance, or even for understanding. I’m just stating facts. On the one hand I feel embarrassed. On the other hand I’m proud and grateful and wouldn’t change a thing.

I get that this is a paradox. Go figure. Life is a mystery.

My therapist and I have an ongoing discussion about being vulnerable and being honest, since it’s popular in today’s culture to equate the two but we don’t. That it, I don’t consider myself vulnerable for getting on the internet and saying I’m gay, I’m terrified of money, or I’m embarrassed. Because these things are–at least some of the time–true. Well, the gay thing is all-of-the-time true. As I told my mom tonight when we were discussing these topics, “Maybe I’d be vulnerable if I believed I needed a certain response from people, but I don’t. Children are vulnerable. Kidnapping victims are vulnerable. But someone who simply states the truth and lets the chips fall where they may–I think that person is anything but vulnerable. I think that person is strong.” At least I feel strong whenever I’m honest, strong being the exact opposite of how I felt all those years when I was trying to hide the truth in an effort to manage other people’s impressions of me.

Honestly (get it, we’re talking about truth), this is the only reason I’m as honest as I am, because of the results. Time and time again the simple truth has given me healing (with myself and with others) and peace of mind. People call me brave, bold, crazy, whatever for putting everything out there. Everyone’s entitled to their opinions, but in my opinion these labels aren’t accurate. For me, if I’m anything, I’m just lucky enough to (finally) be able to see what works and what doesn’t. Trying to impress others, ignoring your feelings, and biting you tongue–these things don’t work. The truth does. Is it scary, foreign, and often difficult to tell the truth, to be honest first with yourself and then with others? Damn right it is. But does it get easier the more you do it, and does the truth set you free?

Absolutely.

So, in plain language, this is the ticket you’ve been looking for. Listen close. To quote Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman, “I’m giving you pearls here.” If you want to be free, start by getting honest.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Things are only important because we think they are.

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On One’s Shadow and Being Whole Again (Blog #802)

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This afternoon I started reading a book by psychologist Sheldon Kopp called Mirror, Mask, and Shadow: The Risks and Rewards of Self-Acceptance. The idea behind it is one I’ve been attracted to for a while now–that certain parts of ourselves get asked to sit in the corner or are disowned altogether early in our lives and do us more harm than good when we continue to ignore them. These are the parts of ourselves we’re ashamed of, embarrassed by, or–worse–refuse to acknowledge whatsoever. Examples include suppressed rage, anger, assertiveness, and sexual fantasies (like, homosexual desires, kinky stuff, or anything society would disapprove of like–um–thinking about, talking about, or having sex). These are parts of ourselves that–when repressed–cause us to think or act “out of character,” that can really twist our positive self-image if we happen to have one.

What I mean by twisting our positive self-image is that many of us like to think of ourselves as good people. Christians, even. We like to think we’re kind, loving, and patient. But then someone cuts us off in traffic or otherwise pushes our buttons, and the worst comes flying out. As one internet meme says, “If you think hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, you’ve obviously never seen a gay man slightly inconvenienced.” In other words, there are times when we can all really cut someone else off at the knees. Personally, I know that my inner critic has really been barking lately. This evening I went to a bookstore, and it was hurling silent insults at not only the employees but also at the authors of most the books I picked up. What do they think they know?! it said.

My point in sharing this personal example is that if I were married to the idea of being a “good” person (which I’m not, although perhaps I’m engaged to it) and were also married to the idea of being as honest with myself as possible (which I am), I’d have a problem, since, at least internally, I can be a real asshole. On a daily if not weekly basis part of me gets frustrated or irate with almost everything and everyone–my life situation, my parents, my dance students, my friends. Sometimes the pot boils over. For the most part, I’m okay with this. Not that I want that upset part of me to take over–I don’t–but I wouldn’t be doing myself any favors by trying to shove it down, ignore what it has to say, or calling it (or myself) “bad” for existing.

This is my therapist’s approach when it comes to any and every thought in my head. Over the last five years, I’ve dumped everything on her, everything I’ve ever been hesitant to admit–sometimes I want to rip people’s heads off, sometimes I want to fuck people’s heads off. Of course, in therapy, I get specific about my fantasies. And whereas I don’t intend to do that here (you’re welcome), I’m touching on the subject to say that my therapist has never, not once, batted an eye. In fact, she’s encouraged even what I’ve considered to be my grossest, most perverted imaginations–not for me to ACT on them, mind you, but to think about them. As I understand it, this approach allows one’s shadow to be acknowledged and integrated rather than suppressed. Suppression, apparently, is the problem. That’s what causes you to suddenly blow your top or–God forbid–hurt yourself or someone else. That’s what causes you to do something you later regret and think, I have no idea where THAT came from.

Well, it came from your shadow. From the parts of yourself you’ve kept in the dark all these years. From the parts you’ve shoved down.

Kopp says our shadow parts are primitive and awkward, but not wholly bad. “You have learned to consider them evil, or at least sinister,” he says. “They are, instead, merely the rest of you. Together, you and your shadow make a complete self. Though your shadow may contain some destructive potential, it also embodies lost vitality, highly personal creative possibilities, and everything you always wanted to know about yourself but were afraid to ask.”

Later he says that if we don’t consciously own our shadow, we’ll inevitably project it. “You may unconsciously select other people to act out aspects of your own hidden self, or even encourage others to behave in ways that serve you as an alter ego. If it meets the other person’s needs, he or she may at the same time be using you as a reciprocal shadow. How many couples live Laurel and Hardy lives, each a caricature of the other’s disowned self?” This idea fascinates me. I’m aware of relationships–couples, friends–in which one person is WAY outspoken and other other WAY shy. Or one person is totally stoic and the other totally emotional. It’s like both people know on some level that a balance is needed, and so, unable to find that balance within themselves, they find it without.

I’m quite sure I’ve done this. For example, for the longest time, and even now (obviously), I talk a lot about my therapist. My therapist says this, my therapist says that. Often when I share stories about her, it’s about some wildly assertive thing she’s said. Told someone to fuck off or go to hell or whatever. Well, my talking about her isn’t about my idolizing her or being enmeshed with her, but rather about that assertive part of me that I long ago pushed down wanting to come back up. That is, just as we project the worst parts of ourselves onto our villains, we project the very best parts of ourselves onto our heroes. The important thing, of course, is to recognize that we’re projecting–the evil or the good that we see “out there” isn’t really out there at all. It’s in here.

In other words, the thing you hate or love in another isn’t about them–it’s about you.

I’m not saying that if you spot something base and immoral–or even sublime–in the world that it exists in you in equal proportion. But I am saying that the very worst and the very best exist in you as possibilities or potentials. As others have pointed out, each of us could be a Hitler. Each of us could be a Mother Teresa. For me, growth has come through acknowledging the opposite potentials within me. For years, decades, I tried to banish parts of myself or simply deny them. Oh no, I’m not angry. I’m not horny as hell. Now I’m more interested in the truth. What do I think and feel, regardless of what someone or some book says I should? Give me the truth. Give me every part of myself. Make me whole again.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our burdens are lighter when we share them.

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On Branches-Down Thinking (Blog #791)

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This afternoon a friend and I were discussing things to do in Fort Smith, and she said that when people tell her “Fort Smith really needs this” or “Fort Smith really needs that,” she says, “Why don’t YOU do it?” Then she continued, “Most people find an excuse not to, but some people actually get involved. But really–what are you waiting on–Providence to sweep down and scoop you off your couch?” Amen. This is how I feel about a lot of things–dancing, exercise, writing, and mental health, for example. You’ve gotta get off your couch if you want to see improvement in these areas. (Well, maybe not writing and mental health. I’m on a couch right now.) A week ago I agreed to be part of an upcoming murder mystery fundraiser simply because if I want my social life to improve (and I do), I’ve got to get out of the house (sorry, Mom and Dad).

As Liza Minnelli says, you gotta ring them bells.

Recently my therapist and I were talking about complaining. You know, bitching, grousing, whining, or whinging. Similar to my friend I just mentioned, I said that I knew several people who frequently complained about this or that but that–from my perspective–refused to do anything about this or that. “I used to the same way,” I said, “but it’s just so clear to me now–they don’t have to put up with other people’s bullshit. Suffering is optional.” Well, my therapist said two things. First, that she LOVED to complain, that it was one of her favorite pastimes. And whereas this hasn’t been my observation of her, that’s probably because she’s so fucking funny whenever she does it. Like, she’d be a fabulous standup comedian, which, now that I think about it, is really a person who gets PAID to complain. So I guess it’s really not the content when someone complains, but the delivery. (Work on your delivery, people!) Anyway, second, my therapist said, “Some people really get off on being martyrs.”

Think about that.

A few weeks ago I got an unsolicited email from an online hemp (CBD oil, etc.) company asking me to promote their products on my blog. In return, they offered to promote me on their Twitter account, which–I just looked–has 452 followers. Along with their (generous) offer, they included a link to one of their blogs about mental health. I guess this is why they thought we’d be a good “fit” for each other. The Mental Health Connection. Earlier tonight I read the blog, entitled “Ten Mental Health Habits to Try in 2019.” Great, I thought, I might learn something. Well–get out your pen and paper–here they are: exercise, gratefulness, be kind, sleep, hang out with friends, chocolate (made with CBD oil), laugh, eat well, love yourself, meditate.

Okay. I have a lot of thoughts. On the positive side, I think all of these are fabulous things to do, especially the chocolate one. Personally, I know that I always feel better after I exercise, express gratitude, be kind, sleep, hang out with friends, laugh, eat well, love myself (talk kindly to yourself was their suggestion), or meditate. Super. That being said, having spent the last five years deliberately working on my mental health, I also see all ten of these suggestions as very surface recommendations. My therapist would call them “soccer mom” recommendations. No offense to soccer moms, but just to say they (the suggestions, not the moms) don’t go very deep.

They don’t really cut the mustard.

Other than “sleep” or “take a nap,” my therapist has never–not once in five years–suggested I do any of the things on the above list. Well, maybe meditate. But this isn’t because they’re bad things to do. They aren’t. Do them. Knock yourself out. But in terms of doing them in order to improve your mental health, that’s like putting a Bandaid on a broken arm. Sure, it might make you feel better, but it doesn’t really get to the root of the problem. For years–nearly a decade–I worked with exercise, gratitude journals, “being nice,” saying positive, self-loving affirmations, and meditating. The entire time I hoped that I’d be able to “spiritualize” myself in such a way as to never have to confront my problems directly–to have the hard conversations, to set boundaries, to speak my truth. Said another way, I hoped I’d never have to admit–My arm is broken, I’m hurting, and I could use a little help here.

I’ve said before that what took me to therapy was a bad relationship. Before I started therapy, I tried everything I knew–every suggestion my self-help books offered to make it better. I tried being kind and being understanding, the whole time thinking that if only I had enough inner peace, he could be a total asshat (and boy could he ever) and it wouldn’t matter. But it did–it did matter. Maybe a saint could find peace in a prison, but 1) I’m not a saint and 2) the saint would be a fool to not walk out of the prison if he suddenly learned the door was open and no one was standing in his way.

What I learned in therapy was that that relationship was simply a SYMPTOM, a natural result of past traumas, my upbringing, and my beliefs–about myself and what I was worthy of, others and how they should treat me, and the world around me. In other words, I was sick. Now, I don’t mean diagnosable. I have family members who are clinically mentally ill, and I wasn’t that. But just like my family members “laugh” when people tell them “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” or “try getting more sun,” I laugh now at the thought that hanging out with more friends or eating chocolate with CBD oil could have even come close to fixing my sickness.

Really, situation is a better word than sickness, since I don’t mean sick as in diagnosable or gross, but sick as in “something isn’t working here.” Something isn’t as healthy here as it could be/should be. As I see it now, we all have situations or things that aren’t working–a relationship, a job, a feeling or behavior that won’t leave us alone. What I’m saying is that no problem happens in isolation and that, chances are, the roots of our problems run deep. If you’d rather complain that do something about your problems–and if you’re not going to be a standup comedian–ask yourself why. Because complaining or playing the martyr is a very disempowering thing to do, whereas facing your problems directly is very empowering. Sure, you can get a lot of sympathy and you can feel sorry for yourself by staying helpless, but staying helpless never produces longterm positive results or, for that matter, self-esteem.

Why not empower yourself and walk out of your prison?

Going back to the list of ten things to try for mental health, I see them as a bit like trying to grow a tree from the branches down. We see all these lists on the internet–be kind, be grateful, laugh, treat yourself well. But these aren’t things you can simply force yourself to do, at least for very long. Rather, they are the fruits of healthy roots. (I rhymed!) So work on your roots. Go to the heart of your problems and deal with them directly, then you will naturally be grateful, kind, and all those other things. Then you’ll naturally treat yourself lovingly because you will have cleared away enough junk to connect with the love that organically resides in your heart. Affirmations push truth into us. The Hard Work cracks us open and lets truth flow out. We see other people who have walked The Path and think that if we ACT like them, we will EXPERIENCE their peace. But again, this is branches-down thinking. Trees grow from the roots up.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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So perhaps perfection has little to do with that which changes and everything to do with that which doesn't. For surely there is a still, small something inside each of us that never changes, something that is timeless and untouchable, something inherently valuable and lovable--something perfect.

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Ignorance Is Not Bliss (Blog #789)

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Today was therapy and therapy day. First I saw my regular therapist, then I saw my physical therapist. Now I’m so healthy I can’t stand myself. One of the techs at physical therapy noted that I was “still coming.” My physical therapist said, “He’s addicted to the pain.” I said, “I’m addicted to the progress.” This is what I’d say about regular therapy too–by simply showing up and doing the work, I realize consistent positive results.

Why wouldn’t I keep going?

Two weeks ago at physical therapy I hopped on one leg for the first time. And whereas it wasn’t pretty, it was something. Today that exercise was easier. Still not pretty, but easier. Then I jumped off a step with two legs and landed on one leg (my left, the one I had surgery on). “Like hopscotch,” my physical therapist said.

“Uh–it’s been few years,” I said.

“You know you’re in a hopscotch league,” another physical therapist chimed in.

“Yes, and I also do double-dutch jump rope on Saturdays,” I answered.

Landing on one leg was rough–shaky–but thankfully there was a rail to grab so I wouldn’t fall over. Shaky–that’s a good way to explain my experience with knee rehab. Sometimes my entire body quakes and quivers when I’m trying to lower myself down into a chair using only my left leg. Even still, I see progress. Today while lowering myself into a chair, I had more control than I’ve ever had since my injury (I tore my ACL six months ago). Also, with each new exercise, like the one-leg hopscotch landing, both my mind and body become less afraid. It’s like, Okay, we can do this.

At regular therapy, my therapist and I discussed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I read an article about OCD recently that said sometimes it takes the form of “information hoarding.” Well, you know how you can Google a health problem and all of a sudden convince yourself you have a deadly disease? Since I download, buy, and borrow books faster than I can read them, I thought, I have that. I’m an information hoarder. My therapist said, “I don’t think you’re as extra as you think you are. You’re not hurting anyone, and you’re not cancelling social engagements or missing work to stay home and download books, play video games, or wash your hands. When you get to the point that your books are piled up so high that you can’t walk in your house, then come back and talk to me about having OCD.” Then she added, “Personally, I think more people could buy a few books.”

Right?

Along the lines of people being uneducated, my therapist said, “People say that ignorance is bliss, but that’s a really ignorant statement.” Then she explained that when people lead unexamined lives, sure, there’s a certain “what I don’t know won’t hurt me” happiness in that. “But the price of self-ignorance is strife, drama, passive aggressiveness, anger, anxiety, and internal tension,” she said.

Among other things.

In terms of self-ignorance, I don’t know many people–myself included–who would gladly admit, Gosh, I don’t know much about myself. For an answer as to why, I harken back to a recent question I asked (and have often asked along The Path)–How can you know what you don’t know? Simply put, you can’t. I’ve mentioned before that I took reiki and meditation classes for years from an excellent teacher who talked about boundaries consistently. And whereas I remember hearing what she said, it didn’t sink in. It never occurred to me that my boundaries were off, even though–I can see now–they were. Likewise, despite a number of less-than-ideal relationships (both platonic and intimate), I never realized I was repeating PATTERNS, going through the same drama over and over, just with different characters. Despite my constantly reading self-help books, it took my working with a therapist (a trained professional) for me to see these things.

In my experience, you’re probably not going to wake one morning and–bam!–suddenly identify the unproductive patterns in your life and WHY they are there in the first place. Sure, you may intellectualize that your mother did this or your father did that, but chances are you won’t be able to draw a line from your childhood relationships and situations to your current relationships and situations. Not because you’re stupid, but because they don’t call it the UNCONSCIOUS for no reason. So how do you know what you don’t know? How do you bring the UNCONSCIOUS up? Simply put, you look for signs then work backwards.

I’ll explain.

Things that are unhealthy leave their mark.

Recently my car, Tom Collins, has been making a squeaking noise. Since we’ve been through this before, I know the squeaking means I need at least one new brake pad. (I should probably do something about that.) My point is that when something is wrong, there’s usually evidence of it. When you’re sick, you’ll either feel tired, get a runny nose, start bleeding out of your ears, or whatever. Like a slug that leaves a trail of slime behind it, Things That Are Unhealthy leave their mark. This same principle applies to one’s mental, emotional, and relational health. That is, if there’s something that needs your attention, your subconscious will create flare signals. It will SEND UP stress, anxiety, nervousness, conflict, and any number of other uncomfortable feelings in an effort to get you to check yourself out (rather than be checked out–or self-ignorant).

I started therapy because I was in a terrible (horrible, no-good, very bad) relationship. Looking back, that relationship was a distress signal. And whereas I could have blamed the other person (and did) or simply told myself that all my uncomfortable feelings were “normal,” I was so miserable that I had to do something about it. I had to do something about MYSELF. Because that’s the deal–if you’re arguing with the people in your life or things aren’t working at work, the answer starts with you. Only YOU can do something about YOUR problems. At the very least, I think, you have to ask yourself, Why am I willing to entertain this bullshit? In my case, I thought, What is wrong with me that I’m ATTRACTED to someone who lies and cheats (and lies and cheats some more)?

From there, I worked backwards. With my therapist, I identified A HISTORY OF PATTERNS. Slowly, we worked at breaking those patterns, at setting boundaries first with myself then with others. And I do mean slowly. Just like learning to hopscotch again doesn’t happen overnight, you don’t become self-enlightened overnight. I’m not sure it can even be done in one lifetime. Caroline Myss says, “Consciousness is expensive.” This means that becoming self-aware and self-possessed is hard work, The Hard Work. This is why people say ignorance is bliss–because they don’t want to put in the effort. They want to believe that they can “go along to get along” or simply “accept Jesus as their personal lord and savior” and not have to work out their salvation with fear and trembling. This truly is ignorance. You don’t learn to double-dutch jump rope without putting the time in.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Your emotions are tired of being ignored.

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On Books and Abundance (Blog #785)

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It’s 7:45 in the evening, I just got back from dinner, and sometime soon my friend Justin is coming over to hang out and catch up. Because our chats often go on for hours, I’m hoping to be done blogging by the time he gets here. I simply can’t imagine that my brain will feel like waking up and rising to the occasion at two in the morning. Not that I haven’t blogged late at night a hundred times before. God knows. Last night I started at midnight. And whereas I technically finished writing in an hour, I dragged the editing process out until three because I kept “tabbing over” to an online library I discovered. No kidding, they have millions of digitalized books that you can either download or borrow for free. I spent hours comparing my Amazon wish list to the site’s catalog and found over thirty-five books I’ve been wanting!

Lately I’ve been spending more time “collecting” books or searching for them online than I have actually reading them. Not that I haven’t been reading. It just takes so much time. Conversely, downloading a book, or flagging it on a library site, only takes a moment. Anyway, I’ve amassed quite the reading list. And whereas this used to overwhelm me, like, How will I ever read all these?, I’ve realized I don’t have to. There’s not a cosmic librarian or test administrator who’s going to quiz me on what’s in my head. Rather, all these books are here for my pleasure. And the fact that there are SO MANY BOOKS TO POTENTIALLY READ?

That’s just a sign of abundance.

Recently I heard that God is not a miser. That is, you can’t look at life, with it’s thousands of varieties of animals and plants on the earth and millions of stars in the sky and say that it’s cheap or anything but extravagant. This is my point about books. The world is full of information, knowledge, and stories. It always has been and always will be. This is why it’s becoming more and more ridiculous to me when I hear people say that things will never change or that THEIR problem can’t be solved. You’re telling me you live in a universe that can hang a moon in the sky but can’t fix your situation?

I know that my problem for the longest time has been that although I could see the abundance of the universe, I felt disconnected from it. Having been told by religion that I’m a worm and a sinner, a stranger in a strange land, I haven’t exactly felt like I belonged here or was otherwise worthy of experiencing and receiving life’s abundance. But that’s changing for me. Now I believe that, just like the trees and stars, I have a right to be here. Indeed, I am part of life and have a purpose in being here. And just like everyone else, I’m allowed to experience the very best (and worst) that life has to offer.

My therapist says that almost every client she has deals with “poverty mentality” in one way or another. Today I listened to a lecture by Stephan Hoeller that said although poverty mentality can feel good (because we get to feel sorry for ourselves), the truth is that we’re anything but poor. (I’m not talking about money.) Rather, we come into life vastly supported, set up to succeed. Our souls and psyches offer us endless resources. This morning I watched a video about human living fascia, what most people call CONNECTIVE tissue, but what one researcher says is actually CONSTRUCTIVE tissue. Oh my gosh, y’all, fascia is glorious, genius. No kidding, you’re made of a gossamer web of light. My point being that our physical bodies are marvelously made, abundant in their wisdom.

For me, this is where abundance begins–recognizing where I’m already rich beyond measure. Sure, it’d be easy to focus on money, or lack thereof. Everything is about money in the world. But I could have ten times–a hundred times!–the money I have now and still feel poor. Still wake up every day and be totally ignorant of the endless beauty around me, the endless resources in my mind, body, and soul, and the endless potential answers that exist to all my challenges and problems. To anyone’s. So more and more I’m grateful for hundreds of books and millions of stars, for they remind me not only of the abundance of that I am connected to, but also of which I am constructed.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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When the universe speaks—listen.

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