Time Well Spent (Blog #200)

9:33 AM

I’ve been awake for an hour or so, and I just finished a continental breakfast here at the glorious Comfort Inn and Suites in Carbondale, Colorado. Check out is in an hour and a half, so I’m about to take a shower, pack up, and hit the road. (It’s been real.) My destination is Albuquerque, where my sister lives, and it should take about eight hours, stops included. Because I’m still feeling yuck, blah, and gross, I imagine it’s going to be a long day. Jesus, take the wheel. Still, at the end of the road will be the ones I love. All things considered, life is good.

If it’s not obvious, I’ll be writing the blog in “installments” today to make my life easier. If you can think of some little something to make your life easier today, do it–you have my full support.

4:12 PM

I think I just set a new personal record. I drove for five and a half hours without a pit stop. I didn’t realize that was possible, so I’m considering nicknaming my bladder Champ. Who knows why the sudden change in behavior? Usually I pee constantly. Maybe my kidneys got enlightened this weekend, or maybe I’m just dehydrated.

The drive so far has been surreal. For whatever reason, my mind is at ease, and my usual sense of nervousness is nowhere to be found. Even when driving along narrow roadways with steep drop-offs, I was like, Whatever. I’ve only taken one picture (at a stoplight in Aspen), but the scenery has been gorgeous–Colorado and New Mexico in the fall are basically God’s backyard. Anyway, I’m in road-warrior mode and ready to see my nephews, so I’ll write more later.

8:08 PM

I got to my sister’s a couple of hours ago. When I arrived, the nephews started bouncing off the walls, and even Ander (the younger one), who usually hides from me, went nuts. They were skipping, jumping, leading me outside then back in. Eventually I sat down for dinner (thanks, Dee-Anne) and visited with my sister and her husband while Ander scooted across the kitchen floor on his back and repeatedly said, “Ow, ow, ow.” My brother-in-law said, “Imagine this non-stop for seven years.” I said, “I can’t.”

Seriously, how do parents do it? Well, how do parents who don’t drink do it?

Before Christopher (the older nephew) went to bed, he put a craft book on the table and asked me to help him make a paper airplane.  Seriously, this kid is great with building and making things, so he probably could have done it himself, but I guess this was an “advanced” model. Y’all, uncle-ing is hard. The instructions had like ten steps–the plane had a tail fin and everything. It was super detailed, complicated actually, and a couple times I thought, I can’t figure this out. But then I did–it finally came together. What’s more, it flew!

That’s right, I’m thirty-seven and can make a paper airplane.

But get this shit. Christopher–that little turd–ran straight to my sister and said, “Mom–I made an airplane!”

(Awkward pause)

“Well, I helped make one.”

9:40 PM

We always have more support than we realize.

For the last hour I’ve been chatting with my sister, but she just went to bed because she’s a mom. Anyway, I really like her. We talked about our family, school, and our individual responses to some of the bullshit we went through as children–specifically the fact that she expressed her emotions back then and I stuffed mine way, way down. (It’s okay, they’ve been working their way back up–like they do.) Since Dee-Anne lives so far away and most of my healing progress has happened the last few years, sometimes I forget that she went through a lot of the same stuff I did. Of course, it’s always good to remember that you’re not alone. We always have more support than we realize.

10:08 PM

A couple hours ago I realized that today’s blog is number 200. That’s 200 days in a row of sitting down, more than once propping my eyelids open with toothpicks, and opening my mind and heart for both me and the world to see. The goal is every day for a year, and I recently hit the halfway mark (183 days), but I note it on the blog every fifty days if I remember. So that’s why we’re talking about it now.

When I started this blog over six months ago, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Since I’ve been living back at home, I was originally going to call the blog Me and My Parents, then Me, My Parents, and My Therapist. But I thought, Surely I’ll move out again one day, so I dropped my parents altogether (but just from the blog). Anyway, as I’m writing about the blog now, it makes me want to cry. Maybe that’s because I’ve come to think of it as a friend. We have all these memories together. Each night we cuddle up together, I talk about my day, and the blog listens, wraps me up in its arms, and tells me I’m okay.

I’ve said it before, but I can’t overemphasize what a positive journey this has been. I’m out of work, living with my parents, and really have no idea what the rest of my life will hold. On the surface, I don’t have a lot to show. But beneath the surface, where it counts, I’m better than I ever have been. I’m less afraid and more sure than ever before. I’m more self-confident, comfortable in my own skin. I’m not perfect, of course, but I own my shit and am either working on it or okay with saying, “I’m fine the way I am.” The reason I want to cry, of course, is because I realize it’s not the blog that’s been my friend these last 200 days–it’s me–I’m the one who’s been there for me.

10:31 PM

At the spiritual retreat this last weekend, the teacher was joking about how people approach their spiritual lives, like, “Oh yeah, I’ve got a few free hours between errands today, I’ll check out that meditation thing.” This attitude, of course, is ridiculous. After all, he said, what’s more important than your freedom?

Learning to be there for yourself is the essence of healing.

I’ve thought about this question off and on today. I know I’ve worried a lot this last year about how I’m going to make a living or what I’m going to do with the rest of my life, but when I consider how much freer, happier, and peaceful I am now as compared to six months ago, all that “worldly stuff” pales in comparison. I’m not saying this process has been easy. On the contrary, there have been plenty of days that it’s felt like making a complicated paper airplane and letting someone else take the credit for it. Often the road has been long, and I haven’t felt so great. Still, I’d recommend the journey to anyone. For surely learning to be there for yourself is the essence of healing, and making time to be your own friend is time well spent. And here’s what I can promise–at the end of the road will be the ones you love (and that includes you), and things will finally come together.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Normal people don’t walk on water.

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How Wide My Branches (Blog #195)

Once again, I’m blogging while the sun is up. I hope this doesn’t become a habit. I mean, it’s all right. I woke up early to get ready to go out-of-town. For the last three hours, I’ve packed, showered, and gone to Walmart to get my “subscriptions” filled to deal with my current skin inflammation. I swear, my nipples are so red, it looks as if I’ve been breast-feeding. Anyway, I’ve quite literally packed almost everything I own for this trip. I might as well just throw the rest of my shit in the car and go ahead and move. Maybe I’ll meet Zac Efron in Colorado and that will be that. A girl can dream.

My main stress today has been “getting on the road.” I love a good road trip, but I hate getting ready for them. You know how it goes–all the shit to move around, trip after trip from inside the house to the car. My hair products alone weigh enough to make for a decent Crossfit workout. But I digress. The other big stress has been what to write about. It seems like I just did this last night, and other than spotting a few lesbians at Walmart, not much has happened. I guess we could talk about the yogurt I’m currently eating or the fact that my pharmacist said to not put the antibacterial ointment on my nipples as if it were axle grease.

I wonder if he thought I would enjoy that sort of thing.

Just now a man pulled in our driveway and hopped out of his truck with his two sons. Last week his uncle knocked on our door and asked if he could take some of the Chinese Chestnuts that had fallen from our tree into our front yard. “Sure, take all you want,” I said. Well, I guess our nuts are becoming a town hit, since the guy told his nephew about them, and he later came by and asked if he could bring his kids to get some. I remember being excited about this sort of things when I was younger. My sister and I would put the tops of carrots in little saucers of water, watch them sprout into little forests. Once a man came over and helped plant apple trees in our backyard. I was so excited, like I was going to be Johnny Appleseed or something, spend my summers hanging from the branches. Eventually they died, but before they did, our white-haired neighbor with painted-on eyebrows made a few killer apple cobblers.

As part of getting ready to go out-of-town, I dismantled the Lego set I put together several weeks ago. It’s not for certain, but I’m hoping to see my sister on this road trip, and I’d like to give the Lego set to my nephew. Since he’s seven, I’m assuming he doesn’t read my blog and that it will be a surprise. Anyway, when I put the Lego set on the kitchen table, my dad said, “How old are you?” Well, I put my shoulders back and said, “I’m thirty-seven, thank you.” Tonight I’ll be staying with my friend Megan, and she said she and her son were building a castle this afternoon. Honestly, this excites me. Just because you get older, I don’t think that means you have to lose your childlike sense of wonder. My therapist says that growing up means you don’t act childish, but you can–and should–be curious.

Earlier my friend Kara sent me a text with best wishes for my road trip. I said, “First, thanks! Second, help! I don’t know what I’m going to write about today.” Well, being the dutiful friend and eternal student that she is, Kara sent me a list of suggestions–road-trip snacks, pictures with roadside attractions, etc. My favorite, however, was “How quests have to start with questions.” Until she said it, I hadn’t thought of my trip as a quest, but I guess it is. Ultimately, I’m doing this because I’m looking for something besides Zac Efron–knowledge, self-discovery, more peace of mind. On the surface, the question I’m asking looks like, What’s this all about? Deep down, it looks more like, Who am I and what am I really doing here (like, on the planet)? I don’t expect to have those questions answered in a weekend, but perhaps a piece of the puzzle will come together.

Maybe that’s what I like about it–the mystery of it all. I can pack and plan all I want to, but I really don’t know what’s going to happen. I may stop and see some friends next week who are staying in New Mexico, but they said they may leave early if the weather gets bad. So I’m trying to be up for anything, to remain open and curious. For a planner like me, it’s not easy, and it’s kind of like I’m planning to be spontaneous. This makes even me shake my head. But I do think it’s exciting, not knowing exactly what lies ahead. Like those who plant seeds, my constant hope is to simply remain in fertile soil and tend gently to myself, all the while wondering what will become of this tree and how wide my branches can reach.

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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That Which Rises (Blog #194)

Well shit. Currently it’s one-thirty in the morning, and I just got back from the emergency room. When I woke up this morning, my right nipple was hurting. Honestly, I just thought it was a pimple, since sometimes that happens. But then this afternoon my other nipple (the left one) started hurting too, so I was like, That’s odd, I feel like I’m going through puberty again, I wonder if I’ll start lactating. Anyway, around midnight I took my shirt off to examine things, and the red bumps had spread to my armpits, so I thought, Houston, we have a problem. Fortunately, I didn’t freak out too much, since something similar happened about six months ago. But since I’m going out-of-town tomorrow, I did want to get it checked out, so thus the emergency room.

Anticipating a long wait, I took my laptop to the hospital and just figured I would blog while waiting. Well, sometimes life throws you a bone, and no one else was there. I mean, the staff was there, but no one was in the waiting room. Y’all, they had me back in a room in under a minute and were taking my vitals before they even asked me my name. They were awesome. The doctor was back in no time, and I quickly got a diagnosis–folliculitis, which is inflammation of the hair follicles, usually due to infection. So he gave me a pill for the night, slapped me on the ass, and sent me back home with prescriptions to fill tomorrow.

He didn’t really slap me on my ass. (That only happens in porn.)

I asked the doctor if it was a hygiene problem, and he said, “You seem like a clean person. It’s probably just bad luck.” But Google said you can get folliculitis from using a hot tub, so that’s probably it. Suffice it to say, I should probably bathe after using hot tubs and stop thinking of the hot tub itself as a bath. Lesson learned.

This afternoon the chiropractor ran ultrasound therapy on the spot in my mid back that’s been giving me shit for a few months now, and I think it’s actually helping, so that feels like a small miracle. Then I had my oil changed, and the hot guy behind the cash register kept calling me sir, so that did not feel like a small miracle. Then I met with the three ladies I’ve been working with lately for their last dance lesson before their performance this weekend. Y’all, I’m so proud of them. Today they showed up for a full dress rehearsal and they looked killer, all decked out in fishnet hose, white tails, and top hats. They’ve come SO far from where we started a few months ago. As a teacher (and just a human), it’s really rewarding to see people work their butts off for something and have it come together.

After the dance lesson, Bonnie fed me and gave me beer. The whole family gathered in the living room for dinner and conversation, and I’m not exactly sure how to describe it. I guess most the time I always have this feeling that no matter what I’m doing, I should be doing something else. My mind is go, go, go nine times out of ten. But there’s something about Bonnie and Todd’s house, whether it’s their living room or front porch, something that says, Sit down, stay a while–you can relax and be yourself. After a while, we all settled into our devices, and I borrowed their high-speed internet to work on another writing project and go ahead and download the photos for tonight’s blog.

Tomorrow I leave for a weekend, spiritual retreat of sorts in Colorado. I’ll be breaking up the drive, and I’ll keep you posted as a I go along. Thursday’s blog may look like, Drove all day, tired, and that’s about it. We’ll see. Anyway, the retreat is basically about–I think–finding that place in yourself that’s always calm and centered. My therapist says I’m “going to get enlightened,” but I’m sure that’s not really something that happens over the course of three days and two nights. (I’m sure she doesn’t think that either.) Whatever happens, I’ll let you know how it goes, but now I’m all nervous and wondering how I’m going to get everything done before I leave and how I’ll have time to blog every day.

I’m taking the nerves as confirmation that I’m still in need of enlightenment, and therefore not wasting my time and money.

For the longest time I used to think that getting sick was some sort of personal failure. Maybe since I was a teenager, it’s always felt like if I ate better, exercised more, and didn’t “sin” so much (whatever that means), I’d be healthier. Consequently, going to the doctor was a problem because not only did I feel sick and vulnerable, I also felt–well–guilty. Thankfully, these thoughts and feelings have seriously subsided over the last few years. I mean, I certainly believe I have a huge role in the health of my body, but I also believe shit happens. Tonight at the emergency room, more than anything, I felt grateful–I walked right in, had wonderful care, and got answers. And people smiled at me.

This, of course, is not a little thing.

It seems to me that healing happens in little pieces. You spend most your life feeling afraid and even cynical, maybe for good reason. Life, after all, can be a real bitch sometimes. But then one day you wake up, and even if your nipples hurt, you still think the world is a good place to live. Or maybe you start at zero with a dance routine, and every time you move your body it feels like a question mark. Week after week you work, then finally things click, and you’re ready to light up the stage. So many times I think that life is some sort of dress rehearsal for something bigger, but the show is clearly right here, right now. (It’s not where we’re going, it’s how we get there.) On this stage you and I are not so different–we smile, we stumble, we get back up again. I’m starting to believe that deep down there’s a part of us that’s always calm and centered, confident in the knowledge that we can relax and be ourselves wherever we go. If we’re lucky, this part rises.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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For me, it's important to hang on to this idea that no matter how bad they are, your circumstances can turn around, to believe that if an elephant can show up in your life, it can also disappear, to believe that just as the universe full of big problems, it is also full of big answers.

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On Being Mostly Dead (Blog #193)

I finished house sitting this morning. Now I’m back at Mom and Dad’s. They’re asleep, and I’m sitting at the kitchen table, which I’ve decided is slightly better for my posture than slumping down in the living room chair. Still, I’m frustrated. I got spoiled this week with fast internet, and my hotspot is running slow. So far it’s taken me ten minutes to upload two photos to tonight’s blog, so that’s going to have to be enough. The pictures are me and a cat, so if you don’t like one of us, hopefully you’ll like the other. That being said, this is a writer’s blog, and the words are uploading just fine.

So there’s that.

Today I went to therapy, and it was the first time in a while that I haven’t gotten through my entire list of things to talk about it. This stresses me out, of course, but I’m learning to deal with it, since apparently you can’t get through and solve your entire life in just under an hour. We mostly discussed my fear of asking for what I want and believing I will get it. I don’t want to be too detailed at the moment, but an example would be my entering a writing contest and believing I have a shot at recognition. I’ve been reading about how current “charged” situations are often connected to childhood events, so we talked about once when I was in elementary school and basically did cartwheels across the room as I asked my teacher, Miss Jackson, if I could help pass out the milk that day. (I’ve blogged about this incident before, here.) The crux of the negative memory had to do with another teacher, who said my behavior was inappropriate.

Well, first off, my therapist started rapping–I’m sorry, Miss Jackson–I am for real–Never meant to make your daughter cry.

I’m not kidding. (I am for real.)

Anyway, when she finished with the chorus, she said, “Okay, now back to you. This hag had a problem with the fact that you were enthusiastic?”

“Yeah, basically.”

My therapist said we don’t know what this lady’s problem was–maybe she was jealous, maybe she was hung over, maybe she was on the rag. Regardless, despite the fact that it would be normal for a child to take the event personally, it doesn’t have to be my problem anymore, since I’m an adult. Just because some hooker from grade school had a bad day (people have bad days), doesn’t mean I can’t be enthusiastic now and believe good things will come from it.

Just to lighten the mood, here’s a picture of a cat in a sink. His name’s Riley, and he doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about my childhood–or yours. Isn’t that refreshing?

This evening I drove to Poteau, Oklahoma, and watched a friend of mine perform in the musical Little Shop of Horrors. (Horrors, by the way, is two syllables, not one.) Anyway, another friend was the director. If you don’t know, the show is about a florist shop with a plant that will only eat human blood and flesh. It’s kind of morbid when you think about it, but since there’s so much doo-wop music, it’s actually rather endearing. Not to ruin anything, but the last number is sung by all the dead people inside the plant, and it’s called “Don’t Feed the Plants.” Cute, right?

Well, as if the show weren’t enough entertainment, there was an ad in the program for a local funeral home. Picture this. In big, red (bloody) letters, it said, “Don’t Feed the Plants!” Then underneath that it said, “But if you do, we have two locations to serve your needs!”

Wow. Don’t die–but if you do–we’re here to help.

This morning I saw a tweet by Tim Ferris about the letters of Seneca. Seneca was a philosopher, a Stoic, around the time of Christ. Apparently he wrote a bunch of letters, essays, to a friend of his, covering an array of topics, and they’re currently enjoying a resurgence amongst the world’s businessmen and leaders because of their wisdom. So tonight I bought the book and started reading it. First off, Seneca says to not go running around reading a bunch of different authors and books–stick with you can handle. (Since I’m currently reading several books, including his, I’m ignoring that part.)

In another letter Seneca said we get fixated on and afraid of the moment of death, but the truth is that we’re already mostly dead. (Insert Princess Bride reference here.) What that means is that our entire life thus far is over–it belongs to the grave.

Healing is like the internet at my parents’ house–it takes time.

I think a lot of us get hung up on what’s already over. Personally, I know I’ve spent a lot of time talking about the past in therapy and on this blog. And whereas it would be easy to get bitter and to get stuck there, I’d like to be clear–my therapist won’t put up with that bullshit. (I will, but not for very long.) So I think the only healthy reason to go digging around in my childhood is because parts of it have been negatively impacting my current life. But if I can get the past sorted out and put away, then I can approach my future with a cleaner emotional slate. Sometimes I get frustrated that after three years of therapy there’s still stuff to deal with, but healing is obviously like the internet at my parents’ house–it takes time. Still, I believe it’s time worth taking, for anyone. Since one day we’ll all be plant food–I’m sorry, Miss Jackson–there’s no reason past emotional baggage should keep us from living as fully as possible right here, right now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You have everything you need.

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Trying to Manage Expectations (Blog #192)

This afternoon Riley woke me up by sitting in the doorway and meowing over and over and over again. He has a history of rude behavior like this, so I’m honestly surprised he’s left me alone until today. I guess he figured if vomiting and breaking dishes weren’t getting me out of bed at a decent hour, he’d try the direct approach. I’m all for stating your needs, of course, but I also wasn’t getting up easily, so that’s when Riley got on the bed. Like, on top of me. “What, did we win the lottery?” I said, and turned back over. Then Riley moved to the nightstand, put his butt in my face without even asking first, and proceeded to circle the alarm clock as if he’d recently learned how to tell time.

Fine, I’ll get up. But I’m not happy about it.

It did occur to me that perhaps Riley was trying to tell me about a problem. You know, Lassie used to do that sort of thing, so for a moment I envisioned walking downstairs and finding Riley’s brother, Oscar, dead. I thought, That would really, really suck. But when I entered the living room I found Oscar hanging out in the sun by a window, totally alive and unconcerned about the fact that I was awake. So I ran my hand across his back and said, “You’re my favorite.”

This evening I met my friend Tess for a photo shoot where she was the photographer and I was the subject. I’ve been a bit nervous about the whole thing since we planned it, and I meant to spend the afternoon getting ready. I also meant to lose ten pounds, but that didn’t happen, one thing led to another, and I ended up saying fuck it and showering and throwing on my clothes at the last minute. Anyway, I met Tess first, then we rode together to a secret location marked with No Trespassing signs, walked right past the warnings, and began shooting.

I felt like such a rebel. Sort of like James Dean, but I had a cause and he didn’t.

Tess started by having me dance while she took pictures. You might think I’d be a natural at this sort of thing, but I really do better when I’m dancing with someone else and not just myself, especially considering the fact that I was sober. But whatever, I tried to have a good attitude, and when Tess asked me to jump up in the air and touch my toes, I simply thanked god for my stretchy jeans and said, “Okay, on the count of three.” Well, all of this was in direct sunlight, and even when it came time to stop jumping around and pose for the “high school senior” shots, I couldn’t stop perspiring. So we’ll see how things turn out. Maybe I’ll just look “radiant.”

For the next set of photos, Tess wanted to go to a different location and recreate some pictures of Gene Kelly she found online, pictures where he was wearing a gray sweatshirt. When she originally told me about the idea, I thought, Awesome, and went to Walmart and bought a Fruit of the Loom. Suffice it to say, maybe we should have thought it through a little more because by the time I got out of the wet clothes I was wearing for the jumping photos and pulled out the sweatshirt to put on, I was still sweating like a whore in church. I thought, This is sweatshirt is not going to help anything.

So that’s my excuse for being half-naked in this selfie. I’ll let Tess speak for herself. Personally, I think we could all stand to show more skin. As RuPaul says, “We’re born naked, and the rest is drag.”

By the time we got set for the Gene Kelly pictures, the sun was going down fast. Still, we persevered, and Tess clicked away as I put my thumbs in my pockets, crossed my arms, smiled, half-smiled, and wondered if I should have used more hairspray. When it was all over, I was exhausted. I also think I was stung by a wasp on my neck. Maybe it was just a mosquito. I’m not a veterinarian, so it’s hard to say what it was. Regardless, I’m now convinced models earn their money. Looking natural is harder than I thought.

Now I’m back at the house, and every time I get up to go the bathroom, Riley follows me. And whereas my bladder doesn’t have stage fright, I will say it’s a little weird having an audience when I go to the john. Last night I woke up to pee and found Riley sitting in the sink, waiting. I guess he does this because he likes to drink out of the faucet, so maybe it’s not personal. Anyway, I’ve spent the evening getting the house ready for my friends to come back–washing dishes, doing some laundry, eating peanut butter and jelly, stuff like that.

Earlier I was searching for a way to make toast and mistook a wine cooler for a toaster oven, so I know it’s getting close to my bedtime. The day starts early tomorrow, and the rest of the week will be packed, since I’m going out-of-town. Honestly, I’m a little overwhelmed, as I’ve been meaning to flip my sleep schedule for my upcoming travels, but it hasn’t happened–despite Riley’s help. Part of me is also concerned about the photos. You know, I’m a control freak AND I’m vain, so the struggle is real. My therapist says a big part of being happy is managing expectations, so I’m currently trying to set the bar low, not demand perfection of myself and others, and “let go and let Tess.” I haven’t seen a single picture yet, but so far it’s working. One way or the other, this week will come and go, the pictures will come back, and–most importantly–Riley will put his butt in someone else’s face.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It's never a small thing to open your home or heart to another person.

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The Power of Perspective (Blog #189)

It’s one in the morning, and my friends Justin and Ashley just left. For about two hours we’ve been in the hot tub, and I’m currently limp as a wet noodle. The harvest moon shines full in the night sky, I’m not sure where the cats are, and bed sounds really great about now. But I just started the music I always blog to, downloaded the pictures I plan to use tonight, and here we go. As for where we’re going, I’m not exactly sure. (Insert long pause here.) Some nights this is easier than others.

Oh look, that’s a hundred words. Almost done.

I woke up this afternoon in the middle of a dream about the hard drive I dropped and broke last year, the one with pretty much my entire life on it. In the dream I was in Van Buren, and there was a guy with bad teeth who said he could fix the hard drive pretty cheap. Apparently he was also a hair dresser, and I was sort of apologizing for how messy my hair was. Anyway, I woke up in the middle of the dream because someone was ringing the doorbell. Well, the doorbell where I’m staying is really loud and sounds like one of those buzzers you hide in the palm of you hand that vibrates when someone shakes it, and the guy wouldn’t leave it alone. It felt like being woken up by a cattle prod.

I wasn’t impressed. Still, despite the fact that I was half-naked, I stumbled downstairs, opened the door, and tried to be pleasant.

Recently I’ve been watching the Netflix series GLOW, which stands for Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling. My friend Marla turned me on to it, and it’s about some ladies in the 80s who are in the process of becoming professional wrestlers. Anyway, the last episode I watched had a scene where one of the girls ends up making out with the hot, feathered-hair pizza delivery boy, so I was sort of hoping something similar would happen when I answered the door this morning. Well, damn it, no such luck. It was just a guy (that was not my type) who’d brought the paper from the yard to the porch and was looking for some work.

So that made two of us that were disappointed.

You know, sometimes the universe is a real bitch. As if the doorbell incident weren’t enough, I discovered after breakfast that one of the cats had thrown up again, this time on my friend’s backpack. Well, being the dutiful house sitter that I am, I took the backpack outside, shook off the vomit in the yard, and came back in only to discover that the cat had also puked down the side of the dryer, sort of on a trashcan but not in it, and all over a piece of wrought iron furniture, the kind with all the loops and curly q’s perfect for holding throw up. Less than an hour before I discovered this disaster, I was raving on Facebook about a friend’s newborn he’d dressed up like a little lumberjack. I thought, Oh my god, I want one. But then as I was on my hands and knees cleaning up vomit, I thought, No–no I don’t.

After The Great Feline Stomach Upset of 2017, I went to the Fort Smith Regional Art Museum, something I’ve been meaning to do since they opened in their new location four years ago. I’ve been skimping on taking my inner artist on dates lately, so I figured today was as good as any. Having never been to the museum, I didn’t know what to expect and was pleasantly surprised to find a photograph collection on loan from the Smithsonian. The collection was a project by the Environmental Protection Agency and documented life and environmental conditions in the 70s. So it was mainly about pollution, but also about fashion, drugs, and personalities.

One of the photographers for the project referred to his camera as a passport, saying, “It takes you into the lives of people you might otherwise never meet.” This is one of the things I love about reading and writing. I can pick up a book written twenty years ago, and it’s like it’s happening today. If I walk away from that book with one new idea, one little thing to chew on, I’ve been changed in some way. Even if I never meet the author in person, our minds have met, and the world is different than it was before. I think this is the power of story, and whether it’s done through the lens of a camera or words on a page, I love that no good story ever ends.

For the last few minutes I’ve been looking at the above picture, a photograph of–I’m assuming–an Italian man who owned a restaurant. Had I known him, I think I would have liked him. There’s an exercise taught in some writing classes where you take a picture like this and make up a story about it, so my mind has been running wild with possibilities–what time he got up every day, how many kids he had, how he might have gone outside for smoke break after the lunch hour rush and ended up meeting a photographer.

You can’t change what happened, but you can change the story you tell yourself about it.

My therapist says that the natural state of the universe is neutral. I take this to mean that things happen–someone rings your doorbell and wakes you up, a cat vomits, whatever–and those are just facts like photographs. Where we come in, however, is we experience or look at those facts and tell a story about them–this is disappointing, this is disgusting, this is a place I’d like to visit. In so doing, we take something neutral and turn it into either a personal positive or negative. This, of course, is the power of perspective. Maybe you can’t change what happened, but you can change the story you tell yourself about it.

When I think about the hard drive I dropped last year, the first word that comes to mind is “memories.” Because the dream had to do with fixing the hard drive and it happened in Van Buren (where I’m currently living), I imagine it was about changing my perspective about my past and current life, healing, and restoring the parts of myself I thought were lost. As for the messy hair and bad teeth, these are both things I’m pretty vain about, so they simply remind me that healing doesn’t always look like you think it will. If you’d told me a year ago I’d make my biggest internal strides by living back at home and writing a daily blog, I would have told you to get lost. As it turns out, it’s been the very way I’ve found myself. So I’m reminded tonight that underneath all of our stories about life, there’s a wisdom that not only puts a full moon in the sky and changes our fashion choices over the years, but also changes us. Often we think, I’m not exactly sure where I’m going, yet somehow, we arrive.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Beating yourself up is a far cry from self-respect."

Working on Crowd Control (Blog #188)

Currently it’s after midnight, and I’m house sitting for some good friends who have two cats named Oscar and Riley. Just moments ago I sneaked a selfie with Riley, who’s hanging out on the dining room table. I’ll be here for a while, so expect a lot of pictures of me and cats. I mean, they’re adorable, even though Riley threw up this afternoon, probably to let me know that my stay here isn’t going to be a complete cakewalk. Or maybe the vomit was just a commentary on my outfit. It’s hard to say because I don’t speak feline. Anyway, in addition to having two cats, my friends also have a hot tub, and I’ve told myself I can’t use it tonight until I finish blogging. I figure that’s better than coming in all limp and tired and passing out on my keyboard. But if this ends up being my shortest blog yet, you’ll know why.

I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve spent the afternoon watching so much Netflix that my eyeballs feel like they’re going to fall out and roll across the floor, right past the cat vomit. (Just kidding, I cleaned it up.) I started with an episode of Embarrassing Bodies, then delved into a documentary called The Perfect Physique about the world’s top male fitness models. It was fascinating. One of the guys was the current Mr. Universe, another guy had a backpack specially designed for meal prep, and I’m pretty sure all of them had muscles in their earlobes. Of course, I’m always interested in psychology, so what I found most fascinating was why several of the guys got into body building to begin with. One of them had a wife who left him for a weightlifter. Another got bullied as a child. And even after winning Mr. Universe, that guy said he still wasn’t happy because he had to maintain his title and there’s always more to achieve.

I think what interests me about all this is that I often get pretty hung up on looks. I see someone on the cover of a magazine, and it’s easy to assume they have their all their shit together. But–duh–they’re only humans, each with his own story, motivations, and fears. All of us think we’ll be happy when, but happiness is an inside job. After all, if happiness is attached to having something like the perfect physique, a certain job, or so much money in your bank account, what happens when those things change?

Earlier today I saw my therapist–not like at the grocery store, but for therapy. We talked about the dream I had about her last week and the fact that her hair was unkempt in the dream. Well, over three years of therapy has paid off–my guess was right. Her messy hair had to do with my vanity and concern for outward appearances. I said that lately I haven’t been hyper focused on my physical body, but rather my circumstances–no boyfriend, no job, no place of my own, stuff like that. First, she reminded me that the image I have in my head of a successful man is a heterosexual stereotype, and I should take better advantage of the fact that I’m a homosexual and keep doing things the way I want to do them. Second, she said there are a lot of people who would trade places with me in a heartbeat.

I told my therapist that really, I’m the only one judging me. No one else in my life is giving me shit for anything. (She said this was partly the result of my having “cleaned house” with my relationships.) Then she said, “Yeah, you’re performing for an audience of one, and you’re a tough critic.” Then she added,

“You need to do some serious crowd control.”

After the Netflix documentary about the muscle gods, I went for a run for the first time in several weeks. Normally I would shoot for a solid hour of running, but–in the vein of being gentle with myself–I stopped when my body said to (around thirty minutes) and walked the rest of the way home. Feeling motivated, I sautéed some chicken and spinach for dinner. Well–apparently–it takes more than thirty minutes of cardio and one healthy meal to get on the cover of a fitness magazine, since no one’s contacted me about a photo shoot despite the fact that I’m right here metabolizing as we speak, in my underwear no less.

In addition to Netflix, I’ve been bingeing on self-help reading material lately. For a while I’ve been working through Pema Chodron’s Comfortable with Uncertainty, earlier this week I finished Childhood Disrupted (about how stress in childhood contributes to illness in later life), and I just started a book about a therapy technique called EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing). I also have two other books cued up to read, but–suffice it to say–it’s a lot even for me. Anyway, part of this is my love of learning, but another part is the feeling that I need to change or fix something.

Specifically, me.

In this moment, we are all okay.

When my therapist and I talked about this today, she said that the desire for constant self-improvement carries with it a certain feeling of “I’m not good enough the way I am.” Pema Chodron refers to this as a subtle form of self-aggression. So I’m working on my relationship with my inner critic. Clearly he’s had his say, and it’s gotten us this far. But my therapist is right–it’s time for some crowd control. If I want to change something, fine. But I can do it because I love me and want my life to be different, not because there’s a problem with me right here, right now. In this moment, I’m okay. (I’m about to get in a hot tub.) But really–in this moment, we are all okay.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Better that you're true to yourself and the whole world be disappointed than to change who you are and the whole world be satisfied.

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The Beatles, Bananas, and Blogging (Blog #187)

Today I overslept, even by my standards, because I forgot to set my alarm last night. Despite the fact that I woke up “on my own,” I still had plenty of time to eat breakfast and get ready to go to my one hour of work this week. I guess there’s an advantage to having a dad who screams when he’s on the phone and a mom who tries to quiet him down by saying, “RON! BE QUIET–MARCUS IS SLEEPING!” I mean, who needs an alarm clock when you live with people who are losing their hearing?

This afternoon I met with the group of ladies I’ve been teaching lately. For about two months, they’ve been practicing a routine to perform at a talent show/fundraiser, and the event is next week. Today was our next-to-last rehearsal, and I think everyone was scared shitless. I guess this is how it should be. In my experience with dance performances and event planning, it doesn’t matter how early you start–everything comes together at the last minute. More often than not, things go better than planned. Thankfully, even when they don’t, life goes on.

Ob-la-di.

After dance I sat on the porch with Bonnie and Todd and convinced myself that drinking two beers was the equivalent of eating of a light, healthy dinner. Well, right about the time I was counting calories, Bonnie brought out Todd’s bananas, and I mean that literally because Todd has a banana tree in his backyard. Anyway, this was the first bunch Todd’s ever picked or plucked or whatever you do with bananas, so when Bonnie gave me a bite to sample, I kind of felt like a celebrity judge on one of those cooking shows. Taking care to cleanse my palate first with alcohol, I raised my pinky finger, placed the banana in my mouth, and tasted away. Well, we all agreed the bananas were still a little green, at least on the inside. Maybe that had something to do with Arkansas and bananas, but it could have just been that we ate them too soon.

When I left Todd and Bonnie’s, I went to the library, which is turning out once again to be a great place for high-speed internet and watching videos. Plus, it’s quiet and people leave you the hell alone. I did get a little nervous in the bathroom today, however, just after I’d used the urinal. Intent on washing my hands, I got distracted by the mirror and started dancing to the music in my headphones. Well, I heard a toilet flush, so I stopped. I’ve been caught again, I thought. But then I realized the flush came from the urinal I’d just used, since everything is automatic and on a slight delay these days.

Phew.

So I got to the library two hours before they closed and started watching a two-and-a-half hour video about personal transformation. Considering I have a hangup with completion, this thirty-minute time difference turned out to be a real problem. Well, since Starbucks is open late, I just went there to finish watching the video. This worked out beautifully, since I could really spread out, drink hot tea, and basically pretend I had a regular job–or just a job, period.

I guess I give myself a lot of shit about the fact that I’m not working and really earning a dollar lately. I mean, I pick up stuff now and then, but I spend most my time going for walks, reading books, and blogging, none of which currently pay the bills. Whenever I talk to my therapist about this, she says it would be difficult to not feel pressure about not working because I’m a man who lives in America, and pretty much everyone over here believes men should work for money and money is equal to self-value. But she also says I don’t have to play by everyone else’s rules, that what I’m doing now is an investment, and she thinks that investment will pay off. In her words, “It’s just the way the universe works.”

Some days it’s easier to believe this than others.

When I first started blogging, I was checking my site stats every day to see how many people were visiting the site and how many pages they were clicking on. Well, this is an exhausting thing to do. No matter what the number is, you always wish it were higher. If one person comments or gives you a thumbs up, you want it to be two. All that being said, I just looked at my site stats, and they seem lower than normal. Of course, part of me gets why this could happen, and another part of me thinks, Fuck blogging–I could be watching Will and Grace.

All things become ripe when they’re ready.

It’s moments like these that I have to remind myself why I started this blog in the first place, and it wasn’t to get a certain number of page views each day. That’s nice if it happens, of course, but I started this blog to develop a discipline of consistent writing and to further my self-growth with daily honesty, vulnerability, and introspection. With those things as standards, this blog has been nothing but a success. When I really think about what this blog has done for me personally, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I guess sometimes I get so focused on some future performance that I forget to enjoy rehearsing, which is, of course, where the real work takes place. It’s like I’m trying to eat a banana while it’s still green, forcing something to grow before its time. With this in mind, I simply return to the keyboard, trusting that all things become ripe when they’re ready, things usually go better than planned anyway, and ob-la-di and no matter what, life goes on.

[Here’s a link to that song by The Beatles.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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One day a change will come.

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Keeping Yourself at Arm’s Length (Blog #185)

It’s two in the morning, and I just woke up from a nap. After a hard day of–well–reading and that’s about it, I was beat. I did go for a two-hour walk, so maybe that’s what did me in. Maybe some days life just catches up to you. Either way, I’m not sure the nap helped. Currently I can’t quite get my brain to turn on and stay on. It feels like I’m futzing with the switch–up and down, up and down–but there must be a short in the circuit. In terms of writing something brilliant, funny, or profound, things aren’t especially looking up. I realize a writer saying that is a bit like a restaurant saying, “Come on down–our food is–meh,” but it’s honest.

As my friend Trey used to say, “Some days chickens, some days feathers.”

Yeah, today is definitely a feather sort of day. Usually I go for a walk–I don’t know–around midnight. But tonight I went for a walk at 7:30. I thought, Be like the rest of the world, Marcus. The sun is setting. This will be so picturesque. So I took off down the street, crossed over the interstate, and entered what I like to think of as a less populated area of town–kind of country, no sidewalks. Well, shit. There were cars everywhere. Why people weren’t at home with their families on a Sunday evening like God intended, I’ll never know, but I kept stepping off the road and into the ditches to avoid becoming a headline in tomorrow’s newspaper.

I should probably give in and become one of those people who wear reflective tape or blinking lights when they go out walking. You know the ones. I could even wear an orange vest, or if I wanted to really gay it up, somehow rig a disco ball to hang over my head. Maybe just stretch pants with a lot of sequins would do. Anyway, I eventually made it to a part of town with fewer cars and more sidewalks, but the whole affair gave me a lot of sympathy for animals. If they’re anything like me, they’re probably really pissed off at all the people in automobiles who have the nerve to actually use the roads for driving on. As for the animals who only come out late at night, I don’t blame them.

The book I’m currently reading is called Childhood Disrupted: How Your Biography Becomes Your Biology, and How You Can Heal by Donna Jackson Nakazawa. (That was a mouthful.) Beautifully written, the book outlines how trauma in early life can lead to chronic inflammation and the loss of healthy immune function in later life. This afternoon I read about techniques you can use to help yourself heal, many of which were familiar–yoga, chi kung, mindfulness. But there were a couple of techniques I hadn’t heard of, so I immediately went to Google in search of practitioners to visit and workshops to attend. Well, I couldn’t find anyone or anything locally, and that caused me to freak out a little, the same way I do anytime I see a recommended reading list. My friend Bonnie says I get stressed because I misread “recommended” as “required,” but either way it always feels as if “health and healing” and “the right information” are just beyond my grasp.

Oh good–a new way to stretch tight muscles. Oh crap–I have to fly to Switzerland to learn it.

Overwhelmed, I put the book down, went for the walk in traffic I mentioned earlier, and listened to another book (on tape) about a woman who had a near-death experience. Naturally, I thought, I need to have a near-death experience! Honestly, I love all the information, but I could do without the internal pressure that tells me constantly to transform or be like somebody else. The last time I saw my therapist she reminded me of the time I fasted from reading, watching, or listening to anything that could be considered positive or helpful, and it may be time to do that again. I’m envisioning spending a solid week watching Queer as Folk or listening to Come On Eileen on repeat, maybe sniffing some glue if I start thinking too much.

Now it’s 3:30, and I’m at 700 words. My brain is still nowhere to be found, things are moving slower than normal, and I think this is what it felt like in the beginning–not the beginning of the world, but the beginning of this blog. What am I going to say now? Well, your guess is as good as mine, especially since I keep getting distracted by Facebook and an article about the zodiac signs that just informed me Virgos (like me) are the most difficult sign to love because 1) we’re the most self-sufficient sign, 2) we approach relationships from a managerial position (which is apparently not a turn on), and 3) we tend to keep people at arm’s length until we know we can trust them. Well, first, that sucks but seems accurate. Second, if this sounds like a drag to any potential partners, don’t worry–I’ll take care of it–I’m sure there’s an answer somewhere on a recommended reading list.

Well, crap. I think I just proved their point.

I heard recently that no one person holds your health or life in their hands. You could be on your deathbed, and if heaven or the gods decided they wanted you to live, you would. I think this is a good reminder for me. So many times I get caught up thinking that I need more information or yet another bodyworker in order to get the kink out of my back. This sort of thinking, of course, is about as peaceful as going for a walk on the side of a busy road. But the truth is I already have a ton of information, and I’ve worked with more professionals than some people work with in a lifetime. Plus, healing never seems to be something you find at the end of a chapter. Rather, I think it comes in those moments when you’re able to break down your walls, let love in and out, and therefore stop keeping both others and yourself at arm’s length.

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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Coupons on the Table (Blog #184)

Okay, kids, it’s one in the afternoon, I’ve been up for an hour, and the sun has been shining the entire time. I just ate breakfast, which I made myself like an adult, and I’m ready to go back to bed. Honestly, I don’t like alarm clocks. This morning I woke up in the middle of a dream about eating food from a fast food restaurant where one of the sodas had two strips of bacon in it. I can only assume the dream had something to do with my guilt around food, and it’s no fun to wake up feeling that way then immediately march into the kitchen and start shoving calories into your mouth.

Tonight I’m going to Rogers to see one of my friends perform the lead role in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I can’t wait. I’m going with a friend I haven’t seen in a long time, we’re having dinner, and I’m literally already writing the rave reviews for whole evening. Of course, the truth could look totally different, but I do think it will be a great time. That being said, I don’t want to drive all the way home after the show, then start writing. I’ve done that before, and it’s a bit like popping a balloon. I love writing, of course, but some nights this commitment is like drawing the short end of the “you get to go to bed now” stick.

Currently I’m sitting at our kitchen table next to Dad’s deluxe pill caddy, a tube of all-natural anti-fungal wash, and a stack of coupons. I’m hoping this isn’t a preview of things to come, but considering it’s also what my grandparents’ table looked like, I may be–as they say in Savannah–shit out of luck, my dear. Dad’s watching television and occasionally he starts talking to me, since he doesn’t realize I have my headphones in. When I told him I was writing early today because of the show tonight, he said, “Can you write in the afternoon?” Well, that’s a valid point, but I said, “I think so. I’ve done it once or twice before.”

The problem, of course, is that nothing remarkable has happened. The last two mornings I cut into my breakfast grapefruit and discovered they were both rotten–rotten to the core (haha). Well, this morning I had one grapefruit left, and–ever the optimist–I figured it would be rotten too. But it wasn’t. Although it was a little dirty on the outside, it was like a virgin on the inside–fresh as the noonday sun. And maybe it’s just because I’m quickly approaching forty, but this was really exciting. A non-rotten grapefruit!

God, I need to get laid more.

Now I’m worrying about the mail. Last week I ordered a couple items from Amazon, and yesterday I got a notification that the package had been left in my mailbox. Well, it must be invisible because it’s not there. But it SAYS it’s there. But it’s not. Maybe it went to the wrong address, or maybe it’ll show up today, but I’m trying really hard to let it go and put it in the pile of things I can’t do a damn thing about, right next to “most of the situations in my life.” Still, I keep wanting to jump up from this laptop, run to the mailbox, and–I don’t know–hold up a postal service protest sign that says, “Liars,” or something creative like that. My armpits are sweating just thinking about it.

As you can see, the letting go thing is a real success.

Rejecting yourself is what really hurts.

Last night I dreamed I was in bed with my therapist. I mean, we weren’t having sex or anything, just physically in bed together–like a slumber party from an 80s movie. Well, this sort of thing has happened before, and my therapist (in real life) says the dream really isn’t about her–it’s about all the qualities that I associate with her that actually belong to me. So I’m taking last night’s dream as a sign that I’m getting really, really comfortable with being authentic and speaking my truth. That being said, my therapist’s hair in the dream was–quite frankly–a fucking mess. Since I’m vain about my hair, that probably means I’m still judging myself or worried about what other people will think.

I’ll ask about the dream this week, but that sounds about right.

Okay, for the last thirty minutes I’ve been getting out of my chair, looking out the window for the mailman, and basically behaving like Gladys Kravitz. Anyway, the mailman just showed up, so I marched my happy little ass over to the community mailbox and asked about my package (from Amazon–don’t be dirty). For a moment I thought I was going to be up shit creek again, but the mailman ended up finding the package in the “parcel locker.” He said, yes, it was delivered yesterday, but SOMEBODY forgot to leave a locker key in my box.

Sweet, another mystery solved. Good job, Nancy Drew. Honestly, there would have been a time when I was too afraid to bother the mailman. I would have thought, I’ll just wait until next week, or, He’s too busy. Everyone says, “It can’t hurt to ask,” but it honestly can, at least on the inside. Having asked a ton of people to dance over the years, it can still be challenging. What if they say no or tell me to go fly a kite? Well, obviously, you move on or go fly a kite. Rejection hurts, but somehow we survive. Looking back, I’m probably more disappointed in the dances I didn’t even ask for than the rejections I’ve received from others because rejecting yourself is what really hurts. Package in the mailbox or not, I’m proud of any moment I practiced a bit of courage and therefore took care of myself in some way.

We imagine things should be different than they are, but life persists as it is.

Now I’m almost done blogging and ready to start preparing for tonight’s festivities. I kind of hate to admit it, but it feels really good to finish writing with the day ahead of me instead of behind me. In conclusion, I’ve been thinking this week that I make a lot of plans in my head. All week I’ve been imaging dinner tonight and going to the show. You know how you think about talking to people and fill in both parts of the conversation. But, of course, it never happens that way. Every day is full of surprises–weird dreams, rotten grapefruits, and packages that are just out of reach. All the while, we imagine things should be different than they are, but life persists the way it is, looking like undelivered mail, feelings of hope alongside rejection, and coupons on the table.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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