Me and the Universe (Blog #627)

It’s eleven-thirty at night, and I’d rather be doing something else. Watching TV, reading a book, sleeping, you name it. Anything but writing. Fuck this daily practice. Talking about my emotions on the internet! What a dumb idea that was. (I take it back.) And did I mention I’m still limping around like someone with a war injury? I guess it’s gonna be like this for a while. I did sever my ACL. Ugh. Life is a lot sometimes.

Pass the chocolate cake.

This morning I saw my therapist. I’m sure that’s largely why I’m emotionally up in arms. Not that our session didn’t go well. It did. But everything gets stirred up in there. My damned feelings, I mean. Then I have to walk out and do something with them. Or at least wait for them to settle back down. I don’t know, my therapist says it’s always worse around the holidays, that this time of year is when everyone’s crazy comes out. Additionally, today she said that the universe has clearly dumped a lot in my lap lately. And whereas she said she believes it will let up at some point, she also suggested getting used to the idea that the universe will always be presenting me with new challenges until I’m “six feet under or ashes in a jar” because that’s the way the universe rocks.

In other words, when it comes to personal growth, the universe is a real hard ass.

In light of this idea that “there’s always more to do,” my therapist suggested that I back off the self-help shit for a while. This came up because I recently read a book about inherited family trauma (and did all the exercises it suggested) during a short period of time. “I did something similar once, but it was over a couple of years,” she said. “Suffice it to say, you’ve opened a lot of doors in your subconscious. I’d consider giving it a damn rest while everything bubbles up.”

This is a tough thing for me to do, to not rush-rush-rush to the finish line of mental health. I know, I know–there is no finish line; life is a game that never ends (woo). Again, what a dumb idea. But really, I am going to give this some thought. My therapist said today that she really believed my leg injury had to do with my learning to slow down and graciously accept help. She said, “Accepting help doesn’t diminish you as a person; it makes you MORE of a real person.”

So fine. This is me slowing down. This is me accepting help.

Graciously.

(Insert smile here.)

Now it’s after midnight, and I’m pretty much done for the day. My sister and her family are coming to visit this week, and we’re having the carpets cleaned in the morning in preparation for their arrival. All this to say that I won’t be able to sleep in tomorrow, nor will I be able to sleep in once they get here. My nephews are beautiful, but they’re not quiet. (We all have our spiritual gifts.) Anyway, I’m ready to go to bed. Maybe I’ll watch TV first. Regardless, hopefully I’ll nod off soon, and my emotions can bubble up and magically sort themselves out while I snore. Then I can wake up, and the universe and I can try again. Because I do intend to try again, just like I intend to walk without limping again and keep writing every day.

I’m a hard ass too.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Damn if good news doesn't travel the slowest.

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Why Me and My Therapist Are Successful (Blog #533)

Recently a dancer friend of mine said to me, “You seem to get so much out of your therapy. I never seemed to. What do you do, or what does your therapist do? I’m serious.” Hum. That’s a really great question. Because I do get a lot out of my therapy. But why exactly? I mean, it’s not magic. Anyway, I’ve been chewing on it. And whereas I’m not sure I have a complete and perfect answer, today’s blog is my attempt at one.

Why HAS my work with my therapist been so successful?

Before going further, I should back up and reiterate, if I have indeed iterated before, exactly how I came to be in therapy in the first place. For the LONGEST TIME, I have been attracted to self-help, psychological, alternative health, and spiritual growth material. This, I assume, is partly due to how I am “hard-wired” and partly due to the fact that I endured a lot of trauma growing up and have, for quite a while now, been looking for some way, some “how,” to resolve it. In short, part of me has always known that there has to be a better way to live, or–simply–a way to heal.

Early on, this journey led me to countless books and a number of “new age” (although they’re actually “old age”) philosophies and techniques. To be clear–I learned a great deal from all of them, but none of them quite did “the trick.” What they did do, however, was give me a profound exposure to the vast information available regarding–hum–ways to put yourself back together. In being exposed to all this material, of course, I read about therapy and had friends in therapy, and although I wasn’t opposed to the idea, I never thought, That’s something I need to do. Looking back, I obviously could have benefited greatly from the right work with the right person, but–I guess–it simply wasn’t time.

Oddly enough, the thing that did “the trick” was a terrible (no good, very bad) relationship that I was in, since suffering seems to be the ever-great motivator toward changing one’s self and one’s circumstances. It was at this point–in the middle of everything falling apart–that it was suggested to me by my Reiki teacher that although I was clearly attracted to and cared for the person I was with, perhaps THE REASON I was attracted to them had something to do with my family history and MAYBE I SHOULD GET MY ASS TO A THERAPIST. So that was it–I went not only because I was miserable, but also because I was curious.

What the fuck (exactly) is going on here? I wondered.

When I initially started shopping for a therapist, I had NO IDEA what to look for, since clearly–or at least it should be clear when dealing with human beings–that some therapists are good therapists and others are bad therapists. As mine says, “SOMEONE had to graduate at the bottom of the class.” My method for finding the right person, then, consisted purely of asking a counselor friend of mine–someone I trusted–for a recommendation. And whereas the first person he recommended wasn’t taking new clients, the second person he recommended (my current therapist) was. One afternoon I called her, and she later called me back. It was a short conversation, but by the time I got off the phone with her, she’d not only made me laugh out loud, but she’d also made me feel respected and comfortable. She’s continued to do these three things for the last four years plus.

The FIRST time I met my therapist, she asked what was going on. “Why are you here?” she said. Then, for nearly an hour, she just listened as I did AN OVERVIEW. Since I’d done enough work on my own, I KNEW what “the biggies” were, so I laid them all out there. EVERYTHING that I’d ever been afraid to say or talk about, I said or talked about. I just vomited all over her floor as she quietly and simply watched. Then at the end, she gave me her overview. “Here are some things I notice,” she said. “You have some boundary issues; you have some family-of-origin issues (but who doesn’t?).”

Then she offered an encouragement–“But everything is workable. It’s ALL workable.” Lastly, before I left, we discussed how often I wanted to be there. “If money weren’t a consideration,” she said, “how often would YOU LIKE to come here?” From there, we made a plan. But this, I think, is a HUGE FACTOR in why my work with my therapist has been successful. She’s always let me steer the ship. I believe the technical term for her approach is self-directed or client-directed therapy. Not that she never pokes or prods, but I don’t think she’s ever, even once, said, “Let’s talk about your father.” In other words, she doesn’t push me to discuss things unless I’m ready. “My theory,” she says, “is that when your subconscious is ready to deal with something, it will come up.”

So far, that’s been my experience. During the last four years, we’ve circled back around to EVERYTHING I threw up on her floor during that initial meeting and then some. As I’m a hyper-organized person and the method works for me, I normally come with a list, a collection of topics that I get “hung up” on or curious about between sessions. Someone was rude to me. I felt rejected on the dance floor or in my dating life. This person pisses me off. I’m worried about how I look. I’m judging myself for smoking again. I had this crazy dream last night. Through all of it, my therapist listens (she has a big hard-on for being “present”), then comments. Sometimes she affirms–“That person is full of bullshit.” Other times she confronts–“You’re full of bullshit.”

From day one, she’s told me, “There are two rules for this hour. I don’t care what you do with the rest of the week, but during this hour, we’re going to SIT IN TRUTH, and we’re NOT going to judge ourselves.” Consequently, the message she’s communicated to and instilled in me is that–well–I’m okay. Never once has she not accepted me exactly the way I am. And not that she’s all hippy-dippy about it, but she’s modeled unconditional love to me. As a result–from the beginning–I’ve thought, This is someone I can trust.

And if you don’t think you can trust your therapist, don’t walk–run–the other way.

Occasionally I have thought, I don’t know if I can tell her THAT, and that’s when I’ve known I had to. After all, if I don’t trust her with everything, then what’s the point? If I can’t be completely me, then our relationship isn’t going to be as productive as it could be. With anything, you get out what you put in, and since therapy is so expensive, well, you better put in all you can.

At least that’s my attitude.

To my friend who’s a dancer, I would say that work with a therapist is obviously a relationship, and you know when you dance well with someone and when you don’t. Some partners you trust to hold you, and others you’d be deathly afraid to let come near you. So that has to be the foundation. I’ve got to like this person as a person, I need them to like me (even if we only see each other once a week for an hour and we NEVER have a cup of coffee together), and we need to trust each other. They have to trust that some way, some “how,” I know what’s best for my life and the direction I want my ship to go, and I have to trust them that they can help me navigate my stormy waters.

A navigator. Maybe that’s a good way to think about a therapist. So often I go to mine and say, “Sally is really pissing me off, but I don’t want to tell her to walk the plank (bitch).” Then my therapist will give me what she calls “strategies,” different paths I could take. As things progress, we see what works and what doesn’t work. Another thing she does that’s helpful is offer stories from her personal life. (I’ve heard a lot of therapists won’t do this.) Once she told me that she was scheduled to meet someone for lunch but decided in the parking lot of the restaurant that she had no desire to spend an hour with this person. So she called them and said, “Yeah, I’m not coming.” My mouth was ajar–at the time I never would have considered being that direct. But the fact that she had meant that I could and that THERE ARE OTHER WAYS of being in the world.

A few closing thoughts. My therapist went to therapy personally for years. (Would you go to a dance instructor who had NEVER taken any lessons or gotten out on the dance floor?) Also, my therapist never gives me homework or directives (although once she did tell me to get the fuck off online dating applications). “To tell you what to do would be patronizing,” she says. “You know what’s best for you.” So she believes in me. This is huge. More than anyone else in my life, she constantly affirms my talents, abilities, and inner wisdom. I assume she’s able to do this because she’s secure in herself. Lastly, she’s honest–she’s not afraid to tell me what her personal struggles are or when something is outside of her realm of expertise.

As to why I keep going to therapy (if anyone wonders), it’s because I see results. My life consistently has less and less drama in it. I like myself more and more. The quality of my relationships continue to improve (although the quantity continues to decline). Recently my therapist said that my perfectionism actually serves me in terms of my therapy because I keep working at “all this.” It’s not that my life has to be perfect, but I am COMMITTED to this process.

So, in short–right person, right relationship, self-directed, results-focused, commitment.

I hope this helps.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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As the ocean of life changes, we must too.

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On Seeing Constellations and Yourself (Blog #524)

Last night my dad and I went to a concert in Van Buren. My sister and I bought the tickets for Mom and Dad for Dad’s birthday, but since the concert ended up being the same day as Mom’s surgery (which I blogged about yesterday), I went with Dad instead. And since my friend Bonnie graciously volunteered to come over and sit with Mom while Dad and I were gone, we didn’t have to “worry” about Mom being alone while we were out having a good time. Well, as good of a time as you can have at a gospel concert where the age of the average attendee is “one foot in the grave.”

Amen?

Anyway, when Dad and I got back from the concert, I took Bonnie out to eat as a thank-you (per Dad’s suggestion). Bonnie drove, however, which ended up being the perfect thing because Bonnie has a convertible and–after dinner–said, “You wanna go cruising?” Well, I of course said yes, and for maybe thirty minutes, maybe an hour, Bonnie both tootled and sped along the back roads of Van Buren.

Y’all, it was the perfect thing on the perfect night, and the majority of the time I had my head titled back toward the heavens, star-gazing. I learned recently that the constellations include nine birds, three of which can be seen from the Northern Hemisphere, and two of which are connected to the Summer Triangle, which are the three bright stars you could easily spot overhead if you were to look up any summer evening. Anyway, there they were–Aquila the Eagle and Cygnus the Swan (often called the Northern Cross)–soaring.

This afternoon I saw my therapist and brought up a couple of things that I’ve already mentioned here–the first being my recent dream about dead bodies, the second being my experience with someone being passive aggressive.

With respect to my gory dream about dead bodies (that were cut up in pieces), my therapist agreed that it was about all the “non-productive” parts of my psyche that I’m discarding (like people-pleasing, approval-seeking, perfectionism, and self-judgment). “And no wonder you were terrified in the dream,” she said. “This kind of work is unsettling, and God knows that working with me is NOT for the faint of heart.” Then she addressed another part of the dream that I didn’t blog about originally–the fact that there were cops from whom I was trying to hide the dead bodies. “That’s your inner authority,” she said, “the part of you that wonders, Is is REALLY okay to be myself?” Then she paused. “So what do you think–is it okay to be yourself?”

“Yes,” I said. “It most certainly is.”

With respect to my being DIRECT with someone who had been PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE, when I told my therapist that I’d called this person out, she almost jumped out of her chair and started doing the Macarena. Then, since this wasn’t the first time I’ve either been passive aggressive or had someone else be passive aggressive, we talked about the idea that certain challenges show up in our lives over and over again UNTIL we figure out the best way–the most direct, honest, and kind way–of dealing with them. This isn’t the perfect analogy, but it’s like the universe sends us “tests” until we get a “passing” grade–then it’s on to something else. “Since you’ve handled this situation so differently than you have historically, my guess is your future experiences with passive aggressiveness will drop by at least fifty percent,” she said.

Last night while Bonnie and I were out driving, I identified two constellations that I recently read about and had never seen before–Sagitta (the Arrow) and Delphinus (the Dolphin), both of which are located nearby or “above” Aquila the Eagle. Since all the stars in both constellations aren’t very bright (unlike me and you, dear reader), it took a while to find them. I kept thinking, Is that them? But after comparing the sky to my handy-dandy constellation phone app, I was sure of it–I’d found them. The best part? I looked for them again tonight, and they’re still there!

I’m coming to think of parts of my personality this way, as constellations I’m just learning to see clearly. Not that they weren’t there before–those parts of me that are direct, bold, and self-accepting–they just weren’t defined or highlighted. And here’s the most beautiful thing about seeing a new constellation or a new part of yourself–you can’t UN-SEE it ever again. Just as the summer sky will never not include the Dolphin and the Arrow for me, my personality will never not include, or at least have access to, its stronger, healthier aspects because I can see them now. I can see–me–now.

[Tonight’s star/constellation image is from the Stellarium app. For a bigger, better version, right-click the image and select “Open Image in New Tab.”]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Who’s to say that one experience is better than another?

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On Levity and Gravity (Blog #510)

Today and I went to therapy, and–for the first time in a long time–didn’t refer to “the list.” Rather, I let things unfold naturally and talked about whatever came to my mind. I’m frustrated about this. I’m worn out about that. I’m angry about this AND that. “Here,” my therapist said, “take these squeezie balls and squeeze the shit out of them.” (I took the squeezie balls, one in each hand.) “Or do you need to throw something? I have things you can throw if you want to throw things.”

As instructed, I squeezed the shit out of the balls.

“I think these will do,” I said, then continued to vent, mostly about the fact that my life isn’t working like I want it to work right now. “I just feel so–(squeeze, squeeze)–fucking stuck.”

“Maybe you need to get laid,” she said.

“Yes, that’d be great,” I agreed, squeezing some more. “I’ll get right on that.”

I swear. She makes getting laid sound so easy. Maybe it would be if I were. (That’s a sex joke, Mom.)

Okay, here’s something wonderful about seeing a therapist. Specifically, here’s something wonderful about seeing MY therapist. No matter what mood I’m in or what we’re talking about, I almost always end up laughing. Even today while I was venting my frustrations about life, I was actually laughing and having a good time. And whereas this kind of joking around happens with some of my friends–I don’t know–when I over-vent to my friends, things can get so–what’s the word?–heavy. I mean, no one knows what to say when someone you love dies or you lose your job and you don’t know what the hell you’re doing with your life.

Or whatever your problem is.

But that’s a therapist’s job–to first of all know how to listen and second of all know what to say. They went to school for that shit! Not that they get it right every time (my therapist says she thinks she hits the nail on the head about thirty percent of the time), but at least they’re–ideally–objective, as much as a person can be. Like, with a friend or family member, they’re invested, often tied to or affected by your issues. But a therapist–who hears the good, the bad, and the ugly day-in and day-out–can offer a different, more-detached perspective. I know mine can watch me yell or scream or cry and not take it personally. Instead, she can support me by offering compassion, making me laugh, or otherwise helping me to lighten up.

“Let it out,” she says. “This is normal. YOU are normal. You’re going to make it. You’re going to get laid.”

Or whatever.

But back to lightning up. I’m currently reading a book called On Becoming an Alchemist by Catherine MacCoun that’s right up my alley. Today I read that two terms alchemists (people who, by one definition, are concerned with transformation) often use are “levity” and “gravity.” Levity, of course, relates to being light-hearted, lightening up, and not taking yourself or life so seriously. Think–gold. Gravity, on the other hand, relates to being heavy-hearted, serious, or–well–grave. Think–lead. Also, think about how “grave” is actually a term that relates to death or that which is below rather than above the surface (of the earth, of your consciousness).

One of my takeaways from reading about all this is that one’s perspective and (consequently) their emotions change depending on whether they’re looking at a problem from “below” or “above.” Think about it. When you’re feeling “down” and taking both yourself seriously, the world looks worse than it does when you’re feeling “up.” And it’s not that your problems have moved; it’s that YOU have.

This, I think, has been the prized jewel I’ve discovered through my work with my therapist and this blog–movement. On the horizontal plane of matter, time, and space, my problems look much the same. If it’s not one damn thing, it’s another. I still get angry and frustrated about all of it. But on the vertical plane of spirituality, psychology, and my interior, my life looks much different than it did before. Not that I don’t have “down” days, but I’m more “up” than I ever have been. Consequently, I see both myself and life differently, better. My problems are fewer and farther between. Largely due to my perspective, they resolve faster.

Except, apparently, the getting laid thing.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All things are moving as they should.

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What Would My Therapist Do? (Blog #496)

Today I woke up early-early-early to get blood drawn at my doctor’s office–cholesterol, thyroid, testosterone (GRRR). Afterwards–because I was feeling faint–I went to a donut shop and overloaded on sugar and caffeine. Honestly, I could have crashed, gone back to bed. But I was already awake and out of the house–I had clothes on for crying out loud!–so I spent the morning chugging coffee and reading my book on alchemy and mysticism. Only a hundred more pages to go!

This afternoon I poked around in one of my favorite used bookstores and unearthed two psychology books that I’ve been looking for. (They’re on Amazon, of course, but I think it’s more fun to find them in person.) Then at lunch a waiter at a local burrito shop made my day when I placed my order (three tacos) and he smiled and said, “I feel like The Three Tacos are the most undervalued item on our menu.”

Beaming because I had the good taste to value something others apparently don’t, I said, “Well, I for one appreciate a good taco.”

Or three.

My next and last stop for the day was seeing my therapist, and I realized even before getting there that I was in a good mood. This is nearly always the case on therapy days. First, my therapist is consistently funny, insightful, and uplifting, so there’s an anticipation and expectation that things will go well. Second, I often use therapy days to do things I love–read a book, peruse book and antique stores, eat tacos–like I did today. I mention this because I’m starting to realize how important it is to notice the things that put you in a cheerful mood–activities you participate in, thoughts you think (like, I’m a good person. I value tacos.) Then if you find yourself in a shit mood, you’ve got some reliable things you can try to shift you into a better one.

My personal shortlist of feel-good actions:

  • Get out of the house (get some sun)
  • Go for a walk
  • Read a book
  • Buy a book
  • Listen to eighties music (current favorite: “Private Eyes” by Hall and Oates)
  • Eat a taco (feel-good bonus: while listening to eighties music)
  • Flirt with a stranger
  • Window shop and daydream about when I can afford more things
  • Look at the stars

My therapist and I talked about this stuff today, the idea that you can create touchstone actions to help encourage better feelings, and she said you can also create touchstone thoughts to do the same thing. This part of the conversation came up because the hypnosis book I read yesterday said that when you’re in a downtrodden or sourpuss mood, it’s often because you’ve forgotten something good and positive in your life. For example, if you’re thinking, I CAN’T go up and talk to that person, in that moment you’re forgetting all the times you HAVE talked to a stranger, all the times you HAVE been confident and outgoing. So my therapist suggested having a shortlist of thoughts that make you feel happy and strong whenever you think about them–like that time your friend or relative did that one thing and you couldn’t stop laughing, or that person you love more than anything else in the whole-wide world, or that thing you did that you thought you couldn’t and are really proud of.

See–doesn’t that feel good?

Personally, I’m working on become more aware of my thoughts. After reading the hypnosis book, I know that MOST of my bad moods don’t come from what I physically feel (kinesthetic) or what I see either in the world or in my head (visual), but rather from thoughts I think (auditory). In short, there’s a lot of internal bitching, a lot of “this isn’t good enough.” But lately I’ve been catching myself mid-thought and audibly saying, “Stop.” Then I’ve been turning whatever the situation is into a joke, like “there I go again,” or otherwise trying to “lighten up.” Armed with my shortlists, I’ve started telling myself, I don’t have to make a problem where there isn’t one. I know how to feel good.

I know how to value and appreciate tacos AND myself.

Another thing my therapist and I discussed was “three strikes and you’re out,” something that came up because I’ve recently been putting up some bad (rude) behavior from an acquaintance of mine. My therapist said, “If you flake out on me once, shit happens. If you do it twice, you’re on thin ice. If you do it three times–[here she held out her closed fist then suddenly opened her fingers wide]–mic drop!” Later my therapist said that many of her clients–whenever they’re uptight, frustrated, downtrodden, or “in a pickle” with another person–will think, What would my therapist do (or say or think) in this moment? (WWMTD?) In other words, Would she put up with this shit?

If you don’t have a therapist, you could say, “What would a mentally healthy person do?” (If you don’t know a mentally healthy person–that’s a problem.)

You can be more discriminating.

This is something I’ve really been focused on lately–healthy models for change–since it’s become really clear to me that we all have default ways of thinking and responding to our environment, but there ARE other ways of being in the world. Like, just because I do a lot of internal griping, doesn’t mean everyone does or that I HAVE to. It’s simply a habit, and my mind IS CAPABLE of learning something new. Or just because I’ve always given people a million chances, doesn’t mean I have to for the rest of my life. I CAN BE more discriminating–in my thoughts, actions, and relationships.

I AM being more discriminating.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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What are you really running away from?

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The Sound of My Shoes Splashing (Blog #495)

For the last three days, my stomach has been upset something awful. I’m not doubled over in pain or anything–it’s not time to call an ambulance–but it has felt like a pubescent demon has been poking at my insides with his pitchfork.

Stop, demon, stop.

When I was a teenager, I had stomach problems constantly. I have so many memories of being curled up in my bed, knees to my chest. I used to toss back calcium tablets like they were candy corn. My therapist once said she thought my tummy troubles were because I was repressing my true (and fabulous) self. “You don’t think it was just a bad case of gas?” I said. Anyway, those days are mostly over. Mostly. A few years ago an ulcer (or something) did show up uninvited and lasted several weeks. I wanted to scream.

Well, get this shit.

In the midst of my last great intestinal undoing, I picked up a remodel job that required that I completely tear apart a friend’s subfloor, which had rotted due to water damage. I think it took two days and every hammer, crowbar, and power tool I had to bust up the tile, rip apart the linoleum underneath, and pull out the old plywood. Talk about feeling like a man. I’ve never done so much grunting in all my life. But the best part is that after I spent two afternoons absolutely fucking a floor up(!), my stomach problems completely went away.

Just like that.

My therapist said–in this instance–she thought my stomach problems were a direct result of my tendency to internalize my emotions (who, me?) and that busting some shit up was a good way for me to “get the poison out.” She’s recommended this strategy on a number of occasions–throw something, go for bike ride, break a damn sweat.

Believe it or not, I have been thinking about this advice the last few days while my stomach acids have been bubbling up and boiling over my intestinal cauldron. Actually, even BEFORE my stomach began hurting, I was thinking, I need to start walking again, maybe even running. But it’s been so damn hot. And I’ve been tired. (And drinking beer.) But when I woke up this morning and my belly was STILL hurting, I thought, Today’s the day–I’ve got to do something. So this afternoon I went to the health-food store and got some ginger/peppermint tea, as well as some kombucha, a probiotic drink that I was consistently ingesting before my recent two-week vacation but haven’t had since I’ve returned home. And whereas I think they helped, I kept thinking, Go for a run, Marcus. Get out of the house.

But again–it was like a hundred degrees outside, and I prefer to run at night.

Finally, just about the time the sun was going down and a thunderstorm warning was being issued for our area, I decided to take off. “I’m going for a run,” I told my parents, “but it’s supposed to rain.” My dad, engrossed in some television program, didn’t even look up. “You won’t melt.” So I stuffed a Ziploc bag in my pocket to protect my phone if it started raining and hit the pavement.

A half-mile in, the wind started picking up, blowing dust and trash across the road. It was like something from the movie Tombstone. Part of me thought, Marcus, go home before a tornado picks you up and sweeps you off to Oz. But surrounded by dark, billowing clouds and feeling the air push against my skin, another part of me thought, Keep running–this is what it feels like to be alive. (Don’t worry, Mom, it wasn’t lightning–very bad.) About twenty minutes in, the bottom of the sky fell out, so I ran up under a pine tree and slipped my phone into the Ziploc bag. Then I pulled my shirt off, shoved it in my pocket, and kept going.

Within minutes, I was soaked to the bone, but I was loving it–smiling, laughing, evening yelling along with the thunder (getting the poison out). Alternating running and walking, I played in the rain for two miles until I made it home, sometimes watching the “rivers” run along the sides of the streets, sometimes listening to my tennis shoes splash-splash-splash through the puddles, but never once thinking about my stomach.

That was two hours ago, and–go figure–my stomach is better. Maybe not perfect, but good enough that I’ve been going significant stretches of time without thinking about it. So that’s something. This afternoon I finished a hypnosis book that said if you’re having physical (kinesthetic) pain and can focus on something you see (visual) or hear (auditory), your pain will lessen or neutralize because it switches you over to a different input/output system. (You may want to try it NOW). So maybe that’s what happened. Or maybe it was the kombucha and ginger tea. Or maybe I had internalized a handful of emotions and frustrations (I DID just complete a road trip with my immediate family) and was able to EXTERNALIZE them.

We all need to feel alive.

Personally, I’m inclined to think it was the running and externalizing, since my body has been telling me for the last few days that it wants to run. So often I forget this, that the body has wisdom and knows what it needs. I’ve spent a lot of time lately inside with my nose in a book. I love reading, of course, but it’s easy to sit inside and 1) think I can solve everything with a book and 2) concentrate on my problems. And whereas these two activities are fun on a certain level (who doesn’t like to read and wallow?), neither of them feel like the rain on my face or sound like my shoes splash-splash-splashing through the puddles. Yes, we all need this–both once in a while and fundamentally–to connect with nature, to be soaked to the bone, to feel alive.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We can rewrite our stories if we want to.

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On Life’s Seasons (Blog #484)

It’s nine in the morning, and I’m still in Somewhere, California. I survived the night and actually got some rest. I just went down to the lobby to grab coffee, and this motel appears better in the daytime. Not great, but better. From the looks of it, the only thing this city offers is a pit stop. Just a place to gas up and rest your head on your way to a better place. For me, that better place is San Francisco, which I plan to roll into later this afternoon. I’m blogging now so that I can have time to get there, maybe explore some used book stores, and find my bearings before the dance tonight.

Not last night but the night before, I dreamed that I was in a large, decorated warehouse that was mostly green–green walls, green comforter on the bed, green everything. Hanging from the ceilings were a few orange and red flags. The owners asked my opinion, and I said, “There’s too much green. It needs balance. More fall colors.” Later, I was in a swamp, and several people were carrying a casket. (This is where things get violent.) Then I took out a shotgun and shot the pallbearers. Blew their faces right off.

It was an absolute blood bath.

Frightening, I know, but–upon waking–I actually thought that last part was delightful. My therapist says that dead bodies in dreams represent the parts of your psyche that are no longer beneficial or helpful, and in mythology blood always represents new life. So the fact that I was taking a shotgun to the pallbearers (whom I generalize as “not useful” and just there for looks), tells me that I’m done with being fake (both personally and with regard to others). Give me something new, something real.

I’ve been reading about the stars and seasons lately, and there’s a lot of talk about festivals. In spring we have easter to commemorate new life, and in fall there is (or at least used to be) Michaelmas, a celebration of the Archangel Michael that honors the end of the growing season. In the Jewish tradition there’s Passover in the spring and the Feast of Tabernacles in the fall. But the point remains the same–there’s a time for spring and a time for fall, a time to be born and a time to die. Balance.

Endings are just as important as beginnings.

With this background in mind, I think the two dreams I had were communicating the same thing. In the first one, part of my consciousness was saying, “There’s too much growth (green) in your life. You need more death (more fall colors.)” In the second dream, it was more obvious. Grab a shotgun! I don’t mean to be morbid here. It’s not that I’m celebrating death. But I am starting to recognize that ENDINGS are just as important as beginnings. In fact, they’re necessary for beginnings. If I hadn’t divested myself of most of my worldly possessions, how would I have room for whatever is coming to take their place? How could the spring occur without first the fall occurring and then the long, cold winter?

Primitive people recognized this fact. It’s gross, but it’s why they sacrificed, why they were cannibals. Death makes room for more life. Endings create beginnings.

Sometimes I worry that I won’t get to wherever it is that I’m going. It’s not that I don’t see progress in my interior and external life, but it’s like I get to a pit stop and think, What if I don’t get to my better place? But surely the planets never think this way, wondering whether or not they are in the right place at the right time. I’m in such a hurry to be “somewhere else,” to get to my summer, my sweet spot, but I’m reminded that even the earth couldn’t rush her seasons if she tried. So I’m going to try to follow her example, to stay steady and sure in my orbit, to let my seasons come and go, to give each one its due respect.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Life doesn’t need us to boss it around.

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Route 66 and the Quest for the Holy Grail (Blog #482)

This morning I woke up to an e-bill (from the lab that did my immunology testing) for $1,600.00. This is not a good way to start the day. (Marcus, from now on, at least wait until you get out of bed before checking your phone.) Anyway, I spent my morning dealing with this matter–calling the company to see what’s going on, talking to my insurance agent. After a solid hour of this business, the matter still isn’t resolved, but we’re closer. As it turns out, my first visit to the lab was billed to the wrong insurance (technically mine, but the wrong one), and the second visit is still being processed. My insurance agent said, “You can handle this when you get back. Stop worrying.”

Does she know me or what?

Similar incidents have happened a number of times this last year, and my therapist always reminds me that 1) this is the nature of medical billing and insurance, 2) the universe is abundant, and 3) considering my background with financial stressors, it’s normal for me to overreact. The good news, however, is that I actually didn’t overreact today. Sure, I stressed out a little, but I didn’t flip shit. So maybe my attitude about such things is improving. Yesterday I read that the word grail (as in the Holy Grail) is related to the word gradual. The point was that advances in consciousness (depicted as challenges and victories in the grail-quest legends) happen in phases, rarely all at once. My point is that I AM changing my mind about things–just a little at a time.

And that’s okay.

Other than dealing with the insurance company, I paid bills this afternoon and spent some time reading. Then this evening I (finally) mapped out a plan for getting to San Francisco. As it turns out, the drive is close to 18 hours, so I’ve decided to break it up into two days. Hopefully I’ll drive 13 or 14 hours tomorrow, find a place to spend the night (I have a few options already), then drive the rest of the way Friday morning/early afternoon. Since the dance event I’m attending starts Friday at 8 PM, this should work out just fine.

God willing and the creek don’t rise.

I’ve spent this evening getting ready for the trip–taking a shower, shaving, washing clothes. Now it’s 9:30, and I’m trying to keep this short so I can knock myself out with Benadryl and get some sleep. I’m going to TRY to get up early in the morning. (Early for me that is.)

When my family and I first got to Albuquerque, I noticed a car I hadn’t seen before in my sister and brother-in-law’s garage–an antique–a 1971 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia, it turns out. And whereas I’m not a “car guy,” I thought this car was awesome and asked my brother-in-law if we could go for a spin. So tonight before I cleaned up, he said, “Do you want to drive it? It’s a standard.” Hesitating because I technically know how to drive a standard but don’t do it often enough to be confident about it, I said, “Uh–uh–yes!”

I added the exclamation point, both on the blog and in real life, because I think it’s important to be enthusiastic about trying new things.

So my brother-in-law started out, then pulled over to let me try. And y’all, we give him a hard time sometimes for being rough around the edges, but he was a great teacher. First, he gave me a refresher course about all the pedals, then he talked me through any jerking or rough spots along the way. And whereas I thought we were just going to stay in the neighborhood, he navigated me onto the highway–historic Route 66. (As in, get your kicks on.) Talk about feeling like a badass–driving an antique convertible, top down, on Route 66.

Believe it or not–all things considered–I did a good job. I only stalled out once–at a stop sign. (Technically, I was just following directions.)

We have time to figure things out.

Just before we got back to the house, it started pouring down rain, so I pulled over and my brother-in-law put the top up and took over driving. (We couldn’t roll up the windows because he recently had the interior redone and hasn’t put the cranks for the windows back on.) Anyway, he sped home and pulled back in the garage. (We were only half-soaked.) The whole affair was one of the funnest things I’ve done in a long time. During the trip I kept getting nervous, like, What if I mess up or do something wrong? But honestly, my nervousness paled in comparison to the good time I was having, even the pride I felt at trying and learning something new. So again I’m reminded that life is meant to be fun, that we have time to figure things out, that we can “get our kicks” gradually.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The symbols that fascinate us are meant to transform us.

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You Should Use That Thing (Blog #433)

 

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

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

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

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

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

So that’s good news.

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

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

“Yes, I’m tired of not being heard.”

I SAID I’M TIRED OF NOT BEING HEARD.

(That was a joke.)

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

Give yourself an abundance of grace.

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not true.

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Remembering (Blog #398)

This afternoon I saw my therapist and told her about my meeting Del Shores on Sunday. I shared this bit of news as if I were a junior high cheerleader at a slumber party, and she responded in kind. (I love it when people rejoice with me appropriately.) Then I told her about receiving good news about my medical bills last week and ended the conversation by groaning, “So maybe the universe isn’t such a bad place to live after all.” My therapist raised her hand as if she were about to offer a benediction. “It has its moments,” she said, then bowed her head slightly. “It has its moments.”

After therapy and a quick trip to the library, I met my friend CJ for an evening in Fayetteville. For dinner, we went to Herman’s, a steak and rib joint that’s been around for decades, but it was our first time there. Y’all, it was pretty great. We both had steak, and they were super big, super juicy. Good stuff. And I was so proud of myself for staying mostly on Autoimmune Paleo. (I ate hash browns, but NO tomatoes, peppers, or bread!) That being said, when CJ suggested dessert, I did think, Oh, fuck it and started fantasizing about the possibilities. But thankfully (I guess), I didn’t have to exercise my willpower or decide to further break my rules for the evening because Herman’s doesn’t have a dessert menu. What they do have, however, is a basket of (free) multi-flavored Tootsie Pops.

Insert my eyes rolling here.

I can’t tell you how unimpressed I was. When the waitress brought the basket to our table, I felt like I was a toddler at a dentist’s office. Granted, it worked out for my diet, but come on–a sucker for dessert? (I politely declined.) I can only assume a straight person came up with this idea. (No offense, straight people, but a gay man would NEVER propose an idea like this.) I asked the waitress, “Do people actually get excited about this basket of suckers you’ve laid before me?” With a completely serious face, she replied, “Some people do.”

A sucker at a steakhouse. I’m still not over it. (Some things are really hard for me to let go of.) However–for both your sake and mine–I’m going to try to move on with my life. (Here I go.)

After dinner CJ and I went to see a play at Theater Squared. Well, we did stop in a local sex store first, but since we did that last year, it wasn’t exactly a novel or notable experience. If you’ve seen one dildo, you’ve seen them all. That being said, if you haven’t seen a seventeen-inch dildo or a rainbow-colored “pride” dildo like I did tonight, then, yeah, maybe you should get out more often. And I guess the glass dildos were notable, what with their different shapes and colors. Some of them were quite pretty–stunning, actually. Had it been winter and had they not been in the penis-shaped vibrator section, I could have easily mistaken them for Christmas tree ornaments.

Just imagine. Presents under the tree AND on the tree.

But back to the play we went to see, The Hound of the Baskervilles, or as my mother misheard when I told her about it a couple days ago, The Hound of the Basketball Pills. It’s a Sherlock Holmes story, of course, but this version has been adapted as a comedy, and y’all, it was hilarious. Three extremely talented actors played twenty (20!) characters in two acts, and I was completely in stitches. They never missed a beat. It was the perfect way to get out of the house and remind myself, once again, that the universe “has its moments.”

But seriously, I highly recommend the show. Go see it. (It’s playing until May 27.)

Then I stand a little taller.

Something I often notice when I go to therapy or see a wonderful show like I saw tonight is that even if I’ve spent the week worrying, fretting, or even bitching about my problems (my often very real and in-my-face problems), all of that falls away. If only for an hour or two, I forget about the past and am strongly reconnected to the present and the idea that life is good. I love these moments when I forget about myself, these moments when my worries simply vanish into thin air. Then I stand a little taller, without all that weight on my shoulders. Then I move about the earth as a star moves about the heavens–confidently. Remembering that I belong here, that this is my home, I continue steadily along my path.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can’t stuff down the truth—it always comes up.

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