Boys, Frosting, Food, and Clothing (Blog #705)

Today has been fabulous and makes me glad to be alive. I can’t say why it’s been fabulous exactly, but I’ll try. This morning I woke up early, like eight-thirty, and began the day in quiet and solitude. This suites my personality, a slow, hushed start and a healthy breakfast. The menu today: scrambled eggs with turkey, spinach, and green onions; a side of pineapple; and hot lungwort tea. Lungwort’s supposed to be good for your lungs and decreasing mucus. Personally, I just like the way it sounds–lungwort. It’s so–medieval. I feel like a wizard every time I say it.

The reason I got up early was to see my therapists. Yes, I have more than one. It takes a village. First I saw my mental health therapist, the one this blog is named in honor of, my shrink. A few months ago I had a dream about a giant snake in a swamp, and recently I had another dream about a giant snake on land. The second snake tried to bite me, and I was terrified but ended up controlling it. When I told my therapist about these dreams, she said, “What do you think of snakes?” I said, “I think they’re strong and powerful.” Then she said, “Then that’s you. You’re the snake–you’re strong and powerful,” which made me want to cry. Weird how we don’t want to recognize our own best qualities, how we’re afraid of ourselves.

My therapist and I also talked about my future. I’ve been thinking lately I should get into an additional writing routine, force myself into a chair and bang my head against the table until a book falls out. My therapist, however, suggested that I don’t do anything until we talk again. “Reduce yourself,” she said. “Give yourself a break.” Then she added, “In the meantime, think about boys, frosting, food, and clothing.” So that’s what I did the rest of the day. First I ate a cream cheese bagel, then (after physical therapy) went shopping for clothes. And whereas I didn’t buy anything, I had a wonderful time looking. Well wait, I bought a new tape measure at the hardware store because my old tape measure broke recently. Anyway, the point is that I did NOT think about my future, even while I was eating a brownie tonight.

I’d like to emphasize I only ate the brownie because, well, doctor’s order’s, and I try to be a good patient.

At physical therapy, I got to jog (on a treadmill) for the first time since my knee injury and subsequent surgery. Well, okay, it was more like a fast walk (3.3 miles per hour), but it mimicked a jog. My physical therapist said this was the point, to simply get the motion. “It feels awkward,” I said. “That’s normal,” he said. Likewise, when I said that the hardest exercise I do is lowering myself down onto a step, he said, “That’s the last thing to come back. It just takes time.” Still, despite this fact, I see a lot of progress. Today I broke a sweat balancing on a Bosu ball, but the balancing was easier than two weeks ago; I didn’t have to use the bar in front of me to keep from falling over.

And did I mention I’m jogging!

While driving around today, I listened to a podcast about willpower. The speaker, Kate Galliett, said that willpower is depleted 1) by our feeling overwhelmed and 2) by our making a lot of decisions. That is, if you have to make a hundred choices at work during the day, in the evening you’re probably not going to have the mental reserves required for eating broccoli instead of cake, unless broccoli is already a habit for you. If it’s not, you’ll say, “Fuck it, I’m too tired” and reach for the red velvet. What I found most interesting, however, was that Kate said ANY decision you make depletes your willpower–including what statuses to like or not like on social media. Or what clothes you’re going to wear every day. This is why Steve Jobs had a uniform (or why you might want to set out your clothes the night before). Think about it–if you can only make so many decisions each day, why not save them for what’s important–your job, your health, your relationships.

Not necessarily in that order.

Honestly, I’m not sure why my therapist wanted me to “reduce myself” for a bit in terms of my writing routine and rather think about boys, frosting, food, and clothing. But my guess is that she knows I tend to wear myself out and thinks it would be wise to first sit down and get clear about what’s really important and what I want to accomplish. Because I do use my willpower a lot–to write this blog every day, to rehab my knee, to read a hundred books, to do half a dozen things I don’t always talk about here. And the podcast I listened to was right–willpower is a limited resource. Granted, it can replenish itself, but not if you keep pushing, pushing, pushing. At some point, you’ve got to chill out. You’ve got to give yourself a break.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

"

On Being Done (Blog #693)

This morning when I rolled out of bed, I noticed that one of my sheets was torn. Right there in the middle of my mattress, there was a hole you could have thrown a basketball through. If I didn’t know better, I would have guessed SOMEONE had a really good time last night. Alas, this was not the case. Rather, apparently my sheet had worn thin and couldn’t hold itself together any longer. It’s okay, I thought, I’ve been there plenty of times myself. Anyway, despite the fact that I had other plans for my afternoon, I ended up washing sheets (I have sensitive skin that requires everything I come in contact with be cleaned in “free and clear” detergent) then re-making my bed. Ugh. Sometimes our choices are made for us.

Since I was already doing laundry, I decided to DO LAUNDRY this afternoon. I’m going out-of-town tomorrow, so it worked out. Now I’ll have underwear options for the weekend. (That’s always nice.) While the laundry was going on, I knitted, something I haven’t done in weeks. Just another session or two, and I’ll be done with my very first project–a pot holder! I can’t tell you how good this felt, being productive. I really got on a roll–checked the fluids in my car, home-made my own windshield washer fluid (thanks for the recipe, Mom), even cleaned my white sneakers. My therapist says it takes “a real hooker” to pull off white sneakers!

Insert look of confidence here.

This evening I went to Starbucks to use their internet to order more sensitive-skin items online–six bars of soap, some shaving cream. Ugh. You don’t think about all the things you rub on your body until you have to restock almost all of them. Hopefully this will do it for a while. After finishing my online shopping, I worked on someone else’s blog. (Sometimes I get paid to write.) Now it’s after ten, and I’m working on mine, rushing through it because Dad and I need to go to the gym soon.

Something about being productive. There’s an idea in mysticism and ancient wisdom that we don’t “do” things. Rather, we are “being done.” I wish I were. (That’s a sex joke, Mom.) But seriously, take breathing, for instance. Is it something you decide to do, or does it just happen? And if it just happens, then couldn’t the argument be made that everything just happens? More and more, I think so.

Byron Katie says, “Decisions make themselves.” To me this means that you can fret and worry and plan and put off, but at some point you simply find yourself doing the laundry, sitting down to write, or going to the gym (or not). The ego likes to take credit for everything, of course, so we tell ourselves, Look at what I did or didn’t do today. I’m so great. I’m a real piece of crap. I’m not saying we’re not responsible for our actions, just that all the mental chatter around our actions is unnecessary. For example, I often worry that my irritated skin should be healing or that I should be working on a novel, but I could just as easily worry that I’m not at this very moment taking a breath. Either way, without my planning it, at some point I do–take a breath, feel better, sit down to write (or not). But is it because I worried first? No, I don’t think so. Sometimes our choices are made for us. Better said, sometimes it’s simply time to do whatever it is you’re doing right here, right now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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In other words, there's always SOMETHING else to improve or work on. Therefore, striving for perfection is not only frustrating, it's also technically impossible.

"

 

On Learning a New Language (Blog #680)

Here’s something fun. Sitting or standing up, flex all your toes into the floor. Then try to lift only your big toe(s), but leave the other 4 (or 8) on the ground. Do this several times. Big toe up, big toe down. Then reverse the process. Keep your big toe(s) on the ground, but lift the others. Go ahead, try it.

See if you don’t cuss.

I got this exercise from Kate Galliett and The Unbreakable Body, an online coaching program I signed up for years ago and recently rediscovered. The exercise is meant to rebuild and/or strengthen the arches in your feet, which, by the way, you apparently have three of on each foot, not just one. For me, the exercise is difficult, especially the second part, especially with my left foot. My toes shake and quiver and won’t do what my brain tells them to. (My nephews don’t obey me either.) And whereas that’s frustrating as hell, it motivates me to keep trying.

With my toes and my nephews.

Kate says that if you were going to learn a new language you’d learn a little at a time and it would be awkward at first, and it’s the same with your body. If you want to learn a new movement, or even teach your tense muscles how to relax, it’s going to take time. But positive changes can occur. You just have to slowly teach your body the language you want it to learn. Relax, be strong, be mobile, whatever.

Lift your damn toes in the air.

This idea of language has been on my mind today. This afternoon I finished reading a book by Joseph Murphy about your subconscious mind and positive self-talk. I have an off-and-on relationship with these types of books, the kind that tell you to affirm the things in your life that you want to see increase or grow. Sometimes I think they’re fabulous. Sometimes I think they’re crap. Still, I can’t deny there’s an inner monologue going on in my brain virtually all day long, and it makes sense to me for that monologue to be positive (God, you’re a handsome devil, Mr. Coker) rather than negative (I’m so disgusting, I’m going to eat a worm). I mean, if I have a choice in what I think (and why wouldn’t I, it’s my brain), I might as well choose thoughts that feel good rather than thoughts that feel bad.

Along these lines, the book said one positive affirmation is, “I am the only thinker in my universe. No one call tell me what to think about (blank).” I really like this. Recently someone gave me crap about my long hair. I was not amused by this. (My therapist says it’s not appropriate for one adult to tell another adult how to live their life. I agree.) I bring it up because even if the entire fucking world told me they didn’t like my hair, I am the only thinker in my universe. No one call tell me what to think about any part of my body. Likewise, even if someone has done me wrong (ripped my heart out and stomped that sucker flat), I don’t have to think bad thoughts about them. Indeed, I can wish them well if I want to, if for no other reason than letting go of a grudge feels better than holding on to one.

I am the only thinker in my universe.

Granted, it’s not easy to turn your thoughts around, just like it’s not easy to control your awkward toes (if you toes are anything like mine, that is). It’s not easy to learn a new language. Most of today I’ve felt nervous and fearful. Not because anything bad is looming on the horizon, but I do have a few tasks and appointments coming up this next week that I’m not looking forward to. Hell, I didn’t want to write tonight’s blog. Even now I’d rather be watching a movie and zoning out. My point being that along with my feeling nervous and fearful, I’ve had nervous and fearful thoughts (duh). What if I do something wrong? What if they don’t like me? What if I’m not good enough? And whereas I wish I could immediately banish these thoughts and feelings, I can’t.

Learning a new language is hard.

Still, I am determined to learn–determined to learn how to lift up my little toes while my big toe stays on the ground, determined to learn how to think about the world differently. Everything’s going to be okay. People like me (and if they don’t, fuck them). I’m good enough. And I’m finding there’s a lot of relief in just starting. That is, even though I can’t lift my toes quite right, I’ve started to learn, so the process isn’t as intimidating as it was before. Even though my self-talk has a long way to go, I’m at least aware of what’s going on “up there.” They’re just thoughts, and thoughts are changeable. Nothing is set in stone.

More and more, I’m learning to not come at myself with a sledgehammer. My dad’s been going with me to work out at night, and tonight he said, “I’m trying to add one or two new exercises each time we go.” How perfect is that? A month ago when I started going to the gym to rehab my leg, I wasn’t even breaking a sweat. But, like my dad, I’ve been adding in exercises one at time, and now I leave the gym glistening. (My next goal: leaving with a wet t-shirt.) So both at the gym and at home, I’m trying to add in good habits, add in good thoughts. I keep telling myself, Sweetheart, be patient. We’re learning a new language.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Bodies are so mysterious, much more complicated than car doors. They take more patience to understand and work with. They require more than a couple hours to repair.

"

On Continuing Sans Perfection (Blog #675)

For the last twenty minutes I’ve been trying to get my hotspot to work so I could blog on my laptop. Alas, for whatever reason, it’s currently defunct, so I’m blogging on my phone, using my thumbs to punch in one letter at a time. What a drag. What a serious drag. I hope I don’t get a callous.

This afternoon while most of America was eating cheese dip and preparing for the Superbowl, I went to the gym to rehab my knee and work out my upper body. As today was my second time this week following this regimen, I’m really surprised I don’t have pecs yet. Geez, some things take forever. And as if that weren’t disappointing enough, when I came home I pulled out a box of medjool dates for a snack, and the sticker on the box said, “Had a date lately?” I thought, Do you have to rub it in? Shit, a single guy can’t even eat a healthy snack without having his lack of a love-life thrown in his face. By a fruit, no less.

For the record, I’ve NEVER had this problem with chocolate cake.

This may come as a surprise, but I’m not a football fan. So while everyone else was wondering if Adam Levine would take a knee during his performance, I took a nap. I did, however, wake up in time for the half-time show, which I watched while I knitted.

Recently my friend Kara asked if I was learning to knit in order to get some sort of gay merit badge.

The answer is yes.

A couple things. In a previous post I said my current knitting project, a pot holder, would eventually have 36 rows. That was (an unintentional) lie. It’s going to have 60. Anyway, today I did twelve rows, so now I’ve done a total of 28. Almost halfway there. My big hangup today was that I noticed a mistake I made a few days ago. I guess I dropped a stitch or knitted instead of purled or something. Honestly, it’s not a big deal. You probably wouldn’t even notice it if I showed you. But I noticed it wasn’t perfect.

Instead of ripping out the entire damn thing and starting over, I forced myself to keep going. After all, this is supposed to be for fun. Plus, I kept thinking about all the hundreds of mistakes I’ve made dancing through the years and how much I’ve learned from them. Indeed, mistakes are necessary when we’re figuring things out. And as my therapist says, “You’ll be done figuring things out when you’re six feet under.”

In other words, mistakes are simply part off living. Like it or not, they come with the job.

The other thing that encouraged me to continue knitting sans perfection was thinking about this blog. That is, in over 600 blog posts, I’m SURE I’ve made plenty of mistakes. I proof each post three times, and I know mistakes still slip through. But whatever. This project doesn’t need to flawless, each word spelled correctly, each sentence punctuated just so. Indeed, the greatest benefit I’ve gotten from writing every day can’t even be measured in terms of the finished project because the greatest benefit has been internal. Likewise, whether you write, dance, or knit, it’s not about the actual thing or what you produce. It’s about how doing the thing changes you. It’s about what you learn and how much you grow.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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In other words, there's always SOMETHING else to improve or work on. Therefore, striving for perfection is not only frustrating, it's also technically impossible.

"

The Universe Saves My Ass (Again) (Blog #663)

Over the holidays I wrote about an incident in which I made a bank deposit and was given credit for one hundred dollars more than I should have been. When I checked into it after I had my knee surgery and could go to the bank in person, I was told to keep it. “Merry Christmas,” the guy said. Also over the holidays, a friend from high school bought a gift certificate for dance lessons. These two surprises, the hundred dollars and the gift certificate money, absolutely saved me when it came time to pay my bills a couple weeks ago. Without either source of income, I would have seriously been up shit creek.

This afternoon I saw my therapist, and we talked about money and how it relates to depression, which we talked about (and I blogged about) a week ago today. First I should reiterate that this time in my life has been quite challenging in a lot of respects, and my knee injury and subsequent surgery have just about pushed me over the edge. Surgery is always big deal, of course, plus the fact that I use my legs to make a living as a dance instructor, and now I can’t dance until this summer. Just last week I turned down a teaching gig because the woman interested needed me to dance with her (because her husband won’t–typical!). My point being that a big part of what causes my worry meter to spin out of control is finances. And sure, some really cool things happened over Christmas, but as I told my therapist, “The universe is really fond of this last-minute shit.”

And I’m not.

Thus, despite the fact that the universe came to my rescue over the holidays, I’ve been worrying ever since. How will I make my next round of payments? Where will the money come from? Of course, I’ve had MY IDEAS. Every time someone calls to inquire about dance lessons, and maybe half a dozen people have contacted me since the first of the year, I think, This is it, God. Now just have them actually take a lesson and PAY ME. Alas, so far God hasn’t taken me up my latest suggestions about how to give me money. I realize this isn’t why God exists, to act as my personal automatic teller machine. Still, we discuss my survival a lot. And hell, this evening at Walmart I did find a penny in the parking lot, so maybe he is listening and I just need to be more specific about HOW MUCH it takes to get by these days. I mean, perhaps God doesn’t keep up with inflation.

I’m sure he’s very busy.

Well, get this shit. Sometime last year–in the spring, maybe–I got a postcard in the mail notifying me that I could be part of a class-action lawsuit, some situation in which the plaintiffs were alleging that the defendants had illegally called them on their cellphones. Or something like that. I honestly don’t remember what the offense was. But I did go ahead and “opt-in” because I thought, Hell, Three dollars and sixty-seven cents is three dollars and sixty-seven cents. Isn’t that how these things turn out–pennies to the plaintiffs? Well, when I opted-in, I found out my chances of a decent return were slightly better than that. As I’d apparently been illegally called about a dozen times (I know it was fewer than twenty for sure), the website for the lawsuit said I could receive anywhere from $20 to $60.

I mean, in my world, that’s dinner and tank of gas.

Okay, so that was it. I sent the postcard in and absolutely forgot about the whole thing. But when I got home from therapy and Walmart today, there was a disbursement check from the lawsuit waiting for me on my bed. (My dad gets the mail and puts it on my bed. Isn’t that cute?.) Three dollars and sixty-seven cents, I’m thinking as I open it. Maybe twenty-five. But no. The check was for three hundred dollars.

Three. Hundred. Dollars.

There’s always hope.

Y’all, I can’t tell you how exciting this was. To celebrate, I ordered pizza for me and my parents. (My dad suggested it.) More than anything, it was a huge relief. At least for the next month, I feel like I can breathe a little easier. I definitely feel lighter than I did this morning. Not just because the universe saved my ass again, but because it reminded me there’s always hope. Seriously, think about it. What are the odds that I’d end up part of some random lawsuit over annoying telemarketing calls placed years ago and that the whole thing would actually resolve and pay out weeks after I had knee surgery when I really need the cash? I’m constantly thinking whoever runs the show up there doesn’t know what they’re doing, but clearly that’s me.

So I’m admitting it. I don’t know EVERYTHING.

Joseph Campbell said, “Follow your bliss, and the universe will open doors for you where there were only walls.” And whereas I’m still staring at a lot of walls in my life, I can say this has been my experience. For the last two years I’ve been living life on my terms–following my bliss–working on this blog, trying to make my dreams of being a full-time writer come true. In a lot of respects, it’s been hell, going against the grain, against what the world deems as normal. Even I often think, Why can’t you just get a real job and be like everybody else? But in other respects, it’s been heaven, following my heart and soul wherever they’ve wanted to lead me. And so far, despite this path being scary as all get out, it’s been okay. More than once, unexpected doors have opened and I’ve been given what Campbell called “magical aid.” Like, today I found a penny! But seriously, even though I’m still astonished when magical aid shows up in my life, I’m beginning to trust that it will always be there. I’m starting to believe that everything–somehow–will be all right.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"We all have inner wisdom. We all have true north."

On Depression (Blog #656)

Lately I haven’t been feeling like myself. Whom I’ve been feeling like exactly, I can’t say. But I can say that I’ve been feeling lethargic, overwhelmed, and hopeless. In other words, I’ve been a real Negative Nancy–a wet blanket–a gloom merchant–the opposite of Rainbow Brite. Anyway, this afternoon I saw my therapist and fell apart. Well, sort of fell apart. I cried enough to dampen one-half of one tissue. Still, I could have used the whole box if I’d let myself. That “hold it together” part of me is just really fucking stubborn.

It’s had a lot of practice.

Okay, here we go. (Breathe, Marcus.)

My therapist suggested I may be dealing with what’s called Post-Surgery Depression. “People don’t talk about it, but it’s really common,” she said. Then she repeated herself. “Really common.” And whereas she didn’t hand me an official diagnosis (I’m not sure she does that anyway), we did talk about options. To take a pill or not take a pill (to get me over the hump), that is the question. It’ll be a while before I have an answer. Honestly, I feel slightly better simply having admitted everything to my therapist. “I can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel.” Plus, it feels good knowing a lot of people in similar or even different circumstances feel this way–unmotivated, deluged. “You’re human,” my therapist said. “There’s only so much one person can take.”

This evening I looked up Post-Surgery Depression online and read five or six articles about it. (So now I’m pretty much an expert.) From what I gathered, there are a lot of causative and contributing factors, including the stress of the surgery, the anesthesia, the use of antibiotics, the feeling of chronic pain, and (as in my case) the loss of mobility and (therefore) income. Check, check, check. I wasn’t making a ton of money before this accident happened, but what I was making was coming from dance. Now that I’m on a rehab prescription that includes six months of no dancing, it’s difficult to see how everything is going to work out. Granted, I can still teach, but someone’s going to have to call to schedule a lesson first.

In terms of the stress of the surgery, none of the articles said it, but surgery is clearly traumatic. I mean, it’s not like they’re sawing on a piece of plywood or dicing up a fruit salad. You’re a living, breathing organism with a mind, body, and soul, and in order to repair the damage of the original injury, they have to knock you out, slice you open, run a drill through your bones, rearrange your parts, and staple you back together (no wonder you wake up bruised). In other words, you’re injured twice. As for the knocking out part, one of the articles said that being under general anesthesia is less like sleeping really soundly and more like being in a controlled coma (which is a big damn deal). The same article compared it to a city’s power plant being completely taken offline. That is, not everything “comes back on” at once. It’s more like a couple blocks at a time.

For me, I can’t quite shake that my entire world has been turned upside down. As a baseline, last year wasn’t great. In fact, it sucked, and as I’ve said before, it was my hardest ever. Sure, it included a lot of personal growth, maybe more than I’ve ever experienced. Which is why I’m constantly saying you shouldn’t work on yourself–because if you want the good stuff, plan to go through hell. They simply go hand-in-hand. (Also, to be clear, I do recommend working on yourself. It’s better than the alternative, which is long-term suffering.) Anyway, so there was hell, then this injury came along. And whereas I’ve been supported and gotten good help, I’ve also had the shit scared out of me and been totally inundated both physically and emotionally.

Someone said recently, “It’s like the straw that broke the camel’s back.” I replied, “No, it’s like the hay bale that broke the camel’s back.”

I’m not in love with the fact that I’m talking about (potentially, officially) being depressed to the entire world-wide web. After all, there’s a lot of stigma around this topic in our society, and it’s grossly misunderstood. Hell, clinical depression runs in my family, and I don’t understand it. (Once a psychiatrist told my father, “People understand depression to the extent that they’ve had it.”) Obviously, it can take on a lot of different forms. My personal experience with it is limited to feeling empty and paralyzed while I was in a no-good, horrible, very bad relationship several years ago and feeling extremely unhappy just before I closed my dance studio. In both cases, I knew something had to change.

The articles I read today about Post-Surgery Depression offered the standard advice. Be patient, get outside, exercise, don’t neglect your friends. Also, they said it was important to celebrate small victories. For example, this last weekend while in Nashville, I noticed that it was easier for me to go down the stairs at my friend’s apartment when I left on Monday than it was to go down them when I first got there the previous Friday. My natural tendency is to brush this improvement off, since it wasn’t dramatic. But the articles suggested you can find a lot of hope by recognizing incremental gains.

So to commemorate this milestone, I just ate an Oreo Blizzard from the Sonic.

But back to my not really wanting to talk about this and why I’m doing it anyway. My therapist pointed out this afternoon that I’ve chosen to make my very personal and private journey public (on this blog), and I agree. Not that I share everything that goes on in my life or head, but putting my insides on the outside is sort of what I do here, so it doesn’t seem right to stop now. Plus, because there is a stigma in our society around The D Word, I can’t imagine that will ever get better by not talking about it. And it needs to get better. I know what it’s like to feel sad, isolated, ashamed, embarrassed, different than, and less than, and it needs to get better for anyone who feels these things. And since every major stride I’ve made in terms of my mental health and personal relationships has always started with no longer bottling up, stuffing down, and keeping secrets, but rather with having an honest conversation, then I’m having this honest conversation.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Kindness is never a small thing."

Lickety-Split (Blog #655)

It’s 10:47 at night, and I spent most of the day–over eight hours–on the road home from Nashville. As I’m exhausted and still need to do my knee rehab exercises, my intent is to keep tonight’s blog simple and knock it out lickety-split. Here we go.

1. On me and my body

Last night before I fell asleep, I had a chat with my body. In short, I told it that 1) I knew it was doing the best it could, 2) I wanted to stop criticizing it, 3) I’d like for us to work together, and 4) I’d try to not only listen to it more, but also try to believe in its wisdom and ability to heal. Anyway, who’s to say what causes what, but I’ve felt ever-so slightly better today. Not like my skin issues cleared up overnight or I woke up full of energy, but I did wake up more–what’s the word?–hopeful. Anyway, I imagine I need to have this conversation with my body a few (hundred) more times, and I’m willing to do this. Regardless of what’s going on with me physically or how I actually feel, me and my body need to be friends.

2. On being nice

This morning for breakfast Bonnie and I ate at a crepe shop in Nashville, and there was a sign–an arrow that pointed toward the counter where you place your order–that said, “Nice People.” Cute, right? Well, it made me think of something my therapist has told me a million times–“Nice is a strategy.” And whereas I know I’ve quoted her on this matter before, I’m not sure I’ve really fleshed it out.

Personally, I know my default way of being in the world–for years–has been to be “nice.” I was raised in the south, after all. So often I’ve thought I’ve had to reply to every text message, right away, or not stand up for myself, in the interest of being “polite.” You know, What will people think? But my therapist says, “Nice is something you are when you want something,” even if it’s just for people to like you or believe you’re a good person. “It’s very different than being kind.”

Is being nice wrong? Of course not. My therapist says she’s nice to secretaries and doormen (because you catch more flies with honey than you do vinegar). But again, she’s clear that being nice is a strategy, just like being passive aggressive or even aggressive is a strategy.

3. On grounding

During the ride home today (my friend Bonnie drove), while I was reading a self-help book, I learned a grounding exercise to help relax you body and calm your nerves. Basically, it helps pull you out of your anxious thoughts and into the present moment. First, you FEEL your feet on the floor. Then you notice three things–the sound of your friend singing, the heat coming through the air vents, the headlights in front of you (or whatever).

Normally my go-to thought with these methods is, Shit like this doesn’t work for me, but I’m working on believing that it can, that if shit like this can work for other people, it can work for me.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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No one is immune from life’s challenges.

"

The Ten-Cent Turnaround (Blog #653)

A couple weeks ago I started a new medication for my upset stomach. However, I forgot to pack it (the medication, not my stomach) for my trip to Nashville, where I am now. No big deal, I thought, I don’t think it’s done much good anyway. Well, I was wrong. Last night (after eating pizza), I got the worst case of acid reflux, and it woke me up several times during the night. Between that and my knee that I recently had surgery on, I slept like shit. I was achy, nauseated, all the things. Still, I made it through the night.

This morning I got up early to do my knee rehab exercises. I’m seriously sick of them. It’s not a big deal to do them two or three times, but two or three times a day for two weeks has begun to take its toll. And it’s not like this routine is going to get any better. It’s going to be my life for a while–sleep (sort of), eat, rehab. Rinse and repeat.

I realize I’m whining.

A big part of my problem is not the fact that my life has been turned up side down. I’m perfectly capable of doing knee rehab two or three times a day for the foreseeable future. However, doing so takes almost all the energy I have. Almost everything does. Yesterday after I packed for Nashville and this morning after I got dressed, I felt like I’d run a marathon. And the day had just started. Today my friend Bonnie, her son Tim, and I met their family for brunch (today is Bonnie’s daughter-in-law Mallory’s birthday), and whereas I really wanted to be awake, alert, and lively, it was all I could do to just be present. I hate that, not being able to focus on anything other than my aching leg, my sore tummy.

Every party has a pooper, that’s why they invited me?

When we got to the restaurant, our party of seven was seated in a booth made for six. I was on the end, my left leg (and butt cheek) hanging off the side. But then the folks at the larger booth next to us left and suggested we take their table. So we did. And whereas it confused the hell out of the hostess and our waitress, we used my leg as an excuse. “He just had surgery,” one of Bonnie’s in-laws said. So that’s one good thing that came out of this damn situation. We got a bigger table. Happy Birthday, Mallory!

After brunch, Bonnie, Tim, and I came back to Tim’s place and all fell asleep. Talk about a good idea. Y’all, I crashed hard for a couple hours. Then I woke up and had a talk with myself. Okay, I said, it’s time to do rehab exercises. “Again?!” I replied. Yes, again, I said. This is the deal, I’m just working off willpower right now, trusting that as I do as I’ve been instructed, things will eventually improve.

I repeat–things will eventually improve.

Now I’m obviously blogging. I need to wrap up, since in an hour we’re going out to eat (again) for Mallory’s birthday. This time, I believe, there will be a big crowd, forty of fifty people, so I’m going to try to turn it on. Also, I’m going to try to get some antacids or something to hold me over until I get back to Arkansas. Anyway, I don’t mean to be a gloom merchant. It wasn’t my intent to kvetch. But sometimes life is an uphill climb, and that’s the truth. Recently my therapist said, “Given your background, I know it’s really difficult for you to believe that things can get better, but I’m telling you they can. Things can turn around on a dime.” So I’m trying to believe her and I’m trying to hope. I’m trying to hang in for the ten-cent turnaround.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We can rewrite our stories if we want to.

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I’m Not in Charge Here (Blog #651)

This afternoon I had my second physical therapy appointment to rehab my recently repaired knee (I tore my ACL, had surgery). Today they added new exercises–heel raises, balancing on one foot, one-leg presses, and this thing where I sit in a rolly chair, dig my heels into the carpet, and pull myself around the room. Talk about feeling conspicuous. That being said, pretty much everyone in the room today was gimped up in one way or another. One lady was doing leg exercises like I was, another was doing shoulder work, and another was working on her elbow. Hell, even one of the staff members had his leg in a boot and was walking with a cane. I thought, THESE are my people.

For forty minutes I stretched, lifted, and flexed my left leg. The hardest thing was practicing going DOWN stairs, since apparently you bend your knee twice as much going down stairs as you do when you go up them. Anyway, I broke a sweat. But then they wrapped my leg in an ice blanket, and I quickly cooled off. Especially since the machine sprung a leak and squirted water all over my leg and all down my sock. That felt good.

After physical therapy, I came home and took a nap. Seriously, I don’t have a lot of energy and can’t seem to get enough rest. Probably because my leg keeps waking me up at night. I keep telling myself this is normal, that the doctor took a drill bit long enough to tunnel through a stack of two-by-fours and ran it through my leg, so it should be achy, tired, and pissed off. Still, I have a hard time slowing down and giving my body what it’s asking for (rest). For one thing, I’m used to being active. For another, I’m supposed to be doing rehab exercises two or three times a day at home or the gym, and I can’t exactly do those while I’m sleeping.

To be clear, the rehab exercises aren’t so much difficult as they are time-consuming. Originally there were nine exercises, and now I think I’m up to twelve or fifteen, depending on whether I’m at home or at the gym. Again, that’s three times a day. As my mom says, getting better has become a full-time job. Still, it’s paying off. Today my physical therapist seemed impressed with my ability to balance on one leg and said I was actually “ahead of the curve.” So that’s something.

Lately–over the last year–I’ve been trying to lower my standards. What I mean is that I’m used to a certain level of energy and activity, and my body simply hasn’t been consistently capable of that for a while now. So I’m trying to listen to it. My therapist says something big happens whenever you can really give into the universe and say, “Fine, damn it. I’m not in charge here. I’m on your time schedule.” What that big thing is, I don’t know. Probably inner peace or some shit like that. But again, I’m trying, to be okay with how things are right here, right now, to let sleeping as much as possible and doing my rehab exercises be my life for a while.

Okay, I’m off to the gym.

And then to bed.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s nothing wrong with taking a damn nap.

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On Humble Beginnings (Blog #634)

It’s an hour before midnight on Christmas Eve, and I’ve spent most the day cuddled up in my favorite chair, reading. For me, today has been like most any other, since our family stopped celebrating Christmas over twenty years ago. It’s a long story. Part of me wishes I could go back and rewrite it, since I think traditions are important and my thinking around this particular tradition has changed a lot. But, of course, it’s hard to wind back the clock. Plus, once you’ve lost the magic of something, it’s difficult to regain it.

But not impossible, perhaps.

Really, I’m fine with this. Sure, when I see pictures of others celebrating with friends and loved ones and opening presents, a part of me misses that. But I’ve been with my family all day long, and I haven’t had to spend a dime on presents. Which is good, since I don’t have a dime. But I do miss the sparkle around the season. I used to adore decorating the tree and putting up lights on the outside of the house. Really, looking back at how I’d climb on the roof and meticulously unscrew and re-screw every bulb until they were perfectly arranged–green, red, green, red–someone should have told me a long time ago that I was a homosexual. Anyway, the last few years I’ve made an effort to participate and celebrate, if only a little. This year I helped a friend decorate the outside of their house. I was in a holiday variety show.

Ho. Ho. Ho.

I think one of the hardest things to do is accept your life both as it is and how it’s been. Especially in today’s world of social media, it’s so easy to compare yourself to others. Just scroll through your phone for a minute–one minute!–and you can see everything you’re not in terms of looks, friends, prestige, and holiday celebrations. But to really sit with your story, with all your humble beginnings, this is a tough thing to do. My mom’s been depressed since I was a child. Our home burned down when I was four. My dad went to prison. As if this weren’t enough to make us different, we stopped celebrating Christmas, and (years later) I came out of the closet.

This evening my sister, her husband, and their boys went to a friend’s house for dinner. A friend of theirs and their family ended up being there–because their home burned down tonight. The family was okay, but their pets died. This went on while my parents and I went out to eat at Chili’s and I shoved down a plateful of fajitas, two beers, and a chocolate molten lava cake. Granted, it wasn’t extravagant in terms of “what’s expected,” but we were together. Anyway, this is the world we live in. The worst things happen alongside the best things.

Back home from dinner, I returned to my reading chair. After my sister and her crew got home, my older nephew, who spends most his time in his own world and really isn’t into socializing, crawled up in my chair and read his comic book alongside me. Didn’t say a word. Just snuggled up between one armrest and me and turned his pages. It was the sweetest thing; I wouldn’t trade the thirty minutes he sat there for the world. Who’s to say if this would have happened in a living room full of packages? I mean, I’ve seen my nephew around presents.

It wouldn’t have happened.

Yesterday my friend Bonnie gave me a pack of positive affirmation cards called AFFIRMATORS!, and they’re my new favorite thing. There are over fifty cards in the pack, and the idea is that you shuffle them “like a three year-old” and pull one out at random. Well, get this shit. Three times today (out of four) I pulled out the same card–Magic. I’m including a picture of it here, but the idea is that life is a great mystery, and we’re surrounded by serendipity and wonderful, inexplicable happenings. Anyway, on a day that used to be filled with magic for me, during a time in my life that’s so difficult, it was the perfect reminder that miracles can occur in the most unlikely of places and circumstances.

Just after I pulled this card for the first time, I got a text message from a friend from high school that I haven’t talked to in–I don’t know–five or ten years. I guess they were last-minute shopping; they wanted to buy some dance lessons. This ended up being the perfect thing. They got a gift to give to someone they care about, and I got some cash (which I really needed). Anyway, I kept hearing my therapist’s voice in my head, since a couple weeks ago, after having injured my knee, I was bemoaning my financial prospects and suggested I could liquidate a few things. “Naw,” my therapist said, “let the universe do something.” And so it did. Talk about a Christmas miracle.

Magic.

In other good news, the skin rash that I’ve had for the last few weeks is finally getting better. Like, not just a little; a lot. I’ll spare you the details, but I figured out the right cream to use on it. Maybe this seems like a small matter, but when life’s knocked you down over and over (and over) again, it’s really delightful to be on the receiving end of a win. And in light of the fact that I’ll be having knee surgery in a day and a half, it’s nice knowing my body isn’t completely falling apart and that something’s on the mend. It’s good to be reminded that with a little persistence (and not a little magic) things can improve.

God’s got a big thing for humble beginnings.

Despite the fact that I’m not currently surrounded by the trappings of Christmas, I keep thinking about the mythological image of Jesus being born in a manger. I love that part of the story, since it reminds me that God’s got a big thing for humble beginnings. Shit, I can only imagine what Joseph and Mary must have felt like that night–worn out, tired, pregnant, no room in the inn. Surely one of them must have thought, God, I could use a break tonight. I could use a little magic here. Personally, I would have been pissed. Especially if I were Mary. I would have been looking everywhere for Gabriel, and when I found him I would have said, “You mean to tell me that first The Divine knocks me up, and now he wants me to deliver his kid in a barn?!” But I’m reminded tonight that The Divine is into this, into stories that don’t make sense from a human perspective, into “what seems small is big.”

With these things in mind, I’m doing my best to honor my story, including my past and present, as it is and not as I wish it were. Because no matter how humble or challenging and no matter how it compares to another’s, this is my life–my one, unique, and precious life. And no matter what, being alive is a gift. No matter how dark the night or bleak the circumstances, if you’re alive, you’re alive, and you’re story’s not over. And who’s to say what The Divine will make of your humble beginnings?

Who’s to say what magic lies ahead?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing was made to last forever.

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