My Damn Opinion (Blog #316)

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This afternoon I dragged myself out of the house and went to a local bookstore/coffee shop, to work. For about three hours I poured caffeine down my throat (my heart is still pounding) and worked on marketing strategy for the swing dance event I’m now associated with. This project could take up every spare minute of my time if I let it, so I’m trying to set limits–boundaries!–for myself. To this end, after making a dozen social media posts, writing a promotional piece about one of the staff, and outlining the details for an upcoming email campaign, I thought, That’s enough for today and shut my laptop.

Leaving my man bag in the room where I was working, I explored the rest of the shop. Y’all, I could spend days in almost any bookstore–perusing, smelling–even if I don’t buy anything. Anyway, after forty-five minutes of looking around, I returned empty-handed to grab my bag and head out–like a caveman–in search of dinner. (Me hungry. Where buffalo?) Well, I started talking to a stranger. More accurately, a stranger started talking to me. At first it was a pleasant back-and-forth, like, “Here’s what I enjoy reading. What do YOU enjoy reading?” But then things quickly became one-sided. They were talking my ear off.

Perhaps this has happened to you.

Hold it right there.

Praise God and all the saints, their phone rang. Now’s my chance, I thought. I said, “Have a wonderful evening,” and started walking. But wouldn’t you know it, they got off their phone quicker than a frog gets off its lily pad. The next thing I knew they’d called me back over–reeled me in like some sort of fish–by asking my name. (Damn vanity gets me every time.) Of course, they began chatting again. As it turned out, we actually had several things in common, and I thought, I like this person. Maybe God brought us together. Fifteen minutes later, the shop owner was locking doors and turning off lights, and the person was still talking. They later admitted that their blood sugar was dropping, that they were getting “loopy.” My internal response: “Drink your juice, Shelby!” (That’s a quote from Steel Magnolias, Mom.) I kept thinking, How would my therapist get out of this?

I intend to ask her.

Situations like these really do stump me. For all the progress I’ve made on good boundaries, I still have a tough time drawing a line in the sand with “conversation hijackers.” It’s really difficult for me to interrupt someone and say, “Hold it right there. You’re wearing me out.” I have so much practice being “nice.” If you have any suggestions for being both kind and firm with “ramblers,” please leave them in the comments below. (The suggestions, not the ramblers.) In tonight’s situation, I did find an opportunity to say, “I have to go,” to which the person replied, “I’m so sorry.” This was actually their second apology for taking up my time, which tells me that they realized as much as I did that the conversation had become one-sided and unbalanced. Apparently neither of us knew how to stop it.

God bless.

This evening I finished reading two books. The first, Hug Your Customer by Jack Mitchell, I can’t recommend enough, especially if you’re at all interested in customer service and business marketing. The second, The Art of Memoir by Mary Karr, I can’t recommend (period). I didn’t think it was bad–I found a lot of jewels inside–but it didn’t grip me the way I hoped it would. (Damn expectations.) Karr teaches writing, and mostly I felt as if I were in one of her university classes. She used dozens of dozens of examples from famous memoirs, all of which I’ve never read or heard of before and therefore didn’t connect with. Also, she spoke a lot of poetry, which would’ve been fine had the book been called The Art of Poetry instead of The Art of Memoir. These criticisms aside, I loved the parts of the book in which Karr spoke of her own life, her own experiences and memories. I’ve never read any of her other works, but I adore her authentic voice and think we’d hit it off were we to ever have brunch together.

Gay guys like brunch, Mom. (I don’t know if Mary Karr likes brunch or not. You’d have to ask her.)

Okay, one more beef about The Art of Memoir. At the back of the book, Karr lists some of her favorite memoirs, which, I guess, is both normal and to be expected. But Karr’s list of memoirs boggles the mind at–approximately–200 books. (200!) Maybe you don’t see this as a problem, but Karr labels the list, “Required Reading.” REQUIRED! As in, “You have to–or else.” Y’all, required is not the right adjective to use with a rule-follower. I looked at that list and thought, I’ve only read five of these books. Talk about stressful. Seriously, how I’ve managed to make it this far in life without having read the other 195, I don’t know.

Required reading. Please. Why not just say, “If you’re getting your PhD in memoir writing or have ten lifetimes to spare and nothing better to do, consider reading these 200 books”?

I hope this post doesn’t come off as overly bitchy. A little bitchy–fine. I’m sure that on more than one occasion I’ve been the person to talk someone else’s ear off. Hell, I write a blog every day (every damn day) about myself. By anyone’s standards, this is a pretty one-sided conversation. Additionally, I’m sure another writer could come in and take me to task on a number of things I do here. For starters, I use the words okay, anyway, whatever, and realize way too often. (I realize this. Whatever.) I have my reasons for doing what I do and imagine Karr has her reasons for doing what she does.

This is major progress.

All this to say that I’m not saying, “I’m right.” What I am saying, however, is, “I’m right–for me.” What I mean is that five years ago I would have let a complete stranger talk to me for hours on end and not have thought a thing about it. I wouldn’t have seen a problem. Likewise, I would have read a book cover-to-cover and assumed every word was gospel because it was printed on nice paper. But now I can recognize when things are out of balance (for me) and when information resonates (with me) and when it doesn’t. This is major progress. As I told my therapist recently, “I’m beginning to have a damn opinion about things.”

Her response: “As well you should. As. Well. You. Should.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Perfection is ever-elusive.

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Resolute (Blog #313)

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Somewhere between a year and a year-and-a-half ago, I was getting ready to close my dance studio and move out of The Big House, the place I called home for over two years. (We called it The Big House because it was a big house. Some things aren’t complicated.) Between the closing of the studio and the time I moved out of my home, there was a three-week period, during which time I worked frantically to finish unfinished remodeling projects around the house. The last project I finished was the upstairs bathroom, the room with the clawfoot tub I used to love to soak in. It really was a last-minute deal–I was still putting paint on the walls my last week there. Still, I went ahead and decorated the entire bathroom–hung up pictures, put a rug on the floor, the whole bit. I figured as long as I lived there, I was gonna live there.

Next to the clawfoot tub was a gas space heater, something that came in rather handy during the winter months. On top of the heater I put a lamp, and next to the lamp, a wooden tray. I think the tray was designed as a kitchen item, but I used it to hold a bar of soap, as well as a candle I’d picked out especially for the bathroom, even though I’m not a candle person. But that final week, I fell in love with THAT candle. Every night I’d crawl into the clawfoot tub after lighting the candle, and while I listened to Fleetwood Mac, the light from the candle would dance with the shadows on the walls.

It’s another story, but The Big House had come to me when my life was a mess. I’d just started therapy and had gotten out of a terrible (no good, very bad) relationship in which there was a lot of yelling. In that relationship, I felt like a ship being tossed about by a storm that wouldn’t relent. Then for the first time in over six months, the storm subsided–everything got still. I found myself in this big house, and it was quiet. Three thousand square feet where I could hear myself think. A place of peace where I could lay my head at night and figure myself out. Looking back, I can see that at the same time I was remodeling the house, I was remodeling myself. Granted, now I look the same on the outside, maybe a few more wrinkles, but I’m different where it counts. My standards are higher, I won’t let myself be walked on, I speak up for myself. In short, I love myself more. So for the place that held me safe while all these renovations went on, I’m eternally grateful.

Getting ready to move out that final week, I went through every single thing I owned. One item at a time, I decided what to keep, what to sell, and what to give away. By the time it was all over, I went from all my possessions being able to fit into The Big House to being able to fit into my Honda Civic, Polly. I sold most the things in the upstairs bathroom, or gave them away, but I decided to take the wooden soap tray and the candle. Ever since then, I’ve used the tray to hold objects that I consider sacred–a small vial of holy water, a beautiful spiritual necklace I never wear on the outside of my shirt, a paperweight that belonged to my uncle when he was alive. I call it my traveling altar. At some point I started putting my jewelry on the altar. It began with a small ring I got at Disney World when I was seven that says, “Marcus,” my logic being that surely I’m a sacred object too.

I’ve always kept the candle in the middle of the tray. In addition to being a stereotypical spiritual thing to have around, the candle inspires me because of the message printed on the outside of it. It says, simply, “Resolute.” For over a year now, every time I see the candle, I think the same thing I thought when I bought it–I don’t know what lies ahead, but I’m determined to see myself through it. My therapist and I discussed this recently. We were talking about strengths that are born out of hardships, and I said that I’m resolute and determined because things were so shitty for so long. Now I don’t give up. I absolutely know this ship can weather any storm. My therapist said that the best people she knows–the ones who are the kindest and the strongest–are the ones who have lived through hell and have found a way to not be bitter about it. “It’s what happens when you refuse to be a victim,” she said.

Lately I’ve been burning the Resolute candle every day while I meditate and do chi kung. It’s become this ritual. I turn off all the other lights in the room, usually put on some sort of instrumental music, and always light the candle. (Growing up, I never imagined I would be someone who does this sort of thing.) Anyway, I guess there’s something powerful about rituals. Sometimes all I have to do is light the candle and take a few steps toward the center of the room, and I being to cry. It’s like seeing that flame is all my body needs to let go. Joseph Campbell says your sacred space is where you can find yourself over and over again, and I guess that’s what my traveling altar has become–a place where I can heal.

Yesterday I lit my Resolute candle for the last time. It burned out, ran out of wax before my meditation was even over. When I threw it away earlier this evening, I felt like I did when I walked out of The Big House for the last time. A little lost. Tonight I replaced my Resolute candle with the only other candle I could find around the house–a pale green one labeled “Mint Chocolate Chip.” Honestly, burning it tonight during meditation wasn’t the same. I kept thinking it smelled like–well–fat. Like, I probably gained two pounds just by taking the lid off. Still, its flame burned just as bright. Also, having lived through hell, I know my being Resolute has nothing to do with a physical candle that used to sit on my traveling altar. Rather, that flame burns deep within me, and the real altar is my body, my heart, my soul. As it turns out, I am the sacred space which I take everywhere I go, the sacred space where I can find myself over and over again, the sacred space where I can heal.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We’re all made of the same stuff.

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Finding the Middle Path (Blog #306)

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Last night, despite trying, I couldn’t fall asleep until six in the morning. About four I realized it was a 98-percent-full moon, so I’m blaming that. This sort of thing has happened before. I’m guess I’m “sensitive.” That’s fine. But if I have to be up in the middle of the night, exhausted, at least I could turn into a werewolf or something cool, like Michael Jackson in Thriller. No such luck. No dancing with the dead for me. Nope–I only got four hours of sleep–and have absolutely nothing to show for it.

Let’s talk about my outfit.

Today I’m wearing a hat I got from my ninety-five-year-old friend Marina. She says she found it in a bar in Hawaii several years ago–on the head of a Greek sailor. (Swoon.) She apparently asked this guy for it, and he actually gave it to her! You’d just have to know Marina. Anyway, she passed it on to me last year. I’m not sure what the official style of the hat is, but it’s made my Cavanagh, originally cost eighteen dollars (according to the tag inside the brim), and fits my head perfectly. I saw my therapist today, and she said I looked like Elvis–“before he got fat and started singing in Las Vegas.” Talk about a compliment. “That was worth getting out bed for,” I said. “What do I owe you?”

Today we talked about the book I’m reading on Reichian Therapy. My therapist had heard of it, or at least its creator, but didn’t know much about it, so I explained the basic premise and what my experience with it has been thus far. This is something I appreciate about my therapist–like, she never acts territorial or suggests that her way is the only way. She almost never “directs” my therapy. Rather, she encourages me to explore different methods and find what’s right for me.

I told her the book I’m reading says over and over again to go slow. Again, she encouraged me to trust myself. She said, “Remember that those books are always written as if the reader knows absolutely nothing. They’re written for people who are just starting school. You’re at graduate level, so you can pace yourself how you think best. And if you ever get in over your head–just call me and make an appointment.”

Now that I’m processing it, this conversation went along with another one we’ve been having off and on lately, about trusting others and being able to ask them for help. Admittedly, I’m extremely self-sufficient. I hate asking for help. This, my therapist and I agree, is the result of being “let down” by the world on a number of occasions in my childhood. I’ll spare you the details, but I basically grew up thinking, Fuck all y’all. I’ll take care of this myself. (I don’t recommend this attitude, but if you got it, you got it.) My therapist said, “It’s okay to be able to take care of everything from A to Z, but–again–it’s about striking a balance and finding the middle path. You don’t have to do EVERYTHING all the time.”

I realized on the drive to therapy that I’m pretty overloaded lately. I’m working my ass off in therapy and on this blog, I’m reading all the time, and I’ve recently taken on this project for the swing dancing event. I told my therapist today that I’ve been listening to people solid for the last week and sharing their stories online, sometimes to critical reception. I said, “I don’t know how you do this every day and don’t drink yourself to sleep at night.” She said, “It’s hard.” So we discussed boundaries I can set with the projects, as well as other ways I can take care of myself. With this is mind, after therapy I went out for beer and pizza. Granted, this wasn’t one of my therapist’s specific suggestions, but I decided to improvise.

And it worked. I’ve had a delightful afternoon filled with carbs, self-nurturing, and more carbs.

Now it’s seven in the evening, and I’m at the library. I’m meeting a friend soon to see a movie, so I need to wrap this up. Like quick. I see both these acts–the movie and the shorter blog–as acts of further self-care and finding the middle path. No more work for the day, Marcus. It will be there tomorrow. Just enjoy your life. Just enjoy your damn life. So no more go-go-go. At least for now, it’s stop-stop-stop.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our shoulders weren’t meant to carry the weight of the world.

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The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (Blog #287)

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Yesterday I felt like a million bucks, as good as I’ve felt in the last three months, and I wore a pair of vintage bell-bottom jeans that came from 1970s JC Penny’s to celebrate. They’re blue in color with white pockets on the outside, tight in all the right places. When I found them at a thrift store, they had the original tags on them. Anyway, they enhanced my good mood because I can only fit into them when I’m at my current weight or less. Five extra pounds on these hips, and there’d just be no way. I saw my therapist yesterday, and after she raved about the pants and I told her about my recent (three-pound) weight loss, she said, “I’m glad you’re a skinny bitch.”

Since I haven’t been to therapy in a few weeks, I caught my therapist up on my (very) recent health upswing and the good news I got last week about my emergency room visit being paid for by the hospital. I said, “I keep trying to believe that the universe isn’t on my side, but it keeps proving me wrong.” She said, “All your needs are being taken care of.”

Later we discussed people who idealize their therapist. She said, “I’m not as important or as ‘necessary’ as some of my clients think I am. I may have some information they don’t, and they may have some information I don’t. But when you put someone on a pedestal, there’s only one direction for them to go.” (Down.) This is something I appreciate about my therapist. From day one, she’s always been “real” in the way she talks, dresses, and presents herself. Never once have I gotten the impression that she didn’t have struggles and problems of her own. Of course, this has made it easier to relate to her, easier for me to show up “warts and all.” Additionally, she’s never set herself up as “always right” or infallible. Rather, she’s encouraged me to follow my inner truth. “If your gut tells you one thing and I tell you another, go with your gut. That’s what’s best for you, no matter what anyone else says.”

This is something that’s been historically easy for me to forget. I read so many books and listen to so many other people, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking that other people know better for me than I do. Of course, we can all learn from each other, but I had dinner last night with my friend Marla, and I told her that now I absolutely know that my biggest strides have come this blog, from sitting down every day and getting to know myself, from first discovering and then speaking my truth. If someone else hears me, fine. What’s important is that I hear me, that I get quiet and listen to what’s honestly going on inside.

I can’t tell you how much I recommend this–getting honest with yourself. I’m not saying you need to start a daily blog and tell the world about your inner goings-on. Of course, if you want to, knock yourself out. But I am saying there’s a certain healing that happens when you simply get real about everything happening in your life and when you own your story–the good, the bad, and the ugly. (In my experience, it’s a lot of ugly.) I guess this is what most of us are afraid of, embracing all our “unacceptable” parts. In a world where every picture we post is expected to be just so, it’s difficult to look at our own faults, wrinkles, and unpleasant emotions, let alone share them with others. But there’s a freedom that comes when you accept yourself for who you are and where you’re at, a freedom only you can give you, something you simply can’t get from another.

Healing never looks like what you think it will.

At some point last night I hit a wall. My million-dollar feeling suddenly felt like a dollar and seventy-five cents. I got super tired, kind of light-headed, nauseated, and jittery. This morning I felt–uh–better, and decided to drop two of the supplements I started a couple days ago. (Google said they might be to blame.) Now I feel–meh–could be better, could be worse. Tomorrow I see my new medical doctor and am hoping for some answers, a least a little more help, another piece of the puzzle. But even this illness, something I consider “ugly,” has been a way to get to know myself, to look at my inner goings-on, to further realize that all my needs are being taken care of. Healing, it seems, never looks like what you think it will.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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How Hope Begins to Grow (Blog #280)

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[This morning my sister sent me some family photos she took while she was in town, so I’m sprinkling them throughout today’s blog, even though they aren’t “on topic.” The last one is my favorite, since it didn’t really turn out but is completely authentic, at least for my nephews.]

Yesterday my dad started coming down with a cold–a common cold. Since I’m both already sick and a hypochondriac, I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours absolutely paranoid that I’ll catch whatever he’s got, wiping down every surface he touches with soap and water, hearing him cough and imaging his germs traveling through the air ducts and into my susceptible sinus cavities while I sleep. We’re all going to die keeps running through my head. Now all I can think about is whether I need to get out of the house and buy some more vitamins, search the internet for additional home remedies, or just pray to god I live long enough to see my new doctor next week.

This is me WITH a therapist.

It seriously blows to wake up and start the day overwhelmed. Even before my feet hit the floor this morning, I was obsessing about my physical health, wondering if I’ll ever feel like myself again or if this is just my “new normal.” Then I started worrying about money, being single, and male-pattern baldness, every problem for which I don’t have an immediate answer. Stumbling into the kitchen, I noticed I was low on groceries, which only further added to my anxiety, since groceries cost money. Finally I had this thought–Would you just calm the fuck down, Marcus? Why don’t you pour yourself a cup of coffee AND THEN see what the world looks like?

As it turns out, the world is better caffeinated, and after breakfast I decided to take a closer look at some of my “problems,” meaning I organized a stack of paperwork that’s been piling up since the middle of last year. Specifically, I sorted through medical bills, since I went to the emergency room a few months ago for a skin infection and my insurance didn’t pay for a dime of it. Well, I spoke to the hospital a while back, and they said they’d put in a request to charity services and that I should hear something within thirty days. So far, all I’ve gotten is more bills, so this afternoon I figured I needed to call them again. But before I did, I reread the letter the same hospital sent me earlier this year, the one that granted me financial assistance with the sinus surgery I had almost a year ago.

Y’all.

I don’t know how I missed it before, but the letter said that ALL hospital services received through the middle of November last year would be covered at–um–one hundred percent, meaning the emergency room visit should be covered too. Optimistic, I called customer service, spoke to the nicest lady, and told her what was going on. Praise god and all the saints, she confirmed that the services would be covered, that there was only confusion because the two places I received treatment (for the sinus surgery and the skin infection) were in different regions of the country and therefore in different computer programs. But no problem, she said, we’re getting it sorted out, and please ignore any further bills.

“Okay,” I said. “I can do that.”

And get this shit. Then she started updating my profile, asking about my current (and basically nonexistent) income. “I’m confused,” I said. “If the previous assistance covers the emergency room services, why do you need additional information?”

“Oh,” she said, “that’s because the financial assistance program expired for you in November, so I’d like to re-up your enrollment in order to cover future medical costs.”

Wow.

How do you even respond to kindness like this? My first thought was to say, Holy crap, I don’t like girls, but would you go on a date with me? But then I realized you don’t have to sleep with every person who does something nice for you, so I simply said, “Thank you so very much. I really appreciate all your help.”

After the good news earlier today, I started to worry again, to re-focus on my health and other financial problems. (It’s a bad habit.) But then I remembered that in my journal this morning I told the universe I needed a break, that I could use a win. Well, obviously, I got one. (That was fast.) So now I’m trying to simply enjoy it, to bask in the relief, to show some damn gratitude for one big problem solved.

Like, thank you, Jesus.

But seriously, I can’t tell you what a shot in the arm this news is. Having worried about this medical bill for weeks now, it’s really a load off. My therapist says this is how you start believing in good things again, how hope begins to grow. You live most your years disappointed, really convinced that life isn’t on your side, that things will never get better. But however slowly, case-by-case, life starts to prove you wrong. Despite all your worrying and thinking This situation is impossible, miracles start to show up. You begin to believe you’re not in this all by yourself. Moved to the point of tears, you think, Healing really is possible.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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No good story ever ends.

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Mario Kart and My Angry Liver (Blog #275)

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Yesterday I drove to Oklahoma City to pick up my aunt from my cousin’s house. Everyone kept thanking me, but I absolutely loved it. First, I adore being on the road, especially in Tom Collins (my car). Second, when I got there, my cousin fed me dinner–homemade chicken dumplings. Talk about winning. Also, I got to relive part of my childhood by playing the latest version of Mario Kart with my cousin’s oldest son, Carter. (That’s his youngest son, Garrett, above.) Y’all, I distinctly felt ancient. When I was a kid, there were only eight characters to choose from on Mario Kart, but now there are like twenty-five or thirty. (A creature of habit, I chose Princess Toadstool.) Plus, now you can pick your race car, your tires, AND your parachute. (Apparently race cars need parachutes.) Not only that, there’s a new button on the controller that acts as a camera. Carter kept saying, “Take a picture, take a picture,” but I only have so many fingers, and it took every single one of them to simply punch the gas and keep my car on the road.

When did life get so difficult?

As I’ve mentioned before, for the last few weeks I’ve been trying all sorts of over-the-counter medications, vitamins, and herbal supplements to calm down my allergies and histamine-ridden body. Well, completely frustrated, I messaged a chiropractor friend of mine yesterday, who suggested a relatively inexpensive product to cleanse my liver. Since I trust this person and they’ve recommended miracle products before, I picked the product up this morning and just started using it. We’ll see what happens–I’m hopeful.

As I tend to obsess about potential problems, I’m also paranoid and have spent the last hour on the internet gathering all the information I could from every holistic and crackpot website out there about overtaxed livers and how to clean them, the whole time thinking, Are we really going down this road again, Marcus? (Yes. Yes we are.) Now I’ve convinced myself I’m most certainly dying, so I’ve made a mental list of things I need to do: 1) Drink dandelion and milk thistle tea, 2) Eat salads with olive oil, carrots, and beets, 3) Consider coffee and apple cider vinegar enemas, and 4) Stop being so gullible. This is the battle I always wage with health information I find online, sorting out the useful from the useless.  I mean, just because you have tan-colored poop, does it really mean your liver is “tired” or “angry”?

Are body organs even allowed to have emotions?

Another health problem I’ve had for over six months is a pain between my shoulder blades, a kind of tingling sensation that won’t go away. It started one day when I was swimming, and so far no one, including my two chiropractors and three massage therapists, have been able to figure it out. Well, while reading about dirty, upset, overwhelmed livers, I learned that mid-back pain often means you have a liver “issue.” I don’t know who discovers or comes up with this information, but considering I’ve tried everything except a liver cleanse to help my back to no avail, I’m inclined to believe it. It’s at least as good as any other explanation I’ve been given. Again, we’ll see what happens.

Part of the reason I’m writing about all this is that I’m trying to talk myself down off a ledge. I’m sure this isn’t a surprise, but I really do tend to overreact when it comes to personal health problems. I start thinking, Oh my god, my liver is under pressure. (Aren’t we all?) But seriously, I’m–I’m–toxic. Quick, I’ve got to do something–anything–before I turn green. The next thing I know, I’m handing all my money over to some pachouli-wearing hippy in a health food store who swears up and down they cured their fibromyalgia with a table lamp made out of Himalayan sea salt. “Stranger things have happened,” they say. Like that’s a reasonable argument for buying a product.

“Do you take Mastercard?” I usually reply.

Granted, I guess stranger things have happened. Hell, I recently knocked out a sinus infection by sniffing fermented kimchi juice up my nose. So it’s not like the internet isn’t helpful. But I’m really working on taking everything I read with a giant grain of Himalayan sea salt. Like, even if my liver does need some help, things obviously aren’t that bad. It’s not like my skin is turning gray or anything. Plus, maybe it’s possible to simply try one product at a time and see what works, rather than doing what I normally do, which is go from taking zero to two dozen supplements overnight. The shotgun vitamin approach. As my therapist says, “All things in moderation.”

I’m telling myself that I’m doing the best I can–my liver is doing the best it can–we’re all doing the best we can. Last night when I played Mario Kart, each race was crazy. There were turtle shells flying everywhere, banana peels all over the track, bad weather and lightning bolts left and right. Carter gave me about three seconds of instructions, then I just got dropped into the middle of it. To say the least, it was a damn mess. But this is how life is, one big, chaotic mystery. Something that works for you doesn’t work for me, and vice versa. No one has all the answers. So we get up each day and we do the best we can. We try to take it easy on ourselves and we try to have a good time. Maybe, if we’re lucky, we take a few pictures along the way.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"The truth is right in front of you."

The Putting-Together Process (Blog #274)

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It’s Friday after Christmas, and I was just sitting at this laptop twelve hours ago. Since eight of those hours were spent sleeping, I officially have very little to say. I realize this isn’t a good way to advertise what’s going on here, sort of like a department store putting a sign in the window that says, “Come on in–nothing’s on sale.” Still, it’s honest. I mean, what happens before noon? In my world, rarely anything. But today I’m blogging even earlier than normal because I’m going out-of-town later to pick up my aunt, who’s been visiting her three grandchildren for the holidays. “I’m ready to come home,” she said.

With any luck, this will be done in less than an hour.

Last night I dreamed I was driving through one of my favorite areas of town, which was filled with new construction. There were two and three-story buildings, all in the process of being built, for blocks and blocks. My therapist says that buildings represent your physical body and your life, so I assume this dream represents all the mental, emotional, and physical changes I’ve made over the last few years, most of which have kicked into high gear since I started the blog. Since the dream didn’t involve just one house but rather an entire neighborhood, I take that to mean that I’m quite literally rebuilding my entire world.

Later in the dream a friend gave me a business card that was like a puzzle, several pieces that fit together like a game. Since I think puzzles are fun and challenging, I think this means that I need to reshape the way I look at business, which I usually associate with being overwhelming and “serious.” It’s like my subconscious is saying, “Lighten up, Marcus. It’s just another game.”

Anytime I start a project, I look forward to it being completed. If I redecorate a room, I love seeing it finished, everything in place. I can stare at it for hours. So I keep thinking about those buildings in the dream. I want them to be done. But currently my sister is working on the puzzle we recently started, and I’m reminding myself that the fun part is actually the building process, the putting-together process. That feeling of finished satisfaction that I love only comes after all the hard work has been put in. So I’m also reminding myself that this time in my life is vitally important because it’s when I’m laying my foundation and constructing a solid structure. Looking around my parents’ house, I don’t see a single two-by-four. They’ve all been covered up with sheetrock, paint and family photos. But I know they’re there, holding everything up.

You can’t build a house, much less a life, from the outside-in.

This reminds me that you can’t build a house, much less a life, from the outside-in. Rather, if you want something that’s going to last, you have to start on the inside and work your way out, no matter how long it takes and how difficult it is. In my experience, this is a long and boring process. And because you’re working on the parts that few people see or appreciate, it’s often a lonely process. So you’ve really got to believe in yourself and what you’re doing. Again, it comes down to integrity and making something solid of yourself, something that’s so well-built on the inside that it can handle any storm. This is challenging, of course–it’s meant to be challenging. But, like a puzzle, it’s also meant to be fun, something you have all the time in the world to work on and comes together one piece at a time.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"That love inside that shows up as joy or enthusiasm is your authentic self."

This Hazy, Gray Fog (#272)

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Last night I took two Benadryl to calm down my allergies and slept like a dream. Now it’s one-thirty in the afternoon, and I think the pills are still in my system. It’s like I’m in a fog, the world is kind of hazy. I actually like it. First, my sinuses are dryer, and my skin is less itchy. Second, although I’m sure there are a number of physical and emotional problems I could currently worry about, I can’t focus enough to remember what they are. I keep thinking, Eff allergies. Life is good. Que sera, sera. Y’all, those little pink pills are great–they’re like alcohol without the calories.

Of course, the fact that I can’t focus isn’t doing much for today’s blog, but you can’t win them all.

Yesterday I taught a dance lesson at a friend’s house. One of their sons is getting married. (Thus the dance lesson.) Anyway, when the dancing ended, we all sat around, visited, and were generally entertained by their two younger boys. I guess for Christmas the kids got a bunch of stilts, the bucket kind where you basically stand on upside-down plastic cups that stay pressed against your feet by virtue of long strings you hold in your hands. Well, there may have been whiskey involved, and before long I and some of the other adults were running around the living room with the kids, except we were hunched over because the strings were sized for toddlers and young children and not for those of us old enough to have our chiropractor on speed dial.

“This isn’t good for my lower back,” I said.

Later the boys put all the cups together and hid candy under them. Then the adults had to guess where the candy was. Y’all, I’m terrible at this sort of thing. After ten rounds, I think I walked away with two peppermints, one of which was a sympathy win. No wonder I always end up in the slow line at the grocery store and pick the wrong people to date. Whatever you do, don’t let me go to Las Vegas. Stick to blogging, Marcus. Stick to blogging.

This morning my older nephew led me in a game of treasure hunt in which he left notes or clues that led me from one location in the house to another. First I was at the refrigerator, then under one of the beds, then on the couch, and so on. This is really creative, I thought. Well, the final destination was my mom’s bathroom, where my nephew was waiting. And get this–the “treasure” I received was getting squirted in the face with a water bottle. I was dripping. My nephew couldn’t stop laughing. “He’s been reading a lot about practical jokes,” my sister said.

“Lucky me,” I replied.

Last night I started to get wrapped up in my current histamine reaction, falling down the rabbit hole of worrying and thinking, What am I going to do? But then I took a deep breath and spent a few minutes remembering all the longstanding problems my body has solved over the years, most of which it did without my help. Well, in short order, I had an entire list–warts that lasted a year, body odor that lasted at least six months, skin rashes, infections, flu viruses that dragged on and on–all things that are currently over. This is something I plan to do for at least the next week or two, make an effort to recognize the times my body has come through and won the day. Since God knows I’ve spent plenty of time pointing out my body’s failures lately, I think it’s only fair to balance the scales.

My therapist says that life isn’t black and white, but rather “a lot of gray.” My this-or-that, all-or-nothing brain doesn’t love this idea, but it seems to be correct. The truth is that just as I don’t win games all the time, I don’t lose games ALL the time either. Sure, sometimes I end up with water on my face, but, more often than not, I’m perfectly dry, nothing to complain about. Likewise, I’ve had my share of health problems, but probably no more than average. What’s more, my body has proved itself capable of restoring order on more than one occasion. I guess this is another way of talking about balance, being able to see that you win some and you lose some and that life isn’t one thing or the other. Instead, like my world on antihistamines, life itself seems to be a fog, this hazy, gray thing that creeps along, touches everything, and leaves nothing out.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s nothing you can do to change the seasons or hurry them along.

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Looking at the Next Hundred Days (Blog #265)

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I don’t know what’s wrong with me. As I’ve said before, I’m not a doctor. Still, that doesn’t keep me from guessing. Last night my body temperature was up and down, so I thought I might have the flu. But this morning I stuck a thermometer in my mouth, and I definitely don’t have a fever. Plus, I feel bad, but I don’t feel THAT bad. Currently I’m trying to figure out if I feel jittery because of whatever this is or because of the medication I’m taking. The more I think about it, the more I get overwhelmed.

Let’s talk about something else, shall we?

A couple days ago the phrase “stop scrolling” came up while blogging, and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. Every time I pick up my phone and look at social media, it’s all I can hear. Stop scrolling. So whereas I’ve still been checking my phone for notifications, I haven’t been mindlessly scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. At the most, I’ve checked out the top four or five posts in my news feed, but that’s it. Part of me thinks, What if I’m missing out on something? But another part of me thinks, Wasn’t my life just fine before Facebook?

So far, I like “less news feed” better. I can’t think of a single recent post that’s given me a bad day, yet I often walk away from social media feeling slightly heavy, worse than I did before. I assume this is cumulative effect, a little bad news here, a little bad news there, a little comparing myself to others everywhere. Lately signing into Facebook or Instagram has felt like walking into a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese–music, videos, games, noises everywhere, everyone running around clamoring for attention. Look at me! Look at my cat! I have a sinus infection! I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with this or that I haven’t fully participated in every bit of it for a long, long time–I’m just saying–it’s a lot to take in day after day after day.

I’ve heard that the average person today processes more information in a week than our ancestors did in a lifetime. Or something like that–I really don’t know what the statistic was. But the point is, we’re on information overload, and our brains and bodies simply weren’t meant to handle it all. Maybe that’s why I’ve been so sick lately–not because I’ve been on Facebook too much, but because my body isn’t able to handle all the current stressors in my life. Clearly, it isn’t. As someone who likes to push, push, push, I don’t like this feedback, but I am trying to listen to it by putting down my phone, taking it easier during the day, sleeping more at night.

Today’s blog is number 265. That’s 265 days in a row of writing, notable because my goal is a year, and that leaves me with 100 days to go. Part of me feels like giving it up even today, like, What am I really doing here? On days that I don’t feel well, it’s especially difficult to imagine that this project is going anywhere or benefiting anyone other than my credit card company. Another part of me is really proud of myself for sticking this out regardless of how it’s received. That part of me thinks that 100 days is a piece of cake, the homestretch, the place where the magic will happen.

In truth, I know the magic has already happened. This project has changed me for the better. Me and My Therapist is the place I’ve found myself over and over again, the place I’ve learned to listen to the still, small voice inside me. (Incidentally, listening to that voice is difficult to do while scrolling.) Honestly, this blog is like home for me, the place I get to be myself. This is the place where I laugh at my own jokes, cry on the keyboard, and get honest. Sometimes that honesty looks like setting boundaries, expressing gratitude, or talking about what my therapist said recently. Other times that honestly looks like saying, “I feel like crap and am tired of trying so hard.” Either way, what you see here is real, at least as real as I know how to be.

This is all I can promise for the next hundred days. I can’t promise I’ll feel better or worse than I do in this moment, I can’t promise whether or not I’ll stick to my commitment to spend less time on social media, and I can’t promise I’ll be consistently funny or profound in my writing. But I can promise honesty about what’s going on inside. For anyone who’s interested, that’s one thing I can do.

And that’s the best blog ending I have at the moment–honestly.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Pressure, it seems, is necessary to positive internal change. After all, lumps of coal don't shine on their own.

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The Steady Source of Heat Within (Blog #263)

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This morning while getting ready for therapy, I gave up my fight against winter and put on thick, wool socks and climbing boots. I refuse to have cold feet, I thought. Well, never let it be said that the universe doesn’t have a sense of humor, since it turned out to be a rather sunny day. Now therapy is over, I’m at the library, and I just took off my long-sleeved shirt in favor of the t-shirt underneath. My feet are absolutely sweating, my armpits are moist (yes, I said moist), and I’m about to start fanning myself like a Mississippi debutante in August.

But. At least I’m not freezing.

Last night I slept for shit. Exhausted, I tried going to bed early, around ten, but woke up a couple hours later and couldn’t fall back asleep until four. I don’t know how people deal with insomnia on a regular basis. God bless you. What I did was watch one documentary and three TED talks and scroll through Facebook until my thumb nearly fell off. As you know, social media is mostly cat memes, clickbait, and political bitching. (And your cute children, of course.) Sometimes I think it’s more stressful than helpful, more bad news than good. So long as I’m blogging, I don’t know that I could completely give up social media, but I’m considering adopting “stop scrolling” as my New Year’s resolution.

God knows it would save me a lot of time.

Currently I’m listening to one of my favorite songs, Africa by Toto (the band, not the dog in Wizard of Oz). There’s a lyric that says, “It’s gonna take a lot to drag me away from you,” and that’s what the idea of scaling back from Facebook feels like. If I’m going to call it what it is, it’s an addiction, something I can’t put down, something that–at least in its current quantity–takes more than it gives. More than once my therapist and I have discussed some online drama–something someone else said or did. You know how you see a picture of two people together and your mind runs wild. This is the stress I’m talking about it. Well, my therapist says, “Forty years ago, you didn’t have to deal with the drama of other people’s lives in this way. Maybe you heard some of the gossip at the local coffee shop, but it wasn’t on-demand, constantly at your fingertips.”

Even as it sit here, I keep wanting to pick up my phone, change tabs on my laptop and start mindlessly scanning my news feed. I guess it’s a way to check out, to leave the world I’m currently in and enter endless others. I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with this, but there’s also nothing inherently wrong with where I am right here, right now. The sun is shining, other people are working at their laptops, and I’m listening to 80s music. What more could a girl ask for? Still, I’m a little nervous–maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the fact that therapy often leaves me feeling raw. Either way, the nervousness makes me want to distract myself from it rather than actually listen to it or simply let it run its course.

I’m sure we all try to distract ourselves in one way or the other. We scroll through Facebook, we walk to the refrigerator or turn on the radio, we smoke a cigarette. Hell, if dealing with your feelings were easy, everybody would do it. In the documentary I watched last night, which was about a group of prisoners who participated in an intense meditation program, one of the guys said that you can spend your whole life distracting yourself, but sooner or later you’re left looking at what’s inside.

What are you really running away from?

Having spent a lot of time around meditation and self-help material, I used to think the goal was to get rid of all the uncomfortable, icky feelings. I’d think, If I can just be spiritual enough, I won’t have to feel nervous ever again (phew). Well, first–Good fucking luck, Marcus. Second, I’ve changed my mind about this. More and more, I believe one of the points of spiritual living is self-acceptance, and that means being able to welcome whatever arises in my external and internal life with open arms, or at least curiosity. Why do I feel this way? What can this teach me? What am I really running away from? (If the answer is me, we have a problem.) Naturally, these questions aren’t always easy to answer. Like putting on a pair of wool socks, getting to know yourself is often something you have to warm up to. But this is worth doing, I think, since the alternative looks like endless scrolling, coming to know the ever-changing temperatures of the world outside but never finding the steady source of heat within.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Sometimes life can really kick you in the balls and make you drop to your knees.

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