the person beside me (blog #11)

1 Comment April 10, 2017 CoCo

Usually, at some point during the day, it becomes clear what I’m going to blog about. It’s like an idea shows up, and part of me just knows—that’s it. Well, it’s two hours to midnight, Cinderella, and so far that idea hasn’t shown up. That being said, it’s National Siblings Day, so I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about my one and only sibling, Dee-Anne. (That’s her in the photo above. She’s the pretty one. With long hair.)

As I write this now, I’m in the room that was hers when we were children. All of her furniture is gone, the walls have been repainted, and there aren’t many signs of her left, save a bookend of a teddy bear. The bear has its legs spread far apart, heels to Jesus, so I don’t know what that’s about. In the closet, there’s her Teddy Ruxpin, as well as a dry-erase notepad with two more teddy bears on it. Both of them are wearing leotards. (It was the 80s.)

Obviously, Dee-Anne had a thing for teddy bears.

It’s weird being back here, living in the house I grew up in, staying in her room. Even without closing my eyes, I can see where her canopy bed used to sit. I remember getting a spanking in here once, by her nightstand. I remember where in the room she and her friends used to play with Barbie dolls and I wasn’t allowed.

Memories for me are almost always related to space. Like, when I think about things that happened at my dance studio, I always remember the thing and exactly where I was standing when it happened. It’s like that with everything. I remember the spot in my grandparents’ front yard where I was standing when I saw the smoke from our house burning a few blocks away. Just that one memory of the smoke and the spot in the yard is all I’ve got. Nothing else comes back, other than I know that my sister was there beside me.

Sometimes I walk through the house, and it’s like a dream. In reality, Mom and Dad are in the living room watching Days of Our Lives, but I see my sister and me there the night that Dad was arrested over twenty years ago. We watched it on television together.

There’s a wall in the living room with pictures of us, most of them taken about twelve years ago, when I opened my dance studio. Dee-Anne was my first dance partner, and we took a lot of pictures for publicity. But there are also a lot of pictures from when we were kids, as well as one when I was a senior in high school that’s airbrushed more than the cover of Cosmopolitan.

As I think about it now, I realize that my sister was my first friend, one of the first people I met when I came into this world. And I guess we did all the normal things that siblings do—double bounce each other on the trampoline, go to each other’s ballgames and ballet recitals, fight with each other in the backseat of the car. But there were certainly all the not-so-normal things that happened, like the time we walked the streets of El Paso as teenagers, searching for a Western Union, because Mom’s purse was stolen and we needed cash if we were going to be able to visit Dad in prison. (I really should have started therapy sooner.)

After my first nephew was born, I came out to my sister. I think I had just broken up with my first official boyfriend, and I was such a fucking mess that my parents had asked what was going on. So I told them, then decided Dee-Anne should know too.

So we’re driving to the grocery store, and my nephew is in a car seat in the back, and I just blurt it out. “So this probably won’t come as a surprise, but I’m gay—now you say something supportive.”

And then my sister stuck her hand in the air (like a Pentecostal on a Sunday morning) and said, “High five for finally saying something.”

Later that year, for my birthday, she sent me a card that said, “I’m sorry for not letting you play with my Barbie dolls.”

I always tell people that I’ve been really fortunate in terms of my sexuality. My family is over-the-top accepting. Just today, my mom made a point to tell me how handsome she thinks Don Lemon and Anderson Cooper are. More than little things like that, I know that I can be myself. I know anyone I choose to date or spend time with is welcome here. But that’s not always the case, of course. I know gay guys who have been kicked out by their mothers, thrown up against the wall by their fathers, told they can’t see their nephews by their sisters.

And all I can say is that I’m grateful. There’s something special and humbling about being able to be fully yourself around your family, the people who have known you the longest, that have been through hell with you. It’s so easy to put expectations on people you’ve known forever, to insist that they don’t change or even grow up. But I think if you really love someone, you love them no matter what. And it doesn’t matter if they get sick, or go to prison, or come out of the closet because sure, people change, but love doesn’t. That’s the thing that stays the same.

And if someone changes and you stop loving them—well, that’s not love.

So if I’ve never said it before, Dee-Anne, thank you for loving me. Thank you for being my first friend, for standing beside me during the very worst moments of this life, and thank you for dancing with me, and for that high five and the retroactive invitation to play with your Barbie dolls. I definitely would have taken you up on that. But then again, had I come out sooner, I also would have stopped you from wearing those jeans in the eighth grade.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

We don’t get to boss life around.

a Mexican soap opera (blog #10)

1 Comment April 9, 2017 CoCo

Late last night, right before I went to bed, I noticed the lymph nodes in my armpits were swollen. Like, one minute they weren’t swollen, and the next minute they were. (The above photo was taken earlier in the evening, before all my pit problems.) I tried to raise my arms to take my shirt off, and it felt like someone had inserted two lemons up in there, one on each side. So I Googled the problem, decided it was cancer, and went to bed hoping for a miracle. (I don’t recommend using Google when you don’t feel well.)

This may come as a surprise, but the miracle didn’t show. I woke up in the middle of the night with chills. So I put on a shirt, grabbed an extra blanket, and went back to sleep. Then I woke up again with a fever.

When I was a teenager, I started getting sinus infections, although I’m not sure that I understood back then exactly what was going on. I just knew that I would feel terrible, gross, and lethargic. For the last twenty years, on average, I’ve probably gotten a sinus infection once every two to three months, each infection lasting a couple of weeks. Looking back, it feels like I have just as many memories of being sick as I do of being well.

For the longest time, I believed that getting sick was a result of sin because, you know, I’m such a terrible person. So I thought if I could just follow the right rules or say the right prayer, I’d stop getting sick. Well, I guess God’s pretty hard to please, since I could never seem to get better.

At some point, I stopped believing that God worked that way. But as I think about it now, I realize that I still put a lot of pressure on myself because I started believing that I could get better if I just followed the right rules in terms of diet and holistic health (which, by the way, didn’t work any better than following God’s rules).

Even now, whenever I get sick, there’s part of me that feels I’ve done something wrong, like it’s my fault. It’s a lot better than it used to be, but it’s the most frustrating thing, this feeling like I’m doing everything I know to do, and I’m still getting sick on a regular basis.

Several years ago, I dated a guy who looked a lot like Buddy Holly. Honestly, he’s probably the kindest, sweetest person I’ve ever dated. But he was also a lot younger than I was, and my therapist says it’s really hard to date someone whose brain hasn’t fully developed, especially when yours has. Anyway, the night before we broke up, I’m sitting up in bed, and he comes in the room and straddles me like I’m horse. (As it turns out, he didn’t want me to run away.) And then he starts wagging his finger in my face and says, “You told me you loved me, and then I fell in love with you, and NOW you’re telling me you don’t know what you want? WELL YOU BETTER FIGURE IT OUT!”

When I told my therapist this story, she said, “Did he think he was on a Mexican soap opera?” So now that’s what we call him on the rare occasion his name comes up—Mexican Soap Opera. (I’m sure he has names for me too.)

So the next day, when things are seriously over, he starts crying. And he says, “I did everything right.” And I start crying too because he did, and I know what that feels like, to work your ass off in a relationship and have it turn to shit anyway. I know what it’s like to spend all your money and time going to doctors and alternative doctors—pharmacies and health food stores—and still get sick. And all of it sucks. All of it feels like failure, like you’re not good enough.

All of it feels like a Mexican soap opera.

A couple of months ago, finally, I had sinus surgery. I could probably write a blog post about that experience alone, so I’ll spare you the details for now. But as it turns out, it wasn’t God’s fault, and it wasn’t my fault either. I’m sure you’re excited to hear about it, so here’s a picture from the day of the surgery to hold you over.

Getting back to my swollen armpits, I spent this afternoon feeling frustrated about not feeling better, about getting sick—again. My consolation was that I wasn’t sick with a sinus infection. This was a NEW problem, which actually made it feel less like a failure. So early this evening, I went to a walk-in clinic, and the doctor squeezed and poked my armpits like he was shopping for avocadoes.

He said that I had a bacterial infection, probably due to the fact that I had sinus surgery recently and two fillings at the dentist a couple of days ago. He said he couldn’t point to one specific cause, that it was “a soup.” (This reminds me of the time my urologist told me that “dilution is the solution to the pollution,” and I said, “Did they teach you that in medical school?”) Anyway, the doctor today said surgery and dental work are invasive procedures, and it’s easy for the bacteria in your body to get out of hand. One minute things are fine, and the next minute things turn into a Mexican soap opera.

So the doctor prescribed an antibiotic, and he told me I shouldn’t wear deodorant for a while, which I’m sure all my friends will appreciate.

Somewhere I heard the story about a mystic or a monk who performed a wedding for a couple, and during the ceremony, he took a stick or something and started lightly tapping them over their heads. He kept saying, “Pain is not a punishment. Pleasure is not a reward. Pain is not a punishment. Pleasure is not a reward.”

I guess for the longest time, I’ve put all his pressure on myself when it comes to my health (and relationships and money), like, YOU BETTER FIGURE IT OUT. But I think the lesson about pain and pleasure is the perfect reminder on days like today. Just because I feel bad, it doesn’t mean I’ve done something wrong. It doesn’t mean life hates me. Likewise, just because I fell good, it doesn’t mean I’ve done something right. Sickness and health come and go, just like everything else. It’s just the way life is. And even if it’s not, I don’t have to have all the answers. (Obviously, that’s what Google’s for.)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Sickness and health come and go, just like everything else. It's just the way life is."

don’t put a bird on it (blog #9)

1 Comment April 8, 2017 CoCo

I spent the day with two of my friends from high school, Kara and Amber. The three of us live in different cities, but we make a point to get together and catch up several times a year. (We all love a good plan.) Our conversations always last a long time, but today I’m pretty sure we broke our personal record–we talked for nine hours. We laughed, we cried, it was better than Cats.

We started our reunion this afternoon at a coffee shop, but five hours later went to a restaurant called Mockingbird Kitchen. Appropriately, there were birds on everything, which immediately made me think of PUT A BIRD ON IT. If you don’t know, PUT A BIRD ON IT is a phrase made popular by the television show Portlandia. It has to do with the idea that you can take something unspectacular (like a simple tote bag) and dress it up and make it prettier than it actually is if you–well–PUT A BIRD ON IT.

I mean, just imagine how boring this coffee cup would be WITHOUT a bird on it:

For whatever reason, PUT A BIRD ON IT always makes me laugh. I like the way it rolls off my tongue. Plus, I have a dear friend who LOVES birds–like absolutely can not get enough of birds–and he’s always rearranging his decorations and knick knacks, so I love visiting his house and going on a bird hunt, seeing if I can spot a bird on a spring throw pillow, or maybe find a new statue of a fat bird he’s put on the back of his toilet. (Since this is my idea of fun, I should probably consider getting out more.)

Anyway, Kara and Amber and I spent a lot of time today talking about authenticity, this goal we all share to be open and honest and real and vulnerable, not only with each other, but also with the world. This goal, of course, is not an easy one. At least for me, I know that it comes in fits and starts. I’ve spent so much time feeling like I wasn’t complete, that a lot of my energy has gone into things like people pleasing and putting forth an acceptable social image, rather than simply being myself.

Whenever my therapist talks about Facebook, she always uses the word “presentation.” Like, it’s so easy to look at pictures of someone online and think that their life is perfect and that they have it all figured out. But the truth is, you’re only seeing what they want you to see, and as Paul Laurence Dunbar says, “We wear the mask that grins and lies.” That may sound a bit harsh, but I think it’s fair to say that few of us present a complete picture of ourselves to those around us, especially on social media. I know I don’t, at least until this blog started.

It’s not that I consider putting your best foot forward to be a bad thing. Most the time, I think what’s actually happening is that we take something we consider unspectacular and PUT A BIRD ON IT. We dress things up and make them look prettier than they actually are. But the problem is that we end up smiling when we’re actually falling apart. We say things like, “I’m fine,” when the truth sounds more like, “I’m fucking pissed.”

Close to ten years ago, I got obsessed with handwriting analysis, and I bought a lot of books on the subject. The theory is you can tell a lot about a person’s personality by studying their handwriting–how it slants, how big or small it is, how large the margins are. Well, one easy thing that anyone can do is look at a person’s signature and compare it to the rest of their writing. Ideally, they should look the same, but often they don’t. The explanation is that a person’s handwriting shows their true personality, but the signature shows the image they present to the world. The signature shows the mask they wear. The signature shows whether or not they’ve put a bird–on themselves.

When I first started therapy, I talked about how great it was. I mean, my therapist is hilarious, and we laughed a lot, and I saw immediate improvement in my life. “Everyone should go to therapy,” I said. Even now, I’m constantly saying, “My therapist says this,” or “My therapist says that.” Hell, I even have a blog about my therapist. But somewhere along the way, I started telling people, “I’m just kidding. Don’t go to therapy. It sucks.” What I mean by that is that productive therapy is difficult. It’s not easy to live an authentic life, to do things like be vulnerable, honor your emotions, set boundaries, and initiate confrontations. It’s much easier to PUT A BIRD ON IT.

All that being said, I think authenticity is worth all the hard work and being real is its own reward. There’s something beautiful, after all, about a simple tote bag that requires nothing but itself in order to be complete.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

You can’t pick and choose what you receive from life, and you can’t always accurately label something as bad.

well, that’s disappointing (blog #8)

3 Comments April 7, 2017 CoCo

There’s an English slang word that I learned about earlier this year. The word is coddiwomple. It means “to travel purposefully toward an as-yet-unknown destination,” and that’s exactly what’s about to happen. In other words, I don’t know where I’m going with this blog, but, like any good man, I intend to make good time getting there.

For breakfast this morning, I walked to Hardee’s, and although I didn’t realize it, I had my heart set on a steak and egg biscuit, which was a staple item for me several months ago when I was in the midst of fixing up the old house I was living in and getting ready to move. Well, when I got to Hardee’s, I was informed that the steak and egg biscuit was no longer available. It actually took three people to confirm this fact, and the last one, a lady, said, “That was a seasonal item, and the season is over.”

Well, I almost walked out the door, like, Screw you people. I’m taking my business elsewhere. But I was in a hurry to get to the dentist to have two cavities filled, so I decided to stay and eat a fried chicken biscuit instead. (And yes, the irony of eating fast food thirty minutes before going to the dentist to have cavities filled is not lost on me. All I can say is, make hay while the sun shines.) Anyway, it wasn’t the worst breakfast I’ve ever had, but it certainly wasn’t worth getting a cavity over and tasted a lot more like disappointment than chicken.

Always one to overanalyze, I started thinking way too much about why I was so let down about the steak and egg biscuit season being over. I mean, it’s just a steak and egg biscuit. From Hardee’s.

The first place my mind went was this time about a year and a half ago when I’d asked a friend to do me a favor and host another dance instructor who’d come into town to teach for a convention I used to organize. Well, my friend ended up having some of his friends over that night, and my dance instructor was upset, partly, because he thought they were too loud. My first reaction was to get angry, since I thought my friend’s actions reflected poorly on me, so I brought it up in therapy thinking that I’d be agreed with. But I wasn’t. My therapist said that I’d asked someone to do something for me, and then I got angry because they didn’t do it the way I would’ve. She said that I should have been more clear about my desires, said something like, “I’d like you to host someone, please, but I don’t want you blast Michael Buble music until three in the morning. How do you feel about that?”

I said I could have said that, but this sort of thing had never come up before. And then my therapist said, “You’ve been really fortunate. You’ve been spoiled.” (Spin this however you want, but it didn’t feel like a compliment.)

So after the thing at Hardee’s this morning, I started wondering if that was it, if I was just spoiled. And then I started thinking of all the words that are associated with being spoiled, words like rotten and brat, and then I felt like shit because I was convinced I was an entitled little twit who almost always gets his way and throws a temper tantrum every time Hardee’s changes it’s menu. (Sometimes my therapist says that I’m married to suffering, and looking at what I’ve just written, she may be right about that.)

Then I started thinking what a perfectly disgusting word spoiled is, how we should probably ban it from the English language–at least when used to refer to humans and not eggs–because it’s never used to build anyone up. It’s always used to put someone in their place, like, “Who do you think you are, wanting a steak and egg biscuit from Hardee’s?”

So up until the time the dentist put a drill in my mouth, this idea of being spoiled was all I could think about, and I kept trying to figure out the difference between feeling like you’re worthy of good things (like a decent, fast food breakfast) and feeling like you’re spoiled, ready to be thrown out with the sour milk. I’m still not sure I have an answer, but I think it has to do with the difference in feeling like you’re entitled to something as opposed to just wanting it. And I think how severely you react to the disappointments in your life will let you know which side of the fence you fall on.

By the time my cavities were filled and I could no longer open the right side of my mouth, I decided I wasn’t spoiled. Yes, I’m fortunate, but there are so many things a lot bigger than breakfast that don’t go my way. And I didn’t throw a tantrum this morning, I just felt disappointed. More accurately, I felt sad.

A little over three years ago, I was about to break up with my ex. I’d been convinced we were going to get married, but we were fighting all the time, and it was usually about something stupid, like the fact that I wouldn’t go to McDonald’s a block away and get him a McFlurry. (And no, he was not in a wheelchair or somehow unable to walk or drive himself.) Well, I was fucking miserable. Some days I’d just lie in bed and stare at the wall. Then one night we went out to eat at Ed Walker’s, and all I really wanted was a piece of chocolate cake. I had my heart set on it. Like, my life may suck right now, but at least there’s chocolate cake.

So I ask the waitress if they have chocolate cake today, and she says yes. But then she brings German Chocolate Cake, and I start fighting back tears because IT’S NOT THE SAME THING, BITCH.

No, I didn’t say that, but it was probably written all over my face.

Later my ex said that the waitress probably thought I was crazy, which, of course, I was. But I wasn’t crazy because I started crying over German Chocolate Cake–I was crazy because I was dating him. And I was disappointed he wasn’t the one, and I was sad because I loved him, and there was no way in hell that it could work. So I shoved those feelings down at home, and they all came rushing back up as soon as they had a decent chance and I was too focused on chocolate cake to stop them.

So here’s where we ended up, here’s where we coddiwompled. First, the disappointment over breakfast this morning really wasn’t that big of a deal. But it did cause me to stop and realize that there are actually some pretty big disappointments in my life right now, a lot of things bigger than cheap biscuits that haven’t turned out like I thought they would, things that I had my heart set on. And although I don’t want to start feeling sorry for myself, I think it’s okay to feel sad about those things. I think it’s okay to grieve the death of my fantasies. It’s okay to be sad when seasons end. And maybe that means for a while, I need to spoil myself–sleep in a little later, eat my favorite breakfast even if it’s bad for me, go out for chocolate cake. After a while, I’m hoping, sadness will let me go because I listened to it and didn’t shove it down, and then I can strike out with purpose toward an as-yet-unknown destination with nothing to hold me back.

[As a side note, there’s part of me that feels my ex is largely responsible for this blog. In the first place, he’s the reason I went to therapy. In the second, he gave me this laptop. My therapist says that he doesn’t deserve any credit because it was how I responded to the shitty situation that made the difference. But as Andrew Solomon says, “If you banish the dragons, you banish the heroes.”]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

Even a twisted tree grows tall and strong.

why i can’t stop working (blog #7)

4 Comments April 6, 2017 CoCo

This week I’ve been house sitting for some friends of mine, and today I started a small painting project for them. I spent most the day thinking about how much my mood improves when I’m working, how much better I feel about myself. It’s a topic that’s been on my mind a lot the last few months because I’ve spent so much time lately not doing a damn thing except watching Grace and Frankie and Downtown Abbey (and judging myself for it the entire time). And it’s like I have this underlying guilt about the whole situation that’s my life right now–not having a job, not having a calendar full of to-do items, not being “productive.”

Productive. That’s the word that keeps comes up in therapy. It’s like I always have to be doing something I deem worthwhile, moving objects from here to there, earning a dollar, “succeeding.” I look at people who are able to sit on their porch and drink their morning coffee for an hour, and on the one hand, I’m jealous that they can relax. On the other hand, I’m judging them for not multitasking, listening to a self-help podcast while they down their caffeine.

At one point, maybe a year ago, my therapist said, “How would you feel if I told you that you couldn’t read any non-fiction books, listen to any interviews with spiritual teachers, or watch any self-help videos for a week?” And it’s like my butthole did that thing that happens when you first realize you’ve got food poisoning. But then I calmed down, took a deep breath, and said I thought I could do it.

Well, it ended up being the greatest thing, like somehow it was okay to not be improving, striving for perfection every damn minute of every damn day. But sometime over the last year, I’ve forgotten the lesson. Or maybe now I’m just being asked to apply what I’ve learned on a broader scale. (The universe does a lot of shit like this. It’s like a video game. You pass one level, and then, damn it, you just move on to a harder one.)

And I guess this just feels like a really hard level, spending most days not doing much other than going to the mailbox and changing the cat liter. And yes, I get the irony that I think NOT working is difficult, but again, I apparently have a lot of my self-worth tied up in work and productivity.

This evening, I went to my friend Bonnie’s house. Bonnie and her husband, Todd, have offered their home as a space for me to teach dance lessons, so tonight I worked with a couple who are getting married in a few weeks. After the lesson, Bonnie and Todd invited me to stay for dinner, and then Bonnie asked if I wanted to dance for fun, which we did. For a minute. And then I started teaching. I couldn’t help it.

Before I left, Bonnie said, “You didn’t have to teach me anything. I really did just want to dance for fun. You know you don’t owe us anything.”

On my way home, I started thinking about when I was a teenager. My dad was a pharmacist, and he was a arrested for misusing his license, and he spent almost six years in prison. Well, Mom was pretty sick, so we didn’t have a lot of money. I remember having to return one car to the bank and them coming to get another. For a few years, I attended First Baptist Church in Van Buren, and one of the Sunday school classes gave my family this cardboard box wrapped in Valentine’s paper, and it was full of canned goods and Kraft macaroni. And I know that it was the sweetest thing, that they just wanted to give, but the box sat in a corner of the kitchen for years, and it was like this constant reminder of how we weren’t able to provide for ourselves.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about feeling embarrassed, and maybe it goes back to Dad being arrested and the Valentine’s box full of non-perishable food items. I’m just going to go ahead and say that’s exactly where it started, watching our nice things being repossessed because we could no longer pay for them. I remember one day, as a sixteen-year-old, having to go to the bank to meet with a loan officer. The whole meeting was about whether or not we could stay in our house until Dad got home from prison, since we weren’t able to pay for it. A family friend was there with me, but I just remember being totally overwhelmed, way in over my head. I remember crying in front of the loan officer, like I’m just a kid.

The bank ended up letting us stay, which I get now is a pretty big deal. It’s a huge grace. That being said, the whole situation really left me with this feeling that I had to earn my way in the world, that it’s somehow embarrassing to be in a situation where you need help. And what I’m thinking in this moment is that my need to be productive every damn minute of every damn day isn’t really about my self-worth, it’s about wanting to not be embarrassed. Because that’s what it feels like to not have a job or drive a nicer car. That’s what it feels like to move back in with my parents. And I know Bonnie and Todd well enough to know their hearts, that they really do want to give me a space to teach dance and they really do want me to stay for dinner–because we’re friends–and not because they feel sorry for me. And still it’s the hardest grace for me to wrap my head around, that I don’t have to earn my place in this world, that I don’t have to grow up and have all the answers as fast as I think I do, that there’s love available for me in each new moment if I can only accept it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

my inner control freak (blog #6)

3 Comments April 5, 2017 CoCo

Attention: Today’s blog was brought to you in part by Corona. (Alcohol: Helping control freaks let go and inspiring writers since Hemingway. Please drink responsibly.)

It’s eight in the evening, this is blog number six, and all day I’ve been sure that I have nothing left to write about. Like not just for this post, but ever. I’ve spent all day thinking about topics to discuss, and none of them seem interesting or right, so I’m convinced all my good ideas are dried up, inspiration is done talking to me, and I should just resign myself to watching soap operas with my parents for the rest of my natural-born life.

My therapist would probably call this type of thinking an abundance issue, like, everyone else has all the good ideas and there aren’t enough good ideas left for me (scarcity). My homosexual friends would probably just call me a drama queen. (We may be getting warmer.) I, on the other hand, am pretty sure I’m a control freak. (Take as much time as you need to get over that shocking revelation.)

Earlier today, I went for a walk around the neighborhood, reconnected with one of my favorite people, and got a much-needed haircut from my dear friend Bekah. (The above photo was taken post-haircut–Doesn’t it look great?–and that’s Bekah’s dog, Charlie. And for those of you who are prone to make assumptions about gender identification, Charlie is a girl.) After the haircut, Bekah and her husband and I visited, and they shared stories about their teenagers that not only made me laugh, but also made me thank Jesus I’m not a parent.

On the surface, the day was great. But as a general rule, I always run a low level of anxiety about something, and today that something was whether or not I’d be able to come up with a good topic for tonight’s blog. Had you been able to listen to my thoughts, you would have heard something like–There’s a mailbox with a pineapple on it–I could write about pineapples—No wait–What about squirrels?–Or clouds?–Ideas are like clouds–I heard that once in a meditation class–Maybe I could blog about my haircut–Has my therapist ever said anything insightful about my hair?

After eight hours of this bullshit, I decided to go out for Mexican food and beer. (I guess that guy who lives in my head and talks so much likes beer, or it at least makes him tired, since he’s quieter now.) At dinner, I started thinking about Bekah and her husband and what happened right before we parted our good company. Bekah said, “Where are we going to eat?” and her husband said, “I don’t know,” and then Bekah said, “Okay, but really. What are we going to eat?” and her husband said, “We do this every day. She can’t stand not having a plan.”

Well, I can relate to Bekah. That’s exactly how I feel about my blog posts every day–What am I going to write about?–What’s going to happen next?–Okay, but really–What am I going to write about?

My Aunt Terri has been in a book club, ironically named the No-Name Book Club, for as long as I can remember. She told me several months ago about one of her friends in the club who, anytime she starts a new book, reads the last paragraph first.

If this woman’s behavior makes you mad (like it does me), I’ll give you a moment to calm yourself down. (You might consider drinking a beer. I’ve heard that helps.)

Personally, I believe reading the last paragraph first is the same thing as cheating. Like, it drives me crazy when I watch movies or detective shows with my dad because he’s constantly trying to guess the ending, like–Do you think it was the guy with the limp?–I bet she sleeps with him and then steals all his money–The owner probably started the fire for insurance money.

More cheating.

What I realized at dinner was that when it comes to books and movies, it’s easy for me to think, Just let the author tell their story–Trust them–Sometimes it’s fun to be surprised. But when it comes to writing, and especially when it comes to when I’m going to move out of my parents’ and get on with my life, I’m a lot more like my dad and that lady in the book club than I care to admit. I can’t stand not knowing. Just like Bekah, I can’t stand not having a plan.

As a kid, I remember being a neat freak, which is probably just a control freak in a bow tie. It’s like everything had to be in its proper place. Well, it must have been pretty bad because one time I was at a friend’s house and I started cleaning his room for him, focusing mostly on a cabinet that had a giant glass jug full of coins, except my friend had carelessly thrown a bunch of coins all over the floor, so I picked them up and put them in the jar. I can still see the pennies. They seemed happier, shinier, where they belonged.

My friend wasn’t so impressed. He called his mom in from the other room, like, Mom, can you believe this? Marcus is a fanatic. (Fanatic. That was the word he used.) I had to look it up later, but I knew it wasn’t a compliment. (How a seven-year-old manages to have a stellar vocabulary and a sloppy room, I’ll never understand.)

Looking back, I know the control freak in me is related to our house burning down when I was four. And I’m sure it didn’t help that Mom was sick. It’s like, live through a few surprises and you can quickly figure out they’re not all fun, so you end up taking control where you can get it. But whereas it makes sense to me why my personality developed the way it did, I have to say, sometimes it can be really exhausting always having to put my pennies in a jar, always having to know what’s coming next, always trying to figure out the end of my story. I’m sure it’s the way Charlie feels about people always assuming she’s a boy–it gets old.

I’m hoping this blog will be a way for me to relax a little. It seems that ideas to write about inevitably show up in their own time, and I’m usually pleasantly surprised. I know that lately I’ve been looking at my life as if it’s not in order. I’ve been thinking that I need to take control and make something happen. But really, life doesn’t need my help. It’s bigger than that. And I don’t know if someone else is writing the story of my life, but if they are, I can only imagine that they would appreciate my letting go a little bit and trusting them because, obviously, we’re not to the end of the book yet. What’s more, I see now that pennies are probably happier not stuck in a jar. No, things that shine do better when they’re scattered about. Sure, they’re vulnerable out there, not knowing where they’re going to end up, but at least their destination hasn’t already been decided and all things are still possible.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

learning to be aggressive (blog #5)

2 Comments April 4, 2017 CoCo

When I got the idea last week to start this blog, I was thinking it was going to be a pretty cheap endeavor. But I have this problem with perfectionism and wanting things done a certain way. My therapist says I’m “fussy.” (She also admits to being fussy herself, and I recently decided to join her in “owning” my fussiness, which looked like my sitting on a couch and literally saying, “I’m okay with being fussy.”) What that means is that the blog did not end up being cheap, at least by my current standards. During the design process, I purchased a design template for 49 dollars, thinking that would be it. Oh no, apparently purchasing a design template is a bit like buying the plans for a house but not actually building it. So there was another option to install the design (for 99 dollars), which I ended up buying. Conveniently, the install INCLUDED a credit for a design theme.

Which I didn’t freakin’ need because I’d already paid for one.

Oh well, I told myself. At least I’m on the internet–I’m blogging! (Tell all your neighbors.)

A few days ago, a guy named Zach contacted me via email to follow-up on the installation of the website theme, and I thanked him, kindly explained the ordeal I just explained to you, and asked if it would be possible to get a refund on the twice-paid-for theme. Well, Zach wrote back a very nice response–offering to sell me another upgrade for 150 dollars–and not saying anything about the refund.

For a couple of days, we go back and forth, and I offer to call in and talk to him on the phone. (My therapist says this is always a preferable way to communicate.) So I woke up two days ago, and there it is, this email from Zach that says he’s looking forward to going over how he can help me build a more complete website.

Well, I’m sure this is just something he’s been taught to say, the same way everyone at Chick-fil-a is taught to say, “My pleasure,” but I immediately got angry, like, why is it so hard to answer, or at least acknowledge, my damn question?

For the longest time, I thought it was wrong to get angry, like it wasn’t a spiritual thing to do. Consequently, someone could treat me like shit, and I’d think it was my problem. Like, you do whatever you need to do–hell, you can even cheat on me–I can find the zen here somewhere. (Serenity now!) Then one day my therapist pointed out something obvious. She said, “You’re not a monk.” It took me a couple of days for my ego to get over this revelation, which probably just goes to prove her point exactly. (Let’s all say it together–I–am not–a monk.)

I recently read a book by the psychologist Peter Levine that referred to emotions as “practical action programs that work to solve problems often before we are even aware of them.” (I think that’s pretty close to the exact quote.) What that means to me is that our emotions are there for a reason. Focusing specifically on anger, which is sometimes referred to as aggression, it usually shows up to let us know that a boundary has been crossed, that something is not okay.

Along the same lines, Chinese medicine looks at all emotions as equal. There aren’t good ones and bad ones, even if some of them seem more presentable or socially acceptable. And whereas we usually only think of anger as a problem when there’s too much of it, it can also be a problem when there’s too little of it. The example my chi kung teacher uses is–think of an abused person who won’t leave their abuser–that’s a person who could use more anger because it would get them out of that situation.

Lately, that’s been my experience with anger. Like, a couple of years ago, I was in a yoga class with an instructor I had just met. So things were going pretty well, and I’m just stretching and relaxing and generally congratulating myself for being out of bed before 6:30 in the morning. Then all of a sudden, the teacher starts talking about her preacher and some story about the guy’s nephew, and, as Wayne Dyer says, I went from “blissed to pissed.”

When I analyzed the situation with my therapist, it became clear that the anger and aggression I was feeling was letting me know that a boundary had been crossed–yoga class wasn’t an appropriate place for the teacher’s personal stories that had nothing to do with yoga. (Uh, people are trying to relax here!) At the very least, the strong emotion let me know that I needed to find another class, one more inline with my particular intention for yoga.

I realize that my yoga experience is not quite the same as being in a physically abusive relationship, but if something isn’t good for us, something isn’t good for us. And whether we need to leave a yoga class or a relationship, the point is the same–we need to leave. And often, anger is the wakeup call that gets us to pack our bags.

Getting back to Zach the Website Guy, I interpreted the anger I felt as my body’s way of letting me know I needed to either brace for a confrontation (fight) or go in a different direction (flight). In this instance, I chose flight, meaning I just called the general customer support number and started fresh with someone else. I ended up talking to a nice guy named Tyler who pretty quickly refunded the money for the design theme. And guess what? Not only did I get what I asked for, but the anger went away too.

Had I not been willing to listen to the anger I was feeling (like had I stayed in the yoga class or continued to email Zach back and forth), I can only assume the anger inside me would have increased. In the past, I was pretty good at ignoring my anger, so it usually just showed up in other ways (upset stomach, anxiety, depression). And whereas I used to think that people who screamed, or slammed doors, or flipped the bird, or told people to “Go to hell, asshole” were anything but healthy, I’m starting to think those are all completely acceptable and healthy behaviors, especially if they help you do what anger wants you to do–establish a boundary. In other words, if someone isn’t respecting you, don’t walk out and slam the door just so you can walk back in it the next day. Slam the door and stay gone until the respect shows up. And if it never does, at least you respected yourself enough not to stay.

I read recently that ideally the anger (or whatever emotion) we feel should always be in proportion to the current moment. That means that if you get cut off in traffic and you totally lose your shit or pull a gun on someone, you’ve got a big problem. More specifically, it means you’re probably not dealing with the anger you’re feeling in other circumstances in your life, anger that might be there for a legitimate reason (like your partner cheating on you or your boss taking advantage of you). So you deal with those situations, and then you’re not yelling at little old ladies in big Cadillacs.

I really like looking at anger and aggression in this way. I guess for the longest time it’s felt like my emotions were something to overcome, something to not feel, something to shove down. But now I’m seeing them as my allies and friends, practical action programs that scout out each and every situation like radar detectors, letting me know not only what yoga instructor or customer support representative to interact with, but also what relationships to scale back or even walk away from.

Honestly, even now I’m not all that comfortable with anger. When I took the picture for this blog, I couldn’t help thinking, I don’t know about this–I never flip the bird–and I NEVER do it in pictures. But a lot of my dreams in the last couple of months have involved my yelling at people. And I can only assume that means my conscious mind is becoming more comfortable both with feeling anger and actually doing something about it when necessary.

And if other people don’t like it, you know what they can do (see above photo).

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

It's the holes or the spaces in our lives that give us room to breathe and room to rest in, room to contain both good and bad days, and--when the time is right--room for something else to come along.

the story of my success (blog #4)

2 Comments April 3, 2017 CoCo

A couple of months ago, I discovered this fabulous place called the library. Oh my god, you guys, you can get books FOR FREE.

To be clear, I’ve always known about the library, it’s just that I only recently started using it because I don’t have a job and borrowing books is cheaper than buying them. My friend Marla says that the books at the library are “filthy” and “gross,” but I try not to think about that.

So far, I haven’t developed any rashes.

When I first started using the library, I kept saying that I was “renting” books, but my (grammatically superior) best friend Justin, who insists on the correct use of language and also prefers three-syllable words to two-syllable words, said the word I was actually looking for (even though I didn’t know I was looking for it) was “borrowing.”

Here’s a recent picture of me, Justin’s wife, and Justin (in order of appearance). All three of us used to live together a few years ago before the two of them decided to get married, and, consequently, I had to move. (Geez.)

Well, anyway. Thanks to the local library, today I finished Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers: The Story of Success. The book basically proposes that successful people like Bill Gates and The Beatles really can’t take all the credit for their success (and most successful people don’t even try to). Malcolm says that success, sure, depends on hard work, but it often hinges on many factors beyond the control of the individual. For example, he details how (and why): the most successful hockey players are born in the month of January, the most successful lawyers are Jewish, and the people who are best at math are Asian.

If you want more details, you’ll have to check the book out for yourself. (Have you heard of a library?) But suffice it to say, Malcolm says that successful people are almost always the recipient of some good fortune, like parents who take an active role in their child’s education, being born in a culture that values getting up early and working hard, or even being a minority (something that works out well for comedians).

What I liked about the book is that it caused me to reshape my perspective on success, as well as focus on those things in my life that have helped mold me into a better person and perhaps give me some sort of advantage or good fortune. I know, you’ve got to be thinking, “Tell me, how DID you become single, jobless, and lucky enough to live with your parents–all before the age of forty?” And whereas you might have a point there, and whereas I understand the tendency to focus on what isn’t going right and the successes that haven’t occurred, I also understand that my therapist doesn’t put up with whiners. So (at least for this post), I’ll be focusing on the successes that have. As Stuart Smalley says, “An attitude of gratitude–it’s not just a platitude.”

About a year ago, the local Montessori school held a fundraiser, and the guest of honor was Sister Kevin Bopp, the woman who founded the Montessori school in Fort Smith. Both my sister and I attended Montessori, and I can’t say enough about the experience. For one thing, we never had to sit in desks. Instead, we got to move around the room, sit in a corner and read, gather together in the middle of the floor and make crafts. I remember learning how to make a bed, how to pack a suitcase, how to ask a friend if they wanted to sit down and have a snack. (All of these skills continue to come in handy.) Almost everything at Montessori was hands-on, self-directed learning. Teachers were there, of course, and sometimes we’d all work together, but I don’t ever remember it feeling like a lecture or a chore. Actually, I remember it being fun.

When I told my mom and my sister about my plans to go to the fundraiser honoring Sister Kevin, they told me their memories about her. My mom said Sister Kevin used to wait for all the children to arrive each morning, bending down so she was on their level, greeting them each by name. She said that once my sister was homesick, so Sister Kevin let my mom come to the school and wait in another room, so my sister could see her and feel more secure. My sister said she remembers showing up to school one year on St. Patrick’s Day without any green on, and Sister Kevin gave her something green to wear. It may seem like a little thing, but it wasn’t a little thing for my sister.

As I’m sure you know, kindness is never a little thing.

When I saw Sister Kevin last year, I said, “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Marcus Coker.” And then Sister Kevin smiled and said, “Marcus Coker–from Van Buren.” Later, she reached up and tussled my hair and said, “I could never forget those curls.” (I honestly don’t think that I had curls as a child, but whatever. It’s still sweet.)

That night, I heard a lot of stories about Sister Kevin, and the one thing that everyone remembered about her was how much she loved each and every child. Later, when I got in my car to leave, I started crying because I realized what an impact her love and the school she started had had on me. I realized how fortunate I was to end up in a place that taught and modeled respect for yourself, respect for others, and respect for things. It’s like I’d been carrying around these values for thirty years, and I finally was able to see, at least in part, where they came from. And I started thinking about how I was encouraged to be curious and to an independent learner, to think outside the box, and how my life as an adult might look different if I’d been forced to sit in a desk all day when I was child. Like, maybe I wouldn’t have been a dance instructor or a studio owner because I wouldn’t have had the courage to figure things out as I went or because I would have been taught a more traditional way of doing things, a way that wasn’t as fun.

As I think about it now, I’m especially grateful that I was encouraged to be curious because I think that’s why I keep going back to the library, why I read Malcolm Gladwell. In another of his books (David and Goliath), Malcolm says that often what we think of as disadvantages are actually advantages. So I think if I weren’t curious, it’d be easy to get stuck thinking that the circumstances of my life right now suck and they suck, period. But even Joseph Campbell says that there was a five-year period in his life when he was unemployed and all he did was read. Looking back, he says that period was absolutely essential for all his later success.

I make a lot of jokes about my life right now, but the truth is, I don’t know whether what’s happening is good or bad. My friend Craig, who’s a retired therapist, says that he hates it when people say “baby steps” because there’s not such thing as a small step. Life, he says, is like a puzzle. Every piece is important. So for all I know, this period in my life might be absolutely essential. And maybe thirty years from now, I’ll look back and see it like I see that time with Sister Kevin and Montessori–a time to be curious, a time of learning, a time to love.

[One more thing. If you happen to know Malcolm Gladwell or happen to be Malcolm Gladwell, I have a few follow-up questions I’d like to ask about success–if you’re willing, of course. I’m not currently in the habit of getting up early, but I’d be glad to make an exception if you’re only available in the mornings. Either way, thank you so much for your work.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

Just because your face is nice to look at doesn’t mean you don’t have a heart that’s capable of being broken. These things happen to humans, and there isn’t a one of us who isn’t human.

let’s talk about people pleasing (if you don’t mind) (blog #3)

2 Comments April 2, 2017 CoCo

Yesterday morning I overslept and missed a breakfast appointment with a friend of mine. I don’t usually do that sort of thing, but I was super tired the night before and didn’t bother to check my calendar because it’s pretty empty these days. (As it turns out, if you want more free time, all you have to do is quit your job.)

When I realized my mistake, I immediately sent a text to my friend that said, “Oh shit, I way overslept,” then I called and left a voicemail apologizing. A day later, I haven’t heard back from her, so I can only assume she showed up to our appointment and had to endure her eggs benedict and coffee with cream without the pleasure of my company. (How miserable.) I really don’t know my friend well enough to know for a fact whether or not she’s upset with me, but I typically assume the worst, so I spent a good part of yesterday convinced that I’d made her mad and that she was just waiting for the right moment to send me a nasty text message IN ALL CAPS telling me what a piece-of-shit human being I am. (One of my friends refers to this sort of thinking as “awfulizing.”)

I also kept thinking, Maybe she’s not mad. Maybe she dropped her phone in her coffee, or choked on a piece of gluten-free bread and had to go to the emergency room. Maybe she’s just too busy to get back to me. (Maybe SHE has a job.) Or maybe she replied, “No big deal. Glad you finally got some rest. Let’s try it again,” but forgot to hit the send button. Maybe she has Attention Deficit Disorder.

Well, thank God for margaritas because after I drank one last night, I decided I didn’t give a shit whether she was mad or not. It was like magic. The truth was obvious–what other people think of me is none of my business. (I usually hate that fact, but it goes down a lot easier when you’re drunk. A spoonful of sugar…or whatever.)

As I’ve thought about the whole thing today, I know the anxiety I was feeling yesterday stems from being a people pleaser, from putting everyone else’s feelings and opinions before my own. I think this is a pretty common thing, but I don’t think it’s the way we’re born. I think we’re more authentic than that.

I remember being in first grade, and one of the teacher’s would hand out cartons of milk every day, and she’d always pick a helper first. Well, my favorite teacher was an older lady named Miss Jackson, and she’d been on vacation or something. So the day she comes back, she walks into the room, and I just remember wanting to help her pass out the milk. So I run up to her and throw my arms around her and make a big damn deal out of it, like a puppy who’s gotten into the Mountain Dew–PICK ME, PICK ME.

Well, the school I attended had more than one teacher in the classroom, so although Miss Jackson reacted to my enthusiasm graciously, the other teacher thought my behavior was inappropriate, so I had to sit down, or write sentences, or something, and some other kid helped Miss Jackson pass the milk out.

I guess I’ve felt guilty about that day for close to thirty years now. Maybe embarrassed is a better word. Not like it keeps me up at night, but it’s just been hanging out in the shadows, this feeling that I did something wrong. I guess it’s felt like it’s not okay to draw attention to myself, or ask for what I want in a big way. I remember really loving Miss Jackson, looking up at her and really wanting to help, and then my memory just goes to the floor. I don’t remember the other teacher’s face or name, but I can hear the sound of her voice and her anger.

Looking at it now, I have more compassion for that little kid, the one with all the enthusiasm and love, the one who only wanted to help. I think he was just being a kid. And I’m sure the other teacher meant well when she made me apologize, but the truth is, I wasn’t sorry–I was ashamed. More accurately, I was shamed into being sorry. So if I had the chance to do it all over again, I’d say, “I’m not sorry, Miss Jackson.”

I don’t think one incident like that completely shapes a person’s personality, but I think it plays a part. Although it’s so much better now, when I was a kid, my dad could get pretty angry and sarcastic. I remember a couple of times telling him how I felt, like, “Dad, I really want you to listen to this thing, and you keep leaving the room,” or “Dad, I’d like you to ask permission before you open my desk drawer,” and he’d just get angry. His voice would get really loud, and then he’d walk off.

I think the consequence of incidences like these was that I started to shut down. I’m not blaming anyone, I’m just thinking (and blogging) about it. I stopped expressing my feelings for fear of making someone else upset. I hated it when teachers were mad at me and when Dad raised his voice, so I did everything I could to be the teacher’s pet, the perfect little child who never got his name on the blackboard. I became a people pleasure. It seemed to be working pretty well for a while, but I can’t say I recommend it. It’s exhausting.

Personally, I think childhood is a bum-deal. It’s like all this bullshit happens that shapes you as a person before you’re old enough or smart enough to really get what’s going on. So you spend thirty years making yourself small and not having a voice, worrying about what everyone else thinks, afraid someone’s going to yell at your because you honest-to-god overslept and missed a Saturday morning brunch (gasp).

I had a gay friend tell me a couple of months ago that he’d slept with a girl on a recent vacation. When I asked why, he said, “She asked.” (Oh, of course, that’s why–she asked.) I’m sure there’s more to the story, but it became this big joke, like, all you have to do to sleep with me is ask. Whatever makes you happy, I’m glad to do it.

I could make fun of my friend all day long, but the truth is, I get it. I can’t tell you the number of times that I’ve taught a dance lesson or taken care of someone’s animals for shit-pay all because they asked or simply because I didn’t have the balls to say, “Thank you, but I’m worth more than that.” Hell, once I dated a guy and waited until after we’d slept together to inquire if he had any sexually transmittable diseases. (Thank God he didn’t.) It may sound pretty fantastic, but I was just too afraid to speak up sooner. I wanted his approval more than I wanted my own.

My therapist says that People Pleaser Marcus used to be this big giant in my head that ran the show. He made all my decisions. She jokes about this list of birthdays I told her about that I used to keep when I was in my twenties. That was before Facebook told you everything, so the list was pages long, and I’d check it every week so I could send text or MySpace messages to everyone I really didn’t know that well because I wanted them to like me. Then for a while, I just accepted every friend request I received, whether I knew someone or not.

Well, now my therapist says that People Pleaser Marcus has shrunk down to the size of tiny gnome. (She even made her voice real squeaky and held her thumb and index fingers like half an inch apart to emphasize how much progress I’ve made. Teacher’s pet!) His voice is still in my head, and that’s why I get nervous when I think someone’s mad at me, or I still worry about what other people will think when they read about the most intimate details of my life. But the good news is that People Pleaser Marcus isn’t running the show anymore. (We call the guy in charge Marcus at the Head of the Table.) As evidence, the birthday list is gone. Last year, I de-friended 600 friends (uh, total strangers) on Facebook. That was one in four. If I didn’t know the person or how we met, or if we never talked or interacted, they were gone. So now I’m left with people I actually know and actually care about. And what’s better–no one said anything. No one got mad.

What I’m learning now is that even if someone else does get mad, people choose their own reactions. People choose whether or not to be gracious, whether or not to raise their voice and walk off. And honestly, someone’s else reaction is all about them and not about me. I guess my challenge lately has been to be more like a cat because they don’t care if you get mad at them. They don’t care if you scream and throw them off the counter twenty times, they just jump right back up if that’s where they want to be. They say, “PICK ME, PICK ME, I wanna help with the milk” and they’re not embarrassed about it.

Cats, after all, are authentic. They don’t shut themselves down to make someone else happy. Cats express themselves. Cats don’t give a fuck.

Let’s be more like cats.

[Special thanks to Oscar and Riley (whom I’m taking care of this week for better-than-shit pay) for looking totally uninterested and not giving an eff about what anyone thinks about this blog post. Both of you inspire me.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Authenticity is worth all the hard work. Being real is its own reward."

stardust and fairies (blog #2)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

You can’t pick and choose what you receive from life, and you can’t always accurately label something as bad.

Me and My Therapist

The truth will set you free (sort of).

Month: April 2017

the person beside me (blog #11)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

a Mexican soap opera (blog #10)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

don’t put a bird on it (blog #9)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

well, that’s disappointing (blog #8)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

why i can’t stop working (blog #7)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

my inner control freak (blog #6)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

learning to be aggressive (blog #5)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

the story of my success (blog #4)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

let’s talk about people pleasing (if you don’t mind) (blog #3)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

stardust and fairies (blog #2)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)