(In)dependence (Blog #154)

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Ever since college my hands almost always go numb when I run for more than fifteen minutes. It’s not bad enough to make me stop, but–you know–it’s annoying. It’s like whenever your legs fall asleep while you’re sitting on the toilet. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Anyway, I’m a curious person–or as my therapist recently said, a nosy Ned–so for the last fifteen years I’ve asked probably a dozen chiropractors, massage therapists, and other body workers, “What’s up with my tingly fingers?” The answer? Crickets.

Every. Single. Time.

So this morning I had a massage from my friend Gena, and while she was working on my chest and arms, I casually mentioned the sometimes-numbness in my arms. “That makes sense,” she said. “Your neck muscles are tight, and there’s a nerve underneath them that runs down your arm. Plus, when you run, you bend your elbows, and that plays a part too.” Genius.

Now was that so hard?

I love how you can spend fifteen years looking for an answer to a problem, and then–really without warning–one just falls out of somebody’s mouth–like, no big deal. And by that I mean, I don’t really love that. I mean, I love that I have an answer now, but I don’t love the fact that life is pretty much like being dropped in the middle of board game, never being kindly informed of the rules, and somehow being expected to win. Whether it’s trying to heal an impossible problem or trying to figure yourself–let alone anyone else–out, life is not like an infomercial–three easy steps. Rather, it seems most successes are hard-won and long waited for. Honestly, I have a real problem with this setup. I’m putting it on my list of “things I think could be done differently,” in the event God ever asks for my good opinion.

I realize it could be a while before this happens.

Tonight in improv class we played a game called Sound Effects, which involves two people providing dialogue and gestures and two other people providing noises. Ideally, all four people are sort of working together, even though two of them are off stage. Maybe the scene is a battlefield, and one person covers his head like a big explosion has gone off, but the person making noises utters a real soft, “Dink.” Then the person on stage has to respond appropriately and change directions.

Honestly, I can’t tell you how difficult this class is turning out to be, mostly for the simple reason that I don’t always like to work with others. I’m a control freak. There, I said it. You know, when you work in a group, you sort of have to trust that the other person is going to do their part. Plus, you have to do yours. Sometimes that happens–sometimes it doesn’t. It’s like, sometimes you can ask a question and get an answer, and sometimes you’re just met with a blank stare. It’s just the way life is.

I hate that. (One more for the list.)

Tonight my emotions got the best of me, and I went out for chocolate cake. “You know what,” I told the waitress, “I’m gonna need some ice cream with that too.” Ugh. It was delicious. I feel fat now, but I paid good money for the elastic waistband in these shorts I’m wearing, so I guess it’s like finally getting a return on my investment. My friend Marla says, “Feelings only last a few minutes unless you feed them,” but I think she meant that in a metaphorical sense, and not in a literal–feed your feelings chocolate cake–sense. Because feeding my emotions tonight actually seemed to shut them up for a while.

When I got home tonight, I lay (and yes, that’s correct grammar) on the futon, read a Sherlock Holmes novel, and stretched. For a short while I did a yoga pose called Half Hero (pictured above), which is an accurate description of what I feel like on a day-to-day basis. Not quite Full Hero status. Full Hero involves sitting on your shins with your feet folded under, then reclining on your back. It’s basically a quad stretch, and if your quads are tight (like mine are), it hurts like hell and is a good way to start a conversation (and by that I mean an argument) with your knees. Well, Half Hero is just one leg at a time, and that’s all I can currently muster without completely wanting to jump out of my skin.

Gena told me today that everything on my right side is tight. This wasn’t a newsflash to me, but she said it was a wonder I wasn’t walking in circles. When I talked about always getting headaches on my right side, she said that pain shows up in our weakest spot. So tonight I’ve been thinking that emotionally, my weak spot is trusting other people. That’s why I have trouble relaxing on a massage table. That’s why I get nervous in group projects. There are plenty of psychological reasons for this, and I’m sure the case could be made that those reasons have made me the independent fella I am today. (Americans love independence!) BUT, the truth is that no one gets through life alone, and no one person has all the answers. That’s why we have to keep asking for help, trusting that one day someone will have the solution we’re looking for. We–I–have to be willing to work together. Sure, like stretching a tight muscle, it might be uncomfortable at first, but one day–maybe when you lease expect it–things relax, the pain subsides, and healing seems possible.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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What are you really running away from?

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Any Stuck Door Is Worth Fixing (Blog #153)

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This afternoon I helped my friend Ron with a problem he was having at his massage studio, which is located in an old home. Because the house has settled, both his doors were sticking and difficult to open. The lesson here, I think, is obvious–don’t settle–it only causes problems. But anyway. Two years ago, I would have had zero clue about stuck doors and how to fix them. But while I was living in an old home with multiple stuck doors, my friend Bruce (who’s as handy as a pocket on a shirt) taught me what to do.

Cry.

Just kidding. The first thing Ron and I did was close the doors and look at the edges. Ideally, there should be a gap between the door and the frame, but when a door is stuck, you’ll see wood on wood. (That sounded gay.) So we marked the problem areas, took the doors off the hinges, marched them outside, and went to work with an electric belt sander. Talk about making a mess–old doors are solid wood, and sawdust went everywhere, including in my pants and up my nose. It was great. I felt so butch–like a lesbian.

Fortunately, one door only took one trip outside and back in, and the other only took two. I’ve made up to six trips for one door before, so this was a huge success. Then we did some work to adjust the doorknob mechanisms because those weren’t latching just right. Then we went to the Mexican ice cream shop, which is my favorite part about fixing old doors. (The end.)

Tonight I watched a movie called Prayers for Bobby, which my mom recommended and is based on a true story about a high school student, Bobby, who comes out to his family and his overbearing mother, who tries to “pray the gay away.” In a pivotal scene, Bobby tells his mom that he’s not changing, to which she says, “I won’t have a gay son.” Shortly thereafter, Bobby commits suicide by jumping off a bridge. It takes some time, but his mom comes around, changes her mind about “the sin of homosexuality,” and becomes an outspoken advocate for gays and lesbians.

Honestly, I spent a good part of the movie in tears. Although my parents never gave me a difficult time about being gay, I heard all those Bible verses plenty of times growing up–in church, at school, on the world wide web. I have a friend who used to live in Seattle, and she says that when someone came out, they’d throw them a party. Imagine that, a celebration. My experience wasn’t anything close to Bobby’s, but there wasn’t a piñata either. I see that character in the movie, I look back at my life in high school, and I wish I could tell those people, It’s going to be all right.

Before I started remodel work, I never paid much attention to doors. They either worked or they didn’t. If one got stuck, well shit. But when I lived in that old home, I started looking at doors differently. There was one in my bedroom that stuck just slightly at the top. It was my closet door, so it was an everyday deal. Every time I opened it, I had to push down on the doorknob first and then pull. It was like a ritual. I never got around to fixing it before I moved, but it would have just been a matter of taking an eighth of an inch off the top. The way I see it now, it was a little thing causing a big problem.

When I watch a movie like Prayers for Bobby, my mind immediately goes to a process called The Work by Byron Katie. I’ve spent a lot of time reading her books and watching her videos, so–frankly–my mind goes there a lot. Regardless, The Work is a process of inquiry to deal with stressful thoughts, things like, He should call me back, My hips are too fat, or I need more money. In terms of having a gay son, The Work teaches it’s only a problem if you think, My son should be straight, or, My son’s going to hell, both of which are stressful thoughts because they argue with the truth–reality (my son is gay and he’s currently sitting in the living room). Katie says thoughts like these only do damage if we believe them, since our beliefs have the power to separate us from our children, even drive us to suicide.

The Work consists, in part, of four questions, but the one on my mind tonight is, “Who would you be without your story?” Another way of asking this would be, “Who would I be without that thought (that my son–or I–shouldn’t be gay)?” In my experience, whenever I think, I shouldn’t be gay (and I am), or, My mom shouldn’t have cancer (and she does), I immediately shut down in some way and become less open to–well–life as it is. So who would I be without my story? What would my life be like if I could never think or believe those thoughts again?

In one word–better.

I hate to admit this, but my problems are never caused by something “out there.” A few days ago my hairdresser and friend told me that my hairline was “receding.” She actually used that word. Well, that’s a fact. That’s–apparently–reality, but it’s only a problem if I make up a story about it. I’ll be ugly if I go bald. No one will love me. I can’t afford implants. When I type those thoughts out, they seem rather silly. But just like a door that gets stuck, I know that something small–like a belief–can cause big problems. Honestly, it’s not an easy thing to question your beliefs. Personally, I’ve been believing my own press releases for a long time, and I don’t like admitting I’m wrong anymore than the next guy. But I’m reminded tonight that any story that causes stress is worth questioning, just as any stuck door is worth fixing, especially when there’s someone you love (and that includes yourself) on the other side.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There is a force, a momentum that dances with all of us, sometimes lifting us up in the air, sometimes bringing us back down in a great mystery of starts and stops.

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On Boundaries and Self-Care (Blog #152)

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Today I went to therapy, and the lights were turned down low–I guess because the sun was coming in the windows or whatever. Honestly, it felt like womb, maybe a good place to take a nap. But I guess somebody could have taken it as scary or even romantic, since my therapist said, “Does it creep you out that the lights are off?”

“Please. I don’t give a shit.” (This is how we talk to each other.)

Today we talked about boundaries (we always talk about boundaries), and we both agreed that whereas necessary, setting them can be tiring. In my case, I went so long without having any (I thought I had them, but I didn’t), that figuring out what I’ll accept and what I won’t accept has felt like a full-time job the last few years. Naturally, a number of friendships and relationships have shifted since I got some standards. Maybe that’s really the tiring part, watching people you care about walk away when the rules change. Granted, it’s empowering to say, “No, I won’t lower my price,” “No, it’s not okay to manipulate me,” or, “No, you can’t touch my ass,” but as Caroline Myss points out, few people are willing to celebrate your personal empowerment. I mean, when was the last time someone looked at you and said, “Yay–you don’t need me”?

Of course, I think a good therapist is anything but codependent and will celebrate your victories. Mine says her goal is to work herself out of a job. Personally, I guess I like that idea, although I don’t see it materializing as long as I’m living with my parents and spending part of every afternoon watching Days of Our Lives.

About mid-session, I told my therapist that this last week has been pretty emotional, probably because I’ve been go-go-going, Mom’s cancer has taken an emotional toll, and my life has been in such a state of flux for a while now. (She said flux was “good,” but I’m still chewing on that idea.) Then I said that rather than taking my stress as an opportunity to slow down and practice self-care (take a nap, ask for a hug), I tell myself I should be doing better or should be “further along.” In short, I self-flagellate.

“Yeah, you’re REAL good at that,” she said.

“Why, thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

Before tonight, I’d planned to go out-of-town tomorrow to hear an author speak. I’d planned to go, spend the night, and take my time coming back on Thursday. Then I realized that wouldn’t work because I have an appointment Thursday morning. Oh well, I thought, I can still go and come back in one night, stay up to write the blog, and still make the appointment. (If you’re wondering who lit the other end of this candle, it was obviously me.) Well, today I decided I could practice self-care by NOT going, by basically setting a boundary for–myself.

Stop, Marcus. Just stop.

Personally, I don’t consider this a big revelation. It’s not the first time I’ve put myself on a diet, stopped smoking, or decided to stay home to rest. But I do think it’s interesting that I’m able to mostly navigate boundaries with others and my physical world, but sometimes less so with my internal. Maybe our thoughts and emotions are tougher to work with, but I’m thinking it’s time to set some limits for myself, since the truth is that I wouldn’t let anyone else tell me I’m not good enough, or listen to them go on and on (and on) about how it’s not okay to feel overwhelmed for more than fifteen minutes at a time or how no one will love me unless I stop eating white bread for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

And sometimes for a snack.

When I put my self-talk on paper, it sounds pretty ridiculous. But I guess our thoughts are sort of like broken records that just keep playing over and over (and over) again until you finally say, “Wait a damn minute, I don’t like this music,” and put on something different. Of course, I don’t expect things to change overnight, and it’s not like I haven’t been working on this for a while–I have. It’s better up there than it used to be. But my therapist says boundaries are always being reevaluated as new information comes along, so it’s probably just time for a personal check-in. Ultimately, I believe good boundaries come from a strong sense of self-worth, so if I wouldn’t let anyone else treat or talk to me poorly, why would I let myself get away with the same bad behavior?

Why would anyone?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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No one is immune from life’s challenges.

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Learning to Breathe Again (Blog #151)

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For the last hour I’ve been scrolling and scrolling through old photos hoping to come up with a blog idea. However, it’s been a long day, I’m exhausted, and all I can think is, No, that won’t work. But I told a good friend today that probably the best thing I’ve ever done–in my entire life–was to have sinus surgery, so when I saw pictures from the surgery, I thought, That might work. (One hour, and I’ve got a solid maybe.) This–it would appear–is the life of a writer. Doesn’t it sound glorious? Sign up now and you can live with your parents too!

But I digress.

For nearly two decades, I had multiple sinus infections a year. I know I’ve written about this before, but it was hell. For the longest time, I’d have an infection–marked by fatigue, colorful snot, and sometimes fever–once every six to twelve weeks. Maybe more often than that. At some point, I stopped counting. But it seems as if I have just as many memories being sick as I do being well. I was sick in high school the night Mom and Dee-Anne and I drove to Little Rock to see Les Mis. I could barely put my clothes on. I was sick probably half the times I went to Houston for an annual Lindy Hop convention. I was sick almost every Thanksgiving.

In high school I used to think that God was punishing me for–I don’t know–being a straight A student. I’d pray–and pray–and pray–and still wake up coughing up blood-colored snot. Before I knew what to call it, I’d tell my family, “I feel weak,” and my Dad would say that I was burning the candle at both ends. I’d think, I just need to slow down.

Over the years, I tried everything I knew to try. I took a ton of antibiotics, swore them off, took a ton more–with steroids. Had an allergic reaction, whatever. Alternatively, I ordered things off television, off websites. I saw a naturopathic doctor who suggested herbs for my immune system. I took so many herbs, drank so many teas. I looked into the emotional connection to sinus infections (crying inside). None of it solved the problem, but I did learn a lot. In fact, having constant sinus infections is one of the things that led me to Reiki, Chi Kung, and meditation. Again, none of it fixed them problem, but they’ve all added a multitude of benefits to my emotional, physical, and spiritual life. So I don’t consider everything a waste.

Except maybe the Neti Pot, that contraption you use to pour water in one nostril until it runs out the other. If I had a nickel for every time someone said, “Have you tried a Neti Pot?” I’d be set. YES, I have tried a fucking Neti Pot–it didn’t work.

Whenever I’d get sick–again–I’d get overwhelmed and think, I can’t do this anymore. Of course, I did, since I didn’t have much choice in the matter. Plus, things always look different in the morning. Which morning, I can’t say. But go through enough mornings, and things will look different. For me, I guess things started to turn around a few years ago when my primary care doctor suggested seeing an ENT (ear, nose, and throat doctor). Now there’s an idea! So that’s what I did–locally–and the doctor explained that 1) my septum was blocked, a lot, and 2) my sinuses weren’t draining. Basically, I always had an infection “on deck.” His recommendation? Surgery, to the tune of approximately $14,000 dollars.

Well, shit. I don’t have insurance.

Or $14,000.

Fast forward to just before this last Christmas, and I was living in Fayetteville, about to travel to New York City, and sick–again. So I called my ENT’s office to finally do something about it. I had insurance, and even though I had a high deductible, I didn’t care. I had to do something. Well, no one answered the phone. I’m sure you’ve been on hold before. So I hung up and called a clinic in Rogers (Mercy Ear, Nose, and Throat).

“Can you come next week?” they asked.

“Ugh. I’ll be out-of-state next week.”

“What about two hours from now? Can you come then?”

“I’ll be there.”

Y’all, I hate to say this because it was twenty freaking years, but it was worth the wait. I’ve never been treated so well by an entire group of medical professionals. I don’t intend for this to become a commercial, but everyone from start to finish was amazing. (Pick up your phone and order now.) But seriously, my doctor’s name was Chad (actually Dr. Chad Putman, but I try to keep it informal on the blog), and he paid attention, asked questions, then laid out a plan–drugs first, a CT scan, then possibly surgery. “I don’t want to jump the gun,” he said. So we took it step by step, and six weeks later, I was in an operating room.

By that time, Chad had explained that my previous doctor had been correct–my nose was blocked 80 percent on one side and 90 percent on the other. Part of my sinuses weren’t draining, which meant they were constantly “smoldering.” (Isn’t this fun to talk about?) But whereas the previous doctor had suggested three procedures, Chad suggested six in order to really open everything up. The day of the surgery–February 15–he told my parents, “We’ll treat him like family.”

Uh, I know we’re family and all, but my butt is hanging out of this gown.

Surgery itself was a breeze. The anesthesiologist came in the room where I was waiting with Mom and Dad and said, “I’m going to give you a cocktail.”

I said, “I like cocktails.”

Then they wheeled me back to the operating room, moved me to a different table, and that was it. The next thing I knew, I woke up back in my room with a sling around my nose to catch the blood. Later Mom said that I was repeating myself a lot. How’d it go? God, it’s bright in there. May I have my sunglasses?

Mom and Dad took care of me for a week. Looking back, it was sort of a trial run for my living with them now. For the first several days, I couldn’t breathe through my nose at all and slept in a chair. Per Chad’s instructions, I used a Neti Pot (!) twice a day to clean out scabs. It wasn’t pretty, but it was pretty fascinating. I’d look in the sink, see all the blood, and wonder how I was still alive. But the Neti Pot actually worked and still does. Chad said it didn’t work before because my sinuses were blocked, so the water (or medicine spray or whatever) couldn’t actually get where it needed to go.

This is when I still couldn’t breathe and felt like Voldemort.

Within six weeks, I was pretty much back to normal–except way, way better. I could actually breathe. Wow, I thought, is this how much air regular people get? No wonder everyone is so damn happy. It’s oxygen. Six months post-surgery, I haven’t had a single infection, just one cold that kind of hung on. And if all this air and lack of infections is any indication of how things will go in the future–I’ll take it. The last time I saw Chad, I told him I was so grateful to finally have–

“An answer,” he said.

I don’t know why life works like this, why you can struggle with something for twenty years, do everything you know to do, and then one day–a miracle. I don’t know what finally makes the stars align, why God has the need to be so mysterious about all of his ways. This week, or the last twenty years rather, I’ve been working overtime to manage my emotions, not be overwhelmed by life, and find an answer to this thing called suffering. Of course, some days it feels like I’ve tried everything, that things will never look different no matter how many mornings present themselves. But tonight I’m reminded that healings happen step by step and often just when we’re about to give up. Perhaps this is the way we learn to hope–and therefore–breathe again.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There is a force, a momentum that dances with all of us, sometimes lifting us up in the air, sometimes bringing us back down in a great mystery of starts and stops.

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The Space Inside Me (Blog #150)

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Earlier this week I crawled into the front seat of my car and ripped the crotch out of my jeans. I mean, I’ve crawled into my car plenty of times, and I don’t even think I had pancakes for breakfast that day, but I guess they’d finally had enough. Couldn’t stand the pressure. So now they sit in the trashcan by the bed where I’m writing this, and I own even fewer clothes than I did before. Oh well.

Today I’ve felt like the seam of those jeans, like I’ve been holding it together for–I don’t know, quite a while now–and am about to come undone. I can’t say what it is exactly. Mostly it feels like I’m not good enough, like things will never improve. I finished reading a book today and could only think about all the ones I still want to read, still “need” to read. It feels like everyone else has their shit together, everyone else is smarter, more successful, didn’t eat peanut butter out of a jar three times today. Who knows why days like this happen. Yesterday I was told by a palm reader that my guardian angel was keeping my worry lines at bay, so maybe he stepped out for a smoke break.

If so, I’d like to join him.

This evening I watched a movie called I Am Michael starring James Franco and Zachary Quinto. The film is based on the true story of Michael Glatze, a former gay activist turned heterosexual pastor. When the movie starts, Michael is the managing editor of a gay magazine, and he later starts a magazine of his own. But after a health scare, Michael begins to worry about his place in heaven, so eventually ditches his boyfriend for Jesus, seminary, and a wife. Before the end, Michael counsels a young homosexual–God only makes heterosexuals–It’s a choice–Don’t you want to go to heaven?

In terms of storytelling and acting, the film was delightful. I mean, James Franco and Zachary Quinto. But I didn’t exactly think it was the feel-good movie of the year. Granted, I’m not a fundamentalist Christian. I guess it brought up a lot of emotions. I can’t tell you the number of times I tried to change my sexuality or at least stuff it down in high school and college. I wasn’t out sleeping with girls, but I spent a lot of time telling myself “I’m not really gay,” “I just haven’t met the right girl yet,” or, “It will pass,” as if attraction were a flu. Whenever I’d read stories online about “ex-gays” or Christians who said homosexuality was a choice, I’d get overwhelmed with stress, like a pair of jeans that have been through the washer one too many times. I’d think, I’m not okay the way I am.

Fortunately, I’ve come a long way in the last fifteen years. I can’t speak for anyone else’s experience either sexually or with the divine, but with the exception of a few highly touted cases, God doesn’t appear to be in the business of altering a person’s sexuality. I mean, has yours ever changed? Personally, I’ve spent plenty of nights asking God to change me only to wake up the next day and STILL find Mario Lopez attractive. (Ugh, it’s terrible.) Eventually I decided, I’m more than okay the way I am.

Tonight I went for a walk in hopes of shaking off all my emotions, but I guess they like to exercise because they went with me. Still, I listened to a lecture and took a different route than normal, so it wasn’t all bad. The streets were quiet, the world was okay. Toward the end of the walk, I went by my aunts’ house, the house where Dad grew up and Grandma and Grandpa used to live. My mom recently told me that she used to live a couple of blocks away, a fact which for some reason escaped me until now. So I took a turn, headed up a hill, and found the spot she used to call home. I mean, the house has been torn down–a garage has been put up–but the space is still there, sitting like a quiet witness to what was, and is, and is to come.

Tonight I’ve thought a lot about how much grief I used to give myself about being gay. Just now I spent thirty minutes reading interviews with Michael Glatze and watching videos about reparative therapy, and all of it makes me want to vomit. I can’t believe people still think this way. At the same time, I think about how much grief I gave myself earlier today about wanting to be better, to be different from I am, even if that means not tired or sad. Fortunately, I accepted my sexuality years ago, although it continues to be a process of how to navigate the world. But now I’m thinking I need to extend that acceptance further, to allow myself the grace to simply have read the number of books I have read, to let my feelings come and go. Ultimately, feelings are like a pair of jeans or a childhood home–they don’t last forever. So perhaps I can find the space inside me that quietly watches as my emotions change like the seasons, that sits and knows I’m more than okay the way I am.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Boundaries aren’t something you knock out of the park every time.

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Hands Down: The Best Part of My Week (Blog #149)

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Before jumping right into today’s events, I’d like to say that I’m no stranger to things most people (at least in the Bible Belt) consider weird. I’ve honestly spent more time reading and learning about meditation, Reiki, Chi Kung, past life regressions, chakras, and “the other side” than I can remember. I like it–it fascinates me–we all need hobbies. All the being said, every time I walk into a room full of crystals or read something online about balancing my aura, there’s still part of me that thinks, You’ve got to be kidding.

So with that in mind–

Today I went to a Spirit Fair (which I’m affectionately referring to as a “Woo Woo Market”) in Fayetteville. My friend CJ invited me and said there would be a lady who talks to angels, spirit guides, and dead people. (There’s a difference.) CJ said she went last year and got a message from her grandmother. When I told my parents about it, my dad said, “See what Dee and Dorothy [his parents, my grandparents] are up to!” I told CJ, “Hum. I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

She said, “I’ll buy your lunch.”

“In that case, exactly when will the ghosts be arriving?”

True to her word, CJ bought my lunch, which we ate with some of her friends. Afterwards, it was onwards and upwards (metaphysically speaking, of course). The Spirit Fair was held at a local hotel, where one of the meeting rooms had been transformed into–basically–a waiting room for the afterlife. Again, this was not my first New Age rodeo, but I have never seen so many rocks, crystals, and sticks of incense anywhere else. Of course, not everything was “weird,” as there were massage oils and bath products as well. CJ actually found a bar of charcoal soap called Gender Bender and asked if that was my problem. “Have you been using this?” she said.

Chronologically, the most interesting part of the day for me happened next. However, I’d like to skip ahead for just a moment to say this–CJ and her friends and I did sit in on the angel/spirit guide/ghost communicator session that happened later in the day in another room. And whereas it was fascinating and one of CJ’s friends got a very moving message from her mother, none of my relatives showed up. (Typical.) So since I didn’t have a direct experience with it, I’ll refrain from commenting, leave that part of the day in the “uncategorized” part of my brain, and now go back to earlier in the afternoon and the place we were just a moment ago.

You know–Hogwarts.

In the center of the room was a swath of intuitives, psychics, card readers, and so forth. Honestly, I believe in a lot of that stuff, but I also believe in bullshit, so I tend to be pretty picky about whom I let in my aura (energy field, personal space). Therefore, I hadn’t planned on sitting down with anyone. However, I kept noticing a lady who was doing palm readings who “felt right,” and eventually I got curious enough to get in line, a place I stood for about forty-five minutes. This is good, I thought. She’s spending a lot of time with each person.

When it came my turn, I introduced myself and put my hands down on the table. Since the theory is that our hands reflect our minds and souls, it felt like, welcome to my life. (I haven’t read a lot about palmistry, but I have read a lot about handwriting analysis, and the theories are similar. In short, you can’t hide who you are.) Although some palm readers purport to look at hands and tell the future, the lady today–RJ–said it’s really more about personality, things that have happened to you, and assets and liabilities.

So you’re telling me I’ve been walking around my entire life with a pumped-up Myers-Briggs test in my pockets?

The first thing RJ said was that “some stuff” happened when I was six or seven that caused me to become fiercely independent. Check. She said my reaction to the event (which would have been my mom’s leaving home for a year for health concerns) was to become an island, at least for a while. Then she talked about my life line, my head line, and my fate line, the last of which she said went all the way up. (Why thank you, my dad will be proud.) She said that indicated self-actualization, like I’m here on the planet for a reason and ready to go to work.

When we talked about my fingers, RJ said my most developed fingers had to do with social/political traits (index), moral/ethical traits (middle), and creative traits (ring). Ironically, the finger dealing with communication traits (pinky), was less developed, although she did say I was outspoken. When I told my mom that my communication finger was small, she said, “Well, sometimes I ask how your day was, and you only say, ‘Good.'”

Point taken, Mom.

RJ also said that we wear rings on particular fingers for a reason, that if a ring isn’t comfortable, we’ll stop wearing it. In my case, I always wear a ring on the index finger of my right (dominate) hand, which RJ said meant I had something to say or do. According to Google, that finger is associated with ambition and self-confidence. When RJ looked at my fingernails (which, thank God, I just clipped yesterday) she said sometimes I start things I don’t finish. Yes, that’s correct. But, she said, I’m also determined and finish the things that are necessary.

In the fifteen minutes that RJ looked at my palms, she covered a lot more. However, despite the fact that most of my life is right here on this blog (every day, every damn day), I’ll spare you the details because 1) I can’t imagine that it would be that interesting to you, 2) a man needs “some” privacy, and 3) my pinky finger is only so developed. Still, I will say that RJ said my worry lines were being “kept at bay” by a guardian angel and that I have a rather long life line, indicating that I’ll be around for a while. (So deal with it.)

This evening I went for a jog and thought a lot about my palms. Especially I thought about that guardian angel who’s working so hard to keep my worry lines from crossing my life line and that I should probably offer him a raise or at least send him a thank-you card. Then I thought about my long life line, and how whether or not that means I’ll live to be a hundred, it’s still an excellent reminder that my life now isn’t my entire life–it’s just part of it–a phase. I actually thought about Moses, how his major “reason for being here” didn’t really start until he was forty. Hell, Colonel Sanders didn’t begin selling fried chicken until he retired at the age of sixty-five. So I’m reminded that I probably have time to figure things out. What’s more, I’m reminded that every life and every hand tells a story, each a great mystery filled with purpose, heartache, and hope.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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if you're content with yourself and you're always with yourself, then what's the problem?

"

Stuff That Could Heal the World (Blog #148)

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Several years ago I was in Austin, Texas, and ended up at a vintage clothing store called Cream. I was looking through the t-shirts, trying to decide if a tight, purple, deep v-neck shirt was “too much” to take back to Arkansas, when a red-headed guy (with dreadlocks and purple pants) behind the counter asked if I was looking for anything else. “Hum,” I said, “I’m kind of interested in a pair of cowboy boots.” The next thing I knew, he led me across the store and helped me pick out a pair in my size. And then–and then–he literally grabbed my hand, ran toward a mirror, and said, “Fashion show!”

As it turns out, the guy’s name was Benjamin, although he pronounced it Been Jammin. He was straight, but said he loved the homos. Obviously, he knew his audience. I only met him that one time, but every year the photo we took together shows up in my Facebook Memories, and it always makes me smile. Never mind that I could only wear the boots for a few hours before getting a blister. It was the best shopping experience ever.

And yes, I got the purple v-neck. Benjamin said it was fabulous.

This evening I went to Toys R Us for one of my creativity assignments. The goal was to find an Artist Totem–a toy, figurine, or statue that I felt a sense of protection for and could represent my creative life. As I walked in the toy store, my understanding of the logic behind having the totem was this–often we beat up on our creative selves, but our inner artist is a child, something we should actually nurture with kindness. So taking care of the totem equals both inspiration and taking care of yourself.

Y’all, Toys R Us has A LOT of toys. Honestly, it’s overwhelming. I saw one couple who actually let their children roam free, and I thought, That’s a mistake. I mean, I’m not a parent, but I can’t imagine anyone thinking that saying no over and over again is a fun way to spend a Friday night. But I digress. Midway through the store, I found my totem–a Mickey Mouse pillow. (I know I’m almost forty, but I’m serious.) First of all, it’s cute. Second of all, what better representation of creativity? As far as that goes, Walt Disney was “the man.”

So if you spy me at a coffee shop with a Mickey Mouse doll on the table or crawl into my car and see a cartoon buckled in the backseat, you’ll know why. I can definitely see those things happening. I already feel like a proud papa. (My totem’s better than your totem.)

After my trip to the totem / toy store, I hung out with my friend Bonnie, who just got back from a long road trip. Our friend Corban was also there, as were his mom and Bonnie’s husband, but they went to bed early and didn’t make the below selfie. (Snoozing=losing.) Anyway, Corban told us about a story he read online about a Starbucks barista who silently watched two customers form and grow a relationship over time that culminated one day when the lady showed up to the coffee shop alone. Oh no, the barista thought, they broke up. But then the guy came rushing in, dropped down on one knee, and proposed.

Personally, I’m fascinated by the idea that you never know who’s watching you and rooting you on. Maybe it’s someone you know. Maybe it’s your barista. I’m also fascinated by the idea that you never know how your actions can affect another person. Years after meeting Benjamin at Cream Vintage, I’m still inspired by his authentic style, effervescent personality, and kindness. All of it said, “You’re free to be yourself.” Caroline Myss tells the story of a man who was crossing a street on his way to commit suicide but changed his mind when a stranger in a passing car smiled at him.

You never know.

There’s an affirmation in The Artist’s Way that says, “My creativity heals myself and others,” and I’m starting to believe it. I remember Benjamin and realize that it was his authentic creativity that not only made my day, but also continues to work its magic all these years later. Ultimately, I think we’re all creative. But I know in my case I’ve spent a lot of my creative energy thinking about why something can’t happen rather than why it will, thinking about why Walt Disney could make a difference but I can’t. But when I look at my Artist Totem, I’m reminded that we all have dreams inside us. We’re all made of the same stuff, stuff that deserves to be nurtured and cared for, stuff that–you never know–could heal the world.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

"

Scooby Doo and the Two-Headed Monster (Blog #147)

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The above caricature of me was drawn in 2009 when I visited my friend Kara in St. Louis. I rediscovered it tonight while I was scrolling (and scrolling) though old pictures in an effort to find inspiration for tonight’s blog. The bad news (and I’m not sure there is any good news) is that the picture hasn’t inspired me to write about jack squat. But I do think it makes me look like Shaggy from Scooby Doo, so I’ll go ahead and say this: Like–HEEELLP.

I’m not sure that I woke up on the right side of the bed today. I mean that in a metaphorical sense, since I actually sleep on the right side of the bed–unless I’m in it, in which case it’s the left. (Ugh, this is confusing.) Anyway, you know how when you’re not feeling your best, that’s when you pick at yourself the most? (Feel free to nod your head yes or say, “Preach.”) I mean, maybe I’m the only one who does this, but I woke up feeling rather emotional and raw, then immediately went to work trying to figure it out or “solve” the problem. Unfortunately, I didn’t get an immediate result, and that always makes me feel as if I’m doing something wrong, like my life is this big mystery and I’m a terrible detective.

Scooby Dooby Doo, where are you?

Today at lunch a friend told me they had this idea running around in their head that sounds like, “If I knew more, I’d be okay.” Well, this is something I can totally relate to. I’m always thinking that if I knew more, I wouldn’t spend entire days feeling raw and emotional. If I knew more, I’d be more successful. If I knew more, my body would be healthier, more attractive, more desirable. If I knew more, I could solve the mystery that is my life.

Tonight in improv class we played a game called Two-Headed Monster. The idea is that two people stand side-by-side and pretend they are one monster with two heads. In one version, you’re only allowed to say one word, then the other person says the next, and so on. It’s super challenging. Well, I spent a lot of time just watching tonight because of my sour mood. Then I started laughing about something, and eventually I got up and tried it. Then I went back to my sour mood again. Honestly, it felt like I was a two-headed monster, or at least that I had two separate voices running around in my head. This sucks. Today’s not so bad. Today sucks. Just breathe.

Maybe you can guess which voice was the louder.

When I got home tonight I went for a run, and it ended up being my longest run so far–seven miles. A couple of times I thought I was going to throw up, but I didn’t. Anyway, the run went a long way in dispelling some of my bad attitude, probably because it burned off some excess energy and made me too tired to think about my problems. (What were they again?)

My therapist told me recently that some of the things we deal with (for instance, being a people pleaser) may be issues until we’re six feet under. Like, not every problem is worked out in one lifetime. Honestly, I hate that. I’d much prefer to think about healing or having a good attitude as a to-do list item that I could easily mark off one day. There, now I don’t have to worry about money anymore. Phew. I feel better. But I guess healing doesn’t work like that. Obviously–emotions certainly don’t. One day they’re up, one day they’re down. The voices inside you are a two-headed monster. All of it’s a mystery.

Your life is a mystery. But you can relax. It’s not your job to solve it.

After the run tonight I watched a video by Kyle Cease, a former stand-up comedian who now works in the field of personal transformation. He said that often when emotions (and even addictions) come up, they do so for the express reason of bringing you into the present moment. Oh hey, I feel nervous NOW. I feel insecure NOW. Of course, most of us want to run from these uncomfortable feelings. In my case, I tried to talk myself out of them all day today. If only I knew more. Then tonight I literally tried to run from them. But Kyle suggests that the point of life is not to be happy all the time, but rather to be in the moment with any and whatever thought or emotion that arises, that healing happens when we accept ourselves just as we are.

Personally, I like this idea and intend to try it more often. Even as I’ve been typing tonight I’ve noticed that I feel a tiredness in my eyes, a slight heaviness in my stomach. But that’s it. If I don’t go into I need to be happy, I need to know more or There’s something wrong with me, I’m just right here, right now and everything is all right. I’m not having an out-of-body experience, but it doesn’t suck. As Shaggy would say, “Like wow!” Of course, I still think my life is a mystery. But I can relax. It’s not my job to solve it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Abundance is a lot like gravity--it's everywhere.

"

The Best of Things (Blog #146)

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To this day, one of my top three movies is The Shawshank Redemption, which–extremely briefly–is about a man named Andy who is falsely imprisoned and eventually escapes after years of slowly chipping away at a concrete wall. (If you haven’t seen it, I’m sorry to spoil it for you.) One of the final scenes involves the night Andy escapes. After crawling through the tunnel he’s made, he breaks open a sewage line, crawls through hundreds of yards of you-know-what, and eventually emerges on the other side of the prison walls. It’s pouring down rain, and as Andy stretches his arms out wide, the water washes over him. Finally, he’s free.

The movie concludes when Andy’s best friend, Red, is released from prison and breaks his parole to join Andy on a beach. (It’s very sweet in a heterosexual sort of way.) Previously, Red had told Andy to accept his fate, that he’d be stuck in prison for the rest of his life. He says, “Hope is a dangerous thing.” Andy’s later response is one of the best lines in the movie, maybe any movie: “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things.”

Last week I read a book called Scared Selfless by a psychologist who was severely abused and traumatized as a child. In short, her step-father used her as a sex slave and prostitute until she became a teenager. For several years, she dissociated, meaning her psyche seriously compartmentalized the horrific experiences, and she was able to go about her day-to-day life interacting with her step-father as if everything were “normal.” When she got to college she started having flashbacks, and although the shit really hit the fan, the good news is that she started the long road to healing. That road included a number of psychologists (at least eight), a diagnosis of multiple personality disorder (dissociative identity disorder), and discovering that she was a lesbian.

It’s a lot to process, I know.

Today I took the book to therapy and asked my therapist a few questions out of curiosity. There’s a comment in the book that “during prolonged trauma, denying one’s feelings can be beneficial and adaptive” because–why focus on your terrible life if you can’t do anything about it? So I asked my therapist if that was true, if it was “okay” to shut down sometimes, to put part of you in a box until you can deal with it later. My therapist said that in severe cases, it’d be hard not to. But–and she sort of pulled back the corners of her mouth before she said this–she didn’t think it was ever healthy to deny one’s feelings, to compartmentalize. She said, “I think a better response would be hope. Okay, this sucks, and maybe I can’t do anything about it now, but it’s only temporary. Everything is temporary.”

Although I’ve been through a number of traumatic experiences, I can’t imagine the level of trauma the lady who wrote the book endured. Still, I can appreciate anyone who shuts down or puts things in a box because I know I did that for the longest time. I remember being fifteen when Dad when to prison. I started paying the bills, driving myself to school, falling asleep on the floor at night while I was studying. I kept a four-point average, and after school I’d type up legal work for my dad and his friends. Looking back, I should have been mad as hell, come home crying on a regular basis from all the pressure. But I only remember crying a handful of times in six years.

I know enough now that the reason I fell in love with The Shawshank Redemption was because I felt like I was in prison too, trapped in a situation I couldn’t get out of. More specifically, I both knowingly and unknowingly took parts of myself and put them behind a concrete wall. In particular, I took one rather large part and put it in a concrete closet. For years I played the roles of the dutiful son, the teacher’s pet, and the nice boy. And whereas I can’t say that those roles were disingenuous, I can say that they didn’t represent the whole of me.

Here’s the deal–if you’re not whole, you’re in prison. 

My therapist says that hope is real, that she’s seen it change people’s lives. In my experience, it seems that hope has been, as Emily Dickinson would say, the thing with feathers. Some days it’s been right there, others so far away. And yet it’s always returned, sometimes in the form of a book, sometimes in the form of a movie I can’t stop watching, sometimes in the form of my therapist. When I consider the last twenty years, it’s amazing to me that I didn’t fully recognize the prison I was in. Like Andy’s friend Red, I guess I’d simply gotten used to being there. And yet part of me obviously knew there was more to life. Hey, get us the fuck out of here. We don’t like all this concrete. This place could use some color and a new set of curtains.

The last few years have often felt like tunneling my way through a thick wall–little bit by little bit. Like Andy crawling through the sewer, my therapist says she’s in favor of digging into and dealing with all your shit until it’s under your fingernails. (Then you can clean it up.) In short, healing hasn’t always been a pretty process. But I do think it’s been worth all the hard work. Even since starting this blog, I’ve felt like a lot of walls have come down. Yeah, I’ve been through hundreds of yards of shit, but I’m more complete now than I ever have been. Last night–at four in the morning–I went for a run, and it started to rain. Rather than go back, I just decided, I’m in this. So I spread my arms out wide and let the water wash over me like a baptism. I wish I could describe it better. My feet were hitting the pavement, my lungs were working overtime, my heart was beat, beat, beating. Several times I splashed around in puddles as if I were a kid again. It felt like every piece of me was there–it felt like freedom–it felt like the best of things.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"The truth is right in front of you."

My Authentic Response to Criticism (Blog #145)

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Tonight’s blog may be one of the most difficult I’ve ever written. I’ll explain. I have a personal rule for the blog that I won’t use it as a means to call someone out specifically, meaning I don’t consider this the place to say, “Jack, you’re a real asshole,” or, “Suzy, those yoga pants make you look like whore.” Aside from those being unkind statements, this is a blog about (my) authenticity, vulnerability, and mental and spiritual health, and I don’t consider it the venue to pick a fight. All that being said, tonight’s blog is going to approach that line because–and only because–I’ve promised that I will also and always write about what’s on my heart. So far, I have. In over one hundred and forty posts, I haven’t once tried to fake my emotions or stray from what I knew needed to be said–and I’m not going to start tonight.

So, to borrow a phrase I’ve heard once or twice from my therapist, we’re about to have a confrontation.

The first thing I saw this morning was that someone had posted a comment on yesterday’s blog that was pending approval. Well, I’m not sure that my people pleaser will ever not be the first one to have a voice, so I immediately thought, Oh God, I hope someone’s not mad. I guess I could post the entire comment, but the essence was: 1) I hate the bandana you wear on your head, 2) Your hair is too beautiful to cover it up, 3) Please stop it, and 4) I love you and am just being honest.

As I’ve said a number of times, my therapist says that online communication is rife with misunderstandings, so I’d like to be clear–the tone of the comment, in my opinion, was mostly lighthearted, complimentary (they called me handsome), and well-intended. They even said, “I have no right to encroach on what you determine makes you happy in life.” With this much, I agree.

My first thought after reading the comment this morning was, That’s hilarious. Thank God it wasn’t something serious. Actually, I started to say as much. But I hadn’t woken up yet, and that response didn’t feel quite right, even though it did feel like “a nice thing to say.” My therapist says that nice is a strategy, in light of which I would have to admit–the only reason I would dismiss such a criticism would be to not rock the boat and to make sure someone likes me (and my hair and anything I put on it). Of course, if you’ve ever tried to manage what someone else thinks of you, you know–it’s exhausting.

I wish I could tell you that the comment rolled over me like water off a duck’s back, but I can’t. It’s not that I’ve had a bad day, but it’s sort of felt like a piece of food that slowly molds and rots in your refrigerator. It’s something you can’t put your finger on at first. But then one day you open the door and know exactly what stinks.

I remember a couple years ago when I went out-of-town–maybe New York City or New Mexico–and I wore a cowboy hat that I named Jose (after the guy who made it). I fucking loved it, and told myself I’d wear it more often when I got home. But damn it, there’s something oppressive about Fort Smith, something that says, “Conform,” so I didn’t. When I talked about it in therapy, my therapist said, “Give it a whirl–be yourself.” Recently when I spoke to her about an incident similar to today’s that I can’t remember, she told me that sometimes when well-meaning people criticize her fashion choices, she says, “I do whatever the fuck I want.”

Amen.

I would like to acknowledge that everyone–everyone–has a right to their opinion. Also, I’ve yet to censor anyone’s comments on this blog, my YouTube channel, or Facebook, since I don’t consider it my job to tell other people what to think, say, or, for that matter, what to wear. So everyone is welcome to say what they want, but let me be perfectly clear–just because you have a thought about my life, doesn’t mean that it’s beneficial or that I want to hear it. I mean, when was the last time someone came up to you and said, “Alice, that jean skirt makes your butt look unattractive,” and you said, “Why thank you, Edna, you’re a saint. What else can I change about me?” So in short, I don’t consider my hair (or any other part of my life) a democracy.

According to my dad tonight, that’s why I’m not married.

My mom (who’s currently bald from chemotherapy) said, “I don’t care what you do with your hair. I’m just glad you have some.”

It may be too late, but I really don’t want this blog to be about one specific comment, since it’s not the first time I’ve been told, “The blonde hair was a mistake,” “You won’t be able to get a job if your hair is blue,” or “Those pants make you look gay,” to which if given the chance to do it all over again I’d respectively say, “Fuck off,” “How the hell do you know that, Dad?” and “Good–I am gay.” Also, I know that my natural tendency is to be defensive, to be–in the words of my therapist–dukes up. This tendency, I’m sure, comes from the fact that I essentially raised myself, so criticism of any sort always feels like someone saying that I didn’t do a good job (even though I did a fucking great job, thank you very much) or that I failed in some way.

Additionally, I’d like to acknowledge that although I don’t do it online, I often have critical thoughts about others and will frequently voice these opinions to my friends. Jesus, that dress is ugly. Those shoes make her look like a construction worker. Caroline Myss says that these sorts of thoughts and comments stem from the idea that someone else’s life only exists in order to make me happy. Like, “I’d feel better if you’d stop dressing like a lumberjack, Janice.” Obviously–and I can only speak for myself on this one–that’s an arrogant and flawed way to address one of God’s fellow creations. So to anyone to whom I’ve minimized in this way, I apologize and am working on it.

Lastly, I’d like to say something about my experience with honesty. I know I make a big deal about it here, and perhaps it deserves a little more attention. From what I understand, honesty means being true to yourself, whatever your experience. My therapist says that if you’re angry or hurt or whatever, you don’t bite your tongue because it doesn’t feel good to bite your tongue. By not being honest, you damage yourself in some way. She also quotes a spiritual guru and says, “Be kind whenever possible. It’s always possible.” To me this means that just because it’s honest to say, “Those pleated pants went out of style twenty years ago, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in that Ban-Lon shirt,” doesn’t mean it’s necessary.

Personally, I hate the fact that I may get up tomorrow and hesitate to put a bandana on my head, even though I know it keeps my beautiful hair out of my face when I drive down the interstate with my windows down, something that never ceases to make me feel totally free. Ultimately, I think we all are worthy of that unbridled feeling of freedom, that feeling that says, “I love me, I love everything about me, and I don’t give a shit if anyone else likes it or not.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Perhaps this is what bravery really is--simply having run out of better options, being so totally frustrated by the outside world that all you can do is go within.

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