Scared of Everything (Blog #417)

Leave a comment

It’s one in the morning, and I’m at my friend Bonnie’s house using her fancy, in-the-air, high-speed internet. I just finished working on a travel writing story and am now onto the blog. I keep getting distracted by QVC and the Home Shopping Network, two channels that Bonnie is flipping back and forth between on the big screen TV on the other side of the room. Thank God I’m not a girl or into drag because I’d be buying one of everything–little strappy sandals, dangly earrings–and all of it on sale for five easy payments of $29.99.

Look away, Marcus, look away.

The travel writing story I’m working on is due tomorrow, so naturally I didn’t start working on it until yesterday. I put it off, put it off, and really worked the whole thing up to be a big monster in my head. I thought, This is going to be awful. I mean, I’ve never written a travel writing story before now. That being said, I have WRITTEN before, so yesterday I just dug right in–and it wasn’t that bad. Three hours later, I was more than halfway done. But then I did the same thing today, practically convinced myself, I can’t do this. But then I did. Except for changes that come back from my editor, I’m done. (Phew.)

Although I do have to get pictures together, and that terrifies me.

I’m not sure why I scare the shit out of myself about everything even remotely new–writing a travel story, meeting a stranger, hell, taking a trip down the vegetable aisle. I’ve never picked out an eggplant before! I’m sure this started somewhere in my childhood, thinking that something was going to go wrong. And yet I have years of evidence that something–most things, actually–are going to go right. Sure, I’ve never written a travel story before, but I’ve written plenty of other stories, and all of them have been “good enough” or better. Even the ones that came back from my editor marked “start over” were stories that I learned from.

Like, don’t do that again.

Earlier tonight I taught a dance lesson and showed a couple how to do a dip, a move that’s almost always a disaster initially. Everyone has to figure our how to hold their own body, then the guy has to support the girl, and the girl has to trust the guy to support her. It’s a lot. But after a while, things start to come together, and I guess it’s that way with everything new in life–awkward at first, but then you find your rhythm. That’s how it’s been with this blog. I used to sit down petrified. What am I going to say now? And whereas I occasionally still think that, for the most part, this project has become a lot like brushing my teeth–a routine.

It’s a big deal.

Maybe I’ll always have a trepidation about new things–job opportunities, improv shows, visiting foreign cities. But more and more I’m trying to interpret that feeling not as my body’s way of saying, “Don’t do this,” but rather my body’s way of saying, “You HAVE to do this.” Because now that I’ve written the story I’m thinking, What was all the fuss about? That was easy! That was even fun. I’m proud of myself. It may seem like a little thing, writing a thousand-word story, but I think it’s a big deal anytime you do something you’ve been scared of doing, anytime you prove to yourself that you’re more capable than you previously thought you were.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

You've got to believe that things can turn around, that even difficult situations--perhaps only difficult situations--can turn you into something magnificent.

"

Getting a Grip (Blog #416)

Leave a comment

It’s 1:45 in the morning, and I’ve been putting this off for over an hour. I don’t feel well. I don’t feel awful, but I don’t feel well. I’m tired, irritable. My body is shaky (it has been for a while now), and it’s driving me crazy. I’m imagining that–on top of everything else–I have a neurological disorder, that I’m breaking down from the inside out. I’ve been Googling supplements all day, a compulsion that typically gets me nowhere. Maybe I’ll give up Google next year for Lent. But then again I’m not even Catholic. I guess I could convert, but that’d just be one more thing to do. Like my plate isn’t full enough already.

Get a grip, Marcus.

I’ve been thinking this would be a good way to start my autobiography, should I ever choose to write one: Thirty-seven, that’s how old I was when Meghan Markle married Prince Harry and my life fell apart. But then I don’t know where I’d go from there.

Get–a–grip, Marcus. (Focus.)

Today I spent the afternoon at Starbucks working on one of my travel writing stories, and that’s about it. I did run into an old dance student (who thought I was in Austin because everyone thinks I’m in Austin except me, who knows I’m not in Austin but instead living with my parents, who, incidentally, are not in Austin either) and had a lovely conversation. It always amazes me when something like this happens, randomly running into someone you haven’t seen in years and jumping right in with each, getting real. In the span of ten minutes, we talked about health challenges, going to therapy, and places where we consider ourselves to be weak. And I really don’t know this person that well. But the whole experience was so–refreshing.

It was the best thing that happened today. Being honest, that is.

Everything is progressing as it should.

This evening I taught a dance lesson to a student who thinks they should be progressing faster than they are. (They all do.) Having worked with hundreds of students over the years, I keep saying (truthfully) that they’re actually progressing faster than average, but you know how people can be their own worst critic. Anyway, here’s what I’ve been thinking about the situation. When you’re a new student, you don’t have anything to compare yourself to. If you do, it’s probably Dancing with the Stars, and THAT won’t make you feel good. But as an experienced teacher that works with everyday people who aren’t spending forty hours a week preparing for a competition, I can stand outside a student’s frustration and see that things are going just fine–they’re normal–everything is progressing as it should.

My friend and I talked about something similar today–the benefit of having a good therapist, someone who’s experienced in human relationships and emotions who doesn’t know you and can stand outside your drama and comment about what’s going on. There’s such a stigma about going to therapy, but who couldn’t benefit from a relationship like that? At one point in the last four years, I was dealing with a particularly difficult person in my life, someone I cared for but who came with excessive baggage (like more baggage than Rose had on the Titanic). “Why do you have this shit show in your life?” my therapist said. Blunt, I know, but no one else I was talking to was being blunt, and it was just the thing I needed to cause me to look at the situation in a different way, to realize that I could–change things.

Imagine that.

I told my friend today that sometimes I felt like the poster child for going to therapy, but it’s only because it’s been such a good and positive thing for me. I don’t pretend that it would be the same for everyone else, but I do think it’s worth trying, just like I think learning how to dance is worth trying. I mean, you already know how to sit on the couch or go to the movies or whatever it is you know how to do. Honestly, I think it’s fear that stops people from trying new things that could help them. Maybe embarrassment. I know there have been plenty of times I’ve actually felt apologetic as a dance student for not knowing something, not being better at something. I felt the same way in therapy when my therapist asked why I was putting up with such bad behavior. I thought, Why didn’t I know this already?

It’s okay to ask for help.

Of course, the answer is simple–because no one taught me. No one taught me how to dance or how to have healthy relationships (before they did)–probably because no one taught them. Likewise, no one (except for my therapist, who’s a professional) is teaching me how to navigate being thirty-seven, living with my parents, and having a health challenge (or two). After all, who knows these things?! Aren’t we all just figuring life out as we go along, aren’t we all just doing the best we can? This has been my experience, so I’m trying to get a grip and remember that it’s okay to admit you don’t know everything, that it’s okay to ask for help.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

No emotion is ever truly buried.

"

All Things Great and Small (Blog #415)

Leave a comment

Tonight I’m afraid to write. I can’t say why. I’ve been sitting here for forty-five minutes browsing the internet, the whole time thinking, I have nothing to say. I didn’t do shit this afternoon. I read a book and drank a cup of coffee. How am I supposed to blog about that? This isn’t the first time I’ve thought something like this. Tonight’s blog is #415 (in a row), and I honestly have no idea how I’ve managed to “fill the page” time and time again, since the details of my day-to-day life aren’t that exciting. Like I said, today I read a book and drank a cup of coffee.

Woo-who.

The book I’m currently reading is called I Contain Multitudes: The Microbes Within Us and a Grander View of Life by Ed Yong and is about all the Little Critters that live on, in, and around us. I’m a hundred pages into the book and am riveted. According to the author, there are more germs living in and on one human body than there are stars in the galaxy, although “germs” is apparently not the best term to use, since it implies bad and nasty. As it turns out, the vast majority of bacteria in the world are either harmless or beneficial. Many help break down our foods and fight off disease. Quite literally forming communities in our mouths, guts, and private areas, these bacteria can influence our moods, weight, and even our personalities. (There’s a bacteria that, in order to survive, turns some insects into lesbians! Well, at least it allows female wasps to clone themselves and therefore have no need for males, which is sort of like being a lesbian.)

Since each of us is home to so many different species of microbes, Yong contends that any one of us, rather than being “an I,” is really “a we.” Here’s how he says it: “When we eat, so do they. When we travel, they come along. When we die, they consume us. Every one of us is a zoo in our own right–a colony enclosed in a single body. A multi-species collective. An entire world.”

Isn’t that beautiful?

Since being introduced to this book recently (it was a gift), I’ve started thinking of myself as a collective, an ecosystem, a rainforest, if you will. Granted, I’ve never been to a rainforest (other than Rainforest Cafe), but I can imagine–tigers feed off their prey just as lush trees feed off decaying plants, all in a complex system of give and take, life and death. Likewise, I’m teeming with a whole universe of lifeforms, and together we’re engaged in a great balancing act. For years I’ve struggled with sinus infections but have recently seen improvements by introducing a single strand of bacteria (l. sakei) into my nostrils. (This apparently works because l. sakei keeps other bacteria “in check.”) It sounds weird, I know, but now it makes more sense than ever. It’s like the scales were tipped in the wrong direction “up there,” and I just needed one heavy hitter to help even things out.

Way to go, fellas.

What’s amazing to me is that one little bacteria (the one that started the infections) has been able to cause me so much misery and that one little bacteria (the one that ended the infections) has been able to cause me so much joy. L. sakei isn’t a panacea for all my health problems, but it truly has changed the landscape of this rainforest. So often we think of ourselves as powerless or without influence, but my God, if one little bacteria can do that–wreak havoc or bring joy–how much more can I do? How much more can you do? I think about my therapist, how knowing her has completely transformed me for the better. Four years into our work together, there’s not a relationship in my life that hasn’t improved because of her, even the relationship I have with myself (and all my microbes). It’s funny, right? I had no idea the day I met her just how much my world would change.

Now our world is more magical.

Earlier I said, “Nothing happened today. I read a book and drank a cup of coffee.” What I meant to say was, “Everything happened today. This morning my entire rainforest came to life, and this afternoon we drank a cup of coffee, and a million microbial and chemical reactions made it possible. At the same time we read a book and may never see ourselves the same again because of it. Now our world is more magical, a mysterious place where everything somehow works together, where nothing and no one is without influence, where all things great and small can make a difference.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Transformation doesn’t have a drive thru window. It takes time to be born again.

"

Redeveloping (Blog #414)

Leave a comment

I don’t even know where to start with this blog, so I’ll start with the truth. I woke up early this morning to talk to a psychic. This isn’t something I make a habit of–getting up early, or talking to psychics–but I did it nonetheless. And whereas I’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes trying to figure out what to say about the experience, I’ve yet to come up with anything coherent. Maybe this is because my fifth chakra (my throat) is APPARENTLY “clogged like a drain pipe.” (This is what I woke up to hear.)

Does anyone know where I can get some energetic Drano?

More likely I can’t figure out what to say because I’m hesitant to discuss the topic. First of all, even though it wasn’t weird for me, I get that psychics or intuitives are a stretch for a lot of people. They’re not mainstream. And yet all of us–all of us–are intuitive. Any of us can walk into our homes and instantly tell if a loved one is down or upset or over the moon, and that’s basically what professional intuitives do–they read people. Anyway, I’m also hesitant to discuss the experience because I’m still processing it. There weren’t a lot of surprises, but it was still a lot of information. Five years ago I would have taken all of it as gospel and been done with it, but now I see it as something that needs to be “sifted” through.

Y’all, I tried to take a nap after my appointment with the psychic, but get this shit. There was a knock at the door, and the next thing I knew, my dad started talking to two Mormons right outside my bedroom window (and not quietly). And then–and then–he invited them inside. “They were FEMALE Mormons,” Dad said later. “That’s not something you see every day!” Well, our walls are paper-thin, so there was no way I was going back to sleep, what with Dad and his big, booming voice. “You’re gonna need all the luck you can get around here–this is Southern Baptist territory! But don’t worry about me–I was in prison with a Mormon!”

Meet my father.

Surely, I thought, these ladies will leave now. But oh no–they stayed. Seriously, it went on–and on–and on. They talked, Dad talked, our dog barked, Dad talked some more. At one point I strongly considered walking into the living room in my underwear and introducing myself as a homosexual who consults mediums, just to see if they would be horrified and leave, but I didn’t–I controlled myself. Later, when the Mormons left for lunch and I got out of bed, Dad said, “Marcus, they had to walk to Wendy’s–on foot. Can you believe that? I guess the bicycles are just for the boys.”

Rubbing my tired eyes, I said, “Well, that doesn’t seem fair.”

This afternoon I went to Fayetteville to have more blood drawn for tests regarding my immune system, something I asked the psychic about this morning. She said the only thing she got was the word “exposure,” and took this to mean that perhaps I’d been exposed to chemicals or mold (or both) at some point in my (current) lifetime. I hope she’s wrong, but really–exposure–what a funny word–as if our bodies were like film in a camera and could be forever altered by something they’ve come in contact with. Anyway, I had my blood drawn, then–because I’ve been on the internet again–picked up a new supplement (an amino acid) to hopefully help with my histamine-laden skin.

Afterwards I ate the first of my three dinners for the evening at a food truck (pictured above), then I met some friends for drinks and dinner number two. THEN I came home, had a short business meeting, and met another friend for drinks and dinner number three. At this point I’d like to point out that NONE of the meals I ate were on my “good in theory” Autoimmune Paleo diet. However, I feel justified in deviating (a lot) from my original plan, since the psychic told me I “may” have food sensitivities, and there’s obviously only one way to find out.

So as far as I can tell, I’m not immediately or deathly allergic to hot chicken, macaroni and cheese, beef sliders, cheese fries, or chicken barbecue pizza. Nor am I allergic to beer with blueberries, which–by the way–are apparently good for my fifth chakra problem because they are blue and so is the fifth chakra. (Again, I got out of bed for this wisdom.) Anyway, THEN I went to see a drag show because, hell, why not? Now it’s five in the morning, and I’m done, ready to sleep. Still, I’m grateful for this day and my exposure to Psychics, Mormons, and Drag Queens. I feel ever-so-slightly changed by them–more open, tolerant, and kind. So perhaps our bodies are like film, all of us constantly redeveloping from one exposure to the next.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

The clearer you see what's going on inside of you, the clearer you see what's going on outside of you. It's that simple.

"

The Same Team (#413)

Leave a comment

This “morning” I woke up at three in the afternoon. Now it’s ten at night, which means I’ve only been awake for seven hours. Consequently, I don’t have much to talk about. I spent the afternoon reading books, then this evening taught a dance lesson. Now I’m hyped up on coffee and ready to go for a jog, but really need to do this first. The last few nights I’ve blogged during the wee morning hours, and it’s just not an easy thing to do when you’re exhausted–thinking, that is.

One of the books I read this afternoon was by Alexander Lowen, about bioenergetics. Bioenergetics proposes that tension in the body is often the result of unexpressed emotions, so the book has a series of exercises designed to help a person release emotion (and therefore tension), which I’m slowly working my way through. The exercise I tried today involved lying on my back on a bed and vigorously kicking my legs up into the air and down onto the mattress. (The point was to express anger and loosen up the pelvis, but I think this activity would also work to fluff your sheets.) Anyway, thank God Mom and Dad were gone when I gave this kicking thing a whirl. I sounded like a boxer beating up a punching bag. I actually broke a sweat.

The body never forgets.

A lot of self-help books suggest punching pillows to get rid of anger, but that’s never really been my thing. I always feel so silly, standing in my room getting violent with a cushion. I mean, what did that fluffy little thing ever do to me? But the exercise today was different, perhaps because it involved my whole body. The book says if you do it “right,” your head will rise up off the bed. You might even use your arms. For me, this really felt great–tiring–but great. I even tried one version where I yelled “NO” over and over again. At first my voice was rather weak, and I thought, This is ridiculous. I wonder what our family dog must think of me right now. But then my voice grew stronger, and I immediately thought of a several incidences from my past when a solid no would have come in handy. And I guess that’s the point–the body never forgets.

Yesterday I saw my therapist and was somewhat down afterwards, I guess because sitting with your emotions isn’t always fun. But since “kicking and screaming” this afternoon, I’ve felt great. I’ve been in a good mood. Several times I’ve even laughed out loud when thinking of something funny. I love it when this happens, when I entertain myself. I usually think, Well done, Marcus, well done. You’re so clever.

Isn’t that fun, being you’re your own best audience? Personally, I’d like this to happen more, since historically I’ve spent a lot of time being my own worst critic. I’ve looked in the mirror and thought, That needs to be different, or considered a health problem and thought, My body is failing me. But one of the ideas the bioenergetics book proposes is that our bodies are always on our side, since–uh, at least on this planet–we are our bodies. This is something I’m trying to remember, that my body wants to heal as much as I want it to, that we’re on the same team here.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Not knowing what's going to happen next is part of the adventure."

On Bravery (Blog #412)

Leave a comment

Two days ago I saw my therapist and we discussed money, which is a theme lately. Later that day while talking to my friend Bonnie, I said, “I wonder what I’ll write about tonight. I could talk about my therapy session, but it was emotional, and–believe it or not–there are days when I don’t want to share my emotions with the internet. There ARE times when I want to keep my therapy sessions private.”

Bonnie didn’t miss a beat. “I understand, but your blog IS called Me and My Therapist.”

Of course she was right (damn it), so that night I wrote about–you guessed it–me and my therapist. You can read the blog post here, but it’s essentially about my crying in therapy because I’m often paralyzed by anything involving finances (which is most things). The post also talks about why this is the case, the main reason being that when dad went to prison when I was fifteen, I had to handle the family finances (and it was terrifying). Anyway, I saw my therapist for another session this afternoon, read her the “I cried in therapy about money” post, and cried AGAIN.

Y’all, not to brag, but I’m getting pretty good at this crying thing.

My therapist and I talked more about money today, but I’m honestly worn out with that topic for this week, and I’m not sure I could even do her wisdom and encouragement justice right now at three in the morning. (I’m exhausted and am TRYING to keep this short, but I will say that she said overcoming my fears about money was largely a matter of gaining perspective, of realizing that the “monsters in the room” are simply shadows.) But there is something I would like to talk about, and that’s that after hearing my blog post, my therapist repeated her recent comment that I have big balls.

Well, she didn’t actually say that today, but she did before. Today she said, “Marcus, you’re really brave to share your emotions and experiences the way you do.”

Y’all, other people have said this before, and I never know quite how to respond. I get that it takes a certain amount of courage to put yourself out there, but having done it for over a year now, I guess I take it for granted. This project has been so beneficial for me personally, I think, Why WOULDN’T you completely expose yourself (emotionally, not physically) to the entire planet? But I do get it–it’s scary to tell the world your secrets. So I tried to flesh out with my therapist why I do this, and the best I came up with was, “I have to. I just have to.”

I guess this statement–I just have to–could be taken the wrong way. Even as I’m writing and reading it, I think, That sounds like I’ve “been called” to write this blog, like I’m a missionary of emotions who has no other choice but to share his feelings because “it’s the right thing to do.” That’s not how I mean it. Yesterday I mentioned situations in which my heart pounds with anxiety and the only way to get it to stop is to do the thing I’m afraid of, and THAT’S what I mean when I say, “I just have to.” I mean I’ve been shoving down my emotions, disconnecting from myself, and living inauthentically for so long that I simply can’t handle the pain any longer.

I wanted a way out.

So for me this project isn’t the result of my bravery or courage–it’s the result of my suffering. It’s a result of my desperation, my hoping that something–anything–will fix my hurting heart. That’s why I went to therapy in the first place–I was miserable and wanted a way out. Even now I want a way out of my financial fears, a way out of my health problems. I’m tired of them, tired of dragging these things around by myself. They’re exhausting. That’s why I talk about everything to my therapist, and that’s why I write about (almost) everything on the internet–because doing so makes my burdens lighter. It turns my monsters into shadows. If this looks like bravery to someone else, perhaps it is, but it feels like healing to me.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

None of us is ever really lost. At least we're never really alone. For always there is someone to help point your ship in the right direction, someone who sees you when you can't see yourself.

"

Me and My Big Balls (Blog #411)

Leave a comment

Recently my therapist told me I had big balls. The was said as a euphemism, of course, not as a scientific observation. A scientific observation would clearly have been a boundary violation for both of us, since she’s my very professional therapist, and I’m a (very professional) homosexual. (I don’t mean that I’m getting paid to be gay, Mom, just that this is a full-time orientation for me and I take it seriously.) Anyway, moving on. We were talking about how I often approach celebrity authors at book signings, and my therapist said, “I’d never have the courage to do that,” to which I replied, “Really?”

“Really,” she said. “And putting your entire emotional life on the internet? That takes guts. You’ve got some BIG BALLS.”

I shifted in my seat. “Uh–thanks?”

This afternoon I had lunch with a friend, and while we were eating missed a call from the insurance company of the guy who slammed into the back of me last July (while I was on my way to a funeral) because some asshole in front of us decided to suddenly stop traffic in order to save the life of a fucking turtle, an act of heroism for which I am extremely bitter and therefore continue to take to the Lord in prayer. But I digress. When lunch was over, I called the insurance company back, hoping that they’d “come to their senses” and were ready to offer me a decent settlement, something more in line with what my friends in the business have recommended I accept.

Alas, this was not the case. They didn’t budge.

Hanging up the phone, I thought, That’s it, I’m finally tired of this shit. Two hours later, I was meeting with an attorney to go over the case. And whereas older men, attorneys, and older men attorneys normally intimidate my inner gay child, I was completely at ease with this person, whom I found to be informative, matter-of-fact, and honest. For over an hour we discussed my options, as well as insurance companies and juries (neither of which, by the way, apparently have a lot of compassion for people who get the shit knocked out of them and are looking to be compensated for their lost time, money, and physical agility). “Okay,” I said, getting ready to leave his office, “I need some time to think about everything.”

For the next few hours, I was an absolute wreck. (Pardon the pun.) Not that I was nervous or anxious exactly, but as my therapist would say, “It was a lot of information,” so my mind was running wild. I kept thinking, What if I make the wrong decision?

In an effort to calm myself down and ruminate, I went for a jog this evening. Y’all, it was one of my best jogs ever–5.8 miles, nonstop–over two times my longest distance this year. (I just started back a couple weeks ago.) And whereas my body is currently screaming at me, the jog was great emotionally. I felt like I’d really done something, more than I thought I was capable of starting out. Granted, it’s two hours later and I can’t feel my feet, but still. Plus, the jog did work to calm me down. Apparently when you spend an hour treating your body like it’s twenty years younger than it actually is, you end up being too damn tired to actually care about car accidents, insurance agents, or attorneys.

Like, right now I’d settle this case for a year’s supply of BenGay and two gallons of Epsom Salts.

Grow a pair.

But back to my strictly-meant-as-a-euphemism big balls. While ruminating during my jog, I thought about how I often, frequently, and almost always get nervous or worked up about–well, nearly everything–but especially interactions with people of higher status. This category of people includes anyone prettier, richer, more famous (like celebrities), or more powerful (like attorneys) than I am, and certainly includes people working for insurance companies (because in my mind they’re so big and scary). That being said, I realized while running that I’ve been through A LOT OF SHIT in my life, and I’ve had A LOT of tough conversations, most of which I had while my heart was beating on the inside of my chest like a Jehovah’s Witness knocks on the outside of your door, but I had them. Y’all, I hate it when my heart beats like that, but in my experience the only way to get it to stop is to do the thing you’re afraid of doing–introduce yourself to a celebrity, have a hard conversation, tell an insurance agent to go hell. Tonight I thought, I’ve already done so many frightening things in my life–I refuse to roll over now. This is what I’m learning, that being scared isn’t always an invitation to run away. More often than not, it’s an invitation to grow a pair (of big balls, Mom) and run toward.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

We are surrounded by the light.

"

Shattered (Blog #410)

1 Comment

Last week I saw my therapist and we talked about money, a subject that almost always makes me twitchy. “It’s like your heart is in your throat,” she said. That night I went for a run to chill out, then wrote a blog in which I explored how my childhood feelings about money have apparently gotten all mixed up with my current feelings about money. You can read the blog here, but the big takeaway was that I was completely overwhelmed once as a teenager when I had to meet with our bank regarding our failure to make mortgage payments (since Mom was sick and Dad was in prison), and that feeling of “I’m in over my head when it comes to money” has never completely gone away.

Or gone away at all, really.

Of all the blogs I’ve written, that one about going to the bank as a teenager was perhaps the most emotional for me, meaning I broke down crying while writing it. Granted, I’ve cried plenty of times while blogging, but this was ugly crying, not movie-star crying. Serious boo-who-who-ing. Anyway, I saw my therapist this afternoon, and I read the blog to her and cried some more. “See, this–is–wha-what ha-ha-happens,” I said, adding that I hated the fact that I’m a thirty-seven-year-old man who feels like a teenager when it comes to anything financial. “I’m a fuh-fuh-fucking mess.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Let it out.”

Later, when I was more calm, my therapist said, “You’ve never told me that story before. That was a big deal, and it makes absolute sense that you responded the way you did. Anyone in your circumstances would walk away from that experience thinking that money was scary, dirty, and hard to come by.”

“It’s not?” I said.

As we continued to flesh things out, I told my therapist that I’ve thought about that day at the bank a lot over the years. It’s not like I haven’t known “that was a bad day.” But seriously, until I broke down while blogging about it last week, I didn’t realize what a formative event it was for me, how intimidating and frightening it was. “You were acknowledging it in your head, but not in your heart,” my therapist said. “You normally don’t do a lot of crying in here, but the fact that you are now is a good thing. It means you’re ready to get this sorted out and heal. It means you’re ready to grieve for that teenager.”

I think that’s such a poignant word–grieve–since I don’t often fully acknowledge what all I lost when my dad went to prison. Obviously there was the childhood thing–I grew up way too fast. But then there were things I lost you might not think of, like my sense of power, my feeling of belonging in this world, my pride in my circumstances. Oh yeah, and that feeling I had when I was a kid about how money was exciting and fun, something to be enjoyed (and not overwhelmed by). Where did that part of me go?

Because I’d really like it back.

My therapist says that your past doesn’t determine your future, that just because things were shit when you were a teenager doesn’t mean they have to be shit forever. (God, I hope she’s right.) She also says that with everything that went on in my childhood, I could have EASILY ended up addicted to drugs, and the fact that I didn’t only goes to show how resilient I am. (So that’s something.) I hope my repeating this compliment doesn’t sound like bragging, since I’ve never once used the word resilient to describe myself (before now), and I didn’t plan it this way. It’s not like there was a moment in my childhood when I thought, Dad’s in prison and the bank is on our back, but I’m not going to shoot heroin up my arm–no, sir, not me–I’m going to be resilient!

No emotion is ever truly buried.

But seriously, I don’t know why one person who’s dealt a shit hand in life turns to drugs and another doesn’t. Likewise, I don’t know why my sister has always been one to cry about things in the moment and I’ve (apparently) always been one to bury my emotions for decades. But I do know from personal experience that no emotion is ever truly buried. You may keep it down for a while–fool yourself and others–but it’ll come up somehow. (Just you wait.) Also, getting back to that long list of things I lost when I was a child like my feeling of belonging and pride in my circumstances, I don’t think these things were ever truly lost. Separated, maybe. But surely I can reconnect with them. Surely anyone can reconnect with themselves. For what is resilience but this, the firm belief that all shattered things can somehow be put back together.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Ultimately, we all have to get our validation from inside, not outside, ourselves.

"

My Mother’s (Day) Example (Blog #409)

Leave a comment

Two years ago on Mother’s Day I had plans to see a musical with a friend of mine, but they called that morning violently ill. In a mad dash to find another plus-one, I asked my mom to go, thinking she’d say no because she isn’t exactly spontaneous. But she said yes, so then I made reservations at the only place I could find that took reservations online–Ruth’s Chris (Fancy Pants) Steakhouse. Based on Mom’s reaction when we pulled into the parking lot, it completely made her day. (Considering I’d actually forgotten it was Mother’s Day until that morning, this was a huge win.) Anyway, last year we repeated our adventure–saw a play, went back to Ruth’s Chris. (You can read about here.) Again, Mom was thrilled.

And thus a tradition was born.

That’s right, today for Mother’s Day, we did it all over again. First, Mom and I saw a play in Fayetteville at Theater Squared, The Hound of the Baskervilles. A humorous take on the classic Sherlock Holmes story, it’s the same show I saw last week and stars the three talented actors who taught the comedy workshop I attended a few days ago. Y’all, the production was just as hilarious today as last week, even more so. You know how it is the second time around–you notice things you didn’t notice before, subtle little things. At least that’s been my experience with theater productions and boyfriends. (That last part was a joke.) Today there was a line that completely escaped me the first viewing, a reference to a miniature cow, which one of the characters called “a bonsai bovine.” A bonsai bovine–how clever! I’m still tickled.

After the show, Mom and I briefly went to a bookstore, but neither of us saw anything we couldn’t live without. Still, it was fun to look. Then we went to Starbucks because Mom hardly ever goes to Starbucks and it’s still a treat for her to get a Chai Tea. (It’s the little things.) As for me, I got a White Chocolate Mocha and a chocolate-chip cookie because, well, fuck Autoimmune Paleo. (At least for today.)

No regrets.

Leaving Starbucks, Mom and I went back to Ruth’s Chris for dinner. Seriously, the name is weird, but it’s a pretty classy joint. The waiters all smile at you (imagine that), there’s a candle on every table, and today all the mothers got a rose. Oh, and did I mention the food is fabulous? Tonight Mom and I both got steak and split our sides, creamed spinach and southwest mac and cheese. (Can you say fattening?) And then–and then–we both had chocolate cake. (Can you say bitch, it was delicious?)

It’s weird what all can happen in twelve months. This time last year, mom was just about to be diagnosed with breast cancer. Now she’s undergone chemotherapy, had a double mastectomy, and completed radiation. Last week she got a new wig, and today she wore her foobs (fake boobs) for the first time. One is slightly bigger than the other, which Mom said was true to life. (We talk about EVERYTHING in this family.) At dinner tonight I asked Mom how it felt having come through the whole ordeal. Glancing at a bracelet around her wrist that says, “Hope,” she said, “I’m glad it’s over.” This really is good reminder–something worthy of celebrating–that just as challenges can come into our lives, they can also leave.

Never give up on life or anyone in it.

Later I told Mom, “The next time you reincarnate, I’d ask for an easier life. You’ve had more than your fair share of trials and tribulations this go round.” Seriously, the woman has. I won’t go into details, but she’s had it rough. And yet here’s what I notice about my mother, that not only is she able to weather the storms of life, but that she’s able to do so with poise. Not that she doesn’t have bad days, but she doesn’t whine about them. At least from my point of view, she’s not bitter. And whereas I consider my mother’s unconditional love her greatest gift to me, perhaps this is her second greatest gift–her example of grace under fire. Perhaps this too is unconditional love–to refuse to be defined by your bruises, to never give up on life or anyone in it (including yourself), to hope.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

You really do belong here.

"

A Blanket of Stars (Blog #408)

Leave a comment

Blah. That’s how I’ve felt all day today, probably because I partied hard last night. And whereas pizza and beer make you feel good in the moment, they apparently don’t make you feel good the next day. Since I woke up this morning, all I’ve wanted to do is lie around. So other than leaving my bedroom for two meals, that’s pretty much what I’ve done–stayed in bed to sleep in, stayed in bed to read a book, stayed in bed to take a nap (until our dog, Ella, barked her ever-loving butt off at whatever the hell was so important outside and woke me up).

Blah.

What sucks about feeling blah is that all your blah thoughts get together and put on a parade in your head. One by one they march across the theater of your mind as they kick up their heels and wave around their pom-poms of negativity. Your life sucks! Everything is falling apart! Gooooooo team! That’s about what things have sounded like in my head today. Real hopeful, I know.

This evening after taking Tom Collins (my car) to the car wash to clean him up for Mother’s Day tomorrow, I went for a run, three miles, I think. That helped a little, smelling the honeysuckle, burning up my frustrations under a blanket of stars. I’m really not a natural runner, but I love the way my feet strike the pavement. Starting off they’re heavy and awkward, then later they’re like a metronome, slow and steady. I guess there’s something about finding my rhythm on the road that makes me think one day I’ll find my rhythm in life as well.

Since getting home, I’ve been obsessed with my histamine levels. I spent a while rubbing some sore muscles, and my skin has been red and inflamed from the friction for over an hour. That’s not normal, I’ve been thinking, and I haven’t been able to stay off Google. I keep telling myself that I have doctors to figure this stuff out, but there’s such a large part of me that feels like I’ve got to do it on my own. I feel that way a lot, like I’m solely responsible for making my dreams come true, providing for myself, and even healing. As if I’m not part of a family, a community, or a universe.

As if I’m an island.

This “I’ll take care of it myself, damn it” attitude started when I was a child, I’m sure. Mom was sick and Dad was often absent, so my sister and I essentially raised ourselves. Personally, I see a lot of good that’s come out of this situation. For example, I’m highly independent and can think on my feet. I don’t mind going to the movies or eating out alone. Hell, I actually enjoy it. But the downside to doing everything by yourself for so long is that it not only makes it tough to trust other people, but also makes it tough (really tough) to ask for help. Isn’t that funny? There’s not a thing in this universe that doesn’t depend on something else for its existence, and yet admitting you’re not self-sustaining always feels so–so–embarrassing.

Or is that just me?

We all shine brighter together.

I guess we all want to be like the honeysuckle–wild, free, and never embarrassed. Likewise, we all want to feel connected, not just know it in our heads. Personally, I know logically that I’m not alone out here. I have a lot of support–my family, my friends, my therapist. And yet on blah days I have a hard time remembering that I’m connected, supported, and cared for. When you’ve raised yourself, it’s easy to forget that you’re part of something bigger. And yet surely every lone star belongs to a larger constellation, and surely we all shine brighter together.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

You've got to believe that things can turn around, that even difficult situations--perhaps only difficult situations--can turn you into something magnificent.

"