friends are for fun (blog #37)

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Today for lunch, I met my friends Margo, Eddie, Jennifer, and Chase at Cheddar’s Scratch Kitchen in Fort Smith. I wish I could tell you they came all the way from Northwest Arkansas exclusively to see me, but that’s not the case (and I’m okay with that). Rather, the four of them made the long haul to the River Valley because Chase wanted a Monte Cristo sandwich, and Cheddar’s is the only place that has one. Talk about dedication. I know people who won’t drive an hour for a booty call, let alone a sandwich. Chase actually created a Facebook page about it—that’s how much he loves the Monte Cristo.

After lunch, we took a moment to digest and made our way to Chase’s car. We all piled in, and I was in the back between Eddie and Margo, and it sort of felt like the Partridge Family bus, except we weren’t singing, and none of us are related, so maybe that’s a terrible comparison. Anyway, we went antique shopping, and Margo bought a cat with flowers on it to use as a doorstop because she likes cats and, I can only assume, has a door that won’t stay open. She also bought a set of glow-in-the-dark Madonna and Jesus statues because they were amazing.

Amen.

When I was a kid, my sister and I had a camera with actual film in it, and when we’d return from summer camp, we’d be so excited to get it developed. However, there was always a partially used roll with pictures yet to be taken, so we’d go to Walmart and take pictures of ourselves, you know, in shopping carts, next to a “for sale” sign, stuff like that. Well, even though the days of actual film are long gone, I still like to take silly pictures when I’m out shopping. So that’s what I did today.

Here’s one of me and my lord and savior, Jesus Christ. (For some reason I thought he’d be shorter. And don’t worry, I plan to go back and talk to him about those eyebrows.)

This is Chase in one of those machines that’s supposed to shake away body fat. The lady at the shop said it worked (although she didn’t know if it “worked”), but that you have to plug it in.

I took this photo because the ugly couch reminded me of a “gay test” that went around the Internet that pictured a hot guy in an ugly chair. It said, “If you think the guy in the chair is cute, you might be gay. If it occurred to you how ugly the chair is, you are gay.”

Lastly, here’s one of me with my head in the mouth of a golden crocodile. When I took it, there were several people standing nearby, and I almost decided not to take the picture. But then I reminded myself that I didn’t give a shit what they thought. So if you ever wonder what three years of therapy will buy you, you’re looking at it.

After the antique stores, we went to the mall in search of cheese on a stick, fried in corndog batter. (This was apparently another reason for the trip from Northwest Arkansas, and if you don’t have friends with this level of vision and dedication when it comes to food, I suggest you reconsider your friendships.) Well, the teenager at the corndog shop said that the corndog fryer was broken, and that it would be forty-five minutes before the repairman showed up. I think Jennifer said, “We drove all the way from Bentonville.”

First, damn it. Second, I don’t remember my teachers in high school ever mentioning that “corndog fryer fixer” was even a career option. Frankly, I feel let down.

To make up for The Great Fried Cheese/Corndog Disappointment of 2017, we got cookies and brownies instead. And then after we at those, Eddie said he was going back to the corndog shop to see if the fryer was fixed. A few minutes later, he sent Margo a message that said something like, “Jackpot,” which I took to mean that the fryer was working. So the rest of us started walking, and I silently thanked my insulin for all it had done for me over the years and said, “Now’s your time to shine.”

Well, every single one of us had cheese on a stick, fried in corndog batter. And we all lived happily ever after.

Okay, that’s not the end of the story, but it’s close. I was in a rush to get to a dance function, so we all took our cardiologist-approved food to go, and Chase drove me back to Cheddar’s where I’d left my car. Ever since we all said goodbye, I’ve been trying to figure out how to turn our time together into a blog post. I mean, all four of my friends have amazingly quick wits and wonderful senses of humor, so I kept thinking that I could write about some of the hilarious things that were said today. But of course, stuff like that usually falls flat on paper. (See what I did there?)

But here’s something. Over the years in therapy, I’ve had a number of friends who have been brought up in conversation with my therapist over and over and over again. At some point, I realized that if I was talking about someone to my therapist on a regular basis, it probably meant that I had a problem with that person, some sort of drama. Maybe I needed to fix a boundary, have a confrontation, or even apologize.

One day my therapist said, “Friends are for fun.” And I think her point was that often our friendships become too serious, too filled with drama, and we forget that friendships are relationships we choose in order to make our lives lighter and more enjoyable. Some days, I think, need to be spent with friends who like to laugh. And even better if they like to eat cookies and comfort food and cheese on a stick fried in corndog batter on days like today because those things are not only fun, they’re delicious. And God didn’t make stretch pants so they could hang in the closet and collect dust. So this is my letter of gratitude, both to my friends and to my stretch pants.

[Thank you, Margo, Eddie, Jennifer, and Chase for lending your beautiful faces to this blog and my day. I had an absolutely marvelous afternoon.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Stop buying your own bullshit.

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small beginnings (blog #36)

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Last night I slept for a grand total of two hours. When the alarm went off at 7:45 this morning, I stumbled into the kitchen and stood in a daze with the freezer door open for five minutes while I stared at one frozen waffle and wished it were two frozen waffles. (Unfortunately, the waffle never multiplied, so don’t ask me to feed the five thousand.)

I spent the day attending Leadercast at the Van Buren Performing Art Center. Leadercast is an annual, national event where several prominent leaders from various fields come together to discuss leadership. This year’s theme was “purpose,” and the event took place in Atlanta, but was broadcast to cities around the world, including Van Buren. Two of the speakers today were local, and one of them was my friend Marla, and she had an extra ticket, and that’s why I dragged my ass out of bed so early.

When I got to the event, the third speech was already in progress, so I sneaked in the back and thought, Apparently some leaders get out of bed REALLY early. The guy speaking was Jim McKelvey, the creator of the credit card processing software called Square. Well, anytime I attend events like these, I always take notes because my inner straight-A student simply will not quit, even when he’s sleep deprived. So the first thing I wrote in my “lowing my expectations has succeeded beyond my wildest dreams” notebook was “An artist is someone who makes something that nobody needs,” but what I thought was “An artist is someone in his mid-thirties who lives with his parents and stays up until five-thirty in the morning blogging about it,” which just made my ego soar. I’m an artist.

After Jim’s speech, there was a break and I found Marla. We walked upstairs where several sponsors were giving away free pens, magnets, squeezy balls to help reduce stress, and coffee. Ya’ll, I’ve never been so glad to see a cup of coffee in all my life. It tasted like a miracle, better than two frozen waffles ever could have. But the most notable part of the entire break was that there was a jazz combo playing, right there in the middle of the room (in Van Buren, Arkansas). I looked at Marla and said, “Who has a jazz combo at nine-thirty in the morning?” Talk about something that nobody needs. Still, I couldn’t help do a little Bob Fosse number as we walked down the stairs, the whole time thinking, I should get up before noon more often.

After the break, there were more speakers, and then we had lunch. And then there were even more speakers. One guy, a psychologist named Dr. Henry Cloud, told the story of a woman with an eating disorder who used to come to group therapy “dressed to the nines.” And it became this point of discussion, like, why do you have to look so perfect? But she said she just had to.

So one day he’s in a suit and tie, about to leave the group and go straight to give a big presentation, and he looks at this lady and takes his cup of coffee and pours it down the front of his dress shirt and says, “You don’t have to be perfect.”

As he told the story today, he did it again. He just poured his coffee down the front of his white dress shirt, made a couple jokes about not having a six-pack (but having a keg), and kept going with his speech. So I got out my notebook and wrote, “You don’t have to be perfect,” and I centered it perfectly in the middle of the page, and then I went back and added a smart-looking exclamation point. (And that, my friends, is called irony.)

The last speaker in Atlanta was Tyler Perry, the creator of the character Madea. Back to the theme of purpose, Tyler said that he found his purpose on the other side of his pain. Tyler also said that when he was first getting started, he wrote a play that took six years to really get off the ground, that he lived in his car for part of that time. “Scripture reminds us to never despise small beginnings.”

After Tyler, Marla spoke. She talked about how much she loved this area, how her roots were planted deep, and how she wanted local leaders to know what a difference they make, that people notice. Her speech was so beautiful that it almost made me not want to move.

Almost. (But maybe that means that when I do move, I’ll move with more appreciation for my roots.)

This evening I took a nap for a few hours. When I woke up and told my brain that I needed to write, my brain took one look at me and said, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

So here we are. It’s two-thirty in the morning, and I wish I could tell you where I’m going with all this. Usually I try to pick one event or emotion and stick to it, figure it out, find a lesson in it. But on days like today, it’s harder to do that. I heard so many wonderful, inspiring things today. Hell, I heard a jazz combo at nine-thirty this morning. All day I kept thinking about the blog and about writing, about being an artist and how I struggle with perfection. I thought about how therapy and even this blog have helped me to work through my pain and how it feels like I’m getting closer to my purpose. I thought about small beginnings, how I often despise them, wishing for something better rather than appreciating them for what they are—actual beginnings.

And how beautiful it is to begin!

And how beautiful it is to begin, however imperfectly.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Normal people don’t walk on water.

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excitement turned upside down (blog #35)

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Today I drove to Northwest Arkansas with the intent of settling the hospital bill from my sinus surgery. The bill was several thousand dollars—after insurance—and I was hoping to get a discount by paying it all at once. (Thank God for credit cards.) My other goal for the afternoon was to call my dentist’s office and schedule ANOTHER appointment to deal with residual sensitivity and pain after I had two fillings a month ago.

Things like this always make me nervous. It’s like anyone who sits behind a desk reminds me of a principal or a judge and brings up all my authority issues. (Have I mentioned that Dad went to prison?) So I spent the entire drive to the hospital this afternoon feeling like I’d just had half a pot of coffee, going over in my head how I would turn on my charm and what I could say to the nice billing officer.

Well, there were two ladies working in the billing department, and as I sized both of them up, I figured neither one had been laid in a year (but maybe that’s just me projecting). And since I always end up in the wrong lane at the grocery store, I was convinced neither lady was going to make my day any better.

Only one lady was moving people through her office, and eventually it was my turn. After I sat down, I introduced myself, showed her my bill, and asked what the options were. Specifically, I asked about the note at the bottom of the bill that said there was a discount if the balance was paid in full. Then rather matter-of-factly, she told me that specific offer was no longer valid. She said there was a new sheriff in town and he was pretty strict about deadlines, and I’d missed mine by a few days.

Shit.

My therapist says that money is a real “sticky wicket” for me, that I have a “poverty mentality.” She also says that considering my background, it’s understandable, but that it doesn’t apply to my life now. It’s like I’ve been running old software and need a new program. “The universe is abundant,” she says. That’s the new program I can’t quite get to load. (To better explain why I can’t quite load it, here’s a picture of what happened to our house when I was four.)

Back in the billing office, just as I thought everything was going south and that I’d have to pay the bill in full, the lady starts talking to me about an assistance program they have for people who live with their parents (at least that’s what I thought she said). She asked, “Do you make less than $35,000 a year?”

I tried not to laugh. “Yes, I certainly do.”

So the lady just goes to work filling out forms and asking me questions about my income and my bank account. Well, I immediately go back to being nervous because I hate anything official, and that includes forms and paperwork and bank statements. Again, I’m going to blame that on Dad.

I’ve talked to my therapist about situations like these, the way I flip shit inside whenever something involves authority AND money. And this was her response: “Would you STOP IT with your FUCKING Blair Witch Project?”

“Are you saying I’m overreacting?”

So I took a deep breath today, answered all the lady’s questions, and signed all the forms. And when it was over, she said that it would take thirty days to know for sure, but the program would most likely pay for seventy to ninety percent of my hospital bill, and I’d just be responsible for the rest.

Holy crap. Major “living with your parents” silver lining.

Well, I really wanted to hug her, but decided that wouldn’t be appropriate. So I just said, “Thank you. You’re my new best friend.”

I realize nothing is settled yet, and I don’t want to count my chickens before they hatch, but wow. I went in hoping for a ten to twenty percent discount and potentially ended up with something much, much better. I mean, the whole time I was sitting there thinking, This won’t work, I’m screwed, and this lady just kept plowing through, like, “I am going to help you, damn it.”

The universe is on my side.

There’s an affirmation I wrote down from a book I read once that says, “The universe is on my side. It pushes good to me.” And whereas I’ve always thought that sounded nice, I definitely experienced it today. So maybe the universe is abundant. And fine, I admit it. I was wrong.

Back in the car, I called the dentist’s office and made another appointment—like an adult. Despite my nervousness, it went fine. My therapist told me once that nervousness is basically excitement turned upside down—or inside out—I can’t remember which. But we were talking about my having a confrontation with a friend, and that’s what she said. Like, I know you think you’re about to soil your pants because you don’t want to do this, but the truth is that your subconscious is excited about it, and that’s why your bowels are about to evacuate.

I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes.

Well, it turns out she was right. (I hate that.) I had the confrontation and felt like a million bucks. And today after talking to the billing lady and calling the dentist’s office, I also felt like a million bucks. Okay, so maybe I felt like eighteen dollars and seventy-nine cents, but all my nervousness disappeared, and I was really proud of myself for “feeling the fear and doing it anyway.” And maybe from now on, I won’t look at nervousness as “something bad’s about to happen,” but rather “something good’s about to happen.” Why shouldn’t it? The universe is on my side.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can't build a house, much less a life, from the outside-in. Rather, if you want something that's going to last, you have to start on the inside and work your way out, no matter how long it takes and how difficult it is.

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this present moment (blog #34)

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Dad just finished taking a shower and getting dressed. The entire house smells like twenty-five-year-old cologne. I’m gagging. Earlier today I decided that I don’t have a sinus infection but do have a cold, and I can only imagine how bad the smell would be if I weren’t congested. He must have slathered the cologne on, maybe taken a bath in it. “You smell like a French whore,” I said. “I’m going to blog about it.”

***

I spent the day coughing and reading a hundred pages in a book by Andrew Solomon called The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression. It’s 445 pages of total text, and it’s not exactly what I would call light reading. But I’ve had it checked out of the library for over a month and I’m determined to finish it.

A couple of months ago, my mom and I watched Andrew’s TED Talk called Depression, the Secret We Share (30 minutes), and we both cried. So I checked out his book from the library, and Mom read it first. Having been clinically depressed for over thirty years, she identified with Andrew and marveled at his ability to put into words many of her dark feelings and difficult experiences. So more than anything else, I’m reading the book to better understand my mom and people like her.

Mom’s depression started shortly after I was born, and I don’t have many memories of her without it. I guess as a kid I didn’t fully understand, but I remember that she had to go away for maybe a year when I was six or seven to live in a hospital in Baltimore. I guess all kids are embarrassed of their parents, but I can remember thinking that my mom seemed different than the other moms. Maybe it was just that she wasn’t able to do as much.

At some point, Mom had to quit her job as a nurse. The depression was too bad. The electric shock treatments affected her memory. From what I can gather, nursing was one of the few things that she really loved about her life, something she was really good at, and I think it’s taken her a long time to come to peace with the loss.

I’ve heard all my life that Mom has a type of depression that never goes away. Her doctor says that it’s like that for a small percentage of people. Some days and some years are better than others, but it’s like she’s never really out of the woods.

When I was in my early twenties, Dad had a heart attack. I remember going to the Van Buren City Park the next day and jogging. I started going to the gym soon after that, subscribing to Men’s Health. Even Dad will admit that the heart attack didn’t scare him into changing his lifestyle. He’s heavier now than he was back then. But it certainly scared me. Looking back, the jogging, the working out, the reading—it was all motivated by fear.

I’ve spent the last fifteen years really digging into health—what it is, how we lose it, how to get it back, how to keep it. It’s taken me down some pretty interesting paths, both traditional and alternative, and I’ve learned a lot. And whereas I thought that it all started with Dad and his heart attack, I’m sure now that it actually started with Mom and her depression.

Over eight years ago, I took a class in Reiki, a hands-on form of healing that originated in Japan. I usually preface any mention of Reiki by saying that it’s really weird, but it seems like things that are weird are becoming more and more mainstream lately. Anyway, my Reiki teacher says that there is a divine intelligence that is capable of healing any illness. Anything is possible.

Frankly, I love this idea, and it actually lines up quite nicely with my Christian heritage. (I can do all things through Christ, God can move mountains, etc.) Still, there’s a big part of me that has a lot of evidence—like Mom’s depression—to the contrary. So it’s something I really struggle with, this idea of whether or not things like pain and sorrow come and go or simply come—and stay.

I think it’s a huge part of the reason that I get so frustrated when I get sick. Every illness feels like it could be permanent. I can handle a sinus infection for a week, but the thought that I’ll have to handle them for the rest of my life is pretty unbearable. Those are the times it feels like everyone else has things that get better, but I’m the exception. Worse, it feels like I’m doing something wrong. Like if there’s a divine intelligence capable of healing, it’s either not willing to, or it must be my fault when things don’t get better.

Last night I started reading a book by Pema Chodron called Comfortable with Uncertainty. I picked it up at an estate sale last weekend in Tulsa because I liked the title and because I’m not. There’s a line in the first chapter that says, “We explore the reality and unpredictability of insecurity and pain, and we try not to push it away. If it takes years, if it takes lifetimes, we let it be as it is.”

Wow.

“We try not to push it away.”

I can’t tell you how hard I try to push pain away, how hard I work to make health a permanent state of being, to make it certain. (A history of chocolate cake and cigarettes notwithstanding.) But clearly, the truth is that it’s uncertain. As Saint Teresa of Avila says, “All things pass away.” (I just got up to take some Claritin and Ibuprofen, and the house STILL SMELLS like a teenage boy who’s discovered Axe Body Spray. So—obviously—some things pass away more quickly than others.)

A few years ago, Mom’s depression started on an upswing. I can remember going out to eat with her in high school or college and her not saying a word. Now she talks and talks and talks some more. (It drives Dad crazy.) She’s still sick, but it’s a remarkable difference. And I think that’s one of the benefits of my being here now. For the longest time, it’s been easy for me to keep Mom’s illness at a distance, to personally run after health and treat someone else’s sickness like something that doesn’t concern me. Looking at it now, that’s because I haven’t been ready to admit just how scared and vulnerable I really feel about it.

So this week my goal is to do my best to lean in, to be more okay with having a cold or a mother with depression, to open up to this present moment rather than trying to push it away. And rather than wishing things were different than they are, I can look for the gift in this present moment—a chance to experience compassion for myself and others, a chance to experience my heart.

[The top photo is of my mother when she was in nursing school. Isn’t she lovely?]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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No emotion is ever truly buried.

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the prison doors (blog #33)

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Last night I dreamed that I was in a dark, dank prison. It looked medieval. You know–guys with bad dental hygiene locked behind bars–the whole bit. But then later in the dream, the prison was cleaned up. The guys behind the bars were gone. The doors had been taken off the cells. It was like a museum, and as I was walking through it, I saw a few ghosts fly across the corridors.

When I woke up this morning, I was sick. Like feeling gross, coughing, hacking up box-of-crayons-colored snot. As I type this now, I can’t say that it’s gotten any better. All day I’ve been fighting disappointment. I mean, I just had this sinus surgery to help cut down on sinus infections, and here I’ve probably got one staring me in my face, or more accurately—I’ve got one in my face. I guess the word that comes to mind is hopeless, as if it’s never going to get better.

I’ve really been trying to be patient with my body, to consider that there are a lot of other factors that contribute to getting and staying well besides having a surgery. I’ve heard that nutrition and sleep are important, and I’ve pretty much been giving those things the finger for the last month. Plus, there’s this new thing called stress that’s supposed to be a negative influence, and I may have a tiny bit of that in my life at the moment.

This afternoon I saw my therapist. I told her about speaking at the writing class yesterday, about how I read a story that I’d written six months ago and how the whole time I was reading it I was thinking, God, Marcus, you sure say “fuck” a lot. And I can’t believe you just told this group of total strangers that you’re gay! But then I told my therapist just how liberating it was to be myself, and I figured that’s what the dream with the prison was about, like my subconscious was saying that I was finally free.

My therapist agreed about my interpretation and added that the ghosts in the dream are like those people-pleasing or self-judgmental voices in my head, the guests that are welcome to come to the party but not sit at the table. She called them “the ghosts of Christmas past.” She said she thought it was an INCREDIBLE dream, and both her eyebrows shot up when she said INCREDIBLE, so it felt like my subconscious had just gotten a gold star.

Another thing we talked about was unexpressed emotions. For pretty much my whole life, I think I’ve put most of my emotions in a really big jar with a really tight lid on it. Over the last few years, I’ve given myself permission to take the lid off, which has been both relieving and terrifying. The terrifying part has to do with the fact that you don’t get to pick when emotions come out of the jar. I mean, if it were up to me, I’d get out my planner, look at next Friday, see that I had some free time, and write down “Cry” between three and five in the afternoon.

But that’s not how emotions work, apparently.

My unexpressed emotions always show up unannounced. Once I was on a massage table and ended up crying as soon as the lady got to my stomach. My body was shaking, and I had memories of the fire that burned out house down when I was four. Another time I got extremely angry in yoga class when the teacher kept telling me what to do and it reminded me of my father because he likes to do that. And then at the end of class, as soon as I went into Child’s Pose, I started sobbing. Another time on another massage table, I couldn’t stop laughing. The guy said I was probably laughing at how shitty my life had been. (Isn’t that perfect?)

So I told my therapist today that I feel like there are a lot of emotions left in the jar. My hip pain always feels like frustration, and my sinus issues always feel like sadness. And I want it all to come out. I want it to all be over. But my therapist has said before that emotions happen in their own time. You can’t force them. And she reminded me today how much progress I’ve made since I first walked through her door three years ago. She said that I had started the journey long before I came to her and that I’ll continue it long after, but she said that I had gone through the dark part of the woods, that I wasn’t lost anymore.

So I think when it comes to my health and my sinuses, I could look at having the surgery like coming through the dark part of the woods. And whereas I always want a “one and done” miracle, the more realistic viewpoint is that I’ve come a long way and that’s something to be proud of, but the journey is not over.

Last night a dear friend gave me a small notebook. She’d read one of my blogs where I quoted a bookmark I used to have that said, “If at first you don’t succeed, lower your expectations.” So the front of the notebook said, “Lowering my expectations has succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.” (See the picture at the top of this blog.)

Well, I think that’s amazing. I also think it’s an excellent reminder to not put so much pressure on myself. I can lower my expectations. I don’t have to cry today. It took decades to shove all those emotions in the jar. I’d probably have a mental breakdown if they call came up at once, so a little bit here and a little bit there is fine. It’s enough that the lid is finally off. And I don’t have to fix all my sinus problems all at once. Isn’t it a big deal that even as I sit here feeling sick, I can actually breathe? And really, the prison doors are finally off. I can handle a few ghosts.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Everything is progressing as it should.

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farts aren’t planned (blog #32)

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This morning I woke up with a tickle in my throat. I actually dreamed about it last night, and a friend in the dream told me to eat some yogurt. So that’s what I did when I got out bed because I wanted my subconscious to know that I’m listening to it. Now if I end up getting sick, I’m going to tell my subconscious to go screw itself, to which I’m sure it would reply, “Will you PLEASE go to bed sooner, quit eating ice cream and tacos for dinner, and stop thinking that you’re still twenty-three?”

Well, maybe today’s the day. With any luck at all, I’ll finish this post before the sun goes down, and I can get some sleep. Before the week is over, I plan to clean up my diet, start doing some push-ups. And then in two weeks, maybe my favorite pair of jeans won’t look like a pair of acid-washed yoga pants.

Whenever I decide to start or stop something, to form or break a habit, there’s always a lot of buildup and anxiety about it. I think about it, pray about it, think about it, pray about—for weeks, sometimes months. Not changing anything, mind you, just stressing.

Once a change HAS been made, I can rock out a good habit for a while—meditating every day, going to the gym five times a week, eating well. But then something happens, and that all goes to shit, and it’s cigarettes for breakfast and banana splits for lunch.

When things are going “the right way,” when I’m behaving like I think I should, I feel pretty good about myself. But when things fall apart, my go-to response is to beat myself up, to start “shoulding” on myself. My therapist says that’s because I want things to always be the same. But everything changes, she says. Even good habits fall away.

For the longest time, I would go to my therapist’s office and beat myself up about smoking cigarettes, a habit that started in my early twenties and effectively disappeared until I broke up with my ex three years ago. And while I was more concerned about my health and what other people would think if they found out, she was more concerned about the fact that I was shoulding on and judging myself. She said that one day I would have enough and quit.

And she was right. One day it became clear. I stopped. Just like the seasons, it changed.

This afternoon my friend Marla and I went to speak at our friend Anita’s writing class at the Fort Smith Public Library. (That’s our picture at the top of the blog.) Anita has been teaching writing in Fort Smith since God was a small child, and her second novel comes out this summer. Like her first novel, it’s about a murder that took place in Van Buren over thirty years ago. Anyway, I thought that I was going to the class to support Marla and reconnect with Anita, but had I read my messages more clearly, I would have known that I was actually going to speak about my glamorous life as a blogger.

So I winged it and read a story I wrote last September about how unhappy I was owning the dance studio and living in Fort Smith, how I wanted to write more and move to Austin. And then I talked specifically about the blog, and Anita told the class that if you don’t like R rated movies, don’t go to one, and if you don’t like four-letter words, don’t go to Marcus’s blog.

So even though I didn’t plan to speak, it all turned out fine. And what I loved about it is that there wasn’t any planning, no thinking about it and praying about it, no anxiety. It just happened.

When I finished, a dear lady named Marilyn said, “Marcus, I think you need to get on the next bus out of here. Just move to Austin.” And then several others chimed in and said, “Fuck it. You only live once.” (I’m paraphrasing. They didn’t actually say that.) But I totally felt encouraged, so I asked Marilyn if she’d like to take a selfie with me, and she said, “I would love that,” so here it is.

Alan Watts tells the story of a Buddhist monk who poetically stated that you can’t plan everything in life. You don’t think, I’m going to go to the supermarket at ten tomorrow morning and then “drop fart” at ten-thirty. And this is actually a spiritual lesson. Farts aren’t planned. They’re “a happening.”

Honestly, I think I give myself too much credit. It’s probably an ego thing. I think that I can control when I get sick and when I get well, when I work and when I don’t, and where I live. And I’m not saying I don’t have any influence in what I eat or when I go to bed or when I’ll move to Austin, but I do think my therapist and the Buddhist monk are right. One day, I’ll clean up my diet and go to bed sooner. One day, I’ll get on a bus and get out of here. When that is exactly, I can’t say, but I can save myself a lot of anxiety by not worrying about it so much. When it’s time, I think I’ll know it’s time, and it will simply happen. And just like the speech that wasn’t planned, it will all turn out fine, even if there are a few four-letter words along the way.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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on being embarrassed (blog #31)

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Today I woke up at two in the afternoon. I should really start doing that more often. It felt glorious. Alternatively, I guess I could start going to bed earlier, but I really think God intended things like blogging and eating tacos to only be done after midnight, under the cover of darkness. (Isn’t that one of the commandments?)

When my aunt woke me up this afternoon, she told me that she’d come into my room earlier to make sure I was still breathing. She’d read last night’s blog about my talking to Jesus and taking a Hydrocodone, and wanted to make sure I hadn’t overdosed on either one. (I’m currently picturing one of those witty church signs saying something like: Prescription—Jesus, Side Effects may include heaven.)

Once I got around, my aunt took me to lunch with my cousin. At one point, they were talking about a flower arrangement my cousin had given my aunt, and when she realized that he’d made the arrangement himself, she said, “You did good!” And then my cousin, totally deadpan, looked at her and said, “Mom, I did WELL. Superman does good.”

Isn’t that amazing? Superman does good. I nearly spit out my third cup of coffee. (And I wonder why I have trouble falling asleep at night.)

After breakfast (that’s lunch to you), I walked to Utica Square to do some shopping. Well, even though it was cold, I wore shorts because they fit better than my jeans. It’s like this little mind-game I play with myself. The tighter my pants are, the fatter I feel, so if my pants aren’t tight, that must mean I’m not fat. Well, that logic works for a while, at least until it’s fifty degrees outside and the only pants that fit you turn out to not actually be pants at all.

Even though I tried on six or eight items of clothing, I didn’t buy anything because everything was either too short, too tight around the shoulders, too not perfect. And whereas I actually do need a few more things to wear, it was nice not to spend the money and end up with something I wasn’t really gung-ho about. I’ve blogged about it before, but this is one of the perks of minimalist living—more money, fewer things I don’t adore.

Back at my aunt’s house, we spent the evening in her living room, just chatting. A few times her dog Benny climbed up on me, looking for some attention. This is what I love about animals. They just ask for what they want. (One time in therapy, my therapist suggested that anytime I wanted a hug, I could simply ask my friends for one, so sometimes I do that. So far, no one’s refused.)

My aunt pointed out that Benny has some benign lumps on his body, and the biggest one (about the size of a baseball) is in a rather personal area. And then my aunt joked, “If he knew any better, he’d be embarrassed.” So we both laughed, and then my writer brain went to work thinking about all the times I’ve been embarrassed and whether or not I could make a story out of any of it. And the only memory that came to mind was when I was in my early twenties and got hit on by a millionaire.

I’ll try to be brief.

When my dad was in prison, he met a millionaire (a guy in his sixties, maybe) who was in prison for something to do with taxes. So when they both got out of prison, the man invited our family to visit him. And I guess a lot of guys in prison brag about having big houses and a lot of cars and antiques, but it’s usually all bullshit. But this guy actually had all that stuff.

Why should anyone be embarrassed about the truth?

Well, we had a great time, but looking back, the guy hit on me a lot. I guess I knew it at the time, but I was pretty naïve back then, so I didn’t fully see it for what it was. At one point, he straight up told me that I had a nice ass, and I guess I blushed or started stuttering. I don’t remember what I said, but it must have been something like, “I’d be too embarrassed to say something like that.” And I just remember the guy saying, “Why would you be embarrassed to say you like something?”

I’ve thought about that a lot over the years. And although I’m not saying I think everything the guy said and did was socially appropriate, even now I’m struck by his confidence, his lack of shame. I used to think that his confidence had to do with his money or age. I’m sure it all helps. But in my experience, the more I accept myself, the less ashamed and less embarrassed I am. I’m still not where Benny is, but maybe one day I’ll be completely okay with a few extra pounds, or a pair of pants that fit too tight, or asking for what I want. I mean, why should anyone be embarrassed about something they can’t immediately change? What’s more, why should anyone be embarrassed about the truth?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

up on the desk (blog #30)

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Wayne Dyer once said, “Refuse to let an old person move into your body.” Well, when I went to bed last night, my hips and back hurt so bad that I couldn’t roll from one side to the other without moaning. So I thought, Crap, a senior citizen has somehow sneaked in the back door. It’s official. We have a squatter. I seriously wondered if I’d be able to dance, or even walk today. So I did what any Christian would do. I prayed to Jesus and took a Hydrocodone.

Ya’ll, Jesus and Hydrocodone is a great combination. (You should try it.)

When I woke up this morning, I was convinced that Jesus answers prayers because I could walk. I mean, it wasn’t perfect, but I’m sure he’s been busy with Easter and everything, so I was still grateful. I managed to get around without too many grunts and groans, and then my aunt and I went to an estate sale. When we walked in the front door, there were chocolate-covered donuts for free, which I figured Jesus sent to make up for any hard feelings regarding The Aching Back Half-Miracle of 2017.

After the sale, my aunt and I had brunch where my cousin works, and she told me stories that I’ve heard about my mom probably three or four dozen times but never get old. And I didn’t take a picture with my aunt, but she took a picture of our food (and my hand), so I’ll put that here. And don’t let the healthy-looking kale fool you. My cousin said it was deep-fried in butter, cream cheese, and pizza dough (or something like that).

I spent this afternoon with my friend Kara. Kara and I graduated high school together, and we were both voted most likely to succeed, so I think it’s neat that that prediction came true. I mean, she’s succeeding at home ownership and being an attorney, and I’m succeeding at eating frozen waffles and being a blogger.

Anyway, Kara and I get together to visit a lot, but today we got together to hang pictures and such on her bedroom walls. (She said that after three years, it was time.) Here are a couple of pictures of all our hard work. My two favorite things are the three-dimensional golden starburst that we put inside a frame above her gray chair (first photo) and the framed quote we put below her window (second photo). I always think each room needs something a little unexpected. It makes me think of that scene in Dead Poets Society when John Keating stands up on his desk and tells his students it’s because he wants to remind himself to always look at things in a different way.

I spent this evening swing dancing, effectively undoing the half-miracle Jesus and His Twelve Pain Killers performed. For the last few years, I’ve been working on following more, which not only helps me with developing new dance skills, but also helps me with courage and not being intimidated and asking other guys to dance. So at one point tonight, I danced with my friend Walt, another teacher. After our dance was over, a lady I didn’t know–a total stranger–jumped up out of her seat several feet away and kind of yelled in my direction, “NOW you know what it feels like to be a girl.” And my gut reaction was that she was being sarcastic, so I just smiled and said, “I think it feels great!” (Don’t rain on my parade, lady.)

After the dance, Gregg and Rita and I went out with some of the other dancers. This is what I loved about it–there was this big mix of talent in the room, and everyone was sitting eating pizza or burgers or whatever, and everyone was on equal ground. At one point my friend Hannah (top photo), who’s an absolute badass on the dance floor, said that she often compares herself to other dancers and has plenty of insecurities about her dancing. Then one by one, everyone around her, including me, started nodding his or her head, like, Me too, Me too. And although it was this simple thing, it reminded me that we all have so much in common.

Before the night was over, Gregg and Rita and I (along with their two sons, Mason and Cody), moved to a bar called Kilkenny’s. It’s one of favorite places on God’s Green Earth, as I have a lot of memories there–long conversations with wonderful friends. Well, Rita started telling stories about how we used to travel together, about who snored louder, Marcus or Mason. So we were all laughing, and someone said something about the extended family, and I knew that included me.

At some point today, my aunt made the comment about people who are “professional complainers.” I’m sure you the type. So all day I was thinking I could somehow work that into a blog, maybe find something to complain about, but it just hasn’t happened. Some days, like today, are just good days. There’s nothing really to process or working out, and you simply get to enjoy all the hard work you’ve put into life so far. You get to eat a good brunch, you get to dance with your friends, you get to spend time with the extended family.

So even though I just had to have another talk with Jesus about my lower back, I don’t think there’s anything to complain about. And as far at that old guy who seems to have moved into my body, well, I think I can get him to move out with the promise of a hot bath or two. And really, I think that comment Wayne made wasn’t about your body’s aches and pains; I think it was about your mind and your heart. Obviously, sometimes life can be a real bitch. And it’d be easy to stay down on the ground, complain, and find everything that’s wrong and everything that hurts. But I think the goal is to climb up on the desk, to look at things in a different way, even if it’s a simple thing like realizing we all fight the same emotional battles and that a lot of wonderful things can happen even though you’re in pain.

Oh, about that conversation I had with Jesus. He said to take another Hydrocodone and go to bed, so I said, “Yes, Lord.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Everything is progressing as it should.

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wheel of fortune (going down) (blog #29)

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Currently, I’m in Tulsa, Oklahoma, it’s one-thirty in the morning, and I feel fat. For the last week, I’ve been noticing how the skin around my stomach has given up the good fight, how it’s gotten so tired of holding itself together that it’s taken to resting on the top of my pants. When I lean sideways in my chair, I can feel the skin below my waist and the skin above my waist push together, and it feels like two lumps of Play Doh fighting each other for King of the Mountain. It’s not amusing.

I made the mistake last night of looking at this hot guy’s Instagram. By anyone’s standards (including his own, I’m sure), he’s ridiculously gorgeous. It should be against the law to look like that. It should definitely be against the law to post so many selfies when you look like that. And even though I sat at the breakfast table and scrolled through his entire account (while I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and thought about the abs I used to have), I couldn’t find a single bad picture of this guy. (My therapist would call this good presentation.) So the more I looked at his muscles–his chest was for sure a solid b-cup–the fatter I felt. My only consolation was that he was probably stupid.

All I could think was, God I’m so glad I have this brownie.

So this afternoon I went to Panera Bread for comfort food, and there was this kid working the counter who had no more than a twenty-six inch waist. (He was also wearing makeup that was flawless, so good for him.) Anyway, he’d obviously put some thought into his appearance, and whenever I run into someone like that, it immediately makes me stand up straighter, suck in my gut, and think, God, I wish I weren’t wearing a t-shirt with a dinosaur on it. So when he asked me if I wanted a pastry for 99 cents, I was like, Fuck yes.

Well, the kid gave me my coffee cup, but then he walked away without giving me my pastry, so I had to stand there like a little girl on Halloween waiting for her candy. I honestly felt embarrassed, like, Hey man, I like brownies, okay? Don’t make me beg. It’s not my fault my metabolism slowed down.

So all this was going on in my head as the kid with the teeny-tiny waist and perfect eyelashes boxed up my brownie. And when he handed it to me, I said thank you, and then he said the worst possible thing he could have ever said. He said, “You’re welcome…SIR.”

SIR.

Now I’m fat AND old. What a great day.

But wait, it gets better.

While I was waiting on my food to arrive (yes, it involved bread), I opened my laptop, checked my email, and found out that I was not accepted for a writer’s colony in Massachusetts that I applied for last year. And even though I knew there over six hundred applicants and they were only taking eight, my hopes were high (just like my cholesterol). Of course, once I read the email, they went straight now. KER-SPLAT. And all I could think was, GOD I’M SO GLAD I HAVE THIS BROWNIE.

My immediate reaction to rejections like this is to give up on my dream, like, I suck at writing, and I should just get a job at a donut shop. Well, anytime I start to feel like shit, I try to keep myself from feeling like shit, so I started thinking, I hate the cold. I don’t want to spend the winter in Massachusetts anyway. I don’t need you and your writer’s colony and your–acceptance. But, of course, that didn’t really work. As my friend Bruce said when talking about dancing, “It doesn’t matter how nice a rejection is, it’s still a rejection.”

So I called my friend Marla and told her about the rejection and the brownie and the skinny kid with the good foundation. And when I told her that he called me sir, Marla said, “That little bitch.”

So that made me laugh.

This evening I drove to Tulsa to work on dance with my friends Matt, Anne, and Andy. I got to town a little early, so I went shopping for sweatpants because what better way to increase your self-esteem than to buy sweatpants? Well, the shopping didn’t help, since I couldn’t find what I wanted. I guess sweatpants are only in season during the winter. Geez, what do people do in the springtime when they need an elastic waistband? (I can’t believe I just said that.)

Well, thank God for Matt, Anne, and Andy. We spent over three hours dancing, and most of that was working on lift and aerials, which completely distracted me from the bad attitude I was enjoying before they came along. While we were working, Anne and I were the ones who were getting picked up, tossed about, and flipped over. I can’t tell you how much fun it was. I also can’t tell you how much my body is hurting even as I type this. I guess my hips are tight, or maybe I pinched something in my lower back, but every time I try to stand, it’s like I end up with a right angle at my waist, and even though I’m on my feet, I’m still looking at the floor. So I have to do this whole pep talk routine with my body–Come on, you can do it, just a few more inches and we’ll be vertical.

Honestly, it feels like I’ve been slapped around a lot today. Like life didn’t have anyone else to pick on, so it was my turn. When I was walking out of Panera Bread earlier, I saw the cover of a local magazine that said BITTER on the front, and I thought, “Yes, I am.” Well, I’ve done a lot of blogging this last week about being patient, accepting myself as I am, and trusting that God is intelligent and wise enough to get me where I need to be. And in this moment, I kind of want to take it all back.

So if you ever get the idea to start a blog and say something stupid like, “You can find joy in every circumstance,” don’t. Because chances are whoever’s in charge up there is gonna say, “Wanna bet?” (If you don’t think that this is the way life works sometimes, read the Book of Job.)

Okay, breathe, Marcus.

Joseph Campbell, who was a scholar on myths and religions, tells the story of the Wheel of Fortune. He says that most people live on the outside of the wheel. The gods bless them, their fortunes go up, and they’re happy. But then the gods curse them, their fortunes go down, and they’re sad. But Joseph says the goal is to live your life in the center of the wheel, to find that spot inside yourself that is unmovable. Then you can look at the gods and say, “Give me your best shot. Whatever it is–good or bad–up or down–I’m not going anywhere. I plan to thrive no matter what.”

Personally, I’m reminded that that’s my goal, to meet life’s disappointments and aches and pains not only with Ibuprofen, but also with renewed resolve to hold my center. And sure, I might get knocked off-balance now and then. I might need a brownie and a few friends on days like today. But make no mistake, I’m not going anywhere. Give me your best shot. I plan to thrive no matter what.

[Thanks to Anne for the first picture. It was taken just before I was flipped backwards. I decided not to show you the picture that was taken mid-flip because I think my butt looks big and the shorts I’m wearing make me look naked.]

UPDATE: My friend Marlene dared me to post this, so I am. Also by Anne.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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really good news (blog #28)

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A couple of days ago, I got the most lovely text message from my friend Sara. Sara and I met each other twenty years ago when we both worked at a summer camp in Mississippi called Camp of the Rising Son (CRS). (If it’s not obvious, CRS is a Christian Camp.) If you ever want to see my heart melt, ask me about the people at CRS. Ask me about the kids. It’s truly a magical place, and I guess as long as I live I’ll remember all the silly songs we used to sing, and all the ridiculous costumes we used to wear to entertain the children, and that one kid named Charles who threw up his chicken strips on my white shorts because he was homesick. (Thanks a lot, kid.)

(The above photo is of Sara and me, at camp. Funny how I thought I was in the closet back then, I know.)

Even now, I think of people like Sara and think, Family. And actually, for several years, I used to drive to Kansas City to see Sara and her brother Zach and her sister Joanna and their friend Liz, all of whom worked at camp. I’d spend holidays with them. I was there when Sara married my dear friend Mark (also from camp), and I was there for Sara’s mom’s funeral. Like I said, Family.

But for all the years I spent at summer camp and all the nights I stayed up late with my friends after the kids had gone to bed and all the soul-searching conversations, I never talked about my sexuality. Not that it wasn’t there, I just didn’t talk about it. I guess that was during the (really long) phase when I hoped it would change. (It never did.) I mean, I knew the camp’s policy. It was a sin. That was the line I used, even believed, when I went through my job interview when I was sixteen. So it was never discussed.

And it’s not like CRS was the only Christian institution where I’d heard that line. Hell, I grew up in the Bible Belt. I went to a Baptist Church on Sundays. I attended a Christian High School. And whether it was explicitly said or not, the message I internalized was, “This is wrong and I’m wrong. This is something to be ashamed of. It’s certainly nothing to brag (or blog) about.”

So that sucks.

As the years have gone by, I don’t believe that stuff anymore, and I can’t tell you how good that feels. But the residue of it all has been that anytime I get around Christians I grew up around or worked at camp with, I automatically assume that I would be judged or not accepted if I were to be completely honest and vulnerable about who I am (and whom I like to do). God, Marcus, you don’t have to type every thought that pops into your brain.

Tonight I had dinner with my friend Jim and his wife Sue. I met Jim years ago when I worked out at a gym he owned, and we ended up being working partners. There for a while (before I rediscovered my love for carbohydrates), we were working out all the time. And we pretty much talked about everything, but again, nothing that touched on my personal life. Well, when I broke up with my ex, I was a wreck. At first, Jim didn’t ask questions, even when he helped me move out. But I clearly wasn’t myself, and eventually I stopped working out so I could spend more time crying and eating pancakes.

One day I got this text message from Jim that said something like, “What the hell is going on with you? Whatever it is, it’s okay. NO JUDGMENT. We can talk about it.”

So I told Jim that guy wasn’t just my friend. He was my boyfriend. And my heart was broken.

And guess what? Jim cared about me, but he didn’t care about that other stuff. It didn’t change a thing.

(Here’s a picture of a really cool piece of art from Jim’s house, just because.)

One of my favorite spiritual teachers is a guy named Eknath Easwaran. (He’s dead.) He teaches a type of meditation that I really like called Passage Meditation where you repeat a spiritual passage (like the Lord’s Prayer or the Prayer of St. Francis) over and over again. Anyway, he wrote a book called Original Goodness, and in it he explains that whereas some faiths teach that man is inherently sinful or evil or bad, many faiths teach that man in inherently good, that at the core of each of us resides a spark of the divine.

I can’t tell you how much I like this idea.

There’s another spiritual teacher whom I like named Byron Katie, and if you’ve been around me much, you’ve probably heard me talk about her. Now I just say, “My therapist says,” but I used to say, “Byron Katie says.” Well anyway, Byron Katie says something similar. She says that our nature is good, kind, and loving. She says that she knows this is true because anytime we act differently, it feels like stress.

In my personal experience, I find this idea to be true. It never feels good to be angry or unkind or un-compassionate for very long. I always feel more “at home” when I’m patient or generous or giving.

What’s more, I find this idea to be true in my experience with others. It’s not that people don’t do or say shitty things. But overwhelmingly, I find people to be more good than I do sinful or evil or wrong. When Sara sent me that text message, she said she’d spent part of the day with my blog, that she’d read every word, that she saw my insides and my guts. And it was a really long text message, so I kept scrolling, just waiting for some judgment, any judgment, somewhere. But then I got to the end and didn’t find any. Sara’s exact words were, “Please know I love you—FOR ALWAYS.”

We were made to love without conditions. That’s the packaging we were sent with.

And I guess when I think about those messages from Jim and Sara, I’m reminded that people are good. (I wish I could tell you about all the wonderful folks who have, without even knowing it, shown me that my fears of judgment have been unfounded. I mean, it’s really good news to find out that the world isn’t as scary as you thought it was.) Sure, we all have our moments, we all forget our true nature at times, but we were made to love without conditions. That’s the packaging we were sent with. That’s what we are capable of.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can’t change what happened, but you can change the story you tell yourself about it.

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