why i can’t stop working (blog #7)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"No one's story should end on the ground."

my inner control freak (blog #6)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More cheating.

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

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

"

learning to be aggressive (blog #5)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Even if you can't be anything you want to be, you can absolutely be who you were meant to be. Don't let anyone else tell you differently.

"

the story of my success (blog #4)

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

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

So far, I haven’t developed any rashes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Boundaries are about starting small, enjoying initial successes, and practicing until you get your relationships like you want them. 

"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s be more like cats.

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All great heroes, at some point, surrender to the unknown.

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stardust and fairies (blog #2)

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Last night I had a dream about my friend Hunter. As background, I met Hunter several years ago when he was still a senior in high school and I was working for a local magazine as a writer. Hunter had written a play that his drama department was putting on, and it was kind of a big deal that a school was producing a play written by a student, so I wrote a story about it. (I’d share it with you, but the magazine changed names and websites and took down all the old stories. Bummer.)

Almost immediately, I liked Hunter. I found him intelligent, talented, adorable, and charming, and we started to form a friendship. He’s now living in Los Angeles, trying to make it as an actor, and we maybe get together once a year. Even though I don’t see Hunter very often, I feel about him today the way I felt when I first met him–I love him unconditionally. What I mean by that is that although I’m not in love with him, I just love him. Like, it doesn’t matter what he does or doesn’t do, and it doesn’t matter how often we talk, or if he comes to town and doesn’t call. I just care about him, I want him to have a good life, and that’s it.

I can’t say exactly why some people get unconditional love just like that and others either have to warm up to it or never get it at all. But I think the answer has to do with stardust and fairies.

The author Elizabeth Gilbert tells a story in her book Big Magic about meeting the author Ann Patchett, exchanging a kiss, and later finding out that Ann was halfway through writing a novel that was almost detail-for-detail the same as one Elizabeth had given up writing years before (but had never talked to Ann about). Elizabeth says that she believes ideas sort of float around, knocking on people’s doors until they find someone who will let them in, work with them, and help them become real things. She says that because she couldn’t finish the book, it went to someone else. And she thinks the idea jumped from her to Ann when they kissed.

I love shit like this.

Last night I heard Ann speak at the Fayetteville Public Library. When someone asked her about her side of the story involving Elizabeth Gilbert, she said it happened basically like Liz said, although she added that they’d been drinking before they kissed and that no body fluids were exchanged. As for the interpretation of what happened, she said that Liz was more spiritual than she was, that Liz was more “stardust and fairies.” She said that the coincidence was hard to deny, but that she was more “meat and potatoes” about it. I guess she told Liz, “So you’re telling me I was the book’s second choice?”

Personally, I like stardust and fairies over meat and potatoes. Call it God, the universe, your soul, or your subconscious. Call it stardust and fairies. But I like the idea that something wise is driving the ship or at least on board the ship, helping to steer us in the right direction.

I once had a friend tell me that when you’re gay, you don’t just come out of the closet. He said, “First you accept it in someone else, then you accept it in yourself.” I think the statement is pretty profound, largely because I think its application goes beyond sexuality.

My friend Eugenia says, “If you spot it, you got it.” Normally, we think of this truth in a negative sense, like if you notice how someone else complains all the fucking time, it probably means that you complain all the fucking time. (It sucks, I know.) But I think this truth applies across the board. Getting back to Hunter, if there’s someone in your life that you think is intelligent, talented, adorable, and charming, it probably means that you are too. First you accept it in someone else, then you accept it in yourself.

In my experience, accepting the good parts about myself is a process. It’s much easier to recognize them in someone else. It’s easier to love someone else unconditionally than it is to love myself unconditionally. But I think that’s why people like Hunter show up in our lives. They help steer us in the right direction. They help remind us of our deep capacity to love. Even better, when we give love, we get love. It’s like a trick the universe plays, like when you’re walking down the street and see a person in a shop window. At first you think it’s someone else, but then you realize, “Oh wait, that’s me over me. That’s me I’m loving.”

My therapist and I talk a lot about dreams. A couple of months ago, I had a dream that I was riding on the back of a swan, and (go figure), Katie Holmes was riding on another swan next to me. Both of us were flying over a big body of water. (Water shows up a lot in my dreams and is universally associated with the subconscious and emotions.) My therapist said that dreaming of a swan seemed pretty auspicious (she likes to use that word), and that swans are associated with grace under pressure, that it was like my subconscious recognizing that I was doing the best I can during this time of change.

When we talked about Katie Holmes, my therapist asked me what I associated with Katie Holmes. (When it comes to dreams, it’s not really about the other person; it’s about what the other person makes you think of.) I said that when I think of Katie Holmes, I think of her character on Dawson’s Creek and the episode in which she sang “On My Own” from Les Mis. So my therapist said the dream was also about my feeling alone in the world right now.

So get this. My therapist comes back the next session and says that she’s been researching swans. She says that she found out that they are always found in pairs. Swans are never alone.

I love shit like this.

In the dream last night about Hunter, Hunter and I were in a hotel. Hotels, like water, show up a lot for me. They represent times of transition–like, I don’t know–living with your parents. I haven’t discussed the dream with my therapist yet, but I’ve been at this long enough to know that the dream has something to do with being in a time of transition and seeing myself as intelligent and talented (and maybe even adorable and worthy of unconditional love) even though I haven’t made it to my next destination.

When I came to the library this afternoon, I knew that I was going to blog about Hunter and the dream, so I started looking for a photo of Hunter on my personal Instagram account. The one I found was taken over four years ago, when Hunter and I were hanging out at IHOP. It was the first time I found out about his nervous habit–a habit I’d forgotten about until this afternoon–twisting paper napkins into the shape of animals.

Well that’s not exactly right. Hunter doesn’t make animals out of paper napkins. Hunter makes just one animal out of paper napkins. And maybe you’ll look at the picture and see meat and potatoes.  But I look at the picture and see stardust and fairies. I look at the picture and am reminded that I’m being steered in the direction of unconditional love, both for others and for myself. I’m reminded that I’m not alone. Why? Take a look at the photo I took long before therapy or any of the dream interpretation ever started. Hunter makes paper…swans.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All emotions are useful.

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it’s time to soften up (blog #1)

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My friend Marla says that she could be a bank robber because no one ever remembers her. Most of the time, she’s quiet. She doesn’t get in anyone’s way. Like, you could probably step on her shoe on purpose, and she’d apologize for not having a smaller foot. By her own admission, she tries to blend in, to not stand out. I guess we all develop strategies for getting by in the world, and at least for now, this one is working for Marla.

Which is too bad.

This morning I woke up at 6:45 to hear Marla speak to a group of local business leaders. She currently writes and edits for a magazine in town that I used to write for, which is how we met. So six years ago she was just my editor. Now she’s also my friend, which is the only reason I got out of bed so friggin’ early.

Getting dressed, I threw on a white t-shirt that I bought as part of a three-pack deal from TJ Maxx. I love a white t-shirt first out of the package, but as they start to shrink, I usually grow to hate them. For this reason, I’ve recently taken to not putting my t-shirts in the dryer. Well, now that I’m living with my parents, of course, my mom has started doing my laundry. Turns out, she uses fabric softener on t-shirts. Well, I guess the scent is extra strong because the shirt wasn’t put in the dryer, so every three minutes, I get huge whiff of the stuff, and it smells like a brand new teddy bear on a glorious spring morning.

It makes me want to vomit.

The event this morning was held at a local bookstore and coffee shop, and the hosts provided a free waffle bar that was so fantastic it’d make even the Holiday Inn Express jealous. So I’m in the waffle line this morning, just holding onto my coffee cup and smelling my t-shirt, hoping that no one will talk to me or stand too close. And just at that moment, the guy next to me calls me by name and strikes up a conversation. All I could think was, “Shit” because I hate it when people know my name and I don’t know theirs, especially when there’s a timer ticking away on a waffle iron two feet away. It’s like the universe hitting you over the head and saying, “You’re stuck here for another two minutes and sixteen seconds.”

And then to make matters worse, I realize whom I’m talking to. It’s a guy who’s hit on me a number of times online. On Grindr. (Grindr is essentially a hookup app, but sometimes after five days of feeling lonely and three hours of drinking margaritas, I’ll think that it’s a good way to stumble across marriage material. I could probably compare this mentality to my dad’s believing that God wants him to win the lottery.) Anyway, this guy in the waffle line has straight up asked me for sex before, something that always offends me, at least when it happens before I find out someone’s name. (Once another guy asked me for sex, and when I asked what he did for a living, he told me that information was too personal. But sex is okay. Go figure.)

I realize that my getting on a hookup app and being offended by a quick offer for sex is a bit like showing up to an orgy and sipping tea and crumpets in a three-piece suite with your pinky raised in the air (like, I’m so much better than this), but we all have our standards.

So back to the waffle line. The timer’s up, it’s my turn to make a waffle, and the guy moves on. And despite everything that was going on in my head, it was a pleasant conversation. It didn’t make me want to go on a date or have sex with him, but it did make me think that some people come off better in person than they do online.

When my waffle finished, I topped it off with hazelnut cream cheese, bananas, and maple syrup, and sat down at a table in the middle of the room to hear Marla speak. (I guess I overdid it on the sugar and coffee because I’m actually shaking as I sit here in the library.) True to form, Marla started slowly, quietly. She read from a prepared speech, and she mostly looked down. She talked about losing a former job, about all the shit things that happened in her life before she ended up working as a full-time writer at the magazine. And I can only assume that I wasn’t alone as I sat there wondering where the talk was going and how she was going to connect with everyone in the room.

But then it happened.

In a still, small voice, Marla, whose exact beautiful words I can’t recall, said something like, “We all have times in our lives when we feel like we’re up against a wall, when we feel like things will never get better.” Right then, I wanted to cry, and I guess it’s because I’m single and I’m living with my parents, and my mom’s doing my laundry, and I smell like a field full of daisies. And to make matters worse, now I’m crying into my Belgium waffle at eight in the morning. (I’ll take “Things that are not a turn-on” for a thousand, Alex.)

My therapist says that life always balances itself. Like if you swing a pendulum really far in one direction, you know it’s going to swing back in the other. She says that I’ve been burning the candle at both ends for so long that this period in my life is the universe’s way of saying, “Whoa, Trigger, slow down.” This period of time is about resting, about getting balance. And as for living with my parents, she says that she lived with her parents for a while when she was getting her Master’s Degree and that it really laid the foundation for the good relationship she has with them today.

So maybe being at home again isn’t a bad thing. Maybe it’s about building better relationships and about finding balance, even if it’s in the little things like Mom doing my laundry because she was so sick with depression when I was growing up that she wasn’t able to back then. At that time, I had to grow up pretty fast. I had to take care of myself, do my own laundry. So now it’s like there’s this chance to turn back the clock. It lets her be a mom, and it lets me be a kid. It lets me experience being taken care of.

When I think about balance, I think about how I’ve spent most my life being really hard on myself and everyone else. Like, totally judgmental. Pinky in the air–I’m better than this. It’s like, maybe a little judgment is useful now and then, but I’ve been way overdoing it, like putting too much hazelnut cream cheese on my self-judgment waffle. And I think that Marla’s words hit me this morning because that kind of thinking and judgment can really make you feel like you’re up against a wall. Things don’t go the way you want–say, you might move in with your parents–and suddenly you feel like you’re all alone, that things will never get better.

I like to think that the universe is always trying to get my attention, that it’s actually interested in what’s going on with me, that it’s wanting to spark a conversation, dropping hints here and there. And if that’s the case, I think the fabric softener on my white t-shirt is a big hint. I think it’s telling me, “Hey, you’ve been really hard on yourself for a long time now. It’s time to soften up…a lot. It’s time to swing the other way.”

Earlier I mentioned that I thought Marla’s quiet persona was too bad. What I meant by that is that I think she’s an amazing writer and an even better friend. I think more people might notice her if she spoke in a louder voice. But what I’m finding is that sometimes it’s the still, small voices that have the most to say. They slip in late. They sit on the back row. But if you listen, they disarm you. They remind you that you’re overdoing it. They tell you that you need to soften up. They say, “You may be up against a wall, but I’m right here with you.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We are surrounded by the light.

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