America, My Mom, and My Memories (Blog #586)

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This morning I got up early, like at seven, because my mom had a thing at the hospital. And whereas I’d planned to make breakfast then leave with my parents, I decided to vote instead. That’s right, America–I VOTED–instead of eating. You’re welcome.

In all honesty, I skipped breakfast because Dad said we could eat Chick-fil-A later. (Yes, I’m a gay man who eats at Chick-fil-A–it’s delicious!–get over it.) Plus, since I wanted to vote SOMETIME today, this morning’s situation worked out perfectly. I was there just after the polls opened in Van Buren, in and out in thirty minutes, and back at the house on time to pick up Mom and Dad. From there, we picked up my aunt, and the four of us were at the hospital about 8:30.

Over a year ago, my mom was diagnosed with cancer, and this last January she had a double mastectomy. Things are better now, over really, and today she had surgery to have her port (where they administered the chemotherapy) removed. Anyway, everything went great. The prep, surgery, and recovery all happened in about four hours, during which time my dad, aunt, and I visited with each other, read our respective books, and harassed total strangers in the waiting room. Well, Dad harassed total strangers in the waiting room. It’s sort of his thing.

Like, he asked Mom’s hot doctor, “Can I just leave her here with you?” Then after he wrangled the guy into looking at my aunt’s scratched/infected forearm and the guy left, my dad said, “I was TRYING to keep him over here because you’re single and he’s rich and good looking.” My mouth dropped open just as my aunt said, “Don’t you think he’s good looking, Marcus?” (So she was in on it too.)

This is the price you pay for talking to your family about your private life.

Since Mom felt all right after her surgery (they used a mild anesthetic, apparently), afterwards we ran a couple errands and went out for Mexican food. Then we came home, and because I’d spent the morning exhausted from being up early, I went straight to bed and took a nap.

And no, I did not dream of the hot doctor. (He’s married–to a woman–and I have boundaries.)

This evening as Mom and Dad watched the election results, I worked more on my photo-organizing project. Specifically, I sorted the rest of my summer camp photos into years, then placed several “strays,” about two dozen physical photos that I’ve managed to collect over the last couple years. (Everything is digital these days.) Here’s where I’m at so far–four full storage bins of photos and one full storage bin of negatives and index cards (cards with miniature versions of the photos on the negatives). The minimalist in me thinks this is a lot of photos, but overall I’m thrilled because I had eight full storage bins of photos and negatives before this project started.

Any progress is good progress.

Once everything was sorted into large-ish groups, I arranged my index cards by date (some of them, but not all, have dates on them) so I could get an idea of WHEN all these memories actually took place. I’m hoping this will help me formulate a timeline later. Like, Oh right, that summer I dyed my hair blue was the same summer I took that photography class. Or whatever. I’m not sure why this is important to me, to get all these memories organized and labeled; I just know it is. Plus, I’m not great at guessing ages–even my own–based on photos, so if I don’t do it now, it’ll be tougher later. Like tonight I had several photos of my nephew out, and I had to ask my mom and text my sister to help me decide how old he was in each one. Thankfully, they knew. Now all those are labeled. Phew.

That’s a relief.

The end.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Confidence takes what you have and amplifies it. Confidence makes anyone sexy.

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Boomerang (Blog #583)

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It’s officially midnight, but I’ve already set our clocks back for the end of Daylight Savings Time, so they say it’s eleven. This is the weirdest thing, the fact that we can all-of-a-sudden lose an hour, gain an hour like magic. Now you see it, now you don’t. Presto chango.

What time is it really?

Now.

This afternoon I worked more on my photo organizing project and began sorting my summer camp pictures, which–thankfully–are already fairly organized by year. So now it’s just a matter of grouping everything together and figuring out where the “strays” go. Wow–summer camp. Where do I even begin? This was the place I spent my summers as a child, the place I returned to as a teenager for my first job. For nine summers–nine summers!–I drove from Van Buren, Arkansas, to French Camp, Mississippi, to make terrible money and have an absolute ball doing it. I sang songs, participated in ridiculously silly skits, slept in a cabin, got bitten by countless mosquitoes, taught canoes, and formed friendships that have continued to this day.

After four full summers of working at summer camp (from 1997-2000), I went back in 2001 to visit and got willingly sucked into working for a week after one of the counselors contracted Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. As it turns out, the tick that bit this fellow forever changed the course of my life, since after I filled in his spot “in the cabins” for a week, I got invited to fill in for another week for one of the guys who worked with the rafters, the older kids who get to leave the base camp to go whitewater rafting.

As being a rafting counselor is a coveted position with little turnover, I jumped at the chance.

That particular rafting trip–honestly–was hell. It was me and one other counselor, who was also new to the rafting program, and ten teenage boys. Eight of them were from Memphis, and seven of those eight went to the same school. In other words, the other counselor and I were outnumbered from the beginning. Those seven boys cleaned our clocks. Hell, during the first day of our being on the road with these boys, one of them busted a window out of our van (after which it promptly started raining–thanks, God), and another one, in the middle of the night, threw up ALL OVER the inside of his tent and (in an effort to stop throwing up inside the tent) threw up ALL OVER the three pairs of shoes OUTSIDE his tent.

And since the other counselor was a sound sleeper, guess who got to clean the entire mess up?

The whole week was like this.

Still, I fell in love with these seven boys, and that fall I bought a ring with waves on it to remember our trip together. I still wear it. For years after that summer, I’d drive to Memphis to watch these boys play football. Their parents let me stay with them. “You’re always welcome here,” one mother told me. I was there for their graduation. A few years ago, when one of them got married, I went to his wedding. He’s turned out to be such a wonderful man. After his reception I ran into him and his wife in the lobby of The Peabody Hotel, and he said, “Marcus, no matter how long we go without talking to each other, I’ll always love you.”

Looking at this old photo is like turning back time. In an instant, I’m there. Presto chango. So many camper names and faces I’ve forgotten (they say you remember the angels and the demons, and it’s true), but with this group of boys, I remember every single one. (Maybe they were all angels or demons?) Anyway, this one had his gallbladder removed, that one liked to golf, those two were cousins, and that one could quickly and easily spell any word backwards.

The entire week I was SUC-RAM.

I didn’t take any rafting trips in 2002, but I did in 2003 (and 2004, 2005, and 2006). However, before that summer in 2003, the camp said it would help if I got my commercial driver’s license (CDL), since they normally transport the boys with a school bus and not a van. So that’s what I did. And I don’t know, I realize it’s random and that I don’t use it anymore, but it’s one of things I’m most proud of, the fact that I can drive a bus.

Because seriously–it’s way fun.

Here’s a picture I love from 2003. These boys went to the same school that those original boys (the seven) went to. Believe it or not, they were much calmer. No broken windows. No vomit.

Obviously, looking at these old photos brings back a lot of good memories. Still, for all that these photos DO show–me on a canoe, me and another counselor with pantyhose on our heads, me and a bunch of teenagers in life jackets, me and a school bus, and three boys playing frisbee–I’ve been thinking today about what they DON’T show. For example, tonight’s featured photo was taken on June 28, 2000, my parents’ wedding anniversary. Except while I was floating on Lake Ann in a pair of silly sunglasses, my parents weren’t celebrating–because Dad was still in prison. At that point, he’d been gone almost five years.

It’s the strangest thing when you have a parent in prison. It’s a sensation you can’t capture on film. Because it’s not like they’re dead. Even as an adult, I can’t imagine that. But they are GONE. And sure, you get to talk to them on the phone (for fifteen minutes at a time) and you get to see them in a visiting room (while armed guards watch), but they don’t get to SEE YOU. What I mean is that they don’t get to see you off to your first job at summer camp or help you pack the car. They don’t get to see you graduate from high school. They don’t get to see you learn to dance.

There’s SO MUCH these pictures DON’T show. I remember one gorgeous child who loved having his picture taken as a kid but hated having it taken as a teenager because–by then–he’d decided he was ugly. Another boy who was adopted told me, “My parents leave me at summer camp so they can go on vacation without me.” One of the original rafting boys had a brother who had died. So much insecurity; so much pain.

And all this before fifteen.

Fifteen. That’s how old I was when Dad went to prison. I was fourteen when he got arrested. My sister and I were in the living room, and we watched it on the news. Looking back, I have no idea how I survived. My therapist says I could have easily ended up addicted to drugs or in juvenile detention, and yet I didn’t. Instead, I ended up at summer camp. And when I started working with the rafters, I really didn’t think about the fact that they were basically the same age I was when the shit hit the fan. I didn’t think, He reminds me of me, or, I wish hadn’t grown up so fast and that I were as carefree as he is.

I just knew I cared about them.

Healing happens when you become your own home.

Now it seems so obvious, that I was giving those boys the time and attention that I missed out on, the love that I desperately wanted and needed. But I didn’t consciously understand this at the time. Rather, I simply knew that I was capable of listening, capable of getting in a car and showing up, and capable of simply being there, and that for some reason I had to. Not like I was being forced to, but like I was being compelled to. Like something deep down inside of me knew that if I could listen to, show up, and be there for someone else, I’d one day learn to listen to, show up, and be there for myself. Now I know that this is when healing really happens, when you become your own home. And what a beautiful thing about The Mystery, about that part of ourselves that insists on healing, that everything we give away eventually comes back to us.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Both sunshine and rain are required for growth.

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Timeless (Blog #582)

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Hum. What to say? Today was–a day. I woke up, ate breakfast, and spent a couple hours organizing old photos. (This project’s going to take a while.) Then I took a nap, ate dinner with my family (Mom made a roast), went for a two-hour walk, and ate again.

The end.

Really, I wish I had something more remarkable to talk about, but some days are–well–forgettable. This is something I’ve thought about during my photo organizing project. The pictures represent roughly ten years of my life, and that’s over 3,600 days. 3,600 days I woke up, did something, and went to bed. And yet SO FEW of these days stand out specifically by–well–date. I keep texting my friends asking, “What year did that happen?” Not that I don’t have hundreds of memories–I actually have pretty great recall for names, faces, events, and places–but everything is jumbled together.

For example, here’s a picture of me, my friend Justin (before he grew a beard), his brother, and their uncle when we visited Justin’s family in upstate New York. My first guess was that it was in 2003. As it turns out, it was 2009, Justin said, just before Justin and I became roommates.

Justin’s great with dates. It’s the way his mind works. I used to keep calendars, and maybe that’s why I needed them, as my brain lumps things into different, non-linear categories–people I know through dance, times I’ve visited Albuquerque, theater shows I’ve seen, or EXACTLY where I was standing whenever such-and-such happened.

I threw my old calendars away several years ago during one of my purges, but I kept wishing today that I still had them to help me label and sort my photos. For the same reason, I’ve been wishing I’d kept daily journals growing up, something like this blog. But then, really, even I wouldn’t want to go back and read them. Oh yeah, THAT was the day I had a sinus infection and ate macaroni for lunch.

Which, honestly, could have been ANY day.

As I’ve thought about it this evening, it’s occurred to me that although my brain LOVES the idea of my memories being filed away neatly by date, my body–and yours–jumbles everything together. One minute you’re right here, right now, laughing with your friends, the next minute you’re back in your childhood, that awful thing just happened, and you’re crying.

I don’t know–sometimes I look at old photos and wish I still had that outfit or that waistline. Or I wish I’d done more, done less. Taken more pictures, better pictures. Kept better records. Whatever. But this afternoon I remembered a trip to Dallas as a child and recalled exactly where I was standing when I heard “Achy Breaky Heart” by Billy Ray Cyrus. Five minutes later I was twenty years older, in upstate New York with Justin and his family, on our way to Niagara Falls. Twenty years, thirty years–what’s the difference?–it’s like it was yesterday. For these reasons, I know age, waistlines, and outfits don’t matter–because we’re so much more than anything you can keep track of with a photo or a calendar. Truly, we’re ageless. Truly, we’re timeless.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Getting comfortable in your own skin takes time.

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On Cleaning Up the Past (Blog #578)

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It’s 8:30 in the evening, and I just finished eating dinner–a bowl of chili and a salad. Before that, I went on a two-hour walk around Van Buren. Everyone has their Halloween decorations on display. And whereas one creative person went all out and put a skeleton pushing an old-fashioned lawnmower in their backyard, two nextdoor neighbors–Christians, I assume–simply stuck matching signs in their front yards that said, “The only ghost that lives here is the Holy Ghost.”

Groan.

And then there was the family whose yard was already full of Christmas inflatables. I don’t know–I’m all for the celebrating the virgin birth of Christ, but I really feel like these folks are jumping the gun. I mean, it’s still October!

I guess that’s what you’d call a premature immaculation.

This afternoon I spent several hours organizing old photos, a project I started yesterday. Ugh. This is going to take a while, since despite my sorting hundreds of photos today, I still have thousands to go. Oh well, what else am I doing with my life?

Here’s a picture of my progress thus far. The photo sticking up is from my 21st birthday, on which I went out for–wait for it–coffee. (I’m not kidding.) Anyway, I have a “tab” for every major place (junior high, high school, home) or event (summer camp, trip to Thailand, etc.). Thankfully, many of the photos have dates printed on them or I just remember–That was 1995–but in some cases I’m just guessing–Uh, I think that was sometime in college. Isn’t that weird how certain details of your life can just disappear?

Here’s a picture I found from my sophomore year in high school. I was 16, and our class was on a field trip. Check out that beret. Can you believe I used to tell people that I was straight? I filed this picture under a section called “The Power of Self-Delusion,” alternatively titled “Reasons Everyone Knew before I Did.”

While sorting through pictures from elementary school, I found images of old classmates who are now dead. This was a real shock to my system, to see them as I remember them–young, vibrant, full of potential–and yet know that they’ve long stopped breathing.

Hum. No one thinks it will happen to them, but it happens to everyone. Death, that is. “What will you do with your one wild and precious life?” Mary Oliver asks.

Also while going through elementary school photos, I ripped up some pictures of a kid that I thought was–quite honestly–a jerk. Not that I assume he’s a jerk now, but at the time, for sure. So twenty years later–rip, rip, rip–that felt good.

My therapist says that some of the deepest and longest lasting wounds we carry are from childhood. I guess because we’re so impressionable, our hearts wide open. So I’m trying now to be okay with whatever arises while looking at all these old photos, to be open to any thoughts and reactions I may have shoved down that want to come up. Like, Awe, I liked him. Or, What an asshat! Because I’m tired of self-delusion. I’d rather be honest. For this reason, as much as I see this project as a “tidy” and “orderly” thing to do, I also see it as a healthy thing to do. That is, I see it as another way to get real, a symbolic act to get my past in order, to clean it up the best I can and properly put it behind me.

[Me and my longtime friend Neil. From seventh grade, I think, spirit week.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

An Anything but Awkward Kid (Blog #577)

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It’s eleven at night, and I’m blogging from my phone–one letter at a time–because I spilled tea on my laptop keyboard yesterday. (It’s currently drying out. I hope.) We’ll see how this goes. I don’t have spell check on here.

This afternoon I finished reading a book about money by Seth Godin. I already returned the book to the library, but there was a line in the section about buying houses that went something like this–“Never fall in love with something you can’t afford.” Is that great or what?

Personally, I wish I’d heard this piece of advice BEFORE I started dating.

This evening I got a wild hair and began organizing my printed photos, a project that has been on my mental to-do list for a while now. Anyway, I pulled out Rubbermaid tub after Rubbermaid tub full of pictures from my closet, laid everything out before me, and quickly got overwhelmed. Y’all, I took A LOT of pictures in my teens and early twenties. Granted, I was on the yearbook staff in college and had access to a decent camera, but whatever.

So. Many. Pictures. And barely organized.

Here’s a random dance photo of me and my friend Kira performing at the Dr. Pepper Stage at the Fort Smith Rodeo. Our group used to do that every year.

Taking deep breaths and reminding myself that any progress is better than nothing, my first task was to separate the pictures into large groups–summer camp, dance, high school, and college. Quickly, I thumbed through a hundred memories. What a trip this was, looking back over a solid decade of my existence, a dozen haircuts, waist sizes, and ages. There I was 18. There I was 30. Did either of these men even know the first thing about life?

Does this one?!

Here’s a picture of me and my friend Cameron, who drove from Texas to surprise me for my 30th birthday. I felt like shit that day, for my surprise party. I’d been sick for weeks, and–honestly–was not amused by the surprise itself. I was and am, however, deeply touched by all my friends who showed up.

After my “first pass,” I began grouping the photos more specifically–birthday parties, college yearbook staff, family photos from 2001 (the year Dad came home from prison). I also started throwing pictures away. I know this amounts to sacrilege for some people, but really, what need do I have of photos that are blurry? Or of photos of people I don’t remember or of couples who are no longer married?

Like I’m gonna pull THOSE out the next time one of them comes over to visit. Remember that time you married an asshole?! (God, that was THE BEST CAKE.)

I’ve said before that my butt’s always been the same size (roughly the size a bowling ball) and that I’ve just grown into it. Well, here’s proof from my pre-teen years and the swimming pool next door. Notice the super-cool elastic waist band.

Here’s another picture from several years later (I think). Surely I’d started puberty. Either way–same butt, bigger body.

After a few hours of this picture-sorting business, all while sitting on the floor, my body said stop. So I’ll get back to it tomorrow, or at least that’s my plan. Considering I have stacks of photos blocking my closet door, I NEED to get back to it tomorrow if I ever want to wear clean clothes again.

Even with “just a little bit” of this project completed, I already feel all the emotions. There are so many pictures of people, grandparents, who are no longer alive. People I used to spend SO MUCH time with, and yet now we hardly speak. And it’s not like–in most cases–we knew the end was coming. It just did. One day, things weren’t the same as they used to be. This is life–people pass away and people move away. People fall in love with other people who aren’t you.

And there’s no going back.

Aside from all the emotions and a definite feeling of–Where did the time go?–I’m enjoying getting the photos in a rough chronological order. I am, after all, a neat freak, and it’s good to have my memories nearly stacked away. Plus, I don’t know, there are times I know I wasn’t fully present for my life, times I was just keeping my head above water and maintaining appearances, and those memories are jumbled. So the pictures are helping me get things straight. Oh yes, this happened, and then this happened, and then THAT happened.

I hope that makes sense.

The other thing I like about this project is that I’m finding more compassion for myself. Back then I felt so awkward. Even lately, so often I’ve looked at old photos and picked myself apart, like, Why did I ever wear that outfit, or stand that way? But today I’ve seen a kid who was under immense emotional and physical stress who was doing the best he could. A kind kid. A good looking kid. An anything but awkward kid. A kid I’d give anything if I could go back and tell, “You’re gonna be all right, baby. I promise. You have everything you’ll ever need inside you. Relax. It’s all going to be okay.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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69 Months and Oh-So-Many Miles (Blog #561)

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Currently it’s seven in the evening. I’m been up and functioning since three-thirty this morning. I’m not kidding. Consequently, I don’t feel like writing. I’d rather be drinking a Budweiser and eating a bag full of chocolate-covered donut holes. Or sleeping. Sleeping would be nice. But instead I’m writing.

There’s not a donut hole in sight.

I should back up.

Last night I went to bed at eleven-thirty and got up four hours later in order to go with a friend to court–on the other side of the state–for a minor traffic violation. Well, for the accusation of a minor traffic violation, since America and innocent-until-proven-guilty and everything. Anyway, that’s their story.

This is mine.

After getting up, getting dressed, and scarfing down two scrambled eggs, I walked outside at four this morning to look for my friend. And whereas I didn’t see them, I did see the constellation Orion. And not that I’d wish anyone out of bed that early, but you should have been there. Around one in the morning Orion’s just on the horizon, but at four–wow!–he’s directly overhead. And whereas I’m dreading the impending winter, I’m looking forward to seeing this unmistakable figure–The Hunter–make his march across the heavens.

Oddly enough, my friend’s court appearance was in Forrest City, the same city in which my dad spent several years in federal prison. (He was a pharmacist. He gave some drugs away without prescriptions. That’s not allowed.) Anyway, he was originally sent to El Paso, so our visits were few and far between. But when he got transferred to Forrest City, that was only four-and-a-half hours away (228 miles in one direction, exit to exit), so our visits increased. I can’t tell you the number of times as a teenager that I got up by myself or with my sister at three-thirty, got dressed, scarfed down two scrambled eggs, and pointed my Honda Civic down Interstate-40 East toward Forrest City–

To go through a metal detector and see my dad in a visitation room.

I think the last time I actually stopped in Forrest City was that day in April 2001 when Dad was released and my mom, my sister, and I drove to pick him up. It’d been 69 months since he walked out our front door for El Paso. 69 months since he’d started teaching me to drive and someone else had to finish the job. 69 months and oh-so-many miles. How do you even describe such a day, a day you thought would never come? I can’t. All I knew and felt was that my dad was coming home.

Somehow–finally–Forrest City was in my rearview mirror.

Seventeen years. That’s how long it’s been since I last drove to Forrest City, much less at four in the morning, much less for anything related to breaking the law. (Um–for an accusation of breaking the law.) Anyway, this morning brought up a lot of memories, a lot of–um–uncomfortable feelings. On the one hand, I was quite aware–I’m thirty-eight now. There’s nothing intimidating or embarrassing about walking into a courthouse or going through a metal detector. But on the other hand, I felt like that teenager, the one who was in that courthouse the day 12 jurors all said, “Guilty,” the one who used to get up at four in the morning to walk through a metal detector and see his father sitting in a visitation room dressed in all forest green.

It’s funny how time can collapse so quickly. One minute you’re an adult standing next to Orion. You feel–free. The next minute you’re a teenager standing next to a guard with a gun on his belt. “Who are you here to see?” he says. You drop your head and say his name. You feel–intimidated.

This morning I was fully prepared to walk through a metal detector and sit in a courtroom with my friend, but something–heaven?–intervened. “The courtroom is full,” the disgruntled courthouse employee said. So I waited in the car and read a book. Part of me–honestly–was relieved. I hate courts, hate confrontation, and I knew my friend would be contesting their ticket. But then after I saw several people leaving, I thought, There’s more room now. Go inside, Marcus. This isn’t your fight anyway. But again, something intervened. The car alarm went off. Every time I tried to remove the key from the ignition–HONK, HONK, HONK.

So I stayed in the car.

Things worked out for my friend. Today was only an arraignment. Anyway, when my friend got back to the car, they fixed the alarm, but we discovered the battery had died. So we asked a couple for a jump, and they gladly said yes. The man helped my friend with the cables, and the lady sat in their car and pumped the gas. Personally, I did nothing–just stood outside the car, scrolled on my phone, and tried to look as if the whole affair weren’t my fault. Then just as the couple started to drive off, the lady smiled at me. Like, I don’t know, life was all right. I hope I never forget it–

That smile in Forrest City.

I’ve said before that I wouldn’t trade any of my challenging experiences. I mean that. Even the ones that were agonizing, embarrassing, or intimidating–I wouldn’t trade them even if I could. Because this is my story. This is my march across the heavens. (Hum.) Sometimes people tell me that I have a lot of courage–my therapist says I have big balls–to put my insides on the internet, or to dare to live life on my own terms. And whereas I’m not saying my current life is easy–fuck–it’s a chocolate-covered donut hole compared to those 69 months and oh-so-many miles, those 69 months and oh-so-many miles that still manage to suck me in after 17 years sometimes, but for which I am also mysteriously and profoundly grateful. Because of them, today I am strong beyond measure. My head is lifted. I can see the stars. People smile at me, and I smile back at them.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Aren’t you perfect just the way you are?

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All Our Scattered Pieces (Blog #435)

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Today my aunt had a yard sale, and I told her a couple days ago that I’d “think” about being there early this morning to help out. However, we didn’t touch base about it yesterday, so when I went to bed at 4:30 this morning after blogging, I sent her a message that I wouldn’t be there until later in the day. I thought, I’m exhausted, I just can’t. When I woke up at 10:30, I knew I’d made the right decision–maybe not for anyone else, but for me. Still, my inner people pleaser was worried. I kept thinking, What if my aunt (or my dad) is upset with me? While making breakfast, I pushed that thought away and instead focused on all the reasons it was okay for me to–I don’t know–take care of myself.

But then somewhere between scrambling eggs and making a cup of coffee, I stopped and decided to try a technique my therapist reminded me of earlier this week–having compassion for my thoughts, not pushing them away. So right there at the kitchen sink I had this dialogue with what I’m assuming was my inner child. (This was all in my head, by the way, not out loud.)

“Baby, what are you so worried about?”

“We have to be ‘nice’ to people.”

“Do we, do we really? There’s just no way we could have been helpful with only an hour’s worth of sleep.”

“But if we’re not nice to people, they won’t take care of us.”

This is where I almost started crying. Immediately I thought of two things–one being spanked as a child, and two having to write a thank-you letter to the private school I attended my senior year because they extended me a scholarship since my family couldn’t afford the tuition. Having chewed on these memories off and on today, they make total sense. First, I clearly got the message as a child that acting out or doing my own thing were punishable offenses (at least sometimes). Second, I don’t think I really wanted to write that thank-you letter. Not because it wasn’t the proper thing to do, but because I was embarrassed about having to do it. My dad was in prison. We were poor. As far as I know, my friends weren’t on scholarship.

Who would want to acknowledge that?

What wows me about these two memories and the dialogue I had with myself this morning is this–clearly there is a very frightened part of me that got the message during my formative years that sacrificing what I want in favor of what other people want is necessary for survival. If we’re not nice to people, they won’t take care of us. So all day I’ve been telling my inner child, “Sweetheart, it’s okay. I’M taking care of us now.”

Incidentally, I spent all day (well, all afternoon) at the yard sale. (I took the above picture with a wig I found there.) And whereas my dad and aunt did give me passive-aggressive shit about not being there this morning, it didn’t last long, and I still don’t feel bad about it. (Down with shame. Down with guilt.) Also, after initial comments, the entire day went really well.

This evening I had dinner with my friend Bonnie, and she gifted me a pair of funky sunglasses she found at a junk store this afternoon. They’re so cool. They have little yellow visors (awnings) that protrude over each eye. Way dorky, but totally up my alley. And get this shit. I used to have a pair EXACTLY like them. (Bonnie didn’t know this until I told her.) I wore them in high school on our senior trip to Cancun and again when I gave my speech at graduation. (I was a dork then too.) I swear, I loved those things but put them in a yard sale maybe ten years ago. I remember thinking, I can’t hold on to everything forever.

Bonnie and I discussed the possibility that the sunglasses she gave me today were the ACTUAL pair I gave up so may years ago. I mean, who knows? It’s possible. Either way, I’m in awe. What are the chances she’d pick out a pair of vintage (1989) sunglasses like the ones I used to own?

All your scattered pieces want to come home.

When I think back on some of the things that child I spoke to this morning endured as he was growing up, it’s no wonder he’s scared, no wonder he wants to make the whole world happy and avoid further trauma. So often when I think about that kid, it feels like I’ve lost something, a piece of me I’ll never get back–my innocence, my authentic self, my own damn opinion. But I’m taking this morning’s conversation and the return of my funky sunglasses as reminders from the universe that nothing and certainly no one is ever truly lost–that just as much as the voices inside us want to be heard, all our scattered pieces want to come home again.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Whereas I've always pictured patience as a sweet, smiling, long-haired lady in a white dress, I'm coming to see her as a frumpy, worn-out old broad with three chins. You know--sturdy--someone who's been through the ringer and lived to tell about it.

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Me and My Big Balls (Blog #411)

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

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

I shifted in my seat. “Uh–thanks?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grow a pair.

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The deepest waters are the only ones capable of carrying you home.

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You Can’t Go Home Again (Blog #363)

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It’s almost three in the morning, Daddy is tired, and tonight’s blog (number 363) is one of the few that I’ve written (or am writing) on not-my-laptop. Hang in there, I’ll explain.

For the most part, today was just a day. I slept in, finished reading a book, took a nap. This evening, however, was something else. First, when I woke up from my nap, I got a letter in the mail that said my health insurance was ending in–uh–three days. Shit, I thought. My appointment with the immunologist is next week! Well, it took a few minutes, but I remembered that a friend (and blog reader) of mine works in health insurance, so I called her. “Oh,” she said, “they probably just need you to update your income information. Let me make some calls. Don’t worry until I tell you to.” Y’all, I can’t tell you what a relief this is, that even though the “problem” isn’t solved yet, I have someone who’s not only experienced with this stuff but is willing to help. (Phew.) Once again I’m reminded–no one is alone.

Also, thanks, friend.

Tonight our improv comedy group, The Razorlaughs, had our monthly performance at a local restaurant. We were short a couple members, but thankfully some talented (hilarious) friends of ours were in the audience and were able to fill in. (The show went great.) Afterwards, I went over to my friends Justin and Ashley’s house to eat Taco Bell, have a few drinks, and–apparently–play the longest card game ever, Phase 10. (I came in second, even though we technically quit before the game was over, since some people have to go to work in the morning.) Anyway, I’m at Justin and Ashley’s now, as I opted to stay here rather than drive home not-drunk-but-not-sober-either.

Good choice, Marcus, good choice.

We were like Three’s Company.

For those of you that don’t know, Justin has been one of my closest friends for the last eighteen years. As he says, we’ve known each other longer than some people have mortgages. We met on the debate team in high school and moved in together in 2009. Now Ashley is his wife, but back then they were just dating, and after a while Ashley moved in with Justin and me. Well, she actually moved in with Justin, but I came along with the deal. Anyway, for several years all of us lived together here on Reeder Street (where they still live, and I am now), and we were like Three’s Company or whatever. Looking back, it really was magical. Having lived with my parents until I was–uh–twenty-eight, this was truly my first “on my own” home, the first place I thought of as mine, even though it technically wasn’t. (Justin bought the house, and I paid rent.) Still, when I moved in I got to pick the colors for my room and have some shelves installed in both my room and my closet. Plus, I got my own bathroom and half the office, and Justin pretty much let me do whatever I wanted.

Again, for four years, this was my home. This is where I ate my meals, this is where I brought my dates, this is where I meditated, and this is where I taught dance lessons when I wasn’t at the studio. But eventually, things changed (like they do). In 2013, just as Justin and Ashley were preparing to get married, I decided to move out of the Reeder Street house and in with my ex. (If you’re familiar with the blog, you know that relationship didn’t end well, but it did send me to therapy, and that turned out great. Consequently, now I live with my parents and have this blog. Such is the mystery of life.) Anyway, I’ve been back to Justin and Ashley’s a number of times in the last several years, but tonight is my first time back in my old room, my first time sleeping here, since I moved out.

Currently I’m trying to take it all in and not get too emotional. The room itself is still the same–the walls are still brown and orange, the shelves still hang where they did before. As I’m writing I keep looking around the room, picturing my old bookshelves, my old knickknacks, even my old ceiling fan–all things that no longer even belong to me since the estate sale. Like, I couldn’t find them if I wanted to–they only exist in my mind. And yet there I can find them as if it were yesterday. There was a red leather chair sitting where the bed is now. A picture of my sister hung low on the wall, underneath the window. (The nail hole hasn’t been filled in.) I used to cry in this room. I used to laugh in this room.

They say you can’t go home again, and I guess that’s true. Both back in my old room at my parents’ house and back in my old room at Justin and Ashley’s, I feel a twinge of the familiar. These places are comfortable, filled with memories the way the sky is filled with clouds–here one minute and gone the next. And whereas I’m grateful for both my old rooms–for a night, for a year, whatever–I know that I have long since outgrown them. Things are different now. I’m different now. This is what not being able to go home again means–not that you can’t be in the same physical space you grew up in, but that you can’t turn back the clock to a time when things were simpler or less complicated. You can’t exchange your memories for reality. You can’t un-live your life or un-grow yourself.

The past is no more serious than a cloud in the sky.

Three more posts (including this one) away from a full year of blogging, and this is what being in my old room reminds me of–how much I’ve grown. Honestly, my life has been a roller coaster since I moved out of here. Sometimes it’s been a real bitch, actually. But even though I’d like to see some things in my outside world change, I love where I am on the inside, and I see every bit of my past–including this room–as having brought me to where I am now. For this reason, I’m grateful for my past, with all its tears and laughter. But I also know that I wouldn’t choose to go back or relive any of it if I could. The past is the past, for a reason. I’m glad it’s over. Looking back, I remember being so over-the-moon or distraught about countless things. Now I’m like, whatever, just as surely I’ll be “whatever” about my cancelled insurance a month from now. So surely the past (and even the present) is no more serious than a cloud in the sky, here one minute and gone the next. Surely we weren’t meant to cling to any of it. Surely life was meant to be lived right here, right now, and then let go of.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If life can create a problem, it can also provide an answer.

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What Growing Up Looks Like (Blog #277)

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It’s the first day of the new year, and it’s close to midnight. Normally I’d be done blogging by now, but I’ve spent all day absorbed in the puzzle my family’s been working on. It’s almost done. Also, I’ve been obsessing about how cold my feet are. If I didn’t know better, I’d say my legs were blue from the knees down. They’re that bad. Really, for someone my age, I should have better circulation. I hope I’m not dying. I can’t wait for winter to be over.

Fuck Jack Frost.

This last week, my sister, brother-in-law, and two nephews were here, the whole damn family piled on top of each other. They left this evening. Honestly, the week had its challenges. I mean, I had to share my bathroom with four other people. Also, my nephews are little fireballs, and they turned our house upside down. There are still stickers on the refrigerator and crayons in the carpet. Plus, they’re loud–they’re boys. They woke me up early–every–single–day. And whereas I absolutely adore them, would do anything for them, more than once I thought, Oh–my–god, your uncle needs a break.

I’m just being honest.

During the last moments of 2017, my sister and brother-in-law and I were working on the puzzle. Along with cooking meals, eating meals, and doing dishes, this puzzle-putting-together thing has really been the bulk of this last week. I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed it, surprisingly enough. I mean, I’m usually not a puzzle person. But I guess there’s something about gathering around the kitchen table with your family in order to solve a problem. You don’t even have to be talking, so long as you’re with each other. Plus, there’s something about having my sister here, in the home we grew up in, watching her boys eat junk food by the fireplace where we used to lie and watch Saturday morning cartoons.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to that time. I look at my nephews, and I know their lives aren’t easy. I mean, they’re lives are easy, but childhood is a powerless time. You get told no a lot. That being said, it’s also the time when you can tie a towel around your neck and have magical powers, a time when you can stand on your uncle’s shoulders and touch the sky. This is what I wish I could go back to, the age I was when the world was full of possibility, the age I was before all the terrible things started happening, the age of innocence. Some days I’m so weary of being an adult, of being responsible. I want to touch the sky again. I get so tired of being the one standing firmly on the ground, no one’s shoulders to lift me up.

Before my sister and her family left today, they cleaned up my bathroom and packed their car while I worked on the puzzle. Then we all took pictures with her camera, and my brother-in-law loaded the boys in their backseat. Finally, my sister and I stood in the kitchen and hugged for what seemed like forever. I can’t tell you how much I think of her, what a good person, wife, and mother she is. Immediately I wanted them all back, messy bathroom, crayons in the carpet, and everything. Who’s going to wake me up in the morning? I thought. But just like that, they were gone, and I was sitting at the kitchen table again doing the puzzle–alone and wanting to cry.

This entire evening I’ve been a mess. At the same time my sister left, a lost dog showed up in our garage. Well, I petted him, and he stuck around. Then Dad felt sorry for him and brought him inside and fed him a meal. In the meantime, I posted a picture on Facebook, but since he didn’t have tags, we figured we’d have him for the night. Y’all, he was so friendly and well-behaved. He even had my mom smiling. This could be fun, I thought. When I sold most of my possessions just over a year ago, I had to find new homes for my two puppies, Jupiter and Juno, and my kitty cat, Mister. It was the right thing to do, but sometimes I hate the way it ended, the fact that I couldn’t continue to take care of them, the fact that I could barely take care of myself. Anyway, the lost dog felt like a shot at redemption, if only for a night. But wouldn’t you know it–the owner contacted me and said they live just a few blocks away.

So now the dog is gone too.

There’s a scene in one of my favorite movies, Scent of a Woman, in which Al Pacino sings the song, “Did you ever have the feeling that you wanted to go, but still have the feeling that you wanted to stay?” Life is complicated like this, full of opposite feelings. Half your life you want to be the adult in the room, but when you are, you want to be the kid again. You think you’re ready for a break from your family, but when you get it, you’d give anything to have them back. You know you need to let go, but you still want to hang on.  Maybe this is what growing up looks like, giving yourself space to feel two different things at once, like slipping your cold feet into a pair or warm socks, or standing firmly on the ground and reaching your arms toward the sky.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our burdens are lighter when we share them.

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