Turning Lead into Gold (Blog #157)

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Currently I’m a solid two hours into my self-imposed “No Facebook Mondays” boundary. Part of me thinks it’s no big deal and is actually excited for the break. Like, my thumb wasn’t made for that much scrolling anyway. Another part of me is shaking and on edge, like whenever I quit cigarettes. I keep picking up my phone out of habit then immediately putting it back down out of sheer willpower. Find something else to do, Marcus. Okay, two hours and ten minutes. To remove temptation, I just closed out the Facebook tab on my browser. Now it’s just me and my feelings. Shit. This could be a long day.

This afternoon I completed my first online yoga session with Codyapp. I cussed a lot, but it felt great. The guy said it can take six months to two years to reshape your fascia, and I kind of hate that taking care of yourself is such a long-term commitment. Still, one day is one day, and a start is a start.

I’m proud to say that in the last twenty-four hours I’ve watched half of season three of Grace and Frankie, which stars Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin, Martin Sheen, and Sam Waterston. If you don’t know, it’s about two women (a yuppie and a hippy) who become close friends after their husbands divorce them in order to marry each other. In season three, the women start their own business, selling vibrators to aging ladies. I don’t know what it is about hearing Jane Fonda say, “Fuck me in the eye,” or Lily Tomlin say, “Christ on a cupcake,” but I laughed out loud all day today. I don’t remember the last time that happened. It’s been almost better than therapy.

Almost.

This evening I went for a walk and continued to listen to a series of lectures on archetypes by Caroline Myss. The theory is that everyone has twelve primary archetypes or energetic patterns of behavior. Four of those twelve are common to all of us (The Child, The Victim, The Prostitute, and The Saboteur), and eight are unique to you or me. Whenever you meet someone and immediately classify them as a diva, a bully, a shaman, an angel, or a martyr, you’re talking about one of their archetypes. Anyway, tonight Caroline discussed the storyteller archetype, which I believe is one of my eight. Of course, we all tell stories, but for some of us everything is a story. Even when somebody cheats on us or we gain three pounds, we think, I can blog about this later.

Two things mentioned about the storyteller archetype stood out to me. First, every archetype has a light side and a shadow side. As an example, Cinderella’s fairy godmother is the light side of the mother archetype, and her evil step-mother is the shadow. Anyway, Caroline says the shadow side of the storyteller is the liar, or, in more mild cases, the exaggerator. Of course, I’ve had my own moments outside the light, but my mind immediately went to a couple people I know who seem to lie about anything. Like, they lie when the truth would serve them better, and I guess until tonight I never really understood it. Oh, that’s it, I thought, they’re just misusing their god-given talents (powers).

The other thing that stood out to me was the idea that whenever we’re in a difficult situation, even if we can’t change it, we can tell ourselves a different story about it. We can say, “Once upon a time, there was a prince who returned to his parents’ kingdom to rest and find his way again. Each night he’d write a letter to himself that he’d post for all to see. This was his way of healing and growing strong as he awaited his next adventure.”

Or something like that.

Caroline says this is actually healthy. We’re all going to tell ourselves a story about our circumstances anyway, and something akin to a fairy tale is much more beneficial than, “This sucks, God hates me, and no one will ever love my sagging breasts.” In medieval, alchemical terms, taking a negative situation and finding the good in it is compared to turning lead into gold. One obvious benefit to doing this is that we’re happier, since we’re not, say, still bitter about something that happened twenty days or twenty years ago. But Caroline says turning the lead in our lives into gold–or not–can actually affect how our physical bodies heal. In short, the idea is that mental and emotional lead (resentments, grudges, worries) keep us out of the present moment, which is where the spirit resides and the physical body best functions.

After my walk I did an exercise in my creativity workbook where I had to list ways in which I nourish myself. Y’all, it was difficult. My mind immediately went to the books I read and even the yoga class I started today, but–and I’m about to get real honest here–those things always have a twinge of “should” about them. Although I do enjoy them, they’re largely motivated by the thought, I need to do this so my life and body will be better. (I hate it when I realize I’m being rough on myself.) So I took a few deep breaths and decided to take a hot bath. I put on some music, lit a candle. Afterwards I did some exercises for my neck and listened to “Let It Be” by The Beatles on repeat.

Now I’m thinking that I can be gentler with myself, give myself the mental room I need to grow. I can tell myself a different story. I’ve been saying that I have to read, have to heal. But I love reading, learning, and yoga. So I’m actually doing these things because I want to and because I care for myself. Not only is that a different, kinder story, it’s the truth. And I can look at No Facebook Mondays as some sort of prison, or I can see it as a freedom, more time to watch shows that make me laugh or–even better–spend time with friends I love–in person. Once again I’m finding it’s not what’s “out there” that matters, but rather what’s “in here.” In here is where you tell yourself the story about what’s out there. In here is where you turn lead into gold.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We think of hope as something pristine, but hope is haggard like we are.

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I Heart Boundaries (Blog #156)

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If it’s not already obvious, my therapist has a huge hard on for boundaries. Like, a big one. I know this is going to sound like bumper sticker wisdom, but she says boundaries are bridges, boundaries make people feel safe, and boundaries are the holy grail in therapy. Honestly, it’s taken me a long time to digest and assimilate all this information, since I’ve always assumed I HAD boundaries. As it turns out, I didn’t. (Most people don’t.) But I’ve come to agree with my therapist. Of all the beneficial things I’ve learned in the last few years, nothing has been more important than boundaries.

I realize this could quickly turn into a commercial.

Years before therapy, my Reiki teacher gave me a list entitled “Signs of Unhealthy Boundaries.” I’d be glad to send you the entire list if you’d like, but a few items that still grab my attention are: 1) Talking at an intimate level on the first meeting, 2) Being overwhelmed by a person, 3) Accepting gifts or touch you don’t want, 4) Letting others direct your life, and 5) Food abuse. Looking back, I’m surprised I didn’t look at the list and say, “Houston, we have a problem.” But I guess I wasn’t ready for the information or ready to make changes in my relationships, since boundaries always equal changes. (Damn it.) Now I’m proud to say I’ve come a long way, first in setting and maintaining my own boundaries, and second in recognizing both good and not-so-good boundaries in others.

Today I got a t-shirt in the mail that says, “I (Heart) Boundaries.” I ordered it a few weeks ago because–well–I do. Plus, I imagine it will be a good conversation starter. Maybe someone will say, “Hey man, what’s your shirt all about?” and I can say, “Whoa mister, don’t stand so close to me. I don’t even know you.” Anyway, it’s a long story, but I ended up with an extra shirt that I would love to give away, especially if you (heart) boundaries too. It’s a men’s medium, American Apparel, and runs a bit tight. So basically–it’ll fit perfectly if you’re Justin Bieber, a teenage lesbian, or a twink. (A twink is a young, smooth, skinny, attractive homosexual, Mom.)

If this sounds like you, the shirt is yours. Just HMU (hit me up).

This week I read in The Artist’s Way that a boundary is essentially your bottom line. Bottom line, I won’t cheat on my husband. Bottom line, I won’t work for less than I’m worth. The book makes the point that often we use food, drugs, sex, money, friends/family, and work (my big one is work) to distract or soothe ourselves when we are creatively blocked. Better said, those are our creative blocks–not in and of themselves, but when they are abused. So it’s suggested that we give ourselves a bottom line, a boundary, to help get ourselves back on track. Bottom line, I won’t bring work home from the office. Bottom line, I won’t eat chocolate cake when crying or having a confrontation would be more honest.

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

My therapist says that boundaries are ever-evolving. It’s not that you’re all wishy-washy, but what works in one relationship, may not work in the next. Personally, I don’t like when people pick lint off my shirt, and I HATE IT when someone punches me in the arm. I don’t think it’s funny or appropriate. That being said, there are certain people I gladly allow in my space, either to pick lint off my shirt or just pat my shoulder. It’s just a case-by-case basis. Also–and I kind of hate this–boundaries aren’t something you knock out of the park every time. I remember for a while I was doing well with boundaries in MOST of my friendships, but there were a couple in particular in which I was sucking it up royally. (Or rather, we were.) In both situations, things are stellar now, but it simply took time to get here.

Tonight I signed up for some online yoga classes through Codyapp. Maybe I’m just a sucker for Facebook ads, but these classes deal specifically with flexibility and fascial stretching, two things that I’ve been rather obsessed with lately. At first I didn’t want to spend the money, but I decided that because my insurance is paying for all my treatment since the car accident, the least I can do is support my body at home. One of the boundaries I’m setting for myself is less time on Facebook (and zero Facebook on Mondays–eek–except to share the blog), so along with that I’ve decided to use the extra time on yoga. Bottom line, my physical body is more important than fake news and pictures of your cat. (Sorry, KiKi.)

Earlier tonight I went for a walk and listened to an interview with the guy who started and runs Humans of New York. He said that as creative people we can’t control how many people like our Facebook page, but we can control what we do with our time. We can write one hour a day. We can do yoga for thirty minutes. Whatever. As I think about it now, this seems like another way of talking about boundaries and bottom lines–basically rules and priorities we set for our lives. My blog is important to me, nothing stops me from doing it every day, every damn day. I want others to treat me well, so I have to treat them well, treat myself well.

Earlier I said that boundaries are bridges. I think this is important to remember, since it’s easy to think of them as fences between neighbors or lines drawn in the sand. And whereas boundaries do let you know where not to go and what’s not okay, they also let you know how to interact with a person and what the rules of engagement are. That’s why boundaries make people feel safe. You trust someone because they have good boundaries. You know they’re not going to sleep with your husband, kidnap your child, or sell your secrets to a supermarket tabloid. The way I see it, boundaries are just another way to respect and take better care of ourselves–and each other.

[Honestly–and no one is paying me to say this–I’m impressed with Codyapp so far, especially the classes with Dylan Werner. (He seems really smart and is also nice to look at.) If you’re interested in joining, use this link, and we’ll both get 50 percent off a class.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Healing is like the internet at my parents’ house—it takes time.

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Single and Confident AF (Blog #155)

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I’ve spent most of today reading parts of three different books. My eyeballs are like, Enough already. My brain is like, Amen–Are you sure you want to do this for a living? Because I’m a multi-tasker, I’ve also spent the afternoon stretching and–consequently–saying “shit” a lot. At one point I was on my back, legs up the wall, doing the splits. Honestly, if I hadn’t been alone, it would’ve been really kinky. But since I was, it was just uncomfortable. My dad said, “It’s Friday night. You don’t have any plans?” I said, “No, Dad, I’m single AF.” Mom said, “What’s AF?” I said, “As fuck.” (We’ve had this conversation before, but–by her own admission–she has chemotherapy brain. I try to think of it like the movie Groundhog Day, which makes it more fun.)

One of the books I’m currently reading is called The Flood Girls by Richard Fifield. I’m honestly overloaded with things to read right now, but my friend Marla gave it to me, so it got bumped to the top of the list. (Talk about influence.) It’s about a former alcoholic slut who returns to her hometown to make amends with her mother, who coaches a local softball team (The Flood Girls) and also owns a bar where lesbians, miners, and lesbian miners hang out. The daughter befriends a fabulous teenage homosexual named Jake, and that’s about as far as I’ve gotten. But at one point Jake describes the daughter as “chin up, tits out,” and I haven’t been able to get that phrase out of my head since I read it. I mean, I have been focused on posture lately. But maybe it just reminds me to walk with confidence.

Chin up, tits out.

After an entire afternoon and evening of reading, I thought, I’ve got to get out of the house–I’ve got to go for a run, which may have had to do with the fact that I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (pure sugar) and drank half a pot of coffee for lunch. I don’t know–I’m not a scientist. So I threw on some shorts, laced up my sneakers, and hit the pavement. Oh, and I also threw off my shirt because the last time I ran for any length of time with my shirt on, my nipples were NOT happy the next day. I guess that’s nipple friction for you. Still, it was the most action they’ve seen since Obama was president, so they obviously can’t be pleased.

Personally, I think the spirit was stronger than the body tonight. Almost the entire run, which was lit by the waxing gibbous moon, I could feel the muscles in my right leg screaming, “You’ve–got–to–be–kidding–oh–shit–that’s–another–hill.” But since my pace was easy, my chin was up, and my tits were literally out, I thought, This is no time for quitting. Well, it turned out to be a personal milestone–8.6 miles. Woo-who! (Whether you’re single AF or not, it’s okay to be your own cheering section.) Granted, I may not be able to walk tomorrow, but–again–I don’t have any plans, so it won’t be a problem to stay home, take a bunch of drugs, and recover.

When I got home from the run, hoping to minimize the damage, I spent quite a while doing even more stretches, saying “shit” even more. My body was so tired, I had to use the furniture to brace myself and keep from falling over. Imagine trying to balance after a fifth of whiskey–that’s what it looked like. I kept thinking of that cartoon of the Tin Man in yoga class, the one with the thought bubble over his head that says, “This is bullshit.”

Speaking of bullshit, I think the ants in the plant across the room have found their way to the futon where I’m typing. I killed one I found on my neck earlier, and now my ankle is itching like crazy. Add that to the fact that I can barely hold my head up, my IT band feels like it’s about to pop, and I’m hungry (and did I mention single?) AF, and I’m pretty much not amused. Breathe, Marcus, breathe.

Eat, Marcus, Eat. (Be right back.)

Okay, that’s better. I just ate half a grapefruit and an individual serving of cranberry almond chicken salad. But get this shit. The box for the chicken salad cups said, “Eight singles.” I thought, Geez, you don’t have to rub it in.

Who’s to say that one experience is better than another?

Recently I finished a book by a spiritual teacher named James Swartz. I’m actually going to hear him speak, and I found out today that the event got moved from the middle of September to middle of October. At first I thought, Shit, but then I thought, Well, maybe that will work out better. Anyway, James says that life is a zero-sum game. I think the idea is that we spend so much time thinking we need to get something–more money, a better body, someone to go the movies and have sex with. But for everything we gain, we give something up. So you get your best run, but then your muscles are tight the next day. You get a relationship, but then you’re attached. In the end, no one is really better off than when they started.

I mean, in the end, you’re dead.

This is an idea I’m just starting to warm up to. I’ve spent so much time thinking I need to get, get, get, and only occasionally do I remember that I’m one little human on a huge planet in the middle of a gigantic universe. Like, maybe having a six-pack isn’t such a big deal after all. But I do like that thought, that there’s nothing to really gain or lose here, except perhaps an experience. And who’s to say that one experience is better than another? We spend all this time trying to change ourselves, but Joseph Campbell says, “The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are.” Maybe if we remembered that, more of us would be chin up, tits out, confident AF.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

(In)dependence (Blog #154)

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

Every. Single. Time.

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

Now was that so hard?

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

I realize it could be a while before this happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Life proceeds at its own pace.

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Any Stuck Door Is Worth Fixing (Blog #153)

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

Cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In one word–better.

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It’s enough just to be here.

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On Boundaries and Self-Care (Blog #152)

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

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

Stop, Marcus. Just stop.

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

And sometimes for a snack.

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

Why would anyone?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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Learning to Breathe Again (Blog #151)

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

But I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

Well, shit. I don’t have insurance.

Or $14,000.

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

“Can you come next week?” they asked.

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

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

“I’ll be there.”

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

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

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

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

I said, “I like cocktails.”

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

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

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

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

“An answer,” he said.

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We’re all made of the same stuff.

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The Space Inside Me (Blog #150)

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

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

If so, I’d like to join him.

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Any mundane thing–an elevator ride!–can be turned into something joyous.

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

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

So with that in mind–

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

She said, “I’ll buy your lunch.”

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

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

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

You know–Hogwarts.

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

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

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

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

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

Point taken, Mom.

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. And whereas it's just a single step, it's a really important one.

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Stuff That Could Heal the World (Blog #148)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You never know.

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You really do belong here.

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