On Tick Bites, Emotions, and Self-Acceptance (Blog #817)

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This morning my dad said he had an area on his back that had been “itching for weeks” but that he couldn’t see. You know that spot in between your shoulder blades. Well, sure enough, he had what I initially thought was a mole that was red and inflamed. Pissed off, really. Dad said, “I’ve been scratching it with the back scratcher.” Alas, this story doesn’t end here. As I took a closer look at Dad’s mole, I discovered it was a tick. An honest-to-god, bloodsucking dog tick. And, y’all it was still alive. I can’t tell you how grossed out I was. (I’ll spare you the picture I took.) I thought, These things wouldn’t happen if you had your own apartment, Marcus. Still, I rubbed the tick with an alcohol swab, and it backed out. Then I flushed it down the toilet.

Following The Great Back Tick Incident of 2019, I rushed around today from one thing to another. First I taught a dance lesson. Then I saw my therapist. Then I saw my physical therapist. Then I saw my massage therapist, then my chiropractor. I know, I know, all this help, and I STILL have problems. What can I say? It’s hard out here for a pimp. Anyway, finally, this evening, I attended my friend Marla’s short story writing class. And whereas I stayed up late last night and TRIED to write the middle of the story I started last week, I didn’t get very far, just a hundred words.

When I confessed my “sin” of not having written more this last week, Marla said, “That’s okay, you got a hundred words. A hundred words is something.” And whereas my inner perfectionist disagrees and thinks a hundred words isn’t “enough,” I know she’s right. A couple months ago I completed what was supposed to be a 1,000 piece puzzle only to find out that a single, solitary piece was missing. Talk about wanting to pull my hair out. Still, the point remains, every piece of a puzzle is important. Likewise, every word, sentence, and paragraph in a story is important. For one thing, you never know where something will lead, what something is connected to.

This is what I keep telling myself as I’m working on my short story, that it’s just as important to get all the pieces laid out on the table as it is to put them all together. Indeed, when writing, you’ve got to find out what you’re working with. This means sitting down consistently and shaking your conscious and subconscious minds out onto the page. THEN you can begin to arrange, THEN you can begin to make sense of things. Marla says writing is “so healing” because, in effect, you get to use your characters to work through all your issues. I agree. Even though I haven’t written a lot of fiction, this project has taught me that if you want good writing, you’ve got to let everything inside you bubble up.

Lately I’ve been having dreams in which either I or someone else has been 1) yelling or 2) behaving like a slut. Always in these dreams there’s another person, or me, doing just the opposite–speaking calmly or being a perfect gentleman. My therapist says the meaning of the dreams is obvious. Good Boy Marcus and Bad Boy Marcus are “trying to figure things out.” This is what you have to face whenever you write or otherwise decide to work on yourself–that, in the words of Uncle Walt (Whitman), you contain multitudes. For me this means that although I’m almost always a “real nice guy,” I have the potential to be (and sometimes am) a real prick. (“What’s wrong with being an asshole?” my therapist says.) Though I’m usually a finicky prude, I have the potential to be a real whore.

As one book I read about one’s shadow said, the back is as big as the front.

Honestly, I don’t like this setup. I’d much rather think of myself as all this and none of that. However, having spent years believing that parts of me were bad and needed to be ignored, silenced, flushed out, or otherwise done away with and having tried unsuccessfully to eradicate these parts of my personality, I’ve finally come around to a rather novel concept–total self-acceptance. This means all of the Marcuses are welcome here–Marcus the Nice Guy, Marcus the Asshole, Marcus the Prude, Marcus the Slut (as long as he’s not stupid). Now, does this mean that I’m going to go to any of these extremes? No. (Don’t worry, Mom.) But it does mean that every part of me is going to be heard before any final decision is made about pressing matters.

There’s an idea in the world of healing that your body only creates pain or discomfort when it believes there is something wrong. For example, my dad’s back itched because his skin had a tick attached to it. So the itching was actually a good thing. It was a signal that something needed attention. This is what I’m truly coming to believe about our emotions–that every single one of them is there to help us. They show up to say, Houston, we have a problem. Or, if it’s anger that shows up, Houston, we have a fucking problem! Of course, at times our emotions can be explosive. In my experience this happens when I shove them down. Oh no, I’m not angry. Alas, ignored emotions, like ignored ticks, only grow bigger. So the sooner you listen to (every part of) yourself, the better.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All things are moving as they should.

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On One’s Shadow and Being Whole Again (Blog #802)

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This afternoon I started reading a book by psychologist Sheldon Kopp called Mirror, Mask, and Shadow: The Risks and Rewards of Self-Acceptance. The idea behind it is one I’ve been attracted to for a while now–that certain parts of ourselves get asked to sit in the corner or are disowned altogether early in our lives and do us more harm than good when we continue to ignore them. These are the parts of ourselves we’re ashamed of, embarrassed by, or–worse–refuse to acknowledge whatsoever. Examples include suppressed rage, anger, assertiveness, and sexual fantasies (like, homosexual desires, kinky stuff, or anything society would disapprove of like–um–thinking about, talking about, or having sex). These are parts of ourselves that–when repressed–cause us to think or act “out of character,” that can really twist our positive self-image if we happen to have one.

What I mean by twisting our positive self-image is that many of us like to think of ourselves as good people. Christians, even. We like to think we’re kind, loving, and patient. But then someone cuts us off in traffic or otherwise pushes our buttons, and the worst comes flying out. As one internet meme says, “If you think hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, you’ve obviously never seen a gay man slightly inconvenienced.” In other words, there are times when we can all really cut someone else off at the knees. Personally, I know that my inner critic has really been barking lately. This evening I went to a bookstore, and it was hurling silent insults at not only the employees but also at the authors of most the books I picked up. What do they think they know?! it said.

My point in sharing this personal example is that if I were married to the idea of being a “good” person (which I’m not, although perhaps I’m engaged to it) and were also married to the idea of being as honest with myself as possible (which I am), I’d have a problem, since, at least internally, I can be a real asshole. On a daily if not weekly basis part of me gets frustrated or irate with almost everything and everyone–my life situation, my parents, my dance students, my friends. Sometimes the pot boils over. For the most part, I’m okay with this. Not that I want that upset part of me to take over–I don’t–but I wouldn’t be doing myself any favors by trying to shove it down, ignore what it has to say, or calling it (or myself) “bad” for existing.

This is my therapist’s approach when it comes to any and every thought in my head. Over the last five years, I’ve dumped everything on her, everything I’ve ever been hesitant to admit–sometimes I want to rip people’s heads off, sometimes I want to fuck people’s heads off. Of course, in therapy, I get specific about my fantasies. And whereas I don’t intend to do that here (you’re welcome), I’m touching on the subject to say that my therapist has never, not once, batted an eye. In fact, she’s encouraged even what I’ve considered to be my grossest, most perverted imaginations–not for me to ACT on them, mind you, but to think about them. As I understand it, this approach allows one’s shadow to be acknowledged and integrated rather than suppressed. Suppression, apparently, is the problem. That’s what causes you to suddenly blow your top or–God forbid–hurt yourself or someone else. That’s what causes you to do something you later regret and think, I have no idea where THAT came from.

Well, it came from your shadow. From the parts of yourself you’ve kept in the dark all these years. From the parts you’ve shoved down.

Kopp says our shadow parts are primitive and awkward, but not wholly bad. “You have learned to consider them evil, or at least sinister,” he says. “They are, instead, merely the rest of you. Together, you and your shadow make a complete self. Though your shadow may contain some destructive potential, it also embodies lost vitality, highly personal creative possibilities, and everything you always wanted to know about yourself but were afraid to ask.”

Later he says that if we don’t consciously own our shadow, we’ll inevitably project it. “You may unconsciously select other people to act out aspects of your own hidden self, or even encourage others to behave in ways that serve you as an alter ego. If it meets the other person’s needs, he or she may at the same time be using you as a reciprocal shadow. How many couples live Laurel and Hardy lives, each a caricature of the other’s disowned self?” This idea fascinates me. I’m aware of relationships–couples, friends–in which one person is WAY outspoken and other other WAY shy. Or one person is totally stoic and the other totally emotional. It’s like both people know on some level that a balance is needed, and so, unable to find that balance within themselves, they find it without.

I’m quite sure I’ve done this. For example, for the longest time, and even now (obviously), I talk a lot about my therapist. My therapist says this, my therapist says that. Often when I share stories about her, it’s about some wildly assertive thing she’s said. Told someone to fuck off or go to hell or whatever. Well, my talking about her isn’t about my idolizing her or being enmeshed with her, but rather about that assertive part of me that I long ago pushed down wanting to come back up. That is, just as we project the worst parts of ourselves onto our villains, we project the very best parts of ourselves onto our heroes. The important thing, of course, is to recognize that we’re projecting–the evil or the good that we see “out there” isn’t really out there at all. It’s in here.

In other words, the thing you hate or love in another isn’t about them–it’s about you.

I’m not saying that if you spot something base and immoral–or even sublime–in the world that it exists in you in equal proportion. But I am saying that the very worst and the very best exist in you as possibilities or potentials. As others have pointed out, each of us could be a Hitler. Each of us could be a Mother Teresa. For me, growth has come through acknowledging the opposite potentials within me. For years, decades, I tried to banish parts of myself or simply deny them. Oh no, I’m not angry. I’m not horny as hell. Now I’m more interested in the truth. What do I think and feel, regardless of what someone or some book says I should? Give me the truth. Give me every part of myself. Make me whole again.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Beating yourself up is a far cry from self-respect."

A Thousand Wallet-Sized Photos (Blog #591)

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It’s two in the morning, and–I know I say this a lot, but–the day has gotten away from me. I slept in until one this afternoon, and even I thought, For crying out loud, Marcus Anderson Coker, wake up earlier. But for the last week I’ve been tired, tired, tired, like seriously dragging ass, and I haven’t been today. Rather, I woke up–how do I say this?–excited to be alive.

So maybe I just needed some serious Zs.

After an obviously late breakfast, I spent this afternoon digging through my old yearbooks–pre-kindergarten through college–because while going through old photos lately I’ve come across handfuls of unlabeled “wallets” and wanted to figure out what picture was taken when. This project took nearly three hours but definitely helped me organize both my photos and my brain. Oh yes–I had braces from sixth grade to eight grade, then I frosted my hair in high school, then I dyed it red in college, AND THEN I dyed it blue (also in college). The other thing this project did was remind me, sort of all at once, how frickin’ awkward it is to grow up or to generally be alive. I mean, the braces, the haircuts, the zits. Ugh. my senior portraits were airbrushed to hell. Not to mention the fashion.

Personally, I did the baggy shirt thing for WAY too long.

I guess about junior high, maybe a little sooner, is when the awkward thing really started for me. I found one photo taken between sixth and seventh grades from a back-to-school pool party in which I was the only guy wearing a t-shirt in the swimming pool because I didn’t like what puberty did to my nipples. I realize this level of criticism is normal. You hit puberty, and EVERYTHING changes–some things for the better, some things for the worse. At some point, you end up despising your own body. (If this wasn’t your experience with puberty, just wait until your metabolism slows down or your breasts start to sag.) But I never remember thinking ANYTHING was wrong before puberty. NOTHING was too big, too small, too anything. It just was. Now I think most things are–too something, that is. Like, I don’t care for my posture, and when I look back at my junior high photos I think, That’s when I started slouching. So not do I pick on the current me, I also pick on the former me.

And he’s not even here to defend himself.

Not that I want to go back to the age I was in elementary school when everything was all “ain’t life great,” but I would like to go back to that level of self-acceptance and self-kindness.

This evening after dinner I went to Fort Smith to help my aunt with her internet and do a couple odd jobs. Then I went to a friend’s house to help them with a phone/computer thing, and since phone/computer things always take MUCH longer than expected, ended up eating dinner again. “Have you eaten,” my friend said. “Well, yes,” I said, “but I’m ALWAYS hungry.” Anyway, this is where the bulk of my evening was spent, at my friend’s house, working and catching up. We laughed, laughed, laughed. This is so important, I think, since it’s really easy to stay at home, dig through your memories, get stuck in your head, and take both yourself and your life way too seriously.

So that’s my two cents for tonight–if you know someone who makes you laugh, ask them if you can come over. (Tell ’em you’ll fix their phone or computer.)

When I got home from my friend’s, it was nearly midnight, and I’d intended to start blogging right away. But then I decided to crop all the “photos of yearbook photos” I took while going through my annuals this afternoon, AND THEN I thought, Wouldn’t it be nice to have them all lined up neat and orderly, like in a collage? AND THAT turned into a nearly two-hour long project that involved not only learning how to use a new phone app, but also doing my damndest to not demand perfection of myself.

Maybe that photo should be a little bigger and slightly to the left.

This is apparently a lesson I’ve been trying to learn for a while, the not demanding perfection of myself thing. While looking through my college yearbooks (for three of four of which I was the editor), I noticed a “letter from the editor” in which I said, “You’ll find plenty of mistakes here. But like life, this is meant to be fun.”

This is meant to be fun, Marcus.

I don’t know, if I got to someone’s Instagram feed and find nothing but “perfect” photos, like every single frickin’ one is magazine-quality beautiful, I think, Bitch, please. Because that’s not real life; it’s not even close. Real life is awkward smiles, bad haircuts, and zits on your face. It’s crooked teeth, a stain on your (baggy) shirt, and posture that’s never quite “right.” It’s everything you could fit into a thousand wallet-sized photos. At the same time, it’s not that–because real life is REAL life. It’s something that’s lived, not something that’s captured with a camera. It’s whatever time you woke up today, whatever you did this afternoon, and the sound of two friends laughing. It’s whatever is happening right here, right now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Give yourself an abundance of grace.

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This Is How I Dance. This Is Who I Am. (Blog #352)

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Today is my third day in Houston at Lindyfest, a longstanding Lindy Hop convention deep in the heart of Texas. Last night I went to bed at three in the morning and slept for shit. The rash I have (where no one wants a rash) kept me up all night. I don’t mind saying it was (and is) miserable. This morning my alarm went off at eight-thirty, and I’m guessing I only slept a few hours. Dragging myself out of bed, I threw on some clothes, chugged some coffee, and headed downstairs to the ballroom to dance.

For tryouts.

The first time I came to Lindyfest was in 2007. A veteran East Coast Swing dancer, I had a growing interest in Lindy Hop, which, although related to East Coast Swing, is more difficult. So I met some dear friends in Tulsa, and we all travelled down together. Looking back, I guess that first year was my favorite. My friends and I were like a gang. We took classes together, danced together at night, went out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. At that time, everything about Lindy Hop was new and magical. I remember walking into the Melody Club for the first time and seeing hundreds–literally hundreds–of people doing the swing out, the basic movement in Lindy Hop. I was so dewy-eyed. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so excited.

I didn’t know it at the time, but there are all sorts of events in the Lindy Hop world. Some are bigger like Lindyfest, and others are smaller, like the one I used to host (Southern Fried Swing). Some events, usually the larger ones, have tryouts or auditions for upper-level classes. This is how Lindyfest is structured–levels 1 through 3 are open to anyone, and levels 4 and up are by the audition process only. However, that first year at Lindyfest, I didn’t have to worry about trying out. I knew where I belonged–at the bottom.

Y’all, back then, I didn’t know any better. I attended every single class I could, watched every performance, and danced all night. I’d skip sleep, even get sick, in order to learn how to Lindy Hop. Looking back, it really was an age of innocence. Now I sleep in, skip classes, and take it all in stride. Now the age of innocence is over.

As the years went by and I continued to attend Lindy Hop workshops, I started trying out for the more advanced classes. Some years I’d make the level I was trying out for, and just as often I wouldn’t. One year I made the upper-level classes, but my dance partner, whom I taught with, didn’t. I wish I could tell you that none of this bothered me, but it did. Whenever I didn’t make the level that I wanted, it usually spoiled the better part of a day. I’m sure my ego was involved. (It usually is.) I remember one year when I just stood there after the names of those who had been chosen for the advanced classes were called and I wasn’t one of them. Now I think I simply wanted to be validated, to be seen.

For the last five years, I haven’t been to Lindyfest, and I don’t mind saying that one of the good things about that for me has been the fact that I haven’t had to tryout for classes, feel judged, or worry about “rejection,” at least in the Lindy Hop world.

Since coming on board as this year’s Lindyfest marketing director, one of the main things the organizers and I have discussed has been the tryout process, since I’m apparently not the only one who’s had a negative experience with it. That being said, objectively, there are a lot of benefits to having tryouts. People (including myself) tend to rate their talents and dancing abilities higher than they actually are, and in order to ensure that everyone has the best learning experience possible, people really do need to be properly sorted or placed so they can work with their peers. Still, it’s a sore point for a lot of people, so many events, including Lindyfest, are constantly trying to improve or modify the process.

In the past, tryouts at Lindyfest have always been held on Friday AND Saturday, but this year the event tried something new. On Friday, everyone got to self-place, meaning that even a brand new dancer could take a top-level class, the idea being that people could “test” levels before trying out for them Saturday (this morning). Honestly, as a staff member, I was hoping to avoid the tryouts altogether. Remembering what it felt like to not “make it,” I thought, I’m too old for this shit. I know what I’m doing. I don’t want to feel bad if I don’t make it.

Well, somehow, I got over myself. First, after surveying the classes yesterday, I knew that I could keep up. Second, I realized that fair is fair. With only a few exceptions, everyone–staff or not–has to get up early and tryout if they want access to the advanced material. So that’s what I did. Running on only a few hours of sleep, I showed up in the ballroom with every other sleepy-eyed dancer here who hoped to end up in the highest level, level 7. (Well, there is a master’s level, but that’s by invitation only and was off my radar.)

Y’all, the audition process was–um–brutal. I mean, it wasn’t brutal because of the people running it. I thought they did a great job, and the lady explaining everything was very kind and understanding. Rather, it was brutal because I’ve been so sick lately. I was winded after the first two songs, and I think there were six or seven total, each progressively faster. And I don’t know, something about knowing that you’re being judged. Seriously, I’ve been dancing for over ten years, and all of a sudden, everything I knew flew out the window. So I had to tell myself, Calm down, Marcus. Dance solid basics. Use your technique. Listen to the music.

Okay, enough suspense. Despite the fact that I was sucking air and overly worried, I made it. I made level 7.

Y’all, I get that in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t a big deal. Had I made level 6, or even 5, I would have been okay by tomorrow. Hell, it’s not like I’m actually taking any classes. I mean, I’ve been sick, and now I’ve got this rash (where no one wants a rash) made worse by friction (in other words, dancing). For this reason, actually taking a class and rotating around to different partners sounds miserable. But I love having the option of going to any class I want. Plus, in some way I feel validated and seen, like I somehow got something I didn’t in the past when I tried out and didn’t “make it.”

I don’t like admitting it, but I got a special wristband when I made level 7, and it makes me feel–um–important. Honestly, I hate this. (And have thus argued against wristbands in my official capacity–because they separate people.) I hate that if only in the slightest, I feel better than any other dancer here. Because it’s a bunch of bullshit. What really matters is that I can see progress, that I can look back and see how far I’ve come, even if no one else recognizes it or if my wristband doesn’t say it. What should be important–and is, actually–is the fact that I was afraid of being rejected this morning and yet was willing to put myself out there, to effectively say, “This is how I dance and this is who I am. Like it or not. At the end of the day, I don’t give a shit.”

Having made the level that I wanted, I really can’t say much about being rejected. As one of my friends said when I started working for this event, “You’re in the cool kids’ club now.” I don’t know if that’s true or not–most people don’t look at Lindy Hoppers as cool to begin with–but I understand their point. It’s nice to be accepted. But I do get it–I know what it feels like to want something so bad–to be validated, to be seen–and not receive it. I’ve experienced that in the Lindy Hop world, and I still experience it now in other creative endeavors like writing.

You don’t ever have to prove a thing.

This afternoon I was on the elevator with a dewy-eyed first time Lindyfest attendee, and when I asked her how she liked it, her face literally lit up. “I LOVE IT,” she said. And for just a moment, it made me want to go back to my first year, to the time I was excited about the dance because it’a joyful thing to do and not because it can make me look “cool.” Given the chance, I’d go back and tell myself, Baby, don’t worry about a wristband. It has nothing to do with who you are, and no one else can validate you–only you can do that. Certainly no one else can see you, really see you, until you see yourself and until you accept yourself exactly as you are. Try out if you want to, but I promise–as long as you live, you don’t ever have to prove a thing.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We are surrounded by the light.

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That One in the Mirror (Blog #351)

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For the last two weeks, ever since I found out I was going to have a roommate here at Lindyfest, I’ve been worried about snoring. I honestly don’t think I do it all the time, but friends have mentioned it. Plus, it’s woken ME up enough times to merit concern. Friends tell me not to worry, that lots of people snore, but I’m always so envious of people who don’t. You know, pretty sleepers, people who just lie there perfectly still all night and wake up looking like they walked out of a magazine the next morning. Not me–I toss and turn, make noises. Sometimes my legs jerk. Hell, I probably even fart when I sleep. I always wake up with my hair stuck up, looking like I just escaped a barroom brawl.

It’s so embarrassing.

On the way up to the room last night, I thought, Don’t freak out, Marcus. People snore. Maybe your roommate will snore too and it will be something you two can bond over. But no such luck. I walked in the room, about four in the morning, and it was complete silence. Like so quiet I wondered if he had died. Anyway, I crawled in my side of the bed (there’s only one bed in the room), and all I could think about was snoring. I probably would have stayed awake all night worrying about what my body might do if I were to nod off, but I’d taken some Benadryl (for a rash I have where no one wants a rash), and they kicked in. Five hours later my roommate woke me up for breakfast, sort of shouting my name–Marcus! Later I stumbled into the bathroom, noticed drool on my shirt, and thought, Yep, definitely snored.

But seriously, what can you do?

I’d honestly intended to take a nap after breakfast since I would have had the room to myself, but I got caught up in a good conversation, then decided to check out today’s dance classes. For the most part, I didn’t participate. I did stand up a couple times to go through some footwork, but I have this effing rash (where no one wants a rash), and almost any movement is uncomfortable. Seriously, this skin irritation is itching nonstop despite all the things I’m doing that the dermatologist told me to do, and dancing doesn’t make it any better. Good thing I’m not at a dancing convention with dance classes all day and dances all night.

Oh wait.

Otherwise, things are going really well. I’ve enjoyed watching classes, and I’m doing my best to strike up conversations with people, or at least smile or say hello. So far everyone has responded positively, and I actually feel like I’m making friends. Well, except for that guy in the bathroom. He kind of rushed off. Maybe he didn’t appreciate my peeking under his stall. (That’s a joke, Mom.) But seriously, as someone who has often felt “left out” or un-included at larger dance events, this is big progress.

Now it’s eight in the evening, and tonight’s dance starts in an hour. It’ll go until five in the morning, so it’s not like I have to be there for every minute. Still, I would like to finish the blog before it starts and perhaps even take a nap before I dance, dance, dance. Really, I don’t know that I’ll do that much dancing. In more than one way, my body is telling me to take it easy. Maybe this is a good thing. In the past I’ve always felt like I had to dance every minute or, I don’t know, impress people. Having been through the ringer these last several months, I’m more subdued. Now I’m content to simply be me–me who sometimes snores, me who has a rash where no one wants a rash, whatever.

You don’t have to be afraid of rejection.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the more I learn to love and accept myself (snoring, rashes, and every other “embarrassing” thing), the better my experience is with those around me. Maybe this is the magic of self-acceptance. Once you know who you are and are okay with that, you can open up, you can talk to anyone and not be afraid of rejection. Not that others won’t ever reject you, you just don’t have to be afraid of their rejection because you’re no longer living for their approval. If you have it, great. If you don’t, you’ve still got the approval of the one that matters, that one in the mirror with drool on their shirt.

[The above photo is me doing a famous swing dance move that’s appropriately titled “Itch and Scratch.”]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It’s okay to ask for help.

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Dents in My Sheetrock (Blog #348)

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Currently I’m in my room, propped up in bed with a bunch of pillows. The overhead light is off, and the lamp beside my bed illuminates my makeshift workstation, another pillow. Across the room are two closet doors, both of which open up to the same closet. In between the doors there’s a small section of sheetrock about eight inches wide, painted brown like the rest of the room. Several days ago while stretching on the floor, I noticed that there were dozens of dents in that small section of the wall, little pea-sized holes, kind of low to the ground. At first perplexed by these dents in my sheetrock, I then remembered how they got there.

When I was a kid, maybe eight, maybe nine, I had a dart board. The board itself was made of plastic and was rather like a hairbrush–it had these round pegs that stuck out in order to “catch” the darts, which were also made of plastic but had a round, metal tip on the end of each one. As I recall, I would hang the board on one of my closet doorknobs, scoot back as far as I could, and throw the darts toward the board. Well, I guess I wasn’t a very good marksman, as evidenced by the pockmarks still in the sheetrock.

Noticing the dents in the wall several days ago, the perfectionist in me wanted to fill them in with spackle and repaint the wall. But then I thought better to leave them, since covering them up would be a lot of work and they remind me of my childhood. What’s more, they remind me that I once played darts not be perfect and hit the mark every time, but simply to play. They remind me that if for only a brief time in my life, it was enough to try.

Recently I read that when you’re working on personal growth, a lot of changes take place when you’re unconscious or dreaming. You do whatever you do during the day–going to therapy, meditating, or reading self-help books–then everything gets processed or “downloaded” at night. According to this theory, positive and fundamental changes in one’s character or personality happen often slowly and over time, but they do happen. Because they happen while one is sleeping, these changes, when manifested during the day as different attitudes, moods, and behaviors, can come as a surprise. Like maybe after years of accepting someone’s inappropriate behavior, one day you find yourself looking them squarely in the eyes and saying, “Get your hands off my ass.” Later you think, “I don’t know what got into me. I NEVER would have done that before.”

Of course, that’s exactly the point. The old you wouldn’t have.

This idea has been on my mind lately because of online criticism. I’ll explain. When I owned the dance studio I used to upload class-review videos to YouTube. This went on for a number of years, and even as my technique improved, I left all the old videos (with my less-than-perfect technique) online. Looking back at them, I sometimes cringe, either at the way I looked or the way I danced. I think, I should have been better than that. Still, I leave the videos because, much like the dents in my sheetrock, they tell a story. Watching them, I see someone who was doing the best he could at the time. Also, I see how much progress that person has made.

Sometimes people bitch.

Added together, the videos on my YouTube channel have been watched over five-and-a-half million times. Occasionally, maybe once every week or two, I get a notification that someone has commented on one of them. Usually, these comments are positive. Someone will say, “Thanks” or “This really helped me out.” But sometimes people bitch. Last week someone said, “You should NEVER teach dance in flip-flops. This isn’t serious.” Just today someone else said, “After you break a move down, DO IT FULL SPEED!”

Criticisms like these used to wear me out. I’d lose sleep over them, call my dance mentor over them. Am I doing something wrong? Should I quit teaching dance because a stranger in Ohio doesn’t like my haircut? Thankfully, at some point, I quit getting bent out of shape by unsolicited bullshit. I’d check the profiles of people who were criticizing my work, and they almost never had their work online, so I started thinking, If you know so much, you do it. Still, afraid of upsetting someone, I never would engage.

But lately I’ve noticed that I’m more inclined to reply to negative feedback. I’m not interested in starting an argument with a total stranger, since we were all on Facebook during the last political season and know how well that typically turns out. And I’m not saying I reply to every ignorant-ass comment that comes my way. But I’m tired of not standing up for myself when someone, for no good reason, takes a swing at me. So in response to the comment about how I should never dance in flip-flops (which I “mostly” agree with, actually), I said, “We all get to make our own choices.” In response to the comment about how I should demonstrate a move at full speed, I said, “Uh–please say please.”

I mean, god, at what point did it become okay to deem yourself the director of someone else’s life just because you own a keyboard?

This is the fundamental character change I mentioned earlier, the one that can happen when you’re not noticing. Four years ago I never would have stood up to a cyberbully or said, “That’s enough, asshole.”

Recently I’ve been writing about the fact (fact) that I’ve been sick. Earlier today a friend said they thought I was looking for sympathy. I’m not exactly sure where this comment came from, but it bothers me. As I’ve said before, I don’t like being sick. I hate it. I’m like, so over it. But let me be crystal clear–I’m not asking for anyone’s pity or sympathy. (Kindness, maybe.) Life is hard for all of us, and I don’t believe that it’s “unfair” for me specifically or that I’ve gotten a raw deal on this planet just because I have chronic sinus problems. In sharing my experiences, my intent isn’t to whine. Rather, even when I’m at my lowest, I think I work my ass off to provide hope, inspiration, and support not only for myself, but also for others.

Despite all my challenges in life, I think I do a pretty good job of refusing to believe that the world is anything but a good place to live.

In reply to the comment about my looking for sympathy, I simply said, “No, I’m honestly sharing my story.” (And I’m not holding a gun to anyone’s head and forcing them to read it, by the way.) As if you need my permission, feel free to disagree. I get that not everyone will interpret my motivations and my story as I do. That’s okay. I think any person who “puts themselves out there” has to ultimately make peace with the responses they get from others, even when those response aren’t asked for, even when those responses are negative, even when those responses seem to be aimed like darts.

Honestly, if I’m looking for anything on this blog or in my life, it’s understanding. My guess is that’s all any of us really want–to be understood. (And maybe to win the lottery would be nice.) But one thing I’d like to be explicit about–the one and only person I want and need to understand me–is me. If anything good and positive and lasting has come out of this writing project, this is it. It’s taught me to love, accept, and support myself in a way I never did before it started. Because of this small miracle, I’m not looking for understanding–or anything–from anyone else. If I have it, great–thank you. We all like praise and crave support. But what I’m saying is that if I woke up tomorrow and a thousand people on YouTube said my dancing was shit, I might have a bad day, but I wouldn’t stop dancing. If everyone stopped reading my blog–if my statistics dropped to zero–I wouldn’t stop writing.

Tonight I noticed a total-word-count feature on my blog for the first time. Since starting the blog almost a year ago, I’ve apparently written over 350,000 words, an average of over 1,000 a day. When I consider these words and when I consider the videos I’ve uploaded to YouTube, I know they aren’t all “perfect.” (If you’d like to find something wrong with any of them, it’ll be easy enough for you to do.) But perhaps these efforts are much like the dents in my sheetrock on the other side of the room, less about being perfect and more about how I’m simply trying to figure things out, just like everyone else is.

Doing what you love is never about gaining acceptance from others.

In my experience, when you put yourself out there and play the game, you have a few hits and just as many misses. And God knows you don’t make everyone else happy. But this is no reason to quit or be discouraged, since doing what you love and feel called to do is never–never–about gaining acceptance from others. Indeed, if the entire world rejected you because of the “dents” they perceived in your life, and yet you utterly loved and accepted yourself, what difference would the entire world make?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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A mantra: Not an asshole, not a doormat.

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