You Should Use That Thing (Blog #433)

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It’s just before one in the morning, and it’s been a long day. A good day, a fun day, but a long day. Several hours ago I started getting tired, and now my allergies are acting up “just enough.” For these reasons, I hope to keep tonight’s blog quick and to the point. You can do this, Marcus, you can do this.

This afternoon I saw my therapist and read her last night’s blog about my wanting to go easier on myself. She said that voice I have in my head, my inner coach, critic, or asshole that’s always demanding more is essentially my inner child, that part of me that developed early in life and has the need or drive to be constantly productive and perfect. “That strategy was really helpful when you were younger and had a lot of responsibility on your shoulders,” she said. “And you can still rock out perfection if you need to redecorate a house or perform a dance routine. But you don’t have to rock it out every minute of every day.”

My therapist’s suggestion for responding to my inner child was to use compassion. Like, I shouldn’t say, “Listen here, you little shit,” then tell that demanding part of me to screw off. Rather, I should reach for understanding and actually dialogue with myself. (“I’m not encouraging schizophrenia,” she said.) Something like, “I know you think we need to be ‘doing something’ constantly, but we are doing something–we’re watching a movie. I hear you, baby, and I’m making a different choice.”

Sounds easy enough, but changing my mind and thought patterns (like for real) often sounds too good to be true. “And this can happen?” I asked. “It’s possible to live one way for thirty years then effectively turn things around?”

“Yes, I see it every day,” she answered. “Well, sometimes every other day, but still–people can change.”

So that’s good news.

My therapist and I also talked about me finding my voice. (Where did I put that thing?) The conversation was in the context of my saying that I’d started sticking up for myself with the car insurance company of the guy who rammed into my last year, telling the agent that what she was offering to settle the case was “pitiful” and “unacceptable.” I told my therapist I was weary of being nervous both generally and whenever I have to confront someone, of acting like I don’t belong here, of feeling unimportant or small (like I don’t have anything to contribute).

“You’re tired of not being heard,” she said.

“Yes, I’m tired of not being heard.”

I SAID I’M TIRED OF NOT BEING HEARD.

(That was a joke.)

After therapy I ran some errands and ended up at a used bookstore. (I’m prone to do this sort of thing.) And whereas I hardly ever get into good, engaging, balanced conversations with total strangers, especially other guys, especially guys sort-of my age, I did while at the bookstore. I’m mentioning this fact for two reasons. First, life is full of surprises, and–apparently–kind people. Two, just one hour after leaving therapy and talking about wanting to be heard, I was randomly told by a complete stranger, “You have a great voice. You should use that thing.” This was said in reference to my potentially doing voice work (radio, advertising, etc.), but I took it as further confirmation from the universe–Speak up, speak out, you’re on the right track.

Give yourself an abundance of grace.

This evening I stopped by to see my aunt, who’s getting ready for a yard sale. Sitting down in an old chair on her lawn, I propped my feet up on an ottoman, and the neighborhood stray cat jumped up in my lap. Y’all, this never happens with me and cats, but this fella rubbed his head all around me, stretched out, made himself at home. I kept thinking, God, I hope he doesn’t have fleas, but it really was adorable, the sweetest thing. Thankfully, I’m beginning to enjoy moments like these more. Sitting there this evening, I never once considered that I needed to be elsewhere, doing other things. My therapist says we think of abundance as strictly about money, but it’s also about moments like these and receiving all the love and encouragement life has to offer. It’s about having an abundance of self-acceptance, an abundance of compassion for your inner child. It’s about giving yourself an abundance of grace to grow, to learn, to change, to find your voice.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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Shattered (Blog #410)

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Last week I saw my therapist and we talked about money, a subject that almost always makes me twitchy. “It’s like your heart is in your throat,” she said. That night I went for a run to chill out, then wrote a blog in which I explored how my childhood feelings about money have apparently gotten all mixed up with my current feelings about money. You can read the blog here, but the big takeaway was that I was completely overwhelmed once as a teenager when I had to meet with our bank regarding our failure to make mortgage payments (since Mom was sick and Dad was in prison), and that feeling of “I’m in over my head when it comes to money” has never completely gone away.

Or gone away at all, really.

Of all the blogs I’ve written, that one about going to the bank as a teenager was perhaps the most emotional for me, meaning I broke down crying while writing it. Granted, I’ve cried plenty of times while blogging, but this was ugly crying, not movie-star crying. Serious boo-who-who-ing. Anyway, I saw my therapist this afternoon, and I read the blog to her and cried some more. “See, this–is–wha-what ha-ha-happens,” I said, adding that I hated the fact that I’m a thirty-seven-year-old man who feels like a teenager when it comes to anything financial. “I’m a fuh-fuh-fucking mess.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Let it out.”

Later, when I was more calm, my therapist said, “You’ve never told me that story before. That was a big deal, and it makes absolute sense that you responded the way you did. Anyone in your circumstances would walk away from that experience thinking that money was scary, dirty, and hard to come by.”

“It’s not?” I said.

As we continued to flesh things out, I told my therapist that I’ve thought about that day at the bank a lot over the years. It’s not like I haven’t known “that was a bad day.” But seriously, until I broke down while blogging about it last week, I didn’t realize what a formative event it was for me, how intimidating and frightening it was. “You were acknowledging it in your head, but not in your heart,” my therapist said. “You normally don’t do a lot of crying in here, but the fact that you are now is a good thing. It means you’re ready to get this sorted out and heal. It means you’re ready to grieve for that teenager.”

I think that’s such a poignant word–grieve–since I don’t often fully acknowledge what all I lost when my dad went to prison. Obviously there was the childhood thing–I grew up way too fast. But then there were things I lost you might not think of, like my sense of power, my feeling of belonging in this world, my pride in my circumstances. Oh yeah, and that feeling I had when I was a kid about how money was exciting and fun, something to be enjoyed (and not overwhelmed by). Where did that part of me go?

Because I’d really like it back.

My therapist says that your past doesn’t determine your future, that just because things were shit when you were a teenager doesn’t mean they have to be shit forever. (God, I hope she’s right.) She also says that with everything that went on in my childhood, I could have EASILY ended up addicted to drugs, and the fact that I didn’t only goes to show how resilient I am. (So that’s something.) I hope my repeating this compliment doesn’t sound like bragging, since I’ve never once used the word resilient to describe myself (before now), and I didn’t plan it this way. It’s not like there was a moment in my childhood when I thought, Dad’s in prison and the bank is on our back, but I’m not going to shoot heroin up my arm–no, sir, not me–I’m going to be resilient!

No emotion is ever truly buried.

But seriously, I don’t know why one person who’s dealt a shit hand in life turns to drugs and another doesn’t. Likewise, I don’t know why my sister has always been one to cry about things in the moment and I’ve (apparently) always been one to bury my emotions for decades. But I do know from personal experience that no emotion is ever truly buried. You may keep it down for a while–fool yourself and others–but it’ll come up somehow. (Just you wait.) Also, getting back to that long list of things I lost when I was a child like my feeling of belonging and pride in my circumstances, I don’t think these things were ever truly lost. Separated, maybe. But surely I can reconnect with them. Surely anyone can reconnect with themselves. For what is resilience but this, the firm belief that all shattered things can somehow be put back together.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Your story isn’t about your physical challenges.

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Shadow Dancing (Blog #401)

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Well hell. I just spent thirty minutes trying to connect my laptop to the WIFI at a local coffee shop to no avail. I’ve had this problem before–a message that says another device is connected to the network with my IP address–but this is the first time I haven’t been able to resolve it. So now I’m connected to MY hot spot and using MY data, which feels stupid because THE WHOLE POINT of blogging at a coffee shop is to use THEIR free internet. But I CAN’T connect to their free internet, so what am I EVEN doing here?

Oh yeah, I’m drinking coffee.

Yesterday I did my second live video on Facebook. I know this isn’t new technology, but as I’m usually late to the party, it’s new to me. So I’m excited about it. In yesterday’s video, I shared an essay I wrote in September of 2016 that helped initiate all my big life changes–closing the studio, having an estate sale, and–ultimately–starting the blog. Additionally, I read yesterday’s blog–which was #400–out loud. If you missed it and would like to see it, here it is. (It’s about 26 minutes long.) As I continue to hit milestones with the blog, my plan is to share other previously unshared essays and/or short stories.

After last night’s live video, I went dancing with my friend Bonnie. Well, sort of. We went to a swing dance, but the attendance was super-low, so we pretty much walked in then walked right back out. As a former organizer of dances, I kind of hated doing this because I know how much difference every person makes, but as an attendee I thought, This just isn’t going to work for me. We ended up at a local restaurant where a rockabilly band was playing, and since there wasn’t enough room for dancing, we simply listened (and snacked).

Y’all, the place was a bit of a dude bar. You know, pool tables, waitresses in Daisy Dukes, Hells Angels scattered about the room strategically. Mid-evening, when I had to go to the bathroom, I was forced to wade through all of it. Weaving my way around burly guys with pool sticks in their hands, I thought, What have I gotten myself into? Well, I guess I was wearing a look of suspicion on my face when I cautiously opened the door to the men’s room, as one of the guys at the urinals said, “You opened that door like a serial killer, bro.”

Seriously? This gay boy has been called a lot of things over the years, but never bro.

I mean, a serial killer.

Later in the evening, Bonnie and I went Latin dancing in downtown Fayetteville. That’s where we took the above picture, inside some sort of blow-up, light-up, bounce-around tent that I assume was meant to look sophisticated but really just looked tacky. Business owners, before doing something drastic like this, remember the following little poem by yours truly:

When you’re straight,
It’s okay to decorate.
But if your vision
Includes an “inflatables” decision,
Trust a homo–
It’s a no-no.

Getting home late from the dance last night, I slept in this morning. Then this afternoon I taught a couple’s dance routine to a group of teenagers, the group I spoke of yesterday and have been dreading working with for nearly two months now. And yet, after all that worry about them being awkward and me being awkward and us being awkward together, everything went great. We worked for two hours and went from them know pretty much squat to being able to perform the entire minute-and-a-half routine. Throw in a little practice and some nice outfits, and they’ll be golden. And y’all, the experience was actually fun for me, working with “the kids,” seeing them progress. I actually felt–well–proud.

You can speak your truth and stand beside it.

This has been on my mind lately, how something in real life is so often the complete opposite of what I’ve imagined. During the group lesson I missed a call from the insurance agent of the guy who rear-ended me (in the worst way possible) several months ago. So when the kids left, I called them back, and despite all my anxiety over speaking to this person, the conversation went fine. A couple months ago my therapist said, “I bet you’re a better negotiator than you realize. I bet you could actually be tough.” And not that I did any tough negotiating today (I just gave them my email address), I did think, I can say what I want. I can speak my truth and stand beside it. I guess life is funny this way, turning what I thought were monsters into simple shadows on the wall, shadows that quite often turn out to be fun to dance with, shadows that shrink as I step closer to them.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Life doesn’t need us to boss it around.

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Remembering (Blog #398)

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This afternoon I saw my therapist and told her about my meeting Del Shores on Sunday. I shared this bit of news as if I were a junior high cheerleader at a slumber party, and she responded in kind. (I love it when people rejoice with me appropriately.) Then I told her about receiving good news about my medical bills last week and ended the conversation by groaning, “So maybe the universe isn’t such a bad place to live after all.” My therapist raised her hand as if she were about to offer a benediction. “It has its moments,” she said, then bowed her head slightly. “It has its moments.”

After therapy and a quick trip to the library, I met my friend CJ for an evening in Fayetteville. For dinner, we went to Herman’s, a steak and rib joint that’s been around for decades, but it was our first time there. Y’all, it was pretty great. We both had steak, and they were super big, super juicy. Good stuff. And I was so proud of myself for staying mostly on Autoimmune Paleo. (I ate hash browns, but NO tomatoes, peppers, or bread!) That being said, when CJ suggested dessert, I did think, Oh, fuck it and started fantasizing about the possibilities. But thankfully (I guess), I didn’t have to exercise my willpower or decide to further break my rules for the evening because Herman’s doesn’t have a dessert menu. What they do have, however, is a basket of (free) multi-flavored Tootsie Pops.

Insert my eyes rolling here.

I can’t tell you how unimpressed I was. When the waitress brought the basket to our table, I felt like I was a toddler at a dentist’s office. Granted, it worked out for my diet, but come on–a sucker for dessert? (I politely declined.) I can only assume a straight person came up with this idea. (No offense, straight people, but a gay man would NEVER propose an idea like this.) I asked the waitress, “Do people actually get excited about this basket of suckers you’ve laid before me?” With a completely serious face, she replied, “Some people do.”

A sucker at a steakhouse. I’m still not over it. (Some things are really hard for me to let go of.) However–for both your sake and mine–I’m going to try to move on with my life. (Here I go.)

After dinner CJ and I went to see a play at Theater Squared. Well, we did stop in a local sex store first, but since we did that last year, it wasn’t exactly a novel or notable experience. If you’ve seen one dildo, you’ve seen them all. That being said, if you haven’t seen a seventeen-inch dildo or a rainbow-colored “pride” dildo like I did tonight, then, yeah, maybe you should get out more often. And I guess the glass dildos were notable, what with their different shapes and colors. Some of them were quite pretty–stunning, actually. Had it been winter and had they not been in the penis-shaped vibrator section, I could have easily mistaken them for Christmas tree ornaments.

Just imagine. Presents under the tree AND on the tree.

But back to the play we went to see, The Hound of the Baskervilles, or as my mother misheard when I told her about it a couple days ago, The Hound of the Basketball Pills. It’s a Sherlock Holmes story, of course, but this version has been adapted as a comedy, and y’all, it was hilarious. Three extremely talented actors played twenty (20!) characters in two acts, and I was completely in stitches. They never missed a beat. It was the perfect way to get out of the house and remind myself, once again, that the universe “has its moments.”

But seriously, I highly recommend the show. Go see it. (It’s playing until May 27.)

Then I stand a little taller.

Something I often notice when I go to therapy or see a wonderful show like I saw tonight is that even if I’ve spent the week worrying, fretting, or even bitching about my problems (my often very real and in-my-face problems), all of that falls away. If only for an hour or two, I forget about the past and am strongly reconnected to the present and the idea that life is good. I love these moments when I forget about myself, these moments when my worries simply vanish into thin air. Then I stand a little taller, without all that weight on my shoulders. Then I move about the earth as a star moves about the heavens–confidently. Remembering that I belong here, that this is my home, I continue steadily along my path.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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A break is no small thing to give yourself.

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A Different, Kinder Tale (Blog #397)

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Today was an easy day. Day ten on Autoimmune Paleo, I’ve fallen into a routine. A boring, bland, void-of-chocolate-cake-and-all-things-worth-living-for routine, but a routine nonetheless, one that looks like cooking, eating, cleaning up, then doing it all over again. All this, of course, when I wasn’t sneezing today. I don’t know who came up with the idea of sneezing. Granted, it’s a fabulous way to expel unwanted particles from a person’s nose, but it’s just so violent and gross. Last night while typing, I sneezed into my shirt to keep from blowing mucus all over the blog (you’re welcome) and ended up shooting snot into my formerly white tee.

Disgusting.

Burdened by allergies, I took a nap this afternoon. Then I woke up, cleaned up, and hurried out the door to teach a dance lesson at a student’s house. This is how I typically live my life, filling up every minute with something, rushing from one thing to the next. But I guess the universe has been trying to slow me down this last year, changing my routine, sprinkling illnesses and allergies here, there, and everywhere, forcing me to put the brakes on. Take a nap. Slow the eff down, Marcus.

And yet I’m slow to get the message. I spend all day thinking about what I “should” be doing, work that “could” be done. Tonight I showed up to my dance lesson thirty minutes early because I didn’t double-check my calendar and thought, Crap, I could have gotten some work done, even slept longer. But it turned out to be the best thing–my student has a dog that LOVES me, and she (the dog) gave me the biggest hug when I got there. Two legs wrapped around my waist, she wouldn’t let go. Then I sat down on the couch, and I had her on one side and another dog (pictured above) on the other, both cuddling up and wanting attention.

I was smitten. I actually relaxed (briefly).

This afternoon I finished reading a book by Chis Van Allsburg called The Chronicles of Harris Burdick. One of the most magical books I’ve read in a long time, it requires a bit of a backstory. Harris Burdick, I guess, was a real person, who showed up one day in the office of a book publisher with fourteen beautiful illustrations, each with a title and a caption, and most of them mysterious. One showed a frightened man in his living room. The man’s holding a chair above his head, looking at a large lump under the carpet. The caption says, “Two weeks passed and it happened again.” (Good, right?) Anyway, Mr. Burdick said if the publisher was interested, he’d return the next day with more illustrations and the stories that went with them. The publisher said that indeed, he was interested, so Mr. Burdick left the illustrations in the man’s office.

But he never–ever–returned.

Fast forward a little, and the publisher and Mr. Van Allsburg (who wrote Jumanji and The Polar Express, by the way) published the illustrations in a work called The Mysteries of Harris Burdick in hopes that the author would come forward. But he didn’t. However, the drawings were so provocative that children and adults have been creating their own stories around the images and captions since they were first made public in 1984. Then in 2011 came the book I finished reading today, in which fourteen best-selling authors (like Kate DiCamillo, Lois Lowry, and Stephen King) each take an illustration and caption and spin a magical tale from them. It’s glorious.

As much as I enjoyed the stories in the book today, I couldn’t help but think that in most (if not all) cases, had I been the author, my stories would have been completely different. I’ve been thinking about this a lot today, the notion that two people can look at the same thing, and their brains can go in totally different directions. And who’s to say that one person’s story is better or “more right” than another’s, especially when it’s impossible to know what The True Author intended? I look at my life and think I need to speed up, that I need to be doing more. My therapist looks at my life and says, “Slow down. Take it easy. One day you’ll be so busy you won’t be able to.” Honestly, I like her story better than mine, so I really am trying–to slow down, take it easy, relax, nap.

Nothing is set in stone here.

We look in the mirror and are convinced that the picture we see is the picture the world sees. And yet this hasn’t been my experience. Time and time again my therapist has mirrored back to me a self that’s kinder, stronger, and more talented than I’ve ever given myself credit for. I assume this is true for most of us. We downplay our strengths, cut ourselves short, and refuse to give ourselves slack even when we’re doing the very best we can (damn it). What’s more, we imagine our endings to be one way for so long that no one can convince us it could be otherwise. But I’m learning that we can rewrite our stories. We can tell ourselves a different, kinder tale, one where we are the hero and everything turns out maybe not perfect, but all right and better than before. And who’s to say it can’t come true? I’m honestly coming to believe this, that we can change our endings if we want to, that nothing is set in stone here.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s a power that comes when you meet life’s challenges head-on. Those are the times you breathe the deepest. Those are the times the waters come forth and your heart beats every bit as loud as the thunder claps. Those are the times you know more than ever—no matter what happens next—in this moment, you’re alive.

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Create, Adjust, and Maneuver (Blog #395)

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Last night was one of the best night’s I’ve had in a while. Our improv group, The Razorlaughs, performed in Tulsa at a venue called The Rabbit Hole. A few of our regular members were unable to attend, so at first it was just going to be my friend Aaron and me. (I realize that, grammatically, that should be Aaron and I, Mom.) But at the last-minute our friend Victoria jumped in, and y’all, last night was her first improv show ever, but she did great! We had a small audience, a baker’s dozen, but all of them were into the show, and most of them participated. As a performer, this makes all the difference, performing for people who want to be performed to.

In the above photo, we are making a nod to one of our improv games–Stand, Sit, Kneel–where someone always has to be standing, sitting, or kneeling. (Therefore, if one person changes their position, the others have to also.) In the picture below, Aaron and I were playing a game called Pillars with two audience members, who had to “fill in the blanks” or give us suggestions at random times during the game.

One of the highlights of last night’s show was that my friend Kara, whom I went to high school with, came to watch. She even got up on stage. (She also took the above photos.) When we graduated, Kara was the valedictorian of our class, and I was the salutatorian, so I couldn’t help but notice how well she did with The Alphabet Game, where players have a conversation in which the first sentence starts with A, the next with B, and so on. When it came to the letter X and it was Kara’s turn to speak, she said, “Xerxes (pronounced Zerksies) only knows. (Pause.) It starts with an X, I promise.” So this morning I texted Kara, referenced this moment on stage, and said, “#ThingsOnlyValedictoriansSay.”

Last week at therapy I told my therapist that I was doing the Autoimmune Paleo (AIP) diet, which basically means eating nothing enjoyable–wheat, dairy, tomatoes, legumes, eggs, nuts, or alcohol. Later she told me, “Go easy on yourself. It’s okay to modify. If you want to eat some nuts, eat some frickin’ nuts.” So last night after the show I took her advice to heart. Aaron, Victoria, Kara, and I met at Kilkenny’s, a cool Irish pub, and whereas I stuck to AIP for my meal, I decided to have a drink. I told myself, “It’s okay to modify, Marcus. If you want to have some vodka, have some vodka.”

When our group wrapped up for the evening and said our goodbyes, I walked around the corner at Kilkenny’s and ran into my swing dancing friends Gregg and Rita, who had come by for a bite after last night’s celebratory swing dance. (Yesterday was International Dance Day). Y’all, it was the perfect little unexpected reunion. They were with their son and some of his friends, and everyone was so kind. We sat for a couple of hours and just caught up, talking about dance, work, family, earrings–you name it.

It was a wonderful night.

This is what I want for my life.

Now it’s two in the afternoon, and I’m back in Arkansas. When I first woke up this morning, I thought I was going to be sick because my sinuses were running. Maybe it’s just allergies, I thought. Still, I took some probiotics that usually help my sinuses, lay back down for a nap, and have been hitting the water pretty hard since I woke back up. (Water covers a multitude of sins.) I just had breakfast, and I need to get on the road again in an hour and a half, since I’m seeing a show in Little Rock tonight. I don’t have a “deep thought” for the day, but I do wish you could see an improv show–the way the people on stage have NO idea what’s about to happen, but are still able to create, adjust, and maneuver their way into something fun. More and more, this is what I want for my life, to be able to rise to any occasion, to take what life gives me, roll with it, and enjoy.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All things are moving as they should.

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On Waiting for Answers (Blog #393)

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Currently I’m cranky and have a headache. (Let’s see if I can work myself into a better mood.) I woke up this morning with a skin relapse–a sudden flare-up where no one wants a flare-up–maybe due to a different bath soap or a new body odor powder, both of which I used yesterday. Regardless, the flare-up wasn’t fun. Since apparently I’m so sensitive, this afternoon I went to Walmart and bought sensitive-skin soap. Then I came home and took a shower to wash any irritants off and “start all over.” Now things are–I don’t know–better.

It’s hard to tell.

Despite this setback, today promised to be a great day. For several months I’ve been going back and forth with a local hospital because my insurance didn’t cover a trip I took to the emergency room back in October for another skin issue. (What can I say, it’s been a rough year.) Anyway, the hospital had graciously granted me charity services (at 100%) last year when I had sinus surgery, and that charity applied to some, but not all–it turns out–of the emergency room services (because the charity was based upon when a service was billed and not simply received). So a few months ago a kind person in customer service suggested I reapply for the charity to cover everything, which I did. But whereas the first time the application process was simple, this time it’s been back and forth. I send stuff in, they ask for more, and so on. Well, today I got their final answer–approved!–once again at 100%–retroactively for eight months and proactively for six.

Talk about good news!

Y’all, I can’t tell you what a shot in the arm this was. My therapist is always saying that the universe is abundant, and despite my often Eeyore attitude about money and things going my way, I may have to start agreeing with her. Personally, I think this could have been worked out a little faster, but maybe we’re back to my therapist’s whole thing about patience. Just wait, things will work out.

My primary reaction to this good news was both relief and excitement. My secondary reaction, however, was panic. I started thinking about the other financial quandaries I have. Y’all, I almost got online and started looking at my accounts. Then I stopped myself. Marcus, all that will be there later (God knows). How about we just enjoy a win for once? So that’s what I did–I went for a walk, got a small sunburn, read a book, took a nap. Hey–sometimes life doesn’t suck.

Unfortunately, my good mood didn’t last long. This evening before teaching dance I got online to pay a bill, but thought, I’d better make sure the money I deposited yesterday through the night-drop actually deposited. Well, shit, it hadn’t. Like, not a trace of it. Immediately I freaked out about losing not-a-small-amount of cash (at least in my world), not being able to pay the bill, and accruing late fees. So despite the fact that it was after hours, I called the bank and actually got someone in customer service, who filed what’s called “a dispute” and said I should hear something in three business days. “Is it possible the envelope got stuck in the night-drop?” I said.

“Yes, a lot of things could have happened,” they replied. “It could have been deposited in someone else’s account.”

I can’t tell you how not amused I was by this answer. Actually, I’m still not amused. Rather, I’m worried that the abundant universe of this afternoon has suddenly become not-so-abundant. Like, I’ll take that good news right back, please and thank you. Also, I’m put out that I’ll be getting up early tomorrow to go the the bank where I deposited the money to see if I can get a quicker answer there. In short, I’m mad that I have to deal with it and am impatient for a resolution.

Damn if good news doesn’t travel the slowest.

It seems these are two lessons the universe and I have been working out A LOT this last year–patience and abundance. I know I talk about them plenty here, in terms of both money and health. I guess it’s all the same. But here’s what I’m learning. The fact is that many answers don’t come quickly–and damn if good news doesn’t travel the slowest–but that doesn’t mean answers don’t come. And maybe good news is more satisfying when you have to wait for it. Maybe having to wait gives you a chance to work with all your fears, to see what you’re still holding onto, to see what’s holding you back. Then you can work on letting go of those things and on moving forward, ready to fearlessly receive the good news that’s surely on its way to meet you.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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For I am a universe–large–like you are, and there is room here for all that we contain. An ego, of course, is small, and it is disgusted and humiliated by the smallest of things. But a universe is bigger than that, much too big to judge itself or another, much too big to ever question how bright it is shining.

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A Form of Healing (Blog #391)

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Today I wore a vintage sailor’s cap and a vest, and tonight during our monthly comedy show, the other performers referred to me as both “Oliver” and “a Newsie.” I saw my therapist this afternoon, and she said I looked very “Fiddler on the Roof.” (My response to this was to start singing, “If I were a rich man.”) But clearly everyone agrees–I look like a character from a musical, someone one who can sing and dance but doesn’t have a lot of money.

Sounds about right.

My therapist’s big push this afternoon had to do with patience and abundance. We talked mainly about my quirky immune system and how I’m currently dieting and mentally considering everything from paleo to past-life regression as viable options to figure out my body’s problems and therefore cure myself. My therapist’s suggestion was to hang tight, be patient. She said it sounded as if I’d landed in the right place with both my primary care physician and immunologist, that surely they could find an answer. “In the meantime,” she said, “if your body is tired, take a nap. I know you’re hung up on being productive, but you’ve produced for years. It’s okay to rest. No one is judging you. You’re THE ONLY ONE judging you.”

Boy, does she know me, or what?

If the inside can turn around, the outside can too.

In terms of abundance, she said she thought I’d made a lot of progress seeing both the world and money as abundant. Now, she said, it’s time to focus on seeing health as abundant, to believing that my body and my doctors can and will eventually find an answer to whatever is going on. I don’t mind saying this is a challenge for me. I’ve dealt with sinus infections for so long and have been sick so much recently, it’s tough to believe–like really, deep-down believe–that things can turn around. That being said, the way I see the world has completely turned around in the last several years, as has my internal health, my mental and emotional health. So surely if the inside can turn around, the outside can too.

Fingers crossed.

Tonight at the comedy show, I went around to all the tables close to the stage, introduced myself, and passed out little slips of paper that we use for one of our skits. This is something I almost always do, but I normally do it with a glass of scotch in my hand. Tonight, however, since I’m on this Autoimmune Paleo Diet, I did it completely sober. Y’all–talking to strangers is MUCH easier when you’re tipsy. I mean, they don’t call alcohol a social lubricant for nothing. That being said, I survived. And get this–I met one lady who ended up giving ME a pep talk. She’d asked if we ever bombed, and I said, “MOST of the show usually goes well, but there are always moments when we struggle.” Then she said, “Yeah, but you’re up there trying, putting yourself out there, and that’s what matters.”

Isn’t that great? I said, “I’m going to blog about this tonight.” (I think she thought I was kidding.) And get this too–she was wearing a necklace that said, “Hope.” Well, I’ve been really working on hope lately, so it was the perfect reminder. Maybe someone else would say my seeing this lady’s necklace was just a coincidence, but I took it as a personal message from the universe that I was on the right track, that hope was actually an okay thing to do. This is something I’ve been thinking about today, whether the universe puts certain people and messages in my path (or anyone’s path), or whether those people and messages were there all along and I just finally noticed them. I’m honestly not sure that it matters, since it seems that when a person’s subconscious is ready to work on something, it can clearly use anything–a therapist, a total stranger, a necklace–to get its point across.

Healing is possible.

Tonight the lady I met, along with her husband, said, “Don’t be nervous. If your family’s not here, we’ll be your family tonight. We’ll cheer you on.” How cool is that? For me it felt like that moment in Oliver! when he gets adopted by The Artful Dodger. Consider yourself at home! But seriously–I think abundance starts this way, recognizing a stranger’s smile or someone’s random and generous offer of support for what it is–a form of healing. And I am slowly starting to believe this, really deep-down believe this, that the world is our home, that people are good, and that healing is possible.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Sometimes you have to give up wanting something before you can have it.

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This Is Where I Came From (Blog #381)

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Currently I’m in Hot Springs, Arkansas, back in my home state after almost a full week in Tennessee. Y’all, I’m sorry, but sometimes I give my home state a lot of shit. Maybe not out loud, but I think, Life could be better somewhere else. But coming across the state line today along with two other writers and a member of the public relations group that brought us all together as travel writers, I felt a sense of pride. I thought, This is my home. I’m not saying I’m going to live here forever, but I am saying I realized that I know and love this place. This is where I came from. This is the land of my family. It’s beautiful.

Backing up, I slept in this morning, which was nice, and the four of us left Jackson, Tennessee, around noon-thirty. Basically we spent the day traveling. We hit some traffic, stopped in Little Rock for Gus’s Fried Chicken, and rolled into Hot Springs around six. They have us split up, but I’m staying at a new hotel on Central Avenue (the main drag in Hot Springs) called The Waters. I believe it used to be a hotel in the 1940s and reopened about 14 months ago. Y’all, it’s gorgeous, the perfect blend of old meets new. I walked in the room and thought, This is frickin’ fantastic. What a good life.

I seriously was like a little kid–checking out all the drawers, the sliding barn door to the bathroom, the view of Central Avenue. And then–and then–I saw a gift basket. I’m sure now that it was left by the local travel bureau or tourism department specifically for me (and the other writers in their respective rooms), but at first I thought it was full of hotel items for sale. Am I supposed to open this? I thought. (I finally decided I was supposed to open it.) Y’all, there was all kinds of swag–candy, chocolate, bath salts, skin conditioner, soap, and even handcrafted olive oil. Talk about being spoiled. Later I told my dad about all the free gifts and wonderful food this week, and he said, “Don’t expect that kind of treatment when you come home.”

Thanks, Dad.

After checking into the hotel, I met the rest of the crew for dinner, which–I don’t mind saying–was delicious. It was as good as any meal I’ve had all week, even though it wasn’t on our official schedule (which doesn’t start until tomorrow evening when all the other travel writers arrive.) That being said, I had a little issue at dinner, a small, um, encounter. (I still can’t decide whether or not I handled it well.) Here’s what happened–I ordered a beer (on draft), and the waitress brought me a different kind without saying anything. When I noticed the switch, a conversation ensued, and she said that they were out of what I ordered, but that was she brought me was similar. This was said without apology or further explanation. Admittedly, I got passive aggressive and sarcastic. I said, “Thanks for asking me.”

Snarky, I know.

A person’s internal experience is valid.

In response, the waitress said that she could comp the beer or get me something else. I said, “Let me have a moment to try it and process things, then I’ll decide.” Well, when she walked away, I said, “That was awkward.” And I know it was. Even now, I think about the way my colleagues responded, and it was slightly stressful. But it did get better. First, I actually liked the beer. (Drink half of any beer on an empty stomach, and you’ll probably like it too.) Second, the waitress came back and apologized. By that point, I was clear about how to handle it. Calmly I said, “I wish you would have asked me before making any substitutions. That should have been my choice, not yours.” And whereas it was still awkward, at least I spoke my truth. This is the “big win” for me–a year or two ago I would have “been nice,” worried about people pleasing more than expressing my dissatisfaction, said everything was “just fine.” But after all these years of therapy, I believe a person’s internal experience is valid. Not that you have to flip over tables and refuse to pay for services rendered when things don’t go your way, but as a customer and as a human being, it’s okay to say, “This bothers me.”

Even if it’s awkward for someone else.

After dinner, it was back to everything being wonderful. My friends dropped me off at the hotel, and I went next door to The Ohio Club, the oldest (longest running) bar in the state or Arkansas, apparently. (It’s named the Ohio Club because Northerners–carpet baggers–came to the south after the Civil War and named businesses after their home state.) Y’all, it had a stunning backbar (2,000 pounds), live blues music, and–most importantly–a great waitress, Tina. I sat for a couple hours, drank more beer, had some fried mushrooms. (No self-control.) While this went on, Tina told me about the bar (there are bullet holes in the original tin ceiling, and the roulette table on the wall was found in a hidden passage from prohibition days), as well Hot Springs (the city was home to the gangster that The Great Gatsby was based on, a guy named Owney Madden, who had a long affair with Mae West, who used to work in The Ohio Club).

Crazy, right?

Now it’s twelve-thirty in the morning, and I’m back in my gorgeous room, within reaching distance of the gift-bag chocolate. It’s already halfway gone. Since we don’t have plans until tomorrow evening, I don’t have to set an alarm for the morning. I can’t tell you how much this excites me. Also, it excites me to see my progress. At one point I would have been nervous on a trip like this, unsure of how to handle myself, thinking I needed to act a certain way in order to fit in or make someone else happy. And whereas I plan to continue to be professional and do my job, now I’m clear–I’m going to be me, I’m going to live and speak my truth, as much as I’m able. This is what coming home really is for me, being comfortable in my skin wherever I am, whatever the situation. Again, I’m coming to love this place, this beautiful self, this land that has been patiently waiting for me to come back to it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All your scattered pieces want to come back home.

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There’s a New Sheriff in Town (Blog #372)

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Currently it’s four-thirty in the afternoon, and my friend Bonnie and I are in her car, Carlotta, en route to Dallas to celebrate the one-year anniversary of the blog. The plan is to go out to dinner, then go out dancing. The day itself is cloudy and rainy, but I have sunshine in my heart. I’m excited to party and pat myself on the back for all my hard work, something I don’t do very often (believe it or not). Also, I’m excited that Bonnie is here. More than any other person, I think, she’s the friend who’s appeared on the blog the most. So this seems fitting.

Before we left today, I went shopping for a new outfit–well, a pair of shoes and a shirt–for tonight. Y’all, I’ll post pictures later, but I actually bought stuff with bright colors, something fun. I figured as long as I’m going dancing in a city where I don’t know anyone, I might as well feel confident and stand out. When I told Bonnie about my purchases, she said, “I could go all ‘Marcus Coker’ on that.”

“Like, what do you mean?” I said.

“Well, you used to have a lot of fun clothes, but you got rid of them. You’ve spent the last year wearing gray and black–utilitarian clothes–while you were busy doing your inner work. Maybe you’re ready to start wearing playful things again, now that the outside can truly match the inside.”

Good stuff, huh?

I think Bonnie is right. I’ve joked before that my clothes have been dark because I’ve been in mourning. On some level, I guess this is true. In a lot of respects, I consider “the old me” dead. Not only does my life look different on the outside, but it certainly looks different on the inside.

Last night I dreamed about a (former) friend who has a lot of unhealthy behaviors. They’re passive aggressive, a people pleaser, and often addicted to one substance or another. As much as I’m able, I don’t judge them for it. As my therapist has told me more than once, I’ve “rocked those strategies” plenty of times in the past (plenty). This is how my therapist often refers to actions, behaviors, and habits–strategies. What I like about this perspective is that it allows me to step back and more objectively look at how I’m handling the situations in my life, asking myself, “Is this behavior, this strategy, effective? Is there a better way to go about this?”

Anyway, in the dream my friend and I were on a trip, and they were on the phone, running the show. However, they’d forgotten something I thought was important (and fun), my bicycle. And then–kind of out of nowhere–I slugged them in the face. All of a sudden they were on the ground, their nose bleeding, no longer on the phone, no longer running the show.

Violent, I know. Not the best dream to wake up to. Still, I think the dream was really positive. To me it communicates that my subconscious has finally had enough with unhealthy behavior, both from myself and others. There’s a new sheriff in town. A different, healthier part of me is running the show now, and it clearly means business.

Talk about a reason to celebrate. (Also, watch your noses.)

I want a new life.

Perhaps in addition to representing mourning, my dark clothes have also represented and communicated the idea that I’m serious–I’m haven’t been playing around over here with regards to my personal growth, my mental health and the health of my relationships, and this blog. This feels true to me. I’m grateful for my past, but I want a new life, a different, healthier, free-er, more playful life. I want it with every fiber of my being, so much so that I’m willing to spend the rest of my life working toward it. If I can help it, I won’t settle for less. From what I’ve experienced of freedom so far, it’s worth every serious effort. So you go inward and you grit your teeth. You change your behaviors and what you’ll accept from others, even getting violent (figuratively speaking) if you have to. Then when most of The Hard Work is over (since it never actually ends), you buy a new outfit, jump in the car with a friend, and find a way to party and celebrate the start of your new life.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"It's never a minor thing to take better care of yourself."