On He Who Dies with the Most Toys (Blog #882)

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Well, it’s 9:15 in the evening, I’ve already showered and had supper, and here I sit writing. This almost never happens. Usually it’s another couple hours before I even begin to blog. However, I’ve been up and going all day, and I imagine I’ll be up early tomorrow, so either this happens now, or I won’t happen later.

The reason for all this up-at-the-crack-of-dawn bullshit is that I started house sitting for a friend today–a friend who has three dogs who are used to waking up early and–quite frankly–running the show. Which means they’ll be running me for the next few days. Now, other than the fact that they’re early birds (early dogs), they’re quite lovely. Currently two of them are passed out on the floor nearby, and I don’t know where the third one is. She’s anti-social.

A few days ago one of the dogs apparently caught a stomach bug and got sick at both ends (I know, it’s the worst), so not only do I have to watch where I step, but I also have to shoot two different liquid medications into her mouth twice a day. Y’all, it’s like one of those carnivals games, trying to hit the bullseye. Yesterday my friend showed me how to pinch the dog’s mouth then as-fast-as-you-can squirt the liquid between her teeth with a plastic syringe. “Do you think you can do it?” he said.

“Please,” I countered, “I’ve given an inhaler to a cat. This is child’s play.”

Thankfully, my bravado turned out to be true. This evening I got both medications into the dog’s sweet little mouth without incident. Well, she did spit out a few little drops, but the majority of it went down her throat, which is good enough for me.

One of the interesting things about staying in other people’s homes is that you get to see how they live. What I mean is that everyone–everyone!–lives differently (and I’m convinced there’s no right or wrong). Some people, honestly, are slobs. Like, they have slime on the dishes in their sink. (Ick.) Other people (including most of the ones I work for) are neat freaks. Everything has its place. And yet how one tidy person organizes their kitchen is always totally different from how another one does. Ugh, I can’t tell you how much time I’ve spent over the years looking for spatulas, paper towels, and hand soap. Tonight I opened every cabinet twice looking for honey. Finally, I gave up. Just when you think someone is sophisticated!

Oh well, at least they have Southern Comfort.

Recently I saw my therapist, and our plan was to discuss a creative project I’ve been working on. And whereas she’d just suggested kicking some ideas around, I showed up with an outline, visual aids, and a rehearsed speech. “This was more than I was expecting,” she said.

“Well, I’m a control freak,” I said.

“Let’s say you’re a consummate professional,” she offered.

Lately I’ve been discussing changing patterns of thought and behavior, and this story is an example of what I mean. I’ll explain. For the longest time, I really have been a control freak, at least when it comes to me and my projects. If nothing else, I’ve been a perfectionist. Now, I could go the rest of my life rocking out these archetypes–and we all know people who do–or I could let them fizzle out and step into another, more mature archetype–the consummate professional, a pattern that simply demands I’m as in control and perfect (or detail-oriented) as the situation calls for.

How does all this relate to house sitting?

I’m glad you asked.

Even before I had my estate sale and parted with most of my worldly possessions, I had a number of yard sales in which I let go of A LOT of stuff, stuff I liked. And whereas saying goodbye to all these things was tough, I don’t regret it now because material objects have very little influence over me anymore. That is, I can walk into anyone’s house–messy or immaculate–and not be overly turned off or turned on. It’s not that I don’t notice nice things, it’s simply that I see them for what they are–things. In terms of archetypes, you could say I’ve shifted from a somewhat hoarder (collector) to a minimalist.

Recently I helped a friend pick out a piece of furniture, and they said, “I don’t know if it’s ME.” Now, they were basically saying they didn’t know if it would fit in with the rest of their decor, and that was a valid question. At the same time, I think a lot of us think this way–we see our stuff as an extension of ourselves. This, honestly, is why most of us start panicking when we lose our phone. It’s like a piece of us has gone missing (because it has). But what I know from letting go of most of my stuff and from living in other people’s houses is that–without exception–you are not your stuff, and your stuff isn’t you. It may be an expression of you, but it’s not something worth attaching to. He who dies with the most toys does not win.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It’s hard to say where a kindness begins or ends.

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On Internal House Cleaning (Blog #729)

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Phew. Today has been a cleaning day. This afternoon my dad and I went to my aunt’s house to borrow her lawn mower and weed eater because I recently volunteered to take care of our yard this summer. As my sinuses have been acting up and my eyes have been watering just LOOKING at the weeds outside, I may regret this decision. We’ll see. Anyway, while my dad and I were at my aunt’s house, she told us her freezer had been acting up. It was frozen over in the back. Consequently, everything in the front was melting like the Wicked Witch of the West–chicken thighs, burritos, quarts of vanilla ice cream. It was a damn mess.

My dad and I did the best we could–got the ice off the removable shelves and threw all the food away. My aunt said, “I’ll just start over.” Sometimes that’s what you have to do. As for the freezer itself, we left it to defrost on its own. Short of dragging the entire refrigerator/freezer out of my aunt’s kitchen, all we could do was let it drip on to the tile floor. Thankfully, my aunt has plenty of towels.

When we got home, I dusted my room top to bottom. This hasn’t happened since November 13th of last year. (I know this because I blogged about it.) That’s four months. Don’t judge. During that time I busted my knee; cleaning was the least of my worries. Plus, I like to let the dust build up a bit. Then I can really see progress. After an hour of cleaning tonight, I thought, My god, this room sparkles. In addition to being cleaner, it’s tidier. I used cleaning as an excuse to sort through papers and books I’d let pile up. I have a makeshift bulletin board where I put inspirational cards and pictures, and I took a few of them down. (Sorry, mister, you don’t inspire me anymore!) Then I gathered several books to donate to a local library. Maybe someone else can enjoy them.

In the mood to get shit done, I cleaned my bathroom next. (After dinner because you gotta eat.) Ugh. This was really gross. You don’t realize how much soap scum is in your shower until you wipe–um, scrape–it off. But now my bathroom sparkles too.

Yippee. No more cleaning for another four months.

It’s weird how easy it is to let things get away from you. Dust and soap scum aside, it’s so easy to throw a piece of paper in a pile or set a book on a shelf and think, I’ll get to that later. And whereas the contrast is nice when you finally do get around to cleaning and tidying, it really is better if you can stay on top of things. I’m speaking in theory, of course, but I’ve heard there are some people who do this. Rather than clean an entire room (or house) at once, they’ll do the furniture one day, the windows the next, and so on. A little bit here and there.

I mean, it’s one way of living.

Tomorrow’s post will complete two full years of blogging. I keep saying this, but it doesn’t seem possible. I still so vividly remember blog #1, blog #2. Back then two years seemed impossible. But how do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time. How do you blog for two years? One day at a time.

The last few days I’ve talked about the internal benefits of this blog, how it’s changed my level of confidence and almost everything else for the better. This afternoon I’ve been thinking of an external benefit–my writing discipline has improved. For example, two years ago a typical post took five to six hours. Several months or maybe a year in, a post took three hours, maybe four. And whereas my posts are shorter than they used to be, now a post takes two hours max, sometimes just one. It varies, of course, but my point’s the same–writing has gotten easier with practice. In the beginning, I had to groan and grunt to get my words and emotions out of me and on to the page. Now I sit down and they just know–the page is where they belong.

Along these lines, last night I started rewatching a favorite childhood cartoon, The Care Bears Movie. Sometimes I like to do this, go back and rewatch something I watched ad nauseam as a kid. I only got about thirty minutes into the cartoon before I passed out, but even by my current touchy-feely standards, it’s kind of cheesy. “We’re your friends,” the bears say to two complete strangers. My thought–Bitch, we just met. “Feelings don’t belong inside,” they say. “Feelings are meant to be shared.” Ugh, how did that message not sink in thirty years ago?

Of course, the bears make it sound simple to open up and share what’s inside you. It’s not. That is, we’re taught as children to suppress. For most of us, shutting down was–at one point–a matter of survival. For example, if you got hit every time you cried, the natural response would be to STOP CRYING. Not that you’d stop getting sad, of course, you’d just stop showing it. Like I did these last four months with the clutter and dust in my room, you’d let your emotions build up.

Why carry around more baggage than you have to?

In my experience, therapy has been, in part, about getting out and cleaning up all the emotions I shoved down and let build up over the years–anger, sadness, confusion, you name it. I think everyone needs to do this at some point–clean their internal house. Not that it’s fun to scrape soap scum off your soul, but why carry around more baggage than you have to? This blog has likewise been a good way for me to get things cleaned up. Used to, I’d let things bother me for days, weeks. Sometimes I still do, of course, but most the time I can get something sorted out on the same day it happens–right here, on this blog. This means the inevitable nonsense from one day doesn’t get carried into the next. This too has gotten easier with practice.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our world is magical, a mysterious place where everything somehow works together, where nothing and no one is without influence, where all things great and small make a difference.

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The Hardest Lesson You Will Ever Learn (Blog #608)

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Phew. I swear. I haven’t had a lick of energy today. I hate that, feeling like I’ve had the stuffing knocked out of me, going about my day with all the inner fortitude of a soggy biscuit. Still, I’ve tried not to obsess over it (even though I’m clearly obsessing about it now) and just put one foot in front of the other.

Left, right, left, right.

This afternoon I saw my therapist, and we discussed my frustration with not feeling well. She said that she went through a similar period in her life. And whereas it frustrated her at the time too, she’s grateful for it now–because it helped make her who she is today both personally and professionally. Like, she’s more understanding and supportive and shit. “It’s about developing patience,” she said, “and patience is THE HARDEST lesson you will ever learn. It FUCKING SUCKS.”

But for real.

Later my therapist said she felt like 2019 was going to be a good year for me. God, I hope she’s right. Regardless, I can’t tell you what a big deal this is, to have someone who not only believes in and affirms me, but also consistently imagines a better future for me. Even when I’ve been too down to hope for myself, she’s said, “Things are going to get better. And it’s okay if you don’t believe that–I believe enough for both of us.”

After therapy I went to a coffee shop and read until I got kicked out. The book I’m working my way through is a 450-page tome on addiction in all its many forms (nicotine, drugs, alcohol, shopping, you name it). Then, despite the fact that I’m nowhere near finished with this and a number of other books I’ve started, I went to the library and checked out two more–because THAT’S my addiction. Buying (or checking out) books is that thing that gets me excited (that is, that causes my brain to release dopamine) just thinking about. And whereas I might have “worried” about this at one time, I don’t anymore because 1) it’s a benign habit, 2) it’s not hurting me or anyone else, and 3) it could be A LOT worse.

This evening my parents, my aunt, and I went out to eat for my mom’s birthday (it’s today), and despite my professed lack of energy, I somehow managed to shove a giant burger, a fistful of fries, and half a piece of cheesecake into my mouth. Anyway, here’s a picture after ALL OF US cleaned our plates.

After dinner my parents and I drove around Fort Smith to look at Christmas lights. This was the perfect thing–low-key, easy, beautiful. Now it’s after midnight, and I’m about to turn into a pumpkin. I’m in this weird place–not thrilled about where I am and how I feel, but not devastated about it either. Of course I want things to get better. I want to have more energy. But if this is my life now, this is my life now. If this is meant to teach me patience, then that’s what I intend to learn.

Slowly, of course, since patience by definition can’t be learned quickly.

Damn it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Getting comfortable in your own skin takes time.

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A Horse of a Different Color (Blog #554)

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It’s day eight working backstage for the national tour of The Wizard of Oz, and after a full week of tech work, we had our first official performance this morning–for the local middle school. Y’all, teenagers get up early; the show was at nine-frickin’ o’clock. This means I had to wake up at six-frickin’-thirty in order to be at the Alma Performing Arts Center an hour early, at eight-frickin’ o’clock. Ugh. I had to double up on my morning coffee. I guess everyone’s tired. It’s been a long week. But all the the long days have been worth it–the show went fabulously both onstage and backstage. You should have heard the kids laughing, clapping, and awe-ing.

Talk about a warm, fuzzy feeling.

Here’s a picture of me and Kirk Lawrence-Howard, who plays Professor Marvel and The Wizard of Oz. He’s fabulous. (The big wiener is one of the props Professor Marvel uses, and–understandably–the cast and crew make a lot of jokes about it.)

Here’s a picture of me and Emily Perzan, The Wicked Witch of the West. She’s also fabulous. I’d give my left nut if I could cackle half as well as she can.

At lunch, all the locals were let go for the day. However, since I was organizing the prop gondolas (the big, black boxes full of show shit) for my supervisor, I got to stay. Y’all, I absolutely adored this assignment. First, I LOVE organizing and got to COLOR-CODE the different sections of the gondolas and LABEL everything inside. (I’m over the moon for a good label.) Second, I got to be creative in HOW I labeled things. Like, whenever a prop isn’t used for the rest of the show, it’s referred to as “dead.” So for the Stage Right prop gondola, I created a section for dead props and labeled it “Where props go to die.” (Stage Left is the left side of the stage or room if you’re onstage facing the audience, Mom.)

For the Stage Right prop gondola, I created a section for dead props and did this–

Here’s a picture of the entire Stage Right prop gondola (just before I added the dead-prop labels). The mess of straw on the right side of the second shelf from the top is the Scarecrow’s legs and arm that get “torn off” by the flying monkeys.

Now it’s seven-frickin’-thirty in the evening, and I’ve been home for a couple hours. I don’t have to be back at the theater until tomorrow afternoon. (Woowho.) I just finished reading an article in this month’s GQ (Gentlemen’s Quarterly) about mental health. Like me, they recommend seeing a therapist. However, at one point while talking about overcoming anxiety, the author of the article says, “It doesn’t take a lot. We’re not talking about therapy for a year.” And whereas I appreciate the idea that a little can go a long way, I’d like to add that a lot can go a much longer way.

I’ll explain.

Typically when people call me to inquire about dance lessons, they ask, “How many lessons will this take?” Well, there’s not a very good answer to that question. At least not a definite one. Simply put, if you take one dance lesson, you’ll know more than you did before, but you’ll also LOOK LIKE you took ONE dance lesson. Conversely, if you take fifty-two dance lessons (one a week for an entire a year), you’ll not only know infinitely more than you did before, but you’ll also look INFINITELY better. In other words, you get out of something what YOU put into it. This is WHY the national tour of The Wizard of Oz is the phenomenal show that it is–the cast and crew are not only fundamentally talented, but they’ve also put in hundreds and even thousands of hours perfecting their respective skills.

It’s with this logic in mind that I ask, “Would a year in therapy be THE WORST thing in the world if it helped you significantly lower your level of anxiety and lay your longstanding traumas to rest?” Personally, I’ve been going to therapy for four-and-a-half years (every other week for three years, and once a week since then). And it’s not that I’m so totally fucked up that I require a hundred plus hours of one-on-one professional attention. But just like I enjoy dancing and want to keep growing as a dancer, I also enjoy therapy (and when I don’t enjoy the process, I enjoy the results) and want to keep growing as a person.

I don’t know–we like our stories, our entertainment, short and simple. Dorothy encounters a tornado, is swept off to Oz, get a fabulous pair of shoes, meets her three best friends, kills two witches, and manages to get herself back to Kansas in the span of two-and-a-half hours. But real progress, real personal and spiritual growth, doesn’t happen in a matter of hours. It’s a little bit here and a little bit there–consistently–over time. Over a lot of time. Now–if you only have one hour to take a dance lesson or go to therapy? Go–do it for an hour. You’ll still get something out of it. But if you decide to really dig deep and truly commit to the process–well–as the guard to the gate of The Emerald City says–“That’s a horse of a different color.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Life is better when we're not in control. When we mentally leave room for anything to happen, anything can.

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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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We're allowed to relabel and remake ourselves.

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Ready to Rumble (Blog #223)

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It’s 2:26 in the morning, and I’d rather be reading, which is what I’ve been doing all day. My friend Elisabeth recently told me I “had to read” Rising Strong by Brene Brown, and since Elisabeth was the one who told me about The Artist’s Way, the creativity workbook I wouldn’t shut up about for twelve weeks earlier this year, I bumped Brene’s book to the top of my reading list. Plus, it didn’t hurt that Elisabeth apologized for being bossy (without prompting) when she told me what to do. Anyway, I started Rising Strong today, and I’m currently about two-thirds of the way through it, which I guess means that I’m “reading strong.”

See what I did there?

If you’re familiar with Brene’s work, you know that she talks a lot about shame, vulnerability, authenticity, and boundaries. Well, in this book, she emphasizes the importance of being able to sit with and dig into your uncomfortable feelings and difficult circumstances, which (apparently), does not look like eating chocolate cake and watching pornography until you feel better or things improve. Rather, it involves something she calls “the rumble,” which she compares to the middle of a story or the second act in a three-act play. It’s the point at which the hero has already identified a problem but has yet to identify a solution, the period of time when things get worse before they get better, the dark before the dawn. In other words, the rumble is when the shit hits the fan. The rumble, of course, sucks. In order to avoid it, we’ll shut down, shut off, go out, light up, and overeat. But as I understand it, the rumble is absolutely necessary if a person wants to rise strong.

Think about it this way–you can’t get back up if you don’t get knocked down first.

Personally, I hate this. Having been emotionally knocked down on more than one occasion, I can say that a person’s “time on the ground” can last a while. When I started therapy three and a half years ago, I was in a terrible (horrible, no good, very bad) relationship and wouldn’t have known a boundary if it’d slapped me in the face. I hadn’t heard of the rumble back then, but I honestly thought I’d be back on my feet after six to eight therapy sessions.

Uh, try a hundred, Marcus.

Don’t bother–go bowling instead.

Actually, my therapist says that I’ve been “out of the woods” for a while now. Most of the major issues have been dealt with, or as she says, “done and dusted.” But for anyone really considering living an authentic lifestyle consisting of vulnerability, honesty, boundaries, and healthy relationships, I’d say, “Don’t bother–go bowling instead.” (Just kidding.) What I mean by this is that those things look really good on paper, but I’d be lying if I told you they were easy. (If it were easy, everyone would do it.) Rather, they’re a lot of hard work, work that takes time, makes you bleed, and turns your world upside down.

In my experience, it’s not just that rumbles–especially big rumbles like the one I went through–are difficult because you feel lonely, sad, or confused. They’re difficult because if you truly hang out with those emotions, you realize they’ve been around for a while and show up in a lot of different situations. Then what are you gonna do? When I broke up with my ex, I got that I didn’t have good boundaries with him, but what I didn’t get was that I didn’t have good boundaries with most people. What’s more, I didn’t get why, that the issue of boundaries ultimately had to do with my sense of self-worth, and that self-worth is a big truck to turn around.

Of course, when your self-esteem and self-confidence change, your entire world changes too. Think about it–it has to. If you let one person walk on you, you let all people walk on you. Likewise, if you decide you’re worth more in one relationship, you automatically have to be worth more in all relationships. This is the big truck I’m talking about. In my case, three and a half years after starting therapy, there’s not a relationship in my life that hasn’t been affected, changed, or even “deleted” as a result of my increase in self-worth and, therefore, desire for healthy boundaries. Ultimately, this is why I think we’re afraid of listening to our emotions–not just because they’re uncomfortable–but also because they have the power to uproot everything familiar in our lives when genuinely responded to.

Does anyone want an Oreo yet?

If you’re not living a fully authentic life, a part of you will never be satisfied.

I realize this may not sound like an encouragement, and I’m not saying that every difficult emotion or circumstance calls for completely remodeling your interior and exterior worlds. Sometimes all you need to do is change the curtains. (Of course, even this is a big deal–trust a gay man.) But either way, I do believe that if you’re not living a fully authentic life, a part of you will never be satisfied, and your emotions will continually let you know there’s a problem. And that’s the encouraging part. Being in the rumble may suck, but it’s more than worth it because that’s the place where you discover who you actually are. I can’t stand being alone–I’m terrified I’m not good enough–I deserve better than this. Whatever. After all the weeping and gnashing of teeth, there you are on the ground–naked, not faking it for once, finally real, and ready to stand up again.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It’s not where you are, it’s whom you are there with.

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The Weight of Perfection (Blog #165)

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Currently the muscles in my neck are so tight that my jaw is twitching. I wonder if that’s normal, or if it has anything to do with all the caffeine I drank today. I really meant to take a nap, but sometimes your day doesn’t turn out like you think it will. That is to say, sometimes your life doesn’t turn out like you think it will. (Am I right or am I right?) This morning I got up early to go to therapy, and when the conversation turned to age–specifically, my age–my therapist said I wasn’t allowed to complain about being “old” until I was on “the other side” of forty.

I don’t know who makes these rules.

Today my therapist and I talked about insecurities. I feel like I sprinkle them around this blog every day, every damn day, so I’m not sure I’d like to list them again as bullet points. In fact, I would not, but suffice it to say that all of them center around looks, talent, money, and love-ability. I mean, that covers the bases, doesn’t it? The whole thing came up in the context of hypothetical relationships. That is, I’m not currently in one, but I’d like to be one day, provided it doesn’t turn out to be a shit-show like some of my previous ones. You know how it goes. Anyway, my therapist said that she sees “all kinds” of people–the beautiful, the talented, and the rich. “WE ALL have the same insecurities,” she said.

Seriously–that’s good to know.

I spent a couple hours this afternoon with another therapist, my friend Deborah. She owns Anchored Hope Counseling in Fort Smith. She and I were just catching up, but if you need to go there as a client, don’t hesitate. You’ll know you’re in the right spot, since they have anchors EVERYWHERE. She said, “We may have overdone it.” I said, “Yeah, you really went OVERBOARD.” (Waka, Waka.)

This evening I taught dance, then I spent about an hour feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t really mean to do this, but I think it crept up on me because I’m tired. Not that it matters–it happened. The mood probably started when my therapist and I talked about my wanting to be in a relationship one day, a conversation that highlighted the fact that I’m–well–not in one now. I realize for some this may be an enviable position, since the grass is always greener. But after dance, I called to make dinner reservations for my birthday, and the reservation was for an odd number, meaning I’m going to be the only person there without a significant other. So unless the dessert menu is truly exceptional, it’ll be one more birthday I go to bed alone.

As I was processing all this, I really was trying to be grateful and see the bright side, but it was a losing battle, so I eventually cried. What pushed me over the edge was thinking about seeing Deborah this afternoon because she’s a “touchy” person. I mean, she’d make a joke, reach over, and touch my arm or shoulder. Well, I’m not a touchy person. I usually show affirmation through words. (Surprise.) But I kept thinking that positive touch really is healing, and it’s something most of us don’t get enough of. Deborah probably didn’t think anything about it, but I realized that when you’re experiencing loneliness, an affirming hand can really make you feel both “seen” and “okay.”

Y’all, crying really is great. You should try it. I mean, you don’t have to sob and boo-hoo, although that’s okay too. Personally, I only cried a few tears, but now I feel so much better. It’s easier to see that I’m not the only single person on the planet, I have a lot to be grateful for, and if it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen. All that from a few tears! Well, all that from a few tears, several tacos, and a chocolate chip cookie, since I believe in combining different forms of therapy.

This afternoon at her office Deborah showed me a collection of mixed-media art she calls The Sisters. The Sisters are basically five different women, each in her own frame, each with her own inspirational saying. They’re pretty awesome, and my favorite was the one with this woman in–honestly–a rather frumpy, mismatched outfit. Beside her it said, “She released the weight of perfection and decided to become herself.”

The weight of perfection–isn’t that powerful? I mean, I think we could stop there and call it a night.

Life is never just so. Honestly, it’s a big damn mess most of the time.

But really, when I think about wanting to be in a relationship and even all my insecurities, I know my desires and fears are all centered around this idea of perfection, that I’d be happier if life were just so. Of course, this is a heavy burden to carry around, and life is never just so. Honestly, it’s a big damn mess most of the time. We want something, we get it, then we don’t want it anymore. We get worried people won’t love something about us, but the truth is that people love us not in spite of our so-called flaws, but because of them. This is a lesson I’m being reminded of over and over again–no one is alone, we all have the same insecurities, and all of us are not only worthy of being seen, but also more than okay just as we are.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Better that you're true to yourself and the whole world be disappointed than to change who you are and the whole world be satisfied.

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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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Help is always on the way.

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Into and Out of the Woods (Blog #106)

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Some days it’s hard to stay awake no matter how much coffee I pour down my throat. Lately it seems like I’ve been getting close to half a pot a day, which may explain why even at four in the morning my mind is racing and I’m currently thinking about how much fun I could have with a hula hoop or a pogo stick, both of which I suppose are rather Freudian objects. But then again, what isn’t?

Today I finally finished the book about fairy tales I’ve been reading, and while discussing the prince’s slipping the glass shoe on Cinderella’s foot, the author pointed out that it was an act of commitment, like slipping a ring on your lover’s finger. Sounds sweet, right? But then he said that rings represent the vagina and fingers represent the penis, so the giving and exchanging of rings is clearly symbolic of sex (among other things).

I mean, I’ve been to a lot of weddings, but I’ve yet to hear a pastor share THAT tidbit of information.

Anyway, I’m short on sleep today because I got up early to go to massage therapy, chiropractic therapy, and physical therapy–all for the second time this week. Considering I also went to regular (mental health) therapy this week, I’ve had about all the therapy I can stand. (Change is exhausting.) That being said, my inner teacher’s pet felt like it got several gold stars in the last several days because my therapist told me that I was out of the woods, meaning that after over three years of therapy, I’ve tackled all the big shit. (Yippee!) She said (oh by the way) I’ve actually been out of the woods for a while now, that if that weren’t the case, it would mean one of us wasn’t doing their job. So that felt good, and then today the new massage person I saw told me my fascia was “very responsive.” (Why thank you, I thought no one would notice.)

But seriously. More gold stars!

If it sounds like my head is getting bigger than normal, don’t worry. The physical therapist, who’d told me earlier this week that I was going to “be cleared” today, told me that I needed to come back at least two more times and that we needed to “try something new.” (Fine. Just don’t take my gold stars away.) Here’s a picture of what we’ve been trying, a moist heating pad and an electronic stimulation machine that feels so good I have to remind myself not to moan out loud. I was told I could ring the bell if I needed anything, but also told, “It doesn’t work for room service.”

Shit.

When I walked out of physical therapy, I noticed a “no smoking” sign posted close to the front door. I suppose this is normal enough for a health facility, but DIRECTLY UNDER the sign was a butt can overflowing with cigarettes.

In addition to being ironic, there are so many things wrong with this picture that I just can’t even. (So I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions.) But since I’ve lately found myself in the business of making a therapy lesson out of damn near everything, I will say that the butt can by the “no smoking sign” is obviously enabling. (And that’s not a good thing.) Additionally, I think having a “no smoking” sign directly next to a butt can is a lot like having a boundary without any direct and immediate consequences, which–if you didn’t realize–is no boundary at all.

When my therapist and I first started working on boundaries, I said that I didn’t like it when people picked lint–or whatever–off my shirt because the act often assumes a level of intimacy that I’m not usually comfortable with. (Certain people, like my family and close friends, can get away with this behavior. However, straight women who are in love with me–can not.) Anyway, once after I’d identified this boundary with my therapist, a straight woman who once confessed her love for me leaned over and removed something from my shirt. “Please don’t do that,” I said. “I’d prefer you just tell me that I have chip crumbs on my nipples. And if you absolutely must remove them yourself–please don’t use you mouth.”

Okay, that’s not exactly the way it transpired, but I did ask her not to invade my personal space without permission. Well, it happened a couple more times, and one day I actually grabbed her wrist before her hand could get to the piece of shirt fuzz that was stuck in my five o’clock shadow. “I asked you not to do that,” I said. You should have seen the look on her face–totally worth the entire awkward moment and my feeling like a bit of a jerk. But here’s the best part–she never did it again. Instead she’d say, “You have something on your shirt,” and then passive aggressively add, “I know you don’t like it when I touch you.”

Damn right I don’t.

Boundaries are about starting small, enjoying initial successes, and practicing.

That particular incident may seem like a silly thing to brag about, but it was actually a gold star moment for me. I mean, my therapist has always made a big damn deal about boundaries, and even though I was resistant to them at first, I finally came around. As my therapist says, “Boundaries make people feel safe.” I’ve been thinking lately just how long it can take to really get good at anything–dancing, writing, “therapy shit.” I know that so many times I look up to great dancers and writers and think they “just happened.” But as my friend Barbie says, “The man at the top of the mountain didn’t just fall there.” With anything you’re working on, especially something like boundaries, it’s about starting small, enjoying initial successes, and practicing until you get your relationships like you want them.

Still in shock about the wedding ring / vagina thing, I will say that the fairy tale book didn’t say EVERYTHING was about sex. Not EVERYTHING is Freudian in that sense. For example, in fairy tales going “into the woods,” like Hansel and Gretel or Little Red Riding Hood, represents the need to find one’s personal power and inner strength. Of course, it ain’t easy. After all, the woods is where all the scary stuff happens because the woods is where the wolves and dragons live, not to mention the witches who want to bake you into their gingerbread cookies.

So if you want to survive the woods, that means even you nice little boys and girls have to stand up for yourselves, face your dragons, and maybe even sit a witch down for a heart-to-heart and say, “For crying out loud, I don’t like you like that! Get your hands off my effing shirt.” Then that witch will–finally–get out of your way. (If she doesn’t, shove her ass in the closest oven you can find.) I promise, not only will you feel like you’ve just been given a gold star, but you’ll also be more empowered, one step closer to being out of the woods.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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One day a change will come.

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The Way of the Dinosaurs (Blog #98)

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Last month while I was in Austin with my friend Bonnie, we (Bonnie) took a wrong turn one day and ended up driving through a local neighborhood. Well, Austin is weird, so someone had fastened a large toy dinosaur to a dead tree in front of their house. Bonnie thought it was so cool. She said, “When I move to Nashville, I want a dinosaur in my yard.” After that, we kept seeing dinosaurs wherever we went–in a modern furniture store, on a t-shirt. You know how it works when you get focused on something–it’s everywhere. But just like that, dinosaurs became a kind of mascot–for having a new life, for having something to look forward to.

At least that’s how I took it.

The night after we got back to Fort Smith, I finished the blog about five in the morning. Earlier that evening I’d been in Fayetteville, stopped at Walmart, gathered supplies. I couldn’t find a single large dinosaur, so I settled on a troupe–or is it a flock?–of small dinosaurs. Still under the cover of night, racing to beat the sunrise, I drove to Bonnie’s house, circled the block to see if there were any lights on inside, and then parked my car across the street and headed for a tree in her front yard, toy dinosaurs and a pack of push-pins in my hands. Fifteen minutes later, five different types of dinosaurs were lined up neatly on a slanted tree trunk, looking as if they were slowly marching their way to the top of the tree–or maybe to extinction.

I’ve been concerned that a horny squirrel might mistake the t-rex for a lover or that a thunderstorm would come along and–once again–wipe all the dinosaurs off the face of the planet, but each of them has held strong. Tonight I went to Bonnie’s to hang out with her family on their front porch, and all five of those guys (or gals–I didn’t check) were right where I left them.

Bonnie thinks they’re great, by the way.

This evening I’ve been thinking about all the things that irritate me, all the things that make me mad. It’s not that I’ve been obsessing about them, but you know how it goes–you can’t really help it, especially when you’re tired. So I’ve been remembering that rude lady I talked to at the insurance company yesterday, kind of having imaginary conversations where I stick up for myself, tell her to go jump off a bridge, or say she sounds just like a frustrated lesbian. (Sometimes I do this sort of daydreaming with people I deliberately don’t talk to anymore, people who didn’t respect my boundaries. My therapist says it happens because I never told those people what assholes I thought they were. She also says it’s too late to tell them now. That ship has sailed. Oh well.)

Caroline Myss says this is one of the ways we keep the past alive. We think about it and think about it. We build resentments. She says every day we wake up with a hundred energetic dollars, and most of us are near broke before we get out of bed because we’re worried about something that happened at work yesterday or angry about something a relative said six months ago. Before you know it, you don’t have any money left for spending right here, right now. This, I think, is the lesson Jesus was teaching when a disciple said he’d “be right there” but needed to bury his father first. “Let the dead bury the dead,” Jesus said. In other words, leave the past where it belongs–in the past.

Sometimes you have to go back before you can go forward.

I guess it’s ironic Bonnie and I chose the dinosaur as a mascot for the future–you know–because dinosaurs clearly don’t have one. Honestly, dinosaurs associate much better with the past (they’ve been dead a long time), and I think it’s interesting how hard our culture works at keeping them alive. We buy plastic toys of them, put them in a friend’s tree, make big productions about them. Of course, this is innocent enough. But I know I often do the same thing with my actual past–make a big production out of it. I think, “If I ever talk to that person again, I’m gonna really let ’em have it.” I tell my friends, “Can you believe that bitch?” But the truth is–like the dinosaurs–the past is over, even though I often refuse to let it go. Instead, I spend my precious energy trying to bring the dead back to life.

I had someone tell me once that therapy was concerned mostly with a person’s past. They may not have meant it like this, but I got the impression they thought therapy could be used as a way to stay stuck back there, maybe blame someone else for all your problems. (My friend Ray calls people that do this “whiners.”) Thankfully, that hasn’t been my experience with therapy. I remember that first day when my therapist asked me why I was there. I said, “Well, I’m dating a guy and it’s a mess. We met last year and moved in together a few months later.”

“That was a very lesbian thing to do,” she said.

And then for nearly an hour I marched out all the stuff I thought I’d never talk about–sort of a preview of coming attractions–basically job security for her–all the parts of my past that I’d swept under the rug for over thirty years. Since then, I guess you could say that we’ve been concerned with the past. But the point has never been to bring it back to life–because it’s never really been dead. The point has been to understand it, to have compassion for the guy who lived it, and in so doing–finally let it go the way of the dinosaurs.

In this sense, the dinosaur is the perfect mascot for the future because all too often it’s the past that holds us backs and weighs us down. What I mean is that sometimes you have to go back before you can go forward. So whether it’s something that happened yesterday or something that happened thirty years ago, you deal with it and you put it in perspective. And then–like a flock of small dinosaurs–you take the pieces of your past, put them neatly in a row, and march them toward extinction, leaving yourself free to have a new life, to have something to look forward to–right here, right now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Some things simply take time and often more than one trip to the hardware store.

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