The Handbook for Bad Days

by Eveline Helmink

  Although many of the tips in this book are about how to find places inside yourself, it’s an excellent idea to figure out an actual physical space you can retreat to in times of discomfort and adversity. What are the places where your body relaxes, your mind calms down, and life looks less complicated? Where you can lick your wounds, dry your tears, examine your feelings and thoughts in quiet and safety?

  Ranking high on my list is the public library. It is quiet there, and wherever you go all over the world, library bookshelves are reassuringly the same. The people using the library are generally concentrating on reading, and there’s always a place where you can hide. I never feel lonesome in a library, but I usually feel pleasantly alone and anonymous. On lesser days, I also often seek out a body of water, preferably the ocean; a vast waterscape reminds me of my place in the order of things.

  But I also enjoy being stuck in traffic, my car enveloping me like a cookie jar and safe space. I love the anonymity of hotel lobbies, with their constant ebb and flow of people coming and going. I love going to a movie theater in the middle of the day and sitting in the dark by myself. I love my editorial offices and the sound of fingers typing, and the way it slowly turns quiet by the end of the workday. I love my cyclical work flow at the magazine: coming up with ideas for the new issue, making, printing, and distributing it, and starting all over again. The common denominator is places where life goes on, no matter what, where my presence is exchangeable and transient. In those situations, I feel dissolved in time, which helps me to put things in perspective and calms me.

  Lastly, my home is a panic room. It’s quiet, calm, and safe. My crispy white down comforter. The large windows overlooking city, water, and air.

  Whenever I don’t know where to begin, you can find me in those places. Compile a list of your own places. Whether it’s a forest, your best friend’s sofa, the gym, or the back row of a movie theater, know where you can escape to. Know where in the outside world you can find inner calm.

  The Emergency List

  The same way you have a list of numbers hanging on your basement door or shoved in a kitchen drawer in case your boiler stops working, the power is out, or there’s no water coming out of your kitchen faucet, you should have a list of things you can do in case your internal fuse box is experiencing trouble.

  On my bad days, everything is stupid, everything is too much effort, everything is meh. When I’m having a bad day, my head feels like it has been stuffed with cotton. That image is not that crazy considering that your prefrontal cortex, the front part of your brain where behavior, concentration, and creativity are located, really can be overstimulated. Time and again, reversing a bad day comes down to remembering what it is that will make you feel better.

  Once, I asked a friend who went through serious periods of depression—pills, psychiatrists, the whole shebang—what he did on days when sadness and pain overshadowed everything. He had made an emergency list for himself. It contained all sorts of things he knew would make him feel better: meeting a friend for drinks, running, listening to his favorite band, good coffee. Ever since, I’ve kept a list like that for myself. Do this, and in those moments when you can’t think of anything that will make you feel better, fear not: You’ve already come up with a slew of ideas.

  Now you want to know my list, right? Well, among other things:

  Seeing friends: even though I’m actually cranky and don’t always feel like doing so.

  Making plans for, and with, my children: Happy children’s faces are comfort XL.

  Booking a massage: Feeling and releasing tension in my body is self-care.

  Reading, in a comfy woolen sweater, with thick socks, on a sheepskin rug: immersing myself in a story.

  Writing: messing around with language and words.

  Lying in savasana: in other words, practicing surrender.

  Working out: But, to be fair, sometimes “working out” means a long walk; any form of physical exercise will do.

  Making soup: Gotta love comfort food.

  Listening to some breezy, happy-go-lucky music: Spotify playlists with names like “Lazy Sunday” or “Coffeehouse” hit the spot.

  Browsing books, and completely forgetting the time in a bookstore or public library.

  Bringing some flowers home after picking out the most beautiful ones one by one.

  Washing my hair: wispy hair + a bad day = recipe for disaster.

  Putting on some nice clothes: making an effort for myself, even and especially if I’m not planning on seeing anyone.

  Sleeping: going to bed on time, putting in the hours.

  Meditating: sitting and keeping my mouth shut.

  A solo visit to the cinema, where I can be anonymous and safe.

  Visiting a thrift store: a bit of treasure hunting, a bit of strolling around.

  Visiting one of my other safe spaces: see the section above.

  // The Cosmic Bank Account

   Being indebted to your friends

  For a while, it was trendy to wear an infinity sign on a necklace or as a tattoo. You know the one: a lemniscate, the symbol in the shape of a horizontal figure eight that represents perpetual motion, no beginning and no end, always flowing, always in balance, always bending back toward the center. This symbol is the mathematical sign for infinity. It is a beautiful symbol for friendship and the intention to make it last a lifetime.

  If I had to choose a logo for the bank I run together with some of my dear friends, it would be a lemniscate. In this bank, we don’t exchange money or keep gold bars. It’s a sort of cosmic bank account based on the idea of a perpetually flowing give-and-take. “Love is patient,” the Bible wisely reminds us. “Love is kind… it is not self-seeking.” It’s true, and although it may be somewhat unusual to associate friendship and banking, I have found it useful and freeing in my own life.

  Do you know what the underlying principle of insurance is? In short, it comes down to pooling risk. You sign an agreement and commit to paying regular sums of money, knowing that your money will go to support others in their time of need. In return for supporting those people, you are also entitled to compensation if or when fate turns against you.

  The principle of saving? You put something aside so you won’t spend it right away but will have a reserve for later. That’s how you build wealth. The cosmic bank account is a metaphor for the much deeper and more intimate ebb and flow of energy and support we share. It’s a commitment you make to others. In any good relationship, whether romantic or platonic, there is always a certain balance between giving and taking. This exchange of energy is important, because when there’s an imbalance, when someone always takes without giving back or when someone only sends without receiving, the relationship becomes unbalanced. Sooner or later, that will cause irritation, and then you are in debt.

  Because I share that bank account with friends, and because of the plain, down-to-earth language we use to discuss our emotional exchange, it’s a subject we can openly talk about. That makes the relationship transparent and loving. There have been times when, for example, I just called a friend to cry, complain, or blow off steam.

  There have been times when, in return, all I heard was lamenting, with me occasionally mumbling “yes,” “no,” and “uh-huh” while doing the dishes. That was totally okay, though. The two of us are managing each other’s savings. Each of us is paying the premium for our friendship in time, attention, and an absence of judgment. Sometimes I’ve felt that I had a “debt” with someone—when all I’d done was talk about my own misery—and was able to settle it. The lemniscate continues.

  A couple of factors are essential when creating a veritable, pure, well-balanced cosmic account with the people dear to you. Know, for example, that equal and equivalent are two different things: You don’t have to trade pain with pain or a happy story with a happy story. Sometimes you just have to invest forty-five minutes of your time to listen to your friend explaining how completing a six-piece Elmo puzzle proves that her
daughter is brilliant (including when the phone is handed to the toddler in question). In turn, your friend will patiently listen as you tell her your work stories, although she doesn’t know your coworkers and doesn’t understand the project you’re so frustrated about.

  Energy doesn’t always come back to you in the same form you gave it. Maybe you sent your friend a card with a handwritten message and flowers that match her interior; she’s more of the “actions speak louder than words” type and comes to pick you up from the airport in the middle of the night.

  If you aren’t sure whether your most precious friendships are balanced, “giving” is always a good starting point. Stay in contact, even if it’s just a text message or a card. Be the first to say you’re sorry, if apologies are needed. Offer help, even if it actually isn’t your turn to do so. Giving and taking in a friendship is a complicated matter. Call the cosmic bank account by its name. It’s a lighthearted way to discuss something immensely complicated.

  EVERYDAY LIGHT THINGS

  // Playing Creator

   Go make something

  You know what’s good for your soul? To create. Especially on the hard days, when it may feel as if you aren’t in control and when you aren’t particularly buzzing with creativity, it’s a perfect idea to take matters into your own hands and make something. Doesn’t really matter what you make, just something. Soup. A drawing. A swing. Anything.

  On Wiktionary, I happened to stumble upon the term “soulcraft.” There were two definitions. The first: an activity that is nourishing to the soul, or fulfilling. The second: something that shapes and modifies one’s soul or core being. When you perform such tasks, you spring into action and force your mind to concentrate. It’s the magic in the repetitive motions of coloring, knitting, carving, kneading, or building that has a calming effect on you. To see something slowly emerge gives you a feeling of satisfaction. It really happens; whether you want it to or not, your body will take care of it. Making something is an excellent way to trigger a shot of dopamine that functions as an antidepressant of sorts and takes the edge off your lesser day in a natural way.

  “I’m not creative”; “I’m not handy”; “I don’t like crafts.” Fine. But don’t dismiss the concept. Creating something helps trigger your imagination while also developing your problem-solving capability, skills that might come in handy. You don’t have to be extraordinarily creative to benefit from creating. You can make all sorts of things, and the process can be either moving and stunning or a useless flop. You don’t have to use cheerful, bright colors. You don’t have to clear out your local crafts store for supplies. Your project can be substantial—perhaps you feel like painting or working on a vision board, something like that. But it can just as well be a super workaday task like sewing on a button or making fresh pizza dough from scratch.

  The secret is this: You don’t have to do anything with the end product of the time you’ve spent creating. There’s no requirement that anyone has to look at it or eat it or that you have to keep it in a place of honor on your mantel for the rest of your days. Just because you felt like painting doesn’t mean you have to hang your artwork on the wall. I find it stress reducing, for example, to endlessly string beads from my niece’s beads box, even though I don’t really wear jewelry, much less homemade concoctions. Give your crafts away or throw them out. It doesn’t matter; the important thing isn’t the result.

  Tibetan monks who create painstakingly detailed and labor-intensive sand mandalas simply sweep them away afterward. I have been present for one of those ceremonies, and it’s wonderful and oddly freeing to witness. The magic of the mandala—so carefully designed and so perfectly balanced, so meticulously made up out of millions of grains of sand—is broken without hesitation, in one fell stroke of a broom. The underlying message: Everything is constantly in motion, nothing is permanent.

  The process of creating perfect harmony and balance is primarily about mirroring the creation process itself, not only in its shape but also in its movement. Not being so wedded to the result—that is an interesting idea to practice when you decide to experiment with this shortcut. It will help you to let go of the goal, to experience the pleasant side effects of the creation process itself, without your ego nagging you with the question “So, is it Insta-worthy?”

  Working with your hands will lighten your days, because it adds to your sense of self-worth and autonomy. We are used to being in our heads; that’s where society encourages us to be. Jobs that require knowledge tend to be valued more highly than jobs that rely on the things people can do with their hands. This causes, consciously or unconsciously, an imbalance between thinking and doing. When you get your hands dirty, you can begin to balance these two elements. It connects you with the physical world—with materials, with form, with tactility. It temporarily gets you out of your head and perhaps out of the virtual world of TV and social media as well.

  Knead the dough. Finish a jigsaw puzzle. Draw a mandala. Sew a sock puppet. Mend your clothes. Build a chicken coop. It’s enough to be present in the process. And who knows, perhaps you will accidentally create something beautiful, after all.

  // Write It Out of Your System

   Paper. Pen. Go.

  It probably has become clear to you that it isn’t always productive to just let yourself marinate in a bad day. It’s better to be in touch with your emotions, to feel them and learn from them. Maybe by now you’re mildly intrigued by the fact that your days will become lighter if you manage to find an outlet for your feelings and thoughts. But perhaps you have yet to find the words. Perhaps you don’t feel like having human interaction right now. If this sounds like you, praise the day that pen and paper were invented.

  Writing is a powerful way to express yourself. Now, of course, our inner critic would prefer to do so in beautifully crafted sentences, heartfelt poetry, or along logically structured lines. As a journalist and magazine editor, I know what it’s like to craft stories that will be read by others, how it is to work from A to Z, to delight and instruct. But what you need to do on bad days is a totally different kind of writing. It’s shapeless, intimate, and pure. It’s strictly about the process of searching for language, of surprising yourself with what flows from your pen. It’s play, not work.

  Writing on bad days is a particular kind of writing; it’s not for a reading audience or for posterity, but is a way to arrange and deposit your thoughts. Afterward you can throw the paper in the trash, tear it into a thousand pieces, or burn it (in a responsible manner, please).

  What matters is that you use your pen to download something. Thinking is fleeting: thoughts come and go, tumble over each other and evaporate, and what remains is a feeling, or an energy. Writing makes you aware of what you are thinking, and maybe also of the impact of those thoughts. When you write, you start a dialogue with yourself. Wise Raphaël Enthoven, who gives writing workshops based on the principle of “proprioceptive writing” puts it like this: “By writing, you slow down the thought process. You get to know your own way of thinking. Suddenly you see more clearly which things make you doubt, what you’re afraid of, where your strengths lie and what it is you desire. That will give you a direction and something to hold on to in seemingly hopeless situations.”

  There are many writing methods that inspire and give direction and relief. Natalie Goldberg wrote a book called Writing Down the Bones, an absolute gold standard on writing as a means for personal growth and self-understanding. Goldberg says, “To begin writing from our pain eventually engenders compassion for our small and groping lives. Out of this broken state there comes a tenderness for the cement below our feet, the dried grass cracking in a terrible wind. We can touch the things around us we once thought ugly and see their special detail, the peeling paint and gray of shadows as they are—simply what they are: not bad, just part of the life around us—and love this life because it is ours and in the moment there is nothing better.”

  Geertje Couwenbergh, author of Zin, a book about in
spired writing, calls pain a gatekeeper. When you write about what hurts, you will get closer to (self-)love, innocence, and consolation. “Writing, if you do it well, strips you of any urge to be different from who you are,” Geertje argues. And: “Writing is a form of ultrapersonal self-examination. Pain in writing is a sign that you’re getting closer to the truth. The truth of life, to be precise. That truth, as the saying goes, is liberating. Healing.”

  When you write, you translate a bad day into concrete words and sentences. You alleviate the traffic in your head by “parking” your thoughts in a different spot than your own mind. Did you read the Harry Potter books or perhaps see the movies? Albus Dumbledore pulls memories from his head in the form of ethereal silver threads and stores them in a special wide, shallow dish called a pensieve. When he needs the memories, he studies them, but by siphoning off his excess thoughts, he doesn’t have to carry around all of his ideas and experiences with him.

  But what should you write? Well, that actually isn’t step one. Step one is that you begin writing at all. Julia Cameron, who wrote the classic The Artist’s Way, advises a method known as “morning pages”: Each morning she fills three white pages with anything that comes up in her mind—regardless of whether she has inspiration or not. The power lies in the rhythm, the repetition, which will lead you past the little voice in your head toward a deeper consciousness. So buy a notebook or grab one from your stack of unused beautiful ones. If you have trouble breaking in that pristine first white page, think this: If you don’t write on it, you deny that page the fulfillment of its true role. That would be sad, now, wouldn’t it? Well, then! Start writing.