The Handbook for Bad Days

by Eveline Helmink

  If You Really, Truly Have No Idea Where to Begin

  Set a timer. Start with twenty minutes or whatever feels comfortable, and during that time, write down whatever comes to mind, without stopping or even lifting your pen off the paper. Write down your thoughts, no matter how disjointed. Punctuation, style, and spelling are of minor concern. Keep going. If necessary, repeat your last sentence over and over until a new thought emerges.

  Choose a genre or form. For example, create a third-person narrative about what you’re experiencing. “Today Eveline is having a hard day. It started with an increasing irritability caused by…” A perspective like that creates distance. Another idea: Write a manifesto with your intentions for today, or this week, regarding a topic or a person.

  Start with a question or a standard opening. For example: “As a child, I preferred playing with…” or: “If I could pick one thing I could do over again, I would…” It’s a start.

  Write a letter to your younger self. Grab a childhood photo and look at the boy or girl: What would you like to tell them? It’s a moving exercise. Essential. Or write someone you know a letter you never have to actually mail. Or write a letter to someone you don’t know, an idol or a teacher, and tell them how they touched you. Or consider this: If your life was a movie script, how would the plot continue? Write a sequel scene.

  Respond to a previous journal entry. Read what you write to yourself out loud and notice how you react to your own thoughts. It’s like talking to yourself. A strange experience, but a useful one.

  // Charge Your Happiness Battery

   A tip from my private collection

  Now I’m going to share an insight that is personal and such a part of myself that I no longer know exactly when I came up with it or felt it for the first time. But I stockpile happiness to use when I’m sad or when hard or uncomfortable moments present themselves. Like a squirrel hiding nuts and seeds in a hollow tree for when the winter is coming, I store up happiness in my body, for lesser days to come.

  I don’t see happiness as one large, blissful bubble, but rather as a kind of foam. Moments of happiness exist as tiny bubbles, sticking together to form a larger whole. Each tiny bubble is a moment when you think: Yes, now I’m feeling it—happiness! That feeling stored inside the little bubble, that’s what I’m trying to preserve.

  Have you ever noticed how happiness rises inside your body? I mean the very real physical sensation in your body. I always feel it first right below my midriff, in the form of something glowing that flares up, and in a sudden change in breathing that seems to indicate a kind of “fluffy” lungs. I’ve begun to call it a “glowing heart.” From there, it spreads to the rest of my body. It’s an almost tantric sensation, a sparkle that opens up each of the senses: I hear the sounds around me, smell where I am, feel it on my skin, see it with my own eyes, taste its effervescence on my tongue. Such a moment of happiness can appear all at once, out of nowhere. Sometimes you actually can feel it coming, as if all your previous steps have led you to it. You realize that everything as it is, here and now, is exactly right. Here and now, all is perfect and relaxed, calm and beautiful.

  Favorite moments: in Costa Rica peddling out on the final day of a surf retreat, bobbing around on the ocean waves amid a spectacular sunset and sea turtles. Falling asleep on the plane, sitting between my two brothers, laying my head first on one shoulder and then the other. Often it’s the small moments: hearing a great song on the radio in the car on a cloudless day, the shadow play of a flower on a concrete wall, finding a beautiful sentence in a public library while there’s a rainstorm raging outside. In the past, these moments would simply pass. I wasn’t really paying conscious attention to them. I just called them “nice” or “pleasant,” and life moved on. But these days, when I feel my heart starting to glow, I take notice. Hey! This is happiness! Let me save this for later!

  How? Well, I take a deep breath through my nose, several times, while holding on to that feeling below my chest for as long as possible, and then allow it to completely subside. In my mind, I direct the feeling all through my body, all the way to my fingertips. I try to anchor this feeling in each of my body’s cells; my intention is to store the happiness in my bones. Because I know that it will end. Because, of course, I know that, sooner or later, I will surely get cranky, glum, and angry again. But if I’ve done a good job stockpiling, on bad days I can return to those moments of happiness by summoning the physical sensation again. It’s experiencing happiness in reverse order: first the body, and then the mind. The happiness battery in my bones can recharge me when I’ve run out of energy. Even in the deepest grief, in the most endless sadness, I have some reserves of happiness to call on.

  // The Consolation Cardigan

   The importance of fluffy things

  I have friends—I will refrain from naming and shaming here, but you know who you are—who still sleep with their childhood cuddly toy. Dirty, faded, frayed pieces of stuffed fabric—in many cases, it has become completely unclear whether they represent an animal known to or recognized by scientists. “Scabby” was the name of a friend’s stuffed animal; each time I hear that name, I try to nod respectfully (hitherto without success).

  Even though I don’t have a childhood stuffed animal like that to dry my tears with, I keep to the principle very well. When I see how my son lets out a sigh of relief as he clings to his best buddy, Krokie, after a long day, I ask myself whether there would be a market for adult cuddly toys. If you’ve ever had a baby and are familiar with the phenomenon of “breast feeding pillows,” you might remember how cozy they are.

  It just isn’t cool for a grown-up to have a bed full of stuffed animals. As a woman, you might get away with it and be deemed “cute” with your childhood cuddly toy. Still, we all grimace in collective horror at that scene from Love, Actually when the mousy office wallflower finally takes home the wildly attractive art director and, once he’s there, quickly hides her teddy bear under her bed. Watching that scene, I guarantee you that no one will scream: Don’t do it! Just be yourself! Stuffed animals just aren’t sexy, period.

  And yet, we know that touch does have a comforting effect for adults as well as kids. I’m not an evolutionary biologist, but it sort of works like this: Our senses allow us to easily move around in the world. Everything we hear, see, and feel (both inside our body and in our surroundings) is sent to the brain, which interprets and translates that information into practical instructions. Touch is an especially important sense; from the first months inside the womb, a fetus is developing sensitivity to physical contact. The receptors in our skin and our fingers literally determine the boundary between our inner and outside worlds.

  We don’t often pause to take note of the importance of being able to touch something or of being touched. Still, it forms the foundation of our very literal sense of where we belong in the world. The ability to hold something in your hand, to feel it, touch it, is influencing us in all sorts of ways—what we think, how we behave, the kind of opinions we form, and which decisions we want to make. Touch renders the world around us real and tangible.

  In psychology, blankets and stuffed animals are referred to as “transitional objects.” By means of a sweet illusion created by our brain, an object can offer the same comfort and security as your mother’s arms. Cuddly toys are often the first experience of “not me” a child has, so it’s no wonder that you can become enormously attached to them. Such a security object meets more or less the following needs of the owner: It represents safety and love; it gives comfort and strength and supports the processing of emotions. For adults, “transitional objects” become less socially acceptable (at least where anyone might see them), but our need for real, tangible comfort doesn’t decrease. What does this all boil down to? Well, for one thing, a way to rationalize my attachment to Fluffy Cardigan.

  Fluffy Cardigan is soft pink, fuzzy, and also my comfort cardigan. The cardigan and I don’t even share that long of a history together. Nei
ther did our paths cross in any special way: I was walking down a busy shopping street, felt cold, happened to spot something pink and fluffy on a rack of sale items in a clothing store. I bought it without trying it on and took Fluffy Cardigan home with me. Fluffy Cardigan is long and oversized, with generous sleeves and deep pockets. You want to make Fluffy Cardigan your home.

  Fluffy Cardigan has joined me on faraway travels and has often slept in my bed. I’ve lost Fluffy Cardigan and found Fluffy Cardigan again. Friends have cursed the damn thing because it leaves thin bright pink fluff marks on dark designer sofas and borrowed coats. I’ve shed many a tear wearing Fluffy Cardigan. It embraced me when my heart was broken (and never said “I told you so” or “Do you really want to talk about this again?”). And that’s why Fluffy Cardigan is a comfort cardigan. And it is a big part of my bad days (just like your worn childhood cuddly toy, if you’re lucky enough to still have it). Stuffed animal or no, find your own consolation cardigan and wear its protection whenever you need it.

  // Because You’re Worth It

   Opt for quality in everything

  Once in a while, but only when I really have to, I will venture into the city center of my hometown, Amsterdam, on a Saturday. It’s a place I normally avoid during the weekend because it doesn’t present a particularly rosy image of humanity. Stuff, stuff, and even more stuff: bags’ worth of it. It just so happens we’re living in a time when you can fill your wardrobe, and your kitchen, and your bathroom, and the rest of your home with endless amounts of clutter on the cheap.

  I observe the throngs of people hauling their purchases home, and instead of seeing all those packed shopping bags, I see what they symbolize: bandages and painkillers. That’s the false promise made by buying and owning: that retail therapy will make you happy and that material things can solve emotional problems. James Wallman says as much in his book Stuffocation, adding, “In today’s culture, material goods have become substitutes for deep and genuinely meaningful questions. Consumer culture has become a sort of pseudo-religion. It’s much easier to focus on questions like ‘The blue one or the red one?’ or ‘Will that go with the top I bought last week?’ or ‘What will they think if I buy that?’ than pondering meaningful questions, like ‘Why am I here?’ ”

  Material goods don’t make you happy, but at the same time, I also think that having nice things can contribute to your happiness. This may seem to be a paradox, but it isn’t. It’s simply this: quality over quantity. When I’m having a bad day, I am comforted by the fact that the things I’ve surrounded myself with don’t annoy me or remind me of what I don’t want. Things that aren’t “right” only take up space, in both the literal and figurative sense. How much more life-giving it is to surround myself with things that genuinely make my life better, more organized, and more beautiful. Better one sharp knife than a drawer full of unused, duller versions of that same knife. Better one soft hoodie to disappear in than fifteen stretched so-so sweaters. Better one really nice shampoo than six half-empty, okay-ish bottles.

  Things and products that neither inspire nor serve you tend to drain energy from you. You don’t want to surround yourself with subpar stuff, because it will give you a subpar feeling. I want my living space to mirror how I’d like to see my inner world as much as possible and for the two to blend seamlessly. How annoying is it if you, on days that you’re already not feeling so great, have to deal with mediocre stuff?

  I don’t want a lot, I don’t want expensive, but I do want quality. It is not so much about money but more about making choices. What do you allow yourself? What do you think you’re worth? How do you take care of yourself? Opt for a versatile, razor-sharp kitchen knife. Buy yourself a quality bra in the right size, one that really fits you. Buy a nice makeup brush, generous, comfy towels that dry up well, laundry detergent that smells lovely and is environmentally friendly, a nonslip yoga mat, incense sticks that don’t cause smoke, a nice tea mug, a quality pan, a bathrobe to live in. We have so much stuff we don’t need. Have your home reflect what you would like the inside of your head to look like. That doesn’t immediately make you a hard-core minimalist, but perhaps a bit more of an essentialist.

  Is that superficial? Maybe to some people. But not so much, if you ask me. It’s about durable, sustainable, and meaningful living. It’s about things that will make you happy time and again, objects that serve you and that do what they should be doing. Whenever you have a choice, choosing quality will impart a sense of self-worth and control over your life.

  How to Choose Quality

  What are you really buying? Often when I feel the temptation to buy something, I notice that what I really want is to make a desire or experience tangible for myself. A beautiful new notebook? In fact, I’m buying the desire to take time and reflect in beautiful sentences or start over on a blank page. New yoga pants? In fact, I’m buying the desire to move more regularly again. New makeup? In fact, I’m buying the desire to be the kind of woman who has her life in order to the point that she always appears well-groomed. In most cases, I already have enough items to actualize those desires and don’t need the purchases at all. Apparently, sometimes all that stands between dreaming and doing is a debit card.

  Ground yourself in your preferences. When you do need to buy things, knowing what you love or what gives you a sense of self is the foundation you want to choose from. For example, my favorite colors are the pink of rhubarb compote the way my grandmother used to make it in canning jars, the deep green color of the ocean, and the bright white of an empty page awaiting a pen. Those are colors that soothe me and make me feel at home. When you don’t know what you like or what feels intrinsic to you, you are more sensitive to trends and thoughts along the lines of “If I have that, then…” To discover what fits you and what is a timeless favorite, you can take a look at the things you would never throw away. What are the colors, textures, materials, and styles that float to the surface?

  Clean your house. Get rid of items that no longer have any practical use or meaning to you. Remove the noise: Why would anyone need a pineapple peeler, an egg slicer, an apple corer, and seven different cheese knives?

  Make sure things have a permanent place. You’ll need to ask whether you still have masking tape, black shirts, or Tylenol less often. On tough days, it saves you a lot of annoyance if you can find your keys, if your chargers are in their drawer like they’re supposed to be, and your favorite dress is hanging on a hanger and not crumpled in a drawer somewhere.

  Develop a new definition of “value.” Is something valuable if it has been collecting dust for three years at the bottom of your closet or if it never catches your eye there on top of your sideboard?

  Grant your belongings the right to serve their purpose. Clothes don’t want to be in the closet; they want to be worn. Notebooks want to be scribbled in, perfume to be smelled, baking dishes to be cooked in; shoes want to traverse the world. If you can’t make that happen for them, give them to someone else.

  // Fake It Till You Make It

   Sometimes it’s good to be a bit ahead of the times

  It was a green sweater with an enormous panther head embroidered on the front, studded with sequins and beads. And by green I mean, bright green. Kermit the Frog green. Blindingly green. Most definitely an eye-catcher. But one with a hefty price tag. Even on sale, the sweater was priced such that most people would probably go and get a coffee before deciding to buy it. Not my friend Fabienne. She stood in the fitting room wearing the sweater, twirled several times with a look of elation in her eyes. For years, my friends and I have had a tradition of going into town sometime between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. Although we’ve grown older and wiser (something to do with sustainability and discovering that clothing and shoes are less important than we thought), we still always browse the racks, just in case. And there it was, the green sweater. It behooves me to say that it looked amazing on her. But, as we knew, the person admiring it in the mirror was also temporarily out of big wo
rk assignments. “Um, do you really need it?” I asked gingerly. What I meant was: “Um, can you afford this right now?”

  “Oh,” she said, “I’m sure I’ll get a gig before long, so I’m buying the clothes I would be wearing if I had a good income. Fake it till you make it!” She cast a final look of satisfaction in the mirror, took off the sweater, and headed over to the register.

  Now, I’m by no means making a case for purchases that are over your budget, for impulse decisions, or for bright green sweaters, for that matter (hardly anyone looks good in them) but, oddly enough, sometimes seemingly insignificant events like these can provide you with a major insight. I still remember that moment—the marble shop floor, the panther head on the sweater, and most of all her remark: “Fake it till you make it.” Just pretend, and it will become a self-fulfilling prophecy. It sounds easy enough. But I know Fabienne really well, and that’s not how she meant it. Fabienne is fierce: At that point she chose what she imagined for herself. The episode with the sweater triggered something in me, and now, a few years later, I can also say what it is: the concept of stepping forward in time. That you lay claim to something that you don’t possess yet. Something that hasn’t materialized yet.

  It’s more subtle than the principle of The Secret, which wants you to believe that if you just hurl your wish list into the universe with enough force, your wishes and desires will be delivered to your doorstep. It’s a certain energy that perhaps generally is more associated with manliness: shouting just that little bit harder than is justified. Perhaps it’s a bit American as well: bluffing your way to your goal. The funny thing is that, in doing this, you can sometimes trick yourself in a positive way: Perhaps you know that the circumstances aren’t right yet—but your brain will remember the feelings you gave yourself: pride, satisfaction, self-confidence. The more you dare to do this, the more these positive emotions will become genuine and natural. And the more natural they become, the more they will guide your choices. Laughing is a concrete example of this principle: When you contract the muscles in your face that are essential for a laugh, your brain will receive a signal that it should release endorphins and dopamine.