My youngest years took place in the 1980s. This decade embraced self-help books and fitness of all kinds, not just physical fitness. I remember that my mother had a few of these books, but I also remember thinking that she was amazing--funny, self-assured, fun, smart, kind, and loving. I didn't really see why she thought she needed that sort of help. Don't get me wrong--I never judged her for seeking a path to more happiness and to be the best person that she could be, but I felt like she should be the one getting paid to help others. I admired her curiosity about spirituality and her desire to be an even better person than she already was, but in my young, invincible, over-confident mind, I couldn't see myself buying those kinds of books. 

In my young mind, I was going to be rich and famous as soon as I turned 18, so I would never need any help.

***insert gravelly, 40 year old smoker's laugh here, complete with coughing fit at the end***

Eventually, I grew up. I experienced more. I felt more. I loved more. I worked hard. I drank and smoked and yelled and held and laughed and cried. What I noticed was that my tank of energetic optimism didn't get filled back up as fast. I'm very grateful that I never (that's a dangerous word--let's go with rarely) saw other people as filling stations who were responsible for bringing me back up to an abnormally high level of child-like happiness. I understand that true happiness comes from within. Cheesy, but true... When YOU take care of YOURself, YOU experience more happiness. It sounds like a simple formula, right? So, why does it seem like more and more adults are less and less happy?

SMARTPHONES!

Well, kind of. That's only another view into other people's lives which I feel is one of the keys to unhappiness. They've also driven us to do everything faster and faster and forego learning something in exchange for just going FASTER.

We're not asking ourselves why we're going so much faster though. And, when you combine speed with too much interest in other people's lives, you're definitely not taking care of YOURself. So, in the hopes of a quick fix and avoiding getting a mental health professional involved (the horror!), you find a book or podcast or blog that promises to give you the fast way to be happy.

You get a few tips to take away and slap them on your psyche like duct tape on a broken pipe. Good to go until you die, now, right?!?

Then, you go to the grocery store and a random child kicks you and their parent doesn't say a word. The cashier ignores you entirely while ringing you up. Someone else's abandoned cart has crashed into your car and scratched it. The bottom of your grocery bag splits when you get home and the milk is now spattered in the driveway. Your partner asks you to change the cat litter so they can take a nap. 

Nope. Wrong. No permanent zen to be found.
At this point, ice cream, vodka, and cigarettes seem to be the only solution. I've been there.

I don't have all of the answers and I'm starting to realize that although those books and podcasts and blogs may have good ideas, they don't have MY answers. And, the answers are different for everyone. 

Here's what I know:

1. This world is a complicated place that thrives on balance. If you understand balance, you understand that it is a constant state of motion between good and bad, happy and sad, abundance and wanting. If you seek balance, it makes the next thing a little easier. 
2. "Be present" is not just a nice thing to say. Being present takes you away from ruminating on the past and the anxiety of the future. And, if you feel a panic attack coming on, connecting with the present in the most literal sense can scare that attack away. (more on that below if you want a new tip! *eye roll*)
3. Teddy Roosevelt said "comparison is the thief of joy." Social media and reality TV create multiple opportunities for you to compare your life and your haves to someone else's, which I think dramatically increases the chance for dissatisfaction with your own life. Do the things that make you feel good even if other people don't get it. 
4. Meditate or create. Both are mind-clearing activities, but in completely different ways. Meditation encourages you to clear your mind. Creation encourages you to use the junk in your mind to make something better. For me, this is writing, but specifically journaling. I just feel better when I take all that brain junk and dump it on the page. I rarely re-read entries--why look through the trash after you've already put it in the bin and taken it to the curb? I scribble until the shitty feelings are gone (or until I run out of time) and close the book on it--literally. It's cathartic.

These are my prescriptions for dealing with anxiety and dissatisfaction and frustration. I carry them with me wherever I go and take them as needed. What works for YOU?

My tips for staying in the present and out of a panic attack:

1. If you can lie down on your back, do that. Rest your hands on your stomach and feel it rise and fall as you breathe. If you are seated, put both feet firmly on the floor and rest your hands on the tops of your thighs--no fists. Inhale deeply through your nose and exhale through your mouth. Count each breath.
2. Look around--name 3 things that you see--out loud. Don't overthink it. Carpet, sky, or cat are all perfectly good things to notice.
3. What do you hear? The air conditioner, a dog barking? You don't have to say it out loud, but it helps. 
4. Keep breathing! If you smell something, name that!
5. Hopefully you're catching your breath at this point and feeling a little less panicky. Tell yourself out loud that it's going to be okay and use your name. It's grounding to hear your own voice and your name. "Heather, it is going to be okay. This will pass. Just breathe. You are strong and you will get through this."
6. Finally, drink a big glass of cool water and give yourself 15 minutes to catch your breath and recover. Your adrenaline and blood sugar likely spiked in the last few minutes, so give your body a chance to level back out--WITHOUT a cell phone! Get some fresh air or relax in a cool, dark place.
7. Call a friend or family member (try to find someone who can make you laugh!). You don't have to share what just happened to you, but connecting with another person in the moment can help keep you in the present. 

Further reading--especially for worrywarts: On Needing to Find Something to Worry About
(via Tim Ferriss)

Well, that whole structure plan went REALLY well! Hahahahaha! Here's a bit of unstructured whinery to make up for it. 

I have been off work for the last week and it has been glorious. I checked my email occasionally to make sure there weren't any grenades in there and thankfully, it's been a tame week. I have avoided taking holiday weeks off in the past because I rarely have big plans and with lots of people out of the office, it can be a great time to get caught up without being bothered. After this week, I think that with all those people out of the office, there's a much shorter "rebound" time when I return, which might just be better than getting "caught up". In most instances, that getting caught up has more to do with wasting time in other people's offices, snacking on treats being brought in, counting the hours until you can go home. So, why not just stay the hell home? And, with the holiday, I'm not coughing up a full 40 hours of paid time off. This week, I'm only going to have to give up 16 hours. While I didn't get even HALF of the stuff that I wanted to get done while I was off, I did get time to rest, put up my Christmas tree (that I'm still unhappy with), hugged some family, drank amazing Scotch, saw an amazing movie, and bought a few gifts.

I should be finishing up the last few chores as the daylight wanes, but after being away from work for a blissful 9 days, and thinking about what the rest of the year holds, I felt the need to put some thoughts out into the world. 

I have things to offer that I'm not sharing because of reasons that I don't fully understand. I'm scared, but I'm not sure of what. Rejection, maybe, but if I really look at who I want to be, that shouldn't scare me at all. I don't fear rejection from other people because I know that I'm not everyone's cup of tea and I'm pretty comfortable with that. So, why if I don't fear rejection of my personality or who I am, should I fear the rejection of the things I create? I create things because I feel the need to put them out into the world, not so that people will like me more or pay me to create.

I mean, that would be nice and all, but that's not really art. That's creating a product. Or, is art actually a product, just not what we think of art in traditional terms? I guess that doesn't matter as long as I'm creating. 

Is it laziness? Am I avoiding creating because I'd rather watch television or eat or smoke cigarettes or bake?
While that's what's happening, I don't think it's because I'd rather do other things because when I'm writing is one of the few times that I don't feel like I should be doing anything else. 

I know that I will love my life even more if I create more art, but there's something stopping me from being consistent and I simply cannot see what that is. 

While I am comfortable not being everyone's cup of tea, I am completely UNcomfortable with being misunderstood. When I feel like I'm being misunderstood, it makes me incredibly frustrated. I feel trapped in my own brain and unable to connect with people. I don't mind clarifying my thoughts when asked specific questions, but getting a blank face or darting eyes or worse, no response whatsoever, makes me feel lonely.

I see two problems with this related to my art...
1 - If I feel like I will be misunderstood, I will overexplain. And, in the words of my favorite writing instructor (although I think he borrowed them from Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones), "don't complain and don't explain". You put your whole heart out there as a way to share your life experience and connect with other people, but you don't tell them how to feel about it. That's not art, it's a lecture.
2 - I cannot control how people perceive my art. I can embrace those who are receptive, but I cannot force everyone to love it. There's that lovable control freak! *eye roll*

This tells me that I need to let go of my need to be explicitly understood at all times, but I'm not sure how to even start that process. I know that reminding myself that my thoughts are fleeting and anxiety is just a fear of what could be is a good thing to do, but it doesn't feel productive.

Perhaps this little brain dump is exactly the step outside of my own brain that needs to be taken. 

Will I come back again soon? Gosh, I hope so. 

7.2.19: 

I have been trying to start blogging again for YEARS.

My mom has encouraged me at her own peril.

I have a tendency to avoid 

7.22.19:
​
............FINISHING THINGS?!

My mom/life guru, encouraged me by saying that if I was "successful" with this before, I could be again. My previous blog from a previous life had a few consistent features. One was the Weekend Wrap Up, which was inconsistently posted at some point on Monday after I had somewhat recovered from the weekend's 3rd hangover. Another was the Friday Randomness and Weekend Agenda which lived up to it's title most of the time. While complaining to my mother that I didn't know how to find a rhythm for regular posts, she suggested bringing back the Weekend Wrap Up.

Because I am Eeyore in a Heather suit, I rebuffed her idea and went back to complaining. (Poor Momma.) 

Why would I do such a rotten thing to such a wonderful woman?  Because I was in the throes of an epic quarter life crisis those days and life is much less tumultuous these days as I prepare to ramp up to my midlife crisis, which I'm hoping to avoid since the quarter life one was so goddamned dangerous and painful (thanks for the daily reminders, Timehop app!). 

Finally, after weeks of bumping her suggestion around in my head, something hit me this weekend. My life has changed, but ridiculous thoughts like these still cross my mind:

After reviewing that post, I feel confident that this is something I can return to. That bar is pretty dang low. 
I think my hesitation lies in the fact that blogging is different than it was a decade ago and my style doesn't fit the smartypants nature of today's popular blogs.

But, here's the thing...I don't blog because I fit in or in order to fit in. I've tried. It's very painful when I try and it never works. It might from time to time, but it's like that nightmare where you showed up to take the SAT drunk and you forgot to wear pants and you can't wake up. 

Bottom line, y'all, I gotta be me and frankly, I don't have a lot of opportunity to do that. 

With that in mind, I'm going to give this a whirl by going back to what I know I can produce. The other blog evolved into something with depth (occasionally) and if I did it once, I can do it again. I mean, how hard is it to talk about sleeping and boobs?

Look for some kind of weirdness in this space soon...



....or in about eleventeen years. 
Thankfully, no one is reading this dross, so I don't have much to worry about. If there is a someone reading this something, drop me note! 

See ya on Friday for some randomness maybe?

I disappeared. It is especially disheartening considering my last post... In the last seven days, I have written thousands of words. I've journaled almost daily and I've put 5600 words into a Word document that may only be seen by me. But it's a start. It's something. I'm desperately holding on to the scant bit of momentum that I have and constantly reminding myself that this shit takes fucking work and there's no easy way around it. No one is going to suddenly appear at my door and give me a magical remote control that will stop time so I can write.

I fight the lazy girl that lives inside of me on a daily basis and when I can convince her to go away, the perfectionist rears her ugly head, saying, "I mean, you can try and all, but if it's not going to be perfect, then why bother?" The lazy girl hears that and shows up with cocktails and 45 episodes of my favorite television show on Netflix. 

And, back to the couch I go instead of writing and giving myself the chance. So, this hastily written, mostly pointless post is my way of giving the middle finger to those bitches.

When I saved the 5600+ words into a file, I started digging around to see what else I could find in my archives of secret words. I found the following poem that I wrote in February of 2015 while mourning the loss of someone I've never met. I'm not a poet, but every once in awhile, poetry comes out of me and onto the page. I didn't edit this--only chopped a few lines that messed with the flow. 

Find her and you find it all
Blues, Fridays, and bourbon highballs
Start it and you’ll find it all
Play out and she’ll come to you
It’s all coming into view
 
In the moonlight
Warmth and light
Touch it, Girl
Don’t be scared, Girl
Put your fingers on my heart, Girl
 
Strum, Boy
Find it, Boy
 
My heart lies behind
Them strings
Those stings
Tight and low
I can follow
 
Those fingers tell a tale
Using, abusing,
Strumming, and flipping
Finding their way
Got to getting

He came to rest on my shoulder on Monday, July 25th.

It's as if he has always been there.

I didn't plan for this to happen, but I've been almost protective of him since I got him. I haven't shown him to everyone, I haven't talked about him, I haven't shared his picture. He's like a little secret that's meant only for me and it almost seems wrong to let anyone else in on the secret. 

You see, Hank was born with a purpose. 

He exists because I needed a reminder to write and that if I don't, death won't wait for me to fulfill my dream. Death is coming for me. Perhaps not soon, but he's coming. I have consistently held my writing close to me and felt the most comfort in sharing it with strangers. As I think about why I have kept Hank covered, I liken it to the reason why I've kept my writing to myself. It's intensely personal and intimate and private. 

I got my first tattoo when I turned 18 and I was hooked before the needle even penetrated my flesh. I’ve wanted to start a sleeve for several years, but I wanted the “anchor” of the sleeve to be significant. I knew that I would look at it every day even before my eyes fully open and therefore that precious piece of skin would need to be considered with great care. It needed to have a purpose.

When one of my favorite artists evolved into a tattoo artist, I was ecstatic to discover that his talent with a brush, pen, pencil, and camera, extended to a tattoo machine. I realized that having the tattoo that everyone else has (see Pinterest) was the LAST thing I wanted. Something that I learned after getting to know JJ and his wife, Darlene, (and through personal experience) is that the best way to make bad art is to tell the artist exactly what to do and how to do it and control every aspect of the creative process so as to make something shitty that everyone in the entire world has already seen and shat all over. 

I asked JJ to create something that would remind me to write. I got so much more than I bargained for. You might know that my calling is to write, but laziness (as my late writing professor, Peter Christopher, would say “eating cookies”) has gotten in the way. Some days, when I don’t touch pen to paper, I am literally sick to my stomach at the egregious waste of time.

Initially, I sent him an email with a few small things I had in mind, then we had a conversation about the piece that lasted less than 4 minutes. 

I arrived in Mauldin, South Carolina right on time and walked into the shop. He presented me with the drawing and watched my face. The size of the skull was the first thing that I saw, but next, I saw the little bee, and then the crown of leaves, the heart, the inkwell that would eventually peek out from the sleeve of a t-shirt, and then the soft feathers of the quill. I admit that the skull looked ominous at first and I feared that it would be too big, too tough for me. A few minutes later, he laid the stencil over my arm and it looked enormous, too large for my too large arm. If I didn't have to hide it for work, I probably would have went for it, knowing full well that a larger tattoo is generally better than one that's just a hair too small. I asked him to take it down just a little bit and a few minutes later, he laid the paper over my arm and without hesitation, I said, "yes." He went back to the computer and printed out the stencil and placed it on my arm. "Yes."

I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm a bit of a masochist, so the pain didn't bother me, nor was it something I was afraid of--full disclosure: I was kinda looking forward to it. The pain serves a purpose and therefore it is easy to withstand. I was more concerned about passing out on him due to the fact that I hadn't eaten. He assured me that we would eat. My head took a few spins when I got settled in the chair and the vibration of the machine began to hum, but I settled in and relaxed, even threatening to fall asleep.

We ate mixed berry crumble pie and drank beer and it was the best lunch I've had in a long time. 

We discussed how the tattoo would look in its final state throughout the process and it was truly an experience. 

As he got closer to finishing and I began to dread the end of this amazing day, without looking up and as I gazed up at the ceiling, he said, "Thanks for letting me do this."

My head whipped around to him and I studied his eyelashes for a few moments before saying, "Thank YOU, JJ. This has been an incredible day."

He continued in silence and for that I was thankful because the lump rising in my throat would have forced me to choke on any words I would need to use to respond. Nothing I could say would convey how thankful I was at that moment anyway.

He told me things that only another creative person seeking their "spot" would understand. And, as I thought about what I know about his creative history, he didn't sit back and wait for it to happen. He didn't get some magical tattoo that would suddenly open up his place in the world--he tried different things, hoping to find the place where his creative heart could soar and he could share his art with people who could appreciate it.

A month later, Hank is serving his purpose of reminding me of my mortality and how little time I have left to make something of the life I have. It's not a magical tattoo in the sense that I'm suddenly a brilliant writer about to stumble upon hundreds of thousands of dollars, but it IS magical that I have a reminder of such an important day in my life that I carry on my skin, in my flesh. 

It's like he's always been there, sitting on my shoulder. I can't imagine my life without him and photos that show that bare arm bring me closer to the screen, thinking, "How did he just get here?"