Part 3: What am I doing with my life?

It seems strange to look back on one's youth for the answers you think they'd answer when they became adults, but it seems my younger self had more insight than I do now. Partially because her mind hadn't been completely clouded yet; secondly, she still maintained her sense of weird. 

But things change, life happens, people happen and perhaps my younger self wasn't strong enough for what was to come. The above photo is a note I found from middle school. I had just given a presentation and despite the fairly positive feedback all I could read was the "fairly" and completely ignored the "positive." 

It started sooner than this I'm sure- this need for approval. But here was evidence that I couldn't comprehend positivity without someone telling me. In many ways, I'm still like this today. I have to remind myself all the time to not read into everything so much- that the lady in the gym is not making fun of me (quick: check for camel toe!) and just because my friend hasn't responded to a text yet doesn't mean our friendship is over. 

So how did I get this crazy? Why has it taken me so long to take the first step towards tranquility? 

The reason I reflected back on those specific points during my youth was because it was those moments that would define who I would become. 

I can't really remember what I wanted to be when I was little. I knew I wanted to help women because one time on the beach with my mother, I read an article about sex trade and slavery. I was horrified to read that the evil men in charge would take any means necessary to "break open" the little girls. Some as young as two years old. 

I could feel all my senses going down towards that end of my tiny body and tightening. To this day, I try not to share what they did to these girls as the image is as clear in my mind as the day I first read about them- if not clearer. But the worse part about this investigation were the mothers who left their daughters with these people- selling them for their own needs. 

Despite how mad I ever got at my own mother, I knew I was blessed a million times over with the family I have. I still look to these girls whenever I think I can't go on another day and suddenly, the sun shines a lot brighter. And because of their stories and the stories told by other women, I knew one day I'd help women feel better about their lives, the way they had helped me feel about mine.

Suffice it to say, men scared me for much of my youth. My own father terrified me sometimes. Knowing what that gender was capable of- I didn't want anything to do with them. So I set off into the world, knowing I would help women and youth one day.

But how?

When I look far back, I can say my young self wanted to be an actress. She lived for it what with her make-believe stories and intense about of emotion. I'd imagine the interviews, the scenes- everything. The best part of the gig would be the ability to tell these women's stories. And by sharing their stories and telling the world about problems that received little spotlight- I could help those people. But I never told anyone I wanted to do this. It was a dream that only existed in my head.

Then there was the singing and songwriting. I thought, better yet, I'll write man-hating songs for strong women and wear fishnets with knee-high boots and tell people to "fuck off!" 

But I never told anyone I wanted to do this either. I just sort of kept to my weird reclusive self. During all of this, I wrote stories, I wrote scripts, I wrote songs about "fucked up shit." I even drew my characters. And I don't know if I was already that jaded but I would draw them as realistically as possible. For example, a 40 yr-old woman would be drawn in drab clothing with lots of wrinkles under her eyes. Young, pretty girls would be drawn in belly shirts with blonde hair, and girls who looked like me would be drawn in stupid clothes and stupid hair with a "spare tire" around their waistline because as far as I could tell, this was the world I lived in.

I realized the hierarchy of beauty and wealth and decided I could never be an actress looking like I did so around the age of 9, I began working out using whatever didn't appear suspicious because again, I didn't want to tell anyone what I was thinking. I was alone in this world and would make it on my own. 

Then somehow, the mixture of drawing, writing, and make-believe led to fashion design. This, my family did know about. Back when the Style Network actually showed style, they used to play all the runway shows early in the morning. I was glued to the television. I began to imagine my designs up there and me waving at the end of the show. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Right? I knew I'd never make it to the big screen let alone shimmy into the dresses that splashed along the red carpet so why not design the dresses.

It was clear to me I'd always be ugly- since it was told to me by many. The funniest names were "Man Penguin" and "The Big Montana." The latter was derived from the Big Montana from Arby's. Helena being the capital of Montana... and you get the picture. I laughed it off and at the time. I already hated my name so this gave me extra ammo to tell them how "idiotic" my name was. Helena? What kind of name is that? Helen, with an "a" at the end. Stupid. 

So I drew and drew. If you go to my parents house today, look under my former bed. There, you will find a giant box filled with notebooks and sketchbooks all filled with drawings of designs I would one day create. I even painted a drawing in Crayola watercolors of what my first store would look like in New York City (where I could go to school and live). It's one of my most prized paintings. I look at it today and am amazed by the talent my young self had. "Helena Doub Designs." 

My parents were so supportive despite living in a trailer park where we could never afford the designers I coveted so much. But for my 13th birthday, my mother took me to Neiman Marcus so I could look at all the clothes I only saw on television. She ended up buying me the one thing we could afford. It was a small Prada wallet. I felt like Cinderella. I kept everything it came with. To this day, I have the box, the receipt, and the bag it came in (I eventually discarded the tissue paper). I wouldn't even use it for a long time but I'm happy to say I use it now- 13 years later... 

My father was equally generous. The first year we went to San Francisco after this obsession began, he took me to Union Square where all the high-end shops were. I was obsessed with finding a Betsey Johnson store as there were none in Michigan at the time. He walked allover with me until we found it. He waited for me while I perused the store and even let me take a picture of him in front of it (I still have that picture). He didn't understand the prices but let me fantasize anyway. He would even talk to sales reps at stores like Macy's to see how they got to where they were (back when I think it took more than just being 18 to work there). One time, he even brought a Personal Shopper over to talk to me. I was a little embarrassed but my dad said the gentleman went to a creative arts college for fashion merchandising and maybe I could look into degrees for design. For years my dad encouraged me to go to California where I had family and go to a creative arts school. I kick myself sometimes for not listening to him. 

It's not Project Runway but this is what I did and wanted to do when I grew up

But all this got me made-fun of, mocked, and screamed at. Mainly by family. Not to blame them for anything- I love them to pieces and they're my rock and total support system. But at the time, I could see how "selfish" I appeared for wanting all that when this was our reality. We wore clothes from K-Mart (I do more than ever nowadays!), ate boloney and white bread, and my parents had to work two jobs each in order for us to get by in the middle class. Manhattan? San Francisco? Los Angeles? Our version of moving on up was to the more urban suburbs where it was cheaper to live despite living in a trailer park surrounded by big, beautiful, country homes. 

So we moved to the land of tri-levels. The summer before high school I began running and fasting. I didn't realize I was losing weight, it just happened. Then one day I showed up svelte, with highlights to another bestie's house where her brother (who used to call me "man penguin" and sneak into the bathroom when I would shower) was giving me looks that made me nervous.

Somehow or another I blossomed into a slinky, little woman with blonde hair and tan skin. I began to look and act like I was 18.

The first day of high school, classmates who I'd been going to school with for years thought I was a new student. I had gone from frumpy to Abercrombie ad. Boys who'd never have given me a chance were suddenly stroking my arm and asking me what was up. And girls began to hate me. If I so much as looked at another girl's boyfriend I'd be asked to meet them outside to fight. I thought this was funny and strange at the same time and offered we get manicures and talk instead as this was stupid. But no one seemed to understand this concept. Luckily, no fights ensued and I spent my high school years just trying to survive and maintain the friendships I could get.

The one time I tried hanging out with the "popular" girls, I could just tell I didn't fit. And the one time I threw a party where I invited them, the cops were called because I had stolen a car. To this day, I swear I borrowed it. One of their moms had to come pick them up. I remember the looks they gave me from their perfect, beige SUV. The cops had never been called at their parties and most of their parents let them have parties. I had to try hiding mine which clearly didn't work when red and blue lights were flashing outside.

So I began to solely hang with the boys. In order to survive this world, you had to wear size 2 jeans with the ability to hold your liquor like a middle-aged biker. I also started smoking cigars with the neighbor boys. I didn't realize you weren't supposed to inhale and enjoyed the high I got from them.

Along with drinking and smoking, you had to give the appearance you were sexually experienced yet virginal at the same time. And guys were very good at lying. I'd get told my eyes were beautiful, they loved me, etc... and a week later he'd be strutting around with a new flavor of the week and I'd have to walk home with my head held high while pieces of my soul had been taken from me. 

 

I began to feel empty, miserable, even suicidal at times. By 16 I had been to strip clubs, been wined and dined by middle-age men, and was able to drink fifths all by my little, tight-jeaned self. 

So I wrote and I painted. I remember my parents always commenting how dark my paintings and essays were. I spent the next 5-6 years in that darkness. I wrote to escape. I wrote to explain how I felt. And I dreamed of leaving that place. My family didn't know because I still managed to get good grades and go to school. I once aced a test I had studied for while wasted. 

I surrounded myself with people, bad people, but they were people nonetheless. I couldn't stand to be alone and continued to drown my thoughts with voices and vices. 

Journal notes from high school

To be honest, this is the first time I've shared most of this (and this is the PG version too as my mother may read this). I'm not sad either. I laugh because people wonder why anytime I'd raise my hand in class, there would be some jackass who'd always say, "let's hear what the 40 yr-old has to say about this." Today, my good friend Laura always gets a kick at how fatalistic I make life sound- like I'm a divorcee with nothing left to do in life. 

I became a cynical woman in Joe Boxer panties and a 34B bra. But the dream of leaving and starting new somewhere where nobody knew my name, who I was, or what I had done kept me alive. That, and my little faith in God. 

But at some point after 16, I got angry. All the pain that had welled up inside of me only festered and began to spill out of me. I started gaining weight again. I also started hanging out with older women and men- people who understood me. I began listening to heavy metal, mosh-pitting, and drinking whiskey. I became, in a sense, a "badass." I had even moved out for a month at one point to live with a couple in their thirties. 

Everything was "fuck this," and "fuck that." I hated life. I hated people. I even hated God. But above all, I absolutely despised myself. I was pretty sure I was going to be dead before I ever reached the age of 20.

Because of this prophecy, I had only applied to one school and hadn't been accepted so I settled to go to a community college. 

People wonder why I didn't like my time at college either and that's simple to answer. Because by the time I got to college, beer bongs, keg stands, and staying up til 4am was baby's play. 

I had seen a lot at that point. I was done playing with little girls and boys. As far as boys go, I had watched friends get hit by their boyfriends, come to school with bruises, and even though I tried to be their tough friend and save them. They were too entranced by the men in their lives. 

I lost a lot of girlfriends to boys. I had still never been in a serious relationship but had been so fucked over by the opposite sex I thought boyfriends were silly. Even sillier was staying with guys who cheated on you. But my friends warned me for my naive sense of humor. They said one day, I'd fall in love and I'd finally understand how hard it would be to let go of something you loved. No matter how much they hurt you.

Pfft! Yeah. Right. 

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaa! Ha... Ha.

Joke was on me. During my first year at college, I met a guy- a drug dealer, fell in love, and proceeded to get my heart trampled on some more!

I won't go into details but I'll tell you it took years years for me to completely kick the drug that he was. Nothing else really mattered and my dreams and the young girl I once were becoming distant, clouded memories. The difference between him and all the other guys who hurt me was this: I loved him. 

But I kept fighting. Without even knowing it, I kept fighting. I can look back now and I believe even more than ever that God was watching out for me. My mother's prayers were working.

Somewhere inside me I knew I deserved better. An image of a woman who had lived in the trailer park near me reminded me of the shitty men she constantly dealt with and how looking at her, and realizing that was her life, and that was all it would ever be- I remembered vowing to myself, I would never let myself become that; allowing myself to get blinded and simply take life as it was.

It took several break-ups, heartbreaks, loss of friends, hair dyes, lifestyle changes, even trips to Thailand and China to un-blind myself but the light in me was still dim and still being put-out by others, particularly men.

This is a post about what I am doing with my life and during all these years I still didn't know. To tell you the truth I sort of stopped thinking about it. I knew I'd leave one day, or kill myself. Either way, I'd disappear. So I just went to college hoping to buy some time until I had to make the decision. I switched schools and changed majors a couple times- from film studies, to cultural anthropology, to creative writing, to women's studies until I finally just chose the easiest major that would get me out of that hell as quickly as possible.

"Sad Girl." Lipstick on paper

For years I just tried not sinking completely into the black hole that was my life in Michigan. I went to church. I tried getting closer to God. Somehow, by my own doing, I became a restless soul. I worked odd jobs to pay the bills, never staying anywhere for too long for fear I'd never leave and I entered relationships as quickly as I left them, often without even saying goodbye. 

College didn't prepare for anything in the real world expect teaching me that business was business, and all that mattered was money- which they received a lot of. When I graduated, I finally did what I had always wanted to do. I packed my car and set off for California. It was supposed to be a road trip across America, which it was, but I also hoped that somehow, someway, I'd find a job, or get stuck in California and not be able to leave. It was an open-ended trip. I wrote about the trip on a blog (this same one), but I decided it was crap and stopped.

I drove, camped, built my own fires, and rummaged through cities. I learned a lot on my trip and even healed some wounds (one day maybe I'll finish writing about it). 

Regardless, I still ended up back in Michigan, working retail, doing the same shit over and over. It was time to hunker down and job search for real. I had a degree from a well-known university, I'd easily find a job at some publishing warehouse or magazine; I'd move to NYC or San Francisco and that'd be that. 

... And they say the job market is bad.

What I did not mention was that I also got back to songwriting in college as well. I had discovered blues music and I was hooked. Blues music was perfect for a girl like me! I would sing songs of heartbreak at home and work. Then one day, a coworker said I had a sultry, blusey voice. So I began taking vocal lessons. 

I contacted musicians, recording producers (all found on Craigslist) but nothing ever happened. I wrote and sang karaoke with girlfriends while I lived out my dreams for 3:47 minutes on stage at a bar. I considered moving to Nashville or Memphis to pursue the dream but fear held me back once again. 

I just wanted something, anything, to take me away from Michigan and everything bad that haunted me. 

After several grueling months of job searching and no gigs of any kind. I had to ask myself, Helena, what the fuck are you doing with your life? 

 

It was the beginning of 2012 and I was tapping back into my old self for the answer. Throughout all the drunken, heart-melting, mind-fucking years, I still dreamed of being an actress. 

By the time I was 14, I had a different look and persona for just about every group I surrounded myself with. I could be tough, I could be dainty, I could be "ghetto," I could be preppy, I could be a hippie- I could be anything asked of me. 

By that time I had trained myself to be the ultimate people-pleaser. I said sorry for just about everything and hated myself- self-loathing being the ultimate form for humility of course. I had been playing make-believe my entire life. It was like I was preparing myself for the ultimate audition. 

So I began doing research on acting, how to enter the world, etc... I started taking classes on Method Acting while continuing voice lessons. 

But the most significant part of this was having to tell my parents, after years of wanting to do this, that, and everything in-between, that I now wanted to enter the easily-accessible world of acting. 

They accepted the news as expected. No frills, just, what are you gonna do about health insurance Helena?

I had some time left to worry about that and I because I lived with my parents at the time I could afford to volunteer my time and talent.  

Which is what ended up doing at a little theater in Kentucky. Although it wasn't the most pleasant experience, I learned a ton, got to watch actors closely, and was given the chance to show my talent as a painter. My plan was to head to Nashville afterwards to see what I could do there.

Replication of Au Lapine Agile

An 8'x8' reproduction of Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon

Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Whoever described this as the lifestyle for the rich and the famous, was not kidding. But you don't have to be rich or famous, as I've learned, you just have to be willing. Having witnessed what can happen in the business even at a small scale, I realized you have to have thicker than thick skin in order to keep your wits about you. I learned this among many other things at the theater and after realizing I wasn't being treated fairly on top of working for free, I decided to leave before the season was over. Despite losing money and getting treated like shit, I left with pride knowing this was where I drew the line and vowed to never work for free again. I also made some wonderful friendships with people who encouraged me to go forth and prosper.

And once again, I ended up back in Michigan. But I was a little stronger. I had fought for myself and that felt good (I also hadn't slept with anybody so woot, woot for me). Even still, it wasn't until people told me I was talented did I believe it. Graphic artists and friends who had seen my artwork told me I could make a living doing this, even if it was doing grand-scale artwork of the customer's choice. So I thought about it but still wanted to check out Nashville. I schemed about leaving in a month to pursue my dreams with this newly rediscovered talent in my back pocket to help me get by.

I was living the life of a vagabond and creating my own path. I was starting to follow dreams again, though scattered and unclear. I had let go of the past, my first love, and was growing into a fairly happy, new me. 

Two weeks later... I met a guy. 

This is where I write a post about the effects of alcohol right?

When will these parts end?!?!? The next post will be: 2013, a year in review which should hopefully brings us to the present. I realized I could probably write a book on every theme in my life. 

Thanks again to everyone reading for their support as I share things I know family members would disown me for. I could go on and on. It feels good baring all. 

So until we meet again... I'll leave you with one of my favorite images.