I hit a milestone this month. 4 decades, to be exact. I’ve been telling people for months about how excited I was for this birthday – and I meant it. And it turned out to be the best damn birthday I’ve ever had.
Most years I spend my birthday feeling very blah, full of feelings and moodiness. I think, in hindsight, it’s because most years my birthday has felt like an afterthought because it falls on the 3rd and, inevitably, coincides with everyone else’s holiday weekend plans for 4th of July. (Or, in my family, long holiday weekends meant my parents trying to knock out house projects, so my birthday took a backseat to bathrooms being gutted and redone and such).
It’s also because (also in hindsight), I realized I want to legitimately celebrate it. I don’t want just cake and a half-hearted “happy birthday”- I want the candles, going out and doing something fun, and being the center of attention. I’ve spent so many years being envious of other people having these birthday celebrations I’ve wanted, and I’ve spent so many years trying to pretend I’m okay with what effort I do get from the people in my life, and… I don’t know. Something about turning 40 has kind of worked a bit of magic, I think.
I keep excitedly telling people I’m entering my “Fuck It 40s” – and I’m sure they all think I’m being ridiculous or maybe crass. No one in my immediate life, to my knowledge, has ever looked forward to turning any age beyond 21. Being excited for a milestone birthday feels like something only for the younger ones, not grown-ass adults, right? But here I am, excited to say that I’m 40 years old.
I’ve spent years living my life based on the expectations of outsiders. I’ve worked jobs that didn’t fulfill me because everyone told me it was a “good” job and I shouldn’t give that up, despite being so miserable I would sit at my desk and cry (or, in one particular case, was becoming an alcoholic to cope). I’ve hidden a lot of my neurodivergence because people told me I needed to act and talk a certain way to be liked, forever worried that if I slipped up and people saw the “real” me they’d never be my friend. I’ve spent countless hours in business networking situations where I felt awkward and out of place, making small talk with people but never forming deeper connections and wondering what was wrong with me, and if I wasn’t “person-ing” correctly. I’ve toned myself down, to make my personality more palatable to others, over and over and over again for more than 20 years of my life.
And I’m done with that.
The spirit of this new decade feels a bit like a snake shedding its skin. In the month or so leading up to my big day, I could feel myself metaphorically wiggling out of the constraints I lived with for so long. Some things have come easy, like allowing myself to wear a ridiculous tulle skirt and big gaudy cherry earrings for my birthday outfit rather than wearing something that’s more “sophisticated” and “grown-up”.
Other things pop up and require a bit more processing to figure out. I booked a night of drag bingo with my best friend for my birthday evening, and the venue offers a birthday package that came with a cheesy crown, a special cupcake (complete with candle), and a moment in the spotlight on stage in front of everyone. I wasn’t going to do it, if I’m being honest. Despite my big talk about this new era in my life, I was still struggling with the boundaries I’ve lived within, confining and constricting me.
Our server gave me the crown just in case, and I sat there for the first half of the event arguing with myself.
Do I want to do it?Yes!
Why am I saying no to myself?Because I’ve been conditioned to not want the attention and to hide from the spotlight.
Wouldn’t I be happier, at the end of the day, not holding myself back for some bullshit reason? You can’t call it your “fuck it 40s” and then continue to hold yourself back because you’re worried about what other people think. That’s literally the point of this – to stop saying no to things you actually want, to stop caring about the things you don’t actually care about, and to start living your life more authentically and fully. Ok, fine.
Friends, I put on that stupid cheesy crown. I did the birthday throne with the drag queen, was told I looked like I work in HR (rude, but fair lol), and blew out that candle on the cupcake and had my moment in the spotlight. And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed every minute of it. It was, to date, the best birthday I have ever had.
It has been 2 weeks since that amazing birthday. Little things keep popping up here and there, that old skin shedding and revealing the new. I’m finding myself being far more vocal and open about the things I need and want out of life, and I’m unapologetic about it. I’m rethinking a lot. Reinventing, even. I’m 40 years old and know who I am now more than ever, and it’s the most freeing feeling. (Spending your birthday week with your best friend and getting into shenanigans helps significantly, too, and I’m so thankful for this amazing human being coming into my life over 10 years ago and being the most supportive, amazing, gorgeous human being I’ve ever met. Love you, friend ♥)
Like pretty much any neighborhood in Ohio, we have lots of squirrels. They, for the most part, keep to themselves, but sometimes they steal food from our garden. It’s fine, really, because we plant a LOT of food and rather than get annoyed by nature nature-ing, I consider it the cost of living on this planet alongside our furry feral friends.
When I moved my desk setup in the home office to face the back window, I knew it would likely inspire me to do some drawings. I assumed I’d see butterflies on flowers, or maybe some unique birds that happened to be migrating through the area. Perhaps I’d come up with some adorable Beatrix Potter-inspired drawing or story about one of them. I didn’t think, however, that I would be inspired by a squirrel.
You can’t see it in that picture, but on that table to the right is an old mason bee house that I picked up at the store one year. It was never really used by bees, likely because I didn’t have it in a good place, but it looked cute sitting there anyway when I had the flower pots filled with blooms. This squirrel has apparently taken to pulling out the round sticks that fill the bee house, and has been chewing to tear them apart to get to… I don’t even know. Maybe there are some insects or larvae chilling inside it?
Initial outlineColor progressMOAR color progress… like, so many layers of colored pencil.
So here he is… J. Blunt, the weed-smoking squirrel. 🙂
I’ve been posting photos of the process over on my Instagram, and I wasn’t sure at first if I would actually finish this before I became bored with it and moved on to something else. I almost didn’t finish it, to be honest – I had been feeling pretty good about the coloring so far and was terrified that I would ruin it when I tackled the tail. But this morning I was feeling a little extra confident, so I put pencil to paper and gave it a try. Lots of layers on the tail, much like I used on the body, though I went a bit heavier-handed on the darker tones to add more shading and depth to the tail to really show off the fur texture. I may go back on the squirrel body to do a bit of the same – deepen some of the contrast and whatnot.
But, otherwise, I’m pretty pleased with myself on this one.
Now to decide if he’s worth scanning and turning into a fun sticker for my friends like I did with my Bird Bro sketch.
Well, I did it. I bought myself a large sketchbook – larger than I’ve ever attempted – and put pencil to paper to try to draw something bigger and with more of a full “scene” to it. And, well, it’s huge. It felt overly intimidating at first, but once I got into it it got easier. This mouse is about 10″ tall, in all, which feels ginormous.
And then, because I figured what’s the worst that could happen, I took watercolor to the paper. Granted, this is mixed media paper, so it’s not exactly great for watercolors. But I also didn’t totally care because this is all experimentation, anyway, and pushing myself to do something different. And honestly, mistakes and all, I’m quite pleased with the result.
I still haven’t tackled the rest of the piece – the background and whatnot. I might have to try to test out a few ideas on another page first before I jump in. Or, honestly, I should just go for it because whether it works out or not I’ll have still learned something. I can always re-draw and re-paint, which is comforting.
Perhaps, before too long, I’ll have an arsenal of artworks to pull from and I can put together a calendar or something for Christmas gifts one of these years. I don’t know that I’d get 12 of them done in time for this coming holiday at the rate I’m going, but maybe that’s something I can build upon over the years.
I ventured north with a friend to the Kingwood Center Gardens to see their early spring blooms and orchids in the greenhouses on Monday, which was lovely. Snowdrops, some early daffodils, hellebores, and a few other early bloomers were all putting on a show, their colors bright against the dull brown of the earth. Cardinals were flitting to and fro, stunning sapphire peacocks roamed the yard, and ducks swam in the small pond while small children fed quarters into the corn dispenser to haphazardly throw at them. 70 degrees and sunny. Spring, if not here officially, is nearby.
We both packed our sketchbooks in case we wanted to sit and do a bit of art together, though we didn’t know we both brought supplies until we arrived at our destination. The thought of sketching outside of my little desk at home was exciting, though – I pictured standing there drawing some orchids, or sketching one of the statues or the spring flowers. Perhaps sitting at one of the many outdoor benches or tables to sketch and compare our drawings while we chat. A good way to spend time, really. We ultimately didn’t do any of that, though, and I find I’m upset with myself over it. I allowed my self-consciousness about doing something I haven’t done before, around someone else, to get in the way. Again.
It’s so stupid that at this age I’m still, internally, that little girl afraid to be herself. Afraid to say “yes, I want to do this” because I worry about what others will think even when they’re on the same page. Afraid to show people who I really am, fully and unapologetically, because so long ago as a child I learned that being wholly me was unsafe. How much fun I have missed in life because of that fear?
Would it have been that big of a deal to sit and sketch a while with a friend? How would I have felt had someone seen us sitting there and asked to see what we were doing? Would I feel completely embarrassed to show some random stranger my sketchbook if it were a good drawing that I felt proud of? What about if it were absolutely trashcan-worthy? And why does it matter, anyway? Highly doubtful that this random stranger, in this fictional scenario, is some snobby world-famous artist who will immediately look down on the silly little artworks that I make just for myself.
The answer to all of this is pretty obvious when I really think about it, but in that situation… in those moments where I’m living life and not overthinking it, I’m a kid again and afraid.
I have a big milestone birthday coming up in July when I turn 40. Last year I joked that this was the last year of Candice as most people know me, and that come July I will magically be transformed into a new version of myself. I call it my “fuck it 40s.” The era of doing what I want, because I want to, because it makes me happy.
I know this isn’t how life works, of course. I’ll still be me. I could have entered this “fuck it” stage forever ago, honestly, but I kept playing the game. Kept trying to be who I thought I should be instead of who I am. But there’s something exciting about this upcoming milestone and hitting a point in life where you realize it’s all bullshit and just giving yourself permission to stop caring. And I think that’s what I’m working toward right now – acknowledging the old me, and pushing the “new” me that was there all along out into the sunlight for good.
Some holly leaves I’ve worked on over the last few days
Two years ago, at the end of 2021, I decided that 2022 was going to be the year of creating differently. I had turned my creative hobby of choice, knitting, into a full-fledged business as a brick-and-mortar yarn shop and was in desperate need of some sort of other creative outlet. Knitting all day every day, both at work and at home, was wearing on me and I was finding myself uninspired and, frankly, struggling to enjoy life.
Learning to draw filled that void and gave me the break I needed, creatively speaking. It gave me the space I needed to take my mind off the stresses of business and sample making. It gave me some creative excitement back in my life. I filled that original sketchbook, and then another. I bought nicer pencils, nicer watercolors, nicer brushes. I signed up for online virtual lessons. I joined a few art communities. I practiced, practiced, and practiced more, trying to draw every day. My daily drawing practice became akin to journaling, a way to decompress from life. There’s a zen that comes with drawing and shading a piece that is much like the zen of knitting stitches.
These days I don’t draw every day, at least not regularly, anyway. I go in phases, like everything in life, and my practice ebbs and flows. Sometimes life gets stressful and the idea of adding one more thing to my to-do list, even as simple as a crappy little doodle (and trust me, there are a LOT of crappy drawings behind the scenes), feels too much. But I’ve kept up with it, on the whole, and have made at least a few drawings that I’m pretty proud of, even if I critique the hell out of them internally and forever feel like they’re probably nothing worthy of note to anyone else.
A lot of my drawings aren’t complete in the way that I’d like them to be. I’ve become pretty decent at drawing some singular things, but not a whole picture to tell a full story. I’ve also become accustomed to drawing small, which can make some things easier, but it can be limiting – especially when I’d really like to eventually get good enough that I could paint some art for the walls of my house. Those are two things I intend to work toward in 2024, though I’m not sure yet how I’ll go about it. But I’m excited to continue and see how much progress I make in this next year and how my artwork improves 🙂
I have been struggling this summer. It has been long, hot, and so much of a slog that it has become unbearable to do the thing I love the most – knit. Knitting patterns with lots of easy knitting to do have proven too boring for me, and more complicated projects that require focus have been set off to the side because while they’re my jam, they’re not necessarily the things I need to make for my shop.
I don’t know why it never really occurred to me previously, but last week, when pressed with the need to do a bunch of boring knitting but also needing to finish a book for the book club I joined over summer, I realized I should be able to multi-task. After all, I have spent countless hours knitting from colorwork and lace knitting charts, and reading a book shouldn’t be that much different, right?
Friends, I have never been so glad to have an e-reading device before. I resisted them for so long, preferring the feel of the physical book in my hand, turning the pages, and, oh, that smell of a fresh new book! *swoon* But with this e-reader, I’ve finally realized its true potential. And that, my friends, is to allow me to read and knit at the same time.
Not even kidding, in less than 2 weeks now I have read 4 books, and as of writing today I’m about 75% done with my 5th book. I’ve finished a whole sweater, plus a knit hat, a really old WIP I found in a bag at home, and started a scarf while I’ve read, too. I have done more in less than 2 weeks than I managed to do all summer.
I want the rain to wash away the dirt and grime of my soul the way it washes the leaf in my garden.
I want to stand and sway in the rain, letting the earth cleanse me of all that weighs me down, letting each drip drip drop fall away from me and puddle at my feet. Let my broken and dead branches be pruned in the wind, allowing the weight of those things I have held onto for too long be finally set down so that I might grow and bloom in new ways.
I want to raise my arms to that gray stormy sky and be free. Free from the should and would, free from the expectations of the world around me, free to openly embrace the sunshine ahead with renewed clarity in place of the dirty, hazy, heavy fog. Baptized by the rain, the skies and birds and trees the only witnesses to my rebirth and renewal.
And, when I inevitably stop blooming – as we all eventually do – I want to melt away into the soil, enveloped by the gentle hug of the earth, giving myself back to the very place that bore me anew. Letting the moss blanket my bones, after the carrion birds have their feast, to forever sleep under the sun and stars until my bones turn to dust and nothing remains of my existence.
I can’t remember a time when I haven’t suffered from some form of depression and anxiety.
I’ve always felt everything intensely. My highs are really high, and my lows are dangerously low. I love and give of myself intensely. I feel everything so intensely that sometimes my husband jokes that I have no feelings when we watch a sad movie and I’m not crying, because I’ve spent years trying to not be intense.
Elementary school was rough. Middle school was even worse. High school is when the self-harm thoughts began. That stone wall I built into my personality was my attempt to cope and protect myself from the world. I’ve spent decades trying to not show emotion. To be the calm, cool, collected person society wanted me to be because that’s an easier person to understand and deal with. Putting up a strong front to bear the brunt of the hurt I always felt. The world is a cruel, harsh place and I internalized that to my core, doing everything I could to put up a stone facade and pretend that I’m fine.
Except no one is ever fine. At least not for long.
I’ve tried for years to get a handle on it. To figure out what might trigger it, if anything. Sometimes it’s a depression that is hormone-driven (PMDD, in fact). Other times, it just… happens. It starts with feeling overwhelmed. It starts with meeting the needs of those around me while I ignore my own. It’s trying to pour from a bone-dry cup. It’s having a packed-full schedule and a mile-long to-do list with no sign of a break for rest, even though I know that I’m such a sensitive person and that I require lots of breaks, lots of rest, and lots of refueling.
Most times, no one even knows what’s going on save the people inside my cozy four walls at home. Most days I power through. Or I give myself permission to just go with it, knowing that, in a few days when my hormones shift again, I’ll perk back up. It’s just something that we all know – once a month, I’m not myself for a few days.
And then, sometimes, things fall fantastically apart and my world just kind of implodes in some grand way. Major depression sets in. Most people think of depression as someone who can’t bring themselves to get out of bed, or to get dressed or put effort into their appearance, unending sadness, or a myriad of other stereotypes. And, for some, that’s absolutely the case. For me, though? I shut down. I isolate. It becomes impossible for me to do anything other than the literal bare minimum. Or I just drop everything entirely because my sole focus has to be on me. Nursing my wounds and finding literally any way at all to survive day to day.
In those early days of depression, I don’t even know I’m heading for a breakdown. I keep doing what I’m doing, trying to maintain all the things and consistently feeling more and more overwhelmed. It isn’t until a week or two passes that I realize what is going on. I’ll stand there crying on Sean’s shoulder asking what is wrong with me, wondering why I can’t just be normal, asking why I can’t just function like a normal person. Or sometimes it’s Sean that catches it and says that he’s worried about me, and checks in to make sure I’ve been taking my anti-depressants (and they’re helpful but not 100% effective). Or sometimes you can see it on yourself – you try to post a picture or a video to try to fake your way through something only to see for yourself that you’re just not “right” right now.
And usually, around that time, that’s when things get so intense and miserable that I just… can’t do anything anymore. That stone wall falls apart and, if I’m not still in the process of spiraling downward and crying at every little thing because it all feels too damn hard, I’m there, but my brain has literally checked out. Numb might be a good way to describe it. I show up but I’m going through the motions. I don’t follow through on things I should, and I let people down, and I know it – but I can’t do anything about it even if I wanted to. It takes an incredible amount of willpower to do anything when you’re depressed, and a lot of that willpower and energy gets spent taking care of your kid, or making sure you showered so you don’t show up to work looking exactly how you feel. Your human battery is running on 1% and, despite being plugged into a charger, you’re never charging past that 1%.
And, sometimes, things get so bad that you contemplate… other options. Running away from home and creating some new identity because you start to think that maybe if you had a fresh start it would magically fix everything. Closing your business down because maybe that’s what is causing you to drain so quickly. Or… worse, if you know what I mean. To be perfectly honest, there have been a few times in life – especially when I had postpartum depression – that kiddo of mine was the only thing really keeping me here.
Right now, I’m hovering in that post-spiral numbness. I’m just… here. But here is good. Here means I’m (slowly) clawing my way out of the hole I slipped into. Here means there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Here means I can feel a bit of warmth again, even if it’s just slight at the moment. Everything about depression sucks. And, at least for today, I’m reminded that it’s not forever.
I never know how long this part of the process will stick around. A few days? A week? A month? And I never know if I’ll fall back in the hole before I ever truly get out, either. Healing isn’t linear, after all. And then, when the sun starts shining again, that’s when you do what I’ve referred to as your “apology tour” – you have to do all of this extra work to catch back up with everything in life and make amends with those around you in hopes they understand that you’re not just flakey or unresponsible or a terrible person and that it’s literally your body and brain chemistry working against you on a daily basis.
I write all this partly for the therapeutic side of writing and getting all these feelings and thoughts out, but also because I know I’m not alone – even when it feels like I am. Depression isn’t your fault, or my fault, or anyone else’s fault. It’s just something that happens to us. It’s something we live with on a regular basis. Our brains lie to us and tell us we’re things we aren’t.
And it’s OK if you, like me, are not OK right now. It’ll eventually be OK again, even if your world is dark and stormy right now.
The weather has turned, and autumn is decidedly on the way. It’s a cool, gray, dreary day in the best kind of way. Declan and I are both home sick today, embracing a day of rest for our infection-fighting bodies instead of feeling the need to power through the day for the sake of productivity.
The weather change has me craving soup and homemade bread, wanting to shift away from all the outside activities and turn more inward to focus on home as we begin to go into a period of more indoor living. I’ve canned large batches of tomatoes for winter, jams have been added to the pantry over summer as they come in season, and apple picking will be happening in the next week or two and I’ll be dehydrating apple slices, making apple pie filling, and soaking up all that fall brings before everything gets cold and barren. I’ve even taken up my paintbrushes again to practice some art, painting some fall leaves just for fun. I wouldn’t call myself an artist, by any means, but for my first attempt at a new technique I’m pretty pleased with it, and it’s now framed and sitting on a shelf in my home office for the season.
It’s an almost thrilling feeling, knowing that my life right now gets to be lived more by the seasons and embrace some of the things I’ve always known and felt. We’re not meant to be productive every day of our lives, just as our gardens aren’t always in bloom year-round. We go in spurts of growth and rest, too.