Lifting The Lid

I'm alone when I want to be, alone when I don't. How am I supposed to tell the days apart when nothing new has happened? Nothing to ease the pressure of being this deep; there's not enough oxygen to make it to the surface. I use to be able to see the weak spot that could still let in some light. Like a flower, I would twist and bend to be near it. It wasn't strong enough to keep me warm or guide my way, but at least there was hope. Now, I see nothing. I've run the tip of my finger bald on the seal, which has only made it easier to glide along. I admire its perfection. Thankful for its ability to muffle the placating voices, the condescending chatter, and the suggestions handed over on clouds of ego.

The morning my grandmother died, the last of my light went out. The seal on my lid complete. I can remember being young and overhearing my mom on the phone with one of her sisters; It doesn't matter which, devising a verse I would hear throughout my life 'No, she isn't a great mother, but she sure loves her grandkids.' She was right; she was the best, even if it was only at being a grandmother. She was the only one in a world of 7,830,458,560 humans that understood me. That number, according to my phone. The bill she paid monthly. It doesn't ring anymore, just too many texts. My mom now pays the bill, and I know this because she reminds me every single day. -Multiple times.

'Honey, have you thought about opening the book? It might give you some comfort.' -mom.

Pulses across my phone screen. I haven't, and I wouldn't tell even if I had.

'I'm paying for that phone you ignore. The least you could do is respond.'

Deeper.

Darker.

'PS, have you thought more about getting a job?'

My neck goes weak.

Fitting, the book is black. And like me, it's bound. Black elastic to keep it closed. I can tell each page has been scribbled across in ink, the edges of the pages puffed and crispy. Journal? Maybe. Either way, it's a book and a book written to the last page is a completed story. I wasn't ready for her's to end.

'Pharmacy called saying that you haven't picked up your prescription? You need your meds!!'

And what shall I pay for them with mom?

Deeper.

Darker.

'Maybe if you were consistent with your meds, you'd feel better? Could you find a fun job? -mom

Simplicity at its best; do it. So easy. So wrong. Psychopharmacology does unwind down the tongue nicely, not as choppy and chipper as 'best friend,' which she'd rather me pretend it is. My mom's theory is that my little two toned capsules filled with hundreds of balls are equivalent to a trip to McDonald's play pit.

Even if I had the money to exchange issues for side effects, I wouldn't have the energy.

Get some help is the number one suggestion I hear. Get a job and then get some help completely backwards if you ask me.

Now I have this little black book that I'm too afraid to open. I gently push it away with my foot. Something protruding pokes me. Holding my toe with one hand, I reach out with the other to feel the fore-edges of the book. I pull at a tiny spike coming from the pages, an envelope with sharp corners and a bulging belly. I run my hand over it; it's smooth like the skin on her hands. It even smells like her.

Deeper.

Darker.

I shift my jaw, making room for the lump mounding in my throat and aimlessly shove the envelope back into the pages.

'Haven't heard from you? How are you?' -an old friend.

"Maybe you could clean before I get home?' -mom.

'Or hey continue looking to see if you can find your own place??' -mom again.

'REMINDER: you owe funds of $648.39 to GYST collections. Immediate attention is required' -unsolicited minimum wage hound dog.

'Hi, honey. I hope the cleaning's going well. I just happened to see an ad for this fantastic place. The rent looks reasonable. Should I call for a time to see it?' -mo-oh, you know who it is.

'HEllOOO?! You must be getting a lot done today haven't heard from you. Good news, they answered right away! They thought you sounded great and would like us to stop by for 7 pm YEAH!!' -nope, she doesn't quit.

Deeper.

Darker.

I've heard that depression is the loneliest place in the world. And it is. It also somehow manages to be the most crowded.

Most days, I wish I could bring my mind forward from living in the past. It's a constant barrage of meticulous picture shows, reminding me of all the times I've been embarrassed and everything that's happened that I wish I could change. The darkness makes my memories so bright.

'Honey, have you...' I hold the power button down on the side of my phone. Prompted to slide right, like a ceremonial commitment, I do.

My grandma was a talker. She would recast stories from her life in vibrant colours that would commonly be grey and white if told by someone else. Sharp images of what cut her from the cloth she was made. They were captivating; moreover, she never ended one without you realizing why she told it.

Thoughts consuming me, I don't even notice that I'm picking at the corner of the seal. I am gouging small slivers that start to get stuck between my nail and skin—an annoying distraction.

But wait. I catch myself; there's also an envelope. I can see grandma in her home office french provincial desk, wheeled desk chair where she'd sit knees together, legs crossed at the ankles to the side, holding the paper to mouth—slowly licking the disgusting glue without even a wince. The envelope is placed on the desk to press the glue flap down slowly. She'd open the long drawer in front of her and place it in the center address side up. My grandma did everything correctly. Albeit, a hard life made her that way. 'Who's wasn't in those days?' The go-to feel better line recanted with blinds drawn on her eyes to keep hidden all of the stories you didn't hear. Stories that can make life feel like a prison sentence. She'd come back with, 'I can say that if I had finished school, I would have...' She never revealed what she couldn't be. She was quick to fuss with her top or pants. No wrinkles, no crumbs, chin up, no problems.

When my mom was young or even when I was young, my grandma was often angry with mom or my aunts. It changed over time, and I don't remember noticing when grandma became happier. She began to accept what was and skip over her daughters' traps to bait her into spuing words so they could attack her. She started to make me feel safe to be me -something my mom couldn't do.

Reaching for the book, I pick it up and carelessly flip through the pages letting them flutter past my thumb. My fingers begin to crawl inside, skimming across the words. Dwells of ink feels like dried moats protecting the spaces between the letters, guarding what my grandma has stamped into them. In my darkness, it's all illegible brail.

I appeal to the used paper feeling each side. I like the way the ink changes the composition like a drive from the prairies to the hills. The importance paints me in a way that I haven't felt in a long while. Motivation? Maybe.

A wrinkle folds in my stomach, making me look up. I see a small spec—a pierce in the seal. I collect myself in the corner to inspect it—my energy given some fuel. I get onto my knees, hands eye level and begin to dig. I am allowing myself to wander the halls of thought while I delve into the seal.

I've been in darkness so long I had forgotten how pleasant light felt. What would be the first thing I see? Would anyone recognize me? I think of family, friends, their smiles and hugs. I'd welcome their touch.

They'd ask me where I've been or how I've been—my arms dropdown. My body shifts onto my heels. The answers I have are that I haven't been good. I haven't been anywhere. My eyes cast down to my knees. My skin looks soft and full like hers, and there it was. It looked effortless, like a stream from a river. The dust lifting to dance in the beam. I run my hand through, letting it caress me.

I grab the book; my fingers quickly pace through the pages to the first. I curl into the ray, my eyes focus.

A date. A date from not long before I was born.

I take in every single word. Grandma described days, weeks, months of darkness. Chains were weighing her down from her childhood, from my grandpa's death—postpartum from all of her births.

I cascade down each page falling from one topic to the next. She was angry; she spoke of disappointment and the close edges between her giving up or fighting. She followed through and asked for help. She detailed the ups and downs.

Her light was failing when it showed no positive results.

Again, there were days, months and sometimes years before she could try again.

Therapy? Medication? I didn't know.

Finally, she met someone that made her feel something. Trust. The therapy taught her how to decode the self-talk she had poisoned with negativity, paragraphs of her finding the medication that did work, how they removed the narration from her every move so that she could hear the outside world. Pages of her learning how to live. Things I thought I just knew.

She was open, honest and bare. She detailed her closed box and its opening. She awakened to realize that she needed people. She needed to hear them and take in what they had to offer. She graffitied her favourite quotes among the stories.

I was hungry for each page. I gorged every little piece until I came to the very last one.

The page stuck out from the spine, kinked and ready to lay with the rest. I paused to draw in a deep breath and, as she wrote, held it in for five seconds before releasing it through full cheeks. I repeated it a few times.

I lay the page down while flattening it with my palm. I looked over each letter. She had beautiful writing, and I could recognize it anywhere.

'Some things come easily to all of us. Those are our gifts, our talents—some things we have to study and learn to be OK at doing. There's nothing wrong with not knowing how. There's nothing wrong with learning to be OK. My love, it's the not trying that keeps us in the dark.'

I finish. Licking salty tears as they fall around my mouth. I drag the envelope to me. Holding it up, I see grandma's name in full on the front. I tear it open, a stack of folded papers emerges. Typed- formal.

Her Will. Reading it, I mostly don't understand property, house, car, belongings, donations, funeral, deceased husband, children, grandchildren and then me.

$20,000 to me. Twenty thousand dollars to be used only toward my wellness. Live-in intense therapy, medications, classes for things I enjoy, supplies. Whatever I need to learn how to be OK.

'Whatcha got there, kiddo?' I hear from above. I look up to see my dad's face. It's been a long time since I've been able to look directly at it. It's warm, familiar.

More shallow.

Lighter.

'My future,' I say to him.