The Weight of Snow

by Erica Noble

“So, tell me, how do you like North Carolina? Is it better than NY?” my aunt asks as we stand near the living room window, towards the outskirts of the Christmas Eve party.

The party has been going on for hours now, and the small ranch house is packed to the brim with at least thirty of my family members. The scent of fish lingers in the air.

I hate fish.

But I’m used to this. This was what Christmas Eve looked like when you were in a big Italian Family.

I take a sip of my soda before answering my aunt. I have to shout to be heard over the music and other conversations.

I tell her how much I love North Carolina. How happy I am to be back in school, how much better I am now, and how 2024 has been the best year of my life so far.

I tell her how much I love my life.

She gives me a relieved smile, just like everyone has done this whole night.

“You don’t miss the snow?” she jokes.

I answer with a laugh and say, “No.”

I look out at the snowflakes that softly fall in the backyard, cloaking the bare tree with its weight. Before continuing, “It is pretty though.”

The rest of my visit home is spent enduring the unforgiving winter cold, with little to no sunlight.

Yet, all I felt was warmth.

*****

Signs and symptoms may include:

• Feeling listless, sad, or down most of the day, nearly every day

• Losing interest in activities you once enjoyed

• Having low energy and feeling sluggish

• Having problems with sleeping too much

• Experiencing carbohydrate cravings, overeating, and weight gain

• Having difficulty concentrating

• Feeling hopeless, worthless, or guilty

• Having thoughts of not wanting to live

*****

As soon as the little girl woke up and saw the once green grass blanketed in white powder, she was ready to spend all day making snow angels and sledding down the tiny slope in the backyard that she convinced herself was a mountain. If it weren’t for her parents insisting that she needed her snow gear before braving the cold, she would’ve launched herself into the snowbank with just her pajamas to defend herself. Her mom demands a picture of her and her older sister in their snow gear before they can go free.

“A picture before you guys go!” the mother exclaims, a puff of air following her words.

The little girl stands on the fresh snow. Her puffy jacket is a bright lime green, her mittens a rose pink, matching her hat, which has two points on top, making it look almost like ears. The girl contrasts the ivory snow covering the yard. The soft snow crunches beneath her grey boots as she leaves footprints behind her. She looks towards the tree she climbs in the spring, where it stands tall, even with the weight of the snow covering its winding branches.

She is a colorful beacon, her eyes just slightly squinted, trying to shield away the sun reflecting off the snow. She wears a shy smile that shows off her two front teeth, her cheeks colored with a soft red from the crisp, cool air. In her left mitten, snow covers her protected palm, ready to sneak a bite of the cloud-like substance. She was careful not to grab a clump that was tainted with a dull yellow. The snow in her mitten was pure white.

*****

The winter days seemed to get longer as I grew up. The sun never came out, so the frosted ground remained. I spent as much time as I could in my room, under blankets with the lights turned off. I didn’t want to go out and face the cold. It was brutal. And every day I woke up and saw the clouds and even more snow barricading me in my house. Snow days were rare around here, so classes continued. Each day, I woke to the irritating sound of my alarm, the alarm I would ignore for as long as I could. Until I had no choice but to start my day. My morning routine consisted of throwing on sweats and a hoodie. It was too much work to untangle my knotty hair, and brushing my teeth felt like an excruciating workout. My body was sore from living. I’d go through the motions in a kind of haze. After school, I crawled right back into my bed, ready to repeat the same day over again.  Every day, it felt like my feet were shackled to the ground, and just taking a step out of bed was equivalent to finishing a marathon. The feeling would last from the first snowfall in October to the last snowflake melted in April. Winters in upstate NY tended to last most of the year. Even when you thought all the snow had melted, more would soon arrive.

My mom would buy me a special lamp. Some lamp she had read about online.

“It will help you,” She had claimed.

It didn’t.

*****

Small hands wrap around her sister's waist. The little girl looks up towards her sibling, who is several inches taller than she is, wanting to see the same excitement reflected in her eyes. The same eyes as hers. The same eyes her dad had given to them both. But all she notices is that her smile is not as big. Her teeth aren’t showing. A long sigh escapes the sister’s chest, but no words follow. The older girl seemed to be sighing a lot lately. The little girl refocuses on the camera, eagerly awaiting the click that signals the end of the home photo shoot and allows her to dive into the snow. But of course, the mom takes several pictures, surely trying to capture this memory.

“You look so cute, my lil boo,” the mom tells the small girl.

A giggle escapes the child at the sound of her nickname.  The same nickname that her uncle had previously given to her.

The mother appears out of place in just a long jacket, without mittens or a hat. Her nose is bright red, reminding the young child of Rudolph, and her fingertips look similar as she holds the small digital camera towards the two girls. Yet she wears a grin from ear to ear, unaffected by the chill.

“Okay, you guys can go play now!” the mom said, taking her daughters off their metaphorical leash.

The smaller one sprinted away, or at least tried to. The older sister is slower to engulf herself in the winter wonderland.

“Come in when you’re tired of the cold.” The mom chuckles.

The mom heads back inside, watching from the safety of the big side window, a mug of hot chocolate tucked in her hands.  Always making sure her girls were behaving, while protecting herself from the frosty weather.  The mom was constantly giving her girls the freedom to do what they wanted while silently watching them from a distance. The girls always knew that their mom would never be far behind; if they ever needed her, she would be by their sides.  Even if the older girl seemed to need her less and less these days.

The girls will stay outside for hours, no matter how cold the air becomes.

*****

Complications

Take signs and symptoms seriously. As with other types of depression, it can get worse and lead to problems if it's not treated. These can include:

• Social withdrawal

• School or work problems

• Substance abuse

• Other mental health disorders, such as anxiety or eating disorders

• Suicidal thoughts or behavior

*****

The winter of my 17th year, my mother took me to see a psychiatrist. I was having mood swings that I could no longer blame on the start of puberty. My parents had witnessed the trials of teenage years when my older sister went through them.  It was a brief year of her hormones running rampant before she settled into the graceful daughter she is now. The one who will graduate from college on the Dean’s list, who is always eager to help out, and never argues with them. But that one year felt torturous for my parents as well as 10-year-old me.

Almost overnight, she became rude and nasty. Only caring about her friends and the slimy looking boys at her school. This never concerned our parents, though. They knew it was natural. My mom had made me promise to never grow up to be like that.

I vowed I wouldn’t.

I kept my vow. I became much worse.

 My temper had grown into a full-fledged monster that sat trapped in my chest and seemed to flare up out of nowhere. At other times, it lay dormant, leaving me feeling numb from the outside in.  Not happy, or mad, or sad. I just drifted from one day to the next, never knowing what to expect. I was aware of these episodes, but I never bothered to try to get rid of the beast. I never thought much of it. I just figured this was just how life was when you grew up.

Each day, there was a fight between my parents or with my sister. A simple complaint about how I didn’t do the dishes, and I would become unraveled.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just put the dishes away.” My sister complained while aggressively putting the now-clean bowls back in the cupboard.

I was nervous they would break with how hard she placed them. I sat on the striped living room chair, quiet. I wore my hood up on my sweatshirt, trying to sink further into my body.

“I’m busy with work and applying to colleges. Can't you just help out around here? What do you even do anyway?”

That jolted me out of my stagnant state. I was a gun just waiting for ammunition, ammunition that she so willingly supplied. I yelled nonsense that made no sense to anyone else but made perfect sense to me. It was her turn to sink far into herself, scared to challenge me.

Thinking I was a psycho.

But how could I explain it to her? To anyone?

How could I tell her that being me was a battle in itself?

All they had to do was deal with me. They had no idea how hard it was to be me. Knowing something was wrong. Wanting to change yet not being able to.

Some days, it felt as though my body was an empty vessel, and no matter how hard I screamed for help on the inside, I could never get my body to convey the message. My voice was confined while sharing a room with the beast. My mom took me to see a professional in the midst of January. Outside was freezing cold, and I had been bundled up in sweats and a winter jacket. It felt like my feet were weighed down by shackles, and my body wasn’t cooperating. My worn-down Ugg boots kept getting assaulted by the dirty, slosh of melting snow. The sun hid from all of Syracuse, and I couldn’t help but feel envious toward the flaming ball that could easily disappear from the earth.

Dr. S, a psychiatrist, made me fill out a bunch of paperwork with questions I was nervous to answer honestly.

How often do you get irrationally angry?

Have you ever intentionally hurt yourself?

How often do you think about dying?

My mother tried her best to give me space as I filled out the questionnaire, but I caught her cautious gaze trying to sneak a peek over my shoulder. I curled my shoulders inward while I continued filling out the sheet. Using my body to shield her from my responses, I didn’t want her to think it was her fault, because it wasn’t. I had a great life; my childhood was as close to perfection as it could be. I had a family that loved me, and I grew up never worrying about where my next meal would come from or whether I was safe. I had endless opportunities and resources. If anything, I was spoiled. Maybe I wanted to cause problems, maybe I craved chaos. Maybe it was all my fault.

*****

It’s the middle of the afternoon now, the sun at its peak, trying to do its best to melt the tiny girl's icy kingdom. However, she refuses to go inside until she has her fill of a classic snow day. She’s stubborn like that. It was the first real snow of the year; she does not know that the snow will stay for the next several months to come. She does not know that she will eventually tire of this winter season. She does not know that the excitement and joy she feels now will eventually fade, replaced by a stronger, more dangerous emotion.

For now, she was content racing up the small hill in her yard as fast as she could. While her beige snow pants and clunky boots tried to weigh her down. The snow felt like quicksand, too thick. No matter how fast she tried to get up the hill, it felt like she was standing still. Once at the top, she sits on her purple sled and launches herself down the hill, screaming and laughing as the chill wind slaps her face. Her eyes water from the air and her joy. She experiences such intense emotions that her body demands she express them with tears. She treks up this small hill again and again. Never seeming to tire. She tries different sledding moves. One time, crisscross apple sauce, the next time on her belly, another time facing backwards. And each and every time she lets out a holler of glee, like it’s the most exhilarating thing she’ll ever get to experience in her life.

*****

I was diagnosed with seasonal affective disorder.

I can’t remember everything Dr. S said. But I remember pausing at that one diagnosis because I had never heard of it.

“Seasonal affective disorder?” I had said the diagnosis like a question. It felt foreign on my tongue.

I remember sitting in his neutral-colored office, where colorful artwork, I assume, took residence on his walls. My mom and I sat in the surprisingly comfy chairs as he leaned forward in his own chair, a serious expression on his face. He was holding a bunch of paperwork. Paperwork that summed up all my issues neatly. 

He spoke the list out loud. I don’t remember the order or anything he said after the diagnosis. All I remember was that the list seemed to go on. I didn’t know I had so many issues. A part of me wanted to laugh at how far from okay I was.

On top of seasonal affective disorder, I had been diagnosed with anxiety, depression, and borderline personality disorder. I was the perfect blend of fucked up.

I didn’t react when Dr. S told me and Mom the news. I know my mom tried her best not to react either, but I could see it. The slight deflation in her shoulders, the way her expression shifted for a quick second. It went from confident and unfazed to disappointed and confused, before she morphed back into her usual, no-nonsense expression.

“How do we manage this?” I remember her asking. But to me, all I heard was How can we fix her? Like I was just a ripped doll that needed gentle hands to help sew me back together. All I could think was how unfair this was. To me. To my parents. This was the first time they’d ever had to deal with mental health issues in their children. Why couldn’t I be normal like my sister? Why was she the perfect golden child, and I was forced into the role of the black sheep? Why couldn’t she be just as fucked up as me?

Dr. S gave us lots of different options. For years after these diagnoses, I would jump around from one pill to another. First Prozac, then Zoloft, and eventually Buspirone. When those tiny capsules didn’t do the trick, I resorted to my own tricks.

As we left his office that day, the silence hung heavily. I don’t think my mom knew what to say. I think she was scared that whatever she said would trigger me. That would happen sometimes; I would go from silent and numb to angry and hostile. All it took was a few words, which I would end up misconstruing in my head. But that was always how my brain worked; I didn’t hear what people actually said to me, I heard what I thought they meant. When mom would tell me she didn’t think a shirt was the right cut for me, she meant I was fat. When my dad said he could help me with my math homework, he meant I was dumb. When my sister would say I’m passionate she meant I was dramatic. When they would all ask me what we should have for dinner, they meant I’m selfish and wouldn’t be happy unless I gave the orders.

I was convinced everyone always thought the worst of me.  

The clouds were still looming above us as we left the warmth of Dr. S’s office. It felt like the cold air got even chillier. The sloshed snow looked even dirtier. The wind had picked up, slapping my defenseless cheeks and burning the tips of my ears. I was never prepared for the harsh winter anymore. I was always at its mercy. Mom and I made our way into the cool car before the snow started falling freely. It started slowly, as if testing if the ground was safe to fall gently on. And then the blizzard came. It fell ferociously, attacking any surface in sight. We sat in the still car, letting the vehicle warm up, and blasting the heat to try to regain blood flow throughout our bodies. We both just stared in silence as the snow threatened to overtake our windshield. The car’s windshield wipers were working overtime to eliminate the brutal flakes.  I don’t know how long we sat in the silent car before I finally dared to speak.

“Should we start driving?”

My mom replied, eyes still locked on the windshield.  

“Let's wait for the worst to pass.” 

*****

As the tiny girl sleds, her older sister lies on the ground, exhausted from trying to keep up with the girl's energy. Eventually, the girl lies by her sister, her pink hat protecting her head from the diamond-dotted powder.

“Let's make snow angels.” It is not a question, it’s an order. One, the older sister obeys after an exaggerated sigh leaves her. They lay there, flapping their arms and legs. In and out. In and out. Until eventually the sister stops, dramatically sinking further into the snow. She acts like her limbs weigh two tons.

“Aren’t you tired yet? Don’t you want to go inside?” the older sister manages to mumble through her scarf-covered mouth.

The older sister has already lost the feeling snow used to evoke in her. The feeling every child gets when they see snowflakes start to grace their backyard.  The younger girl looks at her sister; her hat is green and sits so low on her face that her eyes are almost covered. A black scarf covers her neck and half her mouth. Her neon blue jacket looks too tight on her. Her black snow pants are too short; her new, bigger boots have not been worn in yet. Her cheeks are brighter than the smaller child's. Yet her brown eyes seem duller.

The younger sister looks to the glittering ground, “I’ll never get tired of the snow.” 

*****

I can feel it before I see it. The cold seeps past my clothes, into my skin, reaching my bones. The harsh frost prickles my skin and revives my body. I wake with a jolt, releasing a long breath that I feel like I have been holding for minutes. It escapes me and makes a home in the air. I see it dancing in front of me.

Proof of life.

My gaze is blurry, but I register that I am not alone. Above me stands my friend, who, I am sure, looks terrified. Or at least, I hope. Next to him are two people wearing uniforms.

Cops, I realize.

They stand doing nothing. No one moves to touch me.

To warm me.

One of them asks me what year it is. I think it’s a strange request.

2020, I answer. My throat feels dry, and there’s a copper taste that sits on my tongue.

Blood.

I hear one of them say an ambulance is on the way, but it feels as though I am trapped underwater. The voices are muffled. I think they try to say more, but nothing seems to register. My already hazy vision is worsening. Black dots dance across my eyes.

I try to follow them. I want to dance. 

Eventually, my eyes give up and roll back.

I don’t feel the harsh chill of the snow this time. Instead, I feel a thin layer of snowflakes blanketing me.

But this time it doesn’t feel so heavy.

I feel light.

BIO: Erica is currently in the Creative Writing program at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington. Her goal is to get her degree in creative writing while also obtaining a publishing certificate. Her work focuses on raw, vulnerable topics she hopes will help heal young adults who have experienced similar challenges. When she is not working on her craft, she spends her days at the beach with a good book or in bed watching Marvel movies.