Recovering The SelfA Journal of Hope and Healing


The Invisible Dimension of Depression

by Patty L. Fletcher

Dealing with depression during the best of times is always a constant work in progress. But during the COVID-19 Lockdown there were times when it nearly overtook me.

The following piece comes from my journal. Until this moment I’ve never shared it with anyone.

Waves of big, little girl sobs racked my body as I sat wrapped in an old ratty blanket with the sun streaming in through the windows, and the sound of lawnmowers and weed eaters buzzing all around.

Somehow, it was the rebirth of spring drawing ever near that brought on this latest crying jag.

I couldn’t stop the torrent of tears cascading uncontrollably down my face, nor could I silence the hoarse gasping sobs which came from the bottomless well somewhere within my chest that surrounded my broken heart.

I sat there, with my tears splattering onto the blanket, its raveled edges curled tightly in my fingers, the sounds of life happening all around me, and had never before known such worthlessness.

“Where did my life go?” I begged. “I’ve slipped right out of existence. I’m invisible.”

Finally, I managed to drag myself up out of the chair, tossed the ratty old blanket into a heap on the floor, and stumbling into the bathroom, threw water into my face. Just then, Campbell bumbled through the door and nudged my leg. “I need you mother.” That nudge seemed to say. “I need you so let me love your tears away.”

“I’m coming Bubba. Momma’s coming. I’ll take you out. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make you wait so long.”

Once outside into the fresh cool breeze with the sun shining warm and comforting down upon me, I truly began to get full control of myself. The few tears which had been lingering in the corners of my eyes threatening to open up the floodgate yet again dried up and blew away and after a while of wondering aimlessly around the yard, the last vestiges of my sobs died.

The final trimmers stopped, and as we stepped out of our gate onto the front walk, I thought I would be OK at last.

Allowing Campbell to have his head, we walked first one way and then the other on the block in the neighborhood where our little house stood, the house in which we existed, the house people drove by without seeing, but though we passed several persons out in their yards doing various spring tasks, no one spoke in greeting, no one wished us good day, and even when I tried to strike up a conversation with someone as they picked up debris from yesterday’s storms, I got nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgment.

“Do they even see me?” I wondered as we made our way to the other end of the block, stopping on the corner near the bus stop sign so Campbell could snuff a bit more.

Turning back toward home, I felt the trimmers starting again, and I urged Campbell quickly along saying, “Come on Bubba, let’s go on back to the house and Momma will give you a bit of a snack.”

I didn’t want to be caught sobbing like some silly old woman.

Back inside we scurried, the door clicked shut, the world continued whizzing past, ratty blanket to hand, I became invisible yet again.

About the Author

Patty L. Fletcher lives in Kingsport, Tennessee, where she works full time as a Writer with the goal of bridging the great chasm which separates the disAbled from the non-disAbled. She is Also a Social Media Marketing Assistant. To learn more, visit her Facebook page


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Recovering The Self is a forum for people to tell their stories. Individual contributors accept complete responsibility for the veracity, accuracy, and non-infringement of their reporting.
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