Distinctively Visual Creative Writing

In the fall that I turned fourteen years old, a deep depression crept over me like a fog. I would have expected it to come crashing in like a bolt of lightning, but it appeared so quietly and gently, settling on top of everything. If it hadn't been for the ache in my bones and the dullness in my mind, it could have come by entirely unnoticed.
I spent that year like a ghost, wandering the hallways of my home at night. When all became quiet, I would arise from the dead. My feet moved softly on the cool tiles of the floor, my fingers brushed lightly along the textured paint. By the end of December, I had learned where the floor creaks the loudest and that the prayer hands plant shivers when no one is looking.
Prior to those sleepless nights, I had considered myself an artist. Colorful dried paint decorated my clothing, my hands, occasionally my short cropped hair. I carried a small sketchpad with me at all times. Art class had been my respite, but I soon stopped showing up for even that. My mother would knock softly at my door on school
She made an appointment for me to see a doctor, who scribbled notes furiously when I spoke and peered at me through bifocals. He prescribed an antidepressant and told me to come back in a month.
To my surprise, they seemed to help. I began to sleep again, no longer wandering at night. The fog had begun to recede, but the hollow feeling in my chest stayed. I wondered if I would ever be able to paint again.

***
When I was a little girl, my mother taught me how to bake. I would pull a chair close to the counter and she would tie a flower patterned apron around my waist. "When you bake, you have to remember mise en place! That means 'everything in it's place'. Make sure you have all of your ingredients and tools ready. Don’t forget to read the recipe first!" She smiled at me and took the bowl when my arms got tired from mixing, but she let me lick the spoon