My glass house shrinks.
Or so my dramatic mind whines.
Living with chronic anxiety is often like huddling in a hut of brittle windows, nothing but a faint pane of glass between you and the big, bad monster of the world.
There are no shades, no curtains, no blinds to hide the horrors from your ever-widening eyes.
You shiver and shake and pray. And that’s all you do.
Lately, the imagined beasts seem closer, my house closing-in.
Oh, I know it’s just a phase, a spot in time that will be over before I blink, but still…
I’d like to blink now.
Chloe, the stubborn nut in the hut