My Umbrella in the Storm
It’s just a house
With a brick façade
And an east facing door,
Where the afternoon sun
Reflects off the hardwood.
Not the dream house.
Not a cottage or a manor
Or a loft or a cabin.
Just a house on a busy street
In an ever-changing suburb.
Only fifteen hundred square feet
Of this beautiful world.
Here,
I am home
And when I leave,
I take my keys
Along with the anxiety
That tinges everything I see
Of this beautiful world
Like the green tinted glasses
In the Emerald City.
Out there is
The swirl of uncontrollable thoughts,
The tunneled vision,
The shallow breaths.
The tumult of baseless feelings,
The roiling stomach,
The tingling hands.
The blurred line
Between thoughts and reality.
In this world,
Where grocery store lines
Where doctor’s waiting rooms
Where elevators and unexpected conversations
Can set off panic
That I don’t understand
And can’t control,
There is only fifteen hundred square feet
Where it all falls away.
And isn’t it strange
How a few small rooms
Can make it easier to breathe
When a world that’s so big
Can feel like it’s closing in?
It’s just a house
Where the panic can’t find me,
Where I can stop
For just a moment,
Stop looking for signs
Of an impending attack.
Stop the self-fulfilling prophecy
Nature saw fit to bestow.
Home,
My umbrella in the storm
Of my own malignant thoughts.
This small piece of the world,
An island surrounded
By a raging sea.
Originally published at https://vocal.media.
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