The house is still, quiet. I should be sleeping.
In a moment I'll head up to bed, but I treasure this time alone. I lie on my couch in the semi-dark, and I breathe, sifting through moments from the day and savoring them like sweet treasures.
You promised yourself tonight would be different. You woke up feeling strong, determined, your softly pounding head thumping a beat to your misery. Not tonight, you swore to yourself. No more.
Then four o'clock comes around, and the kids are edgy, restless. You can't bear to fetch one more snack, answer one more unanswerable question. You are bored, exhausted and empty. There is homework to be done, dinner to prepare, endless nighttime rituals to perform. The thought of giving the kids a bath without the soothing effects of wine seems preposterous, cruel.
Just one, you say. Just something to dull the edges. You want to find that loving place, the one full of warmth and light.
You don't drink the glass all the way down before you fill it up, just a little. Then a little more. Then one with dinner. When your husband steps out of the room for a bit, you drink one down quickly. Just one.
That soft warmth turns prickly; the kids won't go to sleep, your husband makes a remark that settles on you wrong. Just another sip or two, to push back the edginess, only enough to get back to the soft place.
You notice the bottle is almost gone. You've done it again.
Tomorrow, you are telling yourself. Tomorrow will be different.
I'm thinking about you tonight, because the tomorrows will keep coming. And coming. In their wake they will leave the shattered remains of broken promises to yourself. Everyone's needs are met but yours; you are left empty-handed, helpless and scared.
You are dancing on that thin line between keeping it all together and falling apart. The world doesn't know, but you do.
And you? You are in the audience, at a safe distance, watching your life play out on the screen.
I'm thinking of you tonight, as I listen to the creaks and groans of my old house, and hear my dog's contended sigh as she settles down for the night. The clock ticks softly; the refrigerator hums. I am here, just listening. Just being.
I am sitting quietly in my cozy home, listening to the echos of the day. This sounds so small, so insignificant. But it's not small to me. There is no glass, you see. The glass is gone.
How do you make it stop? How do you make the endless tomorrows stop coming? That is what you want to know.
You make the endless tomorrows stop coming by being in today. It's the only today you've got.
You can opt out, disappear behind the glass, or you can feel it. All of it.
Listen to those things you tell yourself; examine each card in that house you've built. Turn it over, really look at it, and ask yourself: is this about living my life, or about hiding from it?
But only for a while. With time you stop seeing the spotlight, stop wondering what the eyes are thinking. You will feel comfortable, just being. It will happen.
In order to be free of the glass, though, you have to admit it's there, and that it is slowly suffocating you.
That's a good place to start.