On illusions and resilience

"Ciao bello!"
"Ciao bella!"
We wished each other goodnight by the living room door, as we weren't going to sleep together. Kenji on the couch, me in the double bed with the missing pillow.

Acceptance brought deep surrender. I held Kenji in my arms and we cried - maybe because the boys were on a safe distance from papa's and mama's tears, or maybe because grief had become so overwhelming that we couldn't outrun it any longer. We decided to give sleeping apart a shot, something we have never done since we live under one roof. Regardless the threat of the re-hospitalization, we saw how rest was more important than waking up next to each other.

Seeing what is right in front of me has a strangely calming effect on me. I ab-so-lu-te-ly don't like what I see, yet I'm not turning my head away. I'm opening my eyes instead of letting my mind function as a magical box of illusions, in a superficial effort to cope with the present. There's no point in wishing that Kenji is someone he is not. Because he simply isn't. To be free from these illusions all of a sudden provides me with the resilience I was so desperately looking for.

At this point, seeing is accepting. My shoulders lower a bit - except where fear and anger were lying, now dwells the pain of grief.