Cause nothin’ lasts forever, even cold November rain…

There is a funny thing about illusions. When uninterrogated they exert gravity. When dissected, the integrity becomes a choice. Like pretending my father is still alive. The thought experiment is sanguine. Lots of coulds and woulds and shoulds. Saying goodbye in a “proper” way. Or just thinking, “I haven’t called home in a few weeks…”

The real real always wins.

I find grief holds plenty of illusions. I wake up, go to the gym, shower, come home, make coffee, then realize: my father is dead. I remember the hospital room. His body. His face. The tubes. The machines. The goddamn TV blaring in the background on Fox News.

“Dad would have hated that.” Past tense.

There’s a quip we use at the hospital: “cannot be unseen.” Reality crashes in like the Cool-Aid Man; uninvited, destructive, terrifying. And offering a sweet cold drink on a hot summer day. My illusions are born of holding onto an old normal. The transition is made up of two competing narratives; one a little less painful than the other. The new normal isn’t habit yet. Life is pretty thin on this rainy Seattle day.

A breathing exercise my therapist taught me. Hold my grief, anger, sadness, frustration, pain. For a second. One breath. And release. Didn’t work? Try it again. Breathe deeply because one second is relative and for a moment the emotions are bitter sweet and delicious and seductive. Maybe I’m not ready and this is what it feels like to fight against reality. These emotions are the strings attached to the illusion.

And suffering is born from attachment. One breath. Release.