Once Upon My Dream

                                         

An hour ago, I just finished binging "Emily in Paris".  (These days I only watch romcoms or light family movies). I was past "sleepy", so I decided to do some art therapy (it's World Mental Health Day afterall).  I opened my box of art materials and put on some music.

Then Lana Del Ray's "Once Upon A Dream" started playing.  

I know you
I walked with you once upon a dream
I know you
That look in your eyes is so familiar, a gleam

And I know it's true
That visions are seldom all they seem
But if I know you, I know what you'll do
You'll love me at once
The way you did once upon a dream

Lyrics like that ... of course, it struck a cord! And it opened up the floodgates which I managed to keep shut for a week now with the help of work stress. Damn.  No turning back now.

The past 15 years definitely felt like a beautiful dream I just suddenly woke up from. Some days I feel so disoriented.  I can't tell if the past 15 years was the dream.  Or this life is.  It's so hard to believe that the past 3 months and my years with him were actually part of one life story.  Even in good days there is this terrible unshakable aching in my heart and I wonder how is it that I am still breathing.  Even with my family around me, loving me and supporting me, I feel alone and isolated.  He was mine and I was his.  Now I feel like I don't belong.  No one to call mine. 

My son loved me at once, entirely and irrevocably. Even when Monster Mom made her appearances, he would remain still through it all and then crawl right back into my arms. His affection and high regard for me never altered.  Sometimes I feel as though my son saw me through starry eyes.  I was always the best and always beautiful --- even while I laid in bed all day, crumpled with dysmenorrhea. Some people might think that he says these things just to get his way, bolero ... but it's really just how he is.  When he loves someone, he loves them despite of and inspite of. 

He shrugged off anything hurtful hurled his way.  Sometimes he didn't understand --- and I am grateful for the bliss ignorance brings.  Sometimes he did.  When he did, he felt it at his very core.  I cry with him secretly, while I put on a Tiger Mom front. I would teach him the importance of protecting himself and not allowing himself to be vulnerable to heartaches. "There will always be people who will use you and hurt you," I tell him, "Stay away from them."  But he would tell me always, "I think he/she can be a good friend, Mom."  Then, after just a couple of weeks, "I talked to him/her, Mom.  I think he/she is now a good friend."  Of course, I am skeptical.  But he truly and honestly believes that everyone can be a good friend.  He would always reach out to people, even when they are already being outright rude to him.  And he keeps trying.  I used to feel hurt for him and worry how he will survive this awful world we live in.  

A few weeks ago, I watched "The Little Prince" again on Netflix.  I realized how I probably doomed myself to losing him the minute I started referring to him as my Little Prince.  Or, perhaps, a part of me always knew that God had only lent him to me.  Whatever it is, I found so much parallelism between the story and my life with him.  

Once upon my dream, I walked with my Little Prince.  I scrambled to teach him how to survive life.  But, really, he was the one who taught me (and continues to) how to live it:  fearlessly and honestly, anchored in that stubborn belief that each person is truly good inside and worth as many second chances as they need.

And, like the pilot or the fox, I only fully understood it after he was gone.

"Mom, I'm not gone.  Only different."