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Imogen Heap - The Walk |
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I was studying at the Sorbonne when I met Holden. He was studying in Paris for his Doctorate. He was precisely what my parents wanted for me, and at that time, I still thought they knew best, thus he was what I wanted as well. I trusted their judgement, and I trusted that the fluttering in my stomach in reaction to his touch truly meant something. It's not something I've talked about since going to therapy, immediately following the divorce. The divorce itself isn't really something I've spent much time rambling on about since I stopped the therapy. That's not to say I didn't think about it. After all, I still live in the home we shared. How could I not think about it? I'm far too hard on myself when trying to place blame for how things went. It was my fault that I couldn't complete a pregnancy. It was my fault I fell into depression. It was my fault he was unfaithful. It was me who contacted a lawyer and served him with divorce papers.
One of the hardest things I've ever had to do was telling my parents that I was divorcing Holden. I'd failed again. Failure was what my Father always expected of me. I have always been too weak in his eyes. I wish I could say that I don't care what he thinks of me. I wish that I were strong enough to completely respect and love myself despite the fact that he has less than dismay for me. Sometimes, I wonder that perhaps, if I'd not married Holden, if I'd strayed from what my parents wanted that I'd have found reason to love myself fully. I'm alone now, and I'm doing something I enjoy, and I'm taking care of myself, but I cannot deny that something is still missing. I feel as though my life has become so bland, lacking a fire underneath it; lacking color and beauty. I know I had happiness once, so it's not unattainable, but it seems I'm looking for it in the wrong places.
I've thought time and time over about adopting a child, but in the end, I talk myself out of it. A child does need both a mother and a father; as much as I'd like to believe that I, alone, could be sufficient. I would give anything in the world to be able to have my own child, but that's just... Well, it's something I've put behind me. I don't know that I could withstand the hurt of a fourth miscarriage. Plus, there are so many children in the world that need a home and a family. I know that I could be a mother. I'm programmed to love fully and unconditionally. Then again, who am I to love another when I've yet to restore faith in myself. One unstable human cannot ever support the metaphorical weight of another. It's just like building a home on an incomplete foundation. Reckless. Selfish. Stupid. I can't allow myself to attempt to make anyone else happy until I've done it for myself. The only problem is that I can't seem to figure out how.
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