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If I’d had only one word of encouragement from you, I might have become a photographer. Instead you said it was stupid, and I believed you and now my camera gathers dust rather than images. One word of support from you and I might be published right now, instead I question every word and wonder if it’s good enough. I wonder if I’m good enough. Obviously I have nothing worth saying, or you wouldn’t talk over me or dismiss everything I say. Every time you say, “I don’t care,” it chips away a little piece of my soul. Every idea you dismiss without listening, every touch you shrug off, every time you rant about something and demand that I listen without giving me the same consideration - I get smaller. It’s hard to get out of bed when everything I do is wrong. Why should I subsume everything that I am to your idea of the perfect wife? Don’t you realize that every criticism adds another brick of ice to the wall growing around my heart?
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