It's my fault. Everyone blames Han, but it's me. Kind of sick when you think about it, that people think they have the right to look at my life and cast judgment. It's not like I'm in charge of anything anymore. It's not like I matter at all in the universe, and yet the stories and the attention persist.
Most of my people are dead. Who could possibly care whether or not I'm married? What difference does it really make to anyone? Yet, obviously it matters to someone because almost every week there is a new story about how Han has ruined my life.
Han is holding together the ruined pieces of my life. If he's guilty of anything, it's optimism. Han thinks I'll recover. He's sure that any day now, I'll pull myself up and plug myself back into life. It's sweet but hopelessly misguided. The Force has taught me that I am an insignificant piece of a much larger whole.
Sometimes, when I meditate and I've given myself over to the power and the energy of the Force, the understanding is very clear. I am nothing. I am everything. Dark and Light are the same thing in different moods. My opinion on this frightens Luke. Frankly, when I step away from it and come out of the trance, it frightens me too. That's why I have not pursued my Jedi training any further. Luke has stopped trying to get me to see it his way. We have an uneasy truce between us now; we agree to disagree. Unfortunately, that leaves me in limbo, which is convenient since it matches the rest of my life.
The news refers to me as a regent-at-large, which essentially means I pass my opinion on matters to anyone who wishes to consult me. I travel a lot. I observe things. I'm invited to events, some of which I even attend. When I don't, it's Han's fault. Of course.
Poor Han, I don't know why he stays. I don't know where his devotion comes from; I've certainly never done anything to deserve it. I know he loves me. I just can't imagine why. Still, there he is, every morning, warm and alive in my bed. It's amazing when you think about it. There is a cliff near where we live now; and every day I hike up to it, sit on the edge and look over, then I think about Han, turn around and go home. It's not so much his love that keeps me from jumping as it is the fact that he would take my loss as a personal failure. That seems unfair.
The suicide rate among Alderaanians is unbelievably high, and yet as often as the statistic is quoted, it's never connected to me. Isn't that weird? If I were a tabloid journalist, I would write a story, called "Why is Princess Leia Still Alive?" In the story I would blame Han.
It's his fault.