Pieces Of Me [an online journal of sorts]

Entry Seventy-two: marriage

I don't want to get married. I've never even considered it.

My friends know this. I've told them a hundred times over.

"I'll be single for the rest of my life" is what I tell them.

They laugh. "Yeah, right! Keep saying that and you'll be the first one to go."

No, you don't understand, I want to say. I won't. I refuse to.

Sometimes, they ask me why I'm so insistent on the idea of being alone.

I shrug. "Just because."

Then I grin, laugh, tell a joke. I let them believe that I'm just kidding. I let them hope for the day a pretty little card arrives on their doorsteps, with a date, a location, and the words: You are invited to...

Well, I'm sorry to disappoint everyone, but that day is not coming. Actually, I'm not sorry. You know why? You know why? It's because when I hear the word marriage, I think of misery. I think of heartache. I hear muffled crying from behind a closed door. I taste salt on my lips and words like liar, cheater, that ingrate on my tongue. I see eyes rimmed red and tear-streaked cheeks. Dark bedrooms, empty chests, heavy feet, lonely nights, no notes, no apologies. Words like glass cutting into skin. Excuses and lies finding ways out of the drawers they've been shoved into. Blank expressions and trembling hands. Something like a knife in your back, hammers pounding at every bone in your body.

Is that what marriage is supposed to be like? Because it's all I know, all I've seen.

I don't want to get married because I don't want to be miserable. That's Reason Number One.

Now for the second reason.

People, in my culture at least, think marriage is a picnic. Boys fantasize about their future brides and how she'll adore him, serve him, help inflate his ego. Girls plan their wedding night, what dress style are they going to wear, what color will the flowers be, who's going to do their hair and make up. They grow up thinking marriage will solve all your problems. If they were married, they wouldn't feel alone anymore. They'd have spouses who love them and children that look up to them.

But you know what?

That girl you see walking down the aisle with bright eyes, bright teeth, and a bright white dress? She couldn't breathe ten minutes ago because all she could think of was no, please, I don't want to. You haven't seen her crying at her reflection, or sobbing into her pillow. You haven't seen her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides, red blotching what you thought was a pretty face. You haven't seen the little birthmark on her forearm that she's tried all of her teenage life trying to hide. You haven't seen the way her mouth formed a smile as she told a lie that brought down her best friend's world. You haven't seen the photos she stuck all over her bedroom walls or the letters and trinkets she keeps in a little blue box. You haven't seen the way her eyes light up when she reads her favorite book, or how her eyes always tear up at the end of her favorite movie.

You don't know her.

That man you just said yes to? You've only seen him once before that night. Heard his name fall from the mouths of your relatives, integrated with compliments and false praise. You only saw him in pictures, but never ones your own eyes took for you. You haven't got a clue about how he fell to his knees when he found out his uncle had passed away, or how his laugh used to fill the school corridors as he watched a classmate's eyes fill with tears at something mean he'd said to him. You don't know how he wanted to crash his car into a street light the day they told him he didn't get that scholarship. You don't know how the girl he really wanted to spend the rest of his life with ripped his heart out last summer and stomped on it, all the while smiling at him with lips that used to whisper I love you.

You don't know him.

I don't want to get married to a guy I only know through someone else's words. I don't want to get married to a paper image of someone. I want to know about all the bad he's done, all the bad he's been through. I want to trace the cracks in his heart with my fingers, ask about how he got each one and if he thinks they'll ever mend. And I want him to feel the same way about me.

I want to hear questions like What's your biggest secret? and What would you do if you had one more day to live? I want him to know what I look like without makeup, how my hair isn't actually straight or how my stomach isn't really flat. I want him to know how impatient I am, and what a short fuse I have, and see if he'll still want to stick around then. I want to know what it's like to pass time with him, to go through each day slowly, to find out the little things about him, like his favorite color or his pet peeves, one day at a time. I want to know him and him to know me before we sign that contract. Before we make that commitment. So we both know what we're getting ourselves into.

But that's the thing, isn't it?

What happens if I do get married and I end up regretting it? Not because he makes me miserable or because I can't bring myself to love him. But because I actually do.

I can see it: The awkward start. Pauses in conversation. Giggles from my part, uncomfortable smiles from his. Time goes by and, as weeks turn into months, I discover how lucky I am that, from all the men I could've ended up with, I ended up with him. He's sweet and funny. He's intelligent. He doesn't make me feel small. He hasn't pressured me to do or say anything I don't want to. So I learn to trust him, little by little.

When our hands barely brushed against each other as we took those first few steps as husband and wife, I'm suddenly reckless enough to reach out and grasp his hand by myself. I sit closer to him, let my leg press against his. Smile at him like it's a secret only the two of us know. My fingers learn to trace patterns on his knuckles and button up his shirt in the mornings before he goes to work.

I can see it so clearly, me falling in love with him, a great, big smile on my face as I handed over my heart. Because falling in love is simple and easy, albeit a little risky. You don't really get a say in it, but you don't mind it either.

That's when I start handing over bigger pieces of myself. I tell him I don't have a favorite color but blue is one I've always liked. I tell him about my insecurities and how they seem to fade away when he looks at me. I answer all of his questions. I show him the stories I've written, the stories I keep to myself, and the ones I've never let anyone else see. I let myself lean on him, let him see me when I'm weak and tired. For what feels like the first time ever, I just let myself be myself.

Which is where things go wrong.

He's going to figure it out, I know it. Slowly, but surely, it will dawn on him. The truth, my truth. How messed up I really am. How ugly I can be. How mean and angry and miserable I can get. I'm not the girl he thought I was. I'm not as sweet, I'm not as smart, I'm not as kind. That paper image of me has burned up, revealing my true nature, my true self.

How could he love me then?

Who would ever love me then?

I wouldn't be able to deal with that when, and not if, it comes. I couldn't handle having my heart broken again just when it's started to heal, and I'm not stupid enough to blame him for it. I can't force someone to put up with me either. Hell, some days, even I can't put up with myself, so how can I expect it from someone else? It would be cruel of me to do so.

That's what really goes on in my head when someone asks why I don't want to get married. It's a secret I keep locked behind sewn lips, and it's one I could never, in a million years, admit aloud to anyone.

I don't want to get married because I'm a coward and no one could ever fall in love with someone like me.

Reason Number Two.