The Remains of a Poet

Everything in this entry is true.

Not that that makes much difference to the few of you reading this, but it would make a difference if my RL friends read my LJ.  They’d think that I’m exaggerating, being overdramatic and cynical.  Well, I am cynical, but I’m not exaggerating.

Last week I was visiting my uncle, and I finally got to meet his girlfriend after hearing about her for two years.  I was rather wary about her because she’s nineteen years younger than he is (only one year older than my oldest cousin, in fact), but I absolutely loved her.  Anyway, they were dropping me off at the airport yesterday, and she went to the bathroom, and my uncle asked me where I thought their relationship should go.  It was the first time we got a chance to talk about it, or rather, the first time we had a chance where he brought it up; I think he waited until then because that guaranteed the conversation would be brief.  But anyway, he asked me what I thought, and I said, “You and I both know anything I say isn’t going to make a difference in what you decide to do.”

“You never know,” he said. “It might.”

I shook my head. “You know even if I said she’s a great girl and I love her –– which, for the record, I do –– you still wouldn’t marry her if you didn’t want to.”  He didn’t say anything, and I added, “And that’s how it should be.  It’s your life, and you’re the only one who really knows if it’s going to work for you.”

He said, “You’ll understand when you get there.”  Looking back, I’m not entirely sure what he meant, but I do know that he meant it in the least patronizing way possible, which is a refreshing change from all the similar yet extremely patronizing comments I’ve received from my mom and my friends.  Anyway, then he sort of laughed and said, “You’ll probably make some snap decision.  Just meet a guy and be married in a month.”

“No,” I said, “it’s going to take a lot to get me to marry.”  He frowned, so I continued, “I saw what marriage did to my mom, and I don’t want that to ever happen to me.”

He nodded. “That’s understandable.” Which, given how great my mom’s marriage is supposed to be, was an interesting response.

It’s funny how much your perspective changes as you get older, and it’s funny how much you realize people … well, I don’t want to say lied to you as kid, but they didn’t tell you the true nature of things.  When you’re a kid, all the stories end with the wedding like marriage is the ultimate, like after that it’s all sunshine and daisies, and that’s just not true.  Isn’t it funny how you never stop and wonder what Cinderella’s dad and step-mom’s marriage was like?  Or how the girl in Rumplestiltskin felt after marrying a guy who loved her for her money?  You just think, “Cinderella and her prince lived happily ever after.  I want that too.”  And no one bothers to tell you that that’s not how it works.

I don’t want to get married anymore.  I used to be leery of it for the reason everyone is: divorce rates.  I was just talking with my roommate about that last semester.  But after living with my mom and stepdad for over a month, I’m no longer scared my marriage will fail; I’m scared of the price I’ll have to pay to make it successful.  I’ve seen what making a marriage “successful” has done to my mom, and I don’t want that to ever happen to me.

My mom has always had this sense of guilt that she couldn’t make things work with my dad because she thinks she “failed” at showing my sisters and me what a good marriage looks like.  That’s not speculation on my part, by the way; she told me that.  But now with my stepdad she’s overcompensating, and she doesn’t get that it’s backfiring.  Yeah, I guess my perspective on marriage was always a little messed up; but living with my mom and stepdad for over a month completely killed any desire I ever had to get married.  I would never tell that to my mom, of course; it would devastate her.  But it’s true.

She’s into this whole “submissive wife” thing now, and it’s absolute crap!  I know why she’s doing it, too.  She’s afraid that the girls and I, after living with our angry-with-men grandma for sixteen years, hate men.  What she doesn’t get is that strong women don’t make me hate men; weak women do.  I hate that a man can turn my strong, intelligent, independent mother into a ditzy, kowtowing housewife.  I hate that my friends have to ask their boyfriends for permission to go out on the weekends.  I saw what marriage did to my mom, and I’ve seen what relationships have done to my friends, and I don’t want that to ever happen to me.

Relationships change people, and in my observations, ninety percent of the time it’s not for the better.  That scares me about relationships, too.  I spent my entire childhood changing for people, acting like someone I wasn’t because I thought that’s what people wanted.  It might have been worth it if it had gotten me the love I craved, but it didn’t; it just made me forgettable.  I’ve morphed so much over the years that I don’t even know how to act like myself anymore.  Even now, at college, I have a reputation for speaking my mind, and it’s so cruelly ironic because people have absolutely no idea what’s going on in my head.  Not even my family know who I really am.  God, that sounded emo.  It’s true, though.

I don’t change for people as much anymore.  Sometimes I still catch myself doing it (old habits die hard), but for the most part I’ve stopped.  But I know I’m susceptible, and I’m scared that any intense sort of relationship will make me weak again.  I don’t want that.  I don’t want to fall into the relationship trap.

I don’t want to get dependent on someone; I don’t want to have to get permission to go out at night; I don’t want to change.  My independence is worth more to me than the gamble that maybe I won’t end up alone.  Because marriage doesn’t guarantee you won’t end up alone, not anymore.  And I saw what marriage did to my mom, and I don’t want that to ever happen to me.  It’s just not worth it.