by Braylee McMath “Babies: The Evil Truth Behind the Smile”

MARRIAGE: A DERANGED CLICHE

Braylee McMath

I spend a lot of time in the depths of my own thoughts. There’s not much going on up there, but I have this recurring thought—where do hamsters come from? Are they grown in a lab in the back of every pet store? I know this thought is farfetched, but seriously, I can’t grasp the concept of a wild hamster. If I continued to explain how many of my thoughts consume me, it would form another world-famous book series, like Suzzane Collins’s The Hunger Games. By now, you’re thinking I’m uncredible, and half-way deranged.

I hate meeting new people, it’s always a redundant process. They ask me my name, how old I am, where I’m from and then BAM: all of the sudden it gets personal and I have to tell them I’m a “divorce baby.”(1) Of course this was a traumatic experience. Why else would I joke about it? Makes people uneasy. However, I can’t say that I was ever the type of kid (with divorced parents) that stayed up late at night praying and plotting my parents getting back together, because in all honesty there’s three things that never would have happened: 1. My humor wouldn’t be a coping mechanism 2. I wouldn’t have 37 other siblings 3. I wouldn’t be able to give you all the gift that is this rant/ essay/biography.

The main problem I have, internally of course, is that I don’t know how to act or feel when I end up in a household with those picture-perfect families you see on the Hallmark Channel. The high school sweetheart parents, family pictures (renewed each year) sitting on the mantle, a plethora of art projects and “good works” on the side of the fridge, and of course... the family dog. Don’t get me wrong, I’m the type of person who can find a way to fit in just about anywhere, but dysfunction is my forte. I sound critical, especially since this exact scenario happens to relate to my grandparents, and both of my aunts, but I am a firm believer that chaos creates character.

I can’t imagine even seeing my parents in the same room together. It would be like dropping a mouse into a snake exhibit and telling the snake not to squeeze the life out of the helpless mouse. This doesn’t mean that I don’t love my parents, or that my parents don’t love me, it’s just proven that not everything is meant to be. Not every marriage story ends in “happily ever after.” Which brings me back to my thought process. I am more aware of what NOT to do in a marriage, but still, I cannot comprehend spending the rest of my life with someone: sharing all my possessions, starting a family, essentially living the same nine to five cliché every day.

There’s a wise saying, “in order to love others, you have to love yourself first,” and I can honestly say I live by that. But nowadays, if you’re not married by 22, popping out baby

number two by 25, you’re basically damned to hell. Why is living life alone so frowned upon in our generation? Why does there have to be a time frame on life? This isn’t the eighteenth and nineteenth century where women popped out babies for a living and men went to work some shitty job only to bring home a nickel and two pennies a week.

Yes, the creation of life is a beautiful thing, and so is love. And not all marriages are ugly. Putting your all into another person, creating a life for yourself, and creating another human life, that shares the best of both parents is incredible. Taking care of everything together and having a safe place to turn to at any time is gratifying. But what happens when it stops working? When things become hard, and you begin to wear down mentally and physically, you default to your training, and what you know. For those who also have the divorced parents’ temperament, that is the immediate turn to. When conflict and confrontation arise, you’re ready to pack up your shit and leave. It’s concerning the way my toes curl and my palms get sweaty when I have to confront someone or someone confronts me. I refer to my “sweep it under the rug until it goes away” mechanism. I prefer to deal with my emotional issues alone, in the depths of my bed sheets, with Adele penetrating my ear drums. I am a lonesome dove.

Not to sound corny, but I genuinely enjoy my own company. Call me conceited, but I’m the funniest person I know. I’ve had my share of relationships, and I have felt the burning passion and the lovey dovey nonsense, but at the end of the day, who can love me besides me? I’ve been convinced I am a face only a mother could love, but I’m content with that. Marriage is just a washed out term, if you really want to love me, love me without a title.

1-You’re probably certain this essay is a cry for help, and you’re afraid to chuckle at my made-up remark, but rest assured knowing that even I cannot stand the thought of my parents being together. Unfortunate things happen to me all the time. I’m a walking meme.