I was once that kid who would occupy my childhood play by a game called "house." You know when you were happily married to your elementary crush from Room 24. I recall acting out a wedding scene, with rose petals from the lady's garden down the street sprinkled all over my front yard grass. My sister would be throwing the petals one by one humming "da-dun-da-dun, da-dun-da-dun" like a pianist as I slowly walked across my lawn. I would even use my torn Crayola crayons to draw out the layout of my dream wedding and dress. Marriage was what every little girl waited for, it was what I waited for. Back then it related to the newest Barbie doll every girl wanted and expected to receive. Her beach blonde hair, tan, divine skin, it was perfection to beauty to us. As years went on, I was thrilled knowing my parents had gotten married, maybe not the whole wedding I would have portrayed but it was what it was. It began to seem less exciting hearing the constant yelling between the two and the loud cries my sisters would make. It seem to all fall apart discovering the women in my family, those who were once little girls with dreams of finding their Ken, were being physically and verbally abused by their husbands. Divorce was introduced at one point in time, I managed but it was a continuous action from then on. It seemed like a solution to a married couple's problems. Finally it struck me, now until this very day, I no longer want what I dreamed of as a kid. That Barbie doll I was so desperately waiting to receive was no longer pretty to me. In my eyes now, she's just a heartless, fake piece of plastic in reality. Plastic that hurts if not handled correctly.