You know, the thing is, when someone you care about lies to you, your default is to believe them.
When your spouse repeatedly lies to you and says, “no, no, no, no, that’s not true, why would I do that,” even if your gut knows, you tell yourself to believe them because you want to believe them, and they’re telling you to, begging you to.
Because why lie when the truth would be so much easier? Sure, it would hurt at first, but at least it would be over.
I wish the bandaid had been ripped off. But it wasn’t. For years there was a slow, painful peel, and the gas light burned bright and burned long.
P.S. When you read the next chapters, and you think, “how could you have let this go on, how could you have not seen it, how could you have stayed…” understand that when the person you’re married to is lying to you THAT much, and you’re in it, living it, and have invested so much time, so many years of your life, you want to believe, because you just want to live a life. A normal life. And that’s what he stole. He stole my life.
Don’t cry over spilled milk. That’s what they say. Little did I know that about an hour after I took this photo, I’d be crying over so much more…
(I wasn’t sure if I could put it all out there or if I even should. But then I thought, you know what, I’m gonna do it. Maybe it’ll be cathartic. Or maybe it would be a huge mistake that I will regret for all eternity. Who knows? Not me. But I know one thing, could’ve, would’ve, should’ve, so I’m doing it.)
It was a Monday morning in November 2016. I was still staying at my mother’s house in Texas, and my husband was living and working in Dublin while we waited for his green card to come through.
After waking up, I did my usual, I texted good morning to my long-distance spouse, poured myself a cup of coffee (spilling a bunch of milk in the process), and settled into my morning routine of checking email and social media sites.
On Linkedin, I saw that my husband had commented on a post, and in that comment, he had tagged someone. It was a woman with a name that I didn’t recognize. “Probably a work colleague,” I thought.
I tried to move on with my morning, but that woman’s name kept niggling at me. Who was she? Maybe she was a new work colleague. Probably a new work colleague. But, we usually talked about those things. At least I did anyway.
I let curiosity get the best of me and popped over to Facebook to search for her. I was curious if they were connected on there too or if we had any friends in common.
After typing her first name and then finishing her last, a bunch of accounts appeared. As I scrolled down the list, one, in particular, jumped out at me. I knew it was her immediately because there she was. A big bright selfie smile in her profile picture… alongside a smiling photo of my husband.
There he was. My husband was in another woman’s Facebook profile picture.
P.S. I’m still trying to figure out how to tell the tale of the past six years or so of my life. It’ll be a jimble jumble jumping around mess, I’m sure, but I need to tell it. I need to get it out. Bear with me.
Do you like rugby?
That’s the question I messaged a boy (OK, a man) I spotted on a dating app.
“Do you like rugby?”
Because that man is a Kiwi, I figured it would get his attention. And you know what? It did.
And when I told one of my cousins what I did, she said, “You mentioned rugby to a Kiwi? That’s basically the equivalent of sending a nude pic. Well done you.“)
Well done me indeed.
If you’ve followed me on Instagram over the years, you know that pre-pandemic, I traveled quite a bit. Back and forth from Texas to Dublin, London, and Copenhagen I would go.
I’m sure it looked fun, I’m sure it looked fabulous, but it wasn’t, really. These were me trying to hold my marriage together trips, not fun, fabulous trips.
I’d bounce around rolling my carry-on, smile plastered on my face hoping for the best. These were not vacations. (But of course, there are a few amusing anecdotes I’m sure I’ll be pulling out in the future. Stay tuned…)
But, this summer, I, Sara Louise, was finally going on vacation — an actual holiday to a new destination. I was going to Maine, a state so perfectly poised for vacationing that their license plates have “Vacationland” stamped on them. (And let’s not forget the lobstah rolls.)
My Auntie Ilene, who you may recall, had invited me to her summer cottage on a bay in Maine. How perfectly charming does that sound?
You know what doesn’t sound perfectly charming, SHINGLES. Yes, shingles. I got Shingles right before I was due to leave. My body went into such shock at the thought of relaxation that it revolted with a stinging, burning, aching rash. But, with an OK from my doc and an “if you still feel up to it” from Auntie Ilene, I deposited Fifty at camp and hit the road north to Vacationland because if you’re going to suffer with Shingles, you might as well do it while sitting on the dock of the bay.
Meanwhile, at camp… Fifty caught Kennel Cough. KENNEL COUGH!
I caught Shingles; he caught Kennel Cough. And there you have it. No more vacations for us. The end.
P.S. Fifty is on the mend and getting stronger every day. Thank you for your positive thoughts and messages of support they meant the world to Fifty and me.
“You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, or even months over-analyzing a situation; trying to put the pieces together, justifying what could’ve, would’ve happened… or you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on.” – Tupac Shakur
And that’s what I did; I moved the f**k on.
Sidebar: I may go into detail later about what happened and how everything fell apart, but not now. For now, trust me when I say that I am better off, and believe me when I say as far as my marriage went, I gave it my all and left everything on the field. EVERYTHING.
❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤
I don’t like road trips. And yet, one year, one month, and four days ago, I found myself driving almost 2,000 miles from my mother’s house in Texas to my friend’s home in my old hometown in New York.
Fifty and I were embarking on the next chapter. And the next chapter meant staying at my friend’s while I attempted to put my life back together and figure out what I wanted my future to look like. The world was my oyster. (If by oyster, you mean a skint bank account and no real idea what I’m doing.)
Somehow, after years of torture waiting for life to begin, to finally kick into gear, first because of visa delays and then because of BS excuses and lies delays, life had become a fresh notebook. Blank pages were waiting for me to fill them up with new chapters.
Care to read them?
I did something crazy.I, an adult woman, got braces.Not Invisalign. Braces.It’s been on the list for a long time but due to life and whatnot (y’all know about all the whatnot), it kept getting pushed further and further down that list.(Except, I will say that a few years back in The LPV I did go to get them but ended up needing a root canal and left the office over €1000 lighter and there went the braces. But in hindsight, I’m glad that l’orthodontiste didn’t put braces on me because maisongarçon (French for homeboy obvs) jacked it all up, caused a massive infection, which led to bone loss, and then oral surgery a couple of years ago to fix it. Merci fils de pute! (Don’t try to translate that last bit… it’s naughty.)Anyway, a few weeks ago, I decided enough is enough; I’m getting them and I’ll make life work around me for once. (This is when my theme song should begin to play btw.)(Note to self: pick a theme song)So, now I have braces and there still very new and I’m still getting used to them and the fact that I can’t get my Olivia Pope on with my popcorn and I have to forgo my beloved gummy bears, but I’ll get used to it. And get used to the fact that I’m a grumble-grumble-inaudible aged woman with braces.But I will say this, a big part of all the nervousness about being an adult with brace-face disappeared as soon as my shamazing orthodontist said this in response to my embarrassment about being seen with them:“They’ll see a grown woman taking care of herself.”To my orthodontist I say, PREACH QUEEN.And that’s that. I’m doing me right now.What’s new with you? (I genuinely want to know.)Are you letting life work you over, or are you making it work for you? (That should probably be werk).Signed,Your Brace-Face
Something amazing is happening this weekend.
(No, not me blogging twice in one week even though that is fairly spectacular.)
After four and a half years of living like a gypsy, splitting my time between Dublin, London, Copenhagen (I kept that one close to the chest), and my mother’s in Texas, I finally get to be still.
I know that the thought of unpacking box upon box is horrible to some, but for me, I’m elated! After four and half years, I’m unpacking kitchen boxes into MY kitchen, putting books on shelves in MY living room, and hanging clothes in MY closet.
I could go on and on and wax-poetic about all of the feelings I’m feeling but I don’t have that kind of time.
Because I’m moving.
Confession: I miss blogging.
Bigger Confession: It’s difficult to blog when life hasn’t been going swimmingly and you’re not sure what to say, and what you actually should say, or more importantly, what you should not say.
I will say this though. I love my husband. He loves me. But unfortunately life isn’t always that simple. I’m in Texas and he isn’t, for far too many reasons and complications to list here. (Really, it’s been ALL THE DRAMA. ALL OF IT).
And truthfully, I would have returned to this space sooner if it wasn’t for the perpetual state of limbo that I find myself in. Because although we got the spousal visa, my happily-ever-after has still not arrived, and honestly, it might not. I may have to consider a different happy ending. One that looks very different than originally hoped for.
I’m here and he’s not, but I want to be back here-here, as in blogging here.
And there it is.
So, I’m going to try and come back, and I’m not totally sure what I’ll even be blogging about or how often, but I’m pretty-please asking if you can hold off on any personal questions. Just know that I’m good and whatever will be, will be. C’est la vie.
À bientôt mes amis [ kiss emojis ].
P.S. Fifty’s good too. He said to say hi.
On the last mail day of 2017 (or post day if you’re so inclined), this finally happened.
It only took 1501 days.
And it only took me 59 days to tell you about it (but in fairness, I did tell Facebook).
Here’s another fun number…
It’s been 473 days since I’ve popped in here, hopefully it won’t take me 473 to pop in again.
Tu me manques.
You know, the one thing I’ve learned from this whole, horrendous, drawn out visa process, is that focusing on the positive is imperative. I’ve always been a glass-half full kind of gal anyway, but now, I’m a glass three quarters full, because let’s face it if I wasn’t, I’d probably be locked away in the loony bin somewhere. That said, while Gregory’s visa denial was beyond dreadful, the timing, was actually pretty good.
(Since I mentioned it, I feel like now is a good time to drop this fun fact on y’all – while Gregory was notified of his visa denial when the embassy returned his unstamped passport to him, I still have yet to be. That’s right, I’m the petitioner, and as such should have received notification, but someone cocked up and I still haven’t gotten a letter or email to let me know. Way to go America, way to go. My lawyer is on it.)
We got the bad news three days before I was due to fly to Dublin to kick off our summer vacation. You’re probably wondering how that could possibly be good timing but here it is; we had a couple of days to process the news, and make a plan (of course that initial plan was defunct about 312 plans ago, but still, we had a plan), and for the shock to wear off, so by the time I was on a plane that Saturday morning in May, we were ready to focus on us, and fun, and to enjoy ourselves. All talk of visas, waiting times, separations, or oh my God what are we going to do, was banned.
So I set off from San Antonio for a few days with my family in Dublin, before reuniting with Gregory in France to return to my old stomping grounds, and my French crew for a three week break from the bull$@*#. There would be laughter, and joy, and South of France sunshine, and goats cheese salads, and Zara, and by God, there would be Rosé.