Why I'm Probably Right

I originally began writing this blog about the process of marrying an Englishman and the process of applying for a UK visa. Since I’ve now been here in the UK for a bit, I would like to continue to dedicate this space to the awkward, funny, and meaningful experiences I have during my time adjusting to and living in the UK.

For those of you who are going through a visa application, please always feel free to get in touch. I will happily do my best to give general (unprofessional) advice based on my own experience, however, due to the ever-changing legislation it might be more helpful to check out the Expat Forum; this is a community of people who can answer your questions regardless of where you’re moving and might be more up to date. I found this to be a tremendously helpful resource and place of support during my visa application and move.

That being said, support is very important, and though I may be useless in other ways, I’m always happy to give that. You can find me on whyimprobablyright@gmail.com

I stared at the escalator I was about to ascend up to the airport security line. It was finally happening.

My family and best friend had brought me to the airport, and I was saying my goodbyes. My mother had stayed home to look after my grandmother, so we had already had our teary-eyed parting.

After all this lead-up, after selling most of my things, after being apart from my husband for 6 months, I was finally actually on my way into the sky with all of my possessions packed into two suitcases and a guitar case. It felt like I was having an out of body experience; bearing witness to it all from the top of the escalator.

I don’t think there was any book or guide or podcast that could have prepared me for what I was about to experience from there, but I felt weirdly prepared to have no idea what I was doing. After all, I’ve been practicing my entire life.

“I’m not crying.”

Best friend: “Neither am I.”

“Nope, you’re definitely not crying. Just sweating profusely. From your eyes.”

She laughed and then sweat more.

I turned to my 80-year-old Grampa, who raised me, and he was eye-sweating too. So was my aunt. I had to get the fuck out of there fast or I was going to start second guessing all of it. So I ripped off the bandaid and climbed onto the escalator as quickly as my bulky guitar case and carry on would allow. I waved goodbye for an awkwardly long period of time as I slowly rose up to the next floor, and I refused to take my eyes off of my Grampa until I couldn’t see him anymore. Everyone present also meant the world to me, but he had the title of best pal long before anyone else, and it felt like I was walking away from a quarter of a century of that.

Eventually, the sea of people taking off their shoes and removing their watches swallowed me up and then poof – my family and friend weren’t with me anymore. Instead, I was surrounded by strangers who were all very much so in a rush to be somewhere that they weren’t. And a part of me was terrified that I was doing the same.

I spent the next few hours posting to social media. Have no illusions, yes I had my concerns, but I was going through a whole range of emotions that definitely included fucking psyched. I was tingling all over with anticipation, and I had to share all of this with the rest of the world because I couldn’t bear to hold it all on my own. This included a photo of my backpack that I posted because I had realised it had a very funny nervous face formed by its pockets and latches. I had a slight concern that people might catch on that this expression was a reflection of how I was partly feeling so I created a quick distraction by challenging the internet to name him/her in the caption. The clear winner was Frodo Baggins, although I now felt as though I was carrying a very concerned Elijah Wood hobbit around with me on my journey, which seemed weirdly appropriate.

I got on the flight and remembered hearing this podcast episode about people having a greater tendency to cry at high altitudes. I decided that if I did break down crying at any point I could entirely attribute it to this unexplained phenomenon and it would probably make more sense than crying over moving to another country that I very much liked to be with the person I loved. This narrative, unfortunately, was not something I could quickly explain to a seatmate who in all probability had not heard this obscure episode of some podcast, so I accepted the narrative was more for my own comfort than anything.

Thankfully on this first connecting flight, I was seated next to a lady from a town not far from me who kept me distracted. We then proceeded to have an interesting conversation about a locally well-known story that was somewhat controversial in its time which has stuck with me to this day. It involved psychology professor in her town who had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease. She had decided that she wanted to die on her own terms and with all of her faculties, so she told her family “In two years, I’m ending it.” Then, two years would pass, and she still had her wits about her so she would say again “I’m still ok, so I’ll give it two more years, then I’m ending it.”

This happened over the course of five years until finally, she began to forget things. At first, it was small things but she began to deteriorate rapidly, and she knew she had to act soon while she still could. So she ordered the appropriate combination of pills to mix with alcohol off of the internet and got her family together. They had a living wake of sorts, where they all got together to watch Mary Poppins and reminisce about the good times. Then, when she was ready, she went into the bedroom and took the pills. Her husband laid down with her until she left.

This story not only contributed even more to the wide range of emotions I was cycling through, but it also struck a familiar chord of solidarity; the kind where someone who wasn’t present was trying to show me something about myself. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first. Was it because I had just left behind my Gramma who had dementia? Sure, that was what sparked the conversation, but that wasn’t it. And I certainly didn’t feel my situation was of nearly the same degree of importance as this woman’s tragic diagnosis of dementia, but something about it all just kept resonating long after I began to run to my next flight.

It wasn’t until I had made it through the entirety of the O’Hare Airport in record time to board my next flight and was a sweaty panting pile in Economy Class that it hit me. I was out of breath and light headed, thinking “Is this whole experience really worth all the cardio”, and I looked down at my precious cheap little wedding ring. I thought of the moment I had decided to marry my husband – and then it clicked. The thing I was relating to with this courageous woman was that she and I both had something that occurred in our lives that could have easily turned into tragedies of which we were victims. There were all sorts of reasons to avoid accepting these realities we had been dealt and deny them until it was too late to do something about it, but instead of resisting them, we accepted them. And by doing so, we had the ability and time to experience them on our own terms. In my case, currently very sweaty terms.

This comparison may seem like I’m saying my marriage was a tragedy, so may make a little more sense with some background to catch you up. I had previously been through a lengthy tumultuous long-distance relationship with someone in England before meeting my husband, and it did not work out. So the first time I mentioned to anyone that Luke and I started talking on Skype, the reaction was not positive. It was a polite version of “you’re seriously doing that shit again?”

Even I was convinced when we first started talking that we were bound for failure and heartbreak and we weren’t even an item yet. But then he arrived to visit me in America and we had hit it off. And instead of dating long distance and hemming and hawing about what to do, we both committed to making the best of this torturous situation of living countries apart and in love; we decided to get married and give our relationship the chance it deserved.

Please let me clarify – I appreciate that our options were far more ideal than someone choosing what kind of death they got to have, but my point is that this woman was dealt a difficult hand and she accepted it gracefully and fucking owned it as best she could. At that moment I realised for the first time that I had actually been facing a less than ideal scenario that was masked as being a wonderful thing by all of the romance movies and crap we see on tv, but I knew deep down what it really was; opening myself up again to failure and quite possibly, heartbreak. Yet upon learning all this I hadn’t once fought it or ignored it until I had to face it, but instead accepted this reality and its limitations. Like her, I had opened myself up to the fact that this was happening, and that is what gave me the chance to craft it into an experience built on my own terms.

God, even at the time that felt like the connection had been made through some mental gymnastics as a result of the roller coaster of emotions I was on, but it was as clear as day to me. I felt like I quite suddenly realised my guts were made of leather, steel, and grace. This woman I’d never met helped me recognise something in myself and in my situation that I had failed to see before and I couldn’t even thank her for it. But sometimes this happens. We magically learn things about ourselves when we peer into the lives of others.

This would have been a fantastic moment to reference the phenomenon of people being more susceptible to tears when flying, but instead of explaining myself to my new seat mate I simply sat through the moment and I felt it as fully as I could. I observed it. And it was then that I realised I was not all of the feelings I was feeling – I was not someone who would abandon my family, I was not someone who was running away from my hometown. Sure, these were all feelings I was feeling but they weren’t who I was. They were simply what I was going through as a result of a combination of things that had happened in my life. And finally, with this thought, I drifted off to sleep (if you can really call in flight sleep, sleep).

You can stop reading this entry here if you like. The rest is simply for the romantic movie ending, which was not in fact an ending at all, but a beginning. (And if you would like to read more about the courageous lady I was speaking of you can do so here).

I entered through the arrival gate recording it all on my phone camera to find Luke waiting with my new father in law holding a sign that said “Are you embarrassed yet?” It was an ode to the first sign I had made for him. I was so moved that I lost hold of my luggage on the trolly, and in an attempt to catch it from falling I threw my phone, my luggage fell anyway, and I dropped everything all over the airport floor. I then assured my husband that I was simply managing his expectations as this was his life now, congratulations.

And that is how I entered life in the UK.

First I would like to just say, yes. We received this package the following Tuesday, and they approved my visa. Our marriage visa FINALLY went through and holy effing shit, I cannot express in words how happy I am right now. And of course, a huge thanks to you all for the loving support you’ve given us throughout this. It’s finally time to get on with the next chapter and we’re both ecstatic to do so. 

All that being said, I would like to take a moment to complain. You know, for old times sake. 

Why. Can’t they include. Their decision. IN THIS EMAIL. It’s like a final ‘screw you’; we’ll make you wait an extra few days in anticipation and OH maybe a few more because we’ll send your package on a holiday weekend. Because we can, ok?

Alright I can’t even bring myself to go on complaining because this is particularly one gift horse I’d rather not look in the mouth because wow. I’m still just… Wow. 

So hey I’m going to go lay down somewhere and breathe into a paper bag for a while in an effort to not exhuberate all over the next person I see.

Thank you all again, so much. 

So I’m on a flight to Vegas for a short holiday with family and let me start by saying that travel is something I normally enjoy immensely. I mean all of it – from the airport, to the crappy little charter flights, to the adventures that will continue to ensue when I arrive at my destination. All of it. Yeah, I’m one of those.

And being stuck in the country waiting on a marriage visa while they hold my passport hostage, well, one would imagine I would especially enjoy travel now more than ever.

But then there’s my monkey brain. Always overthinking. Always panicking. Always determined to turn every happy decision I make into a ball of anxiety with a pretty bow on top, right down to what movie I rent (yes people still do that) to buying myself a new shade of nail polish (kidding I bite my nails down to nothing).

Unfortunately when you’re waiting for permanent permission to leave the country and leave your life behind you, I’ve discovered traveling is more along the lines of going out to McDonald’s the week before you have plans for a big fancy ass steak dinner. 

You’re waiting in line and then.. You close your eyes and suddenly you can imagine that fancy ass steak you’re going to get next week. You can practically hear it sizzle and OH GOD THE JUICINESS.

Then, suddenly, you begin to second guess yourself. Should I really order this steak? It’s not because it isn’t a fancy ass steak, and not because you don’t want to devour every morsel of that fancy ass steak, but because it’s customary for you to second guess anything that involves you making a decision because based on your track record in life you really suck at doing that. Do you really want steak? Is steak really good for you? Would it fucking kill you to eat some vegetables once in a while? Maybe you should just order some god damn broccoli for once. Wait how can you even be second guessing yourself? You know this is what you want. This is still what you want. Why are you trying to talk yourself out of the steak?? YOU DESERVE THIS. This is why we can’t have nice th-

HEY. HELLO, HI. I ASKED IF YOU WANT FRIES WITH YOUR BIG MAC

Oh. Um. Yeah. Supersize it. Or large or whatever just give me all of your calories.

So now you’re feeling all of the anxiety. All of the self doubt. All of the excitement. ALL OF THE FEELINGS. Stirred up for nothing by your silly monkey brain which may as well be named Pavlov and you’re standing in a line at McDonald’s drooling and panicking like an idiot.

Hey there toots, smoke another one while you’re at it. You’re gonna need it because P.S. your flight is delayed by an hour so CONGRATULATIONS YOU WIN 60 MORE THOUGHTS/AND OR FEELINGS ABOUT THE MATTER. In case you forgot the steak was a metaphor for leaving the country. I know. I was disappointed about that too. 

BUT HEY ON THE BRIGHT SIDE… You get to have all of these feelings all over again when your visa gets approved.

But then this thing happens… your flight takes off. And you rise above the grey crappy weather of where you’re at and realize it’s actually sunny up there all of the time. You remember that person you began this long journey for in the first place.

And for a moment, you have peace on the matter.

So, thank you for riding with Anxiety Airlines! Enjoy your flight.. AND DON’T FORGET HOW TO USE THE OXYGEN MASK OR WHERE THE EMERGENCY EXITS ARE AND HOLY SHIT AM I IN AN EMERGENCY EXIT AISLE I DONT KNOW IF I’M CAPABLE OF HELPING PEOPLE I CAN BARELY KEEP MY SHOES TIED OH GOD WHAT WAS THAT BUMP AN ENGINE FAILING? HELLO? ANYONE? I’M UNCOMFORTABLE.

When I first heard the term expat I most likely thought that it meant The Artist Formerly Known as Patrick or something along those lines of logical conclusions. And upon marrying an Englishman, I suddenly heard the term everywhere. There were even forums for ex-pats. Oh and apparently I was an ex-pat. And call me dense, but even upon hearing it all of those times, I can assure you that the last thing that came to mind was “ex-patriot”.

I would consider myself to be somewhat patriotic. I mean, not like ‘MERICA! kind of patriotic, but I’m extremely lucky to live here. But I soon discovered that there’s actually a lot of people out there that hold a certain amount of contempt for those who choose to leave their own country, even if it’s for only for romantic reasons.
As in, they take it as a personal slight towards themselves and their own patriotism.
I found this to be a little funny, actually, because they hold an equal amount of contempt for bringing people into the country.
Bottom line? Marry in your own country or you’re not a true American dammit!

Ok, so that’s a thing.

And then I figured, hey, you know what? If my country doesn’t want to be friends anymore I bet England will!
Or not.

And let me tell you, I didn’t find this out through a strongly worded letter. I would have totally been ok with a strongly worded letter.
Instead, it was through a long, gruelling, and expensive visa process. A visa process that makes you strain every bone in your body in hopes that straining every bone in your body will somehow magically expedite the process and ensure success.
One that delves into places that you didn’t expect to ever have to show to anyone, like those late night embarrassing Facebook chats. Yep, hand ’em over.
And worst of all it stresses out an already delicate relationship that’s being maintained while living thousands of miles apart.

But of course, this is all worth it to get to be there in real life to witness that morning deuce that you always hear so much about via text.

For some reason up until this point, I just hadn’t taken into consideration that an island small enough to fit into the state of Florida wouldn’t want our matrimony to contribute to their already overpopulated country.
And you know what, we understand! We really do. Or we did… I think. Hey, no need to be rude. You just called me a what?
Ok, gloves off, England.
Because like anyone taking on a role working with a really good actor who has to play bad cop, there’s a point where you can’t help but start to wonder if they’re still acting.

It’s not personal, we swear – we just have to act like we don’t want you here 😉

But have no illusions; they probably don’t want you there. Even if your English counterpart meets the income criteria.
How come? Because there’s always that one person who ruins it for the rest of us.
In this case, let’s just call them… Frank. They’re no one in particular.
Just Frank.

Fucking Frank.

So, Frank is a lazy bastard.
Somewhere between not holding a steady job and playing Farmville, Frank meets a person on the internet. Person on the internet is from England! They come to meet Frank in Frank’s country because they are foolishly blinded by the seemingly exotic accent. Frank has nothing to contribute to British society and would gladly live off of his new partner’s hard work.

So to make sure that Frank can’t do this, the government creates a few hurdles. First of all, they have to pay around £1,300 to apply for their visa. If the application isn’t successful, they keep the money, and you just have to reapply and yep, you guessed it – pay again.

Second, the government created an income threshold – Frank’s British counterpart has to make at least £18,600 per month and must have been making this much for at least the last 6 months. Tough shit if they’ve had a few months where they didn’t make as much due to being off sick from work or just couldn’t quite meet it. They can either wait to apply when it’s appropriate or apply just to be rejected and surprise – pay to apply all over again.

Then, every two and a half years, as a couple, they have to pay the amount of around £1400 to reapply and show they have still made that much for at least the last 6 months. This goes on for 5 years total when they make their final application. Then, if anything is questionable (maybe one of them wasn’t working for one of the past 6 months), they earn 5 more years of this! Congratulations on losing another £3000! Then, after all that, Frank has permanent permission to work and live in the UK. Did I mention he is not yet a citizen?

If Frank wants to be a British citizen, he can pay even more for the Life in the UK Test and the passport (which also amounts to somewhere around another £1500+)

There are different variations of Frank out there, and such a vast population of people are not Frank. But inevitably, as when anyone ruins things for the rest of us, rules get made to account for them.

So at what point should they start treating people like they might be Frank? Should they do it from the start? Should they do it at the first mistake? Should they do it when they deem fit or just the entire time for good measure?

But DAMMIT I’M NOT A FRANK.

And from the very moment we got married, we’ve been haemorrhaging time, money, and energy trying to prove, that we are actually in love and indeed, not Frank.

So all in all, this process just isn’t easy. You suddenly find yourself in an unwanted limbo between two countries, and completely at the mercy of one that seems to already think that you do nothing but play Farmville in your free time, and the whole time your home country is booing and hissing in the background.
Did I mention that the majority of the people booing and hissing are the ones actually playing Farmville.

Point is, the only way I’ve found to counter any of this is to have an equal amount of steady support from even a select few friends, family, and of course, each other.
And let me tell you, that is really the only way you can make it through this crap.

Oh and fuck you, Frank.

I don’t think many people choose to fall in love with someone who lives on an entirely different continent than them. Or maybe they do, I dunno. But I can sure as hell tell you that I would’ve much preferred something a little less expensive and inconvenient. I mean, as much as we love spending $900 round trip to profess our love to one another I could think of about 10,592 ways to do it for less than $900, and furthermore, could think of even more things that I could use $900 for.
For example:
$900 could pay for 1.8 Xbox Ones. Although I don’t know why you’d want 1.8 of them. Or an all inclusive trip to the Bahamas. Or 3,600 gumball machine toys. Or a 3 year gym membership. Or half of a decent car. Or all of a shitty car. Or a venue for a wedding. Or… get ready for this…. 9 mother freaking years of Netflix.
Point is, normal people in normal relationships don’t have to take into account such ginormous expenses just to have the luxury of doing something as simple as hugging their partner. To agree to be in a relationship as practical as this really begs the question of how many times my mother dropped me in my developmental years. But as they say, the heart wants what the heart wants. And whoever ‘they’ are, they’re right. Even if it’s the emotional equivalent of sticking a knife in a toaster over and over again.

In a long distance relationship there always comes a time when you and your partner decide that this behavior isn’t a healthy way to carry on long term and that it’s time to explore new avenues that don’t involve knives or toasters. As exciting as it can be, two hearts can only take so much of this sort of activity. Then of course comes the realization that in this particular form of relationship, all roads lead to Rome. And in this case, Rome is marriage.

Woah, slow down now. When did we start talking marriage.

The first time I found myself in this position I was 23 turning 24 in a long distance relationship with an Englishman and marriage was the last thing on either of our minds. Though there were plenty of other people my age that had practically charged towards matrimony, I just wasn’t one of them, nor did I see myself considering such options anytime in the near future. And then this thing happens where life says “Fuck you and your plans and what you do or don’t want because THIS is the hand you’ve been dealt. KLOVEYOUBYE.”
Unfortunately long distance, money, and time took it’s toll long before marriage was a feasible option for us, and we mutually ended things. Needless to say, this was an extremely painful and difficult process.

“Wait. Then why are you writing this blog?”

So I like to think I’m an intelligent person.
But then I did this thing where I began speaking to someone who I’d known when I lived in England.
And we started Skyping. It always starts with Skyping, Mel, you idiot. And then eventually upon having an insanely inexplicable connection, we decided to re-meet in person. We convinced ourselves prior to this that this was simply just to meet and figure out what to do next. Except that then, we met, and we saw each other again, and thought, “Well, shit.”

We knew exactly was going to happen next. We knew that it was probably going to be the most difficult and impractical decision we were ever going to make, but also the most rewarding. We knew that we had already had the chance to back off before this shit hit the fan, but we hadn’t. We knew that whatever this entailed was going to be a long and grueling process, but guess what? You’re already in for the ride, suckers.
We knew.

And then, we did the unspeakable. And as of February 11th, 2014, instead of finding myself dating an Englishman, I found myself ecstatically and happily married to one. And that’s the kind of smarts that landed me writing this blog.