The Real Reason I Went To Ireland Last Year, Part II
Or: Heartache, Stairwell Kisses, & Turning 30 š
Welcome to Shame Sandwich, where Megan feels equal parts shame and glee in sharing hilarious personal essays, thoughts, and dear-diary-esque rants on Fridays. Sometimes on shame, sometimes shame infused, and other times, nothing to do with shame. Enjoy responsibly.
Authors Notes: Ahem. Hi. I did something different this week. I broke off from my normal āstream of consciousnessā style of writing. AM I GOING THROUGH A CRISIS?
Please go patient with me. Iām a VIRGIN to this style of writing. I donāt even know what style this is: utter garbage narrative writing??? ā see, I know nothing of which I speak.
Anywho. I hope you donāt hate it. Also. Itās long-ish. Again, hope you donāt hate that. š
Since Iām in Ireland at the time of you reading this (š¤Æ), I felt inspired to write about the first time I went to Ireland, last year. Enjoy, dear readers. šš
The Real Reason I Went To Ireland Last Year, Part II
Yes, this is Part II.
Part I isnāt finished yet. š I didnāt intend to hit you with the sequel like this but as I started writing Part I, I realized that, well, goddamn your girl can type and it got longer than large endowed man appendage. Oops. And for some reason, it didnāt feel right to only drop Part I without Part II immediately following soooo, if you tell me this isnāt utter rat shit encourage me, I might even finish Part I and send it next week. š
ā¦
ā¦
ā¦
Wednesday, April 5, 2023
My anxiety is back with a vengeance. Every breath I take feels like my stomach and ribcage are being held hostage by a Victoria-era bodice contraption that was 3 sizes too small. My breathing is shallower than the shallow end of a kiddie pool for small children and I donāt even realize it.
I have to text him back.
I have to text him back.
I have to text him back.
I know it has to be over. It must be over. I sit on the couch and silently curse cupid as I pick up my phone and type in my 4-digit password. His last message to me is accusingly staring back at me. The problem is that my head knows exactly what to do, but my heart is revolting, leading a last-ditch Calvary stamped against my battle-torn heart.
And so, I start typing, typing, typing. No, no, no. Thatās not right. Delete. Try again. Better, but? Wait I can word this better. I type some more. My fingers furiously moving until I type until itās exactly what I want to say. And then?
I hit send.
Holy shit. Iāve justā¦ ended it. Itās over. I did it.
ā¦
ā¦
ā¦
Thursday, April 6, 2023
Exceptā¦ FUCK.
Itās been 24 hours and no matter how much I lie to myself and say āIām fucking over this, yassss! š āā¦ I secretly want nothing more than for him to text me back and say āI miss you, I want to make this workā¦ā.
FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.
FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Iām disgusted with myself. Yes, disgusted for āneedingā this man to āmake me feel betterā.
And ashamed. So fucking ashamed. How can I be so pathetic to still want this man after I told him goodbye???? Full while KNOWING itās not right for me???
And to think that Iād only met him 2 months before. Pathetic. Absolutely, utterly pathetic.
ā¦
ā¦
ā¦
And then it happens.
My shame turns to rage.
Iām seething. Pissed, angry, seeing nothing but red shapes that used to be doorways and tables and cushions.
Put me in the ring, coach, I will beat any mother fucker who dares challenge me!!!!! My cherry red boxing gloves are on and Iām going to take down anyone or anything in my way. Steam is seeping out of my ears and my body temperature is rising dangerously by the second.
And then, an inner voice speaks to meā
Megan, what about that Ireland trip that you know your soul is nudging bellowing at you to just pull the fucking trigger and book already but you have every single excuse under the motherfucking sun why you canāt do it because itās too expensive and too selfish and too scary and too many unknowns and oh my fucking god, what about that trip youāve been dreaming about, huh? my inner voice mercilessly taunts me.
And thenā
I snap. My rage takes no prisoners.
Without a seconds thought, I say FUCK IT!!!!!! and book a flight to Ireland.
No hesitations. No second thoughts. Aer Lingus. Direct Flight. Economy. Done.
Iām going to Ireland in 8 weeks, at age 29, my first ever international trip, solo, and turning 30 in Ireland.
WHO THE FUCK AM I AND WHAT HAPPENED TO THE BITCH I USED TO BE?!?!?!?!
I sit in stunned silence, my body completely melting into the couch. My phone lights up with the āAer Lingus Confirmationā email.
I just booked my flight. Holy fucking hell. Iām going to Ireland, solo, and turning 30 while Iām there. WHO DOES THAT?!?!?!?!
No hotel booked yet, no time taken off work yet, no real plan yetā¦ except for the fact that Iām taking off on June 7th at 8:55pm and landing in another country across the Atlantic. Oh my god. This feels like one of the most terrifying, exciting decisions I have ever made.
Narratorās note: And it turned out to be one of the best decisions she ever made. š„¹ ššš
ā¦
ā¦
ā¦
Nowā¦ Iām not proud of the fact that it took a man ā to be clear Iām not a man-hater lol to make me finally take the plunge of going on my first international trip.
Iāve told no one the real reason behind me finally saying Fuck It and booking my trip. Until now. Now you know. (that man will never know. š)
And you know what? It wasnāt just that man that made me goā¦
IT WAS ME.
ā¦
ā¦
ā¦
Helped by some MASSIVE amounts of rageful emotional discomfort. š„²
At the time? I felt MISERABLE.
I HATED myself for not being able to shake off the thoughts of desperation and doom and gloom no matter how hard I tried to fight them off.
And by the grace of god rage, I found the courage to do the thing my soul was screaming at me to do: Travel.Solo.To.Ireland.Go.
Every excuse under the sun was uttered by me:
I donāt have enough money to afford it. Noooooo way I can justify this. Nope.
Bitch. You do have enough money. By working your ass off for it. Would it dip into your meagerly padded margins? Yes. But you can cover the trip.
Solo travel is embarrassing, people will think Iām a loser!!!
Bitch. Solo travel is really fucking empowering and fun and adventurous and amazing and who the fuck cares what people think???
Iām a single mom! There is NO WAY I can make this work!!! I CANNOT ask people for help.
Bitch. Thatās what grandparents are for!!!
Repeat ad nauseam some variation of the above, on repeat.
Bitch. š¤¦āāļø
ā¦
ā¦
ā¦
The fear was real. And it took something fairly emotionally painful for me to be shaken out of my fear.
That āterrible discomfortā was the catalyst for a trip that in some ways, changed my life. Not in a big, huge, glamorous dramatic way.
But in beautiful, subtle, soul soothing ways.
ā I shared a passionate, straight-out-of-a-movie-scene kiss with a Brazilian man named Rafael on the steps of a basement pub my first night in Ireland. It was so swoon worthy.
ā I experienced true peace walking the majestic cliffs of Moher. They are magic. And I feel a connection with them that itās hard to explain.
ā I co-existed with my shame and proudly dined alone. Even surviving being placed at a table for 4, under a giant ass spotlight (I swear to god), right in front of the man playing live music. That was actually mordifying but guess what? I survived.
ā I got to delight my curious, history-loving-heart with museums and landmarks that filled me with such joy.
ā I overcame my utterly shameful fear of navigating public transport and took the train to a seaside village and took myself on my most favorite hike ever.
ā I navigated traveling in a new country WITHOUT ANY CELL SERVICE because my travel eSIM wouldnāt work, and I was able to get through the entire trip only accessing wifi when I could get it. Iām still so incredibly proud of myself for not letting the panic of no live Google maps, no āsafety netā ruin my trip. And? Another massive blessing in disguise was that I was never on my fucking phone š¤£ and truly in the moment. I see you universe, I fucking see you.
ā I rushed home in the rain after a fabulous afternoon at the Guiness factory, chatting with amazing people, running to get to my āPub Crawlā on time (and not get fucking lost, see above) before they left without me, arriving sweaty and disheveled, to somehow finding the pub crawl guide and I inextricably drawn to each other. With every pub we stopped at, we ended up chatting so much, and over live Irish music at the last stop, him and I just kept chatting. Deep chatting. Life struggle chatting. Heart soothing chatting. And when it was time to go he said: āIām heading your way, let me walk you back!ā. Under the moonlit night, we strolled along the River Liffey, talking about books weād both read, the meaning of life, our struggles, and more. He asked if I was on FB Messenger, but couldnāt find me (fucking other bitches named Megan š). When I went to search for him instead, I remembered I had no wifi, and couldnāt search him either. He said softly āah, I guess that wasnāt meant to be.ā We said goodbye at the HaāPenny bridge. I still think about that man sometimes and that night and the connection we shared.
ā I said goodbye to 29, and welcomed the turn of a new decade as I danced the night away and said hello to 30 with a group of amazing people that Iāll probably never see again, whose names Iāve long forgotten, but shared so many amazing hours together in that packed pub, with drinks flowing, and live music blasting.
ā¦
ā¦
ā¦
š„¹š„¹š„¹
As I finish pre-writing this, Iām only a couple of hours away from boarding a plane for my second International trip, solo, heading back to Ireland. Feeling all the feels thinking back to last summer. š„¹ And as youāre reading this, Iām already IN Ireland!!!
And yes, of course there are lots of things Iām scared about for this trip, too. (Solo roadtrip? What the fleabags was I thinking?!?! š„²)
And? Iām following my soul, yāall. Iām following my soul!!!!!
WHICH MAKES ME WANT TO DO CARTWHEELS OF JOY BUT ONLY IN MY MIND BECAUSE I MIGHT ARRIVE WITH A BROKEN CLAVICLE OR SOMETHING IF I ATTEMPT A REAL ONE YIKES.
ā¦
So. This was long. Lol.
Thank you for reading. š„¹ Thank you for witnessing me in whatever this newsletter was.
I truly hope I can āpass it forwardā by sharing my story of doing the scary thing, inspiring you to do your big scary thing, or at least giving you hope that when youāre going through the hard shit, it can become a catalyst for personal growth.
Will all hard times end up landing you in Ireland? Tragically, no. šš I went through a FUCK ton of hard times before that, that didnāt land me on an international flightā¦ but all of those prior hard times that I chose to get back up again when life knocked me down, led to right here. š
And for that, I am oh so grateful. ššš
-M
p.s. - HOLY HELL IāM IN IRELAND RIGHT NOW!!! ššš
p.p.s. - Iām feeling awkward about the last 2 ending paragraphs and I just have to voice that. I feel like it was rather abrupt. But thatās what Iāve got. š
p.p.p.s - ā Last one I swear omg ok so this this different style of writing felt shameful vulnerable. š
Hi, hello! You just read Shame Sandwich where I, Megan, share some shit with you in the only way I know how: blasphemously.
If you hate my writing please leave me a middle finger review and let me know. Exclamations are greatly appreciated. Emojiās as well.
Or, if you didnāt hate my writing, a lil heart, comment or share would really make my tits tingle.
Alternatively, if you love my writing and want to show your support, you can buy me some coffee popcorn. I love popcorn. But please know, I will still love you just the same even if you never buy me some popcorn, okay? š«¶
Omg I love you and this was darling!!! So proud!!!!
Go girl! I hope the Universe will find you again in Ireland! After all, itās the magic land of fairies and leprechauns! Enjoy!