Reality TV, Prozac, and Problems

The Night I Left My Sanity in a Hotel Room Drawer

I became a pill person the way most people become a pill person: slowly, accidentally, and with the enthusiastic assistance of the medical profession!

It started with EMS. Shift work. You haven't known exhaustion until you've run calls all night, watched the sun come up over a hospital parking lot, and then lain in bed at 9 a.m. while your neighbors mow their lawns and your circadian rhythm files a formal complaint with the universe. Sleep wouldn't come. So I went to the doctor.

He gave me Ambien. And it worked!  Which is the thing nobody warns you about when a drug works too well. It's not a blessing, it's a seduction. After that, the floodgates opened. Headache? Pill. Stress? Pill. A twinge in my knee that was probably just the consequence of having knees for fifty years? Pill. Every single one came with a little speech about how safe it was, how well-tolerated, how I just needed to give it time.

What they didn't mention was what happened when you tried to stop.

Then came the Ativan. "Just for sleep," the doctor said. Because you know why? The Ambien was no longer working as well. That's what happens when you take it over a long period. It was meant to be temporary. My doctor didn't tell me, "Your body will eventually file a formal complaint if you try to stop." He did not say, "This is a loan from a bank that charges interest on your central nervous system." He wrote the prescription and with optimism, I thanked him and skipped over to the pharmacy. 

A few years later, came vacation. Nashville!  I packed vitamins, books I wouldn't read, and a bathing suit that had lied to me in the dressing room. Of course, I packed my Ativan. 

I was a wonderful vacation. I love Nashville. The people, the music, the food!

Returned home, but darn, I left my Ativan behind! No worries, only a week left anyway before I can pick up a refill. 3 days after trying to sleep without Ativan, and I felt like I was dying of a flu so aggressive it ought to have its own Netflix documentary. My skin crawled. My brain felt like someone had replaced it with static electricity and old television snow. I was sure there were bugs crawling on my skin. What kind of horrible flu was this? 

I Googled my symptoms.

Readers, it was NOT the flue. It was far worse. Benzodiazepine withdrawal. A thing I didn't know existed. Oh, I knew about withdrawl from booze and drugs...but...a prescribed medication? Does this mean I am an addict? 

I cried for about an hour. Then I got angry. Then I got practical, because that's what women do when the alternative is lying on the floor and the floor needs vacuuming.

It took a year to taper off. A year. I cut those pills into slivers so tiny they looked like dandruff. And then, slowly, it passed. It was difficult. One of the most difficult things I've ever had to overcome in my life. The frustrating part was, I wish I had been told about this being a possibility. But, I DID overcome it. It's amazing how life becomes clear when not depending on a bottle in the nightstand. 

I've been watching these reality stars lately — hair freshly blown out, teeth so white they could signal aircraft — leaning into a microphone to announce, "I've been on Prozac for two years and it's changed my life!" (Amanda Batula energetically announced this on Watch What Happens Live) The audience applauds the courage. Someone in the comments writes thank you for normalizing this!

And I watch their lives unravel in high definition and think: Honey.

Nobody asks the obvious question. If the medication is working, why does your life look like a controlled demolition in slow motion? Because these pills don't just blunt the anxiety. They blunt the instinct that says this person is bad for me. They blunt the gut feeling that says something needs to change. You stop being able to tell which problems are real and which ones you've chemically agreed to tolerate. The numbness starts to feel like wellness. You've confused the absence of sharp pain with the presence of actual health.

I did it too. For years.

The pill wasn't the problem — it was a solution to a problem I wasn't fixing. These medications are meant to be bridges, not permanent addresses. You're supposed to cross them, not build a house in the middle and hang curtains.

I keep my Altoids close now. Ginger candy in the purse. It took a year of tapering and a lifetime of learning to get here, but I can feel again — all of it. The sharp parts and the soft parts and the parts that still wake me up at 3 a.m.

Turns out that's not a medical problem. That's just being alive!

Treating Dog Allergies Can Feel Impossible!

 My Dog Has Allergies and My Bank Account Is Developing Trust Issues

I used to think having a dog would involve scenic walks, tasteful bandanas, and the occasional muddy paw print. I did not anticipate becoming the CEO of an international allergy task force headquartered in my kitchen. My dog isn't even two years old, and somehow he has more specialists than a retired rock star, football player, and retired movie stunt double, combined. I have now reached the stage where he has her own filing system. Not an actual filing cabinet because those are ugly and depressing, but a floral accordion folder bulging with lab reports, prescriptions, ingredient lists, and notes that say things like "Ask about duck?" and "Maybe lamb?" and "Who decided chicken should be in absolutely everything?" I carry it into appointments like a woman presenting classified government documents.

The truly astonishing part is that every veterinarian seems to begin with a dramatic retelling of why the previous veterinarian was wrong. One says it's environmental. Another says it's food. A third gently suggests it's probably both while looking at me in a way that implies I should somehow have solved immunology by now. Meanwhile, my poor Finn is just scratching away, blissfully unaware that he has become the center of a very expensive committee meeting. My bank account, I should mention, has stopped making eye contact with me. Won’t return my calls. And my texts get left on “delivered.”  There are special shampoos, prescription wipes, supplements, tiny treats that cost more per ounce than jewelry, and foods with ingredient panels so mysterious they sound like they were developed for astronauts. Every time I think, "This has to be the answer," another invoice arrives and another patch of itchy skin pops up to remind me that certainty is a luxury item.

But the money isn't the part that breaks me. It's watching someone you love be uncomfortable when they can't explain what's wrong. He looks at me with complete trust, wagging his tail after yet another bath he didn't ask for, another pill hidden in cheese, another trip to another clinic where strangers inspect his ears and paws. He never complains. He just keeps believing that wherever we're going, I'm taking him somewhere fun. Sometimes I catch myself apologizing to him. "I'm trying, sweetheart," I'll whisper while rubbing his ears. "We're going to figure this out." Then he’ll lick my hand as if to reassure me that he's already forgiven every failed food trial and every bottle of shampoo that promised miracles but delivered disappointment with a faint oatmeal scent.

People say money can't buy happiness, but it can certainly buy an impressive collection of unopened allergy remedies that looked promising at 11:30 on a Tuesday night. I make another appointment. I read another article before bed. I compare ingredient labels like they're ancient treasure maps. I celebrate tiny victories with embarrassing enthusiasm. "Look!" I'll announce to the empty kitchen. "He only scratched three times during breakfast!" Somewhere out there I hope there's one missing puzzle piece, whether it's the right food, the right medication, the right specialist, or the right season.

Until then, I'll keep showing up with my floral folder and my increasingly frazzled optimism because he’s worth every frustrating phone call and every penny I don't really have. After all, he's not asking for designer toys or gourmet biscuits or a luxury dog spa. He's asking for the simple privilege of feeling comfortable in his own skin. And if love could cure allergies, he'd have been healed a very long time ago!

Justify The Means (cozy thriller) and Christmas Bells & Wedding Spells Available Everywhere

 Hello Friends!

When I worked at Germantown Academy, it was suggested we call everyone "friends." This was supposed to take place of "Hey Guys" or "Hey Girls" (something that old school me always does and it's difficult to not say this when talking to a group of guys or a group of girls. But kids today get their feathers ruffled so easily, mostly because adults are steering them in this direction of collection (we are all friends, we are all one, individuals aren't special))

It felts so odd to me, calling students "friends." I wasn't there to be friends with them. I was there as a guide rail, if you will, to help keep order and keep things as secure as possible (well, this ended up being less about security and more about visibility, but that's another story, I have so many Germantown Academy stories I could write a book. And I just might!) Don't get me wrong, the kids at the academy were mostly well behaved. And they were smart. And I enjoyed hearing stories from them, but I wasn't their to be their 'friend." 

Anyway, this post was meant to tell you that my books, Justify the Means and Christmas Bells and Wedding Spells - are now available everywhere! Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, Apple, etc. Where-ever ebooks are sold. And you can order a printed copy on Amazon as well. 

And Sorry Bob! is in the final editing stages and should be available by the end of April! Just in time for May Flowers!

Justify The Means - A Cozy Vigilante Story

 

I actually wrote this book more than 20 years ago. It’s a quirky little whodunit set in Cranberry County, just outside Philadelphia. At the time, agents and publishers turned it down because the plot centers around a vigilante hunting down pedophiles. “Too dark,” they told me.

Available wherever you buy books! 

But here we are, years later, and the conversation around crimes against children is everywhere. People are talking about accountability, justice, and the frustration of watching terrible people slip through the cracks. It made me think…maybe the timing for this story is finally right.

So I decided to dust it off and bring it back to life.

If you enjoy a mystery with a little humor, a little romance, and a few twists along the way, you might like meeting Detective Molly O’Brien and the strange cast of characters she encounters while trying to solve
the case.

The book is free until April 1st. You can download the Nook app from Barnes & Noble for free and read it on any device. 

If you do give it a read, I’d truly love to hear what you think, good or bad. And I’m especially curious if you were surprised when you discovered who the vigilante really is.

Justify The Means...

Meet loveable but quirky (and always starving) Detective Molly O'Brien.

And meet her next assignment... a serial killer loose in Cranberry County, just outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

As the murder list grows, Molly's problems grow just as fast; her partner Jake follows the letter of the law, and is ruthless in his pursuit to find the vigilante.

Handsome FBI agent Luke Foreman is assigned to the case and carries his own secrets.

A bumbling detective compromising crime scenes.

A hyperactive male dancer who happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and worries he's a suspect.

And a gun found by Molly in her best-friend's closet that matches the one used in the crimes.

Molly soon finds the boundaries of friendship, romance, and the law tested as she struggles with the idea "The End Justifies The Means."

This cozy mystery has a little romance, a little humor, a little bit of an edge, and will keep you wondering 'whodunit' until the surprising conclusion.

(This is a PG rated book, contains light romance, very few curse words, and non-graphic violence.)

Signs, The South, and Lady Bugs

 Do you believe in signs?

I do.

The other morning, when it was twenty-eight degrees in Pennsylvania (far too cold for anything red and spotted with wings to be crawling around) I found a ladybug on my windowsill. On its back, wriggling. I righted it gently with my fingertip, and it paused for a moment as if to say thank you, then meandered on my desk and disappeared.

A ladybug in February felt like a cosmic telegram. At the time, I was planning a book tour, toggling between cash flow and Airbnbs, wondering if I could justify a little Southern sunshine as a business expense. I had my eye on a lake house, all soft greens and blush pinks…exactly how I’d decorate if someone handed me a blank check and a new home. But this dreamy dreamy lake house was only available sooner rather than later (and I’d wanted to go later – there are finishing touches to Sorry Bob! that I’ve been procrastinating on). But I wasn’t sure: was I meant to go now, or should I give it a few more weeks so I didn’t rush through the 2,747 edit of Sorry Bob!

What are you trying to tell me ladybug? I looked it up:  a ladybug symbolizes protection, good luck, and is often associated with the Virgin Mary. 

Though I was raised Catholic, I’m more spiritual than I am religious but I’ve always loved the Virgin Mary

Ok, but what was the ladybug telling me? It seemed to say GO! But…I started overthinking it. Because sometimes a sign is more about the feeling it gives you…  

Years ago (before anyone became divided over politics, that’s how long ago it was!), I dated a man we’ll just call G. He was charming and disastrous in equal measure. He gave romantic gifts (that I ended up tossing out moving car windows when I finding out he had cheated again) but not out of the goodness of his heart. But! I was convinced that if I loved him enough, I could fix him, that love alone could outwit addiction and ego and all the worst parts of someone pretending to be better.

One day, we were at a horse race. The least-favored horse bore his sister’s name, which was also  his mother’s. “If that horse wins,” he said, “it’s a sign we should get married.”

You can guess how that went.

The horse won.

And my stomach dropped straight through the grandstand. I realized (perhaps for the first time) that sometimes the sign isn’t the event you witness, but the feeling that floods your body when it happens. His sign said marriage. Mine said run!

Back to present day (if you’re still reading, thank you, I appreciate your patience) …another sign arrived not long ago, and it had to do with moving…though, as always, I’ll take the scenic route to explain.

When you reach a certain age, you start thinking about where to spend the next chapter of your life. My husband wanted Montana: big skies, quiet mountains, a place where you could feel small in the best possible way. I, on the other hand, hate the cold. I’ve never understood the cult of “crisp air.” I’m the person sitting in a sweatshirt in the sun when it’s seventy degrees.

I tell people getting married…talk about weather preference before you say “I do.” Love may conquer many things, but frostbite is not one of them!

But life, with its dark sense of humor, threw a wrench into our moving ideas. 

My husband got cancer.

Like so many men, he didn’t want to tell anyone until the procedures were nearly over… that quiet, stoic pride that pretends it’s protection. The medication stripped his testosterone down to nothing, and for the first time in our marriage I watched this strong, self-sufficient man become emotional. Tender. Not broken, just unguarded.

Then, one winter morning, he shivered as we stepped outside and said, “I finally get it. No more Montana.”

Florida was too crowded and hot for him, but South Carolina and Tennessee rose to the top of the list. And driving to Wegmans a few days before I was scheduled to visit family in Florida, a car with South Carolina plates pulled in front of us!

“See?” I said. “A sign.”

When we got home, I pulled out my Spartina 449 clutch that I’d purchased (because it had a map of the islands in South Carolina). I’d never even used it. I flipped over the label and stared in disbelief. The code number on it combined digits from my Social Security number and my husband’s old police badge! C’mon now! Even he raised an eyebrow at the coincidence. 

THEN, a few days later, in the Allentown-Bethlehem Airport (the second best airport in the world – Nashville being the first), another sign was waiting for me. Her name was Amy. 

ABE airport has this sweet little free library at the gates. I was admiring the shelves when I met Amy: fabulous purple jacket, Pilates instructor, and volunteer philosopher. She told me she’d lived everywhere: Montana (her husband adored it for the hiking), Idaho (which, she said, has “Idaho nice” people.

Wouldn’t you know it, Montana and Idaho were the two places my husband had wanted to move prior to his health challenges!

But Amy (who has lived in the Allentown area for a long time) said she loved South Carolina! If she could pick anywhere, that’s where she’d live (she had no idea it was on my list!) 

Naturally. Another sign.

We stood there chatting until her flight boarded. Amy was strong, graceful, the kind of woman who looks ten years younger because she spends her energy in all the right places.

 I do believe the universe conspires to help us. 

But sometimes, we think we know better. Sometimes, we overthink. Sometimes, the sign says: how would you actually feel if you got what you wanted?

So what was the ladybug telling me? 

Maybe the ladybug wasn’t sending me a destination; maybe just a message: You’re still protected. You’re still guided.

So wherever I land, whether it’s in the Carolinas or just in this moment, I’ll take it. Because sometimes protection doesn’t mean staying safe — it means finding the courage to go.

One thing I do know is, I’ll be trying Pilates! Thanks Amy!