Chasing Southern Charm: Day One of Birdie's Southern Book Tour!

 Guys! I did it! I’m currently at my first stop on “Birdie’s Southern Book Tour” (this name may change. If you have any ideas, please email me!” 

I left Bucks County Pa, to start my Southern Spirit (Southern Soul? Southern Romance (like, I’m in love with the Southern culture – I think I’m in love with the culture – the slower way of life, the manners, the food, the stories. But maybe, once I’ve been immersed in it, maybe I will find I fell under the influence of books like “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” and “South of Broad.” And Michael Lee West (wherever you are, I hope you are ok).)

But I feel like I’m going to love it. 

As soon as I left Pennsylvania, the traffic thinned out. There were a few stretches of road where I was the only car! As someone that loathes traffic (I mean, we all do, right?) this was thrilling. Some people might be thrilled going to a Morgan Wallen concert; I’m thrilled when all drivers keep at least three car lengths away from each other!

I almost backed out. Four a.m. this morning, I woke up, the house was still. It was that time of morning when all inside and all outside the house are quiet. It was the hour where questions of sanity push all confidence aside. The mean girl voice: WHAT IF YOU DIE. WHAT IF YOU GET KIDNAPPED? WHAT IF YOU GET LOST AND CANT FIND YOUR WAY BACK. 

I texted my daughter who was working. She texted back: You’re going. And that’s that!

And so I said, “Yes, that’s that. I’m going.” 

Also, I spent two days packing, unpacking (Chanel’s advice – but traveling wise: pack what you think you’ll need, then, subtract a few things.) and the thought of unpacking it all, trying to reschedule this bucket list/life is short/book tour was more dreadful then heading into the bad weather that the radar was taunting me with. 

I’m here in Harrisonburg. It’s just a quick stop. So no bookstores today. 

But I did stop at a Hardees in Virgina! I grew up with Hardees, and there hasn’t been one in our area for at least 15 years. 

I started out around 7:45 – hit some rain, some fog, some traffic, and then the sky turned blue and I had the windows down because the air just feels…more energetic, more…pure? 

As soon as I arrived at the cutest Airbnb- a big clap of thunder shook the sky. 

Which reminds me, the trip started off on a rocky note. My cooler tipped over and leaked all over everything. I had to pull off the road and ended up throwing the whole thing out because the water had collected in the fabric holder of the cooler. Note to self: only hard coolers while traveling! 

The second incident: I got off an exit for gas. Only, the exit I got off at was under construction and I went at least 8 miles in a slow moving narrow cattle shoot. I will admit to not being a Southern Lady at all with the foul language that was captured on my car camera. (Which has since been erased!). 

All the streets were closed off, and Google kept saying “rerouting” “rerouting” “rerouting” and then Apple wanted me to keep driving for 21 miles (21 miles! Are you HIGH right now Apple?)

So, I used common sense (which I doubt all the time when it comes to travel because my sense of direction is like a five year old chasing fireflies) and made the first left I could, then I reckoned I should stop for gas since it was right there, and the kind gray haired man with the racing t-shirt told me how to get back to 81 South. And then, he did the sweetest thing, he waited for me to top of my car, and I followed him out. When the split came to get onto 81 South, he stuck his arm out the window and pointed to the right, to make sure I found my way. I really appreciated this. And, this is exactly what I mean about the South and manners and a kinder way of life!

Anyway, I’m going to be stopping into bookstores and libraries along the way, as well as doing some touristy things! 

Day 1 is in the books. 

See you tomorrow! 

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!