What the fuck, America?

Why the moth finally landed here on Independence Day.

Six years ago, I found myself sitting in front of a balding psychiatrist, explaining why I needed to go back on medication for panic attacks. He nodded sympathetically when I told him about the familiar symptoms—throat tightening, shallow breathing, and that bewildering, out-of-body sense of impending doom—all sensations that were familiar to me, but I had not experienced in 20 years.

I explained my history with panic and how the attacks stopped once I was properly diagnosed while in college. I’d soldiered on with no panic attacks, but constant, floating “generalized anxiety,” which I managed without pharmaceutical medication (but self-medicated with booze, although I didn’t mention that to the kindly doctor across from me wearing a blue cardigan sweater).

His brow furrowed as he connected the dots of my story. At the time, I worked as an evening news anchor and investigative reporter at WBRC-TV, the largest television station (and a Fox station) in Alabama. I had held the job in my hometown of Birmingham since 2010 and before that similar positions at stations in Boston, San Diego and South Florida. I’d been working as a TV anchor and reporter, an occupation known for long hours and relentless pressure, since the late 90’s and my career had taken me all over the country.

“So you are on live TV each night doing the news with generalized anxiety disorder?” he asked. I nodded. He gazed out the window, a Japanese maple scarlet with fall color rustled in the afternoon breeze. “Ah, the paradox of the human condition,” he sighed.

He turned back to me. “You’re like a moth to a flame.”

What had brought me to that moment was the first (and only) written reprimand at work that I had just received. It stemmed from something that I posted on Facebook the night of November 8, 2016. Remember that night? How could any of us forget.

It was the moment that Florida was called for Trump and we all knew he had won the presidency. I was at my desk and looked across the newsroom where the collection of pundits who provided commentary during our coverage were seated. All of them, both Republicans and Democrats, wore the same expression of stunned shock.

My blood ran cold as my brain flashed over the cruelest moments of Trump’s campaign—calling men from Mexico “rapists,” mocking a disabled reporter and his disgusting brag of sexual violence—”grab ‘em by the pussy” recorded by Access Hollywood. Are you fucking kidding me, I thought. Heart pounding, my racing mind moved to the Republicans in my life who helped this sexist, racist cretin beat Hillary Clinton. My God, how could they?

At that moment, I needed to rip off my Spanx and fake lashes, and run from the newsroom screaming into the night, but instead I went on Facebook. I logged out of my regular account and logged back into a private account (so I thought) that I kept in my legal married name. This account was only open to close friends and family (so I thought), mainly for sharing photos of my daughter without the fear of trolls or assholes who had once posted disparaging comments under a photo of her on my public account.

“WHAT THE FUCK, AMERICA?” I typed and hit post. Hearts immediately appeared as like-minded friends commiserated with the terror and despair felt by half the nation at that moment. A few comments appeared too, all supportive, but I can’t remember from who or what they said.

Two days later a message from “concernedviewer@gmail.com” landed in my inbox. I began skimming it—they watched Fox6 on a regular basis, they had been a big fan of many “on-air talents,” however they had concerns about bias after the election and—here’s where I really started to pay attention—they “didn’t think it was appropriate for public figures (like Beth Shelburne aka my legal married name) to post vulgarities or politically charged comments” to social media.

As I read on, my heart hammered my chest, my stomach was a ball of ice. “I have many screenshots shared with me by someone who is her facebook friend,” concerned viewer continued. “If you allow your employees to post this garbage, I will no longer watch your channel and will spread the word.” My ears pounded white hot and my hands were shaking by the time I finished reading the email. Concerned viewer had sent it to the entire station and my corporate bosses in Montgomery.

Those four words on a private (so I thought) Facebook page are what got me called into the bosses office and written up with a warning that went into my employee file, the single blemish on an otherwise stellar career. The irony is my post captured a moment of utter honesty—what TV news consultants call “a memorable moment,” except this moment was not meant for a wide audience and did not express a sentiment the station wanted associated with one of its most visible journalists in a super red state.

The worst part was knowing one of my Facebook “friends” had stabbed me in the back. I suspected (rightfully) that the concerned viewer who ratted me out was really a conservative colleague in the newsroom who didn’t like me. It was terrible knowing someone that I worked with wanted to get me fired and I will forever connect that awful betrayal to the election of Trump. I was exposed, but also crawled with gnawing fear about what was yet to come. I remember telling the grandfatherly shrink that I felt like I was surrounded by fascists. What the fuck, indeed.

In hindsight, it all seems fitting. I was 17-months away from surviving a SCAD heart attack (more on that in later posts!) which would sideline me for 5 months and ultimately push me off the air and into the self-employed, no-holds-barred, opinion writing, solo investigative reporting and happy truth seeking of which I am currently engaged.

So here I am, pen to page and I think this is my first post. My podcast colleague and friend, Maura McNamara, mentioned to me on our recent drive to central Georgia that I should do this, that this is a good platform and she knows I have a lot to say.

I’m not feeling patriotic or proud of our country on this 4th of July, but I am 100% honoring my independence from corporate employers, traditional media and staying silent about matters of outrageous importance. That is something to celebrate.