Laura E. Taylor's Blog

In the past, I’ve always tried my best to be upfront and honest regarding my battle with anxiety. I believe it important, in a world where mental health issues are so often mishandled, shunned, or outright blasphemed, to keep up an open conversation about the very real struggles, successes, and failures that every day folks endure. I spoke often about it in the past, almost regularly, but since becoming a business owner, that has fallen away. The truth is, I’ve been taking Venlafaxine (also known as Effexor XR) for the past 6 years. I was initially prescribed the antidepressant for post-partum anxiety. At the time, the medication was a major blessing, one I needed to aid in my escape from the darkness. After nearly a year, I was feeling better, and I made the decision to come off the medication. I weaned off successfully; however, the anxiety returned just 6 months later, and my doctor gently suggested I go back. A lot has happened in the 6 years since. From little things, like denying my introverted nature to get out and meet friends in the same season of life, to big things, like purchasing a business with my husband that required us to start over in an unfamiliar industry – and meant me going back to work for the first time since our youngest was born. I have a support system now that is comprised of both family and friends. I have a career, one I am immensely proud of and one that challenges me regularly, and an amazing business partner. Our kids are older, more self-sufficient. My plate is still full, sometimes overflowing, but I have more hands to help hold it. So, on my 39th birthday this year, I made a promise to myself. The first part of that promise was that I would do my best to discontinue my medication, something I’d wanted to do for awhile. The side effects, though manageable, had gotten long in the tooth (increased blood pressure, weight gain, sweating, increased risk of bleeding, chronic fatigue). Add in the long-term implications (impacts on memory, impacts on the endocrine system, increased estrogen levels, among others), and I’d simply prefer to wean off and stay off. If it’s not completely necessary, I’d rather opt out. The second part, and probably the most important, was that if I came off the medication and realized that it was something I still needed, that I would give myself grace. That I wouldn’t beat myself up over needing the help. In other words, that I would practice what I always preach – to never be ashamed of the struggles or perceived failures that are inevitable, but to accept and appreciate the available help. Anyone who has ever been on an antidepressant – especially those who have tapered off of one – knows it’s a process. My medication is known for being difficult to discontinue – as an SNRI, it affects not only serotonin, but norepinephrine as well. I’m currently about halfway through the tapering protocol established by my doctor. That means I’ve been tapering for close to four weeks. It’s going well so far, at least as well as I expected, but it’s tough. The worst symptom is dizziness. It is a bizarre feeling to be dizzy while sitting down, and yet here I am. Along with the near constant dizzy spells come the “brain zaps,” which are just as miserable as they sound, though I’ve been assured that they are harmless. The dizziness leads to nausea, though thankfully ginger seems to keep that under wraps. I’ve had little to no appetite, but I’m much more thirsty than normal. I have regular heart palpitations and headaches. All of that said, my sleep has been more restful, and my energy levels are good. Aside from the physical withdrawal symptoms, there’s plenty going on in my brain, too. I’m irritable, and I have little to no patience. There are random times throughout the day when I feel like I could burst into tears, without any trigger at all. After so many years without them, I not only have dreams, but they are vivid and wild. I’ve avoided get togethers and even most social interactions because it’s overwhelming right now, with my emotions all over the place. And yet… The threads of my creativity are glowing. I didn’t realize that they’d dimmed so much until now. It hasn’t always been this way – it’s hard to explain, but there was a period of time when I was on  medication and my creativity was not stymied, when I clung to stories and characters like they were additional lifelines. As time has gone on, though, they have faded. I’ve toiled for hours – no exaggeration – over simple writing prompts. I can sit and stare at a blank screen, finally giving up because the words won’t come. For the first time in a long, long time, there’s a spark inside of me. I’m not entirely sure that it’s medication related, but I do know that there is a fog that is lifting, and I’m excited to see what else is underneath. I’ve got three more “official” weeks on my taper, as long as all goes well. Even though I’m struggling now, I look forward to seeing how I’ll feel then. If you know me, thanks for your patience. I promise I won’t stay away forever.

Gone are the dog days. Bathing suits, shorts and sundresses give way to sweaters, jeans and boots. The world, cast for months in solid green, yields to an array of color. Red, yellow, plum and brown weave a warmth into the atmosphere, paint scenery that takes away breath, a visual representation that change can be beautiful – and sometimes, exactly what we need. Schedules resume, and we fall into routine with renewed vigor; each year, a new take on old structures. In the air, nostalgia. The buzz of excitement from school children turning the page on a new chapter. Stadium lights illuminating a night sky at the nearby high school, errant cheers and chants audible from backyard patios. The flames of a campfire underneath melty marshmallows and chocolate. Stories told in whispers, attempts to trigger nightmares or elicit giggles – or both. Nights underneath the stars, spent with close friends. The crunch of leaves underfoot. A slight breeze blows across my face, carrying away the remnants of relentless heat. In its place, crisp, cool mornings breathe new life into my lungs, pull my lips into a smile. Steam curls away from a warm mug, tickles my nose. I close my eyes and revel in the calm. Joy bubbles in my chest. Finished with my coffee, I retreat indoors. Cinnamon and spice blanket the air, courtesy of the candle on the mantle. I pull the slow cooker from the cabinet, assemble dinner – beef roast with potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, onions, and herbs – and set it to low. My sewing machine awaits my attention, fabric and tulle already cut to size. Our little girls are masters at choosing costumes that are hard to find, so I’m grateful for the knowledge to simply make them myself. It’s something I’m quite proud of, though I don’t often say it out loud. The needle protests against stretch knit, too dull to complete the task. With a groan, I realize I don’t have a replacement. Thankfully, Halloween is still a few weeks out. As busy as we are, I can’t afford to procrastinate, so starting early is key. Of course, snags like this one are almost guaranteed. With sewing off the table, my laptop’s keyboard beckons; in this mood, there is nothing I would rather do than oblige its summons. I’ve got some time before the bus makes its rounds home from school, so I sit. Fingers follow old habits and I open Chrome, content for the moment to distract myself with recipes. Soon, I’ll need to decide what I’m contributing to upcoming family dinners, so I navigate to an article dedicated to Thanksgiving sides and give it a gander. The search is fruitless, and I wonder aloud how it can possibly be that anyone actually likes Jell-o salad. Shake my head because I’m fairly certain it isn’t and exit the page. A notification sets my phone off in my pocket. The bus is close. Time to get the girls.      

Remember. You are the only person who can give these people life. Your mind, your memories, your thoughts and desires for them, none of it comes alive unless you make it so. The demon with the power to summon shadows, the one who, deep inside, has the capacity for love. The girl whose throne was stolen. The Nyiathan whose story remains unfinished. The girl who needs to save her world from the greed of a Selinian governess. These are all voices that will forever go unheard. Unless you free them. Brynn’s love for Kyros cannot grow until she meets him in the market – or wherever that future begins. She cannot know the truth about her father until it is written. She won’t – she’ll live on forever with the broken heart she cannot mend. And no one else will know her or her story – she will fade away into a someone who might have been. So get it together. Get it together and find the words. They are inside of you and they WANT TO COME OUT. Find the mental block in your head and smash it to pieces. Watch it crumble. Blow every last damn pebble out of your mind. You are better than this, you were BORN with this calling and this talent and this need, and there is a purpose to having it within you. There’s a reason why you feel transcendent when you write, when you’re thinking about these characters and their stories. There’s a reason why you are so emotionally invested in the ideas that come to you. They are not meant to live in your head. LET THEM OUT. Open the gates. Even if you start with a trickle. A word. A sentence. Break the dam and let them flow. In 20 days, you will be 38 years old. A far cry from the young girl who wrote her first chapter book about an Apache Indian girl fighting to survive. A far cry from the young woman who published Nightfire, and then Forsaken. It’s been nearly 10 years since you’ve started anything and finished it, and it’s no one’s fault but your own. Smash the wall. Break the dam. Let the words out. You have to LET THEM OUT. Intent will only get you so far. Commit to this, commit to make the push, and you can do it. You CAN. I know you’re tired. I know you feel like the magic is gone, the tap to your creativity somehow broken without a fix. I know you feel lost, and I know the weight of depression doubles gravity sometimes. It’s for those reasons that it’s even more important to do this. No more excuses. God gave you this gift. Let it save you. Let it move you. Let it remind you WHO YOU ARE. It is YOUR tool, YOUR weapon, YOUR STRENGTH. USE IT.  

  “Never underestimate the importance of small things.” – Mrs. Elm (Matt Haig, The Midnight Library) I don’t know about you, but I’m a bit of a book hoarder. My TBR list is endless, and yet somehow I still seem to add to it weekly, if not every couple of days. This book, this lovely little gem of a story, has been on my list since it first came out – over a year ago. Good news is, it finally got its day this past weekend – and truly, that was all it needed, which was a pleasant surprise. See, I’d just come off of the final book in Sarah J. Maas’ Throne of Glass series (Kingdom of Ash), a nearly one-thousand-page whopper of a book that wrecked me fairly thoroughly. I needed something with a little less weight, something a little less long-winded. Enter, here, The Midnight Library. The synopsis: Nora Seed’s having a tough time. She’s living a life full of regret, and it only seems to be getting worse – she loses her job, her cat dies, her best friend won’t answer her texts, etc. The downward spiral continues until Nora makes a devastating decision: she decides to die. In between life and death, she finds herself in the Midnight Library – a place where she can experience living the lives she may have had if she’d made different decisions along the way. If she finds one she desires, there is the potential for her to stay in that life – and let her old life fade away. But if she is disappointed, she’ll be returned to the library to choose another path, as long as death doesn’t come for her first. As she experiences those other lives, Nora lets go of some of her regrets, makes some major realizations about life in general, and comes to find that perhaps she doesn’t desire death at all. It didn’t take long for me to get into the story. Nora is relatable from the get-go; she’s likeable, and it’s not a stretch in the slightest to empathize with the difficulties she’s going through. I appreciate the nod to mental health throughout her story, and even more the overarching message established at the end of the book. The midnight library itself is a creative take on the in between and though the somewhat brief quantum physics explanation is quite vanilla, it’s likely more readable as a result. This book, as with some others I’ve read recently (They Both Die at the End is one example) gets almost preachy at times, a bit earnest in its need to convey the life lessons it seems intent on imparting. Certainly, however, you’ll find no lack of little quotable kernels to print out and hang on your wall to read on days when you need extra motivation. Overall, the story and the message it sends is a positive one, and the outcome reflects that. If you want a feel-good story, you’ll get that here. If you need a reminder that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side, but rather where you water it – it’ll do that, too. And, if you find that you forget to slow down and smell the roses every now and again, well…this’ll nudge you in that direction. That, I think, is one of the true beauties of this story – some of the things it says are complex, done in a simple way. That life, no matter how it may seem – miserable or joyful, ordinary or fantastic – holds within it unending possibilities. 4.5/5 stars for me. Solid offering, quick/easy read, and one I enjoyed. I’ll be picking up more of Haig’s books in the future. Buy it on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/39HKoLO *My Say on Words is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by advertising and linking to Amazon.com. Making a purchase through the above link affords a small commission to me, at no extra cost to you.*

He greeted me with a familiar smile and a kiss on the lips in the airport lobby, reached for my bag and wheeled it out to his truck. My heart leapt at the sight of him. Butterflies scattered underneath my skin and danced in my stomach, and I thought, sitting next to him in a cab that smelled of cedarwood and cigarettes, that I could never love anyone like I loved the boy beside me. An alert dinged on his phone. A message, from a girl – one whose name my memory identified as belonging to his best friend’s girlfriend. Lips in a firm line, he tucked the phone into his shirt pocket. I tried to ignore the seed of uneasiness that bloomed in my gut. We’d been down that road before – the one where I questioned him – and it hadn’t ended well. I didn’t want that again, didn’t want to upset him. Dread spun a lump in my throat and I swallowed it down. We dressed up, went to dinner. We hung out with friends. We had a few drinks. He put up a good act, played his role almost perfectly. Almost. His discomfort was discreet, almost imperceptible, but I felt it. Doubt wove threads in my thoughts and inked questions on my lips. “Are you sure everything is okay? There isn’t anything you want to talk about?” The inquiry sparked denial that flowed smoothly from his lips, lies from a silver tongue that shamed me into silence. While he slept that night, suspicion got the best of me. I looked at his phone. I saw the messages. I saw what he’d denied, what he’d sworn wasn’t true. My brain, sorely programmed, framed me in blame’s crosshairs. He’s cheating because of you. Because you’re not good enough. Internal gravity multiplied and my stomach fell to my knees. Breath hitched in my chest, in the hole where my heart used to be. Misplaced trust insisted I’d missed something, that somehow a loophole would appear and let innocence reign. By morning, I’d let that voice convince me to confront him, sure he’d rid me of my greatest fears, take me in his arms and tell me we were forever. No. Evidence of my distrust led to anger, not love. Blame, always blame, never forgiveness. He hollowed me out, so completely I was just a shell, took my heart from my chest and crushed it with his bare hands. My eyes burned with tears that soaked my skin, my hair, my clothes. Shaking hands reached for him as I whispered a final plea. He choked out a laugh. “Look at you. Why would I want you? You’re pathetic.” “You said you loved me. You said…you said…” It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. “No one will ever love you.” With my heart ripped in two, my skin soaked in tears, and my limbs shaking with loss, I thought he had to be right. He was always right.

Tangled limbs and rumpled sheets freeze me in place. “What-what is this?” The question breaks over the lump in my throat, weak and hoarse. Curses fly, frantic hands grasp at linens as I yank them from the bed. Two familiar, panic-stricken eyes meet mine. Guilt drives apologies, but the words can’t pierce the blurred air between us. Nails carve half-moons into my skin and paint my palms red. My limbs move of their own accord, tear the glittering ring from my finger and toss it on the floor. Pleas for forgiveness sail through the halls, but the ringing in my ears drowns them out. Shock sharpens its talons, shreds my insides. Ragged breaths pull oxygen, over and over and never enough. The fissure in my heart erupts, shatters. All my love, all my trust, all of forever. Gone. Muscle memory maneuvers an exit, outruns stumbles and shouts. The car starts with a growl and grants a hasty exodus as tears blur the edges of vision and draw patterns on my cheeks. I was going to marry him. Flashes of the past set fire to my insides. I steer the car to the shoulder. The world tilts and I fall.

Masked guests litter a dance floor as ancient steps whisk fabric across stone. Some prefer the company of gossip and libations; others hide in alcoves and rooms with locked doors. A few, myself included, come to play. Moonlight illuminates the halls, lights upon a distraction. Spiraled curls meet her bare shoulders, a deep hue against fair skin. Her corseted dress highlights feminine curves before folds of velvet cascade to the floor. “Hey there, handsome. Want some company?” Dark irises sparkle underneath a mask of lace and feathers. Tempting, but no. “I don’t think so, princess. Invitation only.” Intrigue burns in her gaze, draws her close. Painted lips brush my ear. “So invite me.” A tilt of the head feigns consideration. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I think not.”

When someone of importance commits an act of nefarious nature, the world of gossip erupts. The worse the act, the better the talk, and, for me? The better the pay. I fiddle with the settings on my camera. Newly manicured nails strum a nameless tune, reflect my impatience. “You sure about this, Kenny?” “Patience,” The bartender assures me. “Can I get you something while you wait?” “Hopefully I won’t be here that long.” Nervous energy sends my knee bouncing. I meet Kenny’s gaze. “On second thought…” My attention shifts as a new patron makes his entrance, his neatly pressed suit and perfectly combed hair more than a little out of place. He flashes straight, white teeth at the female bartender and finds a seat atop a barstool. One crooked finger prompts the delivery of a martini, which he proceeds to down in nearly one throw. My grip on the camera tightens. Kenny slides a shot glass full of some vibrant green concoction my way, but I no longer have interest in imbibing. I lift the camera, frame a few shots and then think better of it. Shots of what? A newly elected senator, sitting at a dive bar gulping down martinis? Who cares? “Kenny, please tell me there’s more.” “Just wait,” he promises. “It gets better.” Time passes. The senator pulls his phone from his jacket, slides his fingers across the screen. Every so often, his eyes scan the room. At last, they land on the object of interest, and a low whistle escapes my lips. A blond and boisterous socialite – the queen of scandals and transgressions – approaches, aiming straight for the senator. The newly elected, newly married senator. Cleverly framed shots send dollar signs dancing in my head. When a hungry mouth meets lips painted bubblegum pink, I don’t hesitate. Gotcha, you cheating bastard. A smirk finds its way to my face. My fingers slide a folded bill across the bar top, into Kenny’s waiting hand. “Thanks for the tip.” “Anytime.”

I grew wings last night. Stark white and pristine, the pair sits heavy on my shoulders. Lightweight fabric wraps the curves of my body, shimmering under bright lights that frame a room void of color. Recollection of my arrival escapes my grasp. Just a dream, I tell myself. You’re dreaming. A touch of my fingertips against soft feathers suggest otherwise, their strokes sending shivers up my spine and into my shoulder blades. Nerves scatter and electrify in my veins. “Hello?” My voice echoes in the vast space, shaky and unsure. “Is anyone there?” Silence. My muscles protest as I stand, the weight of my newly acquired appendages contending with my balance. I scan the room, eyes registering white walls and floors, white linens and a pillow on a single bed; a room with no windows and, seemingly, no doors. Hope dwindles as my hands run along smooth walls, fail to find an exit. A shimmering portal appears, and through it steps a man, gentle-eyed and smiling. “Katarina. I’m so glad you’re here.” I blink. “Who are you?” “I’m here to help.” “And where is ‘here,’ exactly?” “Ah, this place…it’s merely temporary. A mindspace we’ve created to prepare you.” “I’m sorry. Prepare me? Prepare me for what?” “Your destiny, of course.” I raise an eyebrow. “I’m not following. Who are you and why am I here?” “Who I am is not important. But who YOU are, well. That is why we are here.” “Look, riddles aren’t really my thing. You think that you could just tell me what’s going on? And while we’re at it, maybe you could explain this?” His smile widens as I point to the feathered monstrosities on my back. “Katarina, my dear. You are here because we called you here. It is time.” “Time?” “Yes. It’s time for you to become a guardian.”

Hey friends. I hope this finds you well. Life is kinda weird right now, isn’t it? In an effort to distract myself from what’s going on in the world outside my door, I’ve spent much of the last week or so focusing on my family and coming up with meals to make that may be a little outside of our normal box. Click here to This dish is not odd in any way, but it’s different for us because we’re not super into pork. Generally speaking, we stick to seafood, chicken and the occasional red meat treat. However, I’ve tried to get chicken and beef from our local grocery store here lately without any luck. Pork, however, was readily available and beggars can’t be choosers, so here we are. Thankfully, even though my husband doesn’t love pork, he really enjoyed this dish. Plus, it was SUPER easy to put together, the slow cooker does most of the work, and the flavors are wonderful when you actually sit down to eat it. The pork is super tender – it practically melted in our mouths. I got the initial recipe for this from Cooking Light as is noted below; their suggestion was to pair the pork with polenta. In this picture, I served it with mashed potatoes. If you don’t have either of those right now, you could serve it over rice or quinoa as well. If you make this dish, I’d love to hear what you think! Leave me a note in the comments or tag me in your Insta pics using @sew_yummy. Stay safe, friends.