C.D. Taylor's Blog, page 2

You Can’t Handle the Truth: Husband on Trial

Women…will men ever really understand us? I mean, will there be some epiphany that every knuckle dragging Neanderthal on the planet has that will help them comprehend how the mind of the fairer sex operates? Chances are about as slim as monkeys flying out of my ass right now. Nope, still no monkeys. Let us use the man in my life for example…my husband. We’ve said the whole “I dos” and “till death do us part” mumbo jumbo but I’m starting to believe that his death might come sooner than later. Okay I wouldn’t really kill him…not now anyway! This would be a confession and quite frankly, I’m not that big of an idiot. What really happens after ten plus years of marriage? Are you still having cuddle puddles in the living room floor? Do you eat off each other’s plates and leave love notes around the house? Or maybe you still kiss each other goodnight and have sex a few times a day. Let me stop you right there. I’m sorry to burst your carefully crafted bubble, but the above is, how can I put this kindly…bullshit. On this premise I’ve decided to compile a list of examples. Evidence if you will, on why after 10 years of marriage, the only options are to assume a new identity and flee the country, or stick with it and hope you aren’t standing over your husband’s bedside at 3am with a bloody knife in your hand. But before you judge me, please admit to yourself that you have thought about dispatching your husband in a sinister way, at least once in your life. If you haven’t, kudos to you, he has you fooled into thinking he’s not a dick.

Time to put the Husband on Trial.

Plaintiff- The wife

Defendant-The Husband

Both parties have been sworn in, so let us begin…

Your Honor, I would like to enter into evidence, item A…. “You sure have let yourself go”

May it please the court that this piece of damning evidence was presented to council just recently. It was given at a crucial time when the plaintiff was operating a motor vehicle. She was minding her own business and wham! The husband in question hit her with this unflattering statement. I don’t know about the jury but if I were the plaintiff I would’ve bitch slapped him so hard his head would’ve flipped open like a Pez dispenser. But she did not do this. She kept to herself and didn’t say much while tears formed in her eyes. The husband in question laughed while saying the words “I’m sorry.” So I ask you good people of the jury, would you forgive him? Sure the plaintiff hasn’t fixed her hair in a few days but it’s still clean. She hasn’t worn makeup in a while, but there’s really no need. And yes, when she puts on pants they are mostly yoga pants. But this is no reason to tell her “You sure have let yourself go”.

I would like to enter into evidence, item B…. “We live like a bunch of pigs”

Ladies and Gentleman of the Jury, the husband in question is clearly a drama queen. The plaintiff has never, nor ever plans to have a home so messy and cluttered that it resembles that of a farm animal dwelling. She merely finds herself swamped sometimes that it’s hard to keep up. Does it help that there’s a child in the home who thinks the floor is a garbage can? Does the jury believe it’s right that said husband peels his clothing off like a snake shedding its skin, and leaves it where he was standing? Or does the jury think that the plaintiff is responsible for cleaning up after everyone in the home with no help whatsoever? I don’t believe that at all. I believe she should have help in the chores around the home. I believe that this isn’t the 50’s and that the husband should do his part.

Entering into evidence now is, item C…. “You never want to have sex with me”

As your honor and the jury can attest, a woman’s libido diminishes as her age increases. There are several other scientific factors such as medical conditions, medications…these are all examples of things that grossly interfere with the female body. The plaintiff here suffers from chronic back and nerve pain. Finding the energy to even get up in the morning is a feat for someone like her. When it’s time to lay her head down at night, all she wants, and needs to do, is sleep. The jury surely understands the immense value of a restful night, do they not? But alas, the husband is, after all, a sexually driven human being. He was given 2 heads. One above the waist and the one hidden behind his zipper. I don’t have to tell you which one he thinks with the most. A slight breeze could get him to stand at attention like a battalion of military men. Is it wrong for the plaintiff to deny this marital right to her husband when she is barely able to hold her head up? Should she go ahead and do something that she won’t be 100% in to? I really think the people in this courtroom would all agree that if you aren’t 100% into something, there’s really no point in doing it.

Finally before we take a short recess, I would like to place into evidence, item D…. “Oh you’re going somewhere, I’ll go with you”

As a trusted attorney of the plaintiff let me start this off with the truth about my client. She is a trustworthy person. She hasn’t done anything to break that trusting bond with her husband. But the husband in question seems to think she needs a chaperone when running to the store for laundry detergent. He won’t let her go anywhere alone, and when she attempts to, he gets what I like to call “pissy”. The plaintiff only wants to spend a few moments alone to reflect on things in her life. She is a writer. She has been given a brain that never really shuts down. There’s always plots, characters and multiple other things that she evaluates. But not having that time alone causes her to become confused and aggravated at herself. Thus setting off a chain reaction of bad attitudes and mood swings. The husband doesn’t understand why she needs this time alone, he only wants what he wants. Yet again, thinking with his little head. When will this madness stop?

Closing Arguments

In conclusion, members of the jury, your esteemed honor presiding today, I urge you to look closely at the items laid before you. Try to grasp the very nature of them. Try to imagine yourself in those situations. What would you do? What would you say? Would you be driven bat shit crazy and begin to feel terrible about yourself as a human being? Or would you brush it off and hope that the husband betters his ways before he finds copious amounts of rat poison in his dinner? The plaintiff can only take so much. Thank you.

So as you see, the male brain is incapable of what some would call a “filter”. It’s not an outspoken thing, it’s a “being a dick” thing. I’ve contemplated the fake identity thing, and yes I’ve had visions of ways to “hide the body” but here I sit hoping it will get better. I continue to shake my head and take things in stride. It’s not easy. So after 10 years of marriage I can safely say that no, we do not cuddle puddle, kiss each other goodnight or leave love notes. And if he even reaches across the table for something on my plate, I won’t hesitate to shank him with the fork in my hand.

 

Peace, Love and Pages

C.D. Taylor/Taylor Dawn

Sneak Peeks: Saving London Bucket List

Sneak Peeks!

Check out the infamous Bucket List from the upcoming Urban Fantasy Novel ‘Saving London’

The journey begins June 9th 2015

London’s Bucket List

 

Disturb the peace


Visit Stonehenge


Get a meaningless tattoo


Crash a wedding


Climb a mountain


Sing karaoke


Visit a truly beautiful place on this earth


Steal something


Ride a horse


Make a new friend


Play dress up


Camp in a tent


Dance in the rain


Learn how to cook


Conquer a fear


Visit the Sistine Chapel


Fly a plane


Drive a race car


See the Mona Lisa


Visit London, England


Go Trick or Treating


Believe in something you never thought possible

Cosmo says your fat? I ain’t down with that!

In this day and age of social media I find myself utterly disgusted at the way humanity treats females that have extra poundage packed inside of their spanx. No, it’s not because I’m not a size zero with bones protruding out of my skin like an emaciated animal either. I’m happy with my size 12/14 body. Yes, of course there’re days—namely when I try on clothing at a store—that I wish I didn’t have extra flab hanging on numerous unwelcome areas of my body. Granted there are many factors I could blame on the way my body looks, childbirth, the environment, even the daily medicine I have to take. But if I’m being honest with myself, and I will, it’s more than likely the cause of stuffing too many McDouble’s down my pie hole and calling it a “light snack”. Junk food? Yeah it’s a staple in my daily routine. Shut up, I know it’s unhealthy. I’m fully aware that my choices will come back to bite me in the ass later in life. I’m quite positive that my life expectancy dwindles when I even look at a Mickey D’s sign. Some days I happen to glance in the mirror while getting dressed and am truly surprised that my husband even wants to have sex with me. And he’s not a chubby chaser either, so I guess I should feel good about that. But I’m fortunately not thrust into the spotlight where my life choices, good or bad, are judged and scrutinized every day. I get to sit behind a computer, type away on my latest novel, and thank my lucky stars that people still think that writers are supposed to be fat slobs who chug coffee and eat skittles all day long.

Celebrities aren’t so lucky. Okay, I know they ‘chose’ their career paths. They knew what they were getting into most likely and signed on the dotted line with minimal hesitation. Money will cause you to do that. Money will cause you to sell your 95 year old grandma to a bearded Russian man, just so you can have a shiny new car. But we aren’t here to talk about money. We are here to talk about that honky tonk badongkadonk. We are here to discuss being all about that bass. And we are here to chat about baby having back. That’s right folks, this is about body image. You’re probably asking yourself “Why does a writer care about body image?” Here’s your honest answer…Because I am sick and tired of seeing my social media news feeds clogged with bullshit posts about how fat a celebrity has gotten! Come on! Haven’t we moved past this? Most recently I opened a post about how Kelly Clarkson has went from thin American Idol to fluffy singing diva. When she showed up to sing a series of duets on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon, people were appalled at how big she was. Get over it! When did we give a damn about how a singer looks? Is it affecting her voice? NO! She still belts out notes that most of us couldn’t manage even if someone grabbed ahold of our proverbial balls and twisted them. Give the poor woman some time for god sakes, she just popped out a baby not too long ago. It’s not easy to carry around another human being, eat enough food to make them grow and push them out of your vagina like a soaking wet St. Bernard trying to squeeze through a doggie door meant for a Chihuahua. And so what if she never loses all of her weight. Don’t like it? Too effing bad. That makes you an asshole, not her, for continuing to carry around extra pounds.

I’m noticing a trend lately where the target of our ‘fat jokes’ are aimed at the people who sing out favorite songs too. Mariah Carey, Adele, Jessica Simpson (yes, for you younger kids, she was in fact a singer) even country sweetheart, Miranda Lambert has struggled to keep her weight down. Again, who cares? You’re still clicking the ‘buy’ button on iTunes and giving your money to them. What’s it matter if they aren’t a stick figure?

But down the line all of this goes. It not only shows up in my news feed, but it blasts across those of some 13 year old girl that’s struggling to fit in anyway. Her body started to develop earlier than her peers and she’s already unsure about how her life is. Let’s do her a huge favor and show her, through social media, that all of the misconceptions she already has about her body are true, shouldn’t we? Let’s make her believe that she isn’t normal because her boobs are a little too large, her hips are curvy and she shouldn’t have that puff of skin hanging over her jeans. Oh, we should talk to her about thigh gaps, flabby arms, and the fat skin on her ankles too. We shouldn’t give her any indication that she might be perfect the way she is. We wouldn’t want her to get a huge ego and have her thinking she’s Americas Next Top Model now would we? No, we want her to feel shitty about herself. We want her to stop eating because, in our eyes, she’s just not good enough. Maybe she’ll eat though and throw it all up in the bathroom as soon as she’s done. She might even try to get her hands on some off market weight loss supplement, take it, and end up a vegetable hooked up to machines while her parents cry themselves to sleep at night. Do you see where I’m going with this? If you don’t, again, you are an asshole. We teach our children from a very young age that ‘you can be anything you want’. But in the world we now live in, I feel like we should amend our statement to ‘you can be anything you want…as long as it’s not fat’. We let our kids goes to school and bully each other because of minor imperfections that in reality, make us human. Perfection isn’t something any of us will ever see. It’s not a tangible thing that we can hold in our hands and swoon over. Perfection is a state of mind. If you look at yourself in the mirror and think you’re perfect, then by god, you’re freaking perfect! If you let someone convince you otherwise, you need to take a step back and reevaluate some things.

You can try to deny it all you want, but the fact of the matter is, bigger is here to stay. Want proof? Head to your local department store and check out the sizes left on the racks. What’s left? It sure as hell isn’t the large and extra-large sizes. Those are long gone. So are the larger bra sizes at Victoria’s Secret. At first I thought they just didn’t stock the sizes for giant knockers, but upon my investigation, I found that they did in fact stock them, they just run out of them faster than they do the sizes for mosquito bite bongos. And yes, I’ve investigated this. I sure do have a lot of spare time on my hands.

But alas I am one of those self-depreciating individuals that constantly refer to myself as a ‘fat ass’. I joke about the fact that if my life ever led me to dancing as a stripper, I’d need a telephone pole to dance on. Yeah, splinters on your lady parts wouldn’t feel too amazing. I’ll stick with writing, it’s safer. I know that I could eat healthier, join a gym and stop drinking so many sodas. But those are my choices. I made my bed, I will lie in it with my yoga pants on while shoveling Hagen Das into my gullet. I will never be back down to my original weight and I’m totally okay with that. Society expects me to fit into a chart of body type, well they can shove the chart in their asses. I don’t fit on anyone’s chart. In fact, I’m mother loving off the charts, people. So, go ahead and make me feel bad about myself. Tell me I’m just another fat ass trying to make waves in the skinny pool. I will tell you to go eat a slice of pizza because your collar bones are sticking out so far, I could use you as a coat rack.

 

 

Shameless Self Promotion:

Don’t forget to add Saving London to your Goodreads shelf. It will be released on June 9th and you won’t want to miss it! *Shameless Self Promotion over*

Much Love!

Peace, Love and Pages

C.D. Taylor

Saving London Cover Reveal

I couldn’t be anymore proud and excited about the cover for my Urban Fantasy Novel, Saving London. The cover was designed by the masterful and artistic Scott Deyett. He brought to life the vision I had stashed away in my mind and blew me away. I hope that everyone is in awe of this cover the same as I am!

Saving London Blurb:

“You have terminal cancer.”

London Patterson, a seemingly healthy young woman, had her entire life ahead of her. That was until four little words brought everything to a screeching halt. As the shock and grief begin to fade, London decides to map out her last year and embark on an epic journey to complete a bucket list. She wants to do the things she’s been afraid to do in her life, step out of her self-contained box, and see the world. What she didn’t expect was for a mysterious stranger named Adam to breeze into her life like a breath of fresh air.

Adam offers to help London complete her list on one condition…that she sees it through to the end. Agreeing on those terms, the two set out on an adventure of a lifetime. But London soon realizes that Adam isn’t quite…human. Along their journey odd occurrences happen that cause London to question who or what Adam is and why he’s helping her.

Follow London as she checks off her bucket list in this inspiring new Urban Fantasy novel from Taylor Dawn.

 

Don’t forget to add Saving London to your book shelf on Goodreads! Look for it’s release on June 9th 2015.

http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24894496-saving-london?from_search=true

Thanks to Scott Deyett for his amazing work!

Please follow him on Twitter @inhousegraphics

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/inHouseGraphics

Website: http://ihgraphics.com/

Peace, Love and Pages

C.D. Taylor/Taylor Dawn

Saving London Book Trailer

No Pain, No Gain?…Puh-lease.

 

No Pain, No Gain?…Puh-lease.

While most people are all snug in their beds with visions of awesome things in their heads, I am once again awake. No, I didn’t have a nightmare where something was chasing me. I’m not lying awake with rampant thoughts and plans jogging through my mind either. The one thing that is keeping me awake—as it does most nights—is chronic pain. It’s a staggering statistic that 100 million Americans suffer from chronic pain. Seeing that in writing makes you stand up and take notice, doesn’t it? If not, you my friend are an insensitive douche canoe. I wish I could ignore the statistics behind chronic pain, unfortunately I am one of them. I am just another slice of a pie chart that documents the growing epidemic in this country. Pain isn’t something any of us ask for. We are riddled with it because of some form of injury, or just because our body has decided to pull fast one over on us. Point blank, it sucks. There are far better things I want to do with my time rather than have to remember to take my arthritis medicine. By the way, I’m only 34…yeah, I’m young by most standards. But my body feels like it was developed in the prehistoric age, and I was chipped from a fossil. I’m fairly certain they have some of my bones on display at the Smithsonian too. It’s not a picnic when you wake in the mornings feeling like someone is shoving a knife in every joint in your body. You shuffle through the house and make a B-line for the bottle of medicine that will hopefully give you relief through the day. But as with most things, the effects of said medicine wear off eventually and leave you pissed off. You look in the mirror and ask “why is this happening to me?” No amount of hairspray or makeup can cover the fact that inside, your body is screaming at you. But you manage to trudge forward and push the painful pieces of your day behind you. It’s hard some days. You feel as if every single bone in your body will crumble at any given moment. You sit down for a break and wonder if you’ll even be able to stand again. That’s my life as it is for so many other people out there. Trust me, I feel for you. And I would take your pain away if I could, but I don’t hold that much clout.

Human beings are made to battle pain, whether it be physical or emotional. Chronic pain is a mixture of both. You surely feel the effects of the physical manifestation of pain, but deep down it does a number on your emotions. You start to wonder if life is even worth living if you have to struggle just to make a cup of coffee in the morning. But I haven’t given up and neither should you. Pain is one of those things that almost makes me thankful to be alive. It shows me that I am in fact still living and breathing—even if it hurts to breathe. The mental game I play each day is the most exhausting battle that I’ve ever fought. I give myself pep talks “you can do this” “Don’t give up”. But once I’ve finally made it through a grueling day, I lie down in bed and the cycle begins again. It’s like little beings from another planet invade and begin to play with every single nerve ending in your body. Those bastards. Why can’t they just leave me alone and play their childish games with someone else? But I wouldn’t wish chronic pain on my worst enemy. It’s no fun.

 

But where does chronic pain stem from? Some just have it. There’s no scientific or medical explanation for their pain, it’s just there. My pain has a name and a face. Its face haunts me every time I sit and think about it. A back injury. What began as a simple twinge in my back in 2010, turned out to be something that would change my life. It wasn’t just a pulled muscle or the fact that I’d slept wrong. It was a herniated disc that would alter the course of my life and turn me from a vibrant woman to something that I didn’t even recognize. Most of that year I couldn’t even walk. Yeah, I was confined to crawling around on the floor like a toddler, struggling to make it through my days. But most of all it wasn’t the physical pain that hurt the most, it was the fact that I was totally useless to my family. I had a child to take care of, a house to oversee…but I couldn’t. I spent sleepless nights crying in agony. I begged for death many times because I didn’t think I was doing anyone any good by staying around. But I wasn’t taken. Why? I still think it was because my work here wasn’t done. Surgery later that year provided the relief I sought. It put me back on track and soon I was dancing, laughing and climbing mountains. It was a time when I found myself thankful for the air I was breathing. Time went on and I knew that my life was back on track.

As with all things in life though, good things must come to an end. So did mine. In 2013 the pain returned. I pushed it to the back of my mind and told myself that I was only being paranoid. I’d convinced my friends and family that I was perfect. But I wasn’t. I finally gave in and made an appointment for another MRI. To my horror, it turned up worse than I’d ever expected. I need a spinal fusion surgery to repair the damage in my spine. Tears were the only thing that I could manage to find at that moment and I can still see the face of my neurosurgeon as I sat there weeping. He didn’t know what to do. In my mind, I’d been given a death sentence. My spine needed fused and my life was over. Months of physical therapy didn’t even come close to fixing the issue either. So, I made the decision to have the wretched surgery. I was going to face it head on, like the adult I was.

In January of 2014 I went under the knife and had 4 titanium screws and 2 titanium rods placed into my spine and scar tissue removed from my previous surgery. I can still remember the excruciating pain when I woke up in recovery that day. Imagine being stabbed repeatedly in the back, being set on fire and then blown up with a dump truck of fireworks…but worse. I moaned and groaned to the nurses on duty. But nothing quelled the pain that riddled my entire body. It was a nightmare, one of my own doing. It took major pain medicine to ease the pain but finally I found relief. I shocked the staff with my ability to bounce back rapidly and soon I was on the road to recovery.

Even though that surgery was well over a year ago, I still have residual effects from my injury. The nerves in my spine will never truly heal and so I take a medication to stave off the nerve pain two times a day. I know I’m only treating the symptoms, not the cause, but when you deal with this nightmare every day, you have to make a choice. This was mine. There’s also something that happens when you remove a disc in your spine, the rest of your spine suffers. It has lost a piece of cushion that helps keep the spine flexible and ready for action. You begin to have pain in other areas of your back that you didn’t before. For me, it’s between my shoulder blades and in my tail bone. I’ve learned ways to pop things back into place however unpleasant it is for innocent bystanders. But it gives relief for however short the period of time. But you do what you have to, to survive. And that is what I am, a survivor.

I refuse to let the pain dictate my life. I have a purpose here, although it’s not clear just yet. I make sure to treat everyone I meet with kindness because I don’t know what their struggle may be. I know that someday my pain will worsen. I was told as much when I made the decision to become part cyborg. But for the time being I am thankful. Thankful that modern medicine has given me some good days. Days to laugh with my family instead of being confined to my bed. Time to make new friends instead of spending my days in physical therapy. Moments to brighten a person’s day instead of feeling sorry for myself.

Pain is only strong if you give it the power to be. You can choose to hate yourself because of pain, or you can choose to push past it—even for a little bit—to take in the things of beauty around you. I’ve had many struggles in my 34 years on this earth, but I refuse to let my chronic pain define me as a person. I won’t be remembered as the complainer who couldn’t get over her pain, I will be remembered as the inspiring force who stood up and rebuked the effects that pain had on her life.

So keep your chin up my fellow chronic pain sufferers. This too shall pass.

Much love, and best wishes.

C.D. Taylor

Bombshell Film Review-Fifty Shades of Grey(2015)

Bombshell Film Review-Fifty Shades of Grey(2015)

Let me start off by saying…I know what you’re thinking. Jeez another blogger is reviewing the movie Fifty Shades of Grey. Can’t they just stop already? Well, you haven’t read mine yet, so sit your rear in that seat before I tie you to it…with cable ties and masking tape of course.

Here’s the thing, I find humor in everything in life. When I fall down I laugh, when I get a crappy book review I laugh and while watching this movie, I laughed, a lot actually. Why? Well for several reasons. First of all, there were some hilarious parts to this film. And the second reason is that when I find myself in an uncomfortable situation—such as being in a dark theatre with strangers while watching the equivalent of skin-a-max, I laugh. It’s my coping mechanism so if you ever meet me and I’m chuckling for no reason, it’s either because you are a weirdo, or your fly is down. Anyway, on to the point here.

This movie had so much hype behind it with the press and the millions of copies that were sold of the books. The world had never really seen literary porn like this until E.L. James slapped it on the store shelves. Sure there was “The Story of O” and the many Harlequin romance novels that your mom stashed in the nightstand. But this, this was something that made even the most well-read individuals sit up and take notice. I was one of them. My sister actually recommended the books to me while I was completing a list of the books I’ve always wanted to read. I was deep into Pride and Prejudice when she urged me to take a chance on this trilogy. I balked, saying I was not going to read dirty books. Ha! Looks like I need to have ‘hypocrite’ tattooed on my forehead. I gave in and purchased the first book—at a sex shop actually, and read that baby in less than 24 hours. The next two books followed in the next two days. When I heard the news that the books would come to life on the big screen I was psyched. I fell in love with Mr. Grey of course and Ana came a close second. This movie changed all of that though.

In Fifty Shades of Grey the movie, I was expecting to drool over the handsome Jamie Dornan as the lead male. But for me, he fell short. Sure he has his own brand of sexy going on, but he just didn’t do it for me in this role. When I think of Christian Grey, I think that he should exude raw power and sexiness even with his clothing on. Not so much. Honestly, he was a bit creepy. Yeah I know, in the first book he comes across as such, but I felt like they could’ve toned the creeper factor down a bit. He didn’t need to be axe murderer creepy. Another thing is this, I love how actors from other countries can step into a role where they are challenged to speak perfect English. And maybe I’m an asshole because I listen to see if they will screw up. Jamie Dornan is Irish, which is a sexy as sin accent if I do say so myself. But I picked up on several instances where his native tongue bled through. Not cool Mr. Grey! Do I think he was the right pick for the part? Not really. My picks were Ian Somerhalder (Vampire Diaries) and Matt Bomer (White Collar). But I’m not in charge of casting so what do I know.

Let’s move on to our lead actress in this film, Dakota Johnson. I went into this hating her character in the books. She was whiney, lost and seemed to have this ‘deer in the headlights’ approach to everything. And since Dakota isn’t too well known in the acting scene, I was horribly skeptical whether she could pull off being Ana Steele. But hold the phone! This chick blew me away! No really, she did. But it wasn’t only because of her acting skills. The part for her was written a bit different than the books. In the movie she was more self-assured of herself, she talked back more and stood up for herself. Me likey! Dakota had the entire theatre laughing with her antics and sassy comments toward Mr. Grey. I was pleasantly surprised at how well she moved from my second fav character to my first. Great job to Dakota Johnson.

There’s another area that must be discussed of course and that is the sex. For those who think that Christian held Ana in a WWE chokehold the entire 2 hours, you’re wrong. I’ll be honest, the intimate scenes of this film were subdued compared to the book. They were more sensual than anything. And yes there was nudity. More boob than anything but you do get to see Jamie Dornan’s tight butt and my friend and I thought we caught a glimpse of his other asset. But we could’ve imagined that. There was more sex than I thought there would be which had me reaching for my ice cold mountain dew quite often. I found myself chewing my fingers, biting my lip and at one point covering my face. Yes, there was a scene that was possibly even a little too harsh for me. If you’ve read the book you might know what I’m talking about. Toward the end Ana asks Christian to essentially do his worst. To show her what he really wants to do. This of course leads to her bent over a table while he whips the ever loving shit out of her with a leather belt/strap. Now, that was rough. The poor girl was bawling! I understand why they needed that in there, it was all leading up to the heartbreaking ending. But wow, in my opinion they could’ve possibly toned it down some. But that’s just me. Was it an abusive rape movie like some are saying? No. It really showcased the romance part of the story more than anything. It got you familiar with the characters so that the next movie could continue their story. It was a slow paced film that cooled down and heated up at just the right times. But the best part in my opinion was when they were negotiating the contract. Holy crap I laughed so hard along with everyone else in the place. But there were many good sections of the movie. It fit together well and if I have to be blatantly honest, it was better written than the book (no disrespect to Mrs. James).

Am I glad that I dressed like a complete fool with tiny helicopters on my headband, a tutu around my waist and a shirt that said ‘are we going to play Xbox’? Yeah I am. I wasn’t completely disappointed at all with this film. Was it the best movie I’ve ever seen? Not hardly. But that being said I will for sure watch the next two movies in this trilogy if they come to fruition. Not that I’m obsessed, I just want to see how things play out in accordance to the books. Call me curious I suppose.

So in conclusion, I would give Fifty Shades of Grey the movie…3 bombshell buttons.

 

*These are only the opinions of myself. Everyone has their own view on this so please don’t send hate mail and put severed heads in my mailbox*

This has been another Bombshell film review by yours truly, C.D. Taylor.

.

Writers Are Gross

As I was sitting around writing this past weekend I realized something quite hilarious. I am a writer. There’re so many stereotypes that follow my profession. But I really wanted to clear some of them up with you….

I am a writer, I live this glamorous lifestyle that nothing can possibly compete with. I set my own working hours, I have people knocking down my door to garner an autograph and I am followed by the paparazzi everywhere I go. I drink wine in the candlelight while I pen my novels and I am a jetsetter. I don’t have to do any sort of research for my books because I’m a genius, I know everything about everything, that’s just how I am. I have hordes of friends and I have enough time to hang with them and write books. My house is ALWAYS clean, my laundry is always folded and I have a gourmet dinner on the table every night of the week. My life is amazing, it’s filled with an amount of joy that is unimaginable. I often think to myself “why isn’t everyone a writer?” It’s just that marvelous…

Now, let me tell you why all of the above is a load of BS…

I am a writer, most days I don’t even change out of my pajamas. I walk around my house in a robe that hasn’t been washed in who knows how long. A fashion statement for me is when my socks actually match. Makeup? What’s that? The only time I dust off the bottle of that stuff is when I have to go out in public for more than a candy bar. When that happens, my face feels weird. I complained the other day to my husband that my lipstick was drying my lips out, that I hadn’t worn makeup in a while. Do you know what he said to me? “Get out of the house every now and then, Crypt Keeper.” Yeah that happened. But he’s right, I’m a vampire, I’m a creature that small children should be afraid of. I haven’t seen real sunlight in quite some time. The closest I get is surfing through Google images and taking a glance at an image of a sunset periodically. At this point, I’d be afraid to walk outside, I might burst into flames.

Showers are something that comes rarely. That is what deodorant is for, right? Okay, I’m not that gross. I do shower, but the entire time I’m in there…I’m thinking about my laptop in the other room. Someone needs to invent a water proof laptop, pronto. Make it happen people! My drink of choice? Coffee! Yeah I literally live on the stuff. Coffee and writers go hand in hand. Show me a writer who doesn’t drink coffee, and I will kick them in the crotch because they lie. Oh, while you’re inventing that water proof computer, go ahead and make it possible to intravenously administer coffee. It would be so much easier to have that glory of a drink pumped into my veins at three second intervals. Walking into the other room wasting precious seconds while the Keurig is firing up, isn’t working for me. Note to self: Move Keurig into office, STAT.

The people banging down my door for an autograph? That’s just my child trying to get in because I’ve accidentally locked him out…or myself in. And the paparazzi? Oh that’s me. On the rare occasion I do happen to put makeup on, I like to take a selfie. Not that I’m just so hot I need to tweet it out, I just want to be reminded that I am in fact a human and not a creature from the undead. When I get sick, I don’t have the time to see a doctor either. I take a few minutes and dig through the medicine cabinet, hoping something will heal what ails me. When I do see one, they remind me that I have high blood pressure. Then I remind them that I don’t really care, and then I leave. I may die from a stroke but chances are, I’ll have my latest manuscript done by then.

I don’t fly around the world promoting my books. I sit behind a computer making connections, trying to get people to buy my books. I write page upon page of words just so some ungrateful asshole can read it and decide they didn’t like how so and so acted. Then they ruin your day by leaving a review that you wouldn’t even leave for your worst enemy. Put it this way, it would be like working your whole life to become Miss America. When you finally get to that big stage, the people in the front row start throwing produce at you. Yeah, it’s like that. I don’t know everything either. I have to visit the library and check out stacks of moldy smelling books to find what I need, while being questioned by the clerk as to “Why I’m checking out so many different subjects of books?” It’s none of your business, do your job so I can do mine, weirdo. But then I come home, look in the mirror and realize “I’m the weirdo.” Yeah, that’s me. I don’t really fit in anywhere. You start a conversation with anyone saying “I write books.” And you’re immediately pegged as an eccentric freak who lives in the woods and writes with a 1920’s model typewriter. Wrong!!! I don’t have a typewriter, so the jokes on you. The friends that I do have, don’t make contact with me until I initiate it. They are scared to death they will interrupt me while I’m creating my latest masterpiece. They know that even if they did try and talk to me, it would be about either writing or reading some type of book.

My house is always a disaster. Not Hoarders bad, but almost there. I don’t live in filth, but I have clutter. I know where everything is in my clutter, so to me, my organized chaos works. I always have a pile of laundry that haunts me. Let’s face the facts that stuff will NEVER be done, well, unless we start running around naked. Note to self again: Check laws on public nudity. See if the punishment is worth it. I honestly can’t remember the last time I cooked a meal for my child and husband. I tend to stock up on things that can be thrown in the microwave these days. In five minutes I can have a delicious meal that is lava hot around the edges and frozen in the middle. SCORE! Food is fuel, but so is coffee and five hour energy shots.

After reading the above, I’m sure you’re asking “Why are you a writer then?” If it’s so bad, then why do it, right? Here’s why…writing isn’t something you do, it’s something you ARE. Writers are born with words and ink in their veins. We don’t see the world in black and white, we see the grey area in between and we want to write about it. We have imaginations that freak people out most of the time. When a story pops into our heads, we have to get it on paper or we will explode…or die. For me writing is about the journey I get to take while creating something original. I discover small things about myself when I move my fingers over the keyboard. Most think writers live in this silly fantasy world, that we are full of wistfulness and nonsense. But when we look at people who aren’t writers, we feel sorry for you. You have to deal with reality all of the time. WE get to escape from it. We can immerse ourselves into a story and stay there. But the cool thing is, you can too if you want. Every writer has the dream of writing the great American novel. We want our name out there, we want people to love us. We are baring our souls in our books. We write about ourselves in our books. So yeah, we spend countless hours leaning over a computer. Our hair is in knots, our teeth haven’t been brushed for days, and there’s a dish in the fridge that looks like a science experiment. But through all of the grit and grime, we love what we do. We cherish the moments that we are given to write. We could wake up tomorrow and have writers block, then it would be over.

Through all of the grit and grime of our lives we still manage to sit down and write thousands of words. We get into the zone and things happen like magic. For me, when I write, I don’t even realized that I’m doing it. I finish what I’m doing and go back to check it over. I’m usually amazed at the things on the paper. I have a Steve Urkel moment of “did I do that?” But I did do it, and it’s really cool! It’s okay to think of us as cretins who live in a cave and devour human flesh while we produce a book. We get it.

In the end, we love what we do, and who we do it for…the reader. We begin the books, but you finish them. And for that, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

Keep Calm Read On

C.D. Taylor

Roses are Red, Violets are Blue. Valentine’s Day, I Hate You

Ah soon with come that time of year when love rings throughout the universe. The birds will chirp relentlessly, every song will remind you of that one special person in your life, and you daydream of red hearts filled with candy. Yes, I’m talking of Valentine’s Day. The one day of the year when we pay 500$ for a vase of roses that cost only 12$ the day before. It’s a day when executives at the major greeting card companies sit behind their mahogany desks, smoking cigars and laughing about how the rest of us are idiots for paying 9$ for a folded piece of paper. The truth is, we are idiots! We run around like squirrels on crack, trying to find that perfect item to make our significant other swoon. But why do we feel the need to do so on February 14th of all days? Shouldn’t romance be a part of a relationship every other day of the year? I mean come on, we are using a day that a massacre took place. Nothing like that to ruin a romantic moment. Our symbol for the day is a fat baby with wings and a weapon. That’s terrifying! In this country that fat baby would be considered a terrorist if he tried to slip through airport security. The TSA would have a field day trying to search his diaper. And flowers…what is up with giving flowers? Yeah, they’re beautiful for a day, then they DIE. You are given something that you literally have to sit and watch while it takes its last breath. Why not just visit a local nursing home and bring home a 96 year old lady. Heck at least while she’s wasting away you would have someone to chat with. And the cool thing about that, she wouldn’t remember most of it. It’s not that I despise flowers, flowers add color to the drab world we live in. They sprinkle just a bit of magic around us when we see them. But the action of hacking their stem off, shoving them in a glass object and presenting them to someone we love is insane.

I wouldn’t have such a poor disposition toward Valentine’s Day if they would stop shoving it down our throats. I love the color red, but while in the drugstore the other day I accidentally ventured down the wrong aisle. I was assaulted by a Valentine’s Day hell. Hearts filled with chocolate. Hell, even buying one of them is a gamble. It’s like playing roulette every time you choose a piece to eat. Am I going to get a yummy caramel filled piece, or will I get the one filled with toothpaste? Who wants to take the chance? And let’s not forget about the heart shaped pieces of chalk that come in a bag of a zillion. I appreciate that my antacid is in that shape and is giving me the message to “HUG ME” but it’s so weird. Our taste buds are so damaged from the things we eat, we don’t think it’s strange to eat a piece of candy that tastes like medicine. But if you’re not a fan of those types of sweet treats, you could always go for the cinnamon hearts. I’m convinced that those were used in WWII as some sort of torture device. Have you ever popped a handful of those in your mouth with the expectation that they will be amazing? Then you find out that you’re breathing fire like a mythical dragon. You don’t want to waste them so you suffer through it with watery eyes and a red face. When did candy turn into psychological warfare?

Greeting cards aren’t much better than candy either. We stand in front of a display, pulling out the one we think our loved ones will enjoy. Nothing screams love like giving your wife a piece of paper written by someone else. You’re probably guessing that I don’t buy greeting cards…you’re right. Have you seen the price of those things? Some even have the technology for you to record your voice and offer the recipient a personal message. The card is only $9.99. How about this, I already pay for a phone bill. I will call you, let it go to voicemail, and leave you a personal message there. I’ll even make awkward kissing sounds when I do it. I refuse to give in to the hype and purchase a card that I know you’re going to toss in the garbage after I walk away.

There’s so much pressure on Valentine’s Day. The restaurants are packed to capacity with couples out for a date. Ugh, a date. Why do you have to go anywhere to display your disgusting puppy love? Can’t you keep your PDA behind closed doors so that others don’t have to look at you and want to vomit. The cutesy couples are all holding hands and whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears. Obviously they are not married. They still have the blinders on. They don’t know the terrifying habits of one another, they are naïve to the fact that the person across the table from them tends to fart in their sleep. They don’t know that the woman they are grasping hands with has a habit of wiping her boogers on the car seat when she drives. They just don’t know! They are too busy putting on a production of kissing, touching and making people sick. I only wish I could be a fly on the wall in their relationships. To be there in the moment when they find out every sick and twisted thing that each other does. That would be magnificent!

I’m not bitter because of some deep rooted psychological issue that occurred on Valentine’s Day. I developed my hate gradually. There was a time when I looked forward to getting a stuffed bear, or a bouquet of roses. But now, I feel like my eyes have been opened to the idea that this holiday is just another way for “the man” to stick it to us. It’s depressing if you really thing about it. We hop on this train of insanity with a billion other people and never stop to think that we don’t really need to be doing this. We are trained to think in a certain way because it is all laid out in front of us. The hearts and flowers are shoved into our faces right when we walk into a store and the message they send is “If you don’t buy this, you are an unromantic douche bag”. Then I suppose I will just have to be unromantic because I would rather tell my husband how I feel with actual words. You know those things that are made up of letters? The things that are in the alphabet and you put them all together to form a sentence? Yeah those. So let’s stop letting big business dictate how we should feel and act. Sit your guy or gal down and tell them your hearts desires and wishes in your own words. Don’t let some sweaty fat guy behind a desk with Photoshop do it for you.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make my dinner reservations and order flowers for my husband…

C.D. Taylor

Men Suck, And Here’s Why

“Men Suck…And here’s why”

I know what you’re thinking… “Men are amazing! They are so caring, and masculine and they are vital to making babies”. You may be right, but before you go all postal on me, let me tell you why you are 100% WRONG.

Men are creatures that have been put on this earth for one purpose. To piss women off. That’s right I said it. So go ahead and send me hate mail and bash my views on social media. But before you do, let me enlighten you as to the extent of my years of research on this subject. Men are not what are portrayed on the cutesy films on the big screen and on your home television. They don’t bring home a bouquet of roses ‘just because’. They don’t whisper sweet nothings in your ear while you’re standing at the sink washing dishes. And they certainly are not, women. Obvious right? Yeah I know they have swinging reproductive parts instead of ones that are hidden in a place comparable to Middle Earth. I’m not a complete idiot. What I mean is that Men are not women because they don’t think like women do. Their brain function most of the time is like that of a lab rat. They run around in circles hoping that door number 2 is the correct one to get the cheese. Most of the time they’re wrong of course. I understand that if Men had the same frame of thinking that Women did, we’d all be the same. But would that be so bad? I mean, come on, how many relationships have been ruined because the dude did too many loads of laundry or cleaned the toilet too many times? NONE!

So here’s the thing, I decided to compile a small list of the things that my significant other and most other backwards thinking males do, to piss women off. I don’t know if their actions are intentional, but I’m beginning to think that they might just be. Men love action and adventure. So their way of keeping things exciting might be to do these little things to irritate the female population. Instead, they are giving us just one more reason to contemplate smothering them with a decorative pillow while they sleep.

Can’t you pick up the freaking towel?! If this doesn’t resonate with you, then consider yourself lucky. You’ve found the one Man on this earth that has some sense of manners. It’s not just that the wet towel is laying on the floor like a dead animal waiting to be disposed of. It’s the fact that the laundry hamper is literally 3 feet away from where you dropped the towel! Does it really take that much effort to take a step and toss it in? Will your entire day be shot to craps if you have to extend your arm just a little bit to make sure it gets in there? I don’t know about you, but my Husband is a little soggy in the mid-section. He could use the exercise. Stretching never hurt anyone really. So why don’t they just do it? Here’s the reason. Men like to be taken care of. They crave that special brand of caring that only a mother figure can provide. Men like to leave that towel on the floor because when they lived with their mommy, she picked it up. She took care and coddled him, wrapped him in the warmth of her love by bending over, grabbing that towel and tossing it into the hamper. Well I have news for you buddy. I am NOT your mommy! If I was, I would bend you over and spank the hell out of you for being a lazy ass. Don’t get all excited fellas, I’m not talking about some kinky BDSM play here. I’m speaking of honest to God lashings. So do yourself a favor Men, take the extra 5 seconds and do the job right. It will save you the unadulterated wrath from your female that you seem to blame on ‘that time of the month’.

 

Congrats! You’ve made a quilt! You’d think I was speaking of a man sitting in a cute little circle with blue haired geriatric ladies while sewing a masterpiece that will keep us warm. WRONG! My ire here is directed at the times when my husband does decide to do the laundry. First of all, I do appreciate the effort, I sincerely do. To take the time to start up a machine such as the one that magically washes our clothing is epic. But why in the Sam hill do you not think to clean the lint filter in the dryer before each new load?! Why is this such an issue with me? I’ll tell you why. When I throw a load of laundry in the dryer—after you’ve tried to complete this task, and I pull the lint trap out, I am so elated to find that you’ve constructed a freaking quilt out of lint (insert sarcasm here). Seriously I could keep warm all winter with the thing you’ve made! Not to mention, you’re creating a huge fire hazard by not scraping it out each time. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not be seen on the six o’clock news telling a story about how my house went up in flames because my husband didn’t clean the lint trap. There’s no street cred in that! How do you fix this ‘man issue’? Well I know how I fixed it. One evening the man of the house was taking a nice relaxing shower. I passed through the bathroom and he kindly asked for a washcloth to aid in his scrubbing routine. The perfect opportunity arose for revenge and I took it. I grabbed the 3 inch thick sheet of lint he’d so wonderfully crafted and handed it over the top of the shower doors saying “Here sweetie, you made a cleansing cloth in the dryer, so you can use it to wash off with.” His face was covered in soap so he didn’t see that I was handing him the world’s largest sheet of lint. Now, we all know what happens to lint when it gets wet. It’s worse than wet toilet paper by far. I walked away laughing while he stood in the shower cursing. But here’s the thing, he hasn’t made the mistake of quilting in the lint trap again. Score one for me!

Reduce, Reuse, And Recycle. Oh how I wish I were promoting a way to a greener earth. But alas I am not. Do you ever find yourself reaching into the fridge for a condiment? You need that bottle of ketchup for your pile of fries and you cannot wait to squeeze the red deliciousness onto your plate for your dipping pleasure. But when the bottle finds its way into your palm you notice ‘hey, this is a little light’. Then you pull it completely out and find that not only is the weight of the bottle ‘light’ it’s EMPTY! Why is it empty? You know you’d never do such a thing as put the empty container back in the fridge. It belongs in the garbage can. Right? Or so you thought. Maybe all of this time you were wrong. Maybe things have changed over the years and the trash actually goes back in the massive cooling device instead of a can. Oh no! What is one to do when things switch so suddenly? Yeah, they didn’t change. Somewhere in the Man brain, there is a tiny nugget of stupid that thinks empty containers go back where he got them from. If that’s the case, then I’ll start taking my trash to the grocery store, after all, that’s where I got them in the first place. Here’s my deduction on this topic. I honestly think that Men panic when they use the rest of whatever they used. They think that we may fly off the handle and start a killing spree because they scooped out the last bit of Miracle Whip onto their ham sandwich. Not the case, Men. Women aren’t these psycho murderous machines that wait for the opportunity to plead insanity in a court room. We are gentle creatures that are full of understanding and vast wisdom. Until you piss us off, that is. We just want to be told when you squeeze the remaining amount of mustard onto your corndog. That way we can add it to the list of items for our next shopping trip. There is peace and harmony in this situation, you just need to think with your big brain.

I just want closure! I know you’ve taken in a film or two that features some sort of haunting being. One thing in particular that this entity does is to open all of the cabinet doors in the kitchen. It’s a typical sign that you in fact have a haunting on your hands. I’ll be honest, I thought the same for my house. I would wake up in the morning and see almost every single cabinet door open, exposing the contents. I was contemplating calling in some sort of paranormal investigator to check things out. I would shut the doors, and they would mysteriously be back open the next morning. It was a vicious cycle that went on until I decided to do some investigating of my own. I didn’t need hidden microphones or infrared cameras. All I needed was to hide around the corner and watch as my husband blew through the kitchen like an Oklahoma tornado. He would pull out whatever he needed and just…leave them open. Why? Why would a man do this? My theory? I think men have an issue with closure. With women, we crave it. We need to have it in order to move on from any situation. But Men? They could care less, it’s like their afraid of it. So they leave them open so they don’t have to face the fact that whatever is behind that door is gone for now. Their brain thinks “If I can’t see it, it’s not there.” Heaven forbid you think you’ll never see a coffee mug again. They are like infants. When you hold an item out for an infant to see and then put it behind your back, they think it’s gone forever. Their brain doesn’t process the fact that it’s really still there, it’s just out of sight for the time being. Men are essentially infants. There, I said it. But I just want my cabinet doors shut! What if company was coming over and I was hiding a dead body in there? Would you want everyone to see it? No. You. Wouldn’t. You’d want to help me keep it hidden so you didn’t end up next to it in there.

Aunt Flo must be in town… This is the one that irritates me to no end. Here’s the setup. You’re having a particularly terrible day. Nothing has gone right for you. The kids are misbehaving, the dog peed on the rug again, and the toilet overflowed into the vent like a waterfall. You’ve had it. Your significant other strolls in the door from work, a smile on his face, a pep in his step and just generally happy go lucky. He notices you standing in a defensive position, your hair is sticking up, you have some sort of substance streaked across your face (you hope it isn’t poop) and your mood it less than pleasant. You expect understanding. You expect him to say “Awe sweetie, you look like you’ve had a bad day. How can I make it better?” What you don’t expect is this… “Must be that time of the month.” Those are fighting words! Men, not every bad mood or crappy day is a product of our menstrual cycle. Sometimes we just have a day that we wouldn’t wish on anyone. But your lack of compassion and understanding on the matter is clear. You think that mother nature bestows the ‘gift’ on us every month so you have the right to use it as an excuse as to why we sometimes get—for lack of a better term…nuts. Not every mood swing is the product of the red devil. Not every terse word we throw at you is a result of us riding the crimson wave on a cotton surfboard. Sometimes all we need is for you to hold us in your arms and tell us that everything will be okay. Even if it’s not, lie to us. We will believe it in our current frazzled state. The wrong thing to do is to blame something we have zero control over. Trust us, we would rather not have to deal with the wrath of Mother Nature every month.

Now, I’m not a feminist. I don’t believe that the genders of male and female are created equal. History has proven that they are not. The female species are obviously more advanced than the male by far. I know that women have their faults as well, we have known to pull the crazy card out of our purse and slap it on the counter from time to time. But we wouldn’t be lifetime members of that club, if men decided to ‘man’ up and quit making us so bonkers!

C.D. Taylor

Walk a Mile: My Personal Story of Prescription Drug Abuse

Walk a Mile: My Personal Story of Prescription Drug Abuse

“Sometimes the strongest among us are the ones who smile through silent pain, cry behind closed doors and fight battles nobody knows about”

~Unknown~

At some point in your life I’m positive you’ve heard the expression “walk a mile in my shoes” followed by some grain of wisdom that you either shoved to the side, or grabbed onto. I know I have. I’ve listened to, and seen that quote placed with all sorts of issues. Some were mild, but others were strong in comparison. But I never really grasped the concept of the words until I was forced to use them. Forced? Well, maybe I wouldn’t go that far. But I did find myself using them for a personal experience that I would’ve rather not gone through. Then why didn’t I prevent it? That’s the question I ask myself every day of my life now. There is only a select few individuals who know my story, I mean, truly know the struggle that I had. I trusted them with it and kept everything else to myself thinking that I wouldn’t ever need to ‘out’ myself. But there comes a time when you need the one thing that you cannot find anywhere else. The one thing, that for me, comes from seeing my words in writing…closure.

So here’s my story. A story that may change your view on me. One that could make you throw your hands up and give up on me. But it’s also one that could save someone’s life. And that my friend is the only thing I am concerned with. I will admit, this has been the hardest post to publish on my blog. The fear of what others may think of me, and the fear that I would not be accepted has caused me to shy away from doing this. Here’s the conclusion I’ve come to…if you cannot love me for my failures, then you cannot love me for my triumphs.  But finally I realized that in order for me to heal, I needed to do this.

My name is C.D. Taylor and I WAS addicted. This is the true tale of my addiction to prescription pain pills…

You might be thinking “that’s a common problem to have”. And you would be absolutely right in your conclusion of the topic. Pain killers are the most commonly abused prescription drugs. In the United States alone, we consume 71% of the world’s Oxycodone and 99% of the Vicodin. Seeing it in writing is staggering. Seeing that you were a statistic is shattering. How is it that we are able to consume that much medicine in this country? Those drugs are Class I, and II schedule narcotics! They are given only by prescription, so how do you get your hands on them so easily? I have the answer to that— all you do is ask. Here’s the thing, I didn’t come from drug addicted parents I didn’t hang around drug addicts as a teenager or even in my adult life. I live a normal country life. There is nothing about me or my life that could’ve led me to this issue. I came from an upper middle class family with parents that have been married for 50 years. I have a home, cars, family and a great head on my shoulders. When you look at me, you see a normal person. You don’t see an addict. But that’s the thing, we tend to hide our problem well. So well in fact, that we convince ourselves we don’t have a problem.

So I suppose this brings me to the point where I need to tell how I came about asking for these pills. Here’s the thing, I had a genuine pain problem. Since 2010 I’ve suffered nerve pain in my lower back due to an injury I sustained. My first surgery was in November 2010 but as with all things spinal, sometimes the problem only goes downhill as the years pass by. In August of 2013 I found that my pain was back with a vengeance and for the longest time I pushed it to the side and focused on things that didn’t make me want to cry. But there came a point when I couldn’t take the physical pain anymore, I was done. So I made the first of many appointments with my primary physician. Thirty minutes later I had a paper in my hand that gave me access to 30 Hydrocodone (Vicodin). I began to take the pills and wow, I felt amazing. No more pain, I could actually get out of bed in the morning, and I had this euphoric sense of thinking that made me feel like I could do damn near anything I wanted to. It was great! So I got to thinking, “If just one pill will do this for me, I wonder what would happen if I took more?” And I did. I kept taking ‘more’ until those 30 pills that were supposed to last me a week, only lasted me 3 days. I took 10 pills a day for 3 freaking days! Did I think I had a problem? Nah, I was fine. But now that I had that taste of what I could feel like, I wanted more. One phone call to my Doc with the excuse “The pills aren’t cutting through the pain” and I was on my way to pick up a bottle of Oxycodone (Percocet). That moment for me, I didn’t realize at the time, was the beginning of the end.

With the Oxy in my body I felt invincible. My pain was gone, I could do things that I hadn’t done in forever and I could talk so fast I almost needed a translator to communicate with others. I had 60 pills in my bottle and I told myself that I would follow the dosage directions and they would last the 15 days that they were intended to. But yet again, I became somewhat enlightened when I took more. Without talking to my Doctor I upped my dose and found that that bottle only lasted me a maximum of five days. Damn, I was out of pills in no time. Shit. Shit. Shit. What is one to do when you NEED this stuff? I concocted a plan to get more. Some addicts find themselves doctor shopping in this situation. They find a new Doc and take the pain issue to them, and in the end they have a whole new bottle of euphoric goodness to get them by. But that’s not what I did. I lied. I made up a story to get more from the same Doctor. Here’s what I said… “I had a flight from Atlanta to St. Louis, and my luggage was lost. I had my medicine in my checked luggage instead of my carry on. I’m not sure when I’ll get my luggage back so can you at least fill my pills for a week until I figure out where my bags are?” ALL LIES!!! I wasn’t traveling, I didn’t fly anywhere, I was at home popping pills and feeling damn good. But my ruse worked. I had a new bottle pronto. I continued to take more than I should, not knowing that I was already addicted to Oxy. But at that point it didn’t matter to me, I just wanted to feel better.

This vicious cycle went on for several months and then December 2013 came around. I was scheduled to fly to the Dominican Republic on a much needed vacation that month and my Physician made sure I had plenty of pills to get me through my time there. Only, they didn’t last. 4 days into my 7 day stint in paradise I again found myself running out. But this time, I didn’t have the luxury of calling my Doctor, I was screwed. That was the first time I experienced narcotic withdrawal. I woke up on day 5 sweating profusely, nausea that caused the room to spin and vomiting. My appetite was gone, my ability to have any sort of fun on my trip was gone. I was in hell. I couldn’t wait to get home so I could get more pills to make me feel better. Most people dream of having a vacation like that. They savor the time there and make memories that will last a lifetime. Not me. I was in agony.

In January of 2014, I made the decision to go in for yet another back surgery. January 16th was the day. I was scheduled for a one level Spinal Fusion to fix the issues that’d been causing all of the pain in my back. This was my road to recovery. I was excited to finally heal, be pain free, and of course get off the drugs that had a hold on my body and my life. But everyone knows when you have major surgery, you get major pain pills to aid in your recovery. The same was true for me. I was given Oxycodone because of the extent of my surgery. Basically I was cut open, a disc was removed from my back and I was turned into a sort of robot with rods and screws in my spine. (And yes I do set off metal detectors now). I didn’t follow the dosage instructions on those pills either. I gobbled them up like they were my pain relieving candy. Yum, Yum. Once I felt like I didn’t need the pills anymore, I tried to take myself off of them. All hell broke loose. My withdrawal symptoms were more severe than when I was on vacation and I honestly begged for death while going through them. Sleep was a thing of the past with insomnia plaguing me for a week. I lost weight because I couldn’t eat since everything I tried to put in my mouth tasted like cardboard. Why did I decide to take myself off of them? Simple, I ran out early yet again. After 1 week of letting a narcotic like this detox from your system, you are pretty much past the worst part. But I didn’t feel like it. So, what did I do? I waited it out until I was able to get my pills refilled again. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Months. That’s how long this went on. I would run out early, go through detox and start everything all over again by calling my Neurosurgeon and having my meds refilled. It only takes 2 weeks of steadily taking Oxycodone to become dependent on it. I was on it for 8 months before I recognized that I had a problem. I was a pill popper. I was a pill head. I was in a legal junkie.

At times I thought I couldn’t make it through without them. I would’ve been fine if I had to take them for the rest of my life. That’s how damn good they made me feel. I would go so far as to ‘borrow’ a few from people I knew were on them when I couldn’t get my own. I would research pharmacies in Mexico online to see if I could legally get my fix without a doctor’s prescription. Anything so I didn’t have to go through not having my fix. Things were bad. I came to a point where I couldn’t function without those pills. I didn’t want to function without them. I even thought to myself “Maybe I would be better off dead”. Harsh thoughts from a person that values life and all it has to offer, right? But I didn’t give two shits if I lived or died, all I wanted was those damn pills.

One day, something snapped. Snapped in to place and set my mind on a positive track finally. I started to do research on what those types of narcotics actually do to your body and brain. I was floored. Essentially your brain isn’t yours anymore. It goes through a chemical change that leaves your body thinking that the drugs are your ‘normal’. Your central nervous system is shifted to desire one thing to make it function…pills. I sat down and thought about the things in my life that were worth more than the drugs I was on. My family, my son, my career…every damn thing was more important than those pills. I was just too high to see it. It was time for a change.

I began the long road to becoming clean and sober. The first thing I did was to develop a support system. I informed my family and friends of the journey I was about to take. I was surprised that most of them already knew I was an addict without even telling them straight out. But they were willing to support me in whatever I needed. That’s love. I can honestly say I don’t know how I made it through my final detox. I did it at home, and I powered through with inner strength and prayer. It was pure hell. It was something I never want to experience again. To lay on the floor crying because it feels as if your bones are breaking, to scream at everything because anger and hate is the only emotions you can find, to claw at your own face because it is so damn weird feeling you can’t stand it. And to beg for death, to desire that the life be sucked right out of you because you don’t know if any inner strength can get you through it. That’s how it felt. I can’t sit and type this without getting emotional. Not because I’m ashamed of what I went through, but because I somehow made it out alive. Why did I deserve to have a positive outcome? I was a terrible person while on those drugs. I said things to people that ruined relationships. I was a monster that didn’t deserve to be smiling at all now. But one thing this whole experience has taught me is humility. I had to apologize to so many people for the things I did and said. I had to take verbal lashings from others that I completely deserved. But the only reason I can think of that I am here to tell this story, is that I still have a purpose on this earth. That purpose kept a knife away from my wrist and a gun away from my temple.

If you’re going through something like this, know that I’ve walked more than a mile in your shoes. The journey was wretched. But one thing I won’t do is feel sorry for you. Why? Because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you can get through it. I’ve been clean for 8 months now. They have honestly been the most amazing 8 months of my life. No, every moment hasn’t been rainbows and butterflies, but I’ve been ALIVE in those moments. And that is the most amazing thing I could’ve ever experienced.

If you think you have a problem with prescription drug abuse, please find your road to help and healing. Don’t think about the things you’ll miss, think about the people that will miss YOU.

I have a life ahead of me that most would only dream of. I have wonderful people in my life that I don’t deserve. But I’ve stopped questioning why they are here. Because I know they were put here to help me through the good times and bad. Addiction is real. The people behind addiction are real. Stop judging them and help them. I would like to extend an offer to anyone going through what I went through. At the end of this post I will have my personal email. If you need to talk, vent or even ask a question about my addiction and recovery, I urge you to do so. If this post can save just one life, then it was worth bringing my darkest secret into the light.

With Love and Hope,

C.D. Taylor