Mother’s Day Amazon Wish List Giving Time

Mother’s Day is a holiday rife with pressure to do the “right thing” or get the “right gift. I am taking a cue from my friend Jenny Lawson, who created the idea of Booksgiving. In Booksgiving, people created Amazon Wish Lists that were public and the deal was that people sent strangers a book that was on their wishlist! So here’s the deal people: I’m doing the same thing…but for Mother’s Day.

  1. Create an Amazon wish list and name it “What I want for Mother’s Day” or something like that. Get creative!
  2. Make the list “public”
  3. Make sure to add a “shipping address” to the list.

shipping address

  1. Share it on Twitter and tag me @TheSarahFader
  2. I will RT it and we’re going to try to get you what you want.

Oh hey! Here’s my Amazon List! Get me stuff

Let’s do this! You deserve to be pampered on Mother’s Day with presents you actually want!

The mothers and their wishes are below. Pick a list, and get a mom something! 

Liz/MY MOM –


Eryn –

Lea –

Can Can –

Aria –

Sakinah –

The Night

I used to look forward to the nighttime. When I was a teenager and first experienced panic attacks they were utterly exhausting. I’d wake up each day with my heart racing, sweating profusely, and scared to get out of bed. I did a lot of self-talk to get myself out of bed, but it was brutal. Life was a hail storm for me and it wouldn’t relent for several years until I started taking Prozac at age 18. I was part of the “Prozac Nation” generation. The daytime was so difficult for me, and I yearned for it to be over. I think it was because I dreaded living my life. There wasn’t anything to be excited about, however, there were so many things to be terrified of.

I was scared to face the day because my utter existence frightened me. I didn’t want to deal with myself because myself felt overwhelming. I didn’t want to live in my head. It was so scary in there, and there were no blankets or sleeping bags or even a night light.

As soon as around 5 pm hit, I felt instantly calmer. My body and mind had exhausted themselves and I could finally relax. Relax is something I don’t fully understand how to do even to this day. I looked forward to the nighttime because I associated the evening with a sense of relief. I could go to sleep soon and my brain didn’t have to work so hard. I didn’t have to work so hard to keep myself alive. Anxiety is fucking exhausting, and it isn’t because I was “dramatic” or “making things up to get attention.” No, it was because I was a slave to my overactive brain.

Now that I’m older, I have a completely different problem – I hate the night time. I was recently diagnosed with bipolar disorder type II. I’ve been cycling from mania to depression. I don’t know which way is up and I feel like I’m in a Dr. Seuss story, because nothing makes sense. I’m in this mixed episode right now. Sometimes I feel euphoric and other times I feel down. Sometimes I’m in the fetal position crying on my bed, while other times I’m singing my favorite songs at the top of my lungs on the streets of Brooklyn and not giving a shit what over people think.

The day time is fantastic, but as soon as the afternoon hits, so does my sadness. I feel lonely, isolated and like no one cares about me. It’s truly an awful feeling that I do not wish upon my worst enemy. Bipolar disorder is no joke. There’s irritability, paranoia, hyper-sexuality, sadness, and random experiences of euphoria.

At 4pm it starts – I feel so alone. The tears well up in my eyes and I want to hide from the world. I feel like no one gives a shit about me and I just don’t want to exist anymore. I want to find a bed to hide under, a closet to hide in or a dark quiet place where no one can find me and I can cry in peace. I’ve been told that these feelings will get easier, that they will lift once my medication increases. I’m on 100 mg of Lamictal now and I’m moving to 200 mg next week. Hopefully, with that increased dosage I’ll start to feel better. I need that hope, that faith that it’s going to be all right. I don’t have anything right now, and people keep telling me how strong I am.

Fuck strong

Fuck brave

Fuck getting through this

I want to cry and scream and be vulnerable and that is okay. I’m allowed to feel my feelings, because they are mine to feel. I didn’t ask to be bipolar and I sure as fuck didn’t ask to hate the nighttime as much as I do. I don’t want to cry myself to sleep anymore. I just can’t do it, and I shouldn’t have to.

I shouldn’t have to. Period.

I don’t have an ending to this story. Maybe you can tell me how it ends or lie to me. Lie to me and tell me that you KNOW it’ll be okay.




I’m drowning.

I feel the water in my lungs and I want to cough but I can’t find a way to get the liquid out of my body. It’s disgusting and terrible, but nothing matters anymore so I’ll just let go and relent into the pain of now know when or how it’ll happen. Maybe you killed me, or I killed myself.

I wasn’t able to speak about how I was hurting so instead I sunk to the bottom of this lake. So why didn’t you come find me? I don’t understand. I know I shouldn’t have waited for you. You said you had somewhere to be.

It’s going to be okay here. I can see the minnows and some rocks. I wish I could cry, but I can’t because I’m choking on water and I’m surrounded by water anyway. What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?

I’ll just lay down for a while and rest my eyes, even though I can’t see anything. I like the darkness.

I’m scared. Will you save me? I’m chained to the rock.

There’s electricity in my hands. If I focus hard and long enough I can break these chains and swim to the surface. Do you want me to? Can I see you again? Do you want to see me? I don’t know.

I’m not Sylvia Plath.

I’m not J.D. Salinger

I’m me, and I don’t want to die, so I won’t. I promise.

My hands break the chains and I push myself to the surface of this pond. I cough out the water and bile. I push my hair out of my face and swim to the edge of the lake. This is the beginning.


What Kind of Asshole Are You?

Did you know that there are different kinds of assholes in the world? Well, I’m here to tell you that there are.

Professional Assholes

I consider myself to be a professional asshole. This means that I’m your friend, I’m loyal and kind until you start behaving in a way that is counterproductive to your life. At that moment, I bring out my professional asshole skills and give you some tough love. You need to get your shit together and I’ll be by your side to help you do that. This is part of my job as a professional asshole; to support you but give you my honest opinion on how you are fucking things up.

We all fuck up our lives and make mistakes

Show me a person who doesn’t make mistakes and I will show you that Falcor from the Neverending Story is my pet in real life. You can’t hold up your end of the bargain, and I don’t own a luck dragon. Everyone makes mistakes, we’re not infallible and we need to own that. That’s what a professional asshole is for. A professional asshole helps you to recognize your life blunders and repair them.

Certfied Fucking Assholes

There’s another type of asshole that exists that isn’t a kind hearted one. This person is entitled a “certified fucking asshole.” You’ve seen him cutting your car off on the highway, backstabbing you at work, making you feel crazy for having feelings of any kind and being a “life ruiner” in a variety of capacities. From my empirical experience, there are statistically more certified fucking assholes in the world than there are professional assholes. It’s upsetting that the balance is set up this way, but it makes you appreciate the professional assholes when you find them.

Professional Assholes are Good People, While Certified Fucking Assholes Are Terrible People

I’m certain that people will take issue with this distinction, however, I’m going to assert that there are good and bad people in the world. Someone who commits murder is (in my opinion) a bad person. A professional assholes is a good human. He/she is out to help others through showing setting boundaries, telling the truth and being a loyal friend. Meanwhile, a certified fucking asshole is likely narcissistic, self-serving, and looking to sabotage you. There are varying degrees of evil, but as a rule, it’s wise to avoid certified fucking assholes at all costs.

What Kind of Asshole are YOU?

It’s time to ask yourself the hard question. What kind of asshole are you? Are you looking to ruin people’s lives or are you attempting to better them? It is my hope that we can all be professional assholes. Be real, be yourself and do not be afraid to show your friend some good old fashioned tough love. She probably needs it right now if she’s going through a divorce.


Unstable Homeless Man Attacks Innocent People at @McDonalds

Dear McDonalds,

I took my kids to the McDonalds location on Flatbush Avenue at The Atlantic Mall today. I never go to your restaurant, because my kids normally don’t eat fast food. However, we had a snow day today, and I wanted to give them a treat. Jashana, the shift manager, was very kind and took our order. It was around 11 am  when we entered your establishment. We sat down to eat in a booth. All of a sudden a homeless man (he identified himself as “a bum”) entered the restaurant.

“I’m a bum. I’m a fucking bum right?!” He screamed at the customers.

It was truly unsettling. My kids and I tried to ignore him as we ate our food. Despite our efforts to enjoy our food, the man persisted in harassing Jashana and the other customers. He screamed at this innocent woman behind the counter saying “when you go home, you suck your man’s dick! I know you do.”

Now, my children are six and eight years of age. They don’t know what a blow job is, but after we exited the restaurant my eight-year-old asked me what “sucking a dick” meant. I didn’t anticipate having that conversation with my child, and I shouldn’t have to. McDonald’s is supposed to be a family-friendly restaurant.

The man began to get louder and louder and no one did anything to stop him. I said loudly:

“I think someone needs to call the cops. Don’t you think?” I was afraid for my family’s safety. The McDonald’s employees said that they have tried to get the police involved, but it takes too long for them to come and respond to the scene, so they just gave up on calling them when these types of incidents happen.

I’m disturbed that the employees were being harassed by this man, but here’s the even more upsetting part: it isn’t the first time it’s happened. This man has been coming into this location every morning, Jashana tells me. He has been being verbally abusive to the employees and the customers. This is wrong, and you need to take action.

What can we do about the safety of the employees at store #27008? Can we help them in some way? Please investigate this matter and contact the owner: Dave Hatton. I don’t want the employees to be hurt by this man, who is clearly a predator.

Thank you,

Sarah Fader – Single Mom


The door is open for you to be yourself

I opened the door for you. I’m holding it ajar with my body, and ushering you inside with my right hand; it’s an invitation for you to be yourself. You don’t have to pretend to be someone else, because who you are is beautiful. I won’t ask you to change for me. I like you the way you are. That’s why you are my friend. And I appreciate how similar we are and also how vastly different. We come from disparate universes, but I still love you, because you are you. I can see the light shining inside your eyes. They are small pebbles but they sparkle in the dark night. I want to look into them again and smile when I do it. I’m here to tell you that you matter. I’m standing in front of you telling you the honest truth, that you are incredible and you can. You can do that thing you’re afraid of doing, but you want to do so badly. I believe in you as much as I believe in me. I see myself in you, and I also see how we make each other’s lives better. There are so many things I want to tell you and I can’t talk fast enough or long enough to let them out. You inspire me in a way that I haven’t felt in so long, and that means everything to me. I can hardly speak through these tears because I’m grateful for the ability to feel again. For a while I lost that muse, that voice, that me, but you reminded me what I am, who I am and for that I can only say thank you. Come inside and sit down beside this fire with me, and tell me about your dreams. Let’s make them come true.


I don’t feel creative

I don’t feel creative and yet here I am writing this. It’s because I want so much to feel creative. I want to feel that spark, the adrenaline, the drive, the want to create and feel something and yet I feel like a broken pencil tip, a dull razor blade, because I don’t feel anything at all.

I’m banging on the door to my heart and it isn’t answering. Maybe no one’s home right now, it’s all I can figure. My emotions went on vacation and they didn’t leave anyone to house sit inside the confines of my body. So I’m a blank slate, a walking outline of a person who once felt deeply. I will feel again when I’m not floating above these feelings. Although, it feels nice to fly away from them sometimes. Other times they are surrounding me and I don’t know what to do with them.

Not today, today I don’t feel. Today I’m an empty cup and other boring metaphors. Still I write because my fingers remind me to, and my passion, which is buried under all this gray ambiguous nothing, is peaking out through the curtains wanting to be seen.




I have too many questions and no answers; that’s what life is about. I remember sitting in elementary school in the fifth grade, quietly raising my hand hoping that I would get called on, because I knew I had the right answer. It was devasting when Mrs. Gumbs called on someone else, because I knew my answer was correct. Time passed by, but my passion to speak the right answer never disappeared. I sat in 8th grade English class with my hand held high waiting to express my favorite beat poet’s name:Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I can feel the stiffness in my arm from waiting, and I’m not longer 13, I’m 37.

My worth isn’t predicated on whether I know the right answer, but I believed it was at the time.

When my hand stopped flying up in high school, it was hard. When my confidence dropped, it was difficult. I wasn’t mastering pre-calculus and I couldn’t raise my hand anymore with confidence. I had more questions than answers and my feet were what I was looking at more than the teacher’s gaze.

In college my heart pounded when I raised my hand, even if I was certain my answer was correct. I was nervous and sought the validation of the other students around me, but more importantly I wanted to impress the professor at the head of the lecture hall.

Now that I’m 37, the opportunities to raise my hand are few and far between. I want to give my feedback, to be correct, to know something, but there isn’t anyone’s gaze to meet, or professional to impress.

In order to answer those questions, I have to find people out in the world to help me. But there are so many people out there. How do I know who to trust? The answer is inside myself like it’s always been. That’s why I’ve been raising my hand all these years.

questions or decision making concept

questions or decision making concept

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