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. Create an Amazon wish list and name it "What I want for Mother's Day" or something like that. Get creative! Make the list "public" Make sure to add a "shipping address" to the list. Share it on Twitter and tag me @TheSarahFader 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 https://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/ref=cm_reg_rd-upd?ie=UTF8&id=VKEDUBW6INGR&type=wishlist 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 - https://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/wishlist/158T2RS5ONBFS/ref=cm_wl_huc_view Mint- https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/ls/ref=?ie=UTF8&%2AVersion%2A=1&%2Aentries%2A=0&lid=14VX2TNDO0Y7K&ty=wishlist Eryn - https://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/ref=cm_reg_rd-upd?ie=UTF8&id=2GWPV8CXQ4XVX&type=wishlist Lea - https://www.amazon.com/registry/wishlist/2RBI2GNCS19G9/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_an_wl_o_lbggzb7YJBKTZ Can Can - https://www.amazon.com/registry/wishlist/320IGREWILWFL/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_ws_x_3Eggzb49B8RNP Aria - https://www.amazon.com/registry/wishlist/3B7CSGE0KWXO/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_ws_x_qfhgzbN9S5D10 Sakinah - https://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/wishlist/3MWALIP8EWTXR/ref=nav_wishlist_lists_2
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 [...]
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 [...]
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 [...]
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 [...]
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 [...]
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 [...]
My thoughts fly. 57. Coffee. 2000. Sometimes they crawl into the crevices of my heart, those words, feelings, truths and I want to hide from the rush of adrenaline. If I can't see you, you can't see me. Logic is something that we use when it's convenient. Emotions have capes that allow them to fly wherever they please. One day I'll stand before you and open that door so you can see inside me. That door opens so infrequently. It's usually under construction. People knock but I pretend like I'm not home. For you I'll open the door. Only you.
Free floating, heart racing Trying to make it through this one minute Knowing there will be many more minutes, seconds, hours, days and years or something along those lines and I'm hungry but for the wrong emotions I can't be right today or is it today? I'm not sure if it's today or tomorrow or Friday or Tuesday. It's Monday, and I know it. I'm just fucking with you...whoever you are. I wrote a lot of words and I'm not sure if they are good because I'm waiting for unanswered emails and I have a profound fear of rejection that I keep pushing through knowing that not everyone likes me and in fact the few people that do, I can count on one hand on a given day because I annoy the shit out of myself so how can anyone actually like me? But they do...like me. Anxiety causes my thoughts to race, my chest to expand, my heart to question what I know to be true and I'm glad that you're reading this, because it means that these emotions are being validated by your eyes.
I don't like to weigh myself because numbers are depressing. When I was in high school I ranged from weighing 110 lbs to 120 lbs. I was super skinny. People used to ask me if I ate. And I did eat, I was just anxious all the time and eating was a challenge. I never had an eating disorder but I did vomit bile in the mornings during my senior year at F.H. LaGuardia High School before I went off to school. Well, actually that's not how the routine went exactly. I'd wake up, feel like my heart was going to explode out of my chest, and I was scared to open my eyes. But I made myself do it. I was immediately nauseated by the influx of (what I didn't know then was) cortisol and stress hormones. I threw up bile until my stomach settled. Then I ate oatmeal, which my mom made me and I did mindfulness meditation guided by Jon Kabat-Zinn where he told me how to be a mountain. With Jon's guidance I was able to face the day. In college I gained 15 lbs, except not in Freshman year, it was in Sophmore year, [...]
I talk to you in my dreams. You're here with me. We sit down in two armchairs across from each other. I can hear you. But you have to go. So I'll write you a note on top of these sausages in this takeout box. But ink doesn't work on the sausages. You've already left and I'll find you again in another scene. It's so hard to hear because the trumpets are blaring outside in that large open field. I forgot to feed the cats. I better get home. I'm going to run through this forest until I get there. Only, it's not a forest, it's actually a sewer system. I'm underground and there are rats everywhere. My feet are filthy. I see a ladder, if I hold onto it, it'll turn into a hot air ballon. I'm flying now, and I'll get home in 20 minutes if this balloon goes where I think it's going. I'm going to let go of the balloon now, so I can fall to the floor of my bedroom. I'll close my eyes tight so I don't feel the drop. My neighbor sits with me on the bed and taps my forehead, doing acupressure [...]
My mind is scrambled eggs. I just ate poutine. I have too much going on and I can't keep up with everything. I'm dehydrated. I need to focus so badly but it seems impossible.
I defined my significance by how much you noticed me, when in fact I am here regardless. I scream and I can hear myself even if you're holding your ears. Nothing will change unless you let go and look me in the eyes. Tell me I meant nothing to you, because from your actions that is what I feel. I'm not lonely. I'm content in seeing myself for who I am. My invisibility is subjective to you. My existence is not predicated upon your approval. I want to shout "you're a bad person!" But that's not the truth. You are just blind. I'm still beautiful.
I have this spark and nobody can take it away from me. I'm a writer, it's what I do. It doesn't matter if anyone acknowledges my talent, because I know that I can write. Sometimes I doubt myself; we all do. Doubt doesn't make my talent go away. Doubt cloaks my talent. Doubt hides the fact that I can write. The fact remains - I am a writer and my words make magical imprints on a page. They dance and punch people in the face sometimes. My words are real, true, tearful and happy, but not all at once. Nobody can take my words away from me. You have a spark. Your spark makes you you. No matter how hard they try, nobody can take that spark away from you. Dance, sing, play video games or take computers apart. You are good at any of those things or all of them. Love your spark. Realize your talent and keep it close. It's real. You're real.