Be Better

Be Better

I woke up this morning feeling a little bit better. My heart was still racing but I believe there is something to look forward to. No fuck that, I know there is something to look forward to.

It lies within me. I am the master of my own destiny. I make the choices that contribute to me and my happiness.

It does scare the shit out of me. I’m not going to lie.


I’ve always been a terrible liar. And when I try to do it people seem to know. So I don’t bother trying. Sometimes I will be silent, but I will not tell an untruth.


Feeling guilty is a waste of time. It doesn’t mean that we can’t feel those feelings because they happen organically.

I want to be OK. And I know that one day I will feel that; even if it is just for a moment.

And the reason that I know that is because I’m sitting here on my couch feeling OK in this moment.

Everything and I mean everything is going to be all right. Bob Marley was onto something.

Out of the Cave and in to the Light


I walk into the dark cavernous space holding my flashlight. I try to turn it on but the switch isn’t working. It just keeps clicking and my feet start tapping nervously.

He is lurking in the shadows of this space. I can hear the shore waves creeping up. The sand is wet outside and I close my eyes wishing that I could be immersed in the ocean so I didn’t have to stand up anymore.

He’s there. But he doesn’t say anything.

My blood is hot and almost boiling and I can’t move my feet because the light won’t work and he doesn’t love me anymore so what’s the point of turning the light on anyway?

If he sees me, he’ll stare right through me.

Even in the dark I know…

He is looking through my face I don’t matter anymore and I can’t handle that.

I feel the rage bubbling in my stomach and it runs through my veins. I feel electric, powerful and full of hope. My hand is on fire and the flashlight turns on. I drop it to the ground and shake trying to extinguish the fire.

Then I feel it

His arms wrap around me and he says:

“I remember now- every moment- I remember.”

I believe him and the tears start to run down my face. They are hot and fierce. I am so strong within his grasp and I turn around and say:

“Thank you.”

He holds me and I know that everything (yes everything) in this moment will be fine.

I hear him in my head from years ago:

“It’s going to be fine. You think too much.”

It used to make me angry and now I understand what he meant. I need to shut the fuck up. I need to tell my brain to be quiet. Sit down. Be still. And listen.

He touches my face and nods.

“Go. I will still be here when you return.”

I smile at him in the dim light and run out onto the beach. It’s sunrise and I’m laughing and crying at the same time. I’m running and sweating, and I reach the shore line. I don’t think – I just throw my body into the ocean. He would be proud.

I’ll see him when I return, when I pick my self up and dry myself off.

I’m not worried.

I will be fine.

You’ve Never Sat on My Couch

You came to New York on my birthday – 10/17 in 2004. It had to mean something.

It had to be a sign.

People come into your life for a reason and I miss you.

I’ll never stop loving you and my whole body feels like broken glass.

I don’t think you can ever forgive me for how I treated you.

But we were fire and fire together, and it exploded, which was sometimes great and other times overwhelming.

And I blamed everything on you, which became an imbalance in our connection. I can’t take it all back. I can’t make it better. I can’t fix things. I can’t fix us.

But I want to. I love you and those words- they mean something to me. The more you tell me you can’t hear me and Implicitly say I don’t matter, the more I can’t feel my face from crying.

I want to jump in a time machine and go back to 2014. I want to change that day that everything went to shit. I want to tell you I’m sorry, I’ll be more patient. I won’t try to make you talk when you don’t want to. I won’t be afraid of you because you’re not a monster, you’re a human being.

And if I could change it all for the better I would. But I fucked it up, I made it about me when it was about us.

I made it about your shortcomings when I am not perfect, I have things that I am not proud of.

I’m imperfect and scared and I miss you sitting next to me on the couch watching trashy reality TV.

Now we have a new couch that you’ve never sat on and it makes me so fucking sad.

I miss you so much and I want it all back but I can’t reach it. Can you?

Broken in Cycles

15 – laying on my couch, wishing I was dead. Thinking that he killed me with his words. I don’t know if I love you anymore

It wasn’t him. It was me. I killed me because I didn’t love myself. I was clinically depressed, not eating, sleeping too much, hormonal, waking up with panic attacks, every day, vomiting bile, thinking that there was no reason to exist. If he didn’t love me I didn’t matter. I didn’t know what love was – I thought it meant two parts of something. I believed that you didn’t need to love yourself to be loved by another person. None of that mattered to me because I didn’t want to be alive. I wanted to close my eyes and never wake up. I kept living and eventually, his rejection didn’t matter anymore, or at least I learned to stop picking the scab. It would be years later before I learned what it meant to love myself, to accept who I was, and to believe that I was anyone worth knowing.

34- My marriage disintegrated, and I couldn’t figure out who did what. I blamed him, but every bone in my body that “hated” him, actually just loved him harder. It looked like venom, but I was weaving that web to protect myself from getting hurt. I wanted to fix him, I wanted to repair “us” but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t make myself better or him, or the two of us. I had no glue, no words, no cement to mold us into a statue of perfection. I was brought back to being 15 again, and I felt like I didn’t matter.

37- I am alone, I don’t know what happened to me, I miss him, and I miss not being broken. I miss being a part of something, and now it’s gone and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to love myself. I’m learning, and I’m afraid that I’m doing it all wrong. I’m terrified that I fucked up my whole consciousness too much by over-analyzing, being hyper-critical, using too many big words. I blamed him for years when in actuality, it was no one’s “fault.” People are different and we each bring something to the table that is unique and sometimes those two things don’t mix well. I took chemistry in high school and I had to drop the course because I didn’t understand how it worked.

I still don’t understand how things work.

I don’t think I ever fully will because…

There are somethings that we are not meant to “understand” and I can’t logic my way out of these feelings…

And I want to throw them out the window and…

reject them like a broken mannequin part in a factory line but…

I need to feel them so I can move forward, and there’s no shortcut, no detour, nothing can stop this. I am going to drive this race car at varying paces until I get to my destination(s). There are multiple stops along the way. I hope I see you there, and maybe we can have coffee sometime if you remember me.

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.


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