Monthly Archives: July 2013

I cried today.
I cried because of what I couldn’t control.
I cried because I couldn’t fix what is broken.
I looked at my hands and I wished they could fix things.
I willed them to work on my behalf.
I begged them to make my life better.
Only they just stood there with warm soapy water dripping over them from the kitchen sink.
My vision was blurred from the tears, but I could see the dishes in a pile. They were all different colors; green, red, yellow bowls.
I pleaded with my hands. Please, please make it better.
Stop my life from spinning.
Help me to stand still.
They didn’t hear me.
The water rose in the sink.
It rose and filled the sink to the brim. My eyes widened as the water continued to
grow in circumference.
I felt a warm sensation at my bare toes. The water was dripping onto the gray tiled floor. It moved up my calves. It continued
to consume my thighs.
The warm water lurked and climbed up to
my trunk.
I begged my hands to help. Stop this.
Make it cease.
They didn’t listen.
The water worked its way up to my neck
and finally my face.
My whole body was surrounded by warm
all-consuming water. I tried to move my arms but they felt like flippers.
I was stuck in a gelatinous existence.
Help me hands.
I am moving through water.
Slowly
S        L      O      W     L    Y

S        T         O         P
M   Y            H       A    N    D       S

When I was a child, I was “the good girl.”

My older brother was the wild rebellious teenager, while I got good grades and stayed quiet. I tried not to upset anyone or hurt anybody’s feelings.

Eventually my brother transformed himself from a wild teenager to a highly successful PhD.

And I was proud of him.

However, there I was feeling like the black sheep of the family. I was the fuck up.

Even though I graduated from New York University with a decent GPA.

When I turned 22, something inside me began to change.

Despite my success as a writer, I still felt insignificant. I couldn’t hold a job for more than six months, I had difficulty in romantic relationships, and I had a terrible time managing money.

I was a volcano filled with lava ready to burst.

My 20s were filled with anger and resentment.

I wiled out. I went a little…okay a lot…crazy.

My family didn’t know how to handle my behavior and frankly neither did I.

I was going through the adolescence that I never experienced. I was changing into a woman and I was fighting it all the way.

There I was on the brink of becoming a butterfly, my wings convulsing in fear.

I wasn’t ready or maybe I was.

Maybe I was.

Those 10 years from 22 to 32 were a roller coaster of emotion. I hurt a lot of people including myself.

Now I am 33. It’s the best year of my life, my Jesus year as I’ve heard it called.

I have two beautiful children.

I know who I am.

I am ready to face the world.

Yes, I am a black sheep. I am proud of my black curly fur. It has some tangles and there are tumbleweeds stuck in it, but I’m beautiful.

See me.

Hear me.

Embrace me.

Watch me.

Here I come.

There are a lot of name books on the market. But you don’t need to purchase any of them, because I am about to reveal the true meaning of men’s names. These are individuals you have undoubtedly met in real life. Ready? Here goes:

David - Davids are know-it-alls. If you are named David, you know absolutely everything about everything and you are an incredibly irritating person. There is a 50 percent chance that you are an asshole.
Justin- If your name is Justin, chances are you are unnecessarily attractive.
Jordan- Have you met Justin? Oh that’s right, you’re the exact same person!
Jason- Jasons tend to be hot but are also really fun to hang out with. They also love sports.
Arthur- I’m sorry!
Daniel- Daniels are geeks but they’re generally harmless. Chances of being an asshole average around 10 percent
Mike- You can pretty much talk to Mike about anything.
Michael- Stop taking yourself so seriously and call yourself Mike. What the fuck is wrong with you?
Carl- People are actually named Carl? I thought that name just existed in Gary Larson cartoons!
Simon- You’re probably British. If you’re not British you are smart! But not the British kind of smart. I mean intelligent. Also you have a middle name.
Kevin- You are either a harmless meathead or just a nice guy.
Andrew- You’re probably weird but I still like you. Unless you go by Drew. In that case we have problems.
Chris- If you’re attractive and you know it clap your hands! You want everyone else to applaud too.
Matt - Matt meet sarcasm. Oh right, never mind you two are best friends!
Brian - I like you!
Bryan- I do not trust you whatsoever.
Robert- Who the fuck do you think you’re fooling?
Bob- That’s more like it.

I hope you’ve enjoyed my psychological name profiling. Now go find Daniel and marry him!

Before I came to BlogHer, I was scared.
I’ve been a writer since the time I was six and could operate my mom’s electric typewriter. But despite the fact that others have said these words to me “you’re a really good writer.” I’ve been filled to the brim with doubt.

No matter what anyone told me, I felt I wasn’t good enough.

Yesterday, that changed.

Something clicked.

I felt the metaphorical light switch turn on in my being.

***

I’m sitting in my hotel room with my roommate Trish. She’s engaged to Louis C.K in case you were unaware.

I’m telling her about a disparaging text message I received from a family member. A message that crushes my soul. A message that digs deep into my confidence, takes out a giant red boxing glove and punches me in the face.

She turns to me, looks me dead in the eyes and says:
“Sarah, you have to embrace your inner fuck you.”

And I got it.

It doesn’t matter what this person thinks of me.
It doesn’t matter if they approve.

What matters is how I feel.
What matters is what I want.
What matters is my voice.
And in that moment I found my voice. It was raspy and it hadn’t been used in 33 years, but I opened my heart and that voice began to erupt.

Fuck you.
Fuck you insecurity! Fuck you to the voice in my head that constantly tells me “you’re not good enough, you’ll never make it as a Blogger, you can’t do this, give up.”

Fuck you! Pack your fucking suitcase, and get the fuck out of my house.

The truth is, not everyone is going to like me, and I don’t fucking care. Because I like me. I have a voice and I’m not afraid to use it.

I’m leaving for BlogHer13′ tomorrow!

That’s it.

I went to F.H. LaGuardia High School of Music and Art & Performing Arts. I was a drama major.

The people in the drama program were notoriously extroverted. At 15 years old I had an extroverted side, but I also had a deep rich internal world that I wouldn’t let anyone penetrate. I was in my own head a lot. I was thinking about the world and my relationship to it. I was anxious and I was depressed. I was having existential crises on a daily basis.

I would wake up with my heart pounding, scared that I was going to die some day.

Meanwhile, everyone around me was laughing and putting on lipstick.

I can’t imagine what other people thought of me.

Maybe they thought I was a snob, because I was shy.
Perhaps they thought I was an elitist because I was afraid to share my real feelings about things for fear that my peers would call me weird.

I didn’t know that a panic attack was something I couldn’t control.

I felt weak. I felt different.

I used theater as a way to cope with depression and anxiety.

I transmitted all my pain, all my anxiety in acting. When I performed Anne Frank, I became her.  I used my pain to make art.

But other people didn’t know.

They probably thought I didn’t want to talk to them.

That wasn’t the case.

I’m not in pain anymore. I’ve healed.

I wonder how they perceived me…