Monthly Archives: March 2014

The Internet is a funny place. I had a lot of fun writing 3-Year-Olds are Assholes. I knew from the moment I began to write this piece the varying reactions I was going to receive. I had a sense that some people would understand the satirical nature of the piece. I had a sense that there were other parents out there who shared my dry sense of humor. I also knew that other folks would be offended by the piece. Some of them wouldn’t read past the title with the word “asshole” in it and then write me an email telling me that I (myself) was an asshole. True story.

What I didn’t anticipate were the reaction blogs. There have been quite a few people who have had strong emotional reactions to the piece. These individuals took the time write about their own feelings about my article in blog posts. On the one hand, I think this is great! I’m glad that people are having strong reactions and the article is making people think. However, what I take issue with in some of these pieces is the way that the writer attacks my character. There’s a few of these articles where the writer pokes fun at my sensitivity. I’m not sure what that has to do with the original article.

I was a philosophy major college. I know all about deconstructing arguments. I love a good debate. The nature of poking holes in another person’s argument should be based entirely on their argument, not emotional and/or physical characteristics of the person. Imagine Socrates is having an argument with a Greek citizen and attempting to show him about the importance of knowledge. The man who he’s arguing then turns around and says:
“Socrates, you’re enormously fat!”

What? That has nothing to do with the importance of knowledge. What the hell is this guy talking about?

That’s what I’ve found some of these people are doing to me. They’re not making critical compelling arguments. They’re just going below the belt and trying to get shock value.

I suppose they’re not trying to make compelling arguments. Their goal is to emotionally punch me in the stomach. It works man. I fall for it a lot of the time.

I just think it would be more effective, and I might even consider their point of view rather than dismissing it immediately, if they employed a logical argument to critique my writing. I would certainly be open to that. I enjoy a good debate.

So a word to the trolls, take a logic course. Logically sound arguments are a lot more fun to argue with than emotionally charged ones.

If I wasn’t anxious, my heart wouldn’t race all the time.
If I didn’t have panic disorder, my natural state would not be fight or flight.
I could be one of those people who just gets up in the morning, showers, eats breakfasts and leaves the house.
That could happen.
If I didn’t wake up in a cold sweat feeling like I might be dying, perhaps I’d get more done.
The truth is, these things don’t happen to me now that I’m taking anti-depressants.
In my brain’s natural state, my neurotransmitters keep firing and don’t know when to stop.
The result is that I constant feel threatened.
The consequence to this chemical imbalance is that I’m convinced that my death is imminent even though there is no empirical evidence to support this. However, I’m an intelligent college-educated person, so I will come up with “data” that support this by consulting the Internet or reaching into the confines of my brain. I have a lot of knowledge in there. I should be able to diagnose myself. I’m not a doctor, but I know a lot of doctors.

There have been many days when I woke up and didn’t want to get out of bed.
Not because I was tired.
But because I was afraid of what my body was doing.
I was terrified to feel the uncontrollable racing heart.
I was scared to feel so nauseated that I either couldn’t eat at all, or I would vomit.
If I did vomit, it would take me at least 30 minutes to recover from the trauma of having no control over my body. And then I would have to calm myself down enough to be able to function.

Anxiety is a serious life altering condition. It is something that needs treatment.

I’ve learned a lot from coping with panic disorder. I’ve learned to be patient with myself. When I seem to have no control over my body or mind, I ride the waves. I imagine myself immersed in the ocean. I wait for the wave of panic to wash over me and then I ride it. It’s just me. There’s no surf board to hold me up. I’m in the water by myself. I’m waiting for the panic wave to come, and when it does, I am ready for it. I’m gonna roll with it. I’m not going to fight it anymore.

I used to fight it. I confess. I did. I used to resent having panic. Now I know that if it comes, I can handle it. It will be extremely uncomfortable and it will seem as if I have no control, but it’s an illusion. I’m just riding the wave. Waiting for the current to calm down. I can do this.

Anxiety is my life professor. It has taught me to not only be patient with myself but to be empathetic of other people’s mental health conditions. If I didn’t have panic disorder, I know I wouldn’t be as empathetic a person as I am. I try my best to understand people and help them. I know that this is due to what I’ve been through.

No one can tell you who you are. No one can know your story more than you can. But you can share your story with others to help them feel less alone.

Dear Sallie Mae,

I would like to thank you for lending me a massive amount of money so that I could get a higher education. I wouldn’t trade my time at New York University’s Gallatin School for anything. It was an incomparable education where I learned a great deal about Plato, Kant, and Nietzsche. I’m aware that choosing philosophy as a major wasn’t going to make me into a business tycoon, but nevertheless I chose to pursue what I had a passion for.

Four years passed and I was out of school and ready to find a job. My 20s were a time of exploration. I tried out different jobs including publishing, banking, and teaching just to name a few. It was not an easy time by any means. But, then again, there is a distinct lack of career guidance offered to American high school students and even less vocational advice provided to undergraduate college students.

Anyway, now I’m in my 30s and I finally figured out what I want to do with my life. I’m working as a professional writer and raising two children. Now, as you may be aware, writers don’t make a lot of money. In fact, many of us are starving artists. I’m not saying that my career choice is your fault. I’m just telling you about my life so that we can get on the same page.

Writing doesn’t pay the bills; this we know. So, in addition to my side gig of working as a substitute teacher, I am also sending out resumes to a variety of companies in the hopes of securing full-time employment. However, as you may be aware, the American economy is rough right now. There are no jobs. I am competing with people in their 20s for entry level positions that I am over-qualified for. It’s disheartening to say the least.

At this point, I’m willing to take just about any job. I would totally work in a grocery store. However, Trader Joe’s refuses to hire me because I can’t work nights. I have to take care of my children too.

The point is I’m trying, I really am. But I’m having difficulty putting food on the table and paying my bills.

So when you refuse to accept the fact that I cannot pay you $220 per month, it’s frustrating to me. When you offer no alternative options and simply demand that I pay you, I am at a loss for words. You see, I’m seriously considering applying for food stamps. With that in mind, do you think it’s reasonable for you to ask me for $220 a month?

Listen, it was great when you offered me the interest only option. I could handle paying $123 a month. But then you abruptly took that payment plan away without notifying me. That’s unprofessional and foolish.

So, I’m sorry I called one of your supervisors an asshole. But he kept demanding money that I clearly do not have. He wasn’t hearing me and I was frustrated. I told him I was considering going down and applying for government assistance and he simply told me that this was a debt I had to pay. So I asked him if he had kids. He replied:
“Ma’am, I don’t want to get into my personal life.”

Well, he was certainly interested in my personal financial life. He kept asking if there was any way I could pay your company. He wanted to know all about my family and how much I paid for every single one of my expenses. I think that’s pretty personal.

So thanks for nothing Sallie Mae.

I hope someone reports you to the Better Business Bureau.

Love,
Sarah Fader

In 2007 I began a counseling degree at Hunter College. I was excited to share my empathy and good listening skills with others. I was quickly accepted into a work study program where I was then placed into a residential treatment facility as a vocational rehabilitation counselor.

The facility was well-known and respected in the community of substance abuse treatment. I had a supervisor at Hunter College who monitored my progress at work working with real life addicts who were recovered and looking to re-enter the workforce.

At first, things were great. I was wonderful at my job. I got along great with my office mate, Tara (also a Hunter Student) and my clients found my insight into their mental health issues valuable. I loved what I did and coming to work was a joy.

Slowly, things started to change. Tara (who was a great support to me) went out on maternity leave. I had my office to myself and my supervisor felt freer to (shall we say) be who he was. He began to make inappropriate comments to me about my wardrobe.

One day, I wore a work appropriate dress. He called me into his office.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” He asked.
“Sure.” I replied, thinking nothing of it.
“Your boobs are popping out all over the place.” He said to me flippantly. “You can’t wear things like that to work. You’ll excite the clients.”
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He felt it was appropriate and acceptable to speak his employee like that.

Similar and even more racy comments were made to me. I felt afraid to report the incident to Human Resources, because I was scared to lose my job. The job that was paying my tuition.

So I didn’t say anything. I lived in fear.

One day, after being harassed continually for weeks, I finally reported it to my the head of the facility. I told him about feeling violated. He responded:
“Sometimes, when you stop using drugs, your clothes fit tighter. Maybe that’s what he (my boss) is reacting to.”

So the head of the facility thought I was an ex-addict and a slut. Great, I thought.

I decided I’d better report the incident to my Hunter College supervisor. One day, when I was sitting down with her, I told her about the repeated inappropriate comments. I told her I felt awful coming to work every day but didn’t want to lose my placement.
“Oh, that’s just the way he is,” She said. “He’s being playful. Don’t pay attention to it.”

I felt alone. My job and the university had abandoned me.

During my time at the residential facility I become pregnant. My boyfriend and I were excited. I went out on maternity leave with the plan that I would switch jobs after the three months was up.

I secured a job at an outpatient facility. I gave a few references for the facility to check. One day, I went up to Hunter College to check in with my supervisor. I was told that the rehab counseling team was meeting. I had the unfortunate timing of hearing the tail end of their meeting.
“What are we going to do about Sarah?” One of the team said.
“Bill called over and told the outpatient facility that she reported him for sexual harassment.”

Bill (not my supervisor’s real name) had called over to my new job and told the company that I reported him for sexual harassment.

As soon as the team exited their meeting I confronted my supervisor at Hunter:
“I just want to let you know that I heard what you said about me in the meeting.”
“Shit! You weren’t supposed to hear that.” She replied

I felt (once again) all alone and confused.

The outpatient facility hired me anyway, but they treated me like I was a whistle blower. They were afraid of me. I was supposed to have a male supervisor, but that was quickly changed to a female one.

I was discouraged. I was heartbroken. I quit my job abruptly and dropped out of the program. I felt unsupported and let down by the university that was supposed to protect me.

Five years later, I attempted to return to the program at Hunter to finish my degree. I was told that there was a grant waiting for me. My tuition would be taken care of. All of a sudden, the university’s dean informed me that my credits were expired and there was nothing he could do to help.

I explained that there were extenuating circumstances. I had been sexually harassed by my boss. He said that he was “sympathetic” to my situation but there was nothing he could do to help.

I find this whole series of events to be baffling and devastating. I went through emotional hell and upheaval during my graduate education. I should be able to finish my degree. Hunter College needs to account for what happened to me and make it right. I will not stop until I get my M.S.ed.

I am a highly sensitive person. I’ve been like this ever since I was a child. I remember being a little girl in elementary school, probably around six or seven-years-old. If I close my eyes I can go back to that time. Then, I feel it. My throat muscles tighten. There’s a lump lodged in my throat.

I’m small and I’m trying hard not to let the tears fall out. I want to cry. I can’t even remember the reason why I want to cry. It could be because another kid said something mean about me. I am shy. I don’t want to reveal my true feelings to anyone. They won’t understand me. They won’t know what goes on in my head or in my apartment. 

I won’t cry. If I wait long enough the lump will go away. Just breathe little girl. It won’t be there forever. Hold on baby. It’s going to be okay. I miss my Mommy. She understands me. There’s no one in this school who knows who I am inside. I don’t wanna be here. I wanna go home. I’m a freak. I’m not like anyone else here. No one will ever treat me with kindness. They’ll all laugh at me and tell me I’m strange. They make fun of what I have for lunch because it looks weird. I’m weird. I’m not normal. I’m not normal. I’m not normal. I’m not normal. I want to be normal.

When I was eight-years-old I had acid reflux. It was stress-related. I would get anxious around other kids and I’d feel the bile rise from my stomach into my throat. I asked my mom what it was. I was afraid I might be dying.
“Don’t worry honey. That’s called a water flush. It’ll go away. Just drink some seltzer.”

Then there was the time that I accidentally touched glue and then touched my mouth. I told my dad I thought I might die from eating the glue.
The glue is going to kill me. I’m a horrible person. How could I do this to myself? 

These intrusive thoughts continued from my entire childhood and into adolescence and I lived with the shame that I was different from everyone else. I thought about death and dying a lot. I thought:
If I make this basket in the hoop, then I’ll live after the age of 21, if I miss the basket then I’m going to die. 
I missed the basket. I’m still alive.

When I turned 15 I met a boy. I fell in love with him. I told him everything. I didn’t hold back. I wanted him to love me for my freakish self. I told him my scary intrusive thoughts. I told him about being abnormal. I told him I thought I might be bisexual because I liked my friend Kristen. He loved me for a while and then decided that I was completely insane.

I told him if he broke up with me I thought I might die. He interpreted that to mean that if he dumped me I would kill myself. That’s not what I meant, but I succeeded in freaking us both out. So he stayed with me because he was afraid I was going to slit my wrists. I never had any intention of killing myself. I just felt dead inside due to an undiagnosed chemical imbalance. I had panic disorder and clinical depression and I was drowning in a sea of “I hate myself and no one understands me.”

When this boy and I broke up, I did die. A piece of my soul died. I told him everything about who I was inside. I told him my deepest darkest fears and he didn’t want to be with me. He rejected the totality of who I was as a person. I was broken and dead and I didn’t want to exist. I floated above my body and watched myself living, but I was a corpse.

To this day, I cannot reveal who I am entirely to people. I am terrified that they will kill me the way that he did. And when I make the mistake of being brutally honest with someone about how much I love them, they rip my heart out and throw it into a sea full of sharks to have for dinner. My chest is empty and I hurt. I hurt for days, weeks, months, years, centuries.

I own my sensitivity. I own that I feel intensely. It takes a lot for me to reveal my feelings to you. So if you are privileged enough to hear that I love you deeply, please accept it and don’t run away from me. It hurts more than you can possibly understand.