Mentally Ill People Are Not Crazy- The Stigma Continues

Recently I was contacted by an NYU journalism student to be in a documentary about debunking mental illness stigma. She found my piece on Fighting Against the Stigma of Mental Illness on The Huffington Post . I was thrilled that she found me, and told her I would be honored to be a part of this piece.

Living with panic disorder, I've encountered a lot of misunderstanding from the general public. It's hard enough to explain to friends and family what it means to have an anxiety attack let alone people who don't know you from a hole in the wall.

Case in point, I was consulting with an attorney the other day and I had to address my mental health history.
"I don't know what kind of mental health problems you actually have." The attorney said quite seriously looking me dead in the eye.
"I'm a neurotic Jew from New York." I responded confidently. "They're not serious. I manage depression and anxiety. I'm in therapy and I take antidepressants. I work as a substitute teacher and professional writer. I'm functioning just fine."

As soon a person hears that you have mental health issues, they automatically assume that those issues are serious. It doesn't matter if you're in appropriate treatment. The stigma surrounding mental illness is so pervasive that the public continues to generalize and characterize those of us managing these issues well as "crazy."

I have a problem with the word "crazy." It's a derogatory word. Crazy is defined as "mentally deranged." That sounds pejorative to me. Yet this word is used flippantly in the society to describe behavior that is undesirable. For example, if I'm having a disagreement with a friend and she disagrees with my point of view, a common colloquialism would be for her to say "you're crazy!"

Let's deconstruct what she's saying here:
"You're mentally deranged."

By all intents and purpose, if I disagree with my friend, I'm "mentally deranged, especially as manifested in a wild or aggressive way." I stole that from the dictionary. But you get the point. Next time you have an argument with your friend, how about saying "I disagree with you," instead of referring to an individual as mentally deranged.

Stigma surrounding mentally ill individuals is still out there, and we need to fight it with all our might.
I'm excited to participate in this documentary so that I can share my story and spread the word that mentally ill persons are not crazy, we're just people like everyone else.

Dear Stranger On the Train Who Disciplined My Child

Dear Stranger On the Train Who Disciplined My Child,

Hi! We've never met before. I was on the 4 train on the way home from Manhattan with my two kids and their best friend. My kids and their friend Jonathan were fighting over the window seat. They all wanted to look out the window into the darkness. I know, it's funny right? Why would you want to look out a dark window? But, you know, kids. They fight over things we don't understand sometimes.

Anyhow, you took the time out of your train ride to say:
"Ari should give his sister a turn. Not Jonathan."
And you didn't say it once. You kept saying it over and over again while shaking your head.

I'm not sure why you're telling me this. I'm not entirely sure why you feel it's your responsibility or business to tell me this. I'm also (frankly) not entirely sure of your intention. I could speculate some potential things you may have been thinking:

• You honestly thought you were helping me with parenting
• You thought you knew better than I did 
• You wanted to seem like an authoritative figure to your friend who was with you and to the entire train car
• You were annoyed that my kids were being loud and wanted to comment on it

The truth is I have no idea why you were doing it, but I can tell you how it made me feel:

When you repeatedly told me that my kids should take turns and refused to stop, I felt frustrated. You see, I was already have a difficult time managing this problematic behavior. I was repeatedly telling my kids and their friend to take turns, and they were being resistant.

I felt like what I was doing wasn't working. I felt badly about myself as a parent. I questioned my parenting skills, and your shouting at me made me feel worse. 

Unsolicited advice is tricky. Sometimes, we don't know what to do as parents. There are times when I welcome feedback from other people who have done this before and might know better than I do. However, your manner of communicating the "advice" made me feel demeaned and incompetent, even though I'm not.

I said:

"Thank you for your advice, but these are my kids." And with that, I wanted you to stop talking to me. 

It is my hope that if you choose to bestow your "words of wisdom" on another unsuspecting soul on the 4 train, that you will think about the way you're communicating before you open your mouth. Think about the fact that the mother you're criticizing is overwhelmed and probably feeling like somewhat of a failure. So your criticism (although maybe meant to be helpful) is coming across as judgmental.

I hope you get to your destination safely and don't loose your Metrocard while judging someone.

Love,

Sarah 

Changes - I May Have to Say Goodbye to Online

My life is in the process of a major change right now. The frustrating thing is, I can't talk about why. I'm an open and honest person; honest to a fault. Sometimes I'll actually hold my tongue and not say anything to a person because I know if I say what I'm thinking it will be overly honest and probably alarm them.

Back to my life. My life is in flux. It's possible that I won't be able to continue blogging. This makes me incredibly sad. I don't want this to be the end of my life on the Internet. I enjoy sharing my stories. Believe me when I say it's not up to me. I don't want to stop sharing my stories with you. But I've been told by mysterious outside forces (that I can't get into right now) that it may be the best idea to stop sharing my stories online.

Writing is my form of therapy. I go to real therapy too, once a week, but this place…this is my place. I don't want to give it up. I know the couches, the crevices, the dark rooms and the light ones. I know this place because it is my home. I've lived here since 2009. When I moved in it had no furniture, but I built it all. I gathered the wood and I made benches and a bed to sleep in. I painted the walls and put pictures on them. Slowly but surely this blog began to feel like me. It began to be my real home on online.

I love it here. Sometimes, I laugh a lot here. Those are fun days in the house. And sometimes I cry and let it all out. Other times I scream into a pillow to express frustration, and then there are days that I don't know what to say so I write posts like these.

This is a different kind of post. An outside force is attempting to silence my voice. And I don't know if i have the capability to stop that voice. I don't know if I have the armor to put on and fight it. I'm a fighter for sure. I've fought against many unjust causes in my 34 years on this earth. But, I don't know how to take this one on.

I'm not being dramatic here. I'm not writing this so you can tell me how wonderful I am. I am writing this because I honestly feel like my life online might be coming to a close and I'm saddened about it.

Maybe it won't. Maybe I'll figure out a way around this. 

So if I abruptly disappear from the Internet, I love you guys. I'll keep writing always, it'll just be privately. I hope none of this happens. 

Dear Person I Offended

Dear Person I Offended,

You will probably never read this letter, because we are no longer connected through the world of social media. I'm going to say these things anyway because I feel them. I wrote about my past. My past is something that haunts me. I feel things deeply. I use this space to express them. Sometimes they're not pretty things. They are my reality. I told a story: that story involved you. I'm sorry if the way that I told the story offended you.

I am hurt by the way that you treated me in the past. I tried to tell you many times, but you ignored my attempts to express my feelings. I honor your feelings. I am willing to hear them, however, you do not feel the same about mine.

You called me offensive.
You said that I was nasty towards you.
I'm sorry you feel that way.
I feel badly that my truth and my words impacted you like that.
It was not my intention to hurt you.
It was my intention to tell my side of a story.

I am open to hearing your side.

But when you reached out to me to tell me how you felt, I was scared. I freaked out. I told you I couldn't talk about it. There are extremely scary things that I'm dealing with in my life at the moment. There are harsh life challenges that require my 100 percent focus. My family needs me more than anything.

You say you were upset by my words, and your response was to call me names.

I want to make something clear to you, I did not call you names in what I wrote. I expressed genuine emotions. You may disagree or feel that I'm telling the story wrong, and you are entitled to you opinion, but please allow me to have mine.

Again, I apologize for any anger, pain, hurt and other emotions that I may have ignited in you. But I do not apologize for telling my story.

I wish you all the best.

My Little Pony at Build-A-Bear Workshop

Sometimes fun things happen when I check my email. Here's an example: I got a message the other day from Amy at Build-A-Bear asking if the kids and I would like to come on down to the local store and meet My Little Pony Rarity and the Cutie Mark Crusaders, Build-A-Bear style.* I immediately said yes, and asked if the kids could bring their best buddy Jonathan with. Amy graciously said of course and off we went to the workshop!

We knew that we were there to meet the Cutie Mark Crusaders, but as soon as entered the store, Ari ran straight for his trusty friend Rainbow Dash:

Samara, naturally went for Pinkie Pie:

Part of the process of Build-A-Bear is that you get to watch your toy get filled up with stuffing. It's extremely exciting!

After the ponies were filled up, they looked like this:

Samara and Pinkie Pie and are tired :)

Here's the obligatory group shot:

My best buddy Jen and I and the kids and…there's my mom! Hi Mom!

Oh! And I almost forgot guys! Here's a Scootaloo!

Damn we had fun! So if you're pony fan, head on down to Build-A-Bear and check out the Cutie Mark Crusaders!

*Sometimes companies and email and ask me to do wonderful things that I'm grateful for. All opinions expressed are my own. Also I like you.

Guest Post: Ferber 2.0 By David de Souza

As parents, we all want the same thing. We want parenting to be just a little easier… and we want to sleep in. Technically that's two things, but we will revisit sleeping-in later… after the kids are in college.

Back to a little easier. We all know how rare it is for both parents to pull equal weight. Far too often, one caregiver gets stuck with the lion’s share, and most of the time, that’s mom. It’s also mom who gets them up in the morning, it’s mom who feeds them, and it's mom who deals with the meltdowns.

Certainly, dad jumps in when he can, but when things go south, mom is the one everyone runs to… including dad. The problem is so widespread that every issue of Parents Magazine and its ilk has an article or two on “How to Get Dad to Do His Share.” A sea of ink offers advice from therapists, life coaches, and even Gwyneth Paltrow (pre-conscious uncoupling). All suggest different solutions; meditation DVDs, family meetings and even a gluten-free diet are the supposed keys to a healthy, equal parenting household. They’re not.

Oddly, it was in another section in those same magazines that I found the real solution: the Ferber Method. That's right, the secret is simple…
let dad cry it out.

Now, bear with me. I know Dr. Ferber had children in mind when he wrote Solve Your Child's Sleep Problems, but what I propose is Ferber 2.0: The Dad Edition.

Yes, mom, all it takes is some tough love and my Ferber 2.0 (patent pending) to give you a break and strengthen dad’s bond with the kids. Best of all, there are only four simple steps to follow…


1. Daddy Bye-Bye Routine
Ferber 1.0 has the “Baby Bedtime” routine; Ferber 2.0 has the “Daddy Bye-Bye” routine. The “Daddy Bye-Bye” starts with mom giving dad an easy-to-follow list. And moms don’t assume dads know what they’re doing. We don’t. Run through the list with him. Now, he may interrupt you with "I know this," or my favorite, "Stop worrying, I’ll be fine.” Ignore his lies and keep on with the program.

Remember your list is not just a how-to guide; it’s an anchor dad can cling to when things get crazy. When the kids are crying for mommy, dad can say, “I know you want mommy, she always knows what to do. Hey, let’s check mom’s list and see what we should do.” Then he will paw at the list like a Cro-Magnon installing a Combi car seat, before throwing it out and plopping the kids down to watch “Wonder Pets.” (At least that’s what I did.)  

2.  Leave!
Just like in Ferber 1.0, this is the most important part of the method. Mom has to leave. If mom stays in the house, the kids will look to her for help, and not dad. “I can hide in my office,” you say. It won’t work…the same kid who can’t smell his own poop can sniff out mom like a zombie looking for fresh brains. Before you know it, mom will be on the floor covered in drool while dad is upstairs playing Xbox. (At least that’s what I did.)

While the ultimate goal is for mom to be in the house and still have dad take the lead, in the beginning, mom has to leave. I still recall when my wife left me alone with the kids for the first time. In fact, I recall it every Thursday with Doctor Spielvogel, during our weekly primal scream sessions. The kids screamed “mommy” for 30 minutes until we did a room-by-room, “NCIS”-worthy search of the property. (“Kitchen – clear!” “Living room – clear!” “Bathroom – clear!”) It was only after I produced incontrovertible proof that mommy had left the house (empty driveway) that they calmed down.

Moms, I know it’s hard to leave, especially when you can still hear “Please, mommy, please, don’t go!” Realize that ten minutes after you leave, your husbands will calm down. Just remember: they will be fine.

3. Check-In
Ferber 1.0 has the parent checking-in when they hear the child crying. If you’ve been following my steps then by now you have left the house, so let’s assume they are crying, because they will be. Should you start to feel anxious or want an update, feel free to text or call – from the bar – er, the Starbucks.

4. Stop Checking-In
Ferber 1.0 recommends that each night, parents should increase the amount of time between check-ins. The same goes for Ferber 2.0. Each time dad is alone with the kids, mom will able check-in less. Moms, following these steps is the key to walking confidently out the door, knowing that after your diligent training, the heartbroken darlings will learn to self-soothe… and so will the children.

Disclaimer:
The author of this post is not a certified family psychologist, pediatrician, life coach or cat herder. Any guarantees for the safety and security of your home are purely theoretical. This method works best when paired with a kitchen full of junk food and a Netflix subscription.

David is a father of three. He’s raising his kids with love and sarcasm. Mostly sarcasm. He spends his days working as a digital producer and writer and his nights testing the patience of his lovely wife. Follow him on Twitter @deSouza_palooza 

The Writing Process Blog Hop

I find it hilarious when people ask me what my writing process is. The reason is that I have no process. I think of ideas while walking down the street, sitting on the toilet, talking to a friend and generally being a human being. If an idea comes to me I have to write it down right away. Whoa, I just used write and right in the same sentence. That was unexpected. 

When my Internet best friend Jessica Davis included me in this blog hop about the writing process, I was really excited because I love to talk about myself, I mean writing. I also love to read other writers. Thanks Jess, you're amazing! 

Here's how I write stuff. 

What am I working on right now?

I'm working on two books at the moment. One is a book version of my viral Huffington post article 3-Year-Olds are Assholes. I'm working on this project with a co-author, Byron Hamel, a long time friend and fellow blogger at Trauma Dad.  We're in the process of submitting the manuscript to various agents. 

The second manuscript I'm writing is my memoir about living with panic disorder and depression. You know you all want to read that one. Here's some excerpts from that on HuffPost 

How does my work differ from others of it’s genre?

3-Year-Olds are Assholes is a unique humor book because it's sarcastic and heart-warming all in one. It encourages parents that they are not alone. That's a first for a humorous parenting books as far as I'm concerned.

Panic - my memoir is different from any mental health-based memoir in that it is brutally honest about dark themes yet hysterically funny at times. That's not something one sees often in a Sylvia Plath-like book.

Why Do I Write What I Do?

I don't know how to answer this question. I write because I have to. Without writing, I don't know if I would even be alive anymore.

How does my writing process work?


It just does. I think of ideas and I stop whatever I'm doing if humanly possible to write. Writing is part of my being. I can't exist without it. I am what I write. I reach into the confines of my soul and spill my guts onto paper. 

For a complete list of people who are involved in this blog hop click here to Jess' post because honestly, I'm a lazy ass mother fucker. 

Byron and Jen, if you feel like doing this, it's fun.

Irrationally Inappropriate Overly Honest Responses to Children

Sometimes your kids ask you questions that are completely reasonable bearing in mind that they are (in fact) small humans that are inquisitive and learning about the world. I try my best to be patient with these questions and answer with appropriate responses. But sometimes, the internal monologue in my head is not so nice.

Here are some examples of questions my kids have asked me that make my head want to fucking explode.

1. "Mommy, what's your name?"
All right, I understand you've only been on this planet for three years, but you've known me literally the entire time you've been here. Are you fucking kidding me with this one? It's mommy, okay? Or, if you want to get all technical, it's Sarah. But we've gone over this shit several times.

2. "Mommy, he hit me."
Yes, my kids fight. Usually I'll tell the one who has been hit to say "I don't like that." or "Please stop." But again, in the confines of my brain what I'm really thinking is "You turn around and tell your brother to stop being an asshole."

3. "What's that?"
Yes, we love to identify objects in this house. Labeling is how children learn. But I have told you what the light switch was 400 times. At this rate, you're never going to keep a job, and I'm going to have to support your ass until your 40 and living in my basement. By the way, I'm not paying your student loans.

4. "Where are we going?"
Whoa! I thought I was bad with directions. Do I need to buy you a personal GPS? We have gone over this 30 times. We are going to the playground. You know the playground, we've been there before. This should be old hat for you.

5. "Mommy, where are my pants?"
There's this thing called a dresser where clothes live. If you investigate this piece of furniture further, I can guarantee you will find exactly what you're looking for. While we're at it, "where's my free time?" "What happened to my bank account?" and "Will I ever get to have sex uninterrupted again?"

6. Why?
Shut the fuck up.

For all you parents out there who are losing your minds with the repetitive nature of children's questions…I have no consolation for you, because it just keeps going. My mind is broken, but not as broken as my wallet.

Riding The Subway in NYC is a Trip in More Ways Than One

I'm a native New Yorker. I was born in 1979 and raised on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I grew up taking the 1 train at 86th Street. I started religiously riding the train when I was 12-years-old and haven't stopped since.

Over the years, the subway has changed a great deal, but there are some annoyances that we come across as New Yorkers that remain timeless. Today, I'd like to address some of the things that make taking the subway…interesting.

When I get on the train during rush hour I am praying for a seat. I know this isn't likely, but I'm still hopeful nonetheless. So when I see a man sitting in a yellow seat on the train with his backpack sitting next to him in an adjoining seat, I have feelings of primal rage surge through my body. Your backpack does not need to sit down. Dude, look around for a pregnant woman and give that seat your backpack is in to her.

Here's another charming thing I've come across on the train. When the doors open, that's a physical cue for the people on the train to step aside and let the new passengers enter the train. However, what actually happens is that people stand there looking pissed off that there are new folks getting on "their train."

Then there's the guy who leans against the train doors with his gigantic headphones on so he can't hear you when you're attempting to ask him to move out of the way because your stop is coming up. You're afraid to ask him to move because he looks angry to begin with. So you sheepishly walk over to another set of doors to try to get off the train peacefully.

Of course let's not forget about the panhandlers, who come in a variety of forms. There's the teenagers enter the train selling candy for their basketball team. I just want to clarify something: there is no basketball team. We're onto you.

Speaking of people looking to make money on the subway, there are some entertaining ones. There are some bad ass break dancers who frequent the D train. The only trouble is, sometimes you don't feel like listening to their music and no matter how loud your headphones are turned up, you can't block out the sound of their jam while they're jumping on the ceiling of the train.

Finally, my least favorite occurrence on the train. New York City in the summer time is brutal. You're waiting underground on the hot stinky subway platform sweating your balls off (or your ovaries whatever the case may be) and when the train arrives, you're psyched! Finally, some relief! There's an air-conditioned car with your name on it. And look! There are seats.

The doors open and you get onto the train. Suddenly, your heart sinks. Not only is the air-conditioning broken on the train, but there is an intolerable urine smell emanating from the corner of the train where a homeless man is perched with 5000 bottles of recyclables that he's ready to turn in to a supermarket for cash.

Some things never change in New York City, and these pet peeves of the subway remain timeless.

Compulsively Contacting Friends

Anyone who knows me can attest to this part of my personality: I compulsively contact people I'm close to. It's annoying, I'm sure, to the people I'm doing it to. It's my way of showing the people that I love that I care about them. Not only do I want them to know that I love them, but I don't want them to forget about me.

You might be wondering how this plays out. If I feel close to you, I may text message you periodically throughout the day. It won't be about important life things. It will mostly be silly things that pop into my brain that I just cannot wait to tell you, because I love you and I think you'll appreciate them.

Thankfully, I have enough sense to do this to people who get me. If I did this to people who I wasn't close to they would undoubtedly think I was crazy.

I've wondered if my compulsive contacting of friends is related to ADHD. I think it might be. It certainly seems to be behavioral in nature.

Thank goodness for modern technology though. In the late 1990's and early 2000s this quality of mine was extremely embarrassing because I would call my friends at insanely early hours because I just had to tell them something. The friend in question receiving the 8am phone call would be tired but amused. They would also remind me that it was 8am and they weren't up yet, because at that time none of my friends had children.

Now with the advent of social media, it's much easier to send my friends random shit and the chances of them getting pissed off is lessened. The reason is that they can check their messages at their leisure.

The other thing that's happened is that I've found other people who do the same thing! I don't feel crazy anymore. Jess, you know you do this too. We periodically send cat stickers to each other on Facebook at random intervals during the day.

Still, it does make me feel uncomfortable when I'm compelled to contact a friend for no apparent reason. I worry about the person getting annoyed from too much contact. I worry about what they're thinking about me in their mind.

The truth is, if they love me they'll understand that this is just my way of showing them that I love them.

Do you compulsively contact your friends?

Forgive Thyself

Forgive thyself.
For you are all you've got.
Sure, you have family and friends.
Yes, they love you.
But…people are moody. And one day your friend may get mad at you. But, guess what? You're still here.

You make mistakes. Sure you do. After all, you're human.
You hurt people with your words.
You hurt people with your actions.
That's okay. We all do it. We're human beings and we are flawed.
That's what makes us humans.
If we were perfect we'd be mannequins or robots.
But even then my friends, even then…there is no perfect.

Mannequins are made of plastic and plastic can melt or break.
Robots are made of metal and they can malfunction.

You sure are lucky to be a human.
Even though it's hard sometimes.
It feels badly when you hurt another person.
It feels awful when you make what your deem to be a "mistake."

But in actuality, there are no mistakes.
We are here to trip and fall.
We are on this planet to skin our proverbial knees.
Humans are on this earth to fail and fail and fail until we succeed one day.

Our knees may be bloody by then, but nevertheless success has been achieved.

I support your failures.
They are one step closer to success.
I come back to the original concept.
Forgive thyself.
You're good.
You're a good human.
And that's worth everything.

A Morning Ghost Story- Half and Half

I awoke suddenly. I shot up in my bed. It was morning. I couldn't be sure of the time. Six, maybe six thirty. I knew it was early. I curled my toes underneath the blanket. I breathed in and out slowly. I watched as my chest rose up and down. I felt the warmth of the down comforter on my body. I was immersed in it. I was in a cocoon.

As I put one foot on the floor, the other foot followed. I crept like a cat burglar to the kitchen. Tip toe, tip toe, one foot after the other. I entered the kitchen. I began to salivate. There it was: a black shiny beacon of hope.

I spotted it! The refrigerator and (more importantly) the freezer. I opened the freezer and took out the canister of tiny wondrous brown granules. I approached the glistening dark knight of salvation otherwise known as Mr. Coffee. I placed the filter into it's head. I carefully poured the granules into the filter and pressed the glowing blue button.

The sounds of hot delicious liquid gold streaming through the filter could be heard from the heavens. As soon as the brown liquid courage was ready to be consumed, I eagerly grabbed my favorite mug that simply had the letter "S" on it. I poured the glorious beverage into my ceramic partner in crime with a smile on my face and love in my heart.

My hand reached without thinking for the refrigerator door. As it opened, I knew exactly what I was looking for. There it sat waiting for me. It was short and portly in a brown and white container. It said "half and half."

I grabbed it without thinking. Just as I felt the container in my hand, I realized that something was very wrong. The short fat container was light as a feather. I began to shake with fear. My coffee was ready for its fiancé. But it had been stood up at the altar.

My grasp on the portly container loosened. The empty half and half container fell to the kitchen floor.

I stood there staring at the black liquid in my ceramic friend feeling empty inside.

There's a hole in my heart that can only be filled by half and half.

Fight or Flight

Sleep. I'm asleep.
Deep down dark in dream country.
I'm wading through black water, which is quickly becoming thicker.
It morphs from water to a pudding-like consistency. I'm trying to walk through it, but I can't move my legs well. I'm stuck.

See. Then I see it. It's got green glowing eyes. It's a big black amorphous creature. It's behind me. It wants my blood. It can smell me. I smell like food. It lives in this black water or pudding whatever it is. It's comfortable here. I don't know this place. But I've got to get through. I've got to keep going. I have no choice. If I don't keep moving, this thing will get me.

Feel. I can feel my heart racing in my chest. It's trapped in a tiny cage, trying to escape. My heart wants out. But it can't jump.

Jump. I'm startled by a sound. I can't tell where it's coming from.

Run. I want to run away, but I'm trapped. Trapped in a black gelatinous existence.

Trouble. The trouble is, I know it's coming after me.

Sweat. I begin to sweat. I can feel the droplets on my face first. Slowly they drip down my forehead onto my neck. I'm breathing heavily and heart wants out of my chest. It's bursting. My breath is shallow. I know it's close.

Push. I can push through the blackness. I can get away. I'm drenched in sweat from the exertion. My whole body hurts.

Hurt. I hurt. I hurt all over. I'll get through this. I'll get away.

Eyes. I can see its eyes. They're glowing. They know all about me.

Teeth. The black monster opens its mouth and reveals sharp fangs. It is hungry and I am food. I will get away. I will escape.

Escape. My leg muscles are burning. I'm trying to run, but I'm standing still.

Still. Stillness. I breathe. In and out. In and out. I'm here.

I'm still here.

Here. All I can do is be here in this moment.

Moment. It's just one moment. It's scary, but it won't last forever. I can out run the fear. I may be alone, but I am strong.

Strong. Strength is knowing when you're weak and still moving forward.

Forward. I will keep moving. I will not stop.

Stop.

Breathe.

Stop.

Don't think.

Be strong.

You are Not Broken

You are not broken.
No matter what he says to you.
You are whole.
You are strong.
Hold on.
Even if it feels like no one is listening.
Despite the fact that it may appear like you are alone, you are not alone.
You are loved.
Even if it's just you who loves you. That's enough for now.
You're beautiful, even if he says you're ugly.
You're strong, though he tells you you're weak.
You're steady and stable, even though he tells you that you're crazy.
It's not crazy to believe in being treated better.
It's not insane to love yourself.
You are you.
He is him.
You're not going to change him.
But you can make your life better.
You can stand up and say, I will not tolerate this.
You are able to voice the word "No."
You can create a new life for yourself.
The world needs you.
You need you.
Don't give up.
It's going to be okay.
I'm holding you.
I'm embracing you.
Because I am you.

The Well

I was living underground in a dark well. It was dark and cold down there. I was starving. I tried to remember the last time I ate, but it escaped me. I learned to ignore the sounds of my stomach rumbling. There was no point in imagining food. There hadn't been any in seven years. I couldn't figure out how I was still alive.

I spent my days staring into the darkness of the well walls. If I stared long enough shapes would form out of them. I focused and unfocused my eyes. I saw squares and circles and triangles. They were everywhere.

One thought stayed with me. I would never leave this place. It was home. I tried to recall how I got here, but my mind was blank. So I just stared.

Blackness.

One day, I took a chance and instead of looking straight ahead, I turned my glance upward. Then I saw it. It was a sharp prism of light emanating from outside of the well. All at once I heard a thump! There it was: a rope clinging to the side of the dark well wall.

Was it real?
Should I touch it?

My hands quivered in fear. I was shaking from lack of sleep and nourishment.

But I took a chance. I reached out my hand and I grabbed that rope with my remaining strength; strength that I didn't even realize I had. I clung to the rope and pulled myself upward with all my might. I was exhausted.

I didn't know if I would ever reach that stream of light. But I would die trying.

I pulled and pulled. Sweat streamed down my face and skeletal body.

All at once, I reached the apex. The prism of light expanded and encompassed my whole body. I fell to the ground gasping for breath. I looked over and saw it. There it was, your hand.

It was you.
You gave me that rope.
You believed in me.
You allowed me to save myself.

I took your hand as tears streamed down my face and two words escaped my lips:

"Thank you."

Trolls Should Take Philosophy Courses

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.

Sleeping With NYC

Sara Meghdari is a photographer from Iran living in NYC. Over the past year, she's been working on a unique photo project. It's called "Sleeping With NYC."  The project involves spending a night with New York natives and photographing them while they fall asleep. I was introduced to Sara through my wonderful friend Alex who is also a visual artist.

Alex asked if I would be interested in participating Sara's project. I said I would love to. So Sara and I came up with a date and she came over to my place to photograph my nighttime routine. Her photographs came out beautifully. At first I thought, how will I fall asleep while she's photographing me? But the sound of the clicking camera put me right to bed.

Here are some other examples of her work below. She's quite talented.

For more information on Sara's art click here.

I Guess I Have ADHD

I guess I have ADHD. I hate labels. I don't like stigmas that follow with labels. But the truth is I have it. Yesterday, I was supposed to help my friend Trish with a transcript. I tried to transcribe for hours. Of course it didn't help that my kids were running around being kids during this process. But, that's not really an excuse. You see, one of the advantages of having ADHD is that I can hyper-focus. That means, ironically, I can zoom in on one particular task and the house could possibly be burning down, but I wouldn't notice because I'm writing a novel.

Anyway…I tried to transcribe this audio file for Trish, but I couldn't focus for more than one minute at time. I would go on Facebook, I would write a blog post, I would do anything I possibly could to run away from the work I was supposed to be doing, because it hurt my brain to stay focused on the task. It was painful to me.

What ended up happening was I was late giving her the transcript, and it was incomplete. I felt awful. I told as her much. She was upset with me and justifiably so. She wrote me saying as much. I replied to her email and told her that I had no excuse. I should have focused better. I explained to her that this is a constant issue that I struggle with. I often have trouble managing deadlines and keeping organized.

She called me up and she said:
"Sarah, I've always been straight with you right?"
"Yeah, you have."
"I think this sounds like ADHD. It's going to be difficult for you to hold a job with these symptoms. I'm worried about you."
I felt my throat tighten and I wanted to cry because I knew what she was saying was true. She was being a supportive friend and trying to help. I know, and I have known for some time, that I have ADHD. I have tremendous difficulty focusing. I have trouble with interrupting people and blurting out the first thing that comes into my head. It's embarrassing sometimes. And I feel ashamed. But the people who love me, understand that I'm not doing it on purpose to be rude. It's the way my brain is wired.

There are pros and cons to having ADHD:

• Hyper-focusing - Pro: I can zoom in on a task and get it done. Con:  I am completely unaware of everything else around me and it could result in me forgetting that I left the stove on. 
• Multi-tasking - Pro: I'm sure getting a lot of things done right now at the same time! Con: Except I'm not getting the important stuff done, but my cellphone screen is really clean. 
• Quick Thinker - Pro: I'm sharp and have many creative thoughts at the same time Con- What is going on in my brain? Racing thoughts abound. 

I've decided to try natural supplements to combat my ADHD symptoms. I've had luck with this stuff in the past  But if that doesn't work, I may have to consider medication.

Do you have ADHD? How do you deal with it?

Anxiety is My Professor

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

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