Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Profile: Barry Baxter Birney

Hello there --
Knowing Mr. Swindle deeply and long-like, I have agreed to share my own experiences with the batshit. This is not a profile mind you, as the complete record is too scattershot and loving to fully summarize here, and it’s possible that this isn’t over quite yet. I do feel some commitmentalisms to those reading this, though, so I suppose I’m just gonna be on retainer here so as to not short-change you all (like that midget toll booth attendant did to me)…that is if you find this funny and if Jack and Sophia aren’t too lazy to object.

Oh, me? My name’s Barry Baxter Birney. I hang my hat on my ring-to-index-finger-ratio.

Not so long ago I started having intense, debilitating anxiety attacks. I’d dealt with some anxiety the couple years prior, but was more comfortable and familiar with the vague malaise of depression. The unnerving feeling of panic was manageable at first. It made me mad though. That doesn’t help to ease the nerves.

Then I went bananas. I had four or five episodes in about a six week period where I lost touch with reality. I guess I wasn’t eating or sleeping due to this fucking anxiety and often drank to try and combat it. My brain didn’t much like it. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know how to read street signs. I tried to drink a glass of water from my girl’s empty hand. And much more.

My friends came through for me and took care of me when I called them confused, mixed shoes on my feet and full of headwraps. They tore the drinking fountain off its foundation, threw it through the window, and told me when it was safe to make a run for it. One was caring and thorough enough to write down the following so I could show it to my doctor.

His name is Gary Mathews III (disowned).


Here's a rundown of events Sat-Sun night.

--You called around 11:30 thinking I was Jack and that I had called you -- you
seemed more upset than anything.
--When I got there ~12 I thought you were just really upset, but it became clear
as we talked that you were highly anxious and confused.
--We were up from 12 to ~ 7 AM. We didn't drink anything but water, you didn't
eat anything.
--You were talking most of the time, but NOT in a manic or hyper way.
--Mostly you asked questions, generally about where something was, whether we
had enough of something, how many of something we had, when we would go do
--You were focused intensely on 'phones' and talked mostly in terms of numbers.
How many phones do I have? How many minutes/hours before we left and went to
your house,  Did we have 3 or 4 (of what, ??) and would that be enough? This is
where you were least coherent -- numbers rarely correlated to actual amounts or
quantities, and phones included television remotes, car keys, belt buckles,
--When you asked for your phone and I gave it to you or pointed it out, however,
it would appear foreign to you, or broken, or incomplete. At times, it was
almost invisible to you, though it would be right in front of your face, or your
hand would be on it.
--Your perception of time seemed non-existent, and was further distorted by your
focus on numbers/quantity over units.
--Your motor skills were intact, and you were very tactile -- constantly picking
things up and asking me to put things in your hand. You would occasionally drop
things, but I believe that was because you forgot you were holding them. When
you were looking for something (which was often) you would pat down the table,
floor, etc.
--Though you were not generally wearing your glasses,it also seemed like you had
trouble seeing things or recognizing things that were in your sight without
touching them.
--Tried to leave numerous times, putting on multiple jackets/hoodies each time
as well as shoes. You were not happy when I physically prevented you from doing
so, but I was never afraid you would get violent. You understood that we were in
your house, but also insisted that we had to go to your house. In terms of where
you wanted to go, it ranged from getting food, ann’s house, your house, and
just to walk around the block.
--While in general, I could speak to you and be understood, there were occasions
where you were incredibly frustrated and confused at what I was saying, claiming
it made no sense.
--You kept calling me Jack or Donald, but understood that that was incorrect and
would generally correct yourself.
--Your understanding of yourself, as well as your memories, and your
understanding of our relationship (which I successfully appealed to in an effort
to stop you from trying to leave) were intact. You got jokes, references, knew
your cats, and were generally 'you'. Just an incoherent, anxious version of
--You kept complaining that your arms felt weird, pins and needles, tingly, etc.
--Eventually, you began having moments of clarity, and improved, and finally
went to sleep.
--You woke up around 1 PM when Donald came over, and seemed to have recovered

I'll regale you with further tales at your leisure.

I just read that too. A friend, patient for hours, dealing with true psychoses. Gary Mathews III (disowned) represented.

I tried to make phone calls with my shoe for fuck’s sake.

After The Madness I pushed aside the alcohol, drank a lot of Earl Grey and got a bad haircut, just as my doctor suggested. I made sure to eat and sleep. My mom came and helped. While I drink alcohol again, I still hit up the tea and I talk to my mom regularly and meaningfully.

My hair still stinks though. Hit me up if you have a hairdresser restitution guy.


Diagnosis –
Acute Anxiety Disorder
Insomnia Induced Pyschosis
Bad at Things Syndrome      


  1. What a shitty poem.

  2. Really? I kind of liked it.