Dear Ex-Boyfriend on the West Coast,

You and I date for nine months and you're still pissed off... even after you've said that you love me... that I refer to you as my ex-boyfriend.  You don't call for weeks, then when I'm out on a date with someone else because I assumed that we weren't together anymore you come to my house at 2 a.m. drunk and pound on all of the doors and windows because you're CERTAIN that I'm there and that I'm just ignoring you... the voicemails were precious.  All eight of them.  I'm sorry that I slapped you with my crutch when you were belittling me in front of all of your friends at your birthday party.  The quiche the next morning was excellent.  I'm also sorry that you were too blacked out drunk to remember me crutchslapping you, but I'm glad you made the quiche before you logged into Facebook and found your friends posting on your wall and making fun of you for being crutchslapped.  You always made quiche in the morning at your mother's (and your) house... and we had Spam sandwiches in the morning when you were at mine.  You made lovely quiche with that blender.  You left me to move to L.A. and then you gave me a lecture on how I was supposed to have moved to PORTLAND not CHICAGO because you and I were going to get married in two years.  I hadn't heard from you for two months, that was news to me.  I wish that your hypomanic personality liked me even if that meant that I had to put up with ManicMan's Outrageous French or Standard British accent, which were dead giveaways as to which pole you were swinging from.  Apparently, you only love me when you're speaking like a normal American boy-man and are depressed.  I miss your Apology Quiche and your Spam sandwiches.  I hope you get treatment.

Diagnosis: Bipolar I, unmedicated (you told me this yourself).

Profile: Sofia Vanderslice, Assistant Editor of Profiles in Batshit.

First diagnosed by her friend group in seventh grade as being "too pessimistic to hang out with anymore".  This greatly improved her outlook on life.

Her family conducts most quarrels using a complicated code of smiles known as Presbyterian Sign Language.  She mostly dates Jews and Catholics who mistake these constant smiles for being a "basically happy person".

She does not eat enough fiber and has bad knees.  She has frequently done things... like get married to someone that she had known for all of one drunken week... for the "story potential" of the situation.  Despite this, she has always been thought to be highly intelligent.  She has gone out of her way, since the age of seven, to read things left around people's houses about how intelligent people behave and interact with reality.  It is unfortunate, but highly telling, that one of these books was by Sartre. She has always had a deep fondness for passive voice, third-person autobiography, “putting things in quotes,” the Oxford Comma, and red wine. She has no idea how she has gotten to where she is today, which has made her stop drinking (almost) entirely.

Her only suicide attempt was thwarted by Spalding Gray.  He had been fished out of the East River the day before she planned to go off the Queensboro bridge, and she didn’t want to be a copycat.   At some point, she decided to do whatever scares her the most, and repeat it until she fears nothing. She currently fears success.  She is not exactly sure how to overcome her fear of success while unemployed, eating cheese bagels, drinking obscene amounts of coffee, listening to Ornette Coleman, and avoiding "good intentions."   She aspires to "be in love and then get some sleep."

Diagnosis: Cyclothymia, social anxiety.

UPDATE: Sofia is currently employed full-time with kick-ass medical benefits and perscription drug coverage.  She is seeing a therapist again, and she no longer fears success. 

Profile: Jack Swindle, Editor of Profiles in Batshit

Undiagnosed Manic Depressive for thirty-four years. Rage. Broken furniture. Most relationships resemble a slow plane crash.

Depressive episodes manifested by panicky social anxiety and periods of rampant, often irresponsible activity. Colossal drinking habit. Hundreds of unfinished projects. Hypertension. Sensitivity to bright light. Grandfather: self-taught engineer who once removed all of the furniture from the house, claiming it had been injected with radioactive material.

Alienates those closest to him with fits of self-deprecation and violence toward inanimate objects. His personality dominates the mood and tenor of his interactions with others. Unwittingly selfish, abusive with language. Intelligent (and conniving) enough to convince himself he has self-control. Frightens those he loves the most, including the dog. Once punched, during a manic/drunken episode, by a guy previously thought confined to a wheelchair.

Hundreds of pages of unpublishable prose. Feels crushed by inspiration. Ambitious yet usually incapable of calming down enough to get anything done. Has done a lot of drugs. Loves stories, women, words, and himself.

During a recent depressive period, fancied himself the culmination of all humanity—while standing on a bridge. Describes self in third person to abnegate responsibility. For years suspected something was really, really wrong but refused to do anything about it, letting others feel the brunt of his expressions. Believes himself to be lonely even when surrounded by friends and lovers. Financially profligate.

Tried yoga, meditation and sobriety to control his moods. Turned to anti-depressants, thus exacerbating his hypomania. Often blames abstract forces for his troubles. Has a breakdown at a pop concert. Goes on low-grade antipsychotics. Finds himself impressed and confused by stability. Figures he should start a journal about it.

Diagnosis:  Bipolar II, Egomaniac, Psoriatic, Batshit