Profile: Froman

Guest post from "Froman".  Enjoy.


General Anxiety Disorder, bordering on panic disorder with just a touch of OCD.  Unable to control racing thoughts (mostly concerns and fears). Spends a lot of time at home hiding in the confines of his apartment. Has trouble keeping in touch with friends because of being uncomfortable with phone conversations and inability to travel in winter without a driver because of fear of car accidents.
Has been in 8 car accidents in his life as a passenger or driver, resulting in 2 concussions, three totaled cars and one white trash lawsuit.  Racing thoughts and lack of concentration have led to numerous unfinished projects and severely undermined confidence in the chances of any of them ever seeing the light of day. Cannot even complete a blog on a regular basis and finds his ability to focus akin to that of a Justin Bieber fan on Oxycontin.  Regularly finds flashes of insight buried in a sea of fucktardian theatrics and immediately forgets it if he doesn’t write it down. Promptly loses it in a pile of papers that he generally loses or throws away amidst a pocket full of receipts, headphones, ink pens and paraphernalia.  Keeps coat pockets so full of said items he has broken two hooks off his coat rack.
Finds himself regularly insensitive to things others are going through until it’s too late. Often insults strangers without meaning to due to lack of insight into others.   Over-analyzes everything he encounters until he is so tied in knots about it that he just leaps brashly into it and generally fucks it up.  Spends money like a hooker with a government check.  Has quit taking both medications he has been prescribed in the past due to complications like unquenchable sexual urges or coma but is again looking for a new one.  No end in sight.

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).

Maddis

He worked in the kitchen, I was the impressionable young hostess.  He asked me out and I went with him to a bar.  He purchased drinks for everyone in the bar (it was nearly empty) and we played pool as he told me about all of the famous chefs he had worked with when he had lived in New York.  He told me about his French cooking education.  One of the girls at the bar pulled me over and told me "that he was a really bad scene" and red flags started to pop up all over.  He was the prep cook in a pizza place... he HAD to be lying about... everything.  Talking a mile a minute.  He proceeded to get roaring drunk and then told me that  he wanted a blowjob in the alley out back.  I left, convinced that he was completely insane and I wasn't ever going to go out with him again.

He showed up the next day that we both worked together... with a yellow backpack.  He comes over to me and tells me "You're the only person here that would understand how fucking cool these are" and he opens the backpack to reveal... three wet hairy things wrapped up in plastic newspaper baggies.  I ask him what they were and he said "they're cat heads, I found them on my way to work.  I'm going to put them in the backyard with the rest of the skulls.  You see, if you dig a shallow hole and put a rock over the top of them then the bigger critters can't steal them, but the smaller critters will clean them for you".  They were parked in the yellow backpack under the pasta station for the rest of the night.

He called me ...yes, I had given him my phone number before the first date... he called me crying, telling me that he was in love with me.  The he told me that he even goes out at night and watches my house to make sure I am safe.  He stands up bottles of whatever he has been drinking around my trash can so that I know how long he's out there.  I told him to get a puppy or something.  A week later, he shows up at my front door with two Mickey's Wide Mouths at 2 a.m. to show me his puppy.  I have reason to believe that he broke into my house and stole my roommate's computer.  He told me that he had broken into my car and sat in it because he wanted to be able to smell me.  He raped another hostess and then told her not to tell me that they had slept together because I would get jealous and have her fired.

He lived with his uncle, who was confined to a wheelchair.  This needs to be a movie some day.

Diagnosis: Bipolar or Antisocial Personality Disorder (Sociopath)

Aaron Burr, 3rd Vice President of the United States

Aaron Burr, Third Vice President of the United States

During the Revolutionary War, left a political appointment by George Washington to return to the battlefield. Claimed to be an abolitionist while owning his own slaves. Shot Alexander Hamilton through the liver and spine (result: death) during a duel over honor. Indicted for murder. Hid out in the Southeast for a while. Conspired with a US Army officer in the employ of the Spanish government. Made plans to raise a private army and start his own kingdom in Mexico. Solicited help from Napoleon to invade Florida. Terrified Thomas Jefferson. Tried for treason. Fled to Europe. Hung out with Jeremy Bentham (designer of the "panopticon", an institution in which inmates do not know when they are being watched). Returned to America and changed his name to Edwards to avoid having to pay his debts. Lost a good deal of his last wife’s money on land speculation. Died broke, controversial, disgraced.

Diagnosis: Bipolar I, possible PTSD, Batshit

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