Looking to adopt a pet? Friend must surrender his two cats.

I have a friend from high school that has decided to move his family to Toronto. As a result, they are unable to take their two housecats with them and sadly need to re-home them.

First is Nori, who is very smart, quiet, protective and self-sufficient.

Her sister, Noodles, is a total lovebug lap cat with a few extra pounds and lots of love to give.

Both are total housecats, sleep 18 hours a day, the owner has all their papers as they’ve had both cats since they were 6 weeks old. Both are very good at grooming, etc, and quite self-sufficient. Again, these are strictly housecats and not the outdoorsy type.

Having to give up your animal companions for this kind of life decision is very painful, and my friend is really hoping there is a cat lover with a big heart and big need to bring these two lovely cats into their life.

Please let me know if you may be interested, or know someone who is.

Thanks!

stupid random bipolar thoughts

• I can probably solely rely on my home phone now as my cell phone is pretty useless and unused.
• If I’m gonna get fat, let’s fucking do this. I mean, there is no longer a need to impress men.
• The dog never judges me by my mood
• Too bad the dog can’t go out to comedy shows/bars with me
• “You’re just going to fuck it up again.”
• “If you stop writing about comedy, 1600 other writers have already replaced you anyway.”
• The only help available is self-help.
• “You are your only support center.”
• “You’ve been written off by most of your family.”
• Why bother?
• “Retirement” is akin to “marriage” or “relationship” in that I won’t be privy to that either
• “It’s not that you’re replaceable, it’s that you were just a placeholder.”
• “Suck it, fatty!”
• Being alone is okay unless you know the world around you is continuing just fine in your absence.
• “You’re doomed.”
• This is what I get for wishing for invisibility as a child
• It doesn’t matter.
• “Keep in mind the dog prefers when you don’t shower all weekend.”
• I hate comedy right now
• I love comedy right now
• Fuck it, what’s on Hulu?

Good morning, Angela.

I wake up in the morning, drenched in sweat and confused by lucid dreams, which are side effects of an anti-depressant which is supposed to make me feel better. Sometimes I don’t know which is worse – the depression, or the fact that the side effects make it all but impossible for me to even want to try to date. I mean, inevitably, the night sweats will become an issue – if my moods don’t scare suitors away first.

I look at the scars on my body, which are the results of life-long skin picking – another aspect of my poorly-wired mind. I notice that the medication is turning me into a 5’3” blob of blubber, and I can’t help but examine my new fat parts. I hate them.

I hate every part of me these days. It’s as if I live in a bubble, hearing the muted sounds of the outside world. The bubble is transparent enough for me to notice how much living other people do that I cannot imagine myself belonging to that world. My emotions, which seem now to be controlled by outside forces as well as in, stream out of me into the bubble, with nowhere to go but back into my mind. There is no release. Only recycled air.

The bubble turns everything gray. There isn’t any color in a world so shaped by bipolar disorder, particularly when you’ve inherited the condition and it has been a part of your life for as long as you can remember. I don’t see the same normal world others do, and I don’t know that I ever will. All around me are vibrant lives, filled with stories of friendly get-togethers and family and love – all things that have become foreign to me as I age. I remember being loved, once, but that was almost twenty years ago.  I don’t know what love even involves anymore (unless it’s love for a dog).

I feel more connected to my dog than I do with other humans. It’s most likely because I’ve grown into this boring lump, sitting around waiting to eat or shit or sleep. My body language gives me away, despite how good I have become at faking it. Sometimes I don’t know if I will bite, bark or simply lay down.

I thought being open about it would help, but now it’s just used against me. To others, I am either a lost cause or a girl who seemingly has her shit together at her job. I can turn my public persona on and off as needed, though it always results in sheer exhaustion. So much energy is spent during a normal work week just to seem, well, normal. Once I am out of that environment, I break down into an exhausted, useless human being who lacks the simple joys of life she once knew. Nothing interests me anymore. The fear of acting out around people or having a PTSD trigger keeps me hidden on a regular basis.

I used to love travel, particularly traveling on my own. These days, I’m either terrified of wasting money by inevitably hiding away in a hotel room, or terrified of what lies outside of my daily routine. So now I simply stay put. I miss out, again and again.

I have regular conversations in which someone will ask, time and time again, why I can’t get a hold of the basic of things – my budget. They know it’s a bipolar symptom, financial irresponsibility. But there is always the same pressure and question of, “Why can’t you make this work? It’s easy.”

But it’s not easy, at least not for me. If I had explanations of why I can’t get my finances in order or why I forget the simplest of tasks, I would fix it myself.

I wish it were. I wish it all were easy. Perhaps it will never get better. But it might, though on the other side of better, nothing is left to welcome me back. There is no carrot on the string anymore, only the prospect of living out my life alone.

Lies lies lies lies

Dear mother:

You keep lying. You keep making up stories so you don’t have to address the fact that you were a cold, calculating, physically and psychologically abusive narcissist who did the following to me:

• Made me quit gymnastics by telling me we couldn’t afford it, but telling my father I had ‘changed my mind’ about pursuing it
• Pulled the same bait-and-switch in my college search, telling me we couldn’t afford my dream school while telling my father I no longer wanted to go there
• Sabotaged one engagement by slandering my boyfriend and me to anyone who would listen
• Sabotaged yet ANOTHER engagement by telling the guy he was ‘making a mistake’ and that she loved him

So, if you want to sit back and claim I don’t speak to you because ‘you’re on disability’, keep telling yourself that. Whatever helps your delusional, twisted mind sleep at night.

Liar.

Major depression is boring as f&*k.

Most people would think that the hardest part of major depressive episodes is, well, feeling depressed. The primary symptoms of a depressive episode are overwhelming: the persistent feeling of worthlessness and hopelessness, hypersensitivity to just about everything, hypersomnia – the list goes on and on, even including actual, physical pain.

The truth is the hardest aspect of finding yourself smack in the middle of a depressive episode is that it’s boring as hell.

Depression makes one lose any and all interest in the things one would normally do and enjoy. When a ‘level’ person is bored, they simply turn to activities they enjoy. But when this appeal goes AWOL, there’s virtually nothing that can hijack one’s engagement. There’s nothing else to do, because depression keeps you from wanting to.

My old standby when I am bored is writing. Much of my writing is based on entertainment, primarily horror movies and stand-up comedy. I am also an avid photographer, baker, and dog parent. The amount of distraction and entertainment I possess on a normal day is mind-boggling.

Then depression sweeps in, much like I would imagine one’s in-laws showing up unannounced for an extended stay. It demands your attention like a child’s tantrum – screaming and yelling until you’re finally under its control. It sits in your mind, adding its two cents to every healthy thought pattern you try to muster.

Listen to some stand-up? Yeah, right. That’s assuming the depression will even allow you to entertain the notion of self-soothing with laughter. It’s not that the comedy doesn’t work in cheering one up – it’s more that depression literally holds you hostage and robs you of the ability to make active choices. It’s a voice that’s always there with a firm “no”.

I could take the dog out for a long walk as that is always enjoyable.

“No way, you’re gonna end up crying, people will notice, and then you’ll just feel worse about yourself,” the depression quips.

I could binge watch old 80’s horror movies, since those are my favorite.

“You’ve seen all of those too many times anyway.”

I could read a book.

“HAHAHAHHAHA not gonna happen, lady.”

So seriously, if you know someone going through a major depressive episode and you don’t know what to do to help, start with getting them out of their own environment. It’s hard to motivate one’s self to leave the confines of one’s depressive environment, and sometimes all it takes is a friend to come along and say, “Hey, let’s go to the mall and laugh at people for awhile.”

It’s that simple.

Monsters.

I wake up ready for the day, albeit sluggish from the previous night’s dose of antidepressant, and try to hit the ground running. The moment I am alone with myself in the shower (this is a benefit of having a dog: I’m virtually never actually physically alone), the battle with the intrusive thoughts begins.

I don’t hear voices in my head, let me make that clear. I hear a particular voice, one that keeps track of every slight, every injustice, every emotionally traumatic experience I’ve had in my 37 years. When we are alone, it seizes that opportunity. It sounds like my mother, but it isn’t her.

“No one stood up for you to her,” it reminds me.

“He does the best he can,” I insist.

“But he didn’t stand up for you this time, either. Remember? It’s easier for your family to place all of their blame on you because they want to keep the peace. Remember?”

The issue with the monster voice is that it does remember. It remembers well, and, at a moment’s notice, will call to mind historical evidence to support what it is telling me. It was built upon volumes of incidents involving abuse, a narcissistic mother, and familial gaslighting – and it knows exactly what buttons to push.

“They blame you more than they blame her, you know.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“Well, too bad. And do you really think others feel differently? You’re fundamentally flawed.”

“And you’re an asshole.”

“But I’m right. And that’s more important. Everyone grows tired of you, and so will he, eventually. I mean, you didn’t even give him grandkids like your brothers did. You didn’t give him anything. You are just a burden.”

“I guess you’re right.”

The monster offers an embrace, reminding me, “I’ll always be here.”

Dear mother.

Dear mother,

It’s been almost eight years since we last spoke, with our last exchange resulting in your warning me that, as always, I would “just disappoint myself” again. At every turn, you somehow kept me from taking chances and thwarted any attempt I made to become proficient in my talents. Anything I showed interest in, or was seemingly good at, I was forced to abandon prematurely so as to not outshine my brother in his apparent excellence.  You laid a blanket over my inner light, preventing it from shining as it should. I have since destroyed that blanket.

You not only prevented me from forging my own path early on through manipulation, but also by force. Every negative experience, interaction, or slighted feelings you went through ultimately were projected on to me – with me ending up as the source of all your life woes. You encouraged my solitude at a time when socialization was key to my development. Up until eight years ago, I believed you whenever you told me my attempts would be met with disappointment. Now, I can see that such disappointment was your motivation, and you chose to take any path that would guarantee such a result for me.

You didn’t want me as a baby – something I have been told by various people who, at one time, were close enough to you that you felt comfortable admitting this to. Over the course of my lifetime, you lamented that I refused to breastfeed, instead insisting on bottles from hospital nurses. I have been told by the second person involved in my birth, my father, that you never made such an attempt to breastfeed me. But that didn’t stop you from creating for yourself a justification for your hatred towards me.

You accused me of plotting to break up your marriage – from the age of five – simply because my father loved me. The love existing between father and daughter created a very deep-rooted jealousy within you that I could never comprehend. Instead, I witnessed your strength and prowess as a mother and caregiver to my two brothers, who had somehow won your maternal affection when I could not.

You used violence, shaming, and fear to control me. At an early age, I turned to horror movies, desperate to find something that scared me more than you did. Thirty years later, I have yet to find such a monster. Your actions have caused me to act inappropriately as an adult: negative feedback from a supervisor once caused me to recoil in fear, expecting my supervisor to hit me as you did. That experience shook me to the core.

You interfered with not one, but two pending engagements during my life. You slandered me to anyone who would listen when I confided that my then-boyfriend and I were discussing marriage. Years later, you went above and beyond by having secret conversations with another potential fiancé in which you advised him to do anything but propose to me. You told him I was ‘crazy’ and on heavy medication daily, which was not the case. You told him you loved him, and you didn’t want to see him make a mistake. You should have been saying those words to me, not a stranger.

Looking back, through my own perseverance, I have realized that you were the ‘crazy’ one. You were the one with unresolved mental health issues. You claimed I was the crazy one, when in reality you had already had two stays at a mental health facility in your lifetime. I can’t even claim one in my lifetime.

As I am now dealing with the resulting mental fallout of your actions – as well as your genes – I cannot imagine how difficult life must have been for you. Instead of seeking treatment, you denied there was an issue. You let your mental health suffer in the absence of self-awareness, when that suffering could have been avoided – as well as my own at your hands.

I am letting go of my hatred for you, finally. I don’t believe that you are an evil person. I believe you suffered silently in your own mind, and that suffering also prevented you from realizing you could get better. To this day, you suffer. I no longer do.

While we may never speak to each other again in our lifetimes, I forgive you. I have emerged a stronger, more self-aware person due to what you put me through, and have gained strengths and tools that others aren’t able to tap into – all because of you.

I doubt such forgiveness will allow you to find any peace, but for my own peace, I still forgive you.

Your daughter,
Angie

Episode 14

In this long overdue episode, Angie chats with comedian Dan St. Germain about the release of his new CD, “Bad at the Good Times” and shares a past interview with Tracy Morgan. Also, special guests give movie reviews.

Check out this episode!

Angie’s Laughing Matters Episode 13: Dave Coulier

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Angie chats with comedian and actor Dave Coulier about the upcoming Clean Guys of Comedy Tour (September 19 in a theater near you).

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Angie’s Laughing Matters, Episode 12: Michael Winslow

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Angie interviews Police Academy’s Michael Winslow in advance of his New England performances.

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Angie’s Laughing Matters Episode 11: Brian Regan

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Angie chats with comedian Brian Regan in advance of his summer New England appearances (July 18-21)

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Episode 10: Gary Gulman

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Angie chats with comedian Gary Gulman in advance of his April 13 show at Boston’s Wilbur Theatre.

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Angie’s Laughing Matters, Episode 8: Sue Costello

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Angie talks to Boston native Sue Costello as she prepares to go on stage for Marc Maron’s live WTF taping in Boston on March 30.

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The Ten Comedy Commandments

Yesterday, I interviewed the author of The Comedy Bible, Judy Carter. She wrote the bible, making her Comedy God…and then spoke to me, making me Comedy Moses.  Therefore, I give you the ten commandments of comedy:

1. Thou shalt not heckle
2. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s bit
3. Thou shalt not have any performance art before me
4. Thou shalt kill, or at least be interesting
5. Thou shalt not take the N word in vain
6. Thou shalt not mistake a pilot for success
7. Thou shalt remember the weekend and keep it holy, and do no free work
8. Honor thy booker
9. Thou shalt not claim false stories to be true
10. Thou shalt not procreate with the waitstaff

Angie’s Laughing Matters, Episode 2 – Tommy Davidson

Angie’s Laughing Matters, Episode 2 – Tommy Davidson

Angie talks to comedy legend Tommy Davidson about In Living Color, Black Dynamite and his upcoming show at Boston’s The Wilbur.