Inside My Head

the literary rantings of Angie Frissore

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?

September 25, 2015 Posted by | Uncategorized | | Leave a comment

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.

September 22, 2015 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , | Leave a comment