I’m still about 17% iffy on the whole Bipolar II diagnosis, but I will say this: if I don’t take my L & L–lithium and Lexapro–I will put a cap in your ass.

I’ve never experienced the good side of mania, if there is one, which is arguable; I don’t become wonderfully productive, I don’t spend, I don’t feel superpowerful. I have agitation and rage. So life is pretty much about bouncing between depression on the one hand and agitation and rage on the other, and sometimes if you’re lucky you get them both together in a mixed state. When I’m depressed I hurt myself. When I’m manic I might give your ass a Boston Beatdown.

People don’t expect a Boston Beatdown from me, probably because I’m a suburban mom and kind of a little woman, but I can keep a smile wheat-pasted on my face while I assail your kneecaps with furious anger. I will hurl invective in the east Texan hyphenated-compound tradition: you shit-ass pig-fucking butt-sucker. I said something in a session yesterday that made my therapist laugh; you know how Dan Rather gets when he flips out? Well, it just made me angrier, such was my impotence, my insignificance, my inability to be menacing while boiling with rage inside.

Yesterday after kindergarten dropoff I went to a nearby coffee place to work, and I realized something: Adults in public are so noisy! A shit-ass pig-fucking butt-sucker two tables away was braying into his cell, wanting the number of that girl Melissa in Round Rock and then calling her to tell her about his upcoming bus trip in Central and South America and how he had to exchange a plane ticket for his brother. I was furious that I had come to a quiet place at last, had sat down, and had been assaulted by useless boring information broadcast by a shit-ass pig-fucking butt-sucker. I was ready to beat his ass down. And Melissa? Girlfriend, he didn’t ask you one question. No “How are you today, Melissa?” He’s a dick, possibly a narcissist. He wants to talk about himself while you go, “Wow, that sounds awesome.” I should have beat his ass down.

But I didn’t. Instead I came home and realized I’m several days behind in my L & L. I’m still acclimating to getting the household ready in the morning at 7:15. I’m distracted by profound struggles over going to school. The cat meows at me. I have fifteen things to do at once, and while none of them are individually insurmountable, their multitude edges me closer to a nervous breakdown. I deal with my child’s chronic health problem. I forget mine.

Watch out.