I get depressed for too long, I get mean. Easily irritated,¬†quickly snarky, cruel and slicing. I don’t like my behavior during these episodes. I barely like myself during a full-on bipolar depressive episode.

The wise thing to do is remove myself from society at these times. Of course, there’s the flip-end that isolation is also a worrisome symptom of bipolar depression, so the no-win or win-win scenarios pretty much play out as a wash.

So I went to an Isotopes game.

There’s this spot on the first base line, about halfway out to right field, where foul balls roll up nice and softly, and if you’re in the front row of seating, you can just lean over and snatch a few foul balls each game. I like nicking the balls and covertly handing them back to fathers seated behind me to give to their young son and/or daughter. Hero for the Day they become. I figured doing that for an afternoon might help lift the spirits, or at least combat the chemistry stuff going on inside my head generating these faux-emotions a little touch.

Next to me this day was a very unpleasant woman with whom I had a few words that equaled a verbal confrontation. But let’s start with why I first was untaken with her. This woman was bragging to her friend how she would sell these foul balls for serious coin on eBay. With the number of kids in the crowd, that was exceptionally shitty of her. Couple this with her being of Kevin Smith proportions for seating comfort/girth on a Southwest flight, and she was making a complete tool of herself overflowing into my seat, and elbowing me at that, attempting at making me uncomfortable enough that I’d move. Purposefully she did this

There were many empty seats further down the first base line into right field, yet there was only one “sweet spot” where foul balls are prevalent. This manatee sitting next to me, this manatee who dragged herself out from the bayous to live amongst men, she was not going to forfeit her seat, even though a good two thirds of her mass was also in my seat.

Round about the third inning, I turned to her and said plainly, “Excuse me, I paid for my seat, you are invading the volume meant to host me and not me coupled with two thirds of you, please move down to empty seats where you’re not bothering me any longer so I can enjoy the game.”

Her reply was immediate. “I bet if I looked back into the history of your life, you’ve always been a fucking asshole!”

And my reply was proportionally immediate. “I bet if we took a cross section of your thigh, counted the rings, and looked back into the history of your life, we could see how many years you’ve been enjoying Cool Ranch Doritos.”

I should have just fetched an usher to move her, which is what I eventually did, and she was directed to move further down to empty seats where she would not be elbowing and seat-moshing her neighbors in an attempt to make them move. I should have just fetched the usher. There was no reason I should have been so mean.

Instances like this, example of this sort, and the shame I feel in being mean to this extreme magnitude, this is a HUGE reason I keep on top of my symptoms. I am not a mean person by nature, although even when properly managing my symptoms you don’t want to piss me off because I’m devious, intelligent, and inventive with a long memory when you hurt me or the ones I love. But one fat woman with ill manners at an Isotopes game I’ll never see again, there was no reason to make her feel badly about her physique.

I’m always on top of managing my symptoms. And this is one of the reasons why.