I'd just jockeyed my way into a seat on the bus when the men got on. I didn't look up until I heard it, loud enough to trumpet past my headphones.

"Doesn't this suck? It's so crowded because this is when all the wage slaves trudge home."

And there he was, with his weak chin and cashmere overcoat, Rich Guy Slumming On The Bus. He shared a laugh with his buddy, an attorney if ever I saw one.

"Can you believe people do this every day? It's disgusting."

His next snarky comment was interrupted by the flash of a Wustof chef's knife through the breastbone. Or at least, that's kind of what I was imagining. He went on, laughing with his buddy about the indignities of public transportation, oblivious to my white-hot hatred.

Yes, I hated him. HATED him. Every detail. I hated his wedding ring, with its busy scrolls. I hated his black leather briefcase, his silk tie, his hair plugs. I hated that he looked a little like Jerry Seinfeld, because now when I watch a re-run I'll be recalling how this doppleganger saw taking the CTA with the wage slaves "an adventure."

For all I know, this guy was wearing his older brother's clothes, on his way to a job interview. Maybe later he was going to change back into his crappy old clothes and paint offices all night long, or bartend on Rush Street. Maybe he's putting up a front, hiding the fact that he lost his family's fortune in Vegas or on a stupid day trade. Maybe he sunk it all into some ridiculous make-your-own-steering-wh eel-cover franchise and it went belly-up. I don't know.

It's all in how you look at things, ya know? And that's an important lesson in cyberspace, where any comment can be taken the wrong way. This guy made one comment, off the cuff, to a friend... but he did it where I could hear it. And where I could be offended.

Now, I like to think of myself as someone who's not easily offended. Tell me the raunchiest, rudest joke... and I'll most likely laugh. (Unless you're my husband, who for some reason can't get away with it because I get all uptight.) I may tell you you're a schmuck, but I'll still get why it's funny. But that just goes to show you how everyone has a hot button. And mine, apparently, is classism. This guy offended me -- unknowingly -- because something hit home. And he had no way of knowing he would do it. And he'd never know that it hurt.

This man may give millions to charity; snuggle crack-addicted infants, and mow lawns for the elderly. But I could never see him that way, because he's the guy who made me feel like crap about myself at a moment when I was wondering if we'd be able to pay the preschool before they start calling, and wondering who "Van Ru Credit Counseling" is and why they're leaving me voice messages every day, and wondering how I can plan Jacob's class Halloween party as cheaply as possible.

That anger followed me home today. I carried it with me as I IM'd with my husband, discussing how many bank charges we were toting up for the month. It pushed my annoyance with Danny not wiping his tush into fury, until I ripped linens off of two beds and knocked a bunch of crap to the floor. It made me skip bedtime stories and put my kids to bed without tucking them in, without kissing them.

The indignity of the bus, of being a wage slave. Wow. Well, I'm nothing if not undignified, that's for sure. But it was the scorn, the amusement. "Those tragic little people who work for a living." It's like when people make offhand remarks about how pathetic it is to live paycheck-to-paycheck. Well, forgive me if I've never known another way.

Sorry, I'm ranting. I'm tired and sad and on my third migraine pill of the day. And I feel guilty and spent. It's probably time to pack it in for the night.

I have little excuse for not writing, other than the whole working-full-time-mom-of- three-kids thing. I know some of my cyberfriends have been concerned, and I thank you for caring. Things are just cah-ray-zee in my life, and since my meds are slightly out of balance, I'm not far behind.

For the last several months, I've been trying to make a very slow switch from Zoloft, which I've taken for more than 10 years on and off, to Welbutrin XR. I'm digging the latter because it's not as jarring a "high" as Zoloft seems to be for me lately. Frankly, I think I could use something to calm me down a little; just take the edge off. Zoloft worked well for me when I only needed 50 mg per day, but edging up towards 150 mg to keep from telling my former boss to fuck off was pushing the envelope a smidge.

Did I mention that most anti-depressants, while keeping you from the clock tower/rifle or noose/closet rod scenarios, effectively kill your sex drive? Not just kill it, but cut it into tiny pieces and bury them all over the backyard. I'm tired of being in my 30s and feeling completely asexual. And I can't blame it all on the minivan and short haircut, nor on the fact that it's probably time for me to get the lap-band tightened again and I'm not all that eager to do it.

<sidestepping yet another tangent>

Sorry. Ahem. Anyway, back to the drugs. I have a long history with psychopharmacology, and it's pretty surprising that I'm still pro-meds. My first experience was in college. I was in the depths of a mighty depression, and barely functional. I went to the McKinley Health Center (AKA McKillme) to see a shrink. He suggested that my rounds of depression were not just post-pubescent angst, but possibly chemical. And she suggested I try an anti-depressant.

So I took the plunge, and went on.... I think it was lorezapam, the generic for Ativan. I'm not positive. There was a Z in the name, and that weird "a-pam" sound at the end. Anyway, I remember starting the meds and having to step up on them. Some days after I was on a full dose I went to see "Barton Fink" with my roommate. It was incredibly disturbing to me, and I felt hyper-aware of everything in the movie. I'm still really freaked out just by the art direction.

Two days or so later, I was at my apartment, in my room. My roommate came in to ask me something, and I was suddenly overtaken by this enormous rage. After she left, I had this violent image in my head of a large knife. Something was obviously not right, here. I mean, my roommate was annoying, sure. But worthy of slasher-flick-fodder? Nah.

The rage grew and grew. I started to panic. What if I actually did something awful? I grabbed my Walkman and rushed outside to walk it off. But as I walked, I realized everyone I passed was staring at me oddly. I began to run, and I ran full-tilt from Champaign into Urbana, crossing the campus as though feet were on fire and I had a mission to kill before my shoes burned off. Somewhere after the quad it hit me -- the DRUGS! Maybe the drugs were doing this! I kept running and got to McKillme; which on Sundays was locked down.

I buzzed the intercom, and a voice returned.

"You've gotta help me! I'm taking these drugs, they gave them to me, I don't remember his name but I saw him here and he gave me these drugs and I think they're making me crazy! I wanted to kill my roommate and I'm just not like that! Please help!"

The voice told me to stay put and I did, panting and sobbing. Someone was coming to help me.  I turned at the sound of a siren. Two police cars were flanking an ambulance. I began toward them gratefully, and stopped when I realized they were fanning out.... and had guns in their hands.

I started to shake. What was going on? Could they think I was dangerous? Not only wasn't I armed, I didn't even have keys on me.

"No, please," I cried. "Please help me. I think these drugs this doctor gave me are making me crazy!"

One officer came toward me slowly and took my hand, then led me to the back of the ambulance. He sat me down and they asked me questions. Luckily, they believed me, but said they had to take me to the hospital, and they'd be able to contact the McKillmee doctor there. They wrapped a blanket around me and drove me off to the hospital in Champaign. The officer stayed with me the whole time, and didn't leave my side until I was ensconced in an examining room.

I had to give my life story to three or four people that day, the last one of whom was a U of I grad student I'd vaguely recognized. He knew me from my column in the newspaper, apparently. He was very nice and very low-key, and suggested that I admit myself into the hospital.

"But I'm not crazy," I protested. "I know this is that medication they gave me. But I don't know if I can just stop it or not."

I needed to rest, the guy said. I'd get rest in the hospital, and they could help me. They'd call my parents, and....

"Oh no, you don't," I jumped in. "They're in Europe anyway." Lie. "They'd be really mad if they heard about this." Maybe a lie. "And they'd probably be really angry that a doctor here gave me drugs that made me go crazy." Okay, not a lie. Perhaps lawyers would be involved; who knew?

This argument went on for quite some time, and I managed through sheer stubbornness to get the guy to drop it. Maybe I thought if I went in, I might not come out. I can't remember.

After several hours I was allowed to call my roommate and ask her to come get me. I did so, sheepishly, and then when we got home, I told her everything. The depression, the pills, the rage. She was sympathetic and discreet about it -- mainly because she'd had problems of her own.

When I saw the doctor again, he said we should try another drug, but nothing doing. I wouldn't even go back to him again. I never told my parents, or my friends, about any of it. I was embarrassed and terrified; did it take just a little chemical change to pull that rage out of me? Was it only the meds, or was something truly wrong with me?

I know now that something is wrong with me; it's a genetic deformity disguised as a mental weakness. Chemical depression sucks. It's stigma'd up the ass, even as Prozac has become an overdone punchline and commercials regularly tout a "lower incidence of sexual side effects." And it's almost impossible to control; at least mine seems to be. Just when I'm calm and on an even keel, something will throw me. Or I'll handle a big change without too much trouble but when everything is normal, it will hit me and I'll want to go fetal.

I don't know if my weird hormones have any effect on my synapses; maybe post-menopause I'll be easier to balance. But for now, I remain a challenge to my doc: How do we keep this girl functioning on four hours of sleep a night? Do we treat the depression so she's not hiding in her closet, but then have to deal with her bouncing off the walls and coming up with wacky schemes? Do we lower the dose and let her calm down a bit, only to have her burst into tears when she reads the news? What's the happy medium?

Happy medium -- I'd take that. If we could get me near a happy medium, I'd be... well, I'd be happy. But at this point, I'd settle for less anxious, less irritable, less exhausted.