By twenty-three, I had become a collection of contradictions.

I could walk into a room and own it completely while privately planning my disappearance.

I could charm customers, close deals, make people laugh so hard they cried, then drive home convinced everyone secretly hated me.

I could spend entire nights talking at impossible speeds about business ideas, God, music, psychology, money, futures so vivid they felt prewritten—and then spend three days afterward unable to answer a single text message.

Nobody called it bipolar.